Training Wheels

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I will never forget the day I learned to ride my bicycle without training wheels.   My bike was pink and white with wide metal handlebars, pom poms dangled from each handle, and a white basket sat on the front.  I had gotten the bike for my 6th birthday.  It came with training wheels on it.  Most of my neighborhood friends were already riding their bikes without the comfort of trusty training wheels, but I lagged behind on that particular learning curve out of fear of getting hurt from a potentially nasty fall.

Once I hit 7 years old, I decided it was time to have dad get out the screw driver and take off those little white plastic safety wheels.  It didn’t take long before my bike was transformed.  Getting on it and finding my balance would be the next hurdle.

Mom grabbed the back of the seat and pushed me slowly down the street while I peddled, trying to grab a hold of this sans-training wheel concept, but I wiggled around clumsily, unable to find any sort of alignment.  This went on for a while.  We went up and down the street, my mom pushing me, me peddling, and I was finally starting to feel like I might be getting the hang of it.  Suddenly, I realized I was alone.  My mom had let go of the bike and I was riding all by myself!  For a moment, I felt free and proud, basking in my big kid triumphant glow,  but it wasn’t long before a tiny grain of doubt broke my focus and I lost all confidence in my new ability.  Quite immediately, I fell off my bike.

It wasn’t a bad fall.  I don’t recall getting more than a few scrapes on my knees and elbows.  As a matter of fact, the ouchies were the furthest thing on my mind. Although it had only been for a moment, I had accomplished something completely new and scary without mom’s hands guiding me.  It felt incredible.  And as most “learning to ride my bike” stories tend to go, I never had to use training wheels again.

At the beginning of my cancer-ride, I realized I needed some training wheels.  Everything I encountered was new and frightening and all I wanted was a safety net – some way to feel like I could move forward without falling down.  I’ve longed for that feeling of security since the day I was diagnosed.  Learning I had cancer when my life was going so seemingly well knocked me off my bicycle and left me wishing for those little plastic wheels once again.

It’s hard not to feel ashamed when you realize you need more than your own strength to fight for your life.  When cancer entered my life, I wanted my mom, my dad, my sister.  I wanted a warm blanket, a cuddly stuffed animal, the comfort of my oldest and dearest friends.   Honestly, I wanted to curl up into fetal position, suck my thumb, and have someone tell me a story about a princess in which there is a very happy ending.  Living on the opposite coast of all of the previously mentioned loved ones in my life made me feel very alone.

In high school, and even into my early twenties, my freedom was something that I valued dearly.  I grew up in a conservative household, so once I had my own place, the last thing I ever wanted was to be coddled again.  Then without any warning, I ended up with cancer and all I wanted was coddling.

I’m starting to understand how important family is – especially in times like these.  Since my diagnosis, I’ve been blessed to have a different family visitor come for nearly every treatment.  At first, I was resistant to the aid.  It was very hard for me to let go of my pride and independence and revert back to that little blonde 7 year-old with training wheels.  But over the course of these past 4 months, I have come to be at peace with the extra attention.  I have learned to accept the love my family knows I need right now, and for the first time since I was a little kid, I’m allowing myself to sit back and let people help me.

Cancer is a plague that is running a terrible course through our world.  Nearly every person I have spoken to about my situation has experienced it in some way, and many have lost someone they loved.   So, here is my advice to you.  If you have cancer or any illness that is severe, let people into your heart, accept help, and do not lose your pride over it.  Fighting for your life is nothing to be ashamed of.

If you are not fighting cancer or some other illness,  it’s a likely bet that you know someone quite close to you who is.  Help them.  Give them space when they need it, but hold your door open for support.  It means more than you’ll ever know to the person you’re helping.  My family has meant so much to me, and I will forever be grateful.  My friends and family are the army that stands behind me in my fight.

Yesterday, I went to my local mega store and did something I haven’t done since before I hit puberty; I bought a bicycle.  My muscles have atrophied noticeably while on chemo, and my energy levels have hit an all time low for me, so I thought an occasional leisurely bike ride might help me build some strength. I ended up getting an adult sized pink bicycle, a beach cruiser with wide chrome metal bars, and a white basket for the front.  It was the one that made me smile the most.

Once I got home, I took my new pink wheels for a gentle spin around the block.  The breeze felt just as cool and refreshing as it did when I was a kid.  It doesn’t matter how much time I’ve let slip between the last time I rode a bike.  Learning how to ride a bike is a lesson that stays ingrained in a person.  I no longer need training wheels and never will again, but the sense of mom’s hands pushing behind me and the comfort of knowing I’m not alone, even if she and my family are much further than down the street, will always help me to find my alignment.  So when it’s time to remove my cancer training wheels and gain my independence back, I know they’ll still be watching from afar, ready to come to my rescue if I lose my balance again.

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Tags: bike riding, cancer, chemotherapy, hodgkin's lymphoma, llana barron