By
Amy Scholten, M.P.H
In 2003, life propelled me toward a milestone I didn't
want to face---my 40th birthday. I was grateful for my life, of course. It's just that I hadn't prepared to turn 40 years old so soon. Where had time gone? Sadly, I admit now that I had also bought into some commonly shared (mis) perceptions of what it meant to be 40 years old---that I was now "officially" middle-aged and that somehow this meant that life was going to "go downhill" from here. Naturally, these thoughts made me feel somewhat vulnerable and afraid.
And then, just months after I turned 40, the first sign of life going "downhill" appeared: my beautiful 76-year-old mother was diagnosed with an incurable form of cancer, multiple myeloma. A week or so later, my beloved Uncle Roy---a man of great love and joie de vivre---was diagnosed with late stage lung cancer. I had hoped that life at 40 would be no different than it had been earlier, but as my mom and my uncle grew sicker, I became increasingly ill at ease and grief-stricken. The world as I had known it since birth was about to change irrevocably.
Me with Mom in 1963
To add insult to injury, I visited an ophthalmologist for an eye exam that year and was told that the drainage angles in my eyes were narrow. Because I was "getting older," she said, I was increasingly at risk of having a painful attack of closed angle glaucoma---something that could cause vision loss in 1-2 days. She said the condition could probably be prevented (or at least treated) by a procedure called iridotomy, whereby a hole is burned into the iris, but that even the procedure entailed a "slight risk."
I learned from my dying mother that my narrow angles were inherited from her side of the family and that she and my aunt both had them. This trait is common in Asians and Inuits but rare in Caucasians, hence I wondered how my blonde, blue-eyed mother had inherited it.
Mom in 1947
One year later, after mom was gone, I had a phone conversation with my older sister Cheryl about the mystery of how narrow angle glaucoma had gotten into our genes. I recalled a day back when I was about 16 years old when a relative showed me an old photo of our mother's grandparents. The photo revealed two weathered, hardy-looking elders peering out from behind the door of their barn in Newfoundland. They had very high cheekbones, and my great grandmother in particular, had a slight Inuit look about her. In retrospect, it probably made sense, given that a significant percentage of Newfoundlanders had mixed with Inuit people. Perhaps the mystery was solved. But that photo still haunted me.
"I wish I knew who had that picture," I told Cheryl. "I haven't seen it in so many years and just wish I had a copy of it."
That same week, on Friday evening, a mysterious package was delivered to my house. It was from my Uncle Paul, my mother's brother in Florida. I hadn't spoken to him in a few months and had no idea what he had sent. I tore the package open and couldn't believe my eyes---it was that very same picture of my great grandparents that I hadn't seen in 25 years! I hadn't mentioned anything to Uncle Paul about wanting a copy of that picture, but I concluded that perhaps Cheryl had.
My great grandparents in Newfoundland
I immediately called Uncle Paul who told me that he had not spoken to Cheryl. "Well, how did you know that I wanted that picture?" I demanded. He sounded confused, so I told him my story. And then he told me his. "I visited your mother's grave last Sunday, and after that I went home and had an urge to clean out my closet. I came across the picture and thought you'd like a copy."
Chills ran up and down my spine. I hadn't seen that picture in 25 years and then it came to me in the mail the very same week I told Cheryl of my wish to have a copy of it. Nobody had told my Uncle Paul that I wanted that picture. What were the odds of that happening randomly? Was it just a strange coincidence? Over the years, coincidences had occurred in my life, as they do for everyone, but nothing as extraordinary as this. I had always been skeptical of stories of synchronicity (meaningful coincidences), often seeing them as little more than subjective "magical" thinking or facts embellished with fantasy. But how could I explain this? And why did it happen?
According to Robert Hopcke, author of There Are No Accidents, meaningful coincidences, which always occur at points of change and transformation, are "symbolic of our profound connection with others and reassure us that we are never really alone in the midst of such transitions."
Upon reflection of my tumultuous initiation into midlife, the message became a bit more clear. I had approached this milestone with great anxiety and resistance. In my mind, the concept of midlife was so riddled with loss and a shattered sense of identity that at first I didn't think I could handle it. And yet, in a moment so seemingly small---the arrival of an old picture---it seemed as if the universe had whispered a comforting reminder that nothing real is lost forever, that we're forever connected in ways we cannot begin to comprehend, and that we should relax and trust the deeper, hidden forces that govern the process of life.
I've posted the picture of my great grandparents on my refrigerator and look at it every day. I never met them, but the universe whispers to me through them. And I think of my mother, who would've gone to the end of the earth to get me that picture, if she could. Now I do believe that we're never really alone.
