A Reason to Love

I was lying in bed in unbearable pain from a total knee replacement. Something had gone wrong in Physical Therapy two weeks after the operation, and my knee swelled up like a grapefruit. The swelling continued six weeks later, and the surgeon re-operated, stating it was a hematoma (pooled clotted blood).

Would my life now be relegated to lying in bed and popping pain pills? Would I have to use a walker for the rest of my life? The phone rang. It was Robert Fellows, a friend who’d been following my unhappy knee journey on Facebook who had the perfect way to cheer me up. He knew I was a cancer survivor and he had started a fundraiser for kids struggling with cancer at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. In three days, the great Bernie Williams would visit and play guitar for the kids. Did I want to come jam on my harmonica with Bernie? My friend knew I couldn’t walk and promised to meet me with a wheelchair at the hospital entrance.

I had no idea who the great Bernie Williams was, but the idea of being able to play harmonica for kids with cancer was appealing. I hadn’t been out of the house in 64 days except to see the surgeon and my new excellent physical therapist, Jon Diamond at Dynamic Sports. This would be fun!

I know nothing about baseball so I told Jon who couldn’t believe I’d never heard of Bernie Williams so he explained that Bernie had played center field for the Yankees, was a four-time World Series Champion and a five-time All-Star. He was also a great guitar player. What I should say to Bernie? I asked. Pete Schultz, my other physical therapist at Dynamic Sports, said to say I’d been studying baseball in the 90’s and I knew there was a core four, but there should have been a core five. The core four, he said, was four Yankees with five World Series victories.

My friend Rob was waiting for me with a wheelchair  in the MSKCC lobby. Bernie arrived and extended his hand. Knowing this would probably be the only chance I’d get to speak with him before the jam, I said quickly, “There should have been a core five.” Bernie grinned.

Twenty-five children ranging in age from three to a few teenagers sat in a semi-circle in the spacious sky-lit pavilion, Bernie entered the room, introduced himself, and said that growing up in Puerto Rico he played classical guitar and baseball. At eight years old he went to a performing arts school for guitar and went for his Master of Music degree in jazz performance. Then he was drafted at the age of 22 by the Yankees. Did anyone have any questions either about baseball or music?

A six-year-old ran up to Bernie and handed him a drawing which had BERNiE written in red crayoned letters and the rest covered in baseball stickers. “Thank you,” said Bernie and insisted on taking a selfie with the little boy. A five-year-old waved his hand desperately, almost jumping up from his chair. “Yes?” Bernie asked. The boy didn’t have a question, he just wanted to be recognized.

An eight-year-old asked, “What’s better, music or baseball?” Bernie smiled. “That’s a great question. I’m blessed that I could do both. They’re similar: in each, you learn from your mistakes and move on.”

Bernie took out his guitar and motioned for me and Rob to join him. He sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” as two little girls played along with make-believe plastic blow-up guitars, huge smiles on their faces.

After about 45 minutes we stopped playing and Bernie headed to the infusion area to meet kids who couldn’t leave their beds. Those patients are highly immunocompromised, so I had to sit this out. I couldn’t believe that Bernie Williams was devoting a full half day with these children, giving them joy.

Next to me, a clown was playing “rock, paper scissors” with a ten-year old boy who, like some of the other children, had a port, wires, and a monitor. When the clown had to leave, I said to the boy, “I’ll play with you.”

He looked at me dubiously.

“But you can’t possibly beat me,” he said.

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, “I’m a master.”

He shook his head and said adamantly, “You can’t win.”

“We’ll see,” I said. We began throwing out our hands. I’d win, then he’d win. It was always a tie.

“This is getting boring,” he said. I agreed. “Do you play tick tack toe?” he asked.

“Yup” I said.

“Well, you won’t be able to beat me,” he said.

“Oh yeah? I happen to be a great player,” I said.

“I will beat you every time,” he said. I was falling in love with this brash little boy from Armenia who spoke perfect English. Again, no one could win.

The boy suggested we play checkers, though he admitted he was not very good. By the time I took my third crown, Bernie had returned. I looked at my watch. It was time to leave, but I didn’t want to win against this fearless little boy fighting for his life. I purposely lost my three kings and let him jump my last two pieces. He looked at me solemnly. “You let me beat you,” he said.

“That’s right,” I said. “You deserved to win.” Saying goodbye to him was even more difficult than saying goodbye to Bernie, who told me to come jam with him anytime.

On my way home, I thought about the courageous children I’d met, so many living with ports and wires and monitors and chemo -- kids who might not make it to their next birthday. And here was I with a highly swollen knee that made me miserable but which in time, would heal. But the boy who stole my heart, might not heal. It was time to stop feeling sorry for myself and feel grateful I’d had the chance to experience a form of love I never knew existed.