The Yellow T-Shirt
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
By: Arlene McKenzie

I am a four and a half year cancer survivor and am presently working on a book. I have included in my chapter on Relay for Life this comparison of how I felt the first year, wearing the yellow t-shirt, compared with how I felt four years later.

The Yellow T-Shirt

As I stood in line behind the stage ready to give my “Toast to the Survivors” to start the Survivor’s Lap of the 2008 Relay For Life in SC, my thoughts drifted back to the first Relay I had participated in.

I remember my daughter’s excited phone call about a month before the Relay. I was at home recovering from 28 hits of radiation and was about as energetic as a turtle on a rock on a warm summer day. “Mom, we are putting a team in the cancer Relay For Life this year, and we want you and Carlea’s dad to be our survivors. Isn’t that great?” my daughter’s excited voice said. “It’s in June in Regina, and we are calling our team the Pink Ladies, even though Kelly and some other guys will walk with us. So you’ll have to wear pink, and after the survivor lap, you will only have to walk as much as your energy allows we will do the walking.” She went on, “We will do all of the organizing, you just have to be here, okay? It will be so great even one of my professors is going to be on our team.” “Great,” I replied, not having any idea what I was in for. I had regularly sponsored teams in previous years, but I gave the event little thought beyond writing my cheque and getting my tax receipt.
 
Before I knew it, June arrived and I drove into Regina to participate in the all-night event. Janine was a whirlwind of last minute activity, and we quickly loaded up my car with cases of water, lawn chairs and blankets. On the way over to the park, Janine rolled her big eyes and questioned, “Why did it have to rain today of all days? We’ll all be soaked!” I tried to keep the mood positive saying that the sun was breaking through intermittently and interjected that at least it was warm. “It is now,” she said, “but wait until the middle of the night, we might be freezing. I hope you dressed in layers.” I had not, but I did have layers to add on as the temperature dropped. I adjusted my pink rider hat and glanced down at my pink toenails in pink sequined flip-flops. They had attracted a lot of attention in the cancer lodge, but I knew they would not make it around the track more than once before I had to change to something more suitable.

As we reached the area where my future son-in-law, Kelly, had set up the tents and Janine’s friends were putting up a banner and decorations, it all felt surreal to me that I was here in the first place. I met Carlea’s dad, who was also fighting cancer, and I was reacquainted with some of Janine’s classmates and introduced to the ones I did not know. Janine suggested I go register at the survivor’s tent and get my yellow T-shirt. “Oh yeah mom,” she pointed out, “the survivors get free hamburgers, so you’ll be in a different line than us for supper, but we’ll find each other and sit together to eat.”

I manoeuvred my way across the puddle-dotted field to the big white tent that read “Survivors” in big blue letters. As I stood in line, I tried to visit with others but a lot of them were there with friends or other survivors they knew and said little more than “Hello” and “How are you?” When I got inside the tent and it was my turn to register, the loaded question was, “How long?” I had to think for a moment the line? When did I get here? What was she asking me? Then it hit me, “Oh, 8 months, 11 days,” I replied. I stood and listened to the sound of the jiffy marker moving across the smooth name tag and smelled the letters as she wrote my name and the time of my survivorship. We all knew survivorship began the day of diagnosis, but to this point I had not really kept close track. I would never forget October 21, 2004, but to put it in months, weeks, days was a bit of an unexpected challenge.

She smiled and handed me a yellow T-shirt. “Put this and your name tag on and line up over there for your free hamburger,” she instructed. “You can meet up with the rest of your team under that tent where the salads, beverages and desserts are.” “Sure ... thanks,” I replied. The yellow T-shirt was blinding, too bright, and it felt stiff and new and unfamiliar as I pulled it over my head, just like cancer still felt to me.

I lined up for my hamburger in the lineup that resembled a big yellow snake in the green grass of the park, and the sun peeked through the clouds making the raindrops glisten on plastic tents and smooth wooden tables. In the long lineup, we were redirected through another tent where we were asked to put our hands in fingerpaint and press them onto a canvas and sign our name. The canvas would be saved and displayed at future Relays. Placing my hands in the red and blue fingerpaint made me feel like a child again, and I wiggled my fingers and lingered there remembering my children’s fingerpainting days and the messes I had cleaned up. Those days are gone, I thought as I smacked my hands onto the canvas in protest I did not want to be a survivor, I just wanted to be me.

After supper we were instructed to head to the steps of the legislature for a group survivor picture. In excess of 550 yellow shirts made it difficult for the photographers to even section us off to make the group effect work. After standing and smiling and catching sight of my daughter and her friends taking pictures, the photo shoot came to an end and we all headed like a big sea of yellow to the main stage. “Please find your number and sit until your name is called,” were the instructions.

When our name was called, we crossed the stage, went down a few steps and joined someone whom we had chosen to walk the first lap with. The loudspeaker blared my name and I crossed the stage looking out into the crowd, not seeing anyone I knew and carefully manoeuvred down the stairs, conscious of the recent surgery and skin grafting to my legs. As my feet touched the track and the sawdust and gravel jumped into my flip flops, I was glad for Janine’s familiar hand to steady me. We started our journey around the track. The cheering and clapping from unfamiliar faces and hands was both annoying and comforting at the same time. We kept walking, stopping for a hug and some tears and then deciding to dance a few steps and laugh instead. Once our team could join us on the track and I felt Kelly’s strong familiar hug, I was more at ease.

The evening went on, and we took turns walking, visiting, listening and watching. Survivors took to the stage telling their stories, and we were able to watch from tent city on big screens put up throughout the park. As the rain came down, I snuggled into the tent and added socks and shoes and warmer clothing to my earlier outfit. Soon it was time to light the luminaries. We gathered at the track finding the luminaries designated for me, and as the mayor declared a few moments of silence to remember “those who were no longer with us”, I whispered to Janine and Kelly, “They are with us,” as the tears streamed down my face. As I folded into their strong hugs of encouragement, I felt what it meant to be a survivor for the first time that night. It was not about the yellow shirt or the free hamburger or how many years, months, days, weeks and hours. It was about fighting and celebrating life. In that magical moment of realization as the bagpipes began to play and the luminaries lit up the night sky, the rain magically stopped and the spirits of those before us surrounded us all.

As I heard my name and the introduction, I crossed the stage to begin my toast to the survivors. It was now 2008 and I was participating in Relay in my home city with many familiar faces. I was wearing a yellow shirt and as I heard my voice echoing in the cold crisp air of the early evening, I compared how I felt tonight. My voice declared, “I am here to toast you as fellow survivors. I have been kicking cancer’s butt for 3 years, 8 months and 9 days, and believe me, I plan to keep kicking!” I stopped while those in yellow shirts and their families and friends cheered and clapped loudly. I continued by saying, “I invite everyone, including the survivors to take a good look and really see the individuals that are wearing these yellow T-shirts tonight. Survivors, by pulling your yellow shirts over your heads this evening, you are declaring in your loudest, strongest voice, ‘I AM STILL HERE!’”

“As the survivor movie says, ‘You may have, or have had cancer, but cancer doesn’t have you.’ Wearing this yellow T-shirt also defines you as having the courage and tenacity to fight back and give others hope.You fight for the strength to hear the diagnosis, to face a new treatment plan, unwelcome results or simply to endure the hardships cancer can impose. Often we fight to adapt to the new normal and the lifestyle changes that we have to make to keep going. Sometimes it is a fight to make it through another week, another day, another hour. Most of us have been there.”

“You know that you continue to fight because your faith and the love and support of your family and friends keep you going. They are why you fight to be here, so allow them to honour you as they line the track tonight and SEE you as survivors. Lastly, as survivors, let us be very grateful that we are blessed enough to be able to walk this evening. We are not on a radiation machine or sitting in a chemo chair sticking out our arm for another needle. We are here and we are strong!”

With that, I toasted the survivors, “May you walk many more Relays and may you always fight back. In so doing, you instill hope, a vital part of beating cancer. Remember, giving up is not an option.”

With that, I pulled on my blue boxing glove, held my hand in the air and shouted, “To the survivors, start the Relay!”