The following speech was given today to welcome Santa Clarita Valley's New Team In Training for the Leukemia and Lymphomia Society.
Greetings to the new SCV Team In Training! Evan and I wish that we could join you today and we dream of the day, hopefully soon, when we can meet. We feel a special camaraderie with this inaugural SCV Team and those of you who hail from our Valley. Evan is excited to be a part of your training and I am equally as honored that he is a part of your quest for the cure. Today, you embark on a journey of great distances and even larger proportions. Far be it for me, the mother of this special child with leukemia, to tell you what to do, or how to do it or even where the fundraising money might be had, for as a matter of fact, I don’t know the answers to these questions and furthermore, I wholeheartedly detest and, quite frankly, rebel against the very idea of people telling me what to do. I usually leave such matters to the doctors and the hard bodied and able coaches. But, not today. While I have you captive, I am going to tell you, just this one time, what to do.
Today, I am going to break my own rule and admonish you. I have this idea, this ‘just one thing‘ to share (strongly) with you. Today I am going give to you the one colossal and ideal thought that can carry you, as you train, over these next grueling months. It is the one true and amazing secret, among secrets, that will serve to cross you over and beyond the training lumps, bumps, bruises and empty fund accounts that are inevitable.
What I have to share with you today is a lesson I have learned, as the mother of your Honored Teammate, Evan. It is a lesson that has been the key to my success as a mother of a child with cancer. But, most importantly, it is a lesson lived by Evan, each and every minute of each and every day. It is a lesson no one should have to hear about, much less live. I believe that if you strive to hold this thought of mine close to your heart, in all the places and on all the stops, and in everything you do, as you train and when you choose not to train, then, you, will be the truest of Honored Teammate, right alongside of Evan. I can’t think of a more coveted position. You will become totally and completely successful in this monumental venture. You will become one with Evan and all those precious children like him.
So, game on. I am not of a mindset today, some eight months into my personal training to be the mother of a child with leukemia, to sugar coat the facts or hold back my admonitions for fear it may sound too sad. This training to be the Mom of a child with leukemia, this training for the race against cancer- this leukemia…well, it’s knarly and it’s real and it’s past time to get real about it. Whatever the reason that got you here, great. Whatever the reason that might hold you back, get over it. Whatever doubt you might be having, whatever questions you may have…know this one thing I am about to tell you, and the rest will fall into place…this I promise you, as the mother of a child with Leukemia- who races for the cure alongside of you, each and every moment of each and every day.
The one thing…the colossal idea…the secret to success, is this: Evan can’t, but you can!
Evan can’t be here today, or tomorrow or the next day. He can’t be with you as you run, or bike or swim or raise money for the cure. He can’t ride his red Schwinn bike. He can’t run and sometimes he can’t even walk. He can’t swim in his pool. In fact, he can’t even float in the bathtub. He can’t go to school. He can’t see his friends. He can’t see Montana, his first true love. He can’t play baseball or soccer or go to cub scouts. He can’t go to the beach. He can’t even go outside. Evan is eight years young and he can’t swing on a swing or do cartwheels in the grass. He can’t fall off a skateboard or throw a ball. Evan is eight and he can’t be a kid.
Evan hasn’t slept in his own bed for almost a year. He can’t feel the sun on his face. He can’t have a Slurpee or a take out meal from the taco dive down the street. He can’t ride the roller coaster at the theme park, even though he is finally tall enough. He can’t have his dog. He can’t bowl with his team. He can’t go to the beach and he can’t go camping with me. He can’t fly on an airplane to see his grandparents and cousins. He can’t have bear hugs, or hair or eyelashes or a face that isn‘t masked or hands that aren‘t gloved. We have stopped counting all that Evan can-not. We prefer instead to count all of you who have shown up here today.
Evan can’t, but you can! So, while you are training and going about your daily business, remember him. When your rear end hurts from a bike seat that won’t fit, think of Evan. When the transmission goes and you are late to work, think of him. When your kids want to play outside an extra hour at night, or throw a ball in the house, think about Evan. When the friend of a friend won’t deposit, or when it’s hot or cold or rainy or gray, do it anyway. Do it because you can, and because Evan cannot.
Think about this. In a span of 10 minutes, some eight long months ago, right after a fever and scrambled eggs in the morning, Evan lost the ability to go and to be and to do the things that an eight year old healthy, normal, active kid just loves to do. Evan lost the ability to do all the things you are setting out to do today. Leukemia hit him just that fast, and just that hard. If you turn away from that, if you do less than you can, then I want that thought to hit you too, as you walk away. Do it for Evan and it will get done.
Evan’s treatment will last 3 years. Ask yourself in that amount of time, ‘what would Evan have me do?‘ The answer seems clear and really very simple. Then, if the cancer doesn’t return, Evan will meet up with you, unlike today, on some stretch of highway or byway or pool and he will have an 85% shot at being a kid again, and racing for the cure with you. Evan is home today and everyday he is not at the hospital. But he knows you are out there and if he could, I assure you, he would be with you. He would like nothing better.
Evan was 7 when he got leukemia. He will be 11 when treatment ends. You do the math. That’s a lot of runs and swims and bike rides you are going to have to take for this kid and for every other one like him. Ask yourself, would you, if you could, do anything less? Evan can’t, but you can!
Evan can’t be here today to see you off on your new journey, because if he was, he would likely catch an average, ordinary germ circulating around and through crowds like this one and he would have no immune system to fight it. Leukemia means you can’t have an immune system, because if you did, you would provide a breeding ground for the cancer itself to return. Blood cancer is different that way. Instead, Evan is home recovering from his twenty something’s LP, as in spinal tap. He’s figuring out whether the pain is worthy of morphine or Codeine. He’s learning to walk again. He’s shielding himself from the sun. He’s home because when he’s not, he is masked and gloved. He’s home, with his central IV line and his blankets and his bruises. He’s home today and every day he’s not in the hospital, fighting this gruesome disease.
Evan is at home and Evan can’t, but you can! Please, TAKE HIM WITH YOU. Please remember him in all that you do and do it for him, won’t you, when you’d just rather not? Run for him. Walk for him. Bike for him. Swim for him. Do an extra lap or an extra mile or a taller hill or faster pace…for him, whilst he cannot. Help me give my son back his world. Help me find the cure.
Evan can’t, but, you can! So listen for him in the wind and the chirping of the birds. Feel his laughter on your face as the ocean water splashes in your eyes. See Evan in the flight of a butterfly as you run. Catch a falling star for him as you train in the evening’s glowing light. Take him with you as you train. Be everything he cannot be, until he can, again.
Welcome to our world, our Team. Welcome to the quest for the cure. Know that one of these days, one of your dollars is going to tip the coffers in the direction of a total and complete cure. One of these days, one of the miles you steadfastly run, thinking about Evan and those like him, will be the exact moment in time that they find the cure. One of these days when Evan “can”, he will be running and swimming and biking, all because of you. Welcome to our world and thank you for all that you can do. kh
