Four Cakes
I turned 27 yesterday.
I used to love birthdays as a kid. I’d help my mom make party invites and favors for my friends. I’d have a birthday countdown and an outfit planned. I’d wear a tiara and eat junk food all day long. I was truly the most obnoxious little birthday princess you ever saw. With it falling on July 1, my birthday bliss would carry into the month and couldn’t be escaped until August.
As my symptoms have progressed, birthdays have typically become more bitter than sweet for me. On my 25th birthday, I called my mom in tears because aging meant my body would be getting worse. At the time, my mental health was down the drain, and I was currently going through the depression that comes with the start of a progressive illness. I told her I did not want to celebrate or be reminded of my age. It was a period in my life where I really wanted (and needed) to grieve what I was losing more than celebrate what I had. I cried myself to sleep that birthday.
The months came and went, and then came 26. It was a mixed bag of a birthday. I was terrified because I was going off health insurance. I dreaded it for months. But by 26, I had also learned to honor myself a bit more. I had met someone and fallen madly in love. Aside from falling in love with him, I also began to fall in love with the present again. Every moment was filled with such laughter and joy. The time I spent fearing the future became secondary to the time I spent fantasizing about it. In the moments when I’d break down— and believe me, there were and still are many— he’d be right there to wipe my tears, tell me to rest, take the dog out for walks, and make sure there was a glass of water by the bed. When I thought of the future, it had become less about me and more about us. Less about how I would handle my disease progressing, and more about how we would handle it. And in that alone, it all became a bit less scary.
I turned 27 yesterday. Our new home together is filled with fresh flowers, treats, birthday cards, and bottles of wine. We celebrated life all weekend long. I’m writing a blog post about my health— a topic I never used to be able to speak on without erupting into tears. I’m in therapy and working to untangle all of my traumas. The breakdowns have slowed, and I can go days, sometimes weeks, without having one. The heaviness of having a body that feels like it’s working against me is a little lighter. I think it’s because I found someone to help me carry it.
I had four birthday cakes this year. Four sets of candles. The same wish as every birthday before.
“Make me healthy again.”
