My habits under a microscope

A few days ago, I offered myself up as a guinea pig for science -- I got a free cup of tea out of it. (Lapsang souchong.) It also kind of made me feel like a reprobate.

It happened like this: A few weeks back, I found a letter in my mailbox explaining that researchers were seeking a woman to match against another in the neighborhood who’d had a cancer diagnosis. As far as I could figure, it was an epidemiology study in which they make lots of similar matches and try to tease out factors that may have a bearing on cancer risk.

I ummed and awwed for some days, then sent a form back, agreeing to an interview.

I met the interviewer, a nice young woman, in a coffee bar around the corner from my office. I’d considered my work cafeteria, but I anticipated questions of a personal nature, and I didn’t relish a colleague sitting in the next booth as I answered queries about gynecology or, um, romantic history.

She did ask questions along those lines. And about exercise. How many hours a week? For how many years? (It was tempting to mess with the numbers, but I’d told myself I wouldn’t. So I didn’t.)

She asked lots of questions about medications -- I had no idea there were that many pain meds available. I answered “no” to pretty much all of them, and, boy, did I feel good about myself. Not for me was there any lily-livered reaching for Tylenol every time I got a hurting head. Drugs? Me? Clearly I am made of sterner stuff.

Then came questions about alcohol. Ah. How many beers a week? For how many years? And wine? How much? Starting how long ago -- how often?

Had I ever smoked? (Um.)

Weight gain?

You’d think the nice interviewer would have asked about my diet, which is pretty darn virtuous these days. Did I get a word in edgewise about the lentils, cruciferous vegetables, tofu, turmeric and tomatoes, cooked up with low-salt broth into stews that most would find nigh-on inedible? Nooo.

There are a few things I noticed about the experience. One is: I’m all for research, and it feels good to offer even a small thing to help people understand a horrible disease. And this was just data gathering. Yet I hesitated.

When I had to decide whether to grant access to my medical records, I hesitated again. But I concluded that if my insurance company had access to them, why the heck would I care if they were locked in a safe with an anonymous number at some university?

Another thing: It is awfully hard to recall what you did last week, let alone three decades ago. This makes me wonder how accurate epidemiology can be. I expect scientists make allowances for the fact that estimates are likely to be not super-precise. But still. Some folks might exaggerate out of guilt, others to downplay their vices to look more virtuous. Maybe we even each other out.

Those interviewers seem very well-trained. Not a trace of judgment. I had steeled myself to be truthful, but it helped that she wasn’t going, “How many beers?” and that her eyebrows were glued in a neutral straight line on her face.

By the end of the interview I wanted to tell her stuff. This was my moment, my moment in the spotlight! Maybe me, my genealogy or my habits held a cancer clue! Didn’t she want to know about my missing kidney? Or my older brother’s childhood episode of idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura?

We met once more to measure my waist-hip ratio and for me to donate some saliva. And now I fear she is done with me.

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