YESTERDAY, I turned 34. That is not a particularly special number except for the fact it is a whole year on from turning 33.
Getting older is one of life’s biggest privileges and regardless of the number, I’m so bloomin’ happy to be alive.
Each year, I breathe a huge sigh of relief that I made it through a whole spin around the sun with my twin sister Maren.
With an 11-day old nephew in tow, this birthday has been a tame one. We have swapped alcohol for coffee and dancing for massages.
I seem to have developed insomnia in solidarity with my twin, whose sleep is obviously a bit broken as she breastfeeds baby Herbie.
I can’t say for sure if this is a weird twin connection or just a coincidence but I do know it’s very exhausting.
So I was very much in favour of having a low-key affair.
Having Herbie signals to me we are adults now. I don’t feel like that at all but it’s undeniable.
I have now lived with cancer for a third of my life. It’s been so long, I don’t remember life before it. Life didn’t end when I was diagnosed – it began.
I’ve known too many people die from breast cancer at my age, or even younger. I was in a group of four women with stage-four breast cancer.
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