>Doomed. Possibly.

>”So, how is everything?” my mom asked me on the phone a few weeks ago.

“Fine, except that it got so hot here in Nashville that I had an asthma flare-up,” I said, “so I had to break out the prescription medicine, which was annoying.”

“Asthma?” my mom said, her voice tinged with a note of alarm.

“Mom, I told you about this,” I said. “I have asthma flare-ups a couple of times a year. I read about it and found out that adult-onset asthma is fairly common and generally starts in your 30s. It hardly ever bothers me, my doctor’s not concerned, and it’s really no big deal.”

“Well, you know, all the trouble with your grandfather started with asthma,” my mom said darkly. “And he was your age when it hit him.”

I paused. My grandfather had been a walking laundry list of health problems from the time I was born until his death when I was 25. He’d had diabetes, asthma, periodic pneumonia, plenty of other maladies I can neither remember nor pronounce, and the kicker– emphysema. Grandaddy was rather melodramatic, so we heard often about his illnesses and afflictions and the pain and suffering they caused.

“Great,” I said. “Hmm. I have a lot to look forward to.”

“I didn’t mean that,” my mom said, “I’m just telling you that it started for him with asthma and he was your age when it happened.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And it ended for him in emphysema and sheer misery. Lovely. Well, it’s been nice talking to you, Mom. Thanks for the reassurance. I’m really going to sleep well tonight.”

We both laughed.

This week, I stopped by for a visit with my family with the kids and when I was chatting with my grandmother, I mentioned the conversation I’d had on the phone with my mother.

“I told her I had occasional asthma flare-ups and she said that was the start of Grandaddy’s problems!” I laughed. “So I was all, ‘Thanks Mom. I feel much better now!'”

My grandmother chuckled, then grew serious. “It did start with the asthma, you know. But he was around chemicals a lot, which made it much worse.” I smiled with secret relief. I knew my Grandmother would make me feel better.

“The problem with that side of the family was cancer,” she continued. “I don’t know if you remember, but your grandfather had cancerous polyps, too, which were removed. And two of his three brothers had cancer. And his mother and father had it. She began counting off on her fingers. “And so did Clara, Stewart, Johnny, and Edna. And Patsy.”

“Okay then,” I said. I thought for a moment. “So basically, there’s a 25% chance that I’m doomed.” Grandmother laughed and I pretended to do the same.

But now, I’m fighting a strange urge to upload “Live Like You Were Dying” to my iPod and put it on repeat play for the rest of the day.