RIDING FOR ARI | Krista Bangs
Dust rose from the ground underneath my tires as we took a sharp turn into a Shell parking lot somewhere between Santa Fe and Taos, N.M. I grabbed my teammates' water bottles and went to fill them up inside the gas station. A man pumping gas noticed my cycling jersey and shouted to me, “Hey! What’s going on? Why are there so many bikers?” referring to the pack of teammates behind me swarming the previously empty parking lot. “We’re part of an organization called Texas 4000,” I said, “a group of college students cycling from Austin, Texas to Anchorage, Alaska, while fundraising for cancer research.” At the mention of cancer, his ears perked up. Glancing into the car where a young girl was sitting in the passenger seat, he said, “You should meet my daughter Ari.”
Ari quickly looked away from the window after hearing the mention of her name, embarrassed that her dad was talking about her. She looked to be about 12 years old. Her smile was big, but her lips pressed tightly together signaling her mild discomfort at the attention she was getting. I introduced myself. She shifted closer to her father. “Ari has been a cancer survivor since the age of 10,” her dad said proudly. “She was diagnosed with osteosarcoma four years ago.” Noticing Ari was wearing a prosthetic leg, I assumed she had had a right-below-knee amputation due to her cancer. Ari looked scared, but I knew she was brave, “Would you like to meet the rest of the team?” I asked, reaching out for her hand.
Ari sat with us as we showed her pictures from our trip: the mountains and white sands of New Mexico, the dehydrated south plains of Texas, and all the Sonic drive-thrus we stopped at along the way. I told her about the Texas 4000 traditions we had and how every team member dedicated their ride to friends, families, and those affected by cancer. As they got ready to leave, her dad pulled me aside. “Thank you all for being so welcoming to us, especially Ari. The first year after her surgery she was so shy and scared. We had a hard time getting her to engage with others. It means a lot to see her laugh and get along with you all.” I thanked him for stopping to talk to us. “There’s one more thing we need to show you, Ari,” I said before they left. Our team huddled together, arms woven behind each other's backs, and we began our team chant, “Ain’t no mountain high enough. Ain’t no valley low enough. Ain’t no river wide enough. To keep us off the bike!” As we repeated the last line over and over, we substituted “Ari we love you” for the last time.
The summer sun and winding roads stretched for miles ahead. With each pedal stroke, I continued to think about Ari. It started to sink in how impactful those 20 minutes had been. The dry New Mexico winds seemed to have pushed us to that Shell off Route 64, so we could meet Ari and her dad. I thought about how the jersey on my back would have only caught the attention of a father who had watched his little girl beat cancer before she had graduated elementary school. He knew probably better than Ari what cancer had taken from her and while Ari had beaten cancer, she was still healing. The impact of a cancer diagnosis doesn’t fade with the normalization of blood cell or bone marrow counts, last chemo treatments, or fewer doctors’ appointments. Healing happens outside of the hospital. It comes from connecting with others, feeling supported, and for a second, forgetting that you’re a patient. Ari was probably just discovering this when we met, and I hoped we gave her back some of the confidence cancer stole from her.
I started medical school the next summer. Hot days on my bike have now turned into over-air conditioned days in the hospital. Patients will sometimes remind me of Ari, and I’ll feel the New Mexico heat and her warmth wash over me. I always try to practice what our interaction taught me—affirmation and connection can mend the wounds that medical treatment cannot touch.
Krista Bangs is a third-year medical student at McGovern Medical School with a strong interest in health and writing, particularly within the realms of health equity and healthcare innovation. Her current research focuses on the integration of medical-legal partnerships into pediatric primary care clinics in Houston. She also loves connecting with others outside of medicine by biking, running and attending the Houston Ballet.