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Beating the Numbers

Have you ever wondered where statistics live? They live at my house.

I've tried moving. It doesn't help. They follow me around like a Jonah storm.

My mother has been dead for ten, eleven years now. I am vaguely shamed that the year won't stick in my memory - although the date sticks well enough. My mother died the Christmas before my first book was published. And I can't begin to tell you how much my mother loved Christmas.

There were years she'd fill the livingroom with so many presents there wasn't even space to walk between the bicycles, oversized dolls, a pint sized roll top desk for her budding writer, paints, music, tea sets, trucks - and a dog whose paws were as big as our faces - Sam, the big black lab.

Then there were the years when she made a point to remind us that Christmas was a matter of the heart and we didn't need presents to make it "real". And we believed her, when she said that stuff, and like little who's from whoville, we sang our Christmas carols in bold, dingy basements decorated only by our imaginations.

I miss her most for what I cannot share, for what she can no longer pass on to me, for what she will not see. My mother lived only half of what should have been her lifespan, and from my point of view, the poorer half at that. You see, my mother was an exceptionally talented woman. Driven, passionate, charismatic. She possessed a searing intellect. She was fearlessly candid. She was devoted to her brothers, her husband, her children - each in turn to the best of her ability - crushing herself between the forces of what was "possible" and what was acceptable. For Lois Byam they were never the same. "The difficult we do immediately," she said "the impossible takes a little time."

She was exactly the sort of woman to come into her own in the second half of her life - after ignorance was transcended, abusive husbands left behind, children grown and somewhat stable. In the second half of her life, she might have had time to strut her stuff in the world of ideas that, as a young woman, she could only pine for.

But she's dead. Not a big deal. Lots of people are dead.

Except she died at 52.

And that's not the whole story, not even a peek. My mother's brother's dead, and her other brother's dead and her other brother's dead, and her last remaining brother is on an oxygen tank. And me watching the clock at 39.

So what's the statistical significance of an entire generation all but wiped out before their children turn 30? In American the poor have shorter lifespans. Twenty years shorter, on average. To me, those aren't numbers, those are people breaking down under the stress marathon. Because poor people die of the same thing not-poor people die of. They just do it sooner.

Because emergency medicine is not as effective as preventive medicine. And sugar, fat, carbohydrate and salt-laden cheap food is not as nourishing as organic haute cuisine. And it's not as safe or healthy to run on city streets as it is to run on a treadmill or a track. And experimental drugs cost extra. And regular medical check ups will find problems sooner. And cigarette campaigns target the youngest and the poorest communities.

And there's nothing we can do about it, right?

Well, no. There is a great deal we can do about it. It's not statistically significant. It's personally significant. You start by not settling for anything less than a whole body. Get an owner's manual and become rigorously educated about it's maintenance. Know each of your body's systems and whether or not they are running well. Become an herbalist - folk medicine used to be for folks. Find out what they did, what worked and why - then use it to keep yourself well. If your needs are greater, don't assume you can't afford care, keep inquiring until you get it. Don't put things off. Don't compromise. Volunteer at a clinic. Give something back in return for what you need. Then ask questions until you understand the back of your hand like the back of your hand. Make vitality the first step to your own empowerment. And never assume anything about your health is absolute. Learn and learn - until you can give yourself the very best care available.

Then look around you.

Start with your family. Family of choice or family of origin - maybe both. Who needs support in the maintenance of their well being? Pass on the information you've gathered. Become a pipeline. Is someone in your family prone to depression? Drag them out for walks - oxygen and increased heart rate will do wonders for seasonal affectedness disorder. Learn and teach a physical art form, like yoga or zydeco dancing. Most community centres have cheap or nearly free classes, and once you perfect a skill, you can practice it for a lifetime.

Cook for the people you love, and cook them healthy food. If it works, trade off cooking nights with your roommates. Grocery chains think the produce department is window dressing - they make their money in the fast food aisles. The food you package for those you love is more likely to be more nutritious and less expensive.

Shop at the farmers market, downtown at the end of the day. They'll be likely to cut you some great deals on really good food to be able to freshen their stock for the next day.

Then look to your community.

See what's missing from your neighborhood, city, state where you live the presence of which would alter the quality of life around you? Then take action. If you've attended to yourself, your friends, your family, then your next action will be obvious. It will flow spontaneously, almost effortlessly from the commitments you dedicated yourself to. Because at the heart of all revolutionary action is a commitment to doing what's needed which is stronger than the desire to give in to despair. Commitment, like any skill, needs practising. By caring for yourself and those around you, you strengthen your ability to take on larger issues. Which is, upon reflection, exactly what my mother did.

Because of what she taught me, I grew up believing I could affect my own health care , improve on what I had been given and question what I had been told. So in my first encounter with low end medical care, I did not allow them to remove my uterus, when it was my appendix that was about to burst. And when an infected leg bone almost cost me my ability to walk - it was friends and family that provided rehabilitation and physical therapy. I am stronger than my mother was. My chances for survival are greater.

Lois Byam may have died a statistic, but I will be the one who breaks the curve. Not through chance, but through intention. And I won't just break the curve for myself. Everyone I touch, everyone I might, in some small way influence, is an opportunity to make a difference in those cruel numbers until they are utterly, entirely shattered. Because as my mother said, way too often, in this family - we share.

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