Turning 30; that milestone that people in their 20s dread more than an STD, and that people in their 40s remember more wistfully than a packet of Spangles (or so I’m told). Regardless of how we feel about it, it is part of our culture to mark the occasion in some way. Some people celebrate it by abandoning their dull routine for a few days of carefree existence in a foreign land. Some decide that the way to herald in this new phase of life is to try their best to terminate themselves completely by leaping off a mountain for fun, like a nylon-clad flying squirrel. Others just throw a big party, or have a party thrown for them, the ultimate in unwelcome surprises, consisting as it does of a crowd of people you’d hoped you’d never see again, crammed into the local scout hut, eating mummified sandwiches and drinking until they’re ready to start a fight with the nearest stack of chairs.
And then there are the gifts. Instead of cool stuff like cash, book tokens or - cash, you get a medley of tat, engraved glasses, fridge magnets, big fucking keys that don’t even unlock anything and more mugs than a Scientology conference. Things that people would never normally dream of giving you suddenly become appropriate presents, simply by bearing a great big ‘30’. The most ironic of these things has to be the cuddly toys, after all, what better way to remind someone that their blithe, childish innocence is gone forever than by giving them a teddy bear clutching a number 30 in a death grip?
For my 30th birthday I got a brain tumour. It came without brightly coloured paper, ribbons and tags. I didn’t get the week in Paris I’d hoped for, I didn’t get to chuck myself down a cliff-face (actually, I was quite pleased about that) and I didn’t get a party, surprise or otherwise, unless you count finding yourself in a hospital bed surrounded by doctors, consultants and medical student all staring at you like a rather fascinating lump of flesh, a party. Although, to be fair, it was something of a surprise.
My birthday was spent in bed, donned in my best pyjamas, deaf in one ear, unable to talk in anything more than a husky whisper, unable to eat anything that wasn’t the consistency of baby vomit and unable to walk without looking like a tightrope walker who has never really gotten the hang of his art, or particularly enjoyed it. Not much fun. In fact, I would have even welcomed one of those surprise parties, with every loathed person I could think of in attendance, rather than be in that bed. But, I did get some amazing presents.
What did I get? I got the gift of being back at home, having spent best part of a very scary, miserable month in hospital. I got the relief of peace and quiet, nights of stillness and the permanent respite from the misery and suffering of others. I got that unique glimpse of how people really feel about me, the humbling knowledge that there are people in this world who consider it a better place with me in it, who actively fear my loss. I got a peek of just how awful my life could really be, and a panoramic view, in Technicolor, of how precious it actually is. I got the gifts of love and friendship, care and laughter, in abundance, far greater than I’d ever thought likely. And I was given a new lust for just being, for appreciating all those little things that had melted away like ice crystals on a warm tongue. And best of all, I was given the gift of having a benign tumour, rather than a cancerous one. Of course, I would still rather have had a car or a Wii, but I’m not daft, and I know when to be grateful for small mercies.
Nearly fifteen months, and an awful lot of hard work, later and I am finally getting there. Back to ‘normal’, whatever that may be. I still can’t run or dance very well but I can walk in a straight line, I can skip through a meadow of daisies (I don’t, but I could if I wanted to) and I can even wear heels again. My voice only occasionally lets me down now, when I’m tired or have had to talk a lot. I still can’t shout or sing very well, but some would, and do, say that is a good thing. I’m finally able to work again and I am starting a part-time job next week, which I am excited and nervous about in equal measures.
Mobility, speech, financial independence, these are the gifts I have worked for and given back to myself. That and way too many Haribo sweets.
But there is one last gift I want to give back to myself: the ability and desire to write again. Throughout everything I have kept pen to paper, or rather, fingers to keyboard, but everything I’ve produced has been dark, gloomy and morbidly introspective. I start off with clear, good intentions but inevitably end with a clouded slurry of self-pity and fear. There’s no fun in it. I don’t like that about myself. I know it’s part of who I am, that’s why I’ve kept the glut of melancholy boo-hooing instead of consigning it to the recycle bin, but that doesn’t mean I’m ready for everybody else to know that’s who I am. So far I’ve managed to build a smokescreen of strength and bravery I’ve been far from feeling, it’s gotten me through the last 14 months and I’m now reluctant to let it go. I’ve carefully cultivated a persona that is flippant and indomitable, like one of those shrubs that has been shaped like a peacock or a kangaroo, I have trimmed and pruned away the bits of myself that aren’t aesthetically pleasing, to myself or others. But refashioning yourself takes time, and once you start you have to keep going, snipping here, tweaking there, otherwise it all grows back into an unruly wilderness of confusion and shadow. Sometimes it can be exhilarating, but mostly it’s exhausting.
I am hoping that by writing this, I can finally let go. I have very few obstacles left to get over, but this could be the most challenging. Failure is not an option – and brain tumours, even benign ones, are like knickers or earrings, once you’ve worn them they can’t be returned. So I need to beat this. To do it, to get past the walls of fear and doubt I have built around myself, will be the best gift I have ever given or received.
Happy belated 30th birthday, Kate.
Ps: Many thanks for the support and kindness shown to me during the past year by the small, yet cherished, band of blogger chums who knew what was going on. I'll probably never adequately express how much it has meant to me. x
