There are times when your DNA is exposed for what it is: Your handed-down future. When you can see quite clearly where you came from, and where it’s taking you. Observe one generation and see where it will lead the next. Sometimes it’s in your looks. Or your shape and mannerisms. Sometimes it’s health. And sometimes it’s the dumb things you do. Or know you will do. Because it’s all in the DNA, and there’s no changing that.
It was Saturday when the texts between my brother and I started bouncing back and forth. My dad had taken a fall. He had nearly blacked out and toppled over at home. On his way down, he did some damage. Some pretty major damage. A broken nose. A gash across his brow requiring enough stitches that it brings automatic membership to the crew of pirates of his choice. Scrapes, bruises, cuts … and oh yeah, … a cracked vertebrae in his spine. His neck. The C2 vertebrae.
The C2!
OK, a little anatomy lesson here: The C2 is the second segment in your spine, just under your skull. It’s pretty important for support, head movement, and of course, protecting the spine. In particular, the C1 and C2 vertebrae do not take kindly to being knocked around. When you look up injuries to the C2, Web sites like to roll out big words like: severe, can lead to full paralysis, often fatal.
You can crack a lot of things in your body, but you would be wise to stay away from the C2.
For these reasons, the minute you step foot in a hospital with what turns out to be such an injury, they understandably freakout. They call trauma surgeons, strap on a neck collar and duct tape you to your bed while barking: “Don’t move! For any reason! For the rest of your life!!! You are a danger to your-SELF!”
And because it’s in their DNA, people like my father will reply: “Got it. I understand. Very serious. So … can I go get my iPad real quick? It’s in the car.”
DNA – It stands for deoxyribonucleic acid. A molecule that stores all of our genetic data. It’s woven into two linked strands that wind like a spiral staircase, encoding all of the biological information that makes us who we are today.
You will have black hair, blue eyes, stand roughly 6 feet tall, and when a nurse says you’ll have to stay flat on your back until the spinal doc sees you, you’ll say, “Oh come on! Isn’t this overkill? This is like murder on my sinuses.”
That’s hard-wired into DNA, too. Doctors and geneticists may disagree, but I’m not sure we totally know enough about it to be sure some of these traits aren’t passed down from generation to generation in our code.
I know this because as I was standing in the hospital trying to explain to the nurse how she needed to watch my father like a hawk – that she needed military-grade tie-downs like the ones they use on missiles – I could see myself in the mirror. That this is exactly what I would do.
D-N-A.
I don’t really worry that much about aging, or getting injured as I age, which is part of the problem. I worry about not recognizing my limits, dialing back when I need to or just listening when people tell me what I should or should not do. These are things not in my deoxyribonucleic wheelhouse. Probably the same for most of us. Certainly the case for my dad.
After several days in the hospital, and running every test they could find in the storeroom, the best medical determination they could come up for what caused all of this was over-exertion and dehydration.
Wait … WHAT?!?
Yeah, apparently being 80 years old and over-doing it in the blazing heat of Tampa. The morning bike rides. The grueling work in his yard and shop. The running around and getting ready for a road trip. The fast pace and the drowning humidity. They figure he overdid it, got dehydrated, his blood pressure dropped and things went blurry.
Four days later, the hospital cut him loose from his military-grade straps and sent him on his way. “Walk! Don’t Run!” they yelled at him like a lifeguard as he bolted for the door. “You still have a C2 fracture!”
DNA yelled, “Scurry like a wild bunny!”
He’s home now, strapped in a neck brace, but not much worse for the wear. In less than a week, his face is healing up so quickly that his pirate membership might get revoked. So is the rest of him. Thompsons!
I remember at one point saying something to him like: “You know, you’ve got to remember you’re 80. You can’t keep going like you’re 30. You have to slow down a little bit.”
It’s the same thing I’ve said to my mother countless times. And my aunt, who also ended up in the hospital for a spill earlier this year. I said it like I had this wisdom. This insight into the world that they don’t have. Like they need a lecture about things they couldn’t, or shouldn’t, do anymore.
But the hard part – the really difficult-to-stomach bit – is realizing I would do the same thing. And one day probably will. Even though I know you have to find balance and slow down once in a while. But I can’t help it. It’s in the DNA, after all. Keep going. Keep pushing. Keep living. Expend everything you’ve got in the tank. Leave nothing left on the table.
Part of it worries me – that inability to pace myself or go easy. But part of it also makes me think, “Is there really any other way to be?” That there aren’t enough straps to hold me down, and maybe I’m OK with that. Because it’s really deoxyribonucleic acid’s fault. And when I turn 80, I can get my own neck brace and join a crew of pirates.