The Big 5-0

For as long as I can remember, birthdays (not just mine) were special to me.  After all, what kind of world would we live in if each and every one of us was not born into it?  I believed that birthdays were so exceptional that, as a young adult, I began celebrating birthday week, ultimately concluding that my actual birthday, July 16^th, was “the best day of the year”!  On July 16, 2020, my best day of the year become synonymous with cancer.

It began like any other birthday week of recent past – with me reminding everyone that it was birthday week [insert belly laugh here].  “Come on mom/Babs/Ant Cole” (several of the monikers I am called around our home), “do you really think we could forget?!?!”  And, like the stalwart humans that they are, my family and friends turned an ordinary week into a sensational week of unheralded acts of kindness, love and celebration. 

On the actual “best day of the year”, me, my fiancé and several friends gathered around a fire pit, shared laughs spawned from questionable humor and raised our glasses to any number of typically ridiculous things, including my birthday.  As the proverbial guest of honor, my preferences abounded – gin and tonic, scrumptious German chocolate cake and Chris Young on the radio.  We even joked about how we could get Chris Young to come play in my backyard for my 50^th birthday.  As the party broke up, we all exchanged “love you guys”, “thank yous” and “until next times” as we loaded into our cars and headed home.

Upon arrival home, I changed into my pajamas and joined our son in the living room.  While chatting, laughing and watching television, I rubbed my upper chest, massaging out a sore spot.  The sore spot led to a noticeable lump.  As a general rule, I do not panic or permit my brain to hurl me into worst case scenarios.  There was no exception on this night.  I just kept massaging, intentionally avoiding the lump as if it would fail to be palpable if I simply refused to acknowledge it.  But it was palpable.  “What could it be?”, I wondered silently.  I excused myself from the living room, found my fiancé and asked him to feel the lump.  The look on his face as he exclaimed, “What the fuck, Barb?!?!” is one that brings tears to my eyes as I type.  I was officially 48 years old and panicked. 

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I turned 50 this week.  And the “best day of the year”?  Well, it was the BEST “best day of the year” ever!  Yes, for all of the reasons you would think – I hit the big 5-0, I have had no evidence of disease for eight months and I was in Montana (no, not at the Dutton ranch [insert chuckle here]).  But, more importantly, it was the BEST because I recognized that in 2020, “the best day of the year” did not become tainted by cancer but, rather, was redefined . . . expanded to include the gift of discovering my malignant tumor at a time when I could still beat it.  I am officially 50 years old and thriving!