I turned 49 twelve days ago. A few weeks before that, I experienced something new: Talking about my genetics, with professionals. As friends and regular readers of the blog know, my dad has been dead for a long time. He died in 1997 at the age of 52 from pancreatic cancer. Not a good way to go. Ever since then, I've been doing a sort of mortal arithmetic in my head. Even at his funeral, as I was sitting there watching the American flag being folded and then handed to my father's widow and their 2-year-old son, the thought was being tossed around in my mind of how, 'Okay, I'm 21. Dad was 52 when he died. That means I could have another 31 years left? Maybe?' At the time, 31 years sounded like a good, long while. I'm here to tell you that it went by quickly. And so, as I continued to near the age where my dad received his diagnosis (he was 51), I began talking with my primary care physician (PCP) about whether or not I should have some kind of genetic testing don...