One less warrior

The world has lost one its bright lights and those of us battling blood cancers are saying good-bye to a fellow warrior, discovering yet another reason to fight harder. I've lost a friend, as did so many others, along with a colleague, a husband, a father, a brother and a son.

We were united by having blood cancer, both being the young age of 35 when we met, determined and optimistic. We immediately bonded and made plans for when we finished chemo and gained our strength back. We would go for short runs, have "commiseration coffees" as he called it and move forward with our lives. Lucas has been sitting beside me intermittently during chemo for the past five months, always listening and applauding along the way, while quietly fighting his own uphill battle. We constantly complained about sitting in those brown, sticky chairs as chemo filled our bodies, but atleast we could relate to one another and keep it real. Misery sure loves company. He was kind, funny, private and compassionate - he fought with every ounce he had and perfectly understood my fears and concerns.

I admired him and checked in with him to see how he was doing after every round was complete, upon every trip to the ER he made and last week I set a reminder to contact him and make sure I wished his daughter a happy 6th birthday. But I never heard back from him, which was very unusual. The last time we spoke he was really excited to be feeling good and was set for a scan this week in preparation for transplant work-up. He told me that next year, "WE would walk" in light the night, as survivors, together.

My eyes continue to fill with tears when I think of the family he left behind, the family he absolutely adored. Our conversations typically ended so he could reserve energy for his kids (three of them aged 6 years and under, with one now 7 months), or so he could go have a nap and be up when they needed him. His heartbreak in having lymphoma and his fight to prepare for a bone marrow transplant (after first line chemo didn't provide remission in September) was deep rooted in the love he had for his family and the sheer determination to overcome this terrible disease. He was always talking about the "super human effort" his wife was putting forth and how hard it was for him to watch; he felt bad that he couldn't keep up with his perceived obligations. I would reassure him and tell him he would do the same for her and he was doing the best he could, we both struggled with guilt as I felt the same about my boyfriend who constantly juggled our lives in two worlds without ever complaining.

Today and everyday, we must live fully and with kindness and compassion. I ask you take a moment and appreciate how lucky you are to head to work, get stuck in traffic, lose sleep because your kids are unsettled. These all sound a bit frustrating in the "treadmill of life", but perhaps use them as moments to check in and find gratitude. Not everyone can go to work, leave the house or find energy to seamlessly plan the routine of their day that tends to be done without conscious thought. Don't wait for life to happen or put off what you've always wanted to do - we can't guarantee our future or what life has in store. Hug those you love a little tighter, honour your relationships and send energy to those who need it.

I'm grateful to have met Lucas and he taught me a lot in our short friendship. I'll continue on in this battle with even more grit and positive purpose than I was capable of before. I know he's going to be beside me as I have my last round of chemo (except he probably will grab a stool, instead of sitting in the brown, sticky chairs). Until we meet again, my friend. You will never be forgotten and may you rest in peace.