I DON'T KNOW

Evan Handler is an actor, author, and long-term leukemia survivor best known forhis roles on Sex and the City and Californication. His first book, "Time on Fire: My Comedy of Terrors," described his unlikely survival in the mid-1980s. "I Don't Know" is an excerpt from his second memoir, "It's Only Temporary: The Good News and the Bad News of Being Alive" (Riverhead/2008). Learn more at Evanhandler.com.

I Don't Know

When I was twenty-four years old I was diagnosed with acute myeloid leukemia and told it was “incurable.” However, instead of dying, as I was led to expect, I’m now considered to be long-cured – and I’m less than six months away from turning fifty.

Due to my history of illness and unexpected recovery I started getting asked my views on complex issues when I was only about twenty-five. That’s a young age for philosophizing about life and death, even for a theologian. Me, I’m an actor.

Sometimes the questions would come from friends, but often from mere acquaintances. The inquisitors might be my age, or two or three generations older. Do you think things happen for a reason? I’d be asked. Do you think you can alter your own destiny? Does prayer really work? Do you think life has a meaning? Is there a higher power?

I don’t know.

A very common question, when I was a kid, was whether or not you believed in God. It came up all the time, and it was used as a kind of introductory identity test. Almost like asking a stranger from what tribe they hailed, the question flew in quick succession to several other standards.

“What religion are you?”

“You like the Yankees or Mets?”

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“Do you believe in God?”

I’ve always had an odd relationship to that last question. For me, the answer has always seemed straightforward and inevitable, and it’s always been the same. I don’t know. I just don’t know.

I don’t mean that in a passive sense. I don’t mean it as a cop out from contemplation. I’ve tried to live my life from a position of being open to all possibilities, with great curiosity and wonder over what, to me, can never be known. To the possibility that there is meaning beyond what’s easily seen; to the possibility that there’s not. To the possibility that there is some form of intelligence guiding the intricate systems that sustain us, and to the possibility that there’s not. But if you’re going to ask me what I think the situation is, when I close my eyes at night and dream, wondering if I’ll get to wake up again, or if it matters whether I do or not, then you’ll hear what, to me, is the most sensible refrain: I don’t know.

Still, I am fascinated by our conundrum as humans living on planet Earth. I’ve said to friends, probably more times than they’ve wanted to hear, “We live in outer space. Do you know that? Can you believe it? We live in outer space.” It’s a crucial thing to remind myself, because it justifies and enhances my choice to remain committed to philosophical non-commitment. We do not know where we live. We have no idea of our own address.

As many maps as have been produced, with all the stellar observations and radio frequency surveillance, we have no idea what substance contains us, where it came from or where it’s headed, if it has a purpose or what it might be, how it started, or how long it will last. We do not know. Whether we admit it readily or not, the most advanced of our species are, in relation to the universe beyond our planet, identical to tribes that have no conception of the world beyond their rain forest.

I don’t mean to endorse atheism. I embrace that point of view no more than the idea of a deity. My favorite argument in favor of a guiding force came from my brother when I was seventeen. I was involved in my first sexual relationship with my first requited love, Kathleen. When somehow the topic came up, my brother surprised me by declaring, “Of course there’s a God, Evan. Why do you think your thing fits inside hers? You think that’s an accident?”