My school’s Relay for Life last June was a coming-out of sorts for me. At age seven I was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. I underwent treatment for over three years. Even following those final sessions of chemo and being deemed cancer-free, my struggles left a muddy slew of emotions; an ache for childhood, a fear of relapse, and anger for the pain I’d caused my family. Determined not to let my illness define me, I bottled those murky feelings and told few of my experience.
Fast-forward to February of my junior year, when Relay for Life was announced in a moving school assembly. I was persuaded by my friends to join. Though hesitant at first, I eventually became a team co-captain. I was making progress in leaps and bounds, but still dreaded the event itself. I wondered whether or not I should wear the purple shirt that symbolized survivorship, or if I would emotionally be able to take part in events like the Survivor Lap. I didn’t want my past sickness to identify me; for my classmates or teachers to stop seeing the person I really was.
Before I knew it, June 9th and Relay arrived. I busied myself getting things in order; anything to distract me from the looming decisions I wished to avoid. An announcement sounded: “Attention all Relayers: Please report to the track for opening ceremonies and laps.” The time to choose had arrived. My team’s chaperone, a teacher of mine who had survived breast cancer, held up her purple shirt and said, “I will if you will.” How could I say no? Wearing our symbols of survival, we walked to the track and listened as speakers shared their stories of how cancer impacted their lives. I marveled at their composure and strength, and wondered if the same was possible for me. Then it was time for the Survivor Lap. I stepped onto the turf lanes, was handed a banner, and began to walk. I had worried that with that first step I’d cry, or scream, or collapse right in the middle of the track. I never imagined that I’d feel joy course through my veins. Walking with purple-clad survivors, I couldn’t help but smile. I was alive. Although not everyone diagnosed with cancer has the same outcome, I knew that by participating in Relay for Life I was making a difference. My classmates ran up to me, stunned to discover my hidden past. They didn’t realize that I was equally surprised with my newfound ability to say, “I survived cancer,” not only without fear, but with pride. I felt liberated of my burden.
Walking the Survivor Lap was only the beginning. That night I went on to run ten miles. Forty laps; every step barefoot. I wanted to embrace such life with the wind in my hair, the sweat down my back, and the refreshing night air filling my lungs. The pounding of my exposed soles mimicked the mantra in my head: I’m alive. I’m alive. I’m alive.
It was only after the Relay grounds were cleared that I made the connection between the laps I ran and the leukemia I fought. The Survivor Lap didn’t define my run that followed, but that first step did ignite something. Yes, my cancer shaped me, but it’s far from the only thing that makes me who I am. Cancer was only one lap of my life; I still have many miles left in me to run.