Not any more special

Thinking this morning about a friend. In 2003, on my drive to work as I neared the bluff overlooking Yocemento, a little collection of homes and a grain elevator about halfway between Ellis and Hays, I saw a big buck silhouetted at the top. I thought that was a pretty cool thing to see on my birthday.

I got to work a few minutes later and sat at my computer getting started on my day. Just a short time later, though, our photo editor took a call that was not good news. One of our former photographers had died in an accident near his hometown, discovered right about the time I was passing Yocemento.

I felt like the world dropped out from under me. I wouldn't say Mark and I were buddies, but we worked together and he always made me laugh. He was often bringing me gifts — a big Snoopy mug with candy at Valentine's Day, breakfast burritos from McDonald's — as a thank-you, he said, for reading over his photo cutlines before he submitted his photos for the paper. I appreciated the gestures, but I thought it was funny he would do that, since it was just part of my job.

But when a group of us from work went to his hometown for a viewing and to visit with his family a few days later, I learned that Mark had had a learning disability. His parents were told he probably wouldn't graduate high school because of it. He not only graduated, he went on to get both an associate's and a bachelor's degree and work in journalism.

I like to think the buck was actually Mark's spirit, if only for that moment, saying goodbye and maybe happy birthday. I miss him and wish I'd gotten to know him better.

People treat me as if I'm something special for surviving cancer. But I think Mark was a pretty special person, and he doesn't get to celebrate birthdays anymore. His loved ones and friends don't get to hear his laugh or hear his voice or tell him about their day. And it's the same for a handful of wonderful women I got to know through my breast cancer support group, for a good number of my high school classmates and for co-workers Matt and Martin. I think about them all very often and sometimes wonder why I am here and they are not.

I am lucky that I am still here to celebrate another birthday. But it is, really, another day that is no more special than the rest, and I am no more special than anyone else.