Luck, Statistics, Magic

62 BARRINGTON SMITH-SEETACHITT LUCK, STATISTICS, MAGIC Luck I was eight years old when the local toy store announced its prize drawing for thirty large stuffed animals. The animals were displayed on a raised stage in the middle of the shopping mall: Lions, tigers, zebras, and camels, from three to five feet tall, posed in a jungle of paper grass and polystyrene trees. Above, a brown gorilla hung from a green plastic vine. I stood, with my six-year-old sister, on the other side of the velvet rope that cordoned off the display and looked at the scene in awe. I could feel the plush fur of the lion under my fingers. I imagined my arms wrapped around the neck of a wildcat whose head reached as high as my shoulder. I knew one of those animals was destined to be mine. When Moira and I told my father we intended to win animals in the drawing, he advised, “Sometimes you have to make your own luck.” We took his words to heart and talked our mother into bringing us to the mall three times a week. Leaving her by the sales racks at JCPenney, we moved methodically from Claire’s Boutique to Spencer Gifts to Merle Norman Cosmetics, requesting entry forms: Moira, in her yellow T-shirt with the shooting star appliqué, hair in messy red ringlets, tummy forward in an unself-conscious pooch; me, already beginning to suck in my stomach and sneak looks in every mirror to assess the shape of my nose or the wave of my brown blonde hair. If asked, a salesclerk would often give us more than one entry, and after a while, many stores simply left the pads of forms by the register. “Let’s take the whole thing!” said Moira , the first time we encountered a pad unattended. Although two years younger and shy with adults, she was more fearless than I. “No,” I replied, “we can take two each, or three.” 63 Smith-Seetachitt “How about four?” It was hard for me to break the rules, even those unstated, but it was also difficult for me to displease my little sister. After checking to make sure the saleswoman was helping someone in the dressing room, I slid my thumb through the rubbery glue and tore off a thick group of pages. Back at the center of the mall, we sat on a bench and filled out our entries. Over dinner one night, our dad had theorized that creasing a slip in the middle, making a V-shape, might help it float to the top of the others. Considering this, we decided we should aim for even distribution throughout the tall box. We folded some slips into quarters, others into tiny squares intended to fall to the bottom of the box; we folded triangles, rolled cigarette-sized scrolls, and pleated paper accordions we hoped would lodge themselves at every level. Finally, we crumpled some into balls, though I worried this might be against the rules. At five in the evening, I arrive at the Familial Cancer Centre in Melbourne, Australia, to find out if I have a genetic predisposition for cancer. It is February 2004. Two months have passed since my thirty-fourth birthday, my diagnosis of colon cancer, and a surgery, all of which occurred in the same weeks of early December. The surgery involved removing a fist-sized tumor, along with a section of large intestine. The scar, still red, runs the length of my stomach, from just above my pubic bone to the little hollow between my ribs. I’ve made this trip from our home in the remote town of Alice Springs to the large cancer hospital in Melbourne for a number of follow-up tests: pet scans, blood draws, and X-rays. The tests have come back clear, with no evidence of disease. In the wake of these results I feel lighter, unburdened. I believe that the difficult part of my journey is behind me. It is by chance that the results from the genetics lab have arrived during my visit. Because I am flying back to Alice Springs tomorrow, the genetic specialist, Dr. Boussioutas...