Book Excerpt – Milestones

“We have to do something special for Margaret’s fortieth birthday,” I said to Mama one day in December a few years ago. “This is really something, can you believe she’s going to be forty years old?”

Mama doesn’t get real excited about birthdays, never has, in fact. But even she acknowledged this one deserved celebrating.

“Whatever you want to do is fine with me,” she said. “You’ve always been so good to her and I sure do appreciate it.”

The event wasn’t necessarily special because someone was turning forty; it was special because that someone was Margaret. Hadn’t I heard that people with Down syndrome only have a life expectancy of around thirty-five years? Isn’t that what we always heard? Even though my big sister had defied the odds her entire life— no heart or respiratory problems, walking and talking at almost the same time as typically developing children, learning to read and write, participating in Special Olympics well into her thirties— still in the back of my mind was the lingering doubt about her well-being. The wondering, the wanting to know… how long will she be around?

I don’t remember much about Margaret’s twentieth, twenty-fifth, or even her thirtieth birthdays. I was too lost in the egocentricity that was my life. I was just starting college, graduating from college or taking off on an adventure that would cause Mama to have a hissy fit when I told her about it.

“What do you mean you’re moving to Miami?”

I thought I was going to have to peel her off the ceiling.

Then, on their first visit to South Florida, Mama brought Margaret into the fray by telling her about the Cuban people who live in Miami, how they speak a foreign language and eat strange food. Margaret looked worried.

“Is Embry going to turn into a Cuban?” she asked Mama as they drove across the southern tip of Florida into Dade County.

I had been caught up in my life for a long time, but now I was home and becoming more involved in what was going on with my family. My mother was getting older and time with her was precious. I missed her and Margaret and I realized how significant this birthday was. This was forty!

I decided the party had to be grand, at least by Margaret’s definition. After much contemplation, I came to the conclusion that as far as she was concerned, that meant two things—food in unlimited quantities, and beer—anything beyond that was gravy.

On the Saturday before her birthday, I drove Margaret to Atlanta where a group of my friends who know and love her dearly met us at a Mexican restaurant. There, she would be free to eat and drink to her heart’s content, something Mama would never let her do.

What I didn’t realize was that Margaret could have spent the entire night in the same spot as long as someone kept bringing her enchiladas and Miller Lite. After a couple of hours, I knew I had to do something to get her up from that table. I’d never hear the end of it if I brought her home sick the next day with a hangover, even though I only let her have two beers, which she nursed like they were the last two on earth.

“Hey Margaret,” I said, noticing she had only a few morsels of food left on her plate. “What do you say we go line dancing?”

Still chewing, she smiled and said, “Okay, let’s party!”

Margaret loves music and she’s wild about dancing. She was taking line dancing every Monday morning at the church, so she was excited about trying out her new country dancing feet.

Several years ago, someone gave Margaret a “Non-Stop Macarena” CD for Christmas; an entire CD of nothing but that one song, played over and over and over. She danced day and night and night and day. She danced the Macarena until Mama was forced to intervene.

“Margaret, you’re about to drive me slap crazy!” Mama walked into the living room, took the CD out, turned off the player and declared, “That’s enough.”

That was the end of the Macarena. Line dancing was a welcomed diversion.

Margaret’s birthday bash was a huge hit. A chance to gorge herself on Mexican food, drink not one, but two beers, and to top it off, dancing. After an hour or so of Cotton-Eyed-Joe, Boot-Scootin’ Boogie and the Texas Two-Step, she asked for another beer. I went to the bar and ordered an O’Doul’s. She took one look at it and said, “That’s non-alcoholic.”

Margaret sang, danced and giggled her way into the next day, completely lost in the celebration of her fortieth year of life. In the wee hours of the morning, we drove to a friend’s house to spend the night. After we climbed into the small double bed, I snuggled close to Margaret and silently replayed the events of the day. I lay awake that night for a long time wondering if all the pomp and circumstance had been more for me than for her. Finally, I closed my eyes and thanked God for my sister.

On our way back home the next day, I was reminded of how oblivious Margaret is to the miraculous nature of her existence. I looked over and found her dozing, as usual.

“Well, how does it feel to be forty?” I asked.

Through half-closed eyes came her reply. “Next year I’ll be forty-one. What can we do for my birthday next year?”

I smiled and pictured God smiling too. The celebration had indeed been a much bigger deal to me than it was to her. But then, how could it not be? Margaret celebrates life every day.

A. Embry Burrus
© 2005 aembryburrus.com