I’ve written before of my abiding love for The Road, the late Cormac McCarthy’s spare novel about a man’s journey to get his young son to safety before the man’s life ends.
In a heartbreaking exchange, the man and the boy talk about “carrying the fire.”
“You have to carry the fire.”
“I don’t know how to.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Is the fire real? The fire?”
“Yes it is.”
“Where is it? I don’t know where it is.”
“Yes you do. It’s inside you. It always was there. I can see it.”
Do you see it? The man is talking about hope, represented by the boy.
I have loved the phrase, “carry the fire.”
As a cancer survivor and advocate, I believe I am carrying the fire. So are all of my fellow cancer advocates around the country. We carry the fire every day. As survivors we (and we’re not the only ones, by the way) experience a lot of deep darkness and pain simultaneously with light and hope.
I’ve toyed with the idea of having the phrase “carry the fire” tattooed on my left forearm for awhile and finally pulled the trigger while in Portland, Oregon, for a work trip. And now, there is is, big as life. An every day reminder of why I do what I do as a cancer advocate.
Today is a big reminder of the fire I carry.
My friend, Sharon Woodby, passed away five years ago today. Her passing still hurts, even though I only really knew her for about 20 minutes. In that short time, our hearts were knitted together in the kinship of our shared experience.
She was in Knoxville with her brother, my dear friend, Lewis Runnion (he’s the handsome guy I’m standing next to in the photo at the top of this post). Sharon had stage four colorectal cancer with mets and they were going to meet a doctor at the University of Tennessee Medical Center Cancer Institute for what was a Hail Mary move.
Lewis invited me to breakfast in the hotel restaurant before their appointment, then took me upstairs to meet Sharon.
What a joy those 20 minutes were. We shared knowing looks and laughter over our mutual cancer experiences. Like me, she had a colostomy bag. Hers she called Weasel, the nickname she also gave her boss. Mine, I told her, is named Honey Boo-Boo, after the reality TV “star.”
We laughed and we cried during that short visit. Lewis stood by, watching. And laughing and crying with us.
As we parted, we hugged, said our “I love yous” and I promised to pray for Sharon and whatever came next. It was the only time I met her, and she was gone 19 days later.
To this day, those moments with Sharon and Lewis are some of the sweetest, most important of my life. Had she lived, I have no doubt Sharon and I would have gotten along famously.
In her memory, I carry the fire.
More fuel was added to the fire I carry earlier this week.
On Monday, my friend Gary Bledsoe passed away. He was also a colorectal cancer survivor. He had surgery to have his ostomy reversed and the shit, as they say, hit the fan and rolled downhill.
He was a sweet man. Everyone’s friend. We met through Man Up to Cancer’s Howling Place, where somewhere in the neighborhood of 2,200 men from around the world gather to share war stories, treatment journeys, the ups and downs of life, etc. Gary was the welcoming committee of the group.
I’ve read stories from countless MUTC wolves who say the first person to make contact with them was Gary. He kept in touch with everyone, often reaching out before, during and after procedures and treatments, even as he was dealing with his own shit.
When we had the opportunity to hang out, we talked about cancer advocacy, his fears about not having healthcare coverage or a place to live for very long, and about his past work as both cancer and AIDS activist. And, we always laughed. His sense of humor was silly and infectious.
I last visited Gary at the end of June when he was dealing with paristomal issues that ultimately led to the surgery. He felt badly and wasn’t eating much, so I took him to Whole Foods for soup. He didn’t think I noticed that he ate less than a half cup.
I didn’t think that would be the last time I’d see him, and we sent Facebook messages to each other after that. Still, am grateful we got a last selfie, a hug and told each other “I love you” before I drove away that night.
The names and faces of people I love that fuel the fire I carry could fill a stadium. A big one. But that’s the deal, right? “The pain now is part of the happiness then,” Jack Lewis says in the movie Shadowlands.
I know I’m mixing my literary tropes but both the grief and the love, the pain and the happiness, are why I have to continue to carry the fire.
For Sharon.
For Gary.
For Bonnie, Belinda, Chuck, Beth, Beth, Uncle Bob…
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