People say a lot about Detroit. People say true things. People say untrue things. But people say (mostly negative) things about
Detroit. I’ve heard many of them and
maybe even said a few of them, but there is something about Detroit that not
everyone knows.
Detroit is a place to heal.
It may find itself on the top of almost every “Most
Dangerous City” list and have one of the highest unemployment rates in the
country, its school system may have no money and the auto industry attempting
to pick itself up from bankruptcy. But
Detroit is full of people who are full of hope.
In Detroit I’ve met amazing doctors. I’ve met amazing nurses and nurse
practitioners.
I’ve sat next to cancer survivors in the waiting room at Karmanos
cancer center.
And I fell in love with all of them.
I fell in love with them because they don’t whisper. People from Detroit don’t whisper about their
sports teams. They don’t whisper about
how their job is going.
And they don’t whisper about cancer.
This is so rare, and so incredibly refreshing, it’s hard to
describe. Because when people are
uncomfortable, when they don’t know what to say, or how to express their
concern, or what questions they’re supposed to ask, they whisper.
They tilt their heads to the side and tell you really
softly, I’m so sorry for you…
And there is no worse emotion than pity. Pity is useless. Pity, to me, feels a lot like saying “I’m so
glad I’m not you.” Pity is a waste. It is not productive. Pity doesn’t lead you to get off your seat
and try to make someone’s life better.
Pity doesn’t stir your soul and inspire you to pray for your sick
friend, or a famine on the other side of the globe. Pity sits comfortably in it’s comfortable
life and says, “Geez that really sucks,” and then goes back to enjoying that
life.
So when I sat down in the waiting room at Karmanos for the
first time, and a stranger across from me said, “You look too young to be in
here, what kinda cancer you got?”
I was shocked, but I think part of me was so relieved to be
around strangers who didn’t feel like they needed to walk on eggshells around
me. I explained my situation. Then she continued, unprompted, to say that
she had lung cancer, and had been through chemo several times.
We finished talking and my Dad leaned over to me, smiled and
said, “Well I guess this isn’t a shy crowd…” and I responded, “I guess
not. I think this is the boat, and we’re
all in it.”
That was the moment that every little part of me that was
asking, “Why me?? Why do I have to deal with this??”
dissolved. Because it’s not just
me. Not even close.
Maybe I don’t deserve this, but neither did anyone in that
waiting room. No one in that room
deserved to deal with cancer or whatever rare disease had landed them in the
cancer hospital in Detroit.
Because that’s the thing about disease. It doesn’t discriminate. It doesn’t care if you’re only 21 years old,
just trying to figure life out. It
doesn’t care if you’re 45, just lost your job, and have 4 kids to raise. It doesn’t care if you’re rich, poor, nice,
mean, ugly, or beautiful. In the eyes of cancer and aplastic anemia, we are all
the same. I am the 65-year-old woman
next to me in the waiting room. I am the
40-year-old businessman sitting across from me.
I am them and they are me.
I also fell in love with the camaraderie of being in a room
full of people dealing with an awful, uncontrollable situation and still having
reason to laugh. And still finding a reason
to praise God.
I fell in love with the way it feels to hear someone who’s
been through your fight 20 years ago and look you in the eye and say, “You’ll
be alright.”
I fell in love with witnessing the kind of love and loyalty
it takes to be the friend, family member, the neighbor, who’s sitting silently in
support of their sick loved one.
What’s so great about Detroit is that it may be down on its
luck, but it sure doesn’t feel sorry for itself. Because maybe they don’t have jobs, and maybe
they have cancer, but no one walked into that hospital alone. A grandmother walked into the treatment
center with her grandson helping her.
Two sisters walk in together, sharing stories about their spouses, their
childhood, and their children. Maybe
they didn’t have everything, but they had each other.
My Dad likes to say that all the Allens were born with
shovels. We were born with shovels so
that when life gets hard we can dig in.
And when life gets harder, you don’t give up. You just get a bigger shovel. Or you call your family and tell them to
bring theirs.
In the face of something as scary as cancer and aplastic
anemia can be, it’s easy to want to turn your back. It’s easy to want run from it and whisper
quietly to your neighbors about what a shame it is. But it takes an incredible community to turn
and face, and dig in. Detroit is packing
some seriously big shovels with the challenges that they have faced and it has
left a group of people that are not to be messed with.
I will forever be indebted to Detroit for showing a girl
from Ypsi the meaning of community.
For showing me that it’s possible to face adversity with
grace, laughter, and an unwavering faith in God.
And for lending me their shovel. ;)
Love, Kelsey
