“Happy birthday,” he said, “but it’s not a significant one.”
He’s wrong. Every birthday is significant and marks one more year of triumph over the disease which may eventually kill me. I believe in celebrating every single one of them, and I don’t care if the numbers are mounting.
I’m not an expert, but it seems to me that only 50 years ago my chances of survival would have been considerably less. Thanks to continued research, the discovery of drugs such as tamoxifen, and the care and dedication of medical staff, many women like me can enjoy a normal and active life.
As well as medical support, however, I also benefit hugely from the time I spend with friends, the things we do together, and the plans we make for further outings. My birthday was no different in this respect, and it was also the day when I met some one new to discuss one of my future projects.
Besides, I think 55 looks quite special, certainly when written like that.