Running

Running, continuous pounding of my feet on the hard pavement, the road the slight smell of gasoline and me, this is my peace. Running, that is what I do in my life, run away. I feel at peace with the road, my frequent visits quell the feelings harbored deep inside, a bitter sweet feeling. The feeling of what I’m running from, what I’m running for, and what I’m running with, bitter sweet.1

My name is Terry Fox, and my story begins at the end, the end of my life; my REAL life. Thinking back on it now, my real life was when I had two legs, after that I was a tool, destined to wear out. My real life ended in 1977, when I was diagnosed with cancer in my right leg.2

“I’m sorry.” The only thing a doctor can say to a patient that has no hope whatsoever. I sat at the reception desk peering over, looking at the documents inside. If I was going to die I might as well know what I would have done if I lived past 30. Inside were papers and folders, what would look like a boring gray, white, and black silhouette of papers, x-rays and seemingly important documents may have bored any other pop culture 18 year old boy, but not me. To me, life, death, and the secret of the universe dwelt in documents and in history. I loved to sort through documents in my free time, it was my secret hobby I would do with my best friend Doug and his family. The Alward’s were a very kind, education loving folk, who encouraged learning and every possible educational pursuit and discouraged my second favourite hobby, basketball. It was while playing basketball that this horror was discovered…3

“You got no handles B!” and other pointless statements of no specific grammatical value littered the pristine streets of Port Coquitlam, if nothing else did. I like to think of the court as an outlet of my home. I was raised in this port, but I was born in Winnipeg. Being one of three brothers greatly affected morale as to what a “man” was. In my family, you were either a guy who was really good at basketball, or you were a girl. This logic, of course, would offend my sister, being the only girl of the house, kicking us out whenever she could. That didn’t bother us though, because the basketball court was not in the house but on the side of Morrill Street, where I lived. “Terry! Go for the shot! You a man!?” shouts could be heard all around me, engulfing me into a tempting act, due to a rush of male testosterone. I crouched down, arms readily arching in anticipation to show off my moves, but I didn’t get up. The feeling that followed could not be given justice in describing it in words, but I can simply say it was the sharpest feeling of pain I ever felt. So sharp was the pain that it didn’t seem to hurt, but simply ate away at the already racking nervous system. In a flash I was on the ground, and in another, I was in a hospital bed.4

“Terry…” Worry scarred the clean outline of the doctor’s face, the anxious eyes of my sister and brothers peered from behind the troubled man. I had already known what he was going to say, and what would happen, so I simply addressed the news thankfully, impressed at the obviously nervous man’s attempt to make the horrid situation not seem so macabre. He did not do a good job at it, but at least he had tried to avoid saying what he knew would be difficult to hear, like the information on the cancer I had spreading through my right leg, or the notification of my imminent amputation thereof, but mostly how he neglected to inform me on the possibility of my survival. The truth was, I had osteosarcoma, a form of cancer. The only possible treatment for it was to amputate my leg, which to me was worse than just dying with the disease. Without a leg my “life” as I knew it was over. I could no longer run, jump, play ball, or dive, also one of my favourite of hobbies. I won diving competitions in my high school, Port Coquitlam Senior Secondary School; I won trophies each year from it. Without a leg, that was gone, without my leg, my life was gone, so why not die? I had always asked myself that question after that, while going through the surgery, while continuing a labored life that in my mind was hardly worth living, I thought that. Why live, I have no real reason to any more, so why live? That question was finally answered on April 12, 1980.5

A seagull hovered close overhead, moaning its final cry as it dipped into the chilling waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Mist cooled my sweaty face, and numbed the pain of a newly acquired splinter in the gap between my real leg and my artificial one. I was not much different from the seagull, I mused as I dipped my foot into the freezing saltwater. I am also doomed to die, and with my last shred of life I will dip once more into the water. Only, unlike the seagull, I am to dip my last dive not into these dark waters, but into the Pacific Ocean. That was my destination, my goal, coast to coast, that is how I will give a meaning to my life, I will raise money for people like the seagull, people soon to die, people like me. I have given myself an outlandish goal, which is what I should do, to get a dollar from each Canadian citizen, to raise twenty four million five hundred and sixteen thousand dollars so people like me can get a better chance to live, to get more than an amputation and an artificial leg when cancer starts up, so we can know what this disease really is, so we can fight it. More than twenty four million people, at least some will look to this man, diseased, using his weakness against itself, running farther than anyone with two legs ever did, and think about the millions of people cursed with my same curse. I dipped my curse into the water, and I looked away, to the west, to the pacific and started running.6

That was ten months ago, today, is a day of remembering for me. Remembering how I was forced to abandon course five months ago, how I had not completed my run, how I got back off the road and back into the hospital bed. I remember the many devoted people who gave their money and interest in my goal, I remember also the amount of money I made for cancer research, so much to be called “The Real Six Million Dollar Man”. So much money for cancer research, yet somehow with all the money that will go towards saving countless lives, I am in a position unable to save my own. Today is June 28, 1981, exactly one month before my twenty third birthday. I may feel like I am cursed that I will not live to see it, but thinking back, about four years with this leg, I thought that I wouldn’t live to see twenty. Who am I not to feel blessed? I could have decided that I was going to die that day at the hospital, that I would never run again, and I have almost ran across Canada, saved the life of countless people, and earned the love of an entire nation. Who am I, just because I am to die, who am I to complain? I am a runner, and nothing stopped me, nothing, not from running, not from living, not from seeing my family again. I am more blessed than any other man of my kind is, I believe. I have started something, I am a someone now. I was going to live, and die a nobody, now what seemed to be the most unlucky thing that can possibly happen is now the thing that will rescue millions of people, and hopefully turn the heart of millions of others. Listening to my song, “Run Terry, Run” and remembering the sounds of the millions of cheering people I wonder, I may be the luckiest man on earth. So here, in this hospital, I slip away, and in the distance I can hear the welcoming cry of millions of people, young and old, and farther away, I see the faces of millions of people, smiling, from all parts of the world, people I will save, because of this sacrifice. 7

My name is Terry Fox, and I am a runner, a savior, a motto. My life, my real life, ended on June 28 1981, it started 1977, when I was diagnosed with cancer in my left leg. Before that I was a boy, living a life of pleasure, when I found my purpose, and reason for living, that’s when I actually began to live. I am a runner; this is my peace, and my cause. A bitter sweet feeling, of what I’m running to, what I’m running for and what I’m running with, but mostly what’s going to be there at the finish line, Bitter sweet.