Searching for blame

We don't know yet what causes any breast cancer, let alone the specific form of metastatic triple-negative breast cancer that killed Sandy. But I'm still trying to make sense of it all, still trying to figure out the culprit. Still trying to figure out what I did wrong.

I realize it's both ridiculous and self-important for me to assume that I'm responsible for her illness and death. It's not a rational conclusion, and I don't consciously believe I'm to blame. But I've always had a strong internal locus of control. Sandy mocked and pitied it, in fact. My first response to anything that goes wrong is to try to determine what I could have done differently, how I messed up.

That's useful as a migraineur. Did I not get enough sleep? Eat too much sugar? Exercise too little or too much? Sometimes I can find patterns that help me prevent future pain. But sometimes we just get colds or headaches. Sometimes a congenitally defective heart valve tightens as predicted. And sometimes people get cancer. Bad things happen to good people. It's a cliche, after all.

I don't actively blame myself for Sandy's illness or death. It's more that I'm always alert to clues.

So when I first became aware of the real threat radon gas poses in homes across the country-- not just hot spots -- something clicked. Radon gas, a natural byproduct of uranium breaking down in the soil, seeps into homes and accumulates. It has a short half-life, but if the levels get high enough, it's incredibly toxic. You can't see it or smell it. It doesn't matter whether a house is well-built or poorly constructed. One house can have high levels of radon while the house next door has none. It's estimated that one in fifteen homes in the country have dangerous levels of radon.

Sandy in the fresh air in 2010. She was either
about to throw or had just thrown a bocce
ball, hence the expression on her face.
(High-stakes game, of course. Playing
for bragging rights and all.)

Radon is the leading cause of lung cancer in nonsmokers. Grumpus, the Maine Coon cat who decided he should move in with us, lived in our basement for three years while Roo and Prudence, our old lady cats, reigned upstairs. It's not a horrible basement; it's a finished apartment with our TV room and the kitchen I use for starting seedlings. We spent time with Grumpus down there, and his life wasn't that bad. Four years after he was freed to occupy the entire house, he died of lung cancer. He'd had IBD and other problems, but the lung cancer was mysterious. So last month, the more I learned about radon, the more I was certain that his time living in the basement had caused his death. And that it had probably contributed to Pico's leukemia. And, of course, to Sandy's breast cancer. (There's no known link between radon and any cancers other than lung cancer, but I'm very good at making leaps.)

So I sent away for a test kit. Meanwhile, I prohibited the cats from spending time in the basement, and limited my exposure, too, until I knew just how deadly the air was. I set up the kit within hours of receiving it, and I left the filter to absorb its evidence over the course of a week. I sent it off and then nervously awaited the results.

Turns out, Grumpus's lung cancer is still a mystery. The radon levels in the basement are lower than that found in fresh air outside. It's safe. It's possible, of course, that the levels were significantly -- even dangerously -- higher ten years ago when Grumpus lived full-time down there. But it seems unlikely to me that the gas levels would be so low now if that was the case then. We don't know how old he was when he came to us, but we suspected he was between seven and ten years old, so he may well have spent years of his life in another house that did have high radon levels. Or not.

I was relieved. Thrilled that I didn't need to do any mitigation, that I could start my seedlings this spring without concern, and that I could let the boys go down and have their adventures without concern. And of course I was relieved that my ignorance about radon hadn't caused any harm. But I was also disappointed. I like answers.

Someday we may know what carcinogen Sandy was exposed to in her youth, or what combination of lifestyle factors triggered some genetic predisposition. Until then, I'm scared to find out that there's something I neglected. Worse yet, I fear there might be something I actively did that caused Sandy's cancer or its metastasis. But I want the answers more than I want absolution.