I'll be 69 in November.
My father was diagnosed at 52, me at 54, brother one at 52, brother two at 49 (He figured why wait?). I was T3b, which explains how we got here, but all the other numbers seem like they don't matter anymore.
I'll be going out for a double cheese burger on a glazed donut, washed down with a chocolate malt, tonight to give myself the best chance of something else killing me.