This past St. Patrick’s Day my daughter and I were listening to John Lennon’s Luck of the Irish. She wondered aloud whether people realized the phrase was meant to be ironic. Lennon certainly did, singing, “If you had the luck of the Irish, you’d be sorry and wish you were dead …” With Irish-born grandparents and Liverpool’s deep Irish roots, he understood the weight of the phrase, eight hundred years of oppression, genocide, and loss, rebranded as “luck”. Her question stayed with me in considering the luck I’ve encountered as both a doctor and a patient.
Although no one in my direct line has lived in Ireland for over a hundred years, I grew up deeply immersed in Irish culture and history. My ancestors fled poverty, oppression, and famine, but all my great-grandparents with ties to Ireland died decades before I was born. My husband remembers his own Irish-born great-grandmother, who shares a name with our oldest. She never talked about her life before America, but it was well understood that she experienced hardship she wished to leave behind. Did our emigrated ancestors feel lucky in the conventional sense, or did they hope their sacrifices would break centuries-old curses, just as I hoped for my own children?
It was through this lens of history and inheritance that I began to reconsider what it really means to be lucky. I’ve always wondered about luck’s true nature, whether it’s something we shape ourselves or something that shapes us. Are good luck and bad luck even different, or just a matter of perspective? This question reminded me of a story I read as a young girl.
A farmer’s horse ran away, and his neighbors exclaimed, “What terrible luck!” The farmer calmly said, “Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see.” Days later, the horse returned with several wild mares. The neighbors said, “What great luck!” The farmer replied, “Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see.” Soon after, the farmer’s son broke his leg while trying to tame a mare. Again, the neighbors said, “What terrible luck!” The farmer answered, “Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see.” Weeks later, soldiers came to recruit young men for the army. Because the son was still injured, he was left behind. The neighbors cheered, “What tremendous luck!” The farmer simply said, “Maybe so, maybe not. We’ll see.”
Like the farmer, I’ve come to see that circumstances aren’t inherently good or bad, they simply are. My daughter and I reflected on our own stories and the tremendous good luck I have: being born at a time and place where my talents are valued, having three incredible children, being diagnosed with an extremely rare cancer for which I had neither risk factors nor symptoms, and yet it was found nonetheless. My cancer was even treated with robot surgery and miracle drugs, not with the radiation that had killed my eight-year-old sister after her cancer in the nineties. Lucky.
These reflections on luck and fate weren’t just abstract musings; I found myself hoping to be the luckiest of the unlucky. After being given a stage 4 cancer diagnosis last year, I feared I had failed my children, trapped in the same cycle of loss that has plagued our family. A second opinion, then a third followed, all the same. Each time, the initial optimism turned to silence when they finally saw my scans with an abrupt shift in their demeanor. They said my only chance was to have negative follow-up scans, biopsies, molecular blood tests, and genetics—and, incredibly, that’s exactly what I had. Now, my doctors began to hedge that perhaps it could be stage 3 after all. Lucky again.
Confronting my own mortality and legacy has sparked a curiosity about my family’s past. Although previously unknown to me, I found myself turning to the stories that have been my family’s history. My dad’s genealogical research traced our Curtin/Macartan family back to the Protestant Revolution. The MacArtans were once Northern Irish nobility, Lords of Kinelarty, and poets. This history took an abrupt unlucky turn after my seventh great-grandfather led an uprising for King James II against William of Orange. Defeated, he was pardoned by the King, regrouped in France, and tried (and failed) again. Despite overwhelmingly negative odds, the act of pressing on resonates with me today as I face my own battle with illness. There is value and honor in continuing the journey, even when the end is beyond our control. The outcome may be predestined, but I can still control the grace with which I navigate each step.
With hindsight, I realize that I went to medical school partly as a way to protect myself from future tragedy. But it didn’t work. Or did it? My biological destiny with cancer was sealed at birth. Without my medical knowledge and the connections I’ve built over the years, I would have faced near-certain death before a diagnosis. Lucky? Over time, I’ve come to understand that luck isn’t a gift bestowed upon us. Rather, it’s a talent honed through adversity, to continue fighting the good fight. As a pediatrician, I’ve learned that resilience isn’t just about survival. It’s about finding meaning in the face of uncertainty.
Maybe “luck” isn’t about fortunate or unfortunate circumstances at all. Maybe it’s the defiant act of carrying on, even when the odds feel impossible. Can we change the future for our patients, for our children, or for ourselves by doing so?
We’ll see.
Kelly Curtin-Hallinan is a board-certified pediatrician, medical director, and author whose career centers on compassionate care and advocacy for vulnerable children. She serves as a pediatrician with WellSpan Health and as medical director for the Pennsylvania Office of Medical Assistance. Dr. Curtin also contributes to policy and leadership through the Pennsylvania Chapter of the American Academy of Pediatrics and serves on several national boards within the AAP. Affiliated with York Hospital, she is recognized for her leadership in pediatric oral health and trauma-informed care.
Dr. Curtin’s creative work reflects her lived experiences with illness, motherhood, and survival. She is the author of the forthcoming children’s book Molly and Potato, co-written with her daughter. Her writing also appears in essays such as “Facing terminal cancer as a doctor and mother.” Connect via LinkedIn or Instagram @mollyandpotatobook. More at Molly and Potato.
