In a few weeks, I’ll be 25. I’m trying to not be one of those people who freak out about this birthday because they’re already anticipating freaking out about 30, which is a premature over-reaction to 50, which is a reminder that someday you might turn 70 (and you hope you do, but a tiny part of you thinks “dang, that’s so old”), until you reach the root of your fears which is the realization that you’re going to die.
Happy birthday to me.
We take stock of our lives on our birthdays. Have we hit the milestones appropriate or expected for this age? What plans do we have for this new year on Earth? Was the last year a good one? Are we happy/fulfilled/successful/purposeful/stressed out of our minds?
I don’t feel like I’m mature enough to be 25. I’ve never paid for utilities. My favorite foods are still french toast and mac & cheese. I haven’t graduated yet. I literally would not survive without my parents’ support. I can do my own laundry and air up a flat tire, so that’s a point in my favor.
24 was one of the hardest and best years of my life. I hit a lot of unexpected, non-traditional milestones. But birthdays are weird for me because they not only mark another year of life, but they mark another year of chronic illness.
I wish they didn’t. I wish I could separate the two in my mind. I wish birthdays could just be a celebration of still being alive. But it’s the same with New Year’s and the anniversary of the infection that started it all. They’re marks on the calendar reminding me every year how far removed I am from HEALTH and that I may never get back to it again. If I was healthy, 25 would look different, and I would have to switch out a few things on that list of reasons I’m not mature enough.
When I hear people say things like “so grateful to be healthy #blessed” on their Instagram posts after a natural disaster or a story of a disabled person doing anything has made them feel guilty for complaining about their lives, I want to roll my eyes. But I shouldn’t. Because to them that’s the base level of gratitude for existence. Healthy is our humble, non-greedy desire. When you don’t want to ask for too much, you ask for health.
What do people say when they’re expecting and some asks what they hope the baby is? HEALTHY. They hope the baby is healthy. I hope the baby is healthy. We all hope the baby is healthy. But sometimes, many times, the baby isn’t healthy. Or it starts off healthy but it gets an infection and then it counts its birthdays in terms of years alive (25) and years sick (12.5).
So my dilemma on my birthday is that base level of gratitude. I do not have my health. As I write this, I am in bed debating whether the pain in my head is enough to warrant taking more medicine, or if I am capable of powering through because I don’t want to be loopy for an interview later. I have been at this for 12.5 years. 13 birthdays. Over half of my life. I am planning my future without the presence of HEALTH, but also with the bold gamble that I will continue to manage and maybe make some more slight (incredible) improvements.
On this birthday, I will not be healthy. If I am fortunate enough to get 45 more birthdays, I may not be healthy for any of those either. That’s life, kid. C’est la vie. I am still grateful for so much. My base level gratitude starts at breathing. I am breathing. I am here. I am living and that’s kind of amazing in itself. So cheers to 25 years of breathing. I’m grateful for all of them.