An Inspiration

Death Row. This, as we all know, is a place where those going in are not likely to be coming out. It would be anti all we consider moral to use that term in a hospital. Today we may refer to them as hospices.

In the ’60s and ’70s in South Africa, many of these wards existed. They existed because we were being poisoned, poisoned in the name of progress. The industrial age had no boundaries, no overseers to stem the flow of carcinogens into the air. The area I lived in was home to the largest gold refinery. There were times when a smell so acrid would descend upon us breathing became labored. The abattoir, we were led to believe, the culprit. Processing of gold requires the liberal use of cyanide. Did this have its own distinct odor too?

One of these wards housed about a dozen children all under the age of 12. One boy made it out.

When I met Marc he was vibrant, boisterous, full of piss and vinegar. Few I’ve met had a sunnier disposition. Talking to people, anyone, his forte. An avid cyclist, thighs to prove it. How I discovered his past encounter with the big C I don’t recall. How much he might recall given his tender age I didn’t inquire about. He’d been in remission for years, a lifetime ago, his life full, married, children, and yes cycled — miles and miles.

‘It’s back’ he says rather nonchalantly. When considering whether life is fair, events such as this a stark reminder. Months away from his family, slightly gaunt, pale, he returns.

I knew a man whose profession was that of an undertaker. His signature move, after a few, take his thumb drag it from your lower belly up to your throat while uttering the words ‘cut you open like a tuna’. He must have met Marc. Proudly, he displays the new evidence, his battle scars from his most recent victory, soon to be back in the saddle, peddling away.

I now swim, high-impact sports no longer compatible with this body. Lots of time to think while going back and forth, back and forth, as much a mental as physical challenge for those blessed with my disposition. There are days when I feel I’m floating on top of the water, no resistance, gliding, in the zone, euphoric. Then there’s today, who attached lead to my torso, drained all the oxygen from my lungs.

I haven’t seen Marc for a while. Why, at this point, he popped into my head I do not know however, it did serve to inspire me to push through, keep on keeping on.

There are not many people able to pull off that lemon-to-lemonade thing. He, undoubtedly, is one. He’s someone TED should be contacting, ask him to share his story with us all. Would he? I’d gladly assist in drafting the script.

I’m honored to know him.