I’ve learned that biology may be destiny, but chemistry shuffles the cards.
When I was young, maybe nine or ten, I had the epiphany that I was the most permanent (and therefore stable) thing in my universe. My reasoning was that other people and things would come and go, but the only one there every single moment of my life was me. Moreover, I had no hard evidence that the entire cosmos didn’t just appear suddenly at the time of my birth, and upon my death wouldn’t fade like a morning dream.
Whether this exhibited some prescient use of empirical reasoning on my part, or simply showed that I was a bit late to board the train of object permanence, it reflected the notion that I would always be myself, and no one else, forever and ever. This notion was affirmed by the nuns at St. John’s, although they reluctantly admitted upon questioning that our various pets, however dear and familial, would not be granted the same privilege.
As years passed my self-concepts evolved, not just in the immortality of my soul but in the existence (or rather, definition) of my soul itself. The body changes constantly, of course, with every swallow, excretion, and haircut. When I donate blood platelets, a warm bag of “me” is then dispatched to some hospital, where it becomes part of someone else I’ll likely never meet. But to what extent am I the person taken to the neonatal ward in Gratiot County Hospital some five decades ago? What is the base model of “me” that enjoys crossword puzzles and symphonic music, but also once thought that sideburns connected to a mustache was a really good look?
I remember from my days as a university student that the campus health clinic had a sign mentioning treatment of “body, mind, and spirit.” More than once I thought about going inside and asking just what was the difference between the second and third parts of that triad, as they seemed the same to me. (I never did, however, which is fortunate for whichever work-study undergrad might have been on duty at the reception desk.)
Still later, I realized that all three are indeed one (a Healthy Trinity?). My mind is not only housed within my body, but is a manifestation of it. The brain is, after all, considered to be the seat of life: it is not the cessation of breathing or heartbeat, but rather “brain death” that defines time of expiration. Not only does my mind not exist outside of my body (though an engrossing book may make it seem to), but my mind is shaped by my body’s experiences, and even more so, by the body’s health and composition.
I’ve learned that biology may be destiny, but chemistry shuffles the cards. The extent to which my body’s chemistry will affect my thoughts and emotions is more than a little frightening at times. I take markedly different attitudes, and perhaps even different actions, depending on what and how recently I’ve eaten, how much sleep I’ve had, how current I am with my meds, how much exercise I’m getting, how I’m getting along with those close to me, even whether I have a headache. What a difference is made by a nap, a cup of coffee, a candy bar, a vacation. The outside world isn’t altered by these amenities; therefore, the different factor must be me.
My favorite Russian proverb states, The morning is wiser than the evening. (Утро вечера мудренее.) I’ve never understood those people who say, “Don’t go to bed angry.” To me, it would make much more sense to say “don’t drive while angry,” or “don’t sign a trade agreement while sleep-deprived.” Rest and regeneration is the perfect medicine for anger or other emotional afflictions. If I’m in need of sleep, I’m in no position to negotiate anything to a satisfactory end. Those old Russians (as well as torturers down through the ages) were well aware of that.
You hear of people who undergo brain trauma, either physical (such as a stroke) or experiential (e.g. PTSD), and whose families then claim they are “not the same person as before.” That raises a sobering question: in cases like those, where did the “same person” go? Where is that personality that the friends knew, that the spouse married? And, how long will the current person be in residence?
I began this essay with the concept of permanence. That is, of course, a human construct, a relative one; eventually, everything will cease, down to the last smoldering star. But if I consider that the “me” that I am right now could evolve away or totally vanish in the duration of a heartbeat (or a cranial blood clot), well, I could look at it in at least two ways: 1. I’m a transient cloud, dust in the wind, a swing in the pendulum of life; or 2. I’m a unique combination, short-lived and therefore precious.
There’s no reason I can’t be both of those things, or others as well. But I do know that which one I see first will depend on who I am at the time. Thanks a lot, Chemistry.
Early in my teaching career I bought a poster for my classroom, featuring excerpts from a book called Live and Learn and Pass It On, by H. Jackson Brown. The book contains a list of lessons from life, along with the age of the person who had learned them. For example: “I’ve learned that it’s easier to stay out of trouble than to get out of trouble.—Age 14” “I’ve learned that you can’t hide a piece of broccoli in a glass of milk.—Age 7” “I’ve learned that I don’t feel my age as long as I focus on my dreams instead of my regrets.—Age 83” It seemed to be a good and appropriate thing for students to read, so I put it up. After a year or two, I decided I needed to make up my own list of life lessons. Thus was born Mr. V’s List, which I would update every year on my birthday, and which hung on the classroom wall next to my original poster.