The Big 4.0

So here it is.

I am turning 40 on this Sunday. I write this in the week prior with so much in my head and heart.

I approach this birthday milestone with what I feel may be more than the usual mixed bag of feelings that most women do when they round 39. I have the usual vanity complex: "omg - how did this happen? when did I turn 40? I don't feel 40! I hope I don't look 40! Am I really old now? Am I still beautiful?"

But being a breast cancer survivor makes 40 ironic as well. At 4o years old, I am now eligible to finally get "screening mammograms." However, as an 8 year survivor, I am long past that. In fact, at my recent annual gyn exam, during the intake with a new-to-me medical assistant, the conversation went something like this:

'Tifani': Sooooo...I see someone is about to turn 40!!! That means you now need to get screening mammograms (does this, I kid you not, with air quotes...turns to computer with my electronic record pulled up)...let's see....have you had a mammogram before?

me: (long pause) Yusssssss

'Tifani': Ah yes...I see it here....hmmmm it looks like they only did one side...I wonder why that is? Did you have some sort of issue? Was everything okay with this mammogram?

me: (staring hard at left hand static column of screen where "personal history significant for breast cancer. status post left mastectomy, chemo, oopherectomy" can be clearly seen, again...long pause) Yusssssss

'Tifani': Huh. Well, I don't know why...well that's certainly strange...it even says return in one year...(and then the pointer finally reaches the left hand column and hovers as Tifani takes it all in) ...OH!... oh...you...have...had...breast cancer? (and she turns to me)

me: (sighs with relief) Yes. And no, you do not need get me appointments for my mammograms. I have that all taken care of. And my oncologist keeps in touch with this doc. So how's about you take my blood pressure and we get this show on the road?

So there's that.

However, I also feel I have a few other layers to add on to it. In fact, a couple weeks ago, I was literally sitting in my office at work, choking back tears of guilt at the thought of celebrating a birthday.

Why?-you might ask?

Well- let's start with the not so obvious: I feel guilty celebrating when the world is in a complete crapper right now, when I have a few friends who have no job, no expendable income to speak of, and no real miracle of relief around the corner. Darfur, Somalia, AIDS, women's rights in 3rd world countries around the world, animals being slaughtered left and right, dogs being murdered simply because they look like a certain breed or had the misfortune to have been raised by idiots. . .
And then of course there is the really obvious: I feel guilt for celebrating a birthday that many of my survivor sisters did not, or will not, live to realize. In fact, in the last year alone I lost 6 friends, the oldest of whom was 39. And currently, I have many who many not make it to this age, or much past it, and literally count the days they do enjoy on this planet.
And then there was this week. I, along with many of my YSC sisters, and her family and friends, buried a woman who was diagnosed also at 32, also in 2001, and who passed away on Friday, February 20th. In the months leading up to her passing I knew it was coming, and yet I pushed it away. Tracy Pleva Hill inspired me with her strength and spirit. And she inspired so many others as well. All she wanted to do was to dance at her son's wedding and this has been taken form her. One of the other YSC Board members said that she cannot imagine attending the upcoming conference without Tracy there. I can't either. As I sit here and type this, a little more than 24 hours after her funeral, I still can't think of her and not catch my breath. I can't think of her family and their pain and just make it want to stop . . .

This, I suppose, is the ultimate "survivors' guilt," eh?

Quite the contrary to all of this, nearly 8 years ago (it will be 8 years on April 12th, 2009) when I was diagnosed, I am quite certain I never thought I would reach 40. On the day I was crying in my office a friend tried to console me by saying that certainly any of my friends, alive or dead, would want me to celebrate and not waste tears on them. I know Tracy would definitely want me to do that. But it offers little solace. This doesn't lessen the guilt. This doesn't lessen the terrible aching in my heart. This doesn't make me want to celebrate any more. It just all seems wrong. My party should include them . . . not be held in spite of their loss . . .

It's not that I don't want to acknowledge my birthday. Brian has planned a small dinner with a few close friends, followed but what I am sure will be me getting quite drunk. But I do not feel comfortable with either a large celebration, nor especially with any sort of mocking of this age.

This age is not to be mocked. This life is not to be mocked.

This disease is certainly not to be mocked for it is too strong to underestimate.

For all my friends who will not celebrating a birthday this year. . . I will pour some scotch into the ground . . . Happy Birthday to you . . .