Well, folks–the “election of our lifetime” has come and gone. Many of the measures and candidates that I’d voted for didn’t win.

As passionate as I am about these kinds of things, I’m not upset that the majority of my votes weren’t winners. I think cancer has a lot to do with this.

I’m not trying to be facetious in correlating elections with cancer. But as I refreshed my screen every 10 minutes as the results were streaming in, I found myself wondering what impact my vote has, in the grand scheme of things. How I can read up on the issues and the stances of candidates and fill the bubble next to the one who most closely represents what I hope for our nation, but in the end, no candidate ever perfectly represents all my values, and all of it is really just a crapshoot. I think about what my vote means in a district like mine, where the overwhelming majority of its constituents are unlike me, a foreigner on my own turf. I think about how each measure isn’t as clear as its advocates–and enemies–make it seem, and how there is a cost to both sides. There is always a cost, and never any guarantees.

And as I thought about these things, I felt I was treading on familiar turf. Cancerland is filled with so many moving parts, pros and cons; and each one has a cost. There is no single absolute answer or cure to the issue. I can educate myself until the cows come home and try to choose the best treatment for me, but in the end, it’s all a crapshoot.

All I can do as a cancer patient, and a citizen of this country, is to do the best I can with the information I have. Do the best with what you’ve got. And leave the rest in the hands of God.

Discomfort on familiar turf. It may sound crazy, but I’m thankful.