humbled

chris and i made it just in time to see the UNC-clemson game begin at the dean dome this past saturday. and i mean, just in time. if we'd been two seconds later we would have had to stop in the middle of scaling the steps and turn around to sing the national anthem, but those two seconds were what it took for us to find our seats, breathlessly, before immediately launching into "oh say can you see." i pride myself on arriving to places in the nick of time.  there's no point in being early. we were an hour early to the UNC-duke game the week prior and we all know how THAT turned out.

so in our mad dash to our row, i didn't have the chance to look at the person sitting next to me.  she was on my left, and the court was sort of to my right, so she was never in my line of vision.  but wow, could i hear her.  as soon as clemson scored their first basket, she began to scream, and i suddenly noticed out of the corner of my eye the bright orange hat atop her head.  with every additional point or steal or rebound made by clemson, her scream became louder.  i began to lean into chris with my hand discreetly covering my left ear, she was that loud.  people in front of us began to turn around to find out what sort of person would dare invade our home turf, sticking out like a sore thumb among a sea of tarheel blue.

it wasn't until halftime, when i returned to my seat from going to the restroom, that i actually got to see her.  and it was then i realized that her bright orange hat was covering a bald head.  a young head.  a head ravaged, obviously, by chemo.

the woman behind me took this opportunity to lean forward and tap her on the shoulder.  "i just wanted you to know that i was diagnosed with breast cancer when i was 37," she offered, speaking with a sense of familiarity and intimacy that i suppose only strangers who are fellow cancer patients can share.  "how is everything going?"

i sat there, literally four inches away from the conversation, hearing every word.  this orange-clad clemson fan was 34 years old.  she was beginning a new round of radiation this upcoming week, with a mastectomy looming in the near future.  she was very matter-of-fact with the summary of her "pretty crappy year" (her words), even bemoaning the game score at one point.  "i was hoping something would actually go right for me today," she said, glancing at the scoreboard that showed UNC with a comfortable lead, "but i can't seem to catch a break."

there was a lull and i thought the conversation was over, until the woman behind me asked her one last question.  "i remember my biggest fear was that i wouldn't see my kids grow up," she confided.  "do you have any children?"

and it was then that her voice broke.  "yes," she said, quietly.  "i have a five year-old son."  she paused.  "i just hope he doesn't remember me like this."

i sat there, in the middle of a sea of 21,000 people cheering wildly as the teams returned to the court, and wept.  i wept for this young mother next to me, in the midst of one of the most horrifying experiences a person can go through.  i wept for the woman behind me, whose fears from two decades ago were still in the forefront of her mind.   i wept for the fact that these two women have had to suffer through the same ordeal, a generation apart, when by now it shouldn't even exist.  i wept because of the shame i felt, having judged this person sitting next to me without knowing her at all.  and i wept because she deserved a win that day and she wasn't going to get it.  she deserved to scream as loudly as she wanted while she watched her team end a 55-game losing streak in chapel hill.

that victory was not to be.  but there's a much more important victory that i've been praying for, ever since sitting next to her.  a victory i hope she wins, just like the one the woman behind us won twenty years ago.

i never learned her name.  but i learned a small piece of her story in section 225, row Q, at a basketball game on a saturday in february.  and i will never forget it.