I Turned Right, Not Left.....

Turn left, or turn right, or don't move at all. Go in one direction, and your life becomes one thing; go in another, and, so too, your life changes again.

I wanted to be a doctor when I grew up, but for many reasons, the least of all, my inability to master organic chemistry, I hop-scotched majors until I graduated with the skills to read the newspaper and have a career in retail. I thought about being a lawyer, too, but didn't take any steps beyond imaging myself arguing some brilliant theory before a enthralled jury. That, plus a less than stellar score on the LSAT, made law school an impossible dream.

After college, I worked behind the cosmetic counter, and considered my options. One particular December evening, just a week before Christmas, being mugged at gunpoint in the employee parking lot, made a choice for me: a transfer to another store. And
because of that circumstance, I met my husband, Rich.

Later, I became a nurse, recognizing that a supporting role in medicine, for the moment, was good enough. After some years, some additional study, and more initials following my name, I became a nurse practitioner: now, I was able to play "Doctor," a role, that I had so long ago, abandoned.

Some time passed, and a chance overheard conversation from one of my nursing peers, gave me an entre into being a nursing "expert witness." Now, I got to play "Lawyer," from the back row, as well.

Along with our choices, timing is everything. Rich had a heart attack late last year. Although he seemed fine, he had another acute event, just days later. And because I decided to stay home with him that day, instead of going into my office as planned, he is alive.

For each choice we make, for each arbitrary decision, for each circumstance of random timing, a different outcome, a point of divergence, ensues.  These alternate histories, of what may have happened, are a point of fascination: both of great potential opportunity and success, and, conversely, the  potential for infinite sorrow and loss.  And only after the fact, only after the event, do we step back and attempt to appreciate what was set in motion, and what we could have done to alter our fate. In the end, we can only accept it.

Refine Your "Terroir"

 There's a concept in winemaking called "terroir" wherein all environmental factors (the heat of the sun, the cold of night, the morning dew, the rocky soil) are recognized as having a significant outcome on the final product. We humans are not so different: everything we choose, from where we live, to our life's work, to our emotions and reactions, to the food and drink we consume, create our own self....for better or worse.

 

The fact is, that cancer (those renegade cells going off the reservation) occurs all the time in everyone, but luckily your own cellular SWAT team (wonderfully named "natural killer cells") is smart enough to seek and destroy. And like any other police force, keeping them happy means that they will "serve & protect" that much more efficiently. That means keeping them properly fed, rested and respected, in a calm and peaceful environment. Happy cells means happy terroir....and no weeds taking over the farm.

 

The science is all out there: eating organic precludes getting dosed with pesticides; stay away from big fish as they are tainted with mercury; too much booze will kill you; red wine and dark chocolate are actually good for you; take the sun with protection; particular spices (chemicals) are good for you and others are not; smoking hurts you; sugar is bad but fat, not so much; your own fat is a toxic waste-dump, so lose it; learn how to say "no" and define what you stand for; and above all: remember sitting causes cancer, so keep moving!

 

But sometimes, in some people, for whatever reason, the system fails....and things go very wrong. Bad terroir? Bad farmer? Bad karma? All of the above? Quite possible. So perhaps simple maintenance is the best prevention...and for me, the best post-operative on-going lifetime cure. Green tea, anyone?

 

 

 

Younger

I've discovered the Fountain of Youth! And like all good things, it was there all along, I only had to look inward and see it. I now know that all I have to do....is LIE! I figure that 10-years off is a nice even number and the math won't be so hard to do.

See? I am NOW a member of the Class of 1988. I simply have to remember some new "facts" in order to maintain my cover.  In 1978, my Prom theme was "Nights in White Satin," and as astonishingly morose as that sounds in retrospect, none of us appreciated the irony as we lit up that Disco Inferno. 

In my new pretend 80's existence, I think the Prom's theme was "Get Out of My Dreams, Get Into My Car," or maybe it was "Could've Been" by Tiffany, or was it "Shake Your Love" by Debbie Gibson? The sheer magic of that evening, back in 1988 (right?) makes my memory a little hazy...

And who could forget where they were for the defining moment of my new generation: when Milli Vanilli had to confess that they were lip-synching? The shock and pain are still so real...

The funny thing is, I still think I'm about 17, and am horrified, on a daily basis, when I look into a mirror and see my father in drag. And when I attempt to spring out of bed in the morning only to be foiled by a bad back and stiff knees, I think I must have cancer...oh wait, that was true....but you see where I'm going here?

I'm happy to fool the world with dyeing my hair, talking the hip jive with the kids, and wearing clothes that are far too young for me, because I know that my earthly form conceals an  immature soul that is still learning the rules of the game. I'm happy to keep playing.

That's Going to Leave a Mark!

It’s absolutely true. You start as an unscathed and pristine canvas. And then LIFE puts its mark on you.  

When I look at my left hand, there’s a crescent-shaped scar, with 2 small dots above it, over my middle knuckle. It was the Summer of 1968, and I crashed into a parked car on my bike. Yeah…I’m really that klutzy. And the stitches were left in too long, so my father took them out, with a nail clipper, no less. Nothing like a little home-surgery to create lasting memories, huh?

My right knee, still, has a nasty mass of scar from the Autumn of 1972, when my junior-high PE teacher, Mrs. Sharp, told me that the hurdles couldn’t hurt me. My lack of coordination has certainly kept me from a career in the Bolshoi, but crash-test dummy surely beacons?

Of late, I wear a simple 1-inch line, that is still a little pink, mid-point between my armpit and what’s left of my right breast, where a lymph gland, called a sentinel node, no less, was taken away for questioning under bright lights, never to return. And hidden under my falsely-inflated breast, too, is a quite discreet reimagining of a simple skin fold, where age would have naturally caused a bit of sag, but where, in fact, a scalpel has sculpted an access for a future creation.

It all tells a story. And I am happy to be here to spin the tale.