In sickness and in health

A bald head.  A Port-a-cath.  A hospital bracelet.  A bride to be.

Last night at the Ronald McDonald House was a sobering reality to the world that is CANCER.  Standing in the dining room on the second floor of the house I bore witness to the cruelest of truths: CANCER just doesn't care.  It doesn't care if it is your birthday.  It doesn't care if you are an infant.  It doesn't care if you are getting married.  It just doesn't care.

As we served the families from the dessert table last night, I noticed a young couple about to sit down to dinner.  They were both in their early twenties; a rarity at the Ronald McDonald House.  He was gentle and kind; setting the table and pulling out her chair.  She was loving and nurturing; making sure the food was warm enough and pouring his favorite beverage.  They bowed their heads, said grace, and began to eat.  It was then that I noticed IT.  The beautiful, delicate, and sparkly diamond ring on the fourth finger of her left hand.  The left hand that was attached to the young woman with the bald head and penciled eyebrows.  After talking to them for a few minutes I learned the following: They had been engaged for a month; she had been sick for a few months.  They wanted to plan a wedding; she wanted to wait until her treatments were over and her hair grew back.  They were very much in love; CANCER didn't care.

I walked away from their table feeling like I had been sucker punched.  As some of you may know, I am getting married to a wonderful man this coming November.  Throughout the planning process I have experienced every emotion under the sun, including the less lovely ones like impatience, frustration and general craziness.  And here was a bride to be who had lost her hair, lost her eyebrows, had endured months of treatments aimed at making her better - and at the same time making her sick, and she was happy.  Happy to be alive, happy to have a partner by her side through all of this, and happy to sit down to a chicken parmigiana dinner that they cooked together.

It was, in every sense of the word, a slap in the face.  After leaving the Ronald McDonald House last night, I walked the mile back to my apartment in complete silence.  I realized that I am running this race not just for the Ronald McDonald House, but for the stories that live within its' walls.  I am running 13.1 miles because I am privileged.  I am privileged to marry the man I love without worrying about my bald head or lack of eyebrows.  I am privileged to choose a dress without worrying that my Port-a-cath will leak or that I'll be hooked up to IV fluids.  I am privileged.  So I run.

Privileged to Love.  Privileged to Run.