The Chess Match
Last week I was on vacation with my wife and friends when we happened upon this place that is crazy about chess. Our friends’ son is into chess, so they wanted to check out the business, which was a chess store and club. Inside, numerous chess matches were taking place, involving both the young and the old. I wasn’t surprised such places existed, I knew in my head they did, but I’d never really seen them before.
A day later, I read a tribute to Bobby Fischer, the brilliant but troubled American chess champion who had recently died. Fischer, who reportedly had a higher IQ than Einstein, had frequented these same chess clubs when he 13, on his way to becoming a Grand Master of chess at age 15.
This got me thinking about cancer, natch–the way it is like a chess match between the patient (me) and Death. And the problem is that it’s my first time to play, while Death has been sitting at the board for thousands of years.
Death made the first pawn move almost eight years ago, when a tiny tumor developed on the triceps muscle of my right arm. I responded aggressively with surgery and radiation, the equivalent of bringing out one of my knights. Death yawned and moved another pawn, one more small tumor 11 months later. I brought out a pawn of my own, and then a rook, another surgery another radiation procedure.
Back and forth. Move after move. And then, at some point, I began to realize how formidable this opponent was. Cancer had wrapped around the nerve in my right arm. The only option? To surrender it. This was like losing a knight or a castle. The game’s not over, but it’s going to be much more difficult to win.
And then, a surprise, something I hadn’t seen coming. Death made a few innocuous moves, and I captured several of his pieces. For three years I was cancer free. But Death, like Bobby Fischer, was trading important pieces for position. He suddenly swept in and captured my queen. Another form of cancer had inexplicably developed in my colon and moved from there to my liver.
Now, it’s like Death is toying with me. As I make defensive moves in an attempt to save my King, he is smiling and patiently picking off pawn after pawn.
The latest pawn? My hair. For some reason, my wild, curly hair has held on for 15 months of chemo. But it has been weakening. The black has been turning a dull grey. The thick, coarse texture now feels like silk. And this week, it is falling out like crazy. My legs have almost no hair on them anymore. My lone hand has only a few hairs. And the hair on the top of my head? When I scratch my head, 20 or 30 hairs show up in my hand. The shower drain is covered with hairs that have given up the ghost.
I know. It’s only hair. Guys commonly go with the bald look these days, so it’s not so big of a deal. In fact it’s rather commonplace. But most of the people who tell you that have a full head of hair or lost theirs many years ago and have “perspective.”
I like my hair. After a weird period of wearing it short, “corporate” as one friend put it, I grew it out several years ago. This was the way I wore it in college. “Yes,” my hair stylist said. “The mad scientist look works for you.”
“Chess is war on a board,” Fischer once said. “The object is to crush the other man’s mind.”
My mind is still intact, thankfully. But Death is sure messing with it.
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Thanks for your willingness to include me
in this journey you are on.
I have asked my best friend, JESUS, to cover
you with HIS incredible love & peace. I have
also asked the greatest poet/author who has
ever lived & yet continues to live right now
to bring out your greatest writings you have
ever done.