I want to talk to you today about an exceptional man. I don’t know him; I don’t know how much truth there is behind his words or how much is said for public benefit. I do not follow cycling closely. I keep a vague eye on the sport because one of my best friends is an avid rider, and he has pointed out some incredible feats of endurance, strength, and skill that have come from the sport.
Despite that ignorance, today, I want to briefly talk about Chris Hoy.
I didn’t know who he was until three days ago. He is an Olympic cyclist who won six gold medals. He is a husband. He is 48, and he is fitter than most anyone reading this, certainly fitter than I am, even though he is retired from his sport. He is a father of two. Last month, his wife was diagnosed with aggressive multiple sclerosis. This week, he was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He has a handful of years to live.
I won’t steal any of his words. The link to the article I first read about him is here, and there are links there to other sources. I want to talk about his words, though. He is remarkably positive. In the face of what most people would consider unimaginable tragedy, he is positive. His wife is ill, he is ill, his kids will need to be cared for, and contrary to many opinions, money alone can’t do that. Yet he calls himself lucky to have lived his life.
Many years ago, I also had cancer. I am now considered to be in remission, but they told me from the beginning that I was unlikely to die—less than a five percent chance. What kid in their 20s believes that five percent will be them, right? I stayed positive, but nobody told me it was going to be terminal.
Anyone who has worked hard enough in life to become an Olympic medalist understands difficult roads. It’s a kind of heroism already. To then publicly face such a diagnosis with positivity is a different kind of heroism and a role model, whether he is privately scared or not. But it got me thinking about the diagnosis and the nature of our world.
It is only cancer.
People will shake their fists in anger and say they lost mothers, brothers, sisters, fathers, cousins, friends, and body parts to cancer. How can I say it was just cancer? I lost things to my cancer too, but the whole time I had a loving wife. She helped care for me. I had a boss who understood that I needed Fridays off because I had chemotherapy, and that Mondays weren’t going to be my optimal workdays. But let’s go further down that road of thought.
While I had cancer, I lived in a heated apartment with a refrigerator, a television, internet, and home-cooked food. Nobody wished me ill. Everyone was encouraging, helpful, and understanding of the problems I faced. It was hard, but by no means an impossible trial. Love is what keeps our suffering from becoming something unbearable.
Right now, today, people will starve to death. Today, people will die alone on the street without healthcare and without anyone to hold their hand. In foreign countries, people are going to be killed in wars that most of us do not know are happening, would never understand the cause of, and cannot grasp the hatred involved.
I’m not saying I want to go through cancer again. It is a hard fight, and I deeply wish Chris Hoy well. Nobody in life is guaranteed the next five years. Being told you’ve lost it and facing it with such bravery is to be lauded. It is a lesson for us all to remember where in the world our level of suffering stands compared to what could happen—what does happen. It is, after all, just cancer.
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