Dear Framingham Heart Study -- Thanks!

One of the oldest members of the Framingham Heart Study died the other day at age 100. Newspaper accounts report that Ruth Ford Halloran was one of the 5,000 kind folks who joined the original study,  begun a lifetime ago, in 1948. The Framingham Heart Study, which looks at heart disease and its risk factors in generations of participants, was the first longitudinal study of its kind here in the United States.

Mrs. Halloran did unto others her whole life. She was a teacher then a volunteer for the Red Cross and other social service agencies while she raised her children. Following her example, her kids became a part of the second generation Heart Study.  Her charity continues even now. She donated her brain to the study, which means that because of her, humans may have greater potential for leading longer, healthier lives.   

I’d heard of the Framingham study way back in high school biology class. I never understood how important the study was until about twenty-four years ago, when, in the span of just five months, hidden heart ailments took two uncles decades before any of their loved ones were ready to say good-bye, and nearly took my dad too. 

I remember watching my dad from behind the emergency room’s glass wall. His face was colorless, his eyes wide, as doctors, who I always thought new everything, scrambled to find a clot buster remedy to keep my dad’s heart from drying out. I’d always assumed, from watching St, Elsewhere and other TV shows that patients like my dad, patients in the middle of massive heart attacks,  lay there unconscious and unaware, and, if they died, prettily drifted off to the great unknown. No pain. No suffering.  I wasn’t prepared for this messy reality, my dad alert, talking, sometimes shouting out in pain, answering every question asked of him, terrified, aware times two  that his heart was grabbing for blood that wasn’t there.  It’s been decades, but that scene is as clear to me now as this laptop screen. 

My dad just turned 87 and yesterday we were out shoveling snow together. What that looks like: He cleans every molecule of snow from his car until it gleams like it just came out of the showroom, while hollering to me about what section of the driveway to clear next and what to leave for melting. Since I was a little kid, this is how shoveling has worked. Yesterday, I remembered to thank my lucky stars for generous folks like Mrs. Halloran, who I’m sure played a role in helping my dad survive.

One of the many awesome things about having elderly parents is that they will, at odd moments, randomly share tidbits of their past with you, things that might not normally come up during those serious times – usually a bottle of wine is involved -- when they’re focused on imparting to you all the historical stuff about hardship and leaving Ireland that they want you to pass down to your descendants.

   

Here’s a random moment tidbit that I learned just a few weeks back: my mother’s father was part of the original Framingham Heart Study.  He signed on in 1948, when my mother was still in elementary school. He died just a few years later when my mother was sixteen.  Massive heart attack. My mother never got over the death. Who would?

 

A few years ago, I signed on to be part of a longitudinal study similar in scope to the Framingham Heart Study. This study is run by the American Cancer Society. It doesn’t involve much. Every few years they draw a couple of vials of blood. Once a year I fill out a survey. I hope that in some way I’m paying things forward. Perhaps my dad lived because of some info gleaned from some kind soul who took an hour out of their day once a year to take part in the Framingham Heart Study.

Last month I wrote about consistency in running and entitled the piece, “The Big C.” A friend wrote me privately and said when she first read the title she worried that I was going to reveal that I have cancer. I don’t, but I have a family member who does. My associating the phrase “the big C” with something I love – in this case running, is one of my coping mechanisms. Words matter, and when I think of the big C, I want the images in my head to be positive and life-affirming: the fans lining the streets on Patriot's Day, the buff soldiers manning the water stops at the Marine Corps run, the cheering Chicago folks who gave out tons of sponges the whole length of the marathon course.    

Gratitude matters too. I'm grateful to Mrs. Halloran, my grandfather, and all the other Framingham Heart Study folks who bit by bit are making the world a better place for me and my descendants. I hope someday my tiny bit of participation in the American Cancer Society study makes a difference too. Cancer sucks. Wouldn't it be great if one day it didn't exist at all?  

Truth.