What is Life?

Yesterday I had a pretty severe “Mohs” surgery on the left side of my face! Yes, it turns out that a lifetime of surfing comes with a downside. Having my face directly exposed to the sun for five decades is a lot like sticking your head in a microwave. When I started surfing in the 1960’s, there was no such thing as sun block. Coppertone was for sissies. So I was tattooed with non-malignant skin cancer on my left temple which if untreated would take over my face like a wine stain on a white linen napkin.

“Mohs” surgery is a lot like “mowing” the skin off your face. My doctor explained that the surgery would take place in several rounds. Each time 2 millimeters of skin is removed and examined in a lab. The face scraping continues until all the bad-boy cancer cells are removed. It’s a lot like taking a John Deere to your face.

The lab time between each “mowing” is 2 to 3 hours. The doctor said 3 to 4 rounds of surgery are common. So the actual surgeries are brief but the waiting in between time is eternal. They told me to pack a lunch. Since this was virtually an all day commitment, I showed up with a briefcase full of work to pass the time and boundless optimism that all of this would be nothing more than a flesh wound. I felt like Jack Bauer. No problem.

Round One went as expected. But 2 ½ hours later the lab results revealed that the cancer was much bigger under the skin than on the surface. What was going to be nickel-sized lawn on my ace turned into a silver-dollar size cancer estate complete with potential nerve damage and skin grafts and sagging eyebrow. My Clint Eastwood evaporated into Napoleon Dynamite.

Fortunately my wife was sitting next to me. I had insisted she not wait with me. I had my work you see. This was nothing I had told her. “I’ll call you when it’s over.” She knew better. When she senses things my logic doesn’t see, she doesn’t argue; she just does what she must. She doesn’t ask my permission. So she waited with me. When I came out of the surgery room with a big pressure bandage on my head after learning of the global nature of the gang of terrorist cancer cells, she gave me her “love look” and closed her eyes and took my hand. I could feel her prayers. I could fill her grace. And finally, I could feel her confidence. We went outside and went for a walk. In her powerful, quiet way, she reassured me. I am lucky to have a wife whose fierce loyalty is irrational. If my face sagged like a bag of sand and I became clinically depressed, she would be at my side. Not out of duty or guilt, but out of grade-A, 100% pure love. She is my constant compassionate cheerleader.

You know today there are a growing number of fundamentalist scientists and angry atheists who insist human beings are noting more than bodies. That what we call love is simply brain chemistry. But on days like yesterday, it seems like an atheist is a person whose eyes are tightly closed sitting on the beach at dusk. He insists there is no beautiful sunset because he can’t see it. Real love is beyond the feeling of love. It is life. In moments like yesterday, it is the reason for everything.

Oh yes, the second round of “mowing” cut out all those pesky, perverted cells. I was clear! I got 30 stitches and no nerve damage. That’s of course great, but not the point. I am old enough to know that a loving wife and heart-felt prayers don’t always result in getting what we want. My dad died of cancer in spite of my mother’s constant prayers and loving attention and in spite of my younger brother’s heroic help. What is the point is there is something more to real love than our material selves. In life’s most testing moments we experience life in a way that confirms we are human because of our spirit not because of our body. Perhaps that is the reason we have such moments. Love. Without it there is no happiness. With it there is no emptiness.