For my birthday yesterday, I received a head of fractal broccoli.

Most people like to surround themselves with people on their birthdays. I can appreciate this, but for me, the defining moments of this birthday and last took place when I was walking alone down a city street.

Last year, before noon, I was walking down Commercial Drive on my way home from the hospital, light in the head and lopsided in the crotch. I had just experienced my first ever CAT scan, and the day’s fasting combined with contrast dye injection made my thoughts feel thin and loose. I was keenly aware of the tumor in my testicle, in part due to its size and weight, and in part because of my cognizance that it would no longer be a part of me the next day. A week earlier, many of my most valuable possessions had been stolen from my apartment while I slept. My future was uncertain: graduate school seemed out of the question, given that it would likely mean moving away from Canada and its health care system while recovering from cancer. I had decided not to bother writing the GRE that fall. I would postpone things until a time of greater stability. This was all swirling in my head while I stopped to eat some french fries. I felt pretty good, all things considered.

This year, at around 1:00, I was walking up 5th Avenue on my way to Central Park from school, where I’d had a morning class. The scar on my abdomen was almost invisible. I’d had four CAT scans since my first, and each had reaffirmed my health. Two months of studying toward my PhD was under my belt — two long and stressful months, during which I was beginning to feel like myself. I bought some cashews from a street vendor, and thought about how different things had become while I began exploring the park. I felt really good, considered any way you like.