According to a
web page at Cornell University:
- A cat is placed in a box, together with a radioactive atom. If the atom decays, and the geiger-counter detects an alpha particle, the hammer hits a flask of prussic acid (HCN), killing the cat. The paradox lies in the clever coupling of quantum and classical domains. Before the observer opens the box, the cat's fate is tied to the wave function of the atom, which is itself in a superposition of decayed and undecayed states. Thus, said Schroedinger, the cat must itself be in a superposition of dead and alive states before the observer opens the box, ``observes'' the cat, and ``collapses'' its wave function.
I thought of that cat and its unknown state a lot during early January, after getting a phone call while I drove to work one morning. It was the lab where I'd had my mammogram, and they wanted me to come back for some more scans and an ultrasound. "But," I'm thinking, "I just got back from a long trip to CT, and when I don't work I don't get paid, and I'd be letting my employers down if I leave again so soon." I was thinking about when I'd planned next to go back, and the cost of airplane tickets. I was also thinking that there were probably labs in California that can take the scans. All these thoughts flashing in a moment, while I'm driving, and explaining to the gal on the speaker that I was out of state and didn't really know when I'd be back. A moment later, sanity came to me and I knew that it wasn't the sort of thing one put off, and that introducing another variable in the form of a whole new lab was not a good idea. So I took the next appointment she had, a week and a half later on a Friday.
Those intervening days gave me a lot of time to think of the poor cat, alive and dead, or neither, and effected by the very fact of being observed. Was what they thought they saw dangerous or benign, or was it neither and both until the moment it's observed? I obsessed over things trivial and large. Did I have long term disability? Should I take the dog with me to CT or leave him with my aunt? Would I be able to keep my job if I were sick? Would I be treated in CA or CT? With my loved ones or with employment?
I stared at a lot of ceilings that Friday, looking for patterns in the dots in the tiles. Thinking of the cat. Trying to read hints from the remarks of the techs. The gal doing the mammogram seemed surprised that I'd come in from CA just for the scan - that must mean they don't think it's bad. But they want the ultrasound - that's a bad sign. She sat me in the little room with the tea and magazines, but came back to get me for another picture - bad. But she made it sound like something was bunched up in one of the pictures - not so bad. But the ultrasound tech took a long time in one particular area and didn't spend nearly as much time on the other side. She left for a few minutes and came back with the radiologist. She went over that same spot and as she did, the radiologist nodded slightly, over and over.
Again I'm overwhelmed with trivia for a little while until the priorities suddenly line up. I need a biopsy, can it be done today - I have a flight back to CA Sunday afternoon, a job to get back to and each day away costs serious money my family needs. Calls are made to my GYN, she sets me up with a surgeon for Monday, I'm given a packet with my films, and I'm sent home to spend the weekend wondering about that damn cat. Is the lump benign or cancer, is it both and neither, waiting for a lab tech to analyze some cells and observe and collapse the quantum waveform into good or bad news? I contact my family, my employer, Jet Blue. I tell my younger son only that I need to stay to get a test, I tell my older son more. But then I'm talking with my sister, the breast cancer survivor, and forget my son is in the room.
I've made my plane reservation for Tuesday afternoon, in case the surgeon can't perform the biopsy in her office and I need to go to a hospital. On Monday, there is more ceiling analysis, more contemplation of the cat, getting novocaine somewhere a needle should never intrude. Discomfort and some pain, trying not to watch - but the ceiling is really not all that interesting, but returning to it resolutely when I realize I
really don't want to watch. There's the damn ceiling again, and thoughts of the benighted cat, and a really nasty sound that comes four times.
We ask about worst case, and it's really not that bad. The lump is small, there'd be a lumpectomy, some checking of lymph nodes, and assuming they are OK, localized radiation. That sounds like something that could accommodate at working at least part time. I wonder about the cat - when was he observed, or has he been yet? Was it in December, when they first got suspicious? Was it during Friday's scan, or the ultrasound? Was it just now when she pulled small pieces of me out with a little vacuum? Will it happen sometime in the next couple of days when someone I'll never meet looks at my flesh under a microscope? Or will it only happen when someone tells me? Am I already sick? Or am I still both sick and well, and neither? I may have my answer Tuesday afternoon or Wednesday morning. I'm trembling, and a bit weepy. I feel a little beat up, and a lot violated. My insides are supposed to stay inside. Nasty, noisy machines aren't supposed take parts of me away. I just want to go home and be with my husband and my boy and my dog, and wait for news of that infernal cat.
At one point during what must be the longest weekend of my life, I thought of how I wish on stars for my family to be happy and healthy, and how it has worked for me so far, but now it's letting me down. But then I'm struck by a thought - I
still have a healthy family. If it's bad news, it's me who's sick. My loved ones are still OK, and I realize that I'd much rather it be me sick than to have to stand by and watch and wait for Schrödinger's cat to pass judgement on one of my guys.
Tuesday evening, Dumbledore and I were in the departure lounge, I'm eating a sandwich, he's chilling in his carrier trying to telepathically convince me to share, when the phone rings. I can scarcely believe her when she says I'm fine. I've been so convinced that the cat was dead, that it takes a while for it to sink in that he's OK. Blair and Daniel are still on the road home from the airport, and he's as stunned and relieved and happy as I. My Dad is also relieved and promises to pass the news to the rest of the family. Poor Alex's phone is dead, and has to hear the news by asking on Facebook if everything is OK. And everything is OK. I'm thousands of miles from my guys, but that stupid cat lives to fight another day.
