A TASTE OF LIFE
Written by Melissa Kaufman
It was swirled high, laden with smooth vanilla and creamy chocolate, piled into the modest-sized cone. It took balancing and bravery to tote it back to my mother's car, which sat alone in a suburban parking lot off Main Street one Spring afternoon. The day, despite appearing typical, was anything but. It was May 3, 2021, the day of my thirty-third birthday, which became a remarkable day, much to my surprise.
Birthdays. I've experienced thirty-three of them at this point and most have been uneventful, or rather filled with tears and disappointment—a means for reflection about all the loved ones who passed away near or around my birthday. This began on my fifth birthday, when my paternal grandmother sat on the sofa in my house sobbing, mourning the sudden loss of my grandfather. Then came the many other birthdays, during which friends forgot or spoiled surprise party plans, and of course the other later ones where I emerged from a hospital days prior.
Some reflections are petty, but others less so.
I'm here; I'm living and breathing, being given chances to turn it all around—chances to experience life again, instead of simply existing, which is what I've often done in my adult life.
For years as an adult, my mom and I discussed my "ideal birthday”, which largely centered around enjoying an ice cream cone. To some, an ice cream cone is a typical treat—nothing to rave about or covet, just something that can be easily enjoyed at any time.
As someone who’s struggled with anorexia for 26 years (yes, 26 years, and I am 33—you do the math), it is anything but typical. For weeks leading up to this year's birthday, my mom and I would chatter about places we'd spotted advertising "the ice cream cone”, a soft-serve crown of sweet, creamy swirls of chocolate and vanilla, piled high in a cone. Trying to focus on what it would taste like as opposed to the racing fears of actually consuming it, I began my birthday agitated and uncomfortable.
Much of my birthday morning consisted of bickering back and forth with my mom. Desperate to help me celebrate and not give into my disordered thoughts, my mom sat on the sofa, searching and searching on her iPhone, trying her best as a brand-new smartphone user to decipher the search results. With every mention of an ice cream business, I hurled “no, I'm not going" back at her. That morning, my disordered, angry thoughts were revving, determined to diminish any dreams of celebrations, treats, and connections to my loved ones.
As the morning edged on, I began to soften as I sat in front of my laptop, scrolling through social media and feeling sorry for myself. A thought surfaced in my mind: "Do I really want to allow yet another birthday to pass by with feelings disappointment? And let my own thoughts diminish my chances to enjoy myself, to take advantage of the gift of life I've been given?" Maybe it was an epiphany of sorts, though in any case, I'm not concerned about generating a name for it; what is most important is that it happened, or that I allowed it to.
Lost in my thoughts, I emerged from my fog and posed a question to my mom, "Do you think Hope would want to come with us if we went to Yardley Ice House?" Glancing at the clock, I knew that if we were to go, I'd have to ask soon; my nephew would be heading down for a nap soon. My mom's softening expression of surprise was all the encouragement I needed. Within minutes (but still with some hesitation), I quickly tapped out, "Hope, would you want to come with Mom and I to Yardley Ice House in a little bit today?"
Over my life, throughout treatment and various attempts at recovery, I've been instructed to "feel the fear and do it anyway." Regrettably, I've often ignored this suggestion, choosing to feel the fear and run in the opposite direction or recoil into my self-loathing. However, for perhaps the first time in my thirty-three years, I felt the fear but shunned it and chose bravery and courage instead.
That text message to my sister, Hope, was a turning point—the climax of what would become one of my most ideal and memorable birthdays to date. No, it wasn't my twenty-first birthday when I took shots in an urban, rooftop bar surrounded by sophisticated people I didn't know; rather, it was an overcast day 12 years later, spent licking an ice cream cone in a car with my mom and sister.
That day, my mom, sister, and I made the short drive to Yardley Ice House, a family-owned ice cream and water ice stand (Italian Ice for those living outside of the Philadelphia area) and toted our respective treats back to my mom's car. Carrying my own cone, my hand started to shake; it was a foreign feeling and sparked thoughts of wanting to run. Stay, I told myself. Do not for a minute leave this moment; this moment is your life; so many would long for this and I myself have longed for this my entire adult life.
Balancing our treats, we entered my mom's car—my mom in the driver's seat, me in the passenger seat and my sister in the back—and began enjoying ourselves. It was comfortable and peaceful; my sister chatted with us from the backseat, and I focused on the sweet, creamy coolness each lick afforded. At first, it felt sinful—should I really be having this? I then looked left at my mom, and I thought to myself how strange yet beautiful it was to see my mom holding a cone of her own.
I don't recall ever seeing my mom, 67 years-old, with her own ice cream cone. But there she was, licking it with abandon. Perhaps it was spending time with both her children (two grown women, one of whom struggles to nourish herself) that impelled her to finally give herself the chance to experience a sweet, creamy treat.
Some may celebrate their birthdays with a cake and candles, but for me, the ice cream cone was symbolic of so much more than a birthday; it was me tasting life, one lick at a time, and at that moment, it couldn't have been sweeter. I'm proud to say I stayed in the moment that day, prohibiting myself from leaving that car.
That day, I lived; I looked fear in the face and felt it, but did what I wanted to. The thoughts were loud, but I chose life instead.
Looking down at the small eating disorder recovery tattoo emblazoned my right inner wrist, I finally realized what recovery was truly about and how exactly it felt. Letting myself enjoy that time with my family left me feeling proud, bold, and accomplished—emotions so foreign yet so exhilarating. Instead of ending another birthday disappointed, frustrated, and isolated, my thirty-third birthday ended at 11:59pm on May 3 as I closed my eyes and reflected on how it felt to live, rather than simply existing.
I've tasted many things throughout my life, but nothing as sweet as life that day.
With her Bachelor of Arts degree in psychology, Melissa Kaufman previously worked for various social service agencies throughout Bucks County, Pennsylvania and is the writer behind the blog Melissa's Morning Musings. She dedicates much of her time towards advocating and supporting others in need, frequently volunteers in her community, and hopes to someday further her education in social work and/or open her own inspiring jewelry business supporting nonprofit organizations. In her spare time, she can be found with her family and dog, Daisy; writing; reading or traveling.