An Ocean of Aid
I still remember the first time I witnessed a University of Tennessee football Saturday.
I was 18 years old and had just moved to Knoxville from Rhode Island, The Ocean State. I knew nothing and nobody in landlocked Tennessee. Hess Hall was my first home: a dorm with no air conditioning on the top of a hill called Melrose Place, near the campus library. The Golden Roast coffee shop was nestled at the base of the slope, near the main street dividing campus, Cumberland Avenue.
It was late summer 1997. I’d graduated from Barrington High School in June and headed to Knoxville in August. Barrington is a small soccer town. I think my graduating class was somewhere around 130 people. Girls there didn’t wear bows in their hair or apply much makeup. I arrived in Tennessee as a bit of a hippie: I wore vintage clothing and flip flops, had very long hair with tiny braids and beads… Southern culture was a shock.
I’m not a football girl. I’m not really a sports girl, to be honest. So, when I heard that there was a football game on Saturday, I didn’t think much of it.
Just now, I looked up the schedule and I think it must have been Texas Tech on August 30th at home. This was the Peyton Manning era, which means something to people here. I don’t remember rolling out of bed, throwing on clothes. I don’t remember heading down the hill to the Golden Roast for a Saturday morning cup of coffee, but oh boy—do I ever remember rounding the bend, lifting my eyes, and seeing Cumberland Avenue awash with orange. I can recall exactly where I was standing when I first laid my eyes on UT fans amid a Saturday home ball game.
There were thousands of people, all wearing orange. Crowds upon crowds making their way down the streets toward the stadium. The energy was effervescent, buzzing. The sounds of chatter, music, car horns, shouts, children crying, feet on pavement—it was a tumultuous clamor, a cacophony of noise.
It was a roaring ocean of orange, unexpected and remarkable.
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A little over three weeks ago, I posted a blog called The Joy of Participation, explaining my current medical situation and the needs that it created. It felt like a vulnerable place, an exposing of my heart and need to the world. I was afraid: What would people think? What would people do? Does this make me look bad, somehow—unprepared, ill-equipped, or unwise? What if this is just a big, fat failure?
The blog linked to a donation site that some friends set up for our family. The page went live, I said a prayer, and I held my breath.
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Immediately, contributions began landing. Fifty dollars, one hundred dollars, two hundred dollars, twenty-five dollars, two thousand dollars, … ding, ding, ding, my phone notified me of Venmo transactions. One right after another, it was a chorus of giving.
In the first week, over $100,000 had been raised for our medical needs, primarily through small increments. They arrived through direct donation via Venmo, through the non-profit option, through personal checks.
I was shocked. But the most astonishing thing is that I didn’t know many of these people.
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Our fundraising site lists several ways to help: financial contribution, air miles donation, prayer. But I also asked people to share the blog, hoping that perhaps others would become familiar with this story and might be inclined to follow along and even participate.
As this blog was shared and shared again, and as it passed from friend to friend, and across social media, I watched a tsunami of support from acquaintances, and strangers. Creative fundraisers were launched: private dinners, a 5k race, a portion of proceeds from this store or that product.
One family held their annual lemonade stand, donating all of the proceeds towards our medical fund. I shared about the event on my social media platforms, and of course, we stopped in to buy our lemonade and cookies, and to meet Will, the middle schooler putting on the event.
I introduced myself to Will and his parents. We chatted about the friends we have in common and the tradition of Will’s lemonade stand. Some people we knew arrived, and as we sipped lemonade, my friend asked me how I knew Will’s family.
I don’t, I said.
Wait, he asked, I thought Will went to school with your girls?
Nope. I just met them for the first time right now.
He looked incredulous.
I know, I said. It really is remarkable.
Strangers contributing funds to me. It kind of takes your breath away. Our world is currently fractured and divisive, this warm embrace from people I don’t know is a breath of fresh air. It buoys and encourages me globally—it’s more than just my cancer story. Generosity of this kind sheds light on hope for humanity. It is unmerited kindness in action, which is something all of our hearts long to be a part of.
And Will’s little lemonade stand raised over $3,000.
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I hate cancer.
Tim Keller called his pancreatic cancer an agent of death living inside me and I think that’s a perfect summation.
We visited MD Anderson in August to get a second opinion on some specific Inflammatory Breast Cancer protocols, and we left with the overwhelming understanding that all remaining treatment needed to be accomplished there in Houston.
The medical plan was to keep taking my estrogen-blocking medication and chemo pill through the fall, visit with my medical team again in November, and then schedule surgery for December. Everyone was very pleased with my progress: the rash on my chest—which is a visible record of what my cancer is doing—is smaller, and the bumps that felt like pea gravel under my skin were completely gone. This was all wonderful progress. Just a few more months of medication to shrink the cancer as much as possible, then we’d cut out anything residual.
As we left in August, my Surgical Oncologist’s parting message was to monitor the rash on my chest closely and to reach out immediately if anything changed.
I hate cancer.
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That appointment was in early August. Just a few weeks later, in September, I noticed a small bump on my chest. I thought it was a mosquito bite. And then a couple of days later, I felt another one. Ty and I stood in our bathroom, obsessively rubbing our fingers over these two bumps. Were they bug bites, or were they cancer?
Within a week, we could feel 8-10 tiny little bumps under the rash. It’s cancer. It’s coming back; it’s going the wrong way.
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We flew out last Friday and had appointments with my medical team. The cancer is changing. By its very nature, cancer mutates. And as it mutates, it can change so that previously successful medication no longer works. I’ve heard multiple doctors now describe this as when “cancer outsmarts the therapy.” Dammit.
Everyone agreed: we will need to do surgery much sooner than originally expected.
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I’m scheduled for surgery this Friday, October 15th, 2021. Once I leave for Houston, I won’t be back for three months, so there’s a lot to prepare.
Ty and I will drive so that we have a car there, so really, we have about 4 days to confirm a place to live, get financials organized for imminent medical payments, wrap up things with my staff here in Knoxville, prepare the kids, and leave for life-altering surgery across the country.
I’m feeling overwhelmed, frankly.
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It’s been a flurry of activity and conversations and action. We all knew this day was coming, we just didn’t know how soon.
Quickly, people rise up to fill needs: neighbors care for Margie Sparkles while Ty and I drive to Houston; grandparents take the girls on their fall break trip to Charleston since we can no longer go; our staff takes on finishing all of our client jobs and moving projects forward. I have a list of friends wanting to help take care of me in Houston that’s longer than what I’ll actually need.
None of this is lost on me. Whether it's a financial contribution or taking care of my dog, these things take action. People make sacrifices, and things begin to fall into place.
The Bible calls the collective community of believers the body of Christ and it seems an apt analogy. People mobilize: they become literal hands and feet: serving me, helping Ty, comforting and loving my girls.
I read this Ajith Fernando quote recently:
When you have an infected wound or sore and you open it, what comes rolling out? Pus. And what is that? It is basically the collective corpses of white blood cells fighting the infection that has died so that you may live.
Our journey is smoother because others have taken on just a little bit of the rough. I live because others die to themselves.
Where do I see God in this chaotic mess? Well, in you. I see God in you.
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As it stands at the time of publication, you have donated $290,000 for our medical needs. It has been an ocean of aid. It is unexpected and remarkable—miraculous, even.
Ty and I leave for Houston this week and I’ll have my surgery by week’s end. It’s a whirlwind.
I hate cancer. It comes to steal, and kill, and destroy. But, watching our community—and our community’s community—lift us up in such tangible ways has been stunning, beautiful, breathtaking. Although I’d never choose this road for myself, I’m thankful that I get a front-row seat.
My heartfelt thanks to each of you for responding to the joy of participation in one way or another. We could never do it without you.
xo,
PS We do still have a journey ahead regarding our medical needs. We don’t know what the future holds, but we are confident that we will have what we need when we need it. If you would like to participate in our story, visit standingwithsarah.org.