Last week I turned 50. What does this means to me, this cracking of the half century? Being of a certain age brings with it some certainty of confidence, some acknowledgement of wisdom that I like. But this recognition is bittersweet as for me it has unexpectedly come with great loss.
It’s not that I mourn my youth. It was well spent. It was filled with adventure and achievements; I’ve travelled and lived overseas more than once, learned another language, had several careers, which have given me independence and money. I’m proud I’ve built a house on a beautiful property which is forever my home.
The proudest achievement of my 50 years are my two children, Sang and Jinny, who I adopted as babies and raised to fine teenagers now about to embark on adulthood with confidence and heart. When I see my boy babysitting friends’ toddlers so attentive and interested, I know I’ve done a good job. And when I see my girl, delivering speeches as SRC rep at school, then making funny joke videos with her bestie in her spare time, I wonder at how she managed to be so like me when we share no biology at all?
I’ve never been short of men in my life; two husbands and plenty of boyfriends and have loved them all. But my Anth I loved most intensely with the sort of love that spans dimensions and gives you strength that everything is all worth it, even when life is at its most bleak.
It is because of this love, that on turning 50, I am incredibly thankful. For being alive. For making it this far. For this sweet, sweet life. My friends and others who know me might find this attitude a bit strange, given recent events. They might wonder why I might feel thankful. You see, only last month I lost my precious Anth to a very nasty, quick and merciless disease. Brain cancer.