A lot of folk in western culture seem to dread growing older. Some stop counting their birthdays after age 30, 40 or the like and shun celebrations. Some go as far as to lie about their age, deducting a few years while their physical assets are plausible enough for them to get away it and when their body’s defy the hoped for illusion, some turn to plastic surgery. Personally, I’m just so grateful for each and every day, week, month and year that I’ve been able to survive, I feel like wearing my age pinned to my chest like a badge of honor. For all intents and purposes, for me to be still alive and kicking on this day, which is my fifty-sixth (56) birthday, is a miracle and such a blessing, that I can hardly find adequate words to express it. I can think of no greater gift than to see this morning’s sunrise. Everything else is just gravy.
For those of you who share the burden of living with chronic pain, chronic disease, and/or a terminal diagnosis, you know what I’m talking about. Because even with having to deal with pain and fear and all the various effects and disabilities in our lives, every sunrise begins a new day to hope. Yep. Better days are coming.
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