When You Are a Kid, and No One Shows up to Your Birthday Party

But that wasn’t the most painful thing that happened that day.

It was my 12th birthday. It was a Friday, so I woke up and got ready to go to school.

Just before I left, my mother told me to invite my classmates to my birthday party. I was surprised because she hadn’t mentioned it before, plus I had never had one, so this was most unusual.

Due to financial restrictions and having very strict parents who never even let us go to other people’s parties, birthday celebrations weren’t really a thing in our home.

Once at school, I told a few of my classmates about the party and then went about my nerd kid activities. Little did I know I was about to get a big break…although not of the good kind.

Like a Rolling Stone

After a couple of classes, we had recess. I went out to the yard and headed for our rustic volleyball court. I was far from being an athletic kid, but at that time in my life, I was obsessed with volleyball for some reason.

The court looked like this. Keep in mind this was a Mexican public school.

I grabbed a ball and started playing with it. Yes, I was alone. Did I already mention I was a nerd?

And then, as I was messing around, I stepped on a rock that somehow had made its way onto the court, and I twisted my right ankle. I did not hear a crack but felt a lot of pain.

A few girls on the other side of the field saw me and giggled a bit. At the moment, I thought I was okay, minus the embarrassment, so I semi-hopped back to my classroom.

However, as time passed, putting weight on my right foot was becoming more challenging, so I went to the doctor’s office inside the school. Yes, many Mexican public schools have an actual doctor on the premises. Can you believe it?

My ordeal was only beginning.

A Waiting Game

The doctor checked me up and then asked one of the secretaries to call my mother so she could take me to the hospital. I waited for her while feeling how my ankle doubled in size.

The fun thing is that my mother doesn’t drive. She tried to learn a few times but, in the end, decided it wasn’t worth it. The school was only three blocks from our house, so she getting there wasn’t going to be a problem. But how was she going to get me home and then to a hospital, especially considering that my father — who did drive — was at work?

Once she arrived, she announced she couldn’t find anybody to give us a lift, so I was going to have to walk back home. Oh, shit…

So there we were, my mother carrying my backpack, my right arm over her shoulders, trekking those three blocks that suddenly felt like three thousand.

My mother was a nurse, so when we finally arrived, she promptly checked my ankle. It was then that she announced that, since it wasn’t broken, it could wait until nighttime, when she had to go to work, so one of her doctor colleagues could treat me. Also, since I had a birthday party coming that very same day, wouldn’t it be better to wait?

And wait, we did.

No Piñatas

I spent most of my day sitting on the couch, my foot elevated to help ease the pain. My mom gave me who knows what drug to reduce the swelling.

And then, when the time for the party finally arrived, she placed a birthday cake on the table, along with some snacks. No, a piñata wasn’t in the plans — I never had one, if you can believe it — but given the state of my ankle, that was probably a good thing.

Minutes went by, and then hours, and no one showed up.

A classmate of mine lived nearby, so my mom sneaked out of the house to fetch her — she thought I didn’t notice, but I totally did; that was very nice of her, actually. Once she arrived, my family got together, and the cake was cut.

Later on, when it was time for my mom to go to work, my father helped me get into the car, and out we went, the three of us.

I finally catch a break…kind of.

Having my mother be a nurse gave my siblings and me very peculiar healthcare experiences.

First of all, unless it were a life-threatening ailment, we would rarely go to the doctor since, most of the time, we were treated at home.

However, on the few occasions when we needed to go to the hospital, my mom would walk us around the hallways, straight to the doctor we needed to see, while she tapped them on the shoulder, asking, “Hey, could you take a look at my kid real quick?”

This time was no different.

Therefore, I got my X-rays done in no time, and soon a doctor gave his verdict: Yes, there was a small fracture, although I was lucky I didn’t fully break my ankle.

Happy birthday to me.

In the end, I spent a month with a cast, hopping around the school with crutches.

Some of my classmates told me this was definite proof I was nothing but a show-off because all of them would have taken this opportunity not to come to school. I tried to explain that since my parents sent me every day, I had little choice in the matter.

As for all of the cake and the snacks, it took my family about a week to finish them off.

I didn’t really care.

Sure, it sucked that one showed up, but mostly because it made me self-conscious of the fact I had no friends. Don’t worry; a few years later, I learned to get along with a couple of girls. But I would have actually been okay with not even having a party. I was used to not having one, so there was nothing to miss.

Later on, my siblings had birthday parties too, but except for a couple of people showing up for my oldest sister, there wasn’t much success.

Up to this day, I try not to make much of a fuss about my birthday. It actually makes me uncomfortable when people hug me while shouting “Happy Birthday” in my ear.

Throughout the years, a few people have even given me gifts, but for some reason, I usually get make-up, which I never wear, or books on self-growth, which I have little use for. However, I appreciate the effort to be nice to me since that’s something I haven’t experienced much.

And then, of course, there have been a couple of times when someone hits it out of the park by giving me something I really love. I know I don’t make it easy because I have built thick walls around me, so it’s hard to get to know what I want.

And as of today, February 12th, as I turn 42, my birthday has become this weird phenomenon I still don’t know how to handle. Sure, I’m glad I managed to stay alive for yet another year — yay, me! — but I kind of would prefer it if it were treated as just another day, with no congratulations of any sort.

Is that just trauma talking?