Ah, Youth

In reading today's installment of "Well" (Tara Parker-Pope's New York Times health blog), I came across a stat that shouldn't have surprised me but did:

The median age of cancer patients at diagnosis is 67.

I was 34 when I was diagnosed the first time, only halfway through what should have been the cancer-free part of my life—if you want to read the statistic in a very tortured way.

The median age is a bit lower for breast cancer: 61.

That still leaves me shortchanged by nearly three decades.

I've thought a lot about the difference between being diagnosed at a relatively young age versus later in life, mostly because so many people have given me a pitying look and told me how tragic my situation is. "You're so young!" they exclaim in disbelief.

I've always countered (although not always out loud) with the fact that being young works in my favor: I've had an easier time bouncing back from surgery and tolerating treatment than I imagine I would at twice my age.

That's still true, of course, but it's also true that some of those treatments have long-term side effects, not all of which are known, and that they may well cast a shadow down the road.

Hell, they've already cast a shadow—that's why I'm in the process of getting my heart checked out.

And that's why any children we have are going to be as much the product of technology as biology.

But perhaps putting my time in early means I will be blessed with golden years that are truly golden—long and healthy and full.

Even if we are still paying for college when our Social Security kicks in. . . .