Don’t Let the Turkeys Get You Down
The backyard at our Sacramento house sloped toward a canyon that led to the American River. Turkeys and deer were occasional visitors to our yard but, thankfully, no skunks or mountain lions to our knowledge. Neither the deer nor the turkeys made any noise when they came to visit. One minute the yard was empty; the next, we had guests.
Where the grass ended and the wildness began, there was a large stump, the remains of a tree some previous owner had cut down. That stump was a perfect seat for sitting and meditating or observing or even reading. For our cats, the stump was an ideal perch from which to survey their surroundings in between cat naps.
One day, Fritz, our tabby, was curled up on the stump passing the time the way cats do. During one of his naps, a flock of a dozen turkeys infiltrated the yard, noiselessly, pecking at the ground, oblivious to Fritz. Fritz awoke to a cat’s worst nightmare—being surrounded by monster-birds.
Fritz was as smart as cats usually are. But cat-smartness does not include information about whether or not turkeys or monster-birds eat cats. Fritz was smart enough to know that sticking around to find out about the eating habits of these creatures would not be smart. He decided on a path through the forest of turkey legs and shot across the lawn, up the stairs and into the house to find sanctuary.
Judy watched and laughed. Fritz never saw the humor.
Not long ago, I had my five-year-out meeting with the oncologist who treated my prostate cancer in 2013. Coincidentally, within the last six months, a half dozen men friends have heard their doctors confirm cancerous prostates. Their diagnoses and my appointment prompted me to think about the day my urologist gave me the news.
I hope I am not naïve about life and death maters. As has been observed, the mortality rate for humans is 100%. For the most part, though, until some illness strikes, we live our lives far more focused on how we will manage the day-to-day than on what might be the cause of our demise. When the doctor, after performing a biopsy, told me “Dr. White, three-quarters of your prostate is fine,” I wondered for a while if the manner of my exit was now established.
Like the turkeys, the cancer came silently. I was feeling fine, getting ready to retire, unprepared for my primary care physician’s “I feel something I don’t like” comment following his physical examination of my prostate. That planted a seed of anxiety. The results of the biopsy fertilized it. In hindsight, it was that unspoken anxiety that constituted a flock of turkeys in my mind as much or more so than the disease.
I could identify with Fritz. I needed to plot a way through the forest of turkey legs to find my sanctuary. I was determined not to feel sorry for myself but I did harbor some ungracious thoughts about other people who might have deserved to have cancer more than me.
It did not take me long to find my way through the turkeys, and I did not resort to cowering in a safe place, ignoring the world around me. Before long, I had a boatload of information—I am a student, after all—that helped me shape my course of action and built my confidence in the outcomes. I had terrific medical practitioners working for me—the oncologist introduced himself and then said “I’ve done this procedure 2,000 times” to reassure me right off the bat—and I had been diagnosed early.
So my annual chats with the doctors have not included any bad news. Several of my friends confronting their own turkeys have enjoyed similar success. We all acknowledge how lucky we have been to benefit from the skills and support of others.
I think we have also shared an outlook exemplified by a second cat that lived with us on that Sacramento canyon: Rigby, an orange, neutered male cat. We saw him one day in the yard surrounded by our other silent visitors, deer. Rather than running away, Rigby seemed curious about these critters who, like him, had four legs, but were dramatically taller and clearly not interested in him. After a while, his curiosity seemed satisfied, and he found a spot where he could continue his nap.
People of a Certain Age, I am certain that every one of us has had multiple times in our lives when a flock of turkeys or a herd of deer have suddenly and silently appeared. I also suspect that, sometimes, the emotions and anxieties stimulated by these intrusions have come to be as big a challenge as the actual issue.
More often than not, the default emotion, irrational though it might be, is fear, and it is real to us. The urge to run to a safe place and hide is strong.
We can try to cultivate in ourselves the Rigby Approach, although there is that old saying that “curiosity killed the cat.” Better still, we can be grateful that there are people in our lives who can help us navigate through the forest of turkey legs to find the sanctuary that is peace of mind.
Daniel E. White
April 14, 2019