I first encountered Mark Salzman’s writing when participating in a memoir writers’ critique group that met over a period of a couple years. The group leader suggested Lost in Place as a good example of the genre. I thought it was a wonderful book, and (after finishing my own memoir) went on to read his other works.

Along the way I decided that Salzman is a writer whom I would particularly enjoy meeting and getting to know. Perhaps that’s because, as he mentions in this more recent memoir, his characters, real and fictional alike, are “tormented by the gap between who they actually are and who they had hoped to become.” It’s likely that everybody in the modern age experiences that disconnect to some degree. I certainly do. In this book he shows, more explicitly than before, and with much humor at his own expense, that it’s true of himself. His achievements, while pretty darned impressive from where I sit, do not impress him.

To some extent, that’s due to having set rather lofty goals. He says, regarding his adolescent ambition of attaining true enlightenment: “Wise people adjust their expectations. They stop comparing themselves to Buddha or Batman and trust themselves to achieve their personal best. Not me; I was not going to capitulate … I was not going to be a quitter.”

That is precisely the way I felt about the campaign I waged for several years to rescue my little boy from a mysterious developmental disability. Didn’t matter how difficult the task became, or how many discouraging comments I heard. I intended for us to reach our objective!

Popular culture encourages that kind of thinking, through all the familiar stories about the underdog who finally prevails against overwhelming odds. And I’m not prepared to say that’s a bad thing. We should hitch our wagon to a star.

But somehow we also need to find a perspective that allows us to survive reality without coming unglued. Maintaining that perspective requires work every day, and some days a lot of work. The Man in the Empty Boat focuses mainly on 2009, an unusually difficult year for Salzman (and for me, come to think of it). During that year he began suffering debilitating panic attacks (although he didn’t know what was happening and reasonably supposed death could be imminent), he was compelled by the family to accept a very objectionable pet into his life, and worst of all he witnessed his sister’s death, described here in agonizing detail. At the lowest point, he admits:

“At that moment, I asked myself: If there was a button I could press, and I knew that pressing it would make every human being on the planet disappear instantly, painlessly, forever, without a trace, so that the whole bonfire of fear and hope and confusion and pain would be over with, once and for all–would I press it? My own children, I reminded myself, would dissolve along with everyone else. Everything dear to me, and everything dear to everyone else would disappear. So would beauty, courage, love, tenderness, curiosity, ambition, art, science, technology, history, knowledge, consciousness–all of it would be erased. Would I press that button?
God yes, I thought. I would press it in a heartbeat. And I felt truly sorry that no such button existed.”

He returns to that thought in the concluding chapters, first using it as a framework for a new understanding of life (actually, we are all in the process of disappearing–albeit very slowly) and finally, after considerable thought, promising that the button has lost its appeal.

One admirable aspect of Salzman’s life that he scarcely mentions here is his music. According to his official biography, ability to play the cello facilitated his acceptance to Yale at age 16, and he has played with Yo-Yo Ma at Lincoln Center. (By way of contrast, a previous blog post covers what I’ve done with music.) I’m also envious of his fluency in Mandarin (my progress in that language plateaued long ago) and, to be blunt, of the fact that money doesn’t appear to be too much of a consideration in the life portrayed here. I suppose, in wishing to know him, I really want to understand the path to enjoying the blessings he has, even if more would have been nice.

But sometimes, at least, answers come unexpectedly, from unlikely sources. One clue presents itself at the end of The Man in the Empty Boat, conveyed with Salzman’s trademark humor and reliably vivid writing. I now think he has spelled it all out as clearly as is possible.

We try. All of us.

In one way or another, wisely or not, effectively or not, most of us endeavor to do more than just plod through our days, passively accepting whatever bones or brickbats fate tosses our way. We seek to make the bad things less bad, the good things better, and ideally sometimes even to bring about some wonderful or fulfilling enhancement that’s all our own.

To a huge extent, my efforts have been connected in some way with the massive brickbat that prevented my firstborn son from having options in life. That adventure prompted the writing of WATB and most of the content you see on this blog.

But there are other corners of life as well—areas that might have benefited from a little more attention, had that been feasible. Perhaps you’ll like this little reminiscence.

Finding Joy in Treble Clef

My father was a violinist from what I think of as “the old German school,” and by that I mean to say he took a very stern, no-nonsense approach to playing. I know he did enjoy listening to good music. But when Dad picked up his own instrument, pleasure seemed to be the last thing on his mind. His focus remained on technique. Was that left arm supple enough? Were those fingers consistently coming down on the strings like little hammers? Although an accomplished musician ought to have progressed beyond such challenges, Dad had begun noting the effects of arthritis. He believed he might slow the progress of that malady through painstaking attention to every detail when playing. So he practiced by the hour—but only scales and etudes. I don’t recall hearing him play actual pieces. Surely, music must have meant more to him at an earlier point in life, but that would have been before my time.

Dad gave me my first lessons in the violin, and he made darn sure I never formed any of the typical beginner’s bad habits. The palm of my left hand never, ever contacted the neck. The instrument remained parallel with the floor. And that bow grip: just so! Then of course there was mastery of time signatures and keys and all those other wickets that he said separated respectable players from the pretenders.

This background enabled me to elicit appreciative nods from subsequent teachers.

But something important was missing in my understanding of music. Let’s call it joy. I practiced with the school orchestra in the same frame of mind that I took to math class. Eventually I noted that only one of those activities was actually required. As a teenager, I gave up playing.

Some years later I had a little epiphany while watching a friend playing guitar at a square dance. That guy looked just as happy as it’s possible for anyone to be, and obviously his happiness came from the creation of music. This, I realized, is what music is really about: calling forth the appreciation of life in yourself and others.

Yes, technique makes all the difference in producing the sounds we want to hear. On the other hand, good musicians know that “playing by the book” is a soulless pastime.

Adults have complex lives, with competing obligations and little free time, but I wanted to get back into music. Fearful of slipping into the same old groove, I switched to guitar. Much later, I began piano lessons. I enjoyed both instruments, but over time realized that they just weren’t my instruments. Finally, in 2008, I picked up the violin once again, after having been away from it 40 years.

Guess what, Dad? I still had the muscle memory for holding and playing it correctly (albeit without much panache). Some things we never forget.

Today, music evokes a sort of bittersweet affection. The violin feels like a girlfriend from whom I’ve been separated all my life. I cannot avoid wondering what we might have done together. But on the other hand I’m raising a couple of kids who now play it as well, one of whom is already better than either my father or me. It’s an honor, and a responsibility, to be able to influence the trajectory they take.

If they absorb just one thing about music from me, I hope it’s love.

In sorting through files on my computer, I’ve come across a few paragraphs that didn’t make it into the memoir. I hate to just delete ‘em, however. They speak to the question of being in control of one’s circumstances, which has been on my mind of late.

Eighteen months prior to the episode described below, Judy had been diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer (a challenge, I remain convinced, that came her way as a consequence of years of emotional stress and perhaps irrational guilt at having given birth to a child with developmental problems). The treatment protocol had eventually led to something called high-dose chemotherapy, a now-discontinued intervention in which the effort to kill tumor cells escalates to the point of almost killing the patient. That process complete, she’d returned home from the hospital, much weakened physically and now (at least until the residual drugs left her system) somewhat mentally unbalanced. She believed, for example, that divine intervention had cured our son Joseph of his disability. Her disappointment with me, for failing to see that, was boundless.

One Friday I took time off from my job and drove Judy back for a follow-up appointment. The oncologist thought that, in terms of the cancer, she was doing well. But her mental health troubled him, and before leaving he asked her to wait for one of his colleagues, a psychiatrist.

“Let’s go,” she said firmly to me. “I’m not sticking around here waiting for that clutz. I talked to him during the treatment. I have zero respect for the guy, and I’ve got better things to do than sit here.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” I asked meekly. But she was already on her feet and heading for the exit, with more than her usual confidence. I followed.

Two nurses were chatting behind the front desk. We might have breezed right past them, but Judy got their attention with a nice smile and said, “I’m leaving now. Please tell the doctor I’m quite all right and I’m going home.”

Startled, the nurses looked back and forth between our faces. “Well –,” one of them began doubtfully. “But –, well, okay…” We were already out in the hallway, turning right. That was easy. At the Radiology department we turned left, passed the hospital pharmacy, then right again past the elevators. Leaving this place behind. A crowd of young medical students milled noisily outside the auditorium. Kids. New fodder for the healthcare system. There’d been a time when I’d thought I was destined to be one of them. It no longer hurt so much to know that I wasn’t.

Then we were outside, gratefully inhaling the fresh June air. Our thoughts were already on the remainder of the day. I would drive Judy home and return to my office for a few hours. The weekend was almost upon us.

The following sequence was not pleasant. Summoned no doubt by the psychiatrist, a security guard appeared out of nowhere and promptly seized Judy by the upper arm—at the very point, in fact, where her humerus had been eroded by the largest of many tumors throughout her skeletal system.

She shrieked with pain and collapsed onto the pavement. The guard seemed taken aback: Was this merely hysterics? The way she’d begun writhing at his feet must have seemed genuine.

“She’s got a tumor in her arm,” I informed him, crouching beside her. He began to look a little concerned. On the other hand, he’d succeeded in preventing her departure. That had been his task.

The shrink arrived on the scene and took over. By this point, Judy had no further will to resist. She allowed the doctor to put her into a wheelchair and take her back inside, with assurances that they’d x-ray the arm. From there, she boarded an ambulance for a weekend of observation at a locked mental health facility.

When she returned home again, her delusions had begun subsiding—but she continued to dwell on the experience of being seized by that guard.

“Every time I think about that, my arm starts hurting again!” she cried.

“Then don’t think about it.”

“Easy for you to say!”

There are various control issues here, I guess.

Specifically not thinking about something can be a challenge for anyone.

Not having the power to correct a very bad situation is much worse. The years we spent working on Joseph’s behalf tested the limits of what could be changed. I’ve always been glad that at least we were free to try, despite resistance from certain doctors and other authority figures. Succeeding in those efforts and actually improving his life, to the extent that we did, was wonderful. We certainly didn’t succeed completely, but having tried remains a comfort.

But worst of all, I think, is the powerlessness that comes when other people take away your freedom to do as you wish. Locking Judy up seemed a little excessive. Yes, for a while there she was hard to live with, but she wasn’t a threat to herself or anyone else. I certainly hadn’t asked for that to be done.

Americans grow up hearing so much about freedom that we may take the word and the concept for granted. These days in particular, maybe we shouldn’t.

On Monday, Adam Scull of Write On America interviewed me as part of his interesting series of conversations with writers across the country. I’d originally introduced myself to him as a technical writer, since (can’t deny it) tech writing accounts for the bulk of what I do with words. So I expected questions about that side of the sport. But then somehow I blew past his only reference to that, and we focused instead on memoir writing.

Please click Adam’s photo to listen. If you prefer reading, the transcript is here.

When something important in life goes wrong, it colors our reaction to later experiences.

For example, back in the late 90s I owned a bunch of stock options that had been granted by my employer. One day, to everyone’s surprise and delight, the price of that stock began a very steep and seemingly endless climb into the stratosphere. Within a few months it had made me a millionaire (on paper). But then, just as unexpectedly, the bottom fell out. By the time I understood that this wasn’t just a temporary dip, it was too late.

Therefore, a few years later when home prices in my city began emulating that stock, I resolved not to make the same mistake twice. My wife and I sold our house at the peak. Smart move? Well—maybe. The two situations weren’t entirely comparable, because we still had to reside somewhere, and I’ve never been comfortable with my living situation since then. But selling was an effort to stay in control—to be a participant at least in unfolding events, to hold onto value even at the cost of giving up something else.

I’m telling that story simply to illustrate the effect past disappointment can have on future decision making: Once bitten, twice shy. Pain avoidance motivates the most basic kind of learning.

And there is pain, and loss, to be experienced in life, often with consequences far more dire than a mere financial setback. We don’t like to think about it, but each of us is vulnerable to drastic upheavals. Look at your own life or look at the headlines over the last month. Bad stuff goes down, and no one seems able to foresee or prevent it.

The experts in whom we like to put our trust typically appear to be as surprised and helpless as anyone else.

Naturally, each of us wants to minimize pain and improve life. But in trying to control outcomes, we tend to have imperfect results (as happened when I sold the house). And here’s the idea I’m struggling to express: In view of the fragility of peace and comfort, maybe we need to revisit our priorities. Perhaps we ought to try first of all to remember and appreciate the good in what we now have—as opposed to taking that for granted while grasping for something else.

Another personal story may illustrate this. Prior to my family’s misadventures in the dot-com and housing bubbles, we had a baby with acute problems that profoundly affected his development. Something bad—nobody knew just what—had happened to him prior to and/or during birth. My memoir is the story of our uphill struggle to make things right again. Or at least to make things less bad. Typically, anything lost (health, trust, etc.) is very difficult to restore fully. Even a partial restoration is no sure thing. But we knew the cause was worthy. And the campaign we launched on Joseph’s behalf led, for a time, into some of the most intense and stimulating and even exhilarating living I have ever known. But as he progressed along the pathway toward a condition that we viewed as his birthright (wellness), the going became more difficult, for all of us, and the impact on Judy and me became impossible to ignore. There came a point beyond which it made no sense to continue sacrificing assets we had in pursuit of something we might never achieve.

There may be differences of opinion as to just where that point was—but we crossed it. At speed.

I believe Judy’s death was one consequence.

Even so, despite knowing that we crossed it, and knowing what was lost when we did, I remain susceptible to temptations that could put our family on the same course once again. I must be careful.

Sometimes, having anything good at all seems almost miraculous. I hope this doesn’t sound like a platitude. The mindfulness I’m thinking about involves renewed commitment every day to maintain, yes, even defend, blessings that we will most certainly miss if we no longer have them. Examples of this overlooked maintenance might include:

• Getting exercise and enough sleep, managing stress, eating properly, etc.
• Using seatbelts and generally avoiding needless risks
• Following a budget, eliminating debt, reviewing financial goals
• Participating in and contributing to the community
• Seeking communion with the higher power

By the way, I write in order to understand, so this is addressed to myself as much as to anyone else. But as long as I’m writing it, allow me to wonder whether, in straining for outcomes that aren’t always realistic, we as individuals and we as a society are perhaps throwing away anything now in our possession that might be exceedingly hard to recover.

Yes, of course, aspiring for improvement is natural and good. That’s why I’ve never regretted the effort Judy and Joseph and I made to give him more options in life. This is simply an acknowledgment that common sense still applies.

It’s difficult to process news of the atrocity at the Boston Marathon, and the unspeakable malice behind it. Even worse is the fact that horrible stories come along so frequently now.

This one hit almost simultaneously with the news media’s reluctant acknowledgement of the ongoing trial of the abortionist.

Meanwhile, the country is still unbalanced by the most recent school shooting.

What’s next? Missiles from North Korea?

When I was young, everyone knew war with the Soviets could erupt at any time, and yet even that possibility (because it was only a possibility) pales next to the certainty that there will be further localized but grisly developments like the above.

Normal people recoil from these things. At least, I do. I cannot bear to read about the practices in Gosnell’s “clinic,” and I cannot imagine how people who worked there could sleep at night.

On the other hand, when I write about something, I know it’s good to be specific—to provide details, invoke the senses, to augment the reader’s experience. But nobody wants a heightened experience of that stuff. I sure don’t.

And yet accumulating events like these demand a response. I cannot hope to prevent the next expression of evil in this world, but I can examine my thinking and assumptions to see how they fit into the big picture—to evaluate whether I’m even a tiny part of the problem. Because it’s bountifully evident that the society of which I’m a part is not well. And reading about Gosnell reminds me of the position I argued during the med school admission interview described in chapter 4 of What About the Boy?.

In that long-ago interview, my questioners asked what I as a doctor would do with a hypothetical frightened teenage girl who came to me asking for an abortion. That wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. Assuming I became a physician, I did not expect to provide abortions. But when pressed I did finally say that someone determined to get one should not be denied.

For many years, I’ve believed that my failure to get into the medical school was due to that answer or at least to the way in which I expressed myself. But I say in the book that I still hold the same basic view. Because if doctors don’t provide something that a patient believes is necessary, doctors shouldn’t be surprised when patients then turn to less reliable resources—and suffer for doing so. (That story is included in the memoir to illustrate what was going on when my son’s doctors likewise declined to help him.)

My position was based on various unspoken assumptions, e.g., that, as President Clinton later put it, elective abortions should be safe, legal, and rare (rare, I guess, as amputations are rare) and that, as pro-choice people have claimed, the thing we’re talking about is just “a clump of cells.” Somehow, I never gave much thought to what was involved, nor did I imagine that the issue would lead in the direction it has.

For the first time since its publication, I feel an impulse to go back and alter something in my book. I don’t want it to convey the wrong message.

The girl asking for an abortion most definitely needs help. No doctor has any business shaming her or giving the impression that she’s being turned away. That does not mean that an abortion is the help she needs. I’ve finally reached the conclusion that my response in the interview merited the rejection I subsequently received.

Yes, abortion is legal. But it’s a stretch to call it safe, and it’s most certainly not rare. Not even for late-term abortions. In most cases, at least, it’s far outside the scope of what caregivers or humane society should countenance. I was wrong have evolved.

UPDATE: One effect of the increasing polarization in society is clarity. On a number of issues, including abortion, I previously saw merits on both sides and wanted to call myself a moderate. However, as the debate grows more heated, parties begin to show what they really mean. I find that helpful.

Legislative bodies seem to enjoy designating this or that day, week, or month as a time for everyone to acknowledge the importance some worthy cause. To me, those proclamations generally seem like pointless exercises and a distraction from the things elected representatives ought to be doing. For example, I like plumbers as much as anybody, but who really cares if March 11 is World Plumbing Day?

National School Lunch Week, Great Outdoors Month, and their like come and go without affecting me in the slightest.

However, April, that cruellest of months, happens to have been set aside for commemorating two issues that have had devastating effects on my family and a great many others.

National Autism Awareness Month

A new study from the CDC tells us that the autism rate in the U.S. is now 1 in 50. That’s 80,000 kids each year. The population of, say, Gary, Indiana. Every year. And since boys with autism outnumber girls by a ratio of 4 or 5 to 1, slightly more than 3 percent of all American boys have an autism spectrum diagnosis.

With numbers like that, it’s entirely appropriate to call for us as a society to recommit to dealing with the crisis.

What we really want, of course, is visible progress toward (1) an understanding of the real causes, (2) effective treatments, and (3) prevention. Over the years, I’ve read a lot of articles and have attended a lot of presentations that gave the impression that we were further along the road toward those goals than we really are.

To the extent that progress is influenced by outlays of government money for research, perhaps legislative bodies might hasten things along. We can agitate for them to try, and many of us do, but I believe the people controlling the purse strings will always have other priorities.

Aside from that, the only option I can think of is to be aware. Those of us with children in our future ought to know as much as possible about the risk factors and early warning signs. (Lists of either are beyond the scope of this piece, but to pick an example here’s a rather scary item you might want to read.) I disagree with those who go out of their way to avoid scaring people, when fear could provide motivation to do something constructive.

Everyone contemplating having children should understand that screening and early intervention is key to improved outcomes for kids with developmental problems. Regardless of what your pediatrician may try to tell you.

And those of us as yet untouched by all this can endeavor to be understanding and patient when we inevitably encounter it in public.

Cancer Control Month

Cancer is the second most common cause of death in the U.S., exceeded only by heart disease. One out of every four deaths in the U.S. results from cancer. By my figures, that’s 625,000 people dying each year, some still young. The population of Boston, every year. Screening and therapies have improved over time, of course, and lots of people diagnosed with cancer do not die from it. Still, the number of new cases is increasing. As with autism, there’s an urgent need for continuing research, aimed at finding real-world solutions, and for awareness. As with autism, the reality of a diagnosis may be closer than any of us thinks.

Again with the scare tactics. Forgive me. Normal human thinking seems to involve an optimism bias. That is, we know bad things happen to other people in situations like ours, but we tend to believe they won’t happen to us. However, learning a little about those bad things might prepare us for making wise choices.

There doesn’t appear to be one single cause for either of these threats. Genetics is evidently involved in both, or more likely there’s an interaction between genes and circumstances. Looking at my own family, I see a few risk factors for both autism and cancer. (There’s some overlap.) But no doubt other families manage to get by just fine with the same cocktail of hazards. My family also made conscious decisions to reduce our risk—unsuccessfully, as it turned out.

These are very complicated subjects, and it’s not surprising that confusion still reigns. (I do think we’ve got it in us to do a little better.) I guess, if the government can’t pay for a resolution, their calling attention to the crises is at least a nice gesture.

TS Eliot’s poem The Waste Land notes that April is the time when our world should be regenerating after a long winter. In the poem, that renewal brings pain, because it suggests a more carefree time in the past. For me, and for a great many others, fresh spring air evokes memories of a time before autism (or something like it) took my first child and cancer took my first wife.

Now, my daughter (a perfect representation of new hope in my own life story) reminds me that I shouldn’t end this with such a defeatist note. Given that we do live with the threat of these things, and sometimes more than a threat, we also need reminders that there may yet be profound joy on the other side of loss. In that spirit, here’s the concluding scene of The Joy Luck Club, which is often in my mind. Just click the image below.

Hat tip to Talk About Curing Autism for the graph above.

An edited version of this article appeared in The San Diego Reader.

Please don’t misunderstand. I’ve always thought the space program was a great thing. I watched TV coverage of America’s first manned space launch with my fourth-grade class, saw the Moon landing with high school friends, and as an adult worked many years supporting unmanned launches from Cape Canaveral. Over time, this effort has resulted in dramatic changes in the way we all live that are now taken for granted (e.g., satellite TV). It has often prompted a shared sense of pride and community. And the demonstration of sheer brainpower is impressive for its own sake.

But here’s a question that has bothered me for years.

Since we, as a society, can do what is depicted in this astonishing video (please do click the image and watch it), and since similar massive efforts are also deemed necessary to understand the causes of anomalies and mishaps such as airplane crashes…

Is it unreasonable to expect the same level of smarts to be deployed, with the same sustained focus, in the cause of improving our response to developmental disability?

When my son Joseph was born in 1985, I naively but naturally expected to see that happen. Then, as his mom and I began pursuing leads in hopes of finding the answers he needed, I realized how very many other families were grappling with the same problem. Generally, they did so with no help from the acknowledged experts.

Important work is being done, here and there. I know a highly motivated researcher at George Washington University, who tells me much of her time is spent trying to secure funding for continued work. Last year I wrote about attending the very stimulating “Frontiers in Neural Disorders” conference in San Diego. The speakers had interesting things to say, but I perceived no sense of urgency. Occasionally an upbeat report appears in the news. But actual breakthroughs–the sort of thing that would give people like Joseph additional options in life–appear to be generations away.

We as a society all suffer as a result. Just saying.

Last year, a reviewer of What About the Boy? observed that the story is in the tradition of the “reluctant hero.” I wasn’t familiar with that term. I felt vaguely uncomfortable with the suggestion that my deeds or motives in trying to help my son were being seen as heroic. The alternative (not trying to help him) had been unthinkable, and so (along with my wife Judy) I simply did what had to be done. Surely, that merits no special credit. But perhaps my uneasiness with the word lies in concepts absorbed from the general culture.

The traditional image of a hero originated with the ancients, who created semi-divine figures like Hercules, famed for subduing monsters and otherwise rising to challenges beyond the capacity of ordinary mortals. Some modern figures are in the same tradition. Thus we have Superman (“faster than a speeding bullet,” etc.), as well as quasi-super characters such as Rambo or those for whom success is never very much in doubt (Indiana Jones, James Bond, et al.). In short, these guys are tough, fearless, clever, confident, and probably good-looking to boot. They’re also not particularly realistic (at least, not outside elite special-ops units in the military).

Their tales may be entertaining, but don’t intersect with life as I’ve known it.

I began writing What About the Boy? when I realized that my family’s situation was not unique, and that many families with developmentally disabled kids were, like us, moving heaven and earth in all-out attempts to improve their children’s options. In writing, I was simply putting a face on the experience of a chunk of the population that was and remains far too sizable.

OK, so what heroes are realistic, or recognizable? Actually, these exist in our culture as well. Examples in recent movies would include:

• Frodo, in the Lord of the Rings trilogy
• Billy Bean, manager of an underdog baseball team in Moneyball
• Vincent Freeman in Gattaca
• My favorite, Wei Minzhi, the 13-year-old substitute teacher in Not One Less

These are people who wrestle with personal weaknesses, doubts, or shortcomings. They have no special gifts, other than an understanding of what they must do if they are to live with themselves. They all face moments at which the easier course, by far, would be to admit defeat.

• Who could forget Frodo’s agonized expression as he acknowledges that no one else can accept the unwelcome task given to him? Despite the astonishing visual effects and pageantry of this saga, its strongest aspect is a message that staying the course costs Frodo almost more than he can bear.
• Billy still relives the points at which his life went off the rails, and responsibility for a losing team opens old wounds. The effort to save the team is powered by his undimmed determination to make things right–for himself and indeed for others like him who have ended up on the margins. But this means ignoring conventional wisdom, infuriating his colleagues, and taking a huge personal risk.
• Because of his genetic makeup, Vincent is expected to accept a menial job and second-class status. By far, that would be the easier course for him. But by an act of sustained willpower, he overcomes that limitation and proves that by golly he does control his own destiny.
• Unwilling to lose even a single student from her rural Chinese school, Wei Minzhi sets out on an odyssey to the city to rescue a runaway 10-year-old boy and bring him home. Every step of the way leads to a new obstacle, but incredibly, she never considers giving up

I like these stories, but each of them reaches an uplifting conclusion within a reasonable time frame. In life, things can remain more problematic. We can choose to do the right thing, confront personal demons, make sacrifices, and still not see the hoped-for reward. Or we can achieve enough to know that we’ve made a good choice but still not enough to claim victory. The struggle goes on.

I think the struggle goes on throughout life. I think this is a large part of what life is all about. That being the case, everyone who shoulders a burden that really cannot be ignored—as opposed to running away from it—is a hero. A reluctant hero, perhaps. I guess this is why we identify with stories that define this problem.