On Turning 40: Getting older is a gift

I remember my parents turning 40. They seemed so old in my elementary aged eyes. 40 was something for grownups who were getting close to “Over the Hill” parties at 50, which definitely had their moment in the 90s.

But now I’m turning 40 and people have asked me if it makes me feel old.

Not really. But being a widow does.

Age is a funny thing. We can feel old at 16 and young in our 30s. Sometimes our age doesn’t feel like it matches our reality.

Greg and I used to watch NBC’s hit show The Biggest Loser. It was a cringey weight loss fest that we enjoyed watching while, ironically, sitting on our couch eating snacks. Our favorite episodes featured Dr. “H”, a celebrity doctor who came to assess the contestants’ health.

At the beginning of the season, contestants underwent a battery of tests used to calculate their “real” age. The tagline “know your number” was code for adding years onto your age based on how poorly your body was functioning. We’d find out along with the contestant that they were chronologically 26 but (cue the overly dramatic music) actually 56! Over the season Dr. H wanted their “know your number” age to decrease along with their weight.

When Greg was waiting for his heart transplant, he would joke that his “know your number” age would be over 120. He wasn’t overweight at the time: he was slowly dying from heart failure. Chronologically he was 25 but his heart functioned like someone far older. He struggled to breathe, feared another erratic burst of heart beats could be his last, and knew that he could die within the year if a heart didn’t come in time.

We felt very old and far too young. Greg might not make it to 26. We prayed he’d still be alive at 30. It would be a miracle if he lived to 50 - one that might necessitate two heart transplants. 40? That would be great: the stuff dreams are made of.

Greg did get a new heart but he didn’t make it to 40. It was too far out of reach when his second heart started failing like the first. At 35, his body gave out, his earthly life ended, and his faith in Jesus was turned into sight.

As I’ve pondered turning 40, I’ve realized what a gift it is. I’ve met so many people whose husband, wife, child or parent didn’t make it that long. My life has been preserved for 40 years. I’ve lived 40 years without a fatal accident, fatal diagnosis, or aneurism in the night. For 40 years of my heart has beat faithfully, my lungs have taken in the oxygen I need, my cells haven’t gone haywire and started replicating cancerous death. Turning 40 means my child still has a parent on this earth. I’ll take 40 gladly, with open hands.

Afterall, 40 years was never guaranteed. Each year is a gift.