Not Afraid of Birthdays
It’s July 12th, 1994. I am celebrating my second birthday. I’m too shy to carry on the “read the cake” tradition in my family. He approaches my tiny face, encouraging me to put my little nose in the ice cream. I giggle, I love it the most.
I am a toddler at my grandparent’s house with the never-ending garden that fills their backyard. He holds court at his favorite upholstered yellow chair in the living room. I have a large container filled with fake fruit and vegetables — plastic toys that will outlive us all — offering each non-perishable, perishable item to him, and he accepts one after the other graciously with an enthusiastic, “Delicious!” accompanied by fake chewing noises. Later, I gently shake his leg and in my small voice I shout, “Papa Julie wake up!” And he replies, “I’m up!”
As the years progress, so does his condition. I see my dad walking backwards through doorways with his hands stretched. He’s helping his dad. Mobility becomes more and more difficult. From walking, to walker, to wheelchair. From home, to at-home care, to nursing home.
It happens both slowly, and quickly, in my mind.
I am five-years-old in the hospital room, encouraged to give him a kiss, but I am small and still slightly shy, so I gently kiss his hand.
I don’t know if I fully knew, but as I stood beside his grave in my deep violet velvet dress, something that I can only describe to myself as a matzo ball fills my throat. I then begin to understand what it means to hold back tears.
Soon after, my sweet kindergarten teacher kindly approaches me separately in the coat closet of our classroom to say how sorry she is for my family’s loss.
A few years later, in an eighth grade English class, we are tasked with writing a poem about a significant memory. As I type on the computer, faint droplets hit the keyboard. I write my seven or so verses of poetry as a tribute to him. It’s painful, but I’m proud of what I’ve written.
Still in middle school, I realize who Michael J. Fox is, and I’m intrigued, because he has Parkinson’s, just like my grandfather did.
I’m in my early-twenties, and a song called “Only One” by Kanye West plays on my phone. I am brought to tears. It’s not often that something external evokes memories of my grandfather. Usually, on my own accord, through a conjuring of memories, is when I feel his presence the most. But, when something does this, it tends to stick.
It’s December, I’m at my sister’s birthday party, unsatisfied with my current situation. She mentions that there is an open role in the Marketing department at The Michael J. Fox Foundation for Parkinson’s Research.
I apply.
It’s July 12th, 2020. I am celebrating my 28th birthday, and nearly 3-and-a-half years working at the Foundation.
“Hello my only one, remember who you are
You got the world ’cause you got love in your hands
And you’re still my chosen one
So can you understand? One day you’ll understand.”
