Celebrations...
Another day, another year older. I don't feel any different for being another year older mind you. To be honest, the only difference between today and any other day has been the cards, presents and phone calls wishing me a happy birthday.
Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful for the thoughts and wishes of others. I just wish that it really was a happy birthday and not just another day of the same stuff, just with a special occasion tagged on as if to mock me. The slight difference to normal has been the consumption of alcohol, which isn't normal for me. When the room spins naturally, it doesn't need some odd hydrocarbon to assist it, so I tend to stick to tea. Tonight I pushed the boat out, and probably rowed it quite far from shore, but what the hell, it's only once a year you get to be another year older.
We celebrate each milestone in our lives: Our first word is celebrated by our parents, our first steps, our first day at school, our last day at school, the last day of an old job as you move onto something else. We celebrate birth and death with equal gusto, celebrating a new life or seeing off a loved one or friend with a laugh over old memories and a twinge of pain that these days will never happen again.
We all celebrate each passing year with a rousing toast when midnight strikes on the last day of the old year and we move into a new one, as our lives pass in more and more of a blur as age takes us further into maturity and into a world where being 40 becomes a distinct possibility rather than something only really old people are aged.
When I was small (OK, smaller than I am now) Christmases and birthdays inched round, and now it doesn't seem so long since I was eating Christmas dinner with the in-laws. Time is relative though, and when you're young, you have nothing to fill your life with but the things you choose to do, other than School of course. As you get older, you get more and more responsibility with a job, spouse, children too if that's your thing. It's not mine. I borrow other people's because you can give them back and don't have to deal with things like sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the trauma of the first day at school...
I wasn't always like that though. I wanted children of my own once upon a time, and I was desperate to have them, but nothing happened. I went and got it checked out, had all the tests, had the ignominity of having cameras shoved places you shouldn't have cameras (fortunately they anaethsatised me for that one) and had the stuffing kicked out of me when I was told that there was no earthly way I could have kids without some serious help and a lot of money. It broke my heart to hear that and I ended up with some severe depression for a while, but I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started thinking what having children really meant.
I got a real taste of what my parents have gone through with me not so long ago when a friend of mine was very seriously ill. So seriously, we weren't sure if she would survive. I fretted. I paced. I drank gallons of tea. I hardly slept. Each little setback was hell, but a gang of us got together and we supported each other. We talked into the wee hours of the morning. We shared silly stories of our friend, made each other laugh and we were there for each other and for her every hour of every day. She is still with us, and I am forever grateful for that. She brought a small few people closer together in a way that only things like that can. You know who you are and I know you read this, and I will always hold you to be one of my dearest friends. You showed me so much of the things I had taken for granted and made me realise a few truths.
The truth is that when I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with skin cancer in my leg. Malignant Melinoma to be exact. Sure, everyone knows what it is now, but it was relatively unknown back then. It hit the headlines about 6 months after I'd been diagnosed and treated for it. I was a blasee teen and didn't understand till later how serious the condition was. At that time about 75% of people who were diagnosed with malignant melinoma didn't survive. I was one of the lucky few, diagnosed early, treated quickly and by one of the brightest and best. Mr MacKay, my surgeon, was a pioneer in the disease. I believe I was the 123rd person to ever get the new technique he came up with which cut out weeks and months of chemo and other treatments. I'll describe it in more detail another time.
I wasn't worried. I'd already worked out that I had three chances: One, they would take part of my leg. Two, I would lose my leg. Three, I was pushing up daisies. I was on a ward with a load of amputees. I could see them being cheerful about their lives, the fact that they had survived, and frankly, at that point, I could still walk around on my own, and I felt that I could shrug my shoulders and say that my skin cancer was no big deal. I knew my mum was worried. I joked that I let everyone else do all the worrying for me, and I just carried on as normal.
As it was, I went down to theatre at about half two in the afternoon and my mum phoned around five that evening to see how I was to be told I was still in. I laughed when she told me later that her day was spent going up and down the garden drinking countless cups of coffee and doing nothing really because she couldn't concentrate on anything because of the worry. I didn't get it. I didn't get what she had gone through till I did the same thing with my friend. It has made me appreciate the burdens of parenthood in a way I could never understand before.
Everyone calls me Mum or Mother, and as I have grown older, I have become a "parent" to so many people both older and younget than myself. I offer advice, I love unconditionally, I scold when it's needed, and I am there for each and every one of my "children" when they want me. I had never had the nail-biting worry of parenthood before, so I never appreciated what real parents go through until my eyes were opened by one person, someone I have never met except via a computer, but someone who has influenced me in ways I suspect even she doesn't know.
I now see children differently. I wonder what it would be like to actually have some of my own, and know that I will never have the opportunity. I don't envy those with children or covet their lifestyle. I dread to think what life would be like for any children I might have had with me being the way I am now, but being able to understand how my mother felt on that day of my life has made a big difference to the way I view others with their sons and daughters.
Every day we are alive should be a celebration, but for so many of us, every day is a struggle, a fight against the odds, a race to survive yet another day of whatever is dragging us down. I feel that I have to be cheerful so much, to at least look like I am celebrating each day, each little thing that I can do one day but not the next. It is draining to paste on a smile, share a joke, make people laugh when all I want to do is run and hide, hide from another birthday, another year older, another day the same as the ones before, another celebration, but a celebration of what?
I'm still alive. I'm still here. Is that enough to celebrate over? Will it ever be enough to just exist if this is me for life?
Oh why the hell not? Pour me another drink!
Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful for the thoughts and wishes of others. I just wish that it really was a happy birthday and not just another day of the same stuff, just with a special occasion tagged on as if to mock me. The slight difference to normal has been the consumption of alcohol, which isn't normal for me. When the room spins naturally, it doesn't need some odd hydrocarbon to assist it, so I tend to stick to tea. Tonight I pushed the boat out, and probably rowed it quite far from shore, but what the hell, it's only once a year you get to be another year older.
We celebrate each milestone in our lives: Our first word is celebrated by our parents, our first steps, our first day at school, our last day at school, the last day of an old job as you move onto something else. We celebrate birth and death with equal gusto, celebrating a new life or seeing off a loved one or friend with a laugh over old memories and a twinge of pain that these days will never happen again.
We all celebrate each passing year with a rousing toast when midnight strikes on the last day of the old year and we move into a new one, as our lives pass in more and more of a blur as age takes us further into maturity and into a world where being 40 becomes a distinct possibility rather than something only really old people are aged.
When I was small (OK, smaller than I am now) Christmases and birthdays inched round, and now it doesn't seem so long since I was eating Christmas dinner with the in-laws. Time is relative though, and when you're young, you have nothing to fill your life with but the things you choose to do, other than School of course. As you get older, you get more and more responsibility with a job, spouse, children too if that's your thing. It's not mine. I borrow other people's because you can give them back and don't have to deal with things like sleepless nights, dirty nappies, the trauma of the first day at school...
I wasn't always like that though. I wanted children of my own once upon a time, and I was desperate to have them, but nothing happened. I went and got it checked out, had all the tests, had the ignominity of having cameras shoved places you shouldn't have cameras (fortunately they anaethsatised me for that one) and had the stuffing kicked out of me when I was told that there was no earthly way I could have kids without some serious help and a lot of money. It broke my heart to hear that and I ended up with some severe depression for a while, but I picked myself up, dusted myself off, and started thinking what having children really meant.
I got a real taste of what my parents have gone through with me not so long ago when a friend of mine was very seriously ill. So seriously, we weren't sure if she would survive. I fretted. I paced. I drank gallons of tea. I hardly slept. Each little setback was hell, but a gang of us got together and we supported each other. We talked into the wee hours of the morning. We shared silly stories of our friend, made each other laugh and we were there for each other and for her every hour of every day. She is still with us, and I am forever grateful for that. She brought a small few people closer together in a way that only things like that can. You know who you are and I know you read this, and I will always hold you to be one of my dearest friends. You showed me so much of the things I had taken for granted and made me realise a few truths.
The truth is that when I was seventeen, I was diagnosed with skin cancer in my leg. Malignant Melinoma to be exact. Sure, everyone knows what it is now, but it was relatively unknown back then. It hit the headlines about 6 months after I'd been diagnosed and treated for it. I was a blasee teen and didn't understand till later how serious the condition was. At that time about 75% of people who were diagnosed with malignant melinoma didn't survive. I was one of the lucky few, diagnosed early, treated quickly and by one of the brightest and best. Mr MacKay, my surgeon, was a pioneer in the disease. I believe I was the 123rd person to ever get the new technique he came up with which cut out weeks and months of chemo and other treatments. I'll describe it in more detail another time.
I wasn't worried. I'd already worked out that I had three chances: One, they would take part of my leg. Two, I would lose my leg. Three, I was pushing up daisies. I was on a ward with a load of amputees. I could see them being cheerful about their lives, the fact that they had survived, and frankly, at that point, I could still walk around on my own, and I felt that I could shrug my shoulders and say that my skin cancer was no big deal. I knew my mum was worried. I joked that I let everyone else do all the worrying for me, and I just carried on as normal.
As it was, I went down to theatre at about half two in the afternoon and my mum phoned around five that evening to see how I was to be told I was still in. I laughed when she told me later that her day was spent going up and down the garden drinking countless cups of coffee and doing nothing really because she couldn't concentrate on anything because of the worry. I didn't get it. I didn't get what she had gone through till I did the same thing with my friend. It has made me appreciate the burdens of parenthood in a way I could never understand before.
Everyone calls me Mum or Mother, and as I have grown older, I have become a "parent" to so many people both older and younget than myself. I offer advice, I love unconditionally, I scold when it's needed, and I am there for each and every one of my "children" when they want me. I had never had the nail-biting worry of parenthood before, so I never appreciated what real parents go through until my eyes were opened by one person, someone I have never met except via a computer, but someone who has influenced me in ways I suspect even she doesn't know.
I now see children differently. I wonder what it would be like to actually have some of my own, and know that I will never have the opportunity. I don't envy those with children or covet their lifestyle. I dread to think what life would be like for any children I might have had with me being the way I am now, but being able to understand how my mother felt on that day of my life has made a big difference to the way I view others with their sons and daughters.
Every day we are alive should be a celebration, but for so many of us, every day is a struggle, a fight against the odds, a race to survive yet another day of whatever is dragging us down. I feel that I have to be cheerful so much, to at least look like I am celebrating each day, each little thing that I can do one day but not the next. It is draining to paste on a smile, share a joke, make people laugh when all I want to do is run and hide, hide from another birthday, another year older, another day the same as the ones before, another celebration, but a celebration of what?
I'm still alive. I'm still here. Is that enough to celebrate over? Will it ever be enough to just exist if this is me for life?
Oh why the hell not? Pour me another drink!
posted by Me at 3:11 am
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