Perspective

Many decades ago, during my first-ever ski trip, I fell and broke my wrist. After getting a cast in a nearby Sugar Mountain clinic, Bill and I headed back to the hill so he could finish his ski day. As I sat in the lodge at a worn wood dining table sipping on hot cocoa lamenting my misery to myself, an older man and his wife asked to share the space. I conversed with the man, would look at his wife - who never entered the conversation - and he and I would continue chatting. And then I asked her a question - directly. And, he answered.

His wife had suffered a stroke, and lost her ability to speak. She was in therapy, and was just regaining the use of one side of her body.

I had nothing to complain about. I merely had a broken wrist.

Through the years, when I thought I had a valid reason to complain about anything, I would attempt to see the situation from a different view point, and time after time, I realized, I had nothing to complain about. Sometimes, I would hear others complaining, whining. I'd think, "If they only could see this differently - from another perspective."

And so, this past week, as I sat in the radiation waiting area bemoaning my fried skin, the hell my body has gone through, the fact that my energy is waning again, a young girl was wheeled in. Her feet were pulled up onto the seat of the wheelchair, and she was slightly slouching forward. She made a comment - perhaps about the tv, perhaps to the nurse who then left the room. I couldn't hear as I had my headphones on. But, her lips moved - and I pulled off my headgear.

Knowing everyone who would be in this area would be getting radiation as cancer fighting treatment, but not wanting to pry, I said, "You're quite young to be here."

"This time? or my first time?"

"Both..." I answered.

"My first time was when I was seven. I was diagnosed, and my mom left. The second time was last summer. I was playing golf when my shoulder ached. We thought it was a screw that was coming loose - I have a rod in my back. But, they found the cancer came back. And then my step-mom left, so it's just me and my dad again."

She looked at her cell phone and smiled, "He's playing a computer game in the waiting area and just got a new level."

I asked what treatments she was going through...

"Chemo almost killed me, so that's out. We're hoping that radiation, which I believe gave me this cancer to begin with, will shrink the tumor. I have a fibrosis which is strangling my lungs and effecting my heart. I can't walk anymore. I haven't been able to walk since December. "

I was called out for my daily dose of radiation and didn't learn much more...

I didn't know who she was, but had her first name.

Until the next day. There she was. Curled up on a wheelchair again. So eighteen. We spoke about high school (her diploma was delivered to her house), college (she's taking on line classes because she can't make it in), senior photos (she told her dad to 'take a lot' because they might be the last good photos he has of her).

And this time, before one of us was called to the vault, I asked to "connect" on Facebook.

I didn't see her the next day, and casually thought that our radiation times were not in sync.

Until I received this message:

Once again, things were put in perspective.

And so, I should not complain about my inability to find enough energy to work out. My energy will return.

I should not complain about the radiation burns, because they will heal. I should not complain about my lack of hair, because it will grow back.

The medical team at Huntsman offers me great odds at beating this cancer. They can help me.

But, Huntsman doctors are at a loss in helping an eighteen year old with growing fibroid tumors.

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