34 is a number that repeats it’s self in my life. In college I lived in R534 and R634. My first apartment was 134. The number 34 wasn’t always kind to me. My failed Canadian Idol audition number ended in 34, but I do not recent 34. On the contrary, I am grateful to 34 it saved me from public humiliation. 34 and I have a good thing going. I was looking forward to turning 34. Never imagining that on my 34th birthday, I would be in my parent’s basement hooked up to an IV, making small talk to a nurse. I have cried twice since my MS diagnosis. The first time, when I figured out that I wouldn’t be able to live in a home I loved. The second time, was when I discovered that my dynamite financial plan to “pay off debt, save latter”, wasn’t a successful plan. With zero debt, I moved back home. My parent’s welcomed me and bought me a bed.
Today on my 34th birthday, I stare up at my IV. My IV gives me an audible sigh of sympathy. That is all I need. My eyes brim, tears cascade down my cheeks. My conversation with the nurse halts. My speech pattern is staccato. I produce one syllable words. I have MS. I am usually the first to say, “It is part of my life and I better get used to it.” This week has been hard. I need to be honest with myself, this makes me sad. Sad. I could use better words like: bereaved, bitter, blue, dejected, despairing, despondent, disconsolate or woebegone. (http://thesaurus.com) Sad is simple and earnest. I feel sad.
As I am stare down at my hand, not listening to my nurse. A comforting memory from my time at Simpson House pops into my head. The house and I were preparing for a funeral. An assistant was sick in her room and I was going to be the only one supporting the house for an hour. (Support was coming and there was a second person there if she needed to be there.) I am glad that it was just me. That morning was sacred in the house. I remember the yellow haze of the spring sun breaking through the glass, painting the living room a golden yellow. I crept into Lillian’s room first, wake her up. I explain that we all need to be extra helpful. I wake up the rest of the house in the same fashion. We were going to say goodbye to their dear friend. The whole house came together. Dressed in their Sunday best and united in their grief. The lines between Assistant and “core” member fade. We were family. We keep on saying to each other, “We will get through this together.” The rest of breakfast they share their stories of their beloved friend with laughter. When there was a quiet, sad pause, someone would say, “We will get through this together.” That morning reminds me of a passage from Jean Vanier’s Community and Growth, “… in this way, community life is not something extraordinary or heroic, reserved only for elite and spiritual heroes. It is for us all; it is for every family and every group of friends committed to each other.” (Vanier 94)
As my IV finishes, I realize I am not alone in this. I am not 34 alone. I am 34 with an extraordinary community of family, friends that are family and core members that are my family. I have friends that I have had since childhood, high school, college and an excellent bunch of European adventures friends. Today in my sadness, I am reminded of my community. I flip on my Facebook. I have so many birthday wishes! Each birthday wish quietly says to me, “We will get through this together.” Thank you. I am overwhelmed. I am so lucky to have a community I love. 
my new possibilities project 