Just for starters, it was the gloomiest birthday weather in memory — the memory being suspect, given the milestone nature of the event. A week earlier, it was the milestone itself that was a thing of wonder. Come the damp, gray dawn of it, though, it barely came to mind.

Birthdays pale against pandemics.

The morning news said things were worse than they were when I’d gone to bed the night before. They would be even worse before they got better. There’s nothing to celebrate today; keep moving.

Moving onto what? My calendar was barren. Two days prior, early spring had been chock full. Meetings, appointments, diversions. Then delete, delete, delete.

I had blocked the birthday from the calendar weeks ago. It was to be my pause from the stuff of life. Yet there was no longer any stuff. The birthday pause was now akin to a spring-like day in February. It doesn’t feel entirely good when it doesn’t feel right.

Off-Island friends had made plans to come regale me for the long birthday weekend. We had it all figured out: restorative yoga, brunch at the Outermost Inn, beach walks.

Well, the yoga studio closed, quite rightly. But hey, the beaches were still open.

The California friend pulled out — underlying conditions, the Covid risk of a long flight.

But hey, the friends within driving distance were still on board.

The Outermost Inn had to cancel the sit-down service they had just revived. But hey, we could cook and dine on the comfy home front. When life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. Add vodka.

Three days and counting. Cutesy elbow-bumping was reduced to social distancing. The friend from New York bowed out to cover for a co-worker in self-quarantine. Self-isolating became a thing, and others bowed out, too.

Finally there was but one. Me.

But hey, as we cheerily agreed, we’d celebrate together after things get better later in the spring. Or in the summer. Or in the fall.

I’m normally a pro at entertaining myself. Yet come the “big” day, I woke with total lack of direction. I did two loads of laundry. I changed the sheets on my bed. The news droned all day with virus doom in the background. Noontime still found me in pajamas. I considered doing my taxes, but no, I refused to stoop that far. That, plus anything having to do with money brought to mind my Covid-ravaged nest egg as Wall Street freaked out, just as I begin wondering if I could retire if I wanted to. I quickly reminded myself that there are people with no nest eggs or even nests. People who are in my daily midst.

Friends called and sent e-cards. A bright bouquet arrived. A bottle of good champagne, too. Lovely Facebook greetings poured in. Some gushed with odd words like “celebrate” and memes of fireworks and such. It was the thought that counted. It’s all good. I deep-sixed the pity party and got out of the house and into my car and the damp streets. Destination TBD.

The downtowns were still, even for March. Not nuclear-event still, though I sensed Rod Serling in the wings. A walk on a soaking beach didn’t entice me. But I could park and glimpse one instead, through the mist. I cracked open a window and listened to the lap of surf. I returned a birthday call from my California friend, the psychiatrist, and took subconsciously to her couch.

Was I anxious? No. Depressed? Not exactly. Feeling weird was the best I could come up with. Later, on my own, I settled on “in limbo.” I’ve never cared for limbo.

Breaking news, the Vineyard’s first suspected case of the virus. Just as I’d begun to fantasize that our Island would beat the odds. We’d be the poster island of Covid-free zones, I’d imagined.

It wasn’t to be.

Breaking news, dear John Alley has passed away.

Okay, I get it, Serling! This is not even going to be an average birthday, let alone a special one.

I made a nice birthday dinner for Mom and myself. Then we settled down to Netflix, to watch the final episode of the miniseries When They See Us. Since it was based on true events, I knew the ending to the sobering tale would be a happy and suitable birthday windup. What I did not know, was that the happy part was a mere 10 minutes, preceded by an hour of immersion in incarceration hell.

I had already made peace with the birthday, though. I slipped into clean sheets to the murmur of pinkletinks. I drifted into sleep thinking of people to check on the next day, and on ways to refill my calendar and spirit, by doing my share of good.

Shelley Christiansen is a freelance writer living in Oak Bluffs.