I look at my hands

Sometimes, I look at my hands: my 45 year old hands, and I see the spots and wrinkles forming and remember how I never thought I’d live past 21. I remember many people never thought I’d live this long. 

I look at my hands, the lines on my face; I think of where I’ve been and where I am now. I remember the car accident at 14 and how I was “lucky to be alive,” I remember the OD where I was “lucky to be alive,” I remember the cancer where I was, “lucky to be alive.”

I remember not wanting to be 40 or to be as old as my parents. I remember thinking I’m not meant for this place. 

But then, I look at my hands and see wisdom; I see what I’ve survived; I see I can make a difference. I see my amazing son who’s not the same as everyone. I understand I’m still here to advocate for him; for me; for all of us. 

Getting older is a gift denied to many. I embrace it. I want to make the most of it. I look at my hands. I’m lucky to be alive. 

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