The idea of a "cancer birthday" was first introduced to me by the giant soapbox that is Lance Armstrong. (His story is a nice one, but as a cyclist I see him as perhaps the largest obstacle ever to drug-free cycling.)
Mine is October 20th, 2011.
Catching up on my New Yorkers, I read a devastating article in the June 13/20 issue. "The Aquarium," written by Aleksandar Hemon about the ruinous consequences of his nine month old daughter's suffering from atypical teratoid/rhabdoid tumor (A.T.R.T.). In it, he talks about "the moment that divided our life into before and after." Always a gatherer of great thoughts instead of a great thinker, I was pleased to have someone else crystalize so clearly how Christi, myself, and my brothers are feeling.
And then it got me thinking - and this is not a great thought - that my parents will always know a different date.
My mom comes in from Scotland on October 27th. That will be her date. My dad returns from India October 30th. That will be his date.
My reason for not telling them is simple: they will both enjoy a few extra days of before. I hope they see it that way.
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