Life is full of irony. Events in our life contain irony, but at a deeper level, our very biology is ironic. Think about cancer. That which we are, the growth inside of us that creates our structure, will be that which causes us to draw our final breath. Some would say this is yin and yang. Balance. But balance is ironic. Deliberately contrary. Humorous in a dark way.
I was recently very impacted by an episode of Chef's Table on Netflix. The episode followed Grant Achatz, the world renound chef and owner of Alinea. Grant is one of the most creative and unique chefs in the world. He has an incredible ability to see food as art, and present it that way for his customers, creating a culinary experience. For a chef of that level, their pallet, their ability to distinguish taste, is their most important tool, analogized to a carpenter and their hands. In the show, we learn that when Grant opened his signature restaurant in Chicago and fulfilled his dream of being one of the best in the country, he developed terminal, Stage 4 tongue cancer. Had it not been for an experimental trail with The University of Chicago, he would have died. The very premise of a chef dying from tongue cancer is ironic. But even more ironic, during and after his chemo/radiation that cured him of cancer, Grant lost his sense of taste. A world-class chef loses his sense of taste. In other words, he could live but he had to live without his taste. Truth is stranger than fiction as my parents would say. When he lived without his taste, he became a chef who used expression to plan dishes, trusting others with the taste. It was a lesson in humility and in relying on people. It was also a way for him to express his creativity through new outlets and to change the mold on what it meant to be a chef. After a while, he regained his sense of taste, in what is clearly a miracle. At the end of the episode he describes what it was like to relearn how to taste, which was an incredible experience for a chef, and certainly the collateral beauty of the whole thing.
Learning the story of Grant brought about thoughts on my circumstances and the irony present in my own story. I felt it was worth going back over in my mind, in an effort to connect with the story, and reaffirm my understanding of the irony of life and the beauty that can be found in that darkness.
My grandfather was an alcoholic, and not the nice kind. My Dad, being the youngest of 3, felt the brunt of that alcoholism and bore the responsibility of not turning out that way. As an ironic sidebar, he turned out the most normal of his siblings, despite enduring the most abnormal of childhoods. When my Dad was in his 20's he was diagnosed with Ulcerative Colitis, a diagnosis which would later morph into Crohns, and one we wouldn't later understand the significance of, until my situation turned out similarly. If you know anything about UC and Crohns, you know that it essentially prevents a person from drinking alcohol. My Dad's diagnosis prevented him from becoming his father. That's irony.
Where is the irony in my own diagnosis? I would compare mine in a way, to Grant's. Since I was young, exercise has been my passion. It allows me to sleep at night. It allows me to focus during the day. It allows me a healthy release for stress. It gives me a real platform to be competitive. It's what I like to do most in this life. Before my diagnosis, I was on a path to be a collegiate swimmer. My advancement was astounding. I had a promising future. The battle I endured with UC and Crohns lasted almost a decade, and during that time the extreme blood loss and cortical steroids used to manage inflammation rendered me virtually unable to exercise at all. For almost 10 years, my health prevented me from doing the one thing I loved most. It prevented me from pursuing my athleticism. I watched my friends achieve great things in running, swimming, soccer and weightlifting. I watched as my muscles turned to mush. And as my body withered, I did everything I could to try and maintain some level of athleticism. It was ironic. And it sucked.
Like Grant, there were lessons that I was forced to learn from my diagnosis, separate from the irony of my limited ability to exercise. I was a pretty well rounded kid with a level of athleticism and success in school that caused me to be conceited. I can recall myself at 15-16 years old being a bit of an asshole. I was good at things and I didn't have anything to really knock my confidence down. My health forced in me humility. I learned that the hard way as my face blew up with acne and water retention from the drugs. As the color drained from my skin.
The second lesson was learning what the diagnosis did for my Dad. If I'd never had the diagnosis, I never would have understood why it was so necessary that his Crohns limited his ability to consume alcohol, and ensured that he would never become his father. There is always some collateral beauty to be found.
Finally, like Grant, the inability to exercise forced me to reinvent myself. It opened up a whole new arena of study for me on nutrition, longevity, and a healthy lifestyle. I had time to read and write and think about life. I had time to discover new passions and outlets. I had time to learn. Time that might have been spent in the pool or on the track or in the gym. I became more well-rounded and I developed a vision for who I would be, if I ever got healthy.
Now that I've had surgery and found a drug that seems to be keeping me in relative remission, I've been able to focus on my athleticism again, for the first time in nearly a decade. But now I do so with a new level of humility and a new level of appreciation for how much I truly need it and enjoy it. In the same way that Grant rediscovered tasting and in doing so, rediscovered his passion, I too have rediscovered exercise and in doing so, rediscovered my passion.
Life is ironic.
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