Happy Birthday to Me

There's nothing very remarkable about turning 42.

My yearly winter beard has just grown in, with slightly more gray hair terrorizing the edges and threatening the main event.

My Prednisone prescription for sciatic back pain will run out on Sunday, and my appointment at the pain clinic is on Monday.

I didn't even celebrate 42 with my family on the actual day because I had a work meeting and dinner that went well into the night.

But nevertheless there is something pretty special about this birthday.

Ten years ago yesterday, I turned 32 and was blissfully two months into my new stage of life as a married man.

I wouldn't find out for another couple months, but while I was blowing out my candles and enjoying my birthday cake, an insidious disease was working its way through my lymph nodes.

I've recounted the story of my six-month Hodgkin’s lymphoma cancer battle countless times over the last decade and recorded it for posterity in the moment. I was blessed to face a curable cancer and have lived quite a lot of life in the intervening years.

And that's what makes 42 special.

By my count, I've had 10 bonus years.

A decade of life that I might not have known if I were diagnosed with a more aggressive form of cancer or even diagnosed with this form of lymphoma a few decades earlier.

• A barely begun marriage snuffed out at its inception.

• Four children who wouldn't exist.

• Professional accomplishments I wouldn't have achieved.

• Friendships that never would have formed.

• Places I never would have gone, memories I never would have made, ideas I never would have had.

The entire ripple effect of every decision and interaction over the last 10 years—erased and replaced by an alternate timeline without me.

When you go full George Bailey by contemplating the idea of the life you've had not happening, it makes every moment as precious as gold.

I used to grapple with some semblance of survivor’s guilt. I would wonder why I was chosen to survive when others—some for whom sudden death would greatly complicate the lives of those around them—were not spared.

But such a view clouds two realities: dying means going home to God, and we should all be prepared to embrace that heavenly promotion at any moment—regardless of our current medical chart.

Secondly, God has a plan for my life and wanted me to live. And if the reasons are obvious enough to Him, than that's got to be more than enough for me.

So 42 has arrived. I'll take it.

Bring on the back pain and the gray hair. Thanks be to God, I'm still here.