But I wasn't up there. I was just a sick bystander with a yard of plastic tubing funneling lymphatic fluid from my right armpit to a drain attached at my waist. I can't tell you how weak I felt. And as I watched the people who had become friends over the past year gut out another round, it was the uncertainty about whether I'd practice Muay Thai again that frightened me most.
Right then came the words I'll never forget: "Kick. Stand up and show me how strong you are." My training partner, Rich, was holding up Thai pads. I hesitated, but something in his command stirred my desire to fight.
At first my kicks were timid, unsure. But each time my shin hit the pads, I felt stronger, my emotion building. After the first round, a familiar battle cry erupted from my gut. As I leaned over to catch my breath, tears of relief rolled down my face and onto the mat. I had found a will to fight not just in the gym but also against my disease. I was the one who got to decide whether or not cancer would take away what I loved most—and that answer was no.
For the next 8 months, I trained in that gym, missing only the days when the chemo drip ran through my veins. I trained with the lymph drain taped to my waist and with third-degree burns from radiation. When my hair fell out and the treatments left me weakened, I still trained. For those 8 months, Muay Thai gave me a reason to get out of bed every day. And it was those first few kicks that gave me hope.
