The Gift Is The Present

5 10 2011
Monopoly Junior — one of Theo’s favorite games. Photo by Amy Rauch Neilson.

Where have I been?

Thinking. Pondering, Wondering. Questioning.
The last 10 days or so have been particularly harsh.
I lost a good friend, quite unexpectedly, to a brain tumor.
I lived through a couple of days while doctors ruled out ovarian and uterine cancer in my sister, Lisa.
And I’ve been giving a great deal of thought to my niece’s surgery next week. As a carrier of the BRCA 1 gene, and the daughter of a two-time breast cancer survivor, she has opted to take the preventive measure of having an elective double mastectomy and reconstruction.
So many times in the last couple of months, since we learned her surgery date, which, ironically, would have been my Dad’s 76th birthday, I’ve wished. I’ve wished that I could change things, that her risk of developing breast cancer without taking this drastic step wasn’t 88 percent. I’ve pictured myself running into pre-op — just moments before the doctors whisk her off into surgery — with the answer, the cure, whatever it would take to give her a surgery-free, cancer-free life, without the emotional and physical pain of the surgery.
But I don’t have the answer. No one can offer a more reliable preventive step than what she is about to undergo next week. And so we move forward in the realm of what is current scientific reality — this is the best we can do, she can do, for herself, her husband, her brand-new baby boy, her family. It’s what must be done. But it doesn’t make it any easier for any of us.
I so hoped and prayed over the years that we would find a better way before it was her time. But we haven’t, yet.
We will. Someday — and I believe it will be in my lifetime — we will have a better answer to genetic breast cancer prevention. I picture myself far down the road, decades from now, a grandmother, telling my grandchildren the story of what we had to do to save my life, my sisters’ lives, my niece’s life, all those years ago. The surgeries, the treatments, the frequent scans and doctor appointments. I picture the shock on their faces as they hear the stories of the harsh reality that was genetic breast cancer early on in the millenium, much the way I recoil when I hear the stories of the best medicine had to offer in the 1920s, 1930s and beyond.
We’ve come a long way, and we’ve got a long way yet to go.
But I know we will get there. Medicine has already made amazing progress, with new discoveries every single day that will impact our present and our future.
In the meantime, I try to be aware of the place I am, wherever that may be — walking a trail with the crunch of fall leaves beneath my feet, at the Tiger’s Playoff Game #3 with my bff Jodi Wolford Krueger, watching as Justin Verlander strikes out batter after batter, on the floor with my son, Theo, and husband, Don, playing Theo’s favorite game — Monopoly Junior.
The squeal of Theo’s belly laugh each time one of us lands on “his property” is a beautiful sound. You can’t help but light up with joy when you hear it — even if you do have to hand over your Monopoly cash.
The gift really is the present and one of the best gifts we can give ourselves is to stay there, to be present, to create an awareness of the moment we are living in, and all of the beauty that is there before us to enjoy, lest we miss it.
It’s not realistic or possible 100 percent of the time. That much I know.
There will be times when each of us must grieve a loss, or wonder why life has put something undesireable in our path, or in the path of someone we love deeply.
There will be those times. I’ve been experiencing quite a few of them lately.
They’re tough. Grueling, even. But we must not let them rules our lives. We can’t change them, but we can choose how we respond.
We must make a conscious effort to truly be in the moment whenever we can, taking in everything that is all around us, stretching our senses to the very brink, whenever possible, whether we find ourselves skiing a Black Diamond run or listening to the belly laugh of a six-year-old child.
Copyright 2011, Amy Rauch Neilson
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