I was driving down the highway today when I looked to my right and saw out of the corner of my eye a blue pick-up truck. The driver -- a man -- wore a cowboy hat and his passenger -- a woman -- wore a turban and a mask that covered her nose and mouth. It was similar to the yellow paper-like mask I wore during chemotherapy when low blood counts and fevers knocked my body all out of whack. So when I briefly glanced at this woman, I diagnosed her -- with cancer. I guess my medical radar could be off, my diagnosis could be wrong -- but I suspect not. It was an all-too-familiar sight -- the bald head obviously disguised, the mask warding off germs and infection, the eyes the only visible marking of a face. Yet it was still a startling sight, a sad sight, a sight that never loses its power over me as I travel the highway of life.
I am thankful to still be on the highway -- to not have been tragically run off the road -- and the woman whose path I crossed today may be just fine after her journey with cancer runs its course. But it's such a dismal sight -- the ravages of cancer visibly displayed on the undeserving victims of a harsh disease.
Maybe my approach is all wrong. Perhaps it would be better if my vision today prompted thoughts of a spirited warrior bravely battling a fierce opponent with victory the likely outcome. But instead I saw sickness and sadness. Because this is how I felt -- sick and sad -- when my appearance was marked by a hat and a mask.
But now I am healthy and happy. And I am confident I will one day see my co-survivors in a more hopeful light. There is hope, after all, for each of us diagnosed with this life-threatening disease.
Perhaps after I've been on the road to recovery for a while longer, dismal will turn to dazzle. Perhaps then I will see as much shine in those wearing cancer on their sleeves as I saw today in the blue paint of the truck that passed me on the highway.
I was hospitalized twice last year for chemo-induced fever and low blood counts. My first stay came at a busy time -- the hospital's oncology floor was full and there was no space for me. So I was admitted to the bone marrow transplant unit as an overflow patient and suddenly -- even in my very sick and compromised state -- I became the healthiest person on the floor. My white blood count was 700 -- sounded pretty bad to me -- but some of the patients staying on this floor with me had no blood counts because in order to receive a transplant, their own bone marrow is completely depleted in order to prepare for new bone marrow. Patients on this floor are considered pretty healthy when their counts reach 500. I was considered sick and was hospitalized at 700. Adults and children on this floor stay in rooms behind glass panels and with special -- and loud -- air flow systems that push germs out of the room. Visitors must wear gowns and shoe covers and must wash their hands before entering the rooms. Patients might stay on this floor for months at a time, receiving chemotherapy and preparing for their eventual bone marrow transplants. Some patient rooms are decorated and arranged just like home. Parents prepare rooms for children with play areas and craft areas and television areas. This floor is home to many sick children -- and this is what affected me most. For my five days on the bone marrow transplant unit, I gained an up-close and personal look at what many parents and children encounter when cancer derails their lives. It was so much more than I had to encounter. It must be quite an undertaking to prepare a child for this experience.
