I had grand plans for my 40th birthday.
I was going to throw a party with a festival theme, where everyone would dress up for the festival they missed or that was cancelled in 2021. Every room in my house would be turned into a different “stage” with its own vibe, music, decorations and theme. Everyone would be asked to bring a playlist to dance to and something to drink, for us to dance and drink until the last guest crawled home at 5 a.m. It was going to be epic, a blast, a fabulous farewell to my 30s.
I was going to write you a letter listing down the life lessons I’d learned upon reaching the age of 40. It was going to be called something obvious, insufferable and self-important, like “Life lessons I’ve learned at 40.”
I was going to sit at my desk, light a candle and palo santo, cradle a cup of hot jasmine tea in my hands, and allow a serene smile to play on the corners of my lips as I ruminated on life. It was going to be thoughtful, wise and writerly, as befitting a newly minted 40-year old.
Well, none of that happened.
Instead, I spent my 40th birthday quarantined at home with the very plague we’ve all been dancing around trying to avoid the last 19 months.
Yep, Covid got me.
It stole my birthday and tricked my mind into thinking it’s only a flu, I’ll be fine! It sent me to bed, crashing after the last bite of my birthday cake, reeling with a sudden, unnatural, bone-deep exhaustion I’d never felt before (oh yeah! This disease didn’t exist until two years ago!), into a black-ringed tunnel where I could perceive everything but felt far, far away from my husband who was sitting right beside me (and only just recovering from his own bout with Covid)
into a whirl of confusion where I could draw deep lungfuls of air but was also short of breath (how?),
into a twilight limbo where I was exhausted as never before, but refused to lie down and close my eyes for fear that my brain would run out of oxygen while I was asleep and I’d never wake up again.
Happy Covid birthday!
Obvoiusly, that was not the plan.
But we’ve had to change the plan so many times in the past 19 months, haven’t we? We’ve adjusted and survived, become resilient, hopeful, almost normal again.
Haven’t we?
I survived, obviously, as I’m here writing to you now after an unplanned hiatus.
I was going to write about the physical exhaustion and the emotional rollercoaster of two weeks on a slow and unpredictable recovery. I was going to write down what I’ve learned about rest and patience, confidence and vulnerability, and what a trapped mind is capable of doing to reality when one is unwell.
Change of plan. Not throwing a pity party for my 40th!
So let me write about gratitude instead.
I’m grateful that my husband and I were fully vaccinated, as I’m aware it could have been much worse for both of us; asthmatic 40 year-olds were being sent to the ICU and put on ventilators around this time last year.
I’m grateful that it was mild for my daughter—a fever that lasted one morning, a sore throat for three days, nothing more than an extended autumn holiday from school.
I’m grateful for the care and support of friends, expressed in doorstep deliveries of birthday balloons and flowers, homemade granola, local wine and cider (whiich I couldn’t taste as I lost my sense of smell and flavor for about a week—but it’s the thought that counts!), essential oils and eucalyptus crystals from Morocco to help me breathe, prayers and poetry. I was a very well-read and well-fed Covid patient.
I’m grateful for presence made felt, and love made audible in the form of my boyfriend’s nightly readings from this brilliant and hilarious book, recorded and sent to me via Whatsapp. I replayed those voice messages over and over for nearly three weeks, until we could finally see each other again.
I’m grateful for the flashes of joy in the strangeness: witnessing the wisteria on our balcony turning a little more yellow each day, or the sweet and funny drawings my daughter’s classmates sent her, or the sunny November afternoons when I could read on the balcony.
Or the night my husband and I raised a glass to each other from opposite ends of our hallway (we tried to isolate for a couple of days, but I tested positive eventually), toasting to our recovery with a bottle of wine that my boyfriend brought over. Life in an open marriage can be weird, wild and wonderful at times, but isn’t that true of life in general?
I’m grateful for the slow but steady return of clarity to my foggy, oxygen-deprived brain; for longer bike rides each day; for the beauty and wonder of being among humanity in a bar, restaurant or cafe.
I’m grateful for you: still reading, still here. Thank you.
Here in Amsterdam, the endless parade of bicycle wheels are pressing autumn’s final shining leaves into rain-wet paths, laminating the city streets in gold leaf. Woollens are emerging from wardrobes as winter draws ever closer.
I might still write that list of life lessons, but this time I won’t be so precious about it. My body demands I slow down, and I’ve learned that I should listen.
So that’s the plan for now. See you in two weeks (I promise!).