LIVESTRONG.

February 15, 2007

I wrote this one on a night that gutted me. Not because of the chaos, or the trauma, or the kind of scene that usually gets burned into your memory—but because it was quiet. Personal. Human. It was the first time I saw myself in a patient so clearly it made my hands shake. Same age. Same gear. Same watch. Same wristband. He was dying, and he knew it. But somehow, in that moment, he made space for kindness, for grace, even for humor. After my shift, I sat in my car and cried harder than I ever had on shift. That yellow band on his wrist—the one that said LiveSTRONG—wasn’t just a slogan anymore. It became a promise. A memory. A reminder of how fragile this whole thing really is, and how lucky we are to still be breathing. I wear mine for him now.