This year I ride the PMC because I am a really talented, experienced, skilled patient of Dana Farber!

I told my kids’ pediatrician how deeply I love our doctors and therapists. He looked straight into me and said “Maybe it's because you are a really good patient.”

I have spent years, decades trying to find my vocation, my calling, the place where I fit in like a square peg in just the right hole. This was never what I had imagined, wished for, or aspired to be.

On my annual Dana Farber visits I usually walk in on the path of gratitude, independence, and courage. But on my last visit I was completely annoyed that I had to go. I was pissed I had to be poked, prodded, and forced to make small talk with every technician, nurse, and doctor. When I saw my beloved oncologist, I went right back to playing my cancer patient role. We scanned for symptoms, talked about the family, my job, my health. And always we go into this part...“You were really sick when you first came in. Look at you now! Seldom do we ever evaluate a new patient and immediately wheel them over to treatment.”

I don't want to be the patient.

My inpatient time during my weeklong treatments is a blur, remembering only cloudy pieces with a few thunderstorms. Like the time after my first and last heart attack. I don’t remember her face; only her short wide hands ever so slowly meticulously placing each EKG tab over my body in the hours where it's no longer night and not yet dawn. There was an audience of doctors peering over her shoulder, her command. I, a cage wild beast tempted to rip all the wires free and run screaming out of the room. I remember the choice to stay, to lay there counting ceiling tiles, then inhales and exhales. I remember the struggle of surrender to her hands. I wait there reciting forced prayers of gratitude for those big, slow, strong, hands in between ceiling tiles and breaths.

They tell me I am a good patient.

Two days after Dana Farber day I was back on Storrow Drive pulling in next door to Children's Hospital for my son’s three month eye tests. He has Neurofibromatosis Type 1.

While Gabe and I were waiting to be called to see the doctor, he moved seats and sat directly across this teenager and his dad. He was skin and bones with patches of hair loss, sipping ginger ale, and working on mastering his rubik's cube.

I hated being the patient. I hated being the parent of the patient.

I wanted to become the caged wild beast and run fast and far from this place. I remember the struggle. I began counting rubik's cube squares, surrendering to those long, skinny, bony, hands in command of each turn and color, whispering prayers of gratitude for this speck of time.

I am a really good patient.

P.S. I also love riding my bike, counting miles.

I'm a proud supporter of the PMC because it is leading a charge to beat cancer. In fact, last year 100% of rider-raised revenue went directly to support the Jimmy Fund and Dana-Farber Cancer Institute's tireless commitment to finding a cure.