almost 100 years old
My birthday passed a couple of days ago. That makes this blog a little over a year old, and me a smidge over 25. I wrote a short birthday blog last year. Reading it back now, it’s clear I was finding the US a little overwhelming. When recalling last year though, I remember a pale amber sunset on the banks of the Mississippi River and feeling content in the absent pressure to celebrate my birthday. I suspect the same cheery bias that makes me remember last year so favourably has worked its magic on the rest of the year.
Since my 24th, I’ve started medical school, signed up for my first bike race, and sat on yet more committees. On reflection, it feels like an odd blend of doing everything and nothing. The hours spent absorbing lectures are sandwiched with mind-clearing training sessions, new friendships have grown between parties with old friends, and a hectic social life has settled into a balance of shared and solo time. Since my 24th, I’ve turned 25.
On long rides, I break the distance up into manageable chunks to make the miles pass faster. 25 is usually the smallest chunk. It’s halfway to 50, and that’s halfway to 100. And after that, 25 feels like nothing. But this mental gymnastics has made reaching the age of 25 feel close to 100. In a sort of logarithmic way, it feels like I’m a breath away from my centenary.
Yet reality is clear. 100 is a long way away for me. While I’m a ‘mature’ student, those more mature than I are vocal about how young 25 really is. 100 is much closer for my older brothers. My parents. My grandparents.
While I sat in the (rare) sunshine of Swansea, with friends singing happy birthday with trays of brownies, berries, and a breeze blowing out my birthday candles, my grandmother took her last breath. At 91, she was in the final quarter.
Her passing was expected. Her bed had been moved downstairs so the grandchildren could surround her in song. The carers had been sourced for thrice daily visits. Discussions prioritising comfort were had.
While all this happened, I was glued to university. Joining for the last weeks of her life wouldn’t have added much. I’d helped relocate her bedroom over the weekend, given big hugs and heavy goodbyes, and shared intimate moments while her mind struggled to remember if my brother was in fact my father. Then a reading week came, planned to be packed with cycling all the way to Paris.
I asked Mum if I should stay, “just in case”. But she knew my presence wasn’t necessary, and a rational perspective of the future was. Nanou dying didn’t change the fact that I need to train for NC4K for my nephew, nor did cycling change the fact that I love Nanou. So on we went, cycling from Swansea to Paris.
Along the way, my mind meandered through cherished memories with my grandmother: school pick-ups followed by hot dinners and craft-y afternoons, sweets after swimming lessons, jaunty dancing between her record player and the piano. These memories were cut short by traffic lights, pop tunes blasting through earbuds, and the beautiful French countryside. Sometimes though, they’d be overwhelming, and come with floods of emotion which brought on tears, and an inability to unclip my pedals.
My knees are still bruised from falling with my bike, a sign of how poor my co-ordination can be while I’m preoccupied with worry. But now the anticipation has passed. I’m left with the ebb and flow of grief, mingling with the moments of joy my friends and family illicit through their kindness and generosity. It took reading last year's blog to notice how rose-tinted my perspective of the past is. Now I can see, in miniature, my tendency to quickly forget the sad and easily recall the happy as I sway between grieving and reminiscing. I only hope the next 25 years come with plenty to remember, and not too much to forget.
