Sunglasses Always Fit

I recently finished a book based on the Harvard Happiness study – the longest ever conducted on human satisfaction*. Problematic, but the pervasive message was that the key to a satisfying life was having sustained relationships.

These relationships range from the seemingly superficial (barista at your local coffee stop, the guy that collects your dry cleaning, the crossing guard getting your kids safely to school grounds) to the ones that can be deeper and more intimate than siblings or spouses (college roommate, best friend, cubicle buddy you just connect with).

After collecting data on tens of thousands of people, across all parameters, scientists can quantifiably posit that happiness is not related to money, to status, to looks. It’s down to people. Happiness is people.

On that random Friday a few weeks ago, taking advantage of a free cancer screening, hearing I had something “highly abnormal” in my mammogram, I was shocked and my mind was reeling through all the worst case scenarios. Yet, I was also wanting to make sure my friends got the hot pizza I had bribed them with for coming on a chicken bus to a cancer clinic.

Hearing that the doctor had found something, and having to walk out into air and space and the world still spinning, in a foreign country no less . . . in that, I viscerally felt how important it was to have people around you who you could share the good and the bad and the ugly in between with. I needed people I could fall apart with that would help put me back together in the way that I needed.

After my appointment, we walked through the cemetery, something pre-planned that generally only I like doing and a place only I make a point of visiting when somewhere new and that friends indulge me in. This time was no different, but felt weird to me in a new way. Why have I always liked exploring these places, everywhere I travel, with no fear, no spookiness, just curiosity about people’s lives and how we honor and celebrate and mourn our dead. But now? Now. Like, I could die and be here soon.

We walked back to the clinic to retrieve my Fitbit, which I had left in my haste to escape what felt like (correctly) the telling of bad news (“Do I even need to count steps anymore?! I’m going to DIE! Let’s just leave it.” “Rachel – hush.”). We strolled through the city park, ordered lil’ Caesars pizza (a huge treat!), ate hot slices on a cold bench and fed leftovers to stray dogs and took a scary bus ride home and if I cried a little bit, my friends kindly ignored it.

When we got to our stop, after a truly chaotic chicken bus ride, my friends dutifully followed me into the supermarket. I grabbed a bag of chocolate chips and Cheetos and a bottle of wine with every intention of drinking the whole thing myself while Facetiming my Mom and sisters. They walked me back to our building and said all the right things and I was so thankful for good friends and their attentiveness.

“We will Whatsapp you the results in a few days.” That’s what the clinic had told me when I left.

okay. Okay. OKay, sure. Sure. I will just wait for that, I guess? Grabbing at my breast every once in a while and crying and thinking about dying? I mean, not okay at all but. yeah. the machines probably need a moment, i guess?

I spent the weekend facetiming friends and family from Tennessee to Hong Kong, imagining being dead in six months, or six years, or never dying at all, which has always been my plan. I grabbed at my chest, tried to feel what had so startled the doctor. I made a million contingency plans in my head. We don’t even have an address here in Guatemala, how would my family even locate my body? How would I pay for anything? Would it hurt? I found the lump, I squeezed it, tried to massage it away. I spoke to it, I commanded it to get out, I prayed over it.

and then waited. waited days. waited. waited until.

The clinic sent me a message saying we need to monitor, check in regularly, be healthy, etc. But at the moment, based on imaging, there is likely nothing to worry about.

Cue tears! Cue messages to mom and sisters and best friends! Cue thank you, Jesus! Cue fireworks and glitter cannons and cupcakes that are 99% frosting, the way I like them! Cue spraying champagne in a locker room like we won the gold medal for Women’s Hockey and are about to reject an invitation to the White House!

Happiness is people. My happiness is my people and spending time with them, making them laugh, making them carbs in different forms, making video montages, being the random outlier and being the most, to say the least. Being best auntie, decent daughter, great grandchild, excited friend, costume connoisseur, and the teacher you wish you had. My general state of happiness is amplified knowing that after a few days of worry, I am in good health and the questionable body part is pesky but okay and I can continue the general frivolity and fun that is me.

(insert deep, relaxing, full body, happy sigh.) So, how do we end this?

Can I encourage-command you? Get the mammogram/colonoscopy/prostate exam/skin check. Take care of yourself – you only get one body! I intend experience all the highs and lows of life, my friends! I hope you do, too.

Until next time, just – hug and love and pray over everyone you know.

Because – OOOH! Happiness is people.

*the book is problematic in quite a few ways, mostly because, sign of the times, it was conducted exclusively on young white males for a very long time. Nowadays it includes the children and grandchildren of these people, as well as a diverse cast of characters in order to discover more of the true human experience. This bias is addressed nearly adequately in the book.