I recently had the opportunity to pick pears from my neighbor’s tree. The tree was completely loaded, and I got curious about how many I could collect. There’s no fast way to do it—you have to grab each pear and give it a quick twist or pull. They pop off fairly easily when they’re ready. You have to be careful because if you shake the branch, one from overhead might fall and clunk you on the head. When I say “ready,” I mean they don’t ripen on the tree; they ripen quickly once picked, but you can tell when it’s time. So, I grabbed my wheelbarrow and my eight-foot ladder and got to work.

Within ten minutes, I had a wheelbarrow full, and I was absolutely giddy about how well things were going! I looked at the tree and saw so many more pears, so I told my husband, “I wonder if I can get as many as five barrels!” He laughed and said, “That seems a bit impossible…but also, what the heck would you do with five wheelbarrows full of pears?” I said, “I don’t know, but I’m going to see how many I can get!” I mean naively thought the subsequent next hour would be as easy and effective as my first ten minutes. 

As time went on, I realized my eight-foot ladder wasn’t tall enough anymore. I had to climb higher, and it was getting harder. I had to move the ladder around more often, and I realized that my initial giddiness was due to picking the low-hanging fruit. It was within easy reach, and it was fast. My first ten minutes of success were only because everything was right there in front of me, within easy grasp. It was pretty effortless compared to what happened in hours two and three.

And, of course, my mind is never far from cancer thoughts. I often hear the phrase “low-hanging fruit,” and it’s become a bit of a thorn in my side. It’s often used to mean doing what’s obvious, what’s easy—reaching for what’s right in front of you. One of the easy and obvious things in front of us is cancer prevention education. Of course, cancer education has great value, but what irritates me is that it’s not curative, and we can never be sure if we’re truly preventing something until it’s completely eradicated. So what do we do in the meantime for the person who actually has cancer?

I was thinking about that as I traded out my eight-foot ladder for a fifteen-foot ladder. I had to set up a relay system to gently toss the pears to the ground without bruising them. I needed more help. I needed more equipment. It was slower filling the barrels because I had to move my ladder frequently, and it was getting a little riskier. After working off and on all day in 104-degree heat, I finally had two and a half wheelbarrows full. There might be another full barrel’s worth at the top of those trees, but they’re not within my reach. But I have plenty to work with now, I promise!

Again, I was thinking about how we need to do the obvious, but also be willing to reach, extend ourselves, and get people to help us. We need to realize that the task at hand might be slow, but it doesn’t have to be so slow that we can’t see results. We need support—it’s something we can’t do alone. It takes cooperation from patients themselves, signing up to be on clinical trials or enrolling in a university center for care, even if their community hospital can meet their needs. If nothing else, get their information, biopsies, etc., into the research registries. It needs to be people donating to charities that are funding research. It needs to be physicians willing to work with other physicians multi-institutionally to bring trials and best practices to patients. It needs to be pharmaceutical companies willing to work on things that are harder and not just the low-hanging profitable options.

I could go on because getting the pears is only the beginning of the work. I spent hours peeling and coring each batch. Then each batch has to cook for about eighteen hours to make the most delicious pear butter you will ever have in your life. I think I learned a lot that day picking pears, thinking about low-hanging fruit, and the risks and sacrifices that I want to see people take to stop cancer forever. I’m trying my best to do my part.

Hope Always,

Terry Lynn Arnold