Kids don’t allow you the time to sit around having a pity party for yourself for very long.
“Do you wanna play?” Danny, my youngest, asked while holding up The Game of Life as I sat on the couch—my torso wrapped in a gigantic compression bandage—feeling like a human cocktail frank minus the soiree. I was busy thinking about the derailment of my meticulously planned summer, which began back in June when my breasts were stretched out like pieces of taffy, slapped between two glass plates and flattened to the thinness of a crêpe. Suspicious findings, second opinions and one lumpectomy later, here I was, lopsided and left in limbo, waiting for biopsy results to determine how the remainder of the summer would play out. Did I want to play The Game of Life?
“Not really,” I said.
Instead, I wanted to throw the game on the floor, upend it. That would be “real” life. I wanted to teach my son about the deception contained in the box he held in his hands. The idea that there were controlled outcomes, certain paths and guarantees in life was a big lie. But I wouldn’t end up being the teacher that day.
“Well, I can’t play by myself,” Danny said. And without delay, he began setting up the board game. There would be no opting out of life for me.
“Do you remember how to play?” he asked.
“Yep, you pick a car, dream job, get married, plop a couple pink or blue people-pegs in the car.” As if life were that simple.
Danny’s eyebrows squished together and he looked at me. Then he shrugged his shoulders and took his turn.
What? Where were the “real” paths that “real” people in “real” life were experiencing: divorce, infertility, unemployment, illness? Where was the path I was on?
“Um, Mom, hello, are you paying attention?” Danny asked, nudging my arm. “It’s your turn. You have to spin. Move forward.”
He was right. I needed to be present. I needed to spin. After all, life was a game of chance. Where you went depended on the outcome of the spin. If you didn’t spin, you couldn’t move forward. And moving forward was the only option.
The negativity racing through my brain began to subside the longer we played. I was beginning to see that my outlook on life was all wrong. Danny was teaching me the important rules of the game. Yes, we encountered some detours on our journey and we weren’t always in control of what happened, but we reached the end because we kept playing.
Both games of life had positive outcomes. Danny won the game, but he wasn’t the only one smiling by the end. And five days later, a benign lab result would be a reminder—as the game suggests and my child taught me—that good fortune can be right around the corner if you don’t give up. Keep moving forward. Keep playing this game called life together.
