You know, I always thought the roughest birthday I’d ever have was the first year I didn’t share mine with my sister Kay. (I was born on her birthday when she was 12 years old. In October of my junior year of high school, she committed suicide.)
I was wrong.
Celebrating your 65th birthday alone, without your husband of 46 years being there is much, much worse.
It’s not like we’d planned to do anything–he hated going out when his MS got worse. However, I’d sort of planned to drag his butt out to celebrate at a small place that caters to the elderly and the handicapped. Their food is great and it’s not far from home.
I hope next year I’ll have a much happier birthday with new friends, a new home, and all the love I got this year from everyone.