50!
On the joyful privilege of attaining middle age
On Saturday, May 3, 1975, Foolish Pleasure won the 101st running of the Kentucky Derby at Churchill Downs in Louisville. On Sunday, May 4, 1975, in Owensboro — about two hours west of Louisville — a little bundle of joy named Sylvester Russell Smith, III, was born. His Mom and Dad called him “the last horse in the race” since he came in (or, well, came out) to the finish line a day after the big race.
About an hour after his birth, the doctor could tell something wasn’t right. The baby had turned blue. By a miraculous coincidence, only a few weeks prior, the doctor had taken a class about recognizing congenital heart defects in newborns. He saw the signs and he took action.
Less than 24 hours later, the newborn and his Dad — his namesake — hopped on an Army helicopter for a ride to a hospital in Louisville.
I was born with Tricuspid Atresia. The American Heart Association describes the defect:
“There is no tricuspid valve in the heart so blood cannot flow from the body into the heart in the normal way. The blood is not being properly refilled with oxygen so it does not complete the normal cycle of body–heart–lungs–heart–body.”1
The National Library of Medicine classifies Tricuspid Atresia as a “Critical Congenital Heart Defects (CCHD),” meaning “a group of serious heart defects that are present from birth.”2
Twelve days later, I had a Waterson Shunt, a palliative procedure to offer some relief from the lack of the Tricuspid valve.3
In late September 1985, I laid in a bed at St. Mary’s Hospital, an affiliate of Mayo Clinic, in Rochester, Minnesota. Earlier that month, I’d undergone a Modified Fontan open-heart surgery.4 In total, I’d stay in the hospital for three weeks. Mom stayed the entire time. Dad stayed about 10 days then returned home to Louisville. A few days after he left, I called him.
Now, these weren’t the days of ubiquitous cell phones and FaceTime. No — these were the barbaric days of expensive long-distance calls and operator assistance. Before he’d left, Dad had given me his credit card number in case I wanted to call him. He hadn’t written the number down, of course — I had to memorize it. The good ole days — ha!
I caught him at his office. I only recall this snippet from our conversation. I asked him:
“Dad, if I hadn’t had this surgery, how long would I have lived?”
My Dad and Mom never hid the seriousness of my heart problem from me. They never gave me trite platitudes that “It’d be alright.” They knew that, for good or ill, I had to wrestle with the implications of my heart problem. While they — and my entire family — lovingly supported me every step of the way, it was my life.
So Dad answered, “Well, no one really could say, but maybe until age 15 or so.”
I had the surgery and it changed the trajectory of my life.
Still, I didn’t know how long the good effects of the surgery would last. Around age 13 or 14, I recall thinking, “If I make it 2025, I will be 50 years old. There’s so much time between now and then. There’s no way I will make it to 50.”
Well, one more open-heart surgery, two pacemakers, one amazing wife, and two special daughters later — along with the rest of my unbelievably supportive family and friends — here we are. Lo and behold.
On Saturday, May 3, 2025, Sovereignty won the 151st running of the Kentucky Derby.
Today — Sunday, May 4, 2025 — I celebrate my 50th birthday! Woohoo!!! 🎆🥳💥🎉
I’ve written before about how much I love birthdays — especially (cough) my own. I revel in each one. I love the cake, the candles, the calls, the texts, the Happy Birthday songs. And well, I simply appreciate the attention, well-wishes, and people remembering me.
About two years ago, my daughters started commenting about how old I was and that “you are pretty much 50.” Ah — the (gentle, good-natured) harshness of the young — shaving off two years of my 40s!
If they thought they could get my red hackles up, they were sorely mistaken. I know that my life could have taken other paths. Much shorter ones.
I know that attaining middle age is a privilege.
The jokes are a privilege. The ribbing is a privilege. The gray hairs — even the increasingly plentiful strands falling out in the shower — are a privilege.
My Jesuit political philosophy professor, Fr. Schall, would say, “It’s a rare person who can gain wisdom by age 50.” In college, at 21, I scoffed at such a notion. “Maybe you took until age 50; maybe most people do. But I am Mr. Smarty Pants and I’ll be wise in a few short years. In fact, I have quite a bit of wisdom now.”
I don’t scoff anymore. I simply wonder if I will have some small level of wisdom by, say, age 60. Will I ever?
It is a privilege to still be seeking wisdom. To still be able to seek.
Because of enormous medical advances in the years before my birth and since, outstanding medical care in Louisville, Rochester, Washington, DC, Cincinnati, and Chicago, and because of the overwhelming love of my family, I have the privilege to celebrate today.
Except for those gifts, I know — and appreciate in a way they cannot yet — my daughters would not be here today. And they are the greatest privileges of my life.
So bring on the cake! Bring on the calls! Bring on the singing! Bring on the teasing! Today is my 50th birthday!
Every day is a beautiful privilege.
https://www.heart.org/en/health-topics/congenital-heart-defects/about-congenital-heart-defects/single-ventricle-defects
https://medlineplus.gov/genetics/condition/critical-congenital-heart-disease/#causes
https://www.sciencedirect.com/topics/medicine-and-dentistry/aortopulmonary-shunt
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fontan_procedure
Happy birthday, Russell!!!
Happy Birthday! And what a treat to see tiny Russell photos in this share—thank you!