Acts 35, Looks 4, Is 20

I feel like everyone who knows me knew this post was coming. My birthday (as narcissistic as it may be) is a big part of my personality, and every year those close to me are forced to spend weeks, sometimes months, listening to me squeal and plan and plot celebrations to be had.

I've thought a lot about this subject and I can't completely explain why my birthday has always been such a big deal to me, but there are definitely a few things I think go into it.

For one, I was given a death sentence before I was even born. Doctors told my parents that my condition was so severe that they shouldn't expect to bring me home from the hospital, and if I did somehow survive, my short life would be one of pain and suffering. They spent their time planning a funeral instead of a nursery, and it was completely expected for the day I was born to be one that haunted my parents' lives forever as the death date of their child rather than the birth day of their daughter.

Yet, here I am, and spoiler alert: I lived! And so, my birthday, the first of March, has become the marker of a miracle that was supposed to end in tragedy. On the days leading up to it, my parents retell the stories of their preparations: how they explained to my sister that she would have to wait to see me in heaven one day, how they picked a name suitable for an angel, and allowed themselves to hope for the best but be ready for the worst.

And then there's me. Never knowing this somber time in my family's life, I grew up adopting the attitude that I had every right to share loudly and proudly that I was still alive, year after year, happy as could be. I wore my birthday as a suit of armor; it was the one day a year when nothing bad was allowed to happen. Then on the morning I turned 10 years old, I broke my arm and was devastated. Not because of the actual injury, but because the spell had been broken. Was I not allowed to be invincible for just one day? I cried for about fifteen minutes, then got wrapped up, started giggling about my cake, and went on to have a lovely day.

It was around that time it transitioned from the typical kid excitement to the feeling that this event was significant for a different reason. Every time I took another trip around the sun was another year I was here, no matter how shitty or hard or complicated the last year had been. And it really was touch-and-go sometimes.

When I was 1, I wasn't supposed to turn 2. At 7, I was racing around in my pink sparkly princess heels, making my mom cry happy tears because she couldn't believe I was walking at my party when I wasn't even supposed to be able to breathe on my own. At 10, I broke my arm. At 15, it marked six years since I had stood on my feet, and there was little hope I would again. 16 was sweet-- a surprise party! At 17, I was walking. At 18, in the middle of the celebrations of the day (there were many!), my dad had me sit down and sign power of attorney forms.

Moments like these make me stop for a second. The likelihood of me one day being critically ill and and unable to make medical decisions for myself isn't a ridiculous idea; it is so important and probable that I had to make plans for that possibility the day I became a legal adult. While others were out buying cigarettes and lottery tickets, I was setting up my disability social security insurance, and starting the rip-your-eyes-out journey of finding a new, equally qualified medical team after receiving care from the same people for the past 18 years of my life (I'm still working on that one btw).

Tomorrow I turn 20, this time in the era of COVID-19. Of course things are different, but they also feel weirdly the same. The past twelve months have been scary, exciting, remarkable, and ordinary all at once-- like they always are. But here I am, making (heavily subdued) plans and feeling my annual sense of accomplishment, for still being loudly and proudly here.

Here's to my roaring 20s!