In the midst of a family crisis, a writer contemplates whether heartache and joy can coexist.
My 40th birthday celebration had been in the works for months. The plan was as follows: On Friday, my husband was throwing a party for me in the private room of a hillside restaurant with gorgeous views of Los Angeles. Our closest friends and family would be there. Philip had hired a D.J., rented a photo booth, ordered a three-tiered chocolate cake and picked out an eclectic menu of my favorite dishes.
Then, from Saturday through Monday, I’d take a road trip to Santa Barbara with three of my closest friends.
But life doesn’t happen in a vacuum where we can focus on just one plotline: The days leading up to my birthday were anything but celebratory.
The Tuesday before my birthday, our family situation reached the point where I called the police on my 15-year-old son Luka. He had been struggling with clinical depression and suicidal ideation, and had been self-medicating with substances for the last few years. The officers took him to the emergency room where, on Wednesday, I saw him before he was transferred to a psychiatric hospital. On Thursday, I was allowed to visit him there.
I’d been excited about turning 40. I love birthdays. When Luka turned 6 months, I decided we should celebrate half birthdays. I baked him half a cake and sang half of the “Happy Birthday” song (every other syllable, because complicating things is one of my gifts).
I kept up the tradition when my daughter Matea was born almost two years later. And after I met and married Philip, and we welcomed our son Ari, Matea and Luka took pride in teaching him our half-birthday song.