Happily Ever After: The Life-Changing Power of a Grateful Heart (25 page)

During her weeklong adventure, she discovered an entire community of people who weren’t afraid of her or for
her. She explained to me that meeting them was like looking in a mirror—they looked like her, had feelings like her, had dreams and goals like her, and had suffered all too similarly to her. They may not have all had the same diagnoses, but they all showed up with the same cracks in their spirit. Through the environment of safety at camp, they were able to be soul-deep honest and open and fill in those cracks together. In her words: “FD gave me a network of survivors and staff who could relate without pity.” It connected her to a group of people she didn’t know she was missing, a group she now would find it hard to live without. Through Ryan’s challenge, she and ninety-nine others were able to attend programs of their choice and, through them, change their lives.

The chain of beneficial change didn’t stop there. Laura, and others like her, wanted to give back to the organization that had given so much, so they joined Team First Descents, setting out to accomplish their own challenges in the name of their charitable mission. Laura began running and hasn’t stopped, completing three 5K races and two half marathons with a fund-raising total so far of about $3,000. That’s three more lives changed.

The list goes on and on, and actually includes me, our kids, and Ryan himself—all due to the efforts of his alter ego: G-String. On the day we were introduced to the workings of FD programs, Ryan was given that nickname after I received mine. Here’s how it went down: A staffer nicknamed Woogie asked me if I had thought about what I’d like to be called. I hadn’t prepared at all. (Bad call #1.) On the spot, I thought of my function in Ryan’s challenge and decided I should go with something that represented support. I asked her, “Can you think of the name of a well-known cheerleader or big supporter?” (Bad call
#2.) Rephrased, I might have led her down a different path, but almost immediately and very enthusiastically, she said, “Jock Strap!” And since they considered us a team, he was called G-String. Forevermore, we will be known as undergarments. I guess it could have been worse, though—we could be known as what our undergarments support!

At the very least, our nicknames provide hysterical interactions with anyone who dares call out to us in public. For Ryan, his nickname also provided a way to separate his incredibly humble self from the uncomfortable accolades that came with achieving his 10.10.10 challenge goal. He didn’t ask to be recognized (he actually requested not to be), but in receiving the Golden Paddle award for raising the most money for First Descents that year, it was only fair that he properly thank his alter ego in a letter that he read aloud as his speech that night.

Dear G-String,

I wanted to write you in praise of your 10.10.10 challenge and thank you for the inspiration and opportunity it provided me to complete a challenge of my own. Though I have never had cancer, I feel as though, through you and Team First Descents, cancer has forever changed my life.

I knew when I took the challenge that, like you, my physical strength and conditioning would be tested. I knew it would be hard work. I accepted that and looked forward to the opportunity to seek the untapped fortitude of my will and spirit. I devised a focused plan and dove in headfirst.

My first events were tough. I was sore but it felt good to be active, to push myself beyond my perceived limits. Though tired, I felt strong. The inspiration of the Challenge motivated me. In some ways I felt unstoppable.

I had expected the workload and the effect it would have on my body. I was ready for the pain and the suffering. I was positive that I would emerge a better person. I began to expect it, actually. In fact, I began to believe that I was a better person. I felt great. I was fit. I was in the best shape of my life. People admired me for what I was doing. I believed I had found the ability to summon an incredible inner strength, to persevere. When I was not training or racing, I walked tall and with confidence. I was proud. So proud, in fact, that I neglected to see the effect the challenge was having on the rest of my life.

You should know that I am married and have two young children. I became so focused on the challenge that I neglected the rest of my life. I didn’t notice the disappointment on my son’s face when I turned down his offers to draw so that I could go out for a bike ride. My daughter’s connection to me was just developing though I failed to notice the way she chased me around looking for a hug or a moment with her dad. I was too busy worrying about the next race or what I should be eating.

My wife, the woman who was picking up all the slack while I was out “becoming a better person,” was the one whom I took for granted the most. When I wasn’t training,

I was tired and of little help around the house. Because of my physical efforts, I somehow felt privileged. I believed I deserved to do whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, with whomever I wanted, regardless of the consequences or the impact on my family. In my inspired effort to complete the challenge, I was losing all the things most important to me. Though it was love that originally inspired me, it was love that was suffering the most. I did not want to admit it. Though my focused eye could not see it, I knew in my heart that I was not winning this challenge. I had lost sight of the purpose. I had not grown at all from the ability to suffer through physical pain. Though from the outside it was not apparent, I was, in fact, a worse person. I broke down. I truly lost it.

It was in that moment of despair that the challenge changed for me. It was no longer about the training or the races or the singular focus on purposefully torturing my physical being. Certainly, I would still get the work done. Quitting would have not solved anything. Rather than riding a thoroughbred into each day, I would choose to walk a turtle. I was going to treat my life as my kids had tried to show me—with a true appreciation for the moment (good or bad), and an attentive and inquisitive eye towards anything really fun. No more suffering. Racing and training would be fun. Work would be fun. Life would be fun.

Though perhaps the most significant hill to climb, I would work to show my wife how much I appreciate her. How much I knew she did for me. How sorry I was for compromising her life and how much I truly loved her.

I had taken a lot from my acceptance of the challenge, when in the end it should have been more about giving.

Giving back to FD. They were and still are the source of my inspiration.

Giving back to my family. Without their support, I could not have done any of this.

Giving back to life. There are truly no guarantees. Each moment is a blessed opportunity and the choices we make within them will forever shape our destinies.

G-String: I am forever grateful for your willingness to accept such a mighty challenge. Your demonstration of the indomitable human will not only propelled me through the difficult physical challenges, it uncovered the existence of an equally powerful human spirit and the heart that seeks to guide us to places of unimaginable strength, should we simply choose to follow it.

I am forever in your debt.

Signed,
Ryan Sutter

In giving of himself, he actually gained a better self. In the end, he became a better husband, a better father, a better son, and a more empathetic friend. He connected with hundreds if not thousands of others he would never personally know but whom he inspired all the same, and enhanced the connections with the people who know and love him the best.

I’ve always held my husband in the most sacred part of my heart, even before I knew him, but after living through the challenge with him, I saw the true measure of my man. And as long as he continues to embody the lessons he learned, it will forever be unmatched.

S
ERENDIPITOUS
S
TRANGERS

As I alluded to in
Chapter 7
, in my opinion my aunt Nancy is the most talented writer in my family. Always a free spirit, she lived the life of a very successful corporate executive in the fashion industry, yet decided to throw caution to the wind at age fifty-two and apply for a job with the Peace Corps. Eighteen months later, less than one month shy of her fifty-fourth birthday, she was headed to Kenya. It was a wonderful adventure for her, in more ways than one, but until I can get her to write a book of her own, I wanted to share another one of her stories and what I believe to be a perfect demonstration of the lessons taught to us by complete strangers.

I have become accustomed to seeing groups of school children walking for miles, all in their school uniforms, to and from school every day. Some of the groups are made up of 10 kids or more, some are groups of 4 and occasionally I will see them 2 by 2—but I don’t remember in rural Kenya ever seeing a single school child walking alone.

So I remember for just a second, that when I first caught sight of The Girl on Ngong Road, that seeing this young (probably about 7) school girl walking alone on the crowded streets and sidewalks of this busy Nairobi street, that it seemed out of place. She was walking slowly but determinedly about half a
block ahead of me, her back pulled straight by a heavy book bag, head focused straight ahead, her hands swishing rhythmically over her navy blue school uniform skirt. If I found this an odd sight, it seemed that none of the hundreds of Kenyan pedestrians thought it was odd for a single, small school girl to be walking alone. They passed her by, her head at their thigh height, hardly noticing that they were doing a round-about around her. As I came up behind her and began my own round-about, we both, keeping our heads straight ahead, angled our eyes to take in this person passing by. In that instant, we both cracked a small smile.

As a
mzungu
(white person), I was used to seeing this slight smile when a Kenyan child made eye contact with me, because they could try out their high-pitched English “How are you?” But this little girl moved her eyes to their ever-forward position and went about her determined walk. The curb was coming up and people were stopped, so I could not finish my round-about around her. We slowed down but kept in step, occasionally angling our eyes to get another peek at each other. As the crowd started to cross the street, we moved forward. As we got to the curb, I stopped and noticed a car rounding the corner as the little girl started to step off the curb right into its path. I placed my hand on her shoulder and said “
simama
,” stop. She looked up, smiled and suddenly took my hand.

I can still feel those fingers, soft and small, trusting this stranger. We waited until the coast was clear and then crossed the street. As we continued on our journey, she continued to hold my hand. In Kiswahili, I asked her name, and she told me it was “Rose.” I told her that was a beautiful name and that my mother’s name is Rosemary
and my sister’s name is Roseanne. She gave me a very big smile when I told her this—small connections to others seemed to bring her pure joy. She tried out her English, asking my name, and we continued our small encounter with small conversation. A man walked by, did a double take, and said hi to Rose. She introduced me to her uncle as “
rafiki yangu
,” my friend.

When we reached the huge intersection that connected Ngong Rd with three other large streets, it was time for us to part. I had to cross this six-lane road without the help of stop lights and Rose had to continue on her current path. I asked if she would be OK and said that it was nice to meet her. She smiled and squeezed my hand one more time and went back to her singular determined walk. I played dodge-car across this thoroughfare, holding my breath all the way. Once I was on the other side, I exhaled and glanced back across the street to see if I could see Rose. I had looked where I thought she would have been by now and did not see her, but then pulled my eyes back to the spot where we had parted and there she was, big smile and small hand waving as hard as she could. I had helped her not to walk in front of an oncoming car, and she had willed me safely across a treacherous intersection.

One good deed.

For the next five minutes, we kept walking together, just on opposite sides of the same street, and kept looking across, smiling and waving until we were too far apart to see each other. I don’t know for how long that Rose will remember me, but I know I will never forget her, and I will never forget the feel of those small hands nestled in mine.

Usually my dad’s e-mail forwards are politically based and don’t survive the delete button for long. One day he sent me a message with the subject line: “photos to restore your faith in humanity.” About halfway through the pictures, one of them stood out. Taped to a vending machine was a dollar bill in a plastic bag that said: “Your snack is on me! Enjoy your day
.” I thought it was a sweet way to spread happiness, albeit in an anonymous way. Try it. I have, and I can tell you that the happiness I walked away with was worth much more than the $1.50 I left.