The Brightest of Bright Moments, Part Four
by Steve McGill
The side effects of the treatment took a toll on me, steadily eroding my will to fight. Fevers and chills plagued me every minute of every day, back and forth between the two. One minute I felt so cold that I was shivering beneath the bedsheets, and the next minute I felt so hot that sweat was trickling down my face. The hives would kick in about once a day, and I’d be scratching the itches like a dog with fleas. I felt helpless. I stopped doing pushups and situps, I stopped taking walks around the ward. I cried a lot. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying, especially my mom, who was worried sick about me, so I cried every time I went to the bathroom. I’ll always remember my mom sitting in the chair beside my bed, counting rosary beads. She was praying for a miracle. At nighttime I kept the fluorescent lights out because they hurt my eyes. My mom sat there, night after night, counting those rosary beads in the dark.
I remember thinking, one of those nights, that I was sick, that I belonged here. I could no longer afford to look at other patients and feel sympathy towards them. I had my own battle to fight, and it didn’t feel like I was winning. I’m the sickest child in the Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia, I thought to myself in one particularly dark moment.
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Then one night, one of those severe headaches that Dr. Schwartz had warned me about (but had assured me was unlikely to occur), came and brought a level of ruckus that I was not prepared for. The pain started at the base of the back of the neck, and gradually rose upward and intensified until it engulfed me from neck to crown to forehead to eyeballs — a pulsing, throbbing pain that took over my entire being. I shut my eyes and tried to ride it out. My nurse that night, Yvonne, entered the room, saw my agonized facial expressions, and asked me what was wrong. “Headache,” I managed to whisper. She rushed out of the room and then came back shortly with some cold, damp washcloths and placed them on my forehead. Eventually, the pain subsided and I opened my eyes. The crisis had passed, but the damage it had done to my morale was immeasurable.
Two nights later, I was lying comfortably in my bed, listening to the Luther Vandross song, “Superstar/Until You Come back to Me,” that had recently come out and was being played on the radio in the play room. “Don’t you remember you told me you love me, baby?” Luther sang. “You said you’d be coming back this way again, baby.” Then I felt a pain at the base of my neck. Uh oh, here it comes again. Another monster headache.
This time the pain was worse, which I didn’t think was possible. And it felt like it was lasting longer. Somewhere in the middle of it, I lost all track of time. Somewhere in the middle of it, I left this world and entered one where only pain existed. Somewhere in the middle of it, I laughed internally, and asked God, What is the point of this? What is the point of all this pain? To my surprise, I heard, or felt, an answer. I heard a voice inside of me that sounded like the voice of a child. The voice asked, Will you help me? In that instant, I understood several things at once. I understood that this entity I’d always heard referred to as “God” was not an all-knowing, all-powerful, omniscient being, but a child, an innocent child, who needed my help. I understood that I was being asked to do something, to be someone; I was being called. I understood that answering yes would mean living a life of service, a life that was not my own, a life devoted to a purpose that had nothing to do with my own individual will. I understood that saying yes would mean sinking into the depths of myself, and dwelling in those depths, so that whenever anyone who needed me hit rock bottom, they would find me there waiting to comfort them. I understood that I wasn’t going to die of aplastic anemia. I understood that this rare, strange illness that had upturned my life with no evident cause had no intention of ending my life. I was going to survive.
In the space of this monumental pain, in the bliss of the presence of this Child’s voice, I felt a peace so overwhelming that I’ll never be able to articulate it.
Yes, I felt myself say within, yes, I’ll help you.
After thinking those words, I felt the pain ebbing away, like a high tide reaching its crest and receding. I could hear, in the play room, Luther singing, “It’s all right, it’s all right now. I used to be sad, but now it’s all right, it’s all right….”
* * *
One of Dr. Schwartz’s assistants had told me I would start feeling better once the treatment ended. So, for all eight days of treatment, making it to the ninth day had been my goal. When the morning of the ninth day finally arrived, I felt worse than ever. I woke up that morning ready to quit hoping that I would be able to hurdle again. I lay in my bed in a haze of sorrow. I had discovered a love for the hurdles two years earlier, had committed myself to making myself the best hurdler I could be in my junior year, and now here I was in my senior year, with my dream of being a champion hurdler derailed. The reality, I recognized, was that people don’t survive this disease. It was unrealistic to think I could return in time for the outdoor season. Most likely, I would be an outpatient for the rest of my life, and my athletic career was over. When that reality hit me full force, I broke down and cried, right there in my bed, for all the world to see.
Perhaps it was a coincidence, or perhaps it was something deeper than coincidence, but just as I was weeping openly, Meg Schnorr walked into the room.
Meg was my favorite nurse. In my time on the oncology ward, she had been the one who had replaced Roz as the nurse I could have deep talks with. About a couple days into my time on the oncology ward, I no longer missed Roz so much because I had Meg and Ellen over here — one nurse who appreciated and nurtured my depth and another nurse who made me laugh. I needed them both equally; I relied on them both equally.
Meg sat beside me, held my hands in hers, and asked me what was wrong. “The hurdles, Meg,” I said through sobs, “I’m never gonna run the hurdles again.” She clenched my hands and said, with a passion I hadn’t been expecting, “Yes you will!”
Unbeknownst to her, she had just performed a miracle. When she told me I would run the hurdles again, I believed her. During my hospital stay, I had received many blood transfusions. Each one gave me a huge energy boost, making me feel healthy and alive, like I could run forever and not get tired. But eventually the high wore off. But Meg had done something different, something even more powerful. She had transfused me with her hope. She had transfused me with her love. She had poured something into me that I couldn’t provide for myself. Unlike the blood transfusions, this transfusion wouldn’t fade over time. It would be there with me. I could carry it with me.
She then asked if I wanted her to call anyone — “you mom, your coach?” I told her I wanted her to stay. She said she had to go check on other patients, but that she’d come right back. I pleaded with her to stay. “Please don’t go,” I said. She assured me again that she’d be right back, and I let go of her hand.
Then I did something I hadn’t done the whole time in the hospital: I reached down and grabbed my bookbag, and fished out a pencil and a piece of paper. On it I wrote, “Dear Meg, I thank God you are alive. I needed a friend and you were there. Thank you.” I folded it in half and awaited her return. When she came back, she sat beside me again. I handed her the note. She read it and started bawling.
It was a pure moment. The brightest of bright moments.
* * *
Two weeks later, in December. I returned to school. By mid-January, Dr. Schwartz gave me clearance to return to training with my teammates on the track team. And I had already been running three miles a day the week before Dr. Schwartz had given me the okay to start practicing again. My blood counts were skyrocketing. My red cell count, which had been down to 4 when I had entered the hospital, was now all the way back to the normal level of 14. Similar improvement had occurred in regard to my white blood cell count and my platelet cell count. Dr. Schwartz told me that if I had kept walking around and going to school for another two weeks before getting the blood test done, I would’ve dropped dead. He also told me that most patients with severe aplastic anemia don’t survive. He added that among those who do recover, it usually takes about three years for blood counts to return to normal levels. In the best case he had ever seen, a patient had made a full recovery within one calendar year of diagnosis.
I made a full recovery within two months of diagnosis. I went on to win the league championship in the 110 hurdles, and was voted team MVP. I received a standing ovation at the spring sports banquet, where, in his speech, Mr. McAlpin described me as a “hero.” About ten years later, I attended the Aplastic Anemia National Conference, where I was promoting a book I had self-published in which I had written about my battle with aplastic anemia and my love of the hurdles. In chatting with people between sessions, it became evident that my story was so exceptional, so impossible to even hope for, that it didn’t even serve as inspiration to those who were still fighting the battle. I felt out of place there. After that, I lived with survivor’s guilt for many years, unable to explain why I had made such a miraculous recovery while others had died. What made me special? What did I do to deserve to live? A part of me still wonders, still asks that question.
* * *
In my conversation with Piper and Adam, I explained to them that despite my chill exterior, I’m actually a very intense person. I feel that life should be lived at a high level of intensity. I feel that every moment is such a precious gift that I enter into a dark space when I see people wasting that gift. Every conversation should be a deep, meaningful conversation. Every moment should bring joyous laughter or a deep, indescribable peace, or both. Every day, something should move us to tears.
Adam, Piper, AP Lang gang, please understand, I push you because I love you. Thank you for pushing me.
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