Charles Darwin, among others, put forth the notion that nature thrives and evolves on a principal of "survival of the fittest," by which is meant, we students are given to understand, that successful traits are passed on to future generations of a particular species, while those less fortunately prepared for the adverse slings and arrows that life sends our way are cut down and eliminated from the pool of further influence upon succeeding generations. Those with the strongest hearts, the best lungs, the sharpest minds, the most self-preserving immune systems, the quickest reflexes, etc., will of course have a better chance of survival, when various big and little mouths come along to eat them, than their weaker, more breathless, duller, less immune, and slower to react brethren, otherwise known as "lunch." In the human species, however, other factors have intervened, so that, for instance, a Stephen Hawking can live on well into adulthood despite having Lou Gehrig's Disease, a debilitating form of muscular dystrophy that previously would probably have killed him off much earlier in life, soon after his diagnosis in his college years. Through the miracles of modern medicine and technology, plus the splendid cooperation of many of his fellow human beings, this "medical monster" has persisted for several more decades, and, incidentally, has helped plumb some of the depths of physics' and astronomy's greatest mysteries.
I have thought of such medical sports recently, beings that, but for medical intervention, would have long since rejoined the dust from which we all arose, since, with far less dramatic infirmities or claim to fame, my current conditions point back to my own rather tenuous, medically-dependent hold on existence. I too was preserved, against the odds.
Dad used to complain that medicine was saving from their proper fate many in our society who, by their various weaknesses of intellect or form, should, by all natural rights, be food instead. He seemed to feel that our human race was being diluted from its pure, strongest, natural brilliance of mind and body by such professional coddling of some of its weakest links. He never said so; but in my youth I could not help but notice that I was such a one.
Although I seemed fairly normal when I was born, it soon became apparent there was something wrong with my feet, which were turned inward toward each other instead of down, so eventually it would have made walking problematic. In addition, I had inherited from my father very high arches, which were as close to the ground, if I were standing, as the bottoms of the feet were. Oops. Modern medicine intervened; and I was put into casts on both legs up to my hips, first when only a few months old and later at age four. Under the doctors' guidance, Mom also later massaged my feet to get them to stay turned more outward. She and the medical community were eventually successful. Now I stand fairly normally. If anything, my stance is with the feet a bit too far apart, but at least flat on the ground.
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When I was a few months old, my mother also noticed a peculiarity in my breathing. At times if I were upset and would scream, I could not catch my breath and would lose consciousness. This was preceded by a high-pitched cry. The first doctors with whom Mom discussed it acted as though it were no problem. However, eventually my paternal grandmother, Mama Pearl, noticed one such incident when I turned blue around the lips and passed-out. She said her (third) daughter Wilma, who died young, when Dad was 12, used to do that. Wilma had had a weak heart. So, Mom had me checked out again. This time, the medical specialists came through and discovered I had an enlarged heart, perhaps due to an active thymus. They gave me x-ray treatments to shrink the gland; and I grew out of the passing-out problem. The heart failure was compensated as the organ became smaller relative to my greater body size.
Finally, beginning in my second winter, at age one, I began having bouts of bronchitis. The symptoms were similar to what I have been experiencing for the last month, though now the doctors call it "asthma." These attacks continued, often quite serious, for several years, during a period when Dad used to smoke a lot of Camels. As luck would have it, though, this medical monster also survived (so far). |
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