Death and Birthdays

Today is my birthday. I’ve had many birthdays. Some were shared with my sister, 13 months older. Some were alone. Many were with my family and friends. On my 29th I threw myself an “I’ll-never-be-twenty-something-again” party. Fun. But seven years ago everything about how I feel about having a birthday changed. Seven years ago on December 17, my father, Sheldon Wolpin, died.

I actually have mixed feelings about it. Part of me wants to believe that it was a coincidence. But another part of me doesn’t believe in coincidences. That part of me is flattered that my father chose to die on my birthday. I feel honored. We will forever be entwined in a strange life/death relationship.

So my day is bitter sweet. Instead of enjoying attention from family and friends, I spend the day (like most days) remembering the funny, considerate, handsome, well-loved man, that was my father.

The candles I light today will be in remembrance of him. My birthday can take a back seat. I miss him every day.