Genetic Lottery

A few weeks ago, a young lady I know who was getting the genetic test for breast cancer told me that if it turns out she has one of the gene, she's not going to plan to have children.

Her comment stuck with me, and got me to thinking.

Why pick on this one genetic flaw to say it must stop with me?

I mean, I get cancer is scary. I get it. But so are a host of other diseases, genetic or not. Heart disease, diabetes, MS, alcoholism - not thinking I'd choose to live with any of  'em, given my druthers. And, it's not like people who happen to win this particular throw of the genetic dice get out of life alive.

My cancer, though not one of the known genetic variants, most likely has a genetic component. But the same throw of the dice that gave me the propensity to cancer also gave me strong bones, blue eyes and a sturdy constitution. It gave me a quick mind and second toes longer than the big toes next to them.

Would I have chosen not to get cancer if it meant I instead was unable to sing? Because I'm unlikely to get to die in my sleep at age 84, does it mean the days I do have to live have less meaning?

Good, bad and ugly, life is a package deal. We don't get to pick and choose which of life's ailments are going to lay us low (genetic or not). Into every life, rain falls. We also don't get to pick the good things. Winning the genetic lottery (or, the Powerball lottery for that matter) carries with it no guarantee of happiness.

About all we can do is choose how we respond to what happens in our lives. Indeed, to paraphrase Viktor Frankl once again, it is one of the only things we can control.

If I thought my young friend could hear me through the voice of her fear, I'd tell her all this. As it is, I need to be content with having reasoned through it for myself - for I once walked in her shoes and it is good for me to know life has managed to drill at least one useful lesson into my head.

I'd much rather walk with my fear than let it lead me. While I'm still working on the practice, most days I do pretty well, and for this, I give thanks.

Future Plans

The doctors will tell you they know some of the things that cause cancer. Smoking. Too much sun exposure. A diet lacking in proper nutrition, especially when combined with lack of exercise. A bad throw of the genetic dice.

That's all well and good. But since Kate and I were both very low risks (neither of us have the cancer gene) the doctors have no answers as to why it hit us. Which doesn't stop us from coming up with causes anyways.

Working on your thesis definitely causes cancer. The first time Kate hit her thesis hard, she found her breast cancer. She finished her thesis last month, and sure enough - her dermatologist found a spot of skin cancer (stage 0) on her leg and had to scrape it off. (It's gone now - not all cancers are created equal.)

Quitting your job causes cancer.
Not camper vans. Camper vans cannot possibly cause cancer.

It's an unsettling place - not knowing why it hit me in the first place, and so unable to forecast if it will happen again, I've learned to live with the uncertainty. I keep my focus on the days I have, not the days I don't.

I find myself chomping at the bit because I need to work. Chances aren't good I will live to see eighty, but I might. And because I might, I can't yet call it quits. Work isn't a bad place, they're good to me there and I like what I do, it's just that there are so many things I'd rather be doing, and I am afraid, so afraid I will never get an opportunity to do them.

At the same time I want so badly to move on, I find myself shying away from making plans for the future. I have a tentative timetable for leaving, but a huge blank frame regarding what happens after I leave.

I've been struggling with my inability to plan - planning is not generally one of my roadblocks. Before I do almost anything, I've always had a Plan A, Plan B, and just in case, Plan E. I think I've found the key to my newfound reluctance to look at the future.

You guessed it. Making retirement plans causes cancer. And I'm not ready to deal with my cancer again.

I'm going to have to learn to get past this one.

Stupid Things

When I get stressed and depressed, I do stupid things.

This past week, I was fighting a bad case of the early spring grays, and pushing forward anyways as I tend to do. I don't like being depressed, and a large part of me thinks the best way to deal with it is to ignore it and hope it goes away on its own.

Tuesday morning, I was driving into work, and decided to take a new route. Along the route is an almost blind intersection where it merges with a busier road - an intersection I know is deceptive because of the number of cars I've almost hit as they blasted through it.

Tuesday morning, it was me doing the blasting. I don't know what I was thinking, mostly I wasn't. I approached the intersection, checked my mirror, the cars LOOKED far enough back, so I floored it. I ended up OK. The car behind me beeped their displeasure at my reckless move; I'm pretty sure the only reason they didn't cream me was they were fond of their car's front end in its current condition.

Immediately, remorse set in. My face reddened, and I started berating myself. It was a stupid maneuver, and I was lucky to drive away with my car intact. All true.

But then, I started to look underneath, to try to figure out what drove me to such a stupid stunt - I DO know better... I didn't get real far before I got into the office, and work stuff silenced my inner voice. I went down to work out at my usual time. Tuesday was a kata day.

Back when I was learning karate, my instructor told me katas were a kind of moving meditation. I smiled and nodded to his face, but scoffed inside. No way - katas were tiring and hard to remember - not meditation stuff at all. Time has taught me he was right. Repetition has smoothed the path so the sequence of motion is part of muscle memory. Accessing muscle memory demands your brain be there in the moment. At the same time, as I move, part of my mind goes where ever my mind goes when it solves problems.

Tuesday, it went to the source of my depression. I can't tell you what it found, because I don't remember, but as I finished the final cool-down sequence, I felt a tight band around my heart loosen and fall away.

Let it go, let it be. This, too, shall pass. Breathe. Know you are loved.

With the band went my self-recrimination and blame. It WAS a stupid stunt, but I forgave me - on the condition that it never happen again.

This time, I got lucky, my stupid maneuver cost me nothing. (I haven't been so lucky in the past.) Next time, I'll try to listen sooner - and avoid doing the stupid thing in the first place. (You think?)

Early Spring

This time of year always tries my patience. I think winter should be over. No more gray and cold days where the sky vies with the trees to see who can be the most monochrome. It should just be spring already. I want the cool-warmth of sunshine when I walk outside. I want it to be too warm to wear my jacket - every day. I want to get out and start playing in the dirt.

Patience is not now and never has been my long strong suit - my children can attest. This time of year is a good teacher for me; a good reminder to look for the signs of the quickly-approaching renewal of spring.

The signs are there. My grass, which was still a uniform brown two weeks ago, is now turning green. The sprouts from the seeds in my butterfly garden are starting to poke their noses through their insulating blanket of soil.

The light is almost back. I no longer need to give my headlights a workout both on my way into work and on my way home. It is still light as I begin to cook my dinner.

And the trees - this is one of my favorite times of year to watch the trees (especially on those days when the sun deigns to make an appearance). At first glance, yes, they are wearing their winter gray. But look closer and you'll see the tips of the branches swelling, ready to burst with spring's new crop of leaves. As I look down the street, I marvel at the faint green aura they wear. Barely perceptible, but there. The days warm up, and the leaves unfurl. The days cool (like today), and they retreat as far as they can back into their cores, hiding from the cold.

Patience, the season tells me. Spring will be here before you know it.
Stop for a moment. Breathe the scent of new growth. Relax your shoulders - the light is returning.

The Right Time to Die

Just a month or so after we buried my Aunt Florence, my dad's oldest brother, my Uncle Ed, died. I never really connected with him, though he was a good man, and so didn't get out to his funeral in Colorado Springs. With these deaths, and the anniversary of Maria's funeral fast approaching, dying has been on my mind.

If given my first preference, I'd die of a heart attack in my sleep at 84 years of age, but I'm rarely given my first preference. However, what I'd really like to do is die at the right time of the year.

The right time of year to die is in the dark of winter. It's cold, it's quiet and it's dark, and I can picture myself closing my eyes for the last time, spiraling down in the darkness to join the trees and flowers in peaceful sleep. All is well, says the quiet of winter. Sleep, my child, rest peacefully. You have done your work well, and your work is done.

The right time of year to die is in the midst of spring's transformation. The world is shedding its mantle of gray and brown, and taking on a new cloak of green and delicate blues and purples. The birds return with their morning songs, welcoming the new day and the returning warmth. It's the perfect time of year to transform oneself, and I can picture myself shedding my mantle of worn and tired flesh, and taking on a new cloak of whatever it is that will be. Rise up, my child. Rise and join in singing a new verse of the song of Life.

The right time of year to die is in the heat of summertime. It's hot and the sun shines fiercely in the vivid blue sky. I can picture myself, worn and tired, leaving behind death's chill to bask in the warmth of Love. Come, my child, rest in the arms of the Universe who has loved you all along.

The right time of year to die is in the blazing glory of the colors of fall. The days are cool and the trees herald winter's sleep by letting go of their green garments and revealing the bright reds and oranges and yellows beneath. I can picture myself, letting go of all I've known to see what was there all along, but hidden from my eyes. Awake, my child, and see what comes after all you've known so far.

Yes, if it's at all possible it could be arranged, when it comes my time to die, I'd like to die at the right time of year.