Category: Personal

Why Am I Passionate About Fighting Chronic Disease?

When I was growing up in the 50s and 60s it was common that we would have an occasional Sunday meal with grandparents on either mom’s or dad’s side of the family. Sometimes, on special occasions, both sides were represented at the same event.

During these gatherings the adults often talked among themselves about the goings-on in the town. Usually those conversations just flowed past me because I did not know the people involved. Occasionally there was mention of so and so getting cancer. The thing is that this was not the rare occurrence you might expect. The way the adults talked about it, this was a major concern because of the apparently large numbers of people contracting the disease in our area, just West of Ottawa.

The fear was warranted. At that time, a diagnosis of cancer was a death sentence. There were no effective treatments. The doctors used antibiotics to fight the infections that appeared routinely because the patient’s immune system was weakened. Toward the end they provided strong narcotics to deal with the pain of organs shutting down. But there was virtually nothing that was effective against the cancer itself. Later, chemotherapy was employed to attack the tumors – but that often was perceived as worse than the disease itself.

Certainly smoking contributed to the cancer rate (at the time loudly denied by the tobacco companies). However, smoking was a common pastime across the country. So that did not account for the much higher cancer rate apparent in our area.

If you asked anyone in town why so many people were getting cancer, the uniform answer was that we were downwind of the Chalk River nuclear research site. But the government told us it was safe and there had been no leaks at any time. Based on my rudimentary research years later, I concluded that the cancer rate in the Ottawa Valley downwind of the Chalk River facility was higher than anywhere else in the country. In the face of government denials, we were simply left with our own suspicions.

Regardless, this increasingly high incidence of what, at the time, was a fatal chronic disease had a lasting impact on me. And it seemed, as time passed, that the incidence of a variety of other chronic diseases was also on the rise. However, I concluded that there did not appear to be much I could do about it. So I pushed the concern into the background.

A few years ago I got involved with at business that seemed to have a positive impact on a variety of chronic conditions and other health challenges. That provided the opportunity for me to channel this passion to help people who were fighting chronic disease. It is rewarding to make a difference in people’s lives.

So why am I writing about this now?

I recently read a post that contained this: “President Carter, the 39th President of the United States, once personally saved Ottawa from a Nuclear Disaster, at risk to his own life, suffering from the effects of radiation poisoning all his life. Canada had a Nuclear Accident in the 50s and asked the US for help. Lieutenant Jimmy Carter lead a team out of New York.”

Despite government assurances at the time, we now have evidence that there was indeed a nuclear accident at Chalk River (Ref. 1 and Ref.2). Who knows – there may have been others.

It is interesting how the human mind works. Snippets of conversation around a dining room table. Stories of friends and relatives becoming ill at rates that were historically unusual. All that percolating in the subconscious over years. And then, an opportunity to have perhaps a positive impact.

Result: a personal mission.

My father died of cancer. My aunt, my mother’s sister, died of cancer. Her husband died of cancer. My brother died far too soon of leukemia, a form of cancer. Other family members have experienced a variety of different chronic diseases.

References:

Ref 1: The Jimmy Carter nuclear accident story.

https://www.cbc.ca/news/canada/ottawa/chalk-river-nuclear-accident-1.6293574/

Ref 2: The Jimmy Carter nuclear accident Newsweek Fact Check.

https://www.newsweek.com/fact-check-jimmy-carter-stop-nuclear-reactor-ottawa-canada-1660067

#ChronicDisease #Health #Wellness #HeroicAction

The Black Telephone

Antique wall phoneI have a friend that sends emails from time to time to a group of his friends. Sometimes they contain jokes. Occasionally there’s some suggestive photos of attractive young women. (I think he’s got two lists – one for general content and one more restricted. I appear to be on both.) Sometimes there are stories or photos of the “do you remember when…” variety. (I’m old enough that I actually do remember most of those things.) And occasionally there is a story with a message.

A few days ago I received one of the latter variety. I have no idea where he got it. But I thought it was worth passing along. What follows is the content of his email. And I actually remember when our first telephone was installed, a black box attached to the wall. Thanks, Wally.

When I was a young boy, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it.

Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was “Information Please” and there was nothing she did not know. Information Please could supply anyone’s number and the correct time.

My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing.

Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver and held it to my ear.

“Information, please,” I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear.

“Information.”

“I hurt my finger…” I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience.

“Isn’t your mother home?” came the question.

“Nobody’s home but me,” I blubbered.

“Are you bleeding?” the voice asked.

“No, “I replied. “I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts.”

“Can you open the icebox?” she asked.

I said I could.

“Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger,” said the voice.

After that, I called “Information Please” for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math.

She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts.

Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called,
“Information Please,” and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child. But I was not consoled. I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”

Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, “Information Please.”

“Information,” said in the now familiar voice.

“How do I spell fix?” I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much.

“Information Please” belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me.

Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, “Information Please.”

Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well.

“Information.”

Information operatorI hadn’t planned this, but I heard myself saying, “Could you please tell me how to spell fix?”

There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, “I guess your finger must have healed by now.”

I laughed, “So it’s really you,” I said. “I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?”

“I wonder,” she said, “if you know how much your calls meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls.”

I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister.

“Please do,” she said. “Just ask for Sally.”

Three months later I was back in Seattle.

A different voice answered, “Information.”

I asked for Sally.

“Are you a friend?” she said.

“Yes, a very old friend,” I answered.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” She said. “Sally had been working part time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago.”

Before I could hang up, she said, “Wait a minute, did you say your name was Wayne ?”

“Yes.” I answered.

“Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you.”

The note said, “Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He’ll know what I mean.”

I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant.

Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Whose life have you touched today?

#inspirational #personal