That day

It's my birthday today. I'm a grand total of thirty-seven years old. It was a question of just how long I'd be around, as my childhood went.
I was a kind of sickly little guy. I got the usual childhood maladies, chicken pox, measles, you know. I also spent a lot of time with ear infections. They must have affected my balance, because I also spent a large portion of my time falling, most notably down stairs. I like to think that, with all of this, I must have a team of guardian angels looking after me. How can one kid spend so much time sick and injured, and still make it to adulthood?
It actually got so that my parents were getting strange looks whenever they would take me to the hospital.
My family is the greatest though. I don't think there is anything they would not do or give up for me. A lot of people complain about how their parents neglected their feelings, or were always butting in where they weren't wanted. My folks may have had to work hard, but they were always there when I needed the calm voice of reason. Granted, I wasn't the surly teenager that you see these days, but I wasn't the easiest kid to raise either.
School wasn't that big a deal for me. I did fine in class and all, but I never really fit in with people my own age. Being small, I got teased a lot, with one particular fool pushing harder than others at any given time.
It takes a lot to get me angry, so when I hit back, let's just say there isn't a whole lot of sympathy to be had for the bully.
University life was pretty much wasted on me. I couldn't find a way to really get involved in anything. It kind of made me feel like an ant in a very large colony, to be honest with you. Using the tunnels to get from place to place on campus sort of highlighted that aspect of things. I had to spend a lot of time working to try and keep the bills paid, and that really got in the way of figuring out what I was going to do with my life.
I have written before about some of the work that I have done in my time. There have been jobs that would be a postscript on most anyone else's resume. Those are the jobs that I am most proud to have done. Why is it that the simplest things mean so much to me? I think if I were still physically able, I would still be doing small, menial jobs that I enjoy.
This I haven't written about before, and likely won't again. Almost six year ago, I got sick. When the weakness wouldn't go away, I went to see my doctor. I have been given a diagnosis of Muscular Dystrophy, a slow progressing variety. (There is still some question as to what kind.) So far all the symptoms have meant is that I cannot do much in the line of manual work. I'm not confined to a wheelchair or anything. A cane and a walker keep me able to get around.
The upside of my condition has been meeting my wife. She moved into the building that I had to move into. We began playing cards together, became friends, and eventually fell in love. (Even if she would have the ace and both jacks and not call it!) She is also disabled, but we seem to manage well enough. She looks after me through my spells of fatigue and muscle twitches, and I massage her back when she is sore. I would rather be disabled with her than to have any able-bodied woman I've ever known.
That wasn't very articulate, but you get the idea.
The point here, and yes, there is one, is that I've had a pretty good life so far. Thirty-seven years of it. I look forward to discovering the future. Why don't you come along and discover it with me?