To Infinity and Beyond

Tybee 4 – Maddy Goldstein

Maddy Goldstein

I experienced my first-ever heartbreak at three years old. This pain did not occur because of a boy, a death, or a traumatic accident. No, this grief came from the loss of a balloon. With the heavily anticipated Toy Story 3 coming out that summer, my Pixar obsession made it clear that only one option existed for my party’s theme: Toy Story. We lined the walls of Jodi’s Gym with green and purple streamers, and gave out Little Green Men as the obvious choice of party favors. The incident occurred more than thirteen years ago, but my recollection of my third birthday party remains near perfect. I remember breathing in the sweat and cupcake-filled air of Jodi’s Gym, the sound of toddlers shrieking from joy as they somersaulted on the trampoline, the fear I felt as I walked on the two-foot-tall balance beam, but above all else, I remember the cake and the balloon.  

I had some serious expectations for this birthday, and those expectations took the form of a cake. After hours of jumping, playing, and screaming, we moved the party into yet another Toy Story fanatic-worthy room, ready for the highlight of the party: the cake. An endless array of signs plastered on the walls, mountains of light purple and ocean blue confetti brightened up the room like flowers on a dirt road. My parents placed small, plastic seats around a large rectangular table with the cheap, plastic table covering that I loved ripping off. I eagerly bounced up and down in my chair, my party hat bobbling as I laughed giddily. My sugar-obsessed toddler mind considered this the high point of the day, one that demanded perfection. First, we ate pizza, lots and lots of pizza. Then came the cake, custom made from Carvel. It had chocolate and vanilla ice cream with extra chocolate crunchies, my favorite, and a true staple of every preschool birthday party. The blue frosting swirled around the edges with the words “Happy Third Birthday, Maddy” written in purple icing in the center of the cake. The decoration had the smiling faces of all my favorite characters: Woody, Jessie, Slinky, Mr. Potato Head, and above all else, Buzz Lightyear. Unlike the others, Buzz took the form of a candle, a bright, captivating light. I had never truly examined a flame before, and found myself staring intensely at the illuminating, mysteriously comfortable one that flickered all but a few inches away from me. Like a moth to light, I found myself in a trance-like state as I reached out and touched the bright flame. HOT. BURNING HOT. I howled in pain as I stared at my throbbing, bright red pointer finger. The excitement I felt vanished in mere seconds. I never experienced pain like this before, sharp and excruciating. A gasp came from the crowd of my friends and family as they watched the aftermath of my pyromaniacal state. I felt scared, but more than that, betrayed. My favorite childhood figure had caused me pain, ruined my birthday party, and worst of all, did it with a smile painted on his wax face, leaving all hope for a happy day destroyed. The sting of the bacitracin my parents put on the wound felt like nothing compared to the pain of disappointment. I bawled as my parents tried hopelessly at distracting me from the pain of the burn and ruined birthday. With this moment seared into my brain forever, all hope for happiness felt forever lost.  

I was past consoling, never again could I look at Buzz Lightyear the same. After what felt like hours of an endless stream of tears, I rubbed my blurry and bloodshot eyes, my vision clearing. I looked around the room of concerned adults, at the white walls decorated with posters and streamers, and something caught my eye. In the far left corner of the other side of the room, behind the long table on which sat an array of used plates, nearly hidden by the sea of family members and friends, I saw a Buzz Lightyear balloon. It felt unlike any balloon I had ever witnessed: a cutout of Buzz Lightyear made from foil, had bright eyes which looked so animated that it felt as if he were staring right at me. With Buzz’s fist pointed in the air and feet off the ground, he looked like he truly flew in the air. My parents, having seen the excited glimmer in my eyes as I stared at the balloon, jumped into action. My father shouted, “For the love of God, someone grab that damn balloon!” Faster than the speed of light, the balloon sped into my grubby, outstretched hand. My mood lifted instantly. As I stared at the balloon in awe, I felt a smile plaster itself onto my face and I clapped my hands gleefully. My family and friends all breathed a sigh of relief. My toddler memory no longer recalled the pain of the burn, and I forgave Buzz happily, readily putting the memory in the past. 

As pathetic as this may sound, for the next few hours, that balloon became my best friend. I consider saying that I loved it an understatement, this bond felt like no other. While the other toddlers ran around in the jungle-like play area, I sat with Buzz on a plastic chair in the corner and ate my ice cream cake, alone but content. Even when my parents insisted that I bounce on trampolines and take pictures with my friends, I refused if Buzz did not join. I might as well have stapled that balloon to my side. After a few more hours of partying, the fun came to an end, and, much to my dismay, I needed to head home. Before we left, I reluctantly gave the balloon to my mother, who, with even more hesitation, handed it to Aunt Sheryl so that she could hold me and my sister’s hands. “Whatever you do,” warned my mother, “do not let go of that balloon.” My aunt insisted that she was overreacting. As I trudged out of Jodi’s gym and walked down the gray, stone stairs, I felt a sense of excitement. My special day nearing its end, I realized that balloon served as my favorite and most treasured memento. As I held my parents’ hands and skipped down the concrete streets of New York City back to our apartment, I only thought about the much anticipated moment when I could arrive home and place my new and prized trophy in my room. I would tie it to the foot of my bed, so that everyone who walked in could see Buzz’s smiling face right away.

After only a few minutes of walking and a couple blocks into our journey, my sister and I grew tired. For two toddlers, the trip back home proved a very difficult feat, and a mere fifteen minutes of exercise felt like a lifetime of monotonous walking. My sister, tired after a long day of trampolining, walked right into a stop sign. She started bawling, and while she did not get any serious injuries other than a small bruise on her right shoulder, she insisted that she needed assistance making the rest of the journey. Begrudgingly, my mother agreed on giving her a piggyback ride for the remainder of the walk. Upon seeing this special treatment, I too asked for a piggyback ride, and Aunt Sheryl obliged. As she bent down and picked me up, my mother asked if she should hold the balloon as a way of ensuring its safety. “Stop worrying, Susan!” exclaimed my aunt yet again. As Aunt Sheryl bent down and picked me up, she lost her grip on the balloon. In a feeble attempt at grabbing Buzz, I leapt out from her arms, landing flat on my face on the cold, hard pavement. As I looked up into the sky, tears welled in my eyes. I forced my head up and watched as the wind took Buzz through the clouds. I felt a lump grow in my throat. My mother, in an attempt at lightening the mood, pointed up at Buzz and exclaimed, “Look, Maddy! Buzz Lightyear, to infinity and beyond!” The tears stuck in my throat began pouring out of me as I watched my closest companion float farther and farther away until he became nothing more than a dot, hidden amongst the clouds and smoke of New York City. 

Little did I know that birthday would become the one that I compared all my others to. Not only did I experience my first ever heartbreak, it happened on the day I most looked forward to all year. Looking back, I realize that balloon offered me not just a sense of loss, but a life lesson. Nothing good will last forever, so instead of worrying about when it will end, focus on the happy memories and learning experiences. Everything happens for a reason. If I had not gotten burnt by the candle, I never would have noticed the Buzz Lightyear balloon in the first place. The thought of my third birthday angered me as I considered it my worst one to date, but now I understand that only shows the day’s impact on me. I consider myself grateful for the vividness of the memories, not regretful about how they ended. We must take the good with the bad, because love cannot exist without pain.