46

I turn 46 tomorrow.

46 is not a banner-year birthday marked by surprise parties, substantial jewelry pieces, or trips to Cancun. Mine will kick-off while I'm working at the snack bar at the high school. Oh, it does tip the scale to my being closer to 50 than 40, so there's that.

It may be be kind of a "blah" birthday, but 46 is significant to me.

It's the age my mother was when she died. Back then, in all of my 18 year old wisdom, I convinced myself that she had led a full life. Hadn't she had a chance to get married, have kids, start her own business, and nurture deep friendships? I used that reasoning to console myself that she wasn't missing out. As I got older, it became clear to me just how young 46 really was. I still feel almost as young inside as I did right out of college even though I'm tired a lot and the mirror sometimes shows me a face I don't recognize.

When I gave birth Jack and Margaret, I found myself thinking, "So, if I die at 46, will they remember me? I could calculate that they would would be turning 15 and 17 this year, so I decided, "Of course they would!"

Oh, you didn't know that when your mom or dad dies young you live your life imagining and even assuming that you will too? Statistically, it's not probable at all, but still we do it.

My brother hit 46 a few years ago. I wasn't sure whether, as a man, he would have identified as closely with the possibility of an early death for himself at age 46. He did. My sister lived through it last year, and in a way it seemed as if her training herself as an elite athlete, running toward health and strength, was also her running from the specter of death bearing down on her. She and I both celebrated in March when she made it out of that year and became 47, opening up the possibility of living abundantly years and likely even decades longer than our mother did.

I have complicated feelings about my own journey.

Outliving my son Jack, who died at only 12, has been excruciating. But because children are supposed to outlive their parents, maybe I shouldn't feel as conflicted as I do about aging past my own mom.  It just makes me sad. I hope to be able to experience grandchildren someday, something she missed out on, and continue to grow as a woman personally, spiritually, and professionally. And although my longing is to be in heaven with Jack, I have important reasons to keep living and growing here on earth for as long as I'm able, as did she.

It's weird.

Weirdest of all, my 46th year is shaping up to be one of significant change for me, the likes of which I could not have anticipated. I will have to learn to adapt and grow in ways that my mom didn't have to, or didn't get to, depending on how you look at it.

Because 46 was far too young to die.

Why I Stopped Sleeping with My Husband

Got to love an attention-grabbing headline, huh?

This post isn't about amorous activities or the lack thereof. It's about my shoulders. Again. Turns out I have a torn labrum on one side from a fall on black ice last winter. I still have the frozen shoulder on the other side which I told you about earlier, but it's hurting less now. I guess you would refer to it as "partially thawed."

After months of physical therapy but worsening pain in my left shoulder, I got an MRI and found out about the tear.  It's good to finally know what's going on, but I don't plan on making any decisions about surgery or other next steps for a few weeks.

As most people with shoulder injuries know, nighttime is the worst. I haven't had a full night's sleep since last November. Parents of babies and toddlers are probably saying, "Yeah, well I haven't either!" but at least there's the possibility that those precious nocturnal bed-hogs will care for you in your old age. My shoulder just underscores the fact that I'm hurtling toward mine.

So, in addition to my PT and an orthopedist, I sought the counsel of someone in the know about aches and pains-- my friend's charming 70 year old dad. He told me the best way to get a good night's sleep with a shoulder injury is to sleep in a recliner. We chit chatted about this over the 4th of July weekend, and I tucked his advice away, certain it couldn't apply to me. A recliner? As a visual aid,  his two green recliners sat right there in his den, but I tried to ignore them.

I wasn't about to adapt my long-held standards. See, I have always adhered to a strict NO RECLINER rule in our house.  Yeah, yeah Brooke Shields has made La-Z-Boy more attractive. but I've always been a little stuck in my ways. It's just one of those things. I still call Costco "Price Club," I don't wear white shoes after Labor Day, and I'd rather sit on an uncomfortable but attractive chair than in a recliner.

Or so I thought. After almost two additional months of wakeful nights, I caved. Last week I put out a plea on Facebook, and within a few hours, Tim was dragging Big Blue into our house. Big Blue is a supple leather recliner once owned by my friend's grandpa. That first night I settled into Big Blue with my eye shades, a good book, and my reading glasses (!!!!), and I haven't looked back. Sleep still comes and goes, but I'm a lot more comfortable.

My worldview has shifted, and now I'm a RECLINER LOVER! I can't believe we never had one growing up! How have I lasted 44 years without one, subjecting my family to chair after shabby chic chair that I'd rescued from the side of the road based solely on looks and never on comfort? For me, it was all about the decor. Well, décor no more!

After we return Big Blue, I wonder if I will take this new-found love to the next level. Maybe a massage chair? With cupholders, perhaps? They do make slip covers for these things, right?

In the meantime, I will be asking my friend Heather if I can borrow the wedge bed pillow her husband used following his rotator cuff surgery.

Because much as I have embraced the recliner life,  I don't want Tim to get too used to having the bed all to himself.