I didn’t expect this extra line to be drawn in the sand of my life but here we are. The line separates my birthdays from 2022 and earlier as BCE, my “Before Cancer Era,” from those in 2023 and on, what I call AD, “After Diagnosis.” In this personal timeline, it is now 2AD.

Birthdays have always been difficult for me. There have only been a few that anyone would consider particularly celebratory yet there are some standouts. For one early elementary school birthday, my folks took all the girls in my class to Kiddieland for a few rides, then back to my house for cake and ice cream. Another year, a smaller group went to the circus. By sixth grade, I had no friends to invite.

To be quite honest, most of my birthdays have not had much in the way of celebrations. My parents tried, but my birthday typically fell during their annual vacation to Florida. As an only child, that meant I was usually alone for most of the day. Schoolwork came on the trip with us, so I did my assignments while Mom looked for seashells and Dad fished. One year, we toured the Thomas Edison home in Fort Myers, Florida. I loved it, and it was my best Florida birthday.

Many years later, a very unexpected party happened in Waco, Texas when the adult students in my organ class conspired to throw a simple surprise party for me after the lesson. Those festivities included the store owner playing the happy birthday song while the students sang, and, of course, there was the obligatory cake. I clearly remember it was during that party that I said “y’all” for the first time. It was a happy moment in an otherwise bleak season.

It seems as if the major heartaches of my life have often happened around my birthday. Many times, I found it easier to simply ignore the day. The milestone 40th birthday was disastrous, and my 50th was forgotten by those I felt should have remembered, so for my 60th birthday I took matters in hand and planned my own party. It was an all-day open house, with people dropping by for a few minutes or a few hours for conversation, music, and food. It was relaxed, joyful, and was everything I dreamed it would be. I decided then and there that I would have a similar celebration at 70.

Year 66 was my last BCE birthday, but of course, I didn’t know that at the time. The twelve months between 66BCE and 1AD were the tumultuous times when everything in my life changed. Living in a new town, I had not yet had the opportunity to make many new friends. I share a birthday week with two of my grandchildren, so we had special dinners and an ice cream cake. But sadly for me, the family was called out of town on my birthday and I spent the day alone. I assured them I would be fine, but I wasn’t.

I know that everyone who has dealt with cancer has a unique journey, so I can only tell you about mine. By my first After Diagnosis birthday, I had already had four surgeries. I knew how blessed I was to even have that birthday to celebrate. I was and am thankful beyond words. But I admit I was also depressed. I wanted to talk to someone about how it felt to walk that close to the edge of the cliff and peer into the abyss. And I wanted to talk about it far more frequently than those around me wanted to hear it. Perhaps some people can process such thoughts internally, but I need to talk them through. I wanted to laugh and rejoice that I’d made it this far and then, with the next breath sob over all that felt lost.

I was sharing some of these musings with a friend who asked me in all earnestness if I could just not think about the cancer, like turning off a switch. Oh, how I wish I could! Sometimes, I succeed for a few minutes. Then, I talk, or swallow, or yawn, or any number of other things that tug in my mouth and remind me that my anatomy has permanently changed. Those changes are the constant nagging reminders that there could be more rough road ahead. Sometimes it is painful and sometimes not, but it is always there. Imagine taking a big bite of something seriously over-salted, then being told to just pretend the salt isn’t there. All. The. Time. Good luck with that.

This year, 2AD, was a quiet birthday but a lovely one. The shared celebration with grandkids spanned several special meals. Family was nearby. Cards, letters, and phone calls were received from friends far and near. Facebook messages were posted from people in many places I have lived and worked through the years. The sun was shining and I spent part of the day puttering in the flower bed around my patio. I even dug up some poison ivy without getting it on me. It wasn’t a big flashy birthday, but it was a good one.

This year brought a laser-sharp focus to what I already knew: each day is truly a gift from God. Three more surgeries and complicated health issues since 1AD have certainly taken their toll on my body, but I’ve just enjoyed another full year, even with a bonus day for leap year. How many more days are yet to come? I have no idea, but my friend, the cold reality is neither do you.

At the end of every day, I reflect on what transpired during the previous 24 hours. I can never get this day back again. Did I use the day wisely? Sometimes, I smile at the thought of things that went well or brought joy. These are often simple things, like the satisfaction from how nicely I rearranged a dresser drawer, or that I finally conquered a challenging two-measure section in an organ piece, or that I had a long phone conversation with a dear friend who lives far away, or I exchanged a hug with someone dear to me. My thoughts race and I become frustrated by things I think I should have done more of, or less of, or even simply better. I ask God for forgiveness for “what I have done and have left undone.” I can then go to sleep in peace knowing that by God’s grace and mercy, I am forgiven. When the morning comes, I open my eyes and delight at the realization that I made it through the night and have been given another day to live, show love, and be grateful.