Live. Strong.

"Can’t stop this love, can’t stop
Can’t stop this love
we got faith in what love can do
don’t look back we’re gonna make it through!" – Ozomatli – "Can’t Stop"

 

In 1996, cyclist Lance Armstrong was told he had a 40 percent chance of surviving testicular cancer that had spread to his brain and lungs. A year later, after defying those odds and beating cancer, he created an organization for the purpose of providing information and support for those affected by the disease.

By 2004, the foundation was looking for a more effective way to raise money for cancer research and promote cancer awareness.  Through a partnership with Nike, they began producing and selling rubber wristbands to do just that.  The wristbands were yellow, patterned after the color worn by the leader of the most prestigious event in cycling—the Tour de France.  They bore a single word.

LIVESTRONG.

At first, the bands were a novelty.  They were a sort of indicator, a beacon to the others that were in the same special fraternity.  Eventually though, other organizations saw the success of the campaign and began selling bands of their own.  Now there are wristbands for everything from your favorite sports team to your favorite saying.  To some degree, wearing a wristband today has become less of a statement and more of a fad.

I started wearing a Livestrong band in 2005 when in the span of about 8 months, my friend, Nate Barrell, and my dad both revealed they had cancer.  I had been a "fan" of the Livestrong Foundation before then.  Having watched my grandmother and two uncles get destroyed by different cancers, I drew inspiration from Armstrong’s story and admired the goals of the foundation.

Last January, when my dad passed away I wanted to make a donation to the Livestrong Foundation, so I looked into it.  I considered a straight cash donation, but I kept coming back to the wristbands.

I put those thoughts on the backburner to concentrate on my dad’s funeral but my wife did not.  She handed me a package before we left town for the funeral.  It contained 20 wristbands that she bought without telling me.  She told me that I should do with them whatever I saw fit.

I had spent a lot of time thinking about exactly what that would be.  I was determined that whatever I did, I wanted the message to be clear.

It was the message the foundation intended when they chose their name.  It was the message I took to heart watching Nate battle cancer so fiercely.

LIVESTRONG.

It was then that I started a practice that I believe I will always continue.  I gave a wristband to my brother and his girlfriend.  I gave one to my mom, who watched her brothers die from cancer.  I gave one to my best friend.  I told them all the same thing.

I told them that I wear the wristband as a way to remind myself that cancer touches us all and as a way to remember those we have lost because of it.  I told them that they did not have to wear the band if they decided it wasn’t for them…but I asked that they put it in a place in their homes that would allow them to see it every day…and remember.

For me, it means that and a lot more than even that.

A week ago today, Nate died.

But I do not write this as a means of mourning his death.  I write it as a way to celebrate his life.

When someone dies, we often tell ourselves after a while that they would no longer want us to mourn them.  Sometimes I wonder if it’s just something we say.  In Nate’s case, it was not.  I cried when I found out he died.  Then I cried some more.  And some more.  And some more.  Today, I told myself I didn’t want to cry anymore.  When I thought about how Nate would answer me, I realized he would say, "Then don’t cry anymore."

He surely had his moments of weakness…his moments when he thought it might be easier on everyone if he just gave up the fight.  But we never saw those moments.  What we saw was just as he wrote in his blog:

"…there is no chance in hell that I am ready to leave this Earth yet and I will not let this disease define who I am…"

And define him it did not.

I don’t know if anyone in Nate’s family has access to his MySpace profile or his blog.  If they do, I hope they let it remain active for as long as time permits.  I’ve read the blog.  But I wasn’t focused so much on the entries about CEA counts and medications and chemotherapy.  I focused instead on the pictures of he and his daughter at Half Moon Bay…on the pictures of he and his fiancée at the club.  I looked at those smiles and the photos of his last birthday and all the awesome food they had there. 
It looked like a blast

That’s who he was.  That’s what his life was, cancer be damned.  It was not enough just to live.  He did it the way the wristband tells us to.   Live.  Strong. 

That was his message.  His legacy.

I hope he rests in peace now.  But I hope that message, that legacy—NEVER rests.