“They” needed help. That was Carmen’s group. Never knew anything about them. They wanted to do this interesting and fun-sounding thing called a relay-for-something to raise money for something. It was easy to detach and just say yes to doing something. I had no idea. They wanted to light candles, party for about 14 hours, and run around in the dark under the moon. They wanted to host a fancy dinner for these folks they called “Survivors.” Naive as I was, I thought dinner was going to be for those of us who “survived” law school and the bar exam.
Little did we know back then what it all meant. Thirty-two teams holding hands around the dirt and grass track that early morning, singing. In May? We had a power outage after we blew a fuse. Yet the runners were still running around in the dark. The teams had food. Card games. We found enough talent and performers to fill up the several hours after midnight. To me it was all about getting folks to get the incentives with the coolers and other prizes for raising money and getting creative with the team batons.
Team Dolores/Korason was the family team for Auntie Ling. Like many other family teams Auntie Ling was a special one among her sisters and brothers. She had a strong spirit, an infectious laugh, but an incredibly strong personality. She spoke her mind but you could never deny her smile. But that was the Auntie Ling I last saw while in law school. I never saw her struggle to survive and the pain of the fight. It came quickly and it came painfully that summer. The call from home came, and it was stunning — that she had left us.
In the several years since that first relay many have fought the good fight. But it has opened our eyes, perhaps unwillingly. We’ve had to anxiously learn about radiation therapy from Dr. Friedman in Guam. We’ve had the crushing image of looking at an x-ray or CAT scan and seeing those white images and masses in our loved one’s lungs, brain or other parts of the body. We’ve had to learn about chemical concoctions in Honolulu and St. Luke’s intended to save you if they don’t kill you in the process. We’ve held our breath for several hours as we’ve waited for the results of the surgery to take out that tumor. Doctors talk to us about what to do and we are lost since there is no cure. How many novenas and masses have we attended to hope that our God would listen to us and not take a loved one sooner than when we are ready? We wonder how life could be so unfair as to pick the best for the worst form of disease.
Yet at each Survivor Dinner we meet the very reasons why we do this march and gather each May. He or she says, “I’m still here!” For some that is a daily declaration. Being “here” may be for some only a few months.
Others have survived years. But we are still here and we are still fighting. And when the spirit remains willing but the body is ravaged from the fight, we learn of new words like “palliative care” and “hospice,” or what “end of life” decisions mean. But It is May again and the Flame Trees are in bloom. The colors are vibrant and inspiring. Cancer may destroy our bodies. But it can never take our spirit. Like Robert Frost wrote, we declare that have many more miles to run before we sleep and rest. This Friday we will meet again and scream from the mountaintop that we are still here, and that we intend to be here every day and to never, ever give up the fight.
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