25 years down, how many to go

I'm not big on anniversaries. Others, sure. Mine? Nope.

So it shouldn't have been a big deal on April 26, 2009. Seems like an innocuous date. Actually, for me, it should have been. it wasn't.

See, 25 years ago on that date, I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis at Scripps Hospital in Carlsbad, Calif. It is an idyllic setting for such a traumatic occurrence. Other than the day I was saved (which I don't recall), this was the most important date in my personal life.

For better or worse, that diagnosis changed my life forever. Little did I know the many hardships and blessings, surgeries and surprises, and backslides and hiccups the disease would present over the next quarter of a century.

I think of the time I spent at the Mayo Clinic, where after three days and a battery of tests, the doctors didn't have any answers for me. Or about the many times my family stood by my side during times of adversity when no one else was there to comfort me. And I think of the nights when after the frustration of dealing with a disease of this magnitude, God showed up in the middle of it and provided the right answers at the right time.

My dad recently recalled a day, when I was just a teen, when I told him something that I had learned about having the disease. He remembered it 25 years later, but it resonated with him.

"The disease has made me a better person," I told him way back when.

Yes, that's true. In it's weird way, having this crippling disease has made me a better person, I believe. Then again, it's all how you try to look at things. That, more than anything, is what I've tried to do in each of these 25 years.

If only for myself. Happy anniversary.