Three More Years to Thirty

I recently turned twenty-seven. People usually see their birthdays as a joyous occasion filled with excitement. My birthdays are definitely joyous occasions, but they are tempered by an edge of sadness. They are tempered by the fact my Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy (DMD) may shorten my life compared to my peers. Every birthday reminds me of this possibility. I don’t want them to but no matter how hard I try to run from these negative thoughts, they inevitably creep up on me, there is no escape.

I developed this aversion to birthdays early in my childhood after a terrible experience with some of the children in my neighborhood. When I was about twelve, I invited two of my neighborhood “friends” to play at my house. While playing video games, they felt the strange need to tell me their parents told them people with my disability only live to be thirty. The moment they told me, I kicked them out of my home and confronted my mom.

She was shocked and had to make an effort to compose herself. She explained to me that at one point in time thirty was the prognosis for those with DMD and certain websites might retain this information, but with current medical innovations and the level of care having evolved, the prognosis had become nebulous. It could be thirty or it could be sixty—no one really knew anymore. Her explanation did not alleviate my pain. I was inconsolable for the next few days, but eventually it went back to the status quo.

Ever since that experience, I’ve had this fear of turning thirty as if it is some kind of death sentence. Every birthday, this fear is exasperated because it is one step closer to thirty. Twenty-seven has been especially difficult, my mind irrationally counting down the next three years. I know this is irrational. In the shape I’m in, it would take a catastrophe for my life to end at thirty. Ignorant words spoken years ago still have the power to hurt me. Whoever said sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me must have been slightly delusional.

How do I deal with this fear? How do I not let it consume me? I have tried hard to train my mind to remember none of us knows when we will die. The healthiest man in the world could be struck by a bus the moment he steps onto the sidewalk and be killed instantly. A woman with terminal cancer could spontaneously respond to treatment and be fully cured. Only God knows when we will die, so we can’t constantly fret about it. Gratitude is a powerful tool to deal with the fear of death. Without anything I did, God chose to create and give me life. This means every breath I take is a gift to be cherished. I’d be grateful for one day left of life because I didn’t do anything to deserve it in the first place.