The other night Charly was talking about adding a cartwheel
to her beam routine. For those of you without 10 year old little girls in
gymnastics, this is a pretty serious undertaking. She doesn’t have to add it,
it’s not a required element, but she’s just on the cusp of nailing it every
time, and wants to add it anyway. It’s a risk. An unnecessary risk. She asked
what we thought, and without hesitation, Ted and I both said, take it! We said
it for the same reason. It’s better to try and fail than to never have tried at
all. We made sure that we were pushing her sense of spirit rather than her
desire to score higher at a meet, and she got it. Completely.
Ted and I met at a drop zone in Northampton packing
parachutes. This was before I dropped
out of civilized life to drift around the country in a ¾ ton Chevy conversion
camper van for close to a year. I was never much for convention, so when my
children, who live in a world far removed from my vagabond ways, take steps
into parts of the world that are not a slam dunk guarantee, I smile from ear to
ear. Even though I eventually grew up and committed myself wholeheartedly to
science, I’m still a risk taker. And for that, I am grateful beyond measure,
and will do my best to guide my children toward any path less traveled.
The past six years have been filled with uncertainly. And at
the crux of each major decision was an element of risk. Had I taken the safest
route at any juncture, I would likely still be toiling away as an 11th
year grad student. When I reflect back on the many MANY people who have
influenced me since I’ve been on this side of the great cancer divide, there is
one person who provided me with such an impactful perspective change by
uttering two words, that I think I have him to thank for jumping every time.
Allan Jacobson, my graduate thesis chair, is a force of
nature. Anyone who has met him has likely snorted with laughter and expanded
their minds at the same time. Allan was one of the first people that I went to full
of pride after our first year at cycle for survival. I went to him because we
did it. We did what we never thought we could.
We raised the equivalent to an R01 when we set out to raise a 50K grant.
There was going to be legitimate research squarely focused on Angiosarcoma, and
in a world where there was once nothing, no hope, no recourse.
Allan looked at me and said, “Now What”. I was too busy reveling to take a step back
and ask that of myself. Now What? Allan said that as great as our accomplishments
were, that we needed to focus more than ever on what was next. What a humbling
experience to know that there would never be reason to be full of anything
except the drive to do more.
I wasn’t going to accomplish “Now What” from my graduate
bench. But man was it scary to defend my thesis. I left behind the shelter of
an incredible graduate mentor, who provided a safe pace for my mind and my
heart. I left behind kick ass insurance. I left behind the type of science that
fueled me. It was a risk. A very necessary risk. And when I talked to Ted, it
was clear to both of us that I had to take it.
I know, in the deepest recesses of who I am, that I will
never attain my ultimate goal, even though I traded in my plastic spoon for a chisel. But I will take every chance that comes my way
in order to come one step closer to, “That’s what”.
