It was my birthday last week. I turned 24. I had a wonderful day surrounded by people that I love and care about, and, who I’m fairly certain love and care about me just as much. I was spoilt with good will messages, cake and presents and it was wonderful to be able to spend time with some of the most important people in my life.
That said, now that I’m older, I’m always more and more aware that I wasn’t supposed to be blowing out candles and making any wishes for another three months yet. That evening my mum said to me, “Just think this time 24 years ago we were both fighting for our lives…” and every year on my birthday that thought is never too far away.
I spend a lot of time wondering what my parents, especially my dad, must have been going through at that point. We’ve talked about it a bit on quite a few occasions but I don’t think I’ll ever truly “get it”, and I don’t think that’s a bad thing either really. During these conversations I usually cry, or at least tear up a bit, and tell them I’m sorry over and over and over again. Exactly what I’m sorry for I’m never really sure. Sorry they had to go through all that I guess.
Then I always feel the same rush of pride for both my mum and my dad. They never gave up on me. We all made it, we’re all still here, and that’s the best thing of all that I think about every year on my birthday.