This year I’m approaching my 31st birthday. Last year I turned thirty and I was really excited about it. This year I’m just as excited to turn 31, even though it’s not a milestone birthday, it’s still a birthday. I know a lot of people don’t like getting older and don’t like giving their age out. Most people I know dread turning thirty and even more dread turning 40. I can’t wait to turn 40. Those of you who are 40 and older who are reading this are probably shaking your head.
Why am I excited?
Well – I’m still living aren’t I?
Turning 31 is pretty exciting when you consider I wasn’t supposed to live past five years old. The doctors didn’t think I would make it. Then I made it to five. Then they said I wouldn’t make it to age ten. I made it to ten. Then I wasn’t supposed to make it to sixteen.
I made it to sixteen.
Now I’m thirty, almost thirty-one and by now the doctors have stopped trying to figure out how long I have left. I’m stable. My heart is in really good shape, the best it’s been in many years. I’m not healthy by any means, but I’m alive.
Mom and I decided it was finally a good time to tell my story, to write this memoir. One of my friends asked me once, “Don’t you have to do something important to write a memoir?”
Did she have a point? Well, maybe. I’m not anybody famous. I’m not a famous movie star, rock star, or author (although I’m working on that part) But I’m living.
I beat the odds.
And you know, to me that is pretty special.
That’s enough reason, I say.