A Bench Named Hope

Every week, I look for the silver linings in life, but some weeks feel exceptionally heavy. The other day, my sixteen-year-old daughter, Indiana, and I sat at an appointment, facing tough truths. My doctors want to change up my treatment regime, starting more intense rounds of immunotherapy, along with introducing chemo, and maybe trying radiation again. On top of that, there are terrifying "what-ifs" hanging in the balance, like a strange little spot in my brain that might be a blood vessel—or could be more cancer. We won’t know until they do more scans. 

I recently had three surgeries within three months, and sometimes this can all feel like too much—the weight of it can be suffocating. 

Anyway, as we finally walked outside toward the valet parking, Indiana did what she always does: She brought the light.

Exhausted, we wanted to sit down, but all of the benches were full except the one behind us where a man sat dead center, his arms spread across the backrest. His posture practically shouted, “Leave me alone.” Yet, Indy gently walked up and enthusiastically asked, “Can we sit by you? Would that be okay?”

He looked up, seeming surprised by her request and maybe even her youth—since it’s mainly adults at the Huntsman Cancer Center. 

After a brief moment, he scooted over and patted the bench. “Sure.”

What followed became a beautiful reminder of human connection. Indy talked with him, and the man explained that he used to be a trucker and absolutely loved his job before cancer changed everything. He didn't offer many details about his diagnosis, and when he asked about mine, I quietly explained that things have recently gotten harder, and I might be starting more grueling treatments soon.

Even without specific details, an unspoken understanding hung in the air between us. We were strangers sharing the same battlefield, resting on the same wooden slats, trying to catch our breath.

When our car arrived, Indy looked at him, smiled brightly, and said that sitting next to him was one of the very best parts of her entire day. I voiced the same.

Then, as I started pushing my walker toward the car, moving much slower than I ever would’ve wished, something nagged at me: I hadn’t even gotten that man’s name! So, I turned around, then rolled all the way back to the bench, and reached out my hand.

“That’s Indy,” I said, nodding to my mini-me, “and I’m Elisa.”

He lit up as if I’ve just offered him the moon instead of a simple handshake, and all the remaining hardness in his demeanor completely dissipated.

“I’m Rob,” he said.

In that brief exchange of names, the heavy worries about health faded away. We weren't just cancer patients anymore; we were simply people in need of connection.

As Indy and I pulled from the curb, we waved to Rob through the window, then drove away. The quiet warmth of that encounter settled into the car, replacing the anxiety that had followed us out of the cancer center’s doors. The terrifying "what-ifs" about my treatment and that tiny, threatening spot in my brain hadn’t vanished, but they no longer felt like a solitary death sentence.

That interaction deeply moved me because despite whatever battle Rob fought, he still made our day so much better. 

He reminded me that even when our bodies are failing, our capacity to offer grace, comfort, and a little bit of hope to another human being remains irrevocably intact.