Birthdays and Psychics

This story involves a prophecy, crappy horror movie references, a whole lot of bad luck, and a happy ending. Brace yourself. You’ve been warned.

I used to have a thing for psychics.

I read The Dead Zone a bunch of times. The mentalist craze was pretty big in my youth. I also had a thing for crystal ball wielders wearing silk scarves. (Miss Cleo did always look well turned out.)

But nothing - absolutely nothing - beat visiting a Boardwalk psychic.

Unfamiliar with the genre? Picture a New Jersey beach town. (Not somewhere nice like Bay Head. More like down the shore where Snooki lived.) Nestled between the Kohr’s custard stands, Skee-Ball and boardwalk pizza shops, you’d see a sandwich board sign advertising palm readings, usually for $10. Some hanging tapestries and those clackety-clack beaded curtains offered a bit of privacy and touch of the exotic.

In my early 20s, I saved my pennies and rented a (very) shabby (not-at-all) chic little shore house a short (4-long-blocks) walk to the beach.

Born with skin the color of a manila folder, i learned early that my sun exposure has limits. To avoid baking in the Jersey rays, I walked the boards. Psychics offered the perfect combination of shade, air conditioning and entirely self-centered entertainment to give me a half hour respite from the fiery ball in the sky.

It was one of my last days there, so I splurged on the expensive reading. After sharing the usual life-affirming stuff, the psychic paused and asked if she could give some more pointed guidance. I suspected this would be a list of things to avoid, like guys who lived with their mothers and gas station sushi. As I had paid for the deluxe package, I urged her on.

She took a deep breath, looked me deeply in the eyes and said:

“I am sorry to tell you that you will die in your mid 40s. Please make the most of your time.”

She then parted the silky curtains, revealing the boardwalk outside and ushered me into the sunshine.

I did that thing where you laugh off bad news but still it somehow sinks into your bones, your very marrow. But, you also don’t know what *do* with information like that. So, you go on with your day, and then your life, and you forget about it. Mostly.

Then I got cancer at 44.

The mostly forgetting turned into frequent remembering, followed by saying: “Well, crap.”

Then this remembering transforms into resilience.

Every time I got a positive blood test or scan, I felt like I was sticking it to her. Like: “Take that, you psychic jerk!” (Those who know me well, go ahead and insert my more likely expletives of choice.)

When I celebrated my 45th birthday, days after radiation treatment, I faced south and gave Seaside Heights an enthusiastic, one-fingered salute.

Then came 46.

During this - my 46th - year, I have enjoyed bronchitis, a wretched lung infection, food poisoning (twice), persistent anemia, epic thyroid hormone fluctuations, perimenopause, depression, anxiety, a flea infestation, possible rabies, theft of my belongings (including daily meds) on a recent trip, and second-degree burns all down my left leg because of a freak spaghetti water accident. Last week, I received a very nice post card from the Metuchen diocese offering me a tour of funeral plots.

I started thinking this was the real life version of that Final Destination horror movie series where people try to escape death, but it finds them anyway, dramatically and spectacularly. (Remember the scene with the logging truck? No? It’s dreadful. It’s also on YouTube.)

But today is a very special milestone.

I am no longer in my mid 40s.

Today I am 47.

There is nothing middle about me anymore. I am in the back stretch of my 40s and gloriously giddy about it.

I have often said: The greatest gift one gets on their birthday is being above ground for it.

So here I freaking am.

Take that, you stupid psychic.

Happy %^#*ing Birthday to me!