A dear friend and I met at a park last week, sat at a picnic table in the shade and discussed her cancer treatment options.
This mom of two children never anticipated making these kinds of decisions. She never planned to spend this winter, spring and now summer at medical appointments and in hospitals. She never expected to take on life-and-death worries at such a young age.
Life often twists in ways we don't expect. We can't totally prepare.
As we continued to visit, I shared with her a story that I'm not proud of.
It was the summer of 2006. Our family of four was halfway through a weeklong vacation.
We had flown from Dallas to Milwaukee, rented a minivan and drove north to Calumet, a tiny town in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. We spent a couple of days exploring my grandfather's hometown, learning about copper mining, eating pasties, walking the same streets he'd walked decades before.
Then we drove east, to St. Ignace, to catch a ferry to Mackinac Island, a charming resort area with no motorized vehicles.
The trip was unfolding exactly as I had planned it. We'd eaten at the restaurants I'd researched. We'd arrived at all of our destinations within 30 minutes of my estimation. In the back of the van were carefully packed bags — suitcases for the island and suitcases we could leave behind.
We pulled in to a ticket office, purchased fares for the next ferry and piled back in the van to drive to the docks.
Steve waited for an opportunity to turn left on a busy four-lane road. A car on his left stopped and motioned him through. Steve didn't see a car in the second lane, a car that wasn't stopped, a car that hit the minivan on the driver's side.
The minivan was totaled. We were not. Steve suffered some cuts from the airbag that deployed. We were all a little achy. Mercifully, we walked away from the accident.
We did not make the next ferry. We talked with the rental car company (that was an unpleasant phone call). We talked with our insurance agent at home. We gathered all those bags — even the ones I had carefully packed to stay behind — and climbed in a police officer's SUV. He drove us to the docks, and we made a later sailing.
I should have been thankful that we weren't seriously injured, that the other driver wasn't injured, that we had a place to stay that night. And though deep down I was thankful for all of those things, I am embarrassed to say that I was mostly angry.
Angry that my plans were disrupted, that we had to lug all of our stuff on that boat, that we'd lost sight-seeing time, that we'd have to arrange for another rental car when it was time to leave the island.
My plans allowed no room for variables.
Six months later, we were hit with the devastating news of my husband's cancer. When I had time on my own to process his grim diagnosis, I reflected on that summer vacation, our accident and my crummy attitude — and I was grateful for the lesson, a harbinger of much tougher circumstances to come.
Our family's short-term and long-term plans did not allow room for a tumor and all its associated baggage. But rogue cells pay no attention to human plans. I realized that I could spend energy on anger, or I could spend energy on seeking solutions and recognizing blessings along the way.
I still need reminders to leave room in my plans for unexpected twists — both the welcome and the uninvited. I don't always succeed, but experience has offered perspective that tempers my frustration.
Tyra Damm is a Briefing columnist. She can be reached at tyradamm@gmail.com.
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Arch Rock, a natural limestone formation,
on the back side of Mackinac Island, July 2007 |
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