The Worst Birthday


Mere days until I turn 38. While I
try to stay positive and look forward to a day of no-cooking, I can’t do it. My
heart feels so heavy. My shoulders ache of the pressure.  As I get older, I see my birthday as just any
other day-less gifts, still have diapers to change and all the other domestic
duties that is my life now. This birthday mirrors the age my mother died.  I hate this birthday.

I am petrified to have the same fate
my mom had. I can’t fathom to leave my girls like my mom had to against her
will. She was, and remains an amazing mom. I keep up with my medical tests to
prevent any similar horror. My younger sister has won again on her battles with
that ugly disease. There is hope that my daughters will see a cure in their
time on the evening news.

With every genie-in-a-bottle wish,
I would like to fast forward to know that I turn 39. I despise the feeling that
I feel,  but tis my truth. I need that
confirmation that I will make it past my mother’s fate.

I have no idea how to make this
year a win. All I know is to focus on my girls and keep writing. It’s all I
know. And if a great gift falls in my lap, I will allow it J

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