There’s a phrase that was tossed around a lit class I took once: the long 18th century. It refers to the fact that, in the West, the influence of this century stretches longer than its 100 years. The ideas that defined it were percolating in the 17th century and continued into the 19th.
Though I’m now 30, I am still experiencing what I call my long 28th year.
Twenty-eight was my age when I received a diagnosis of breast cancer. I was 28 when my breasts were removed, 28 when I did chemo, 28 when I finished radiation. That was in 2012. But it is so not over.