“Terry” Fox is the closest thing our country has to a national hero.
Think about that for a minute. Our folk hero isn’t a politician and reformer, like George Washington in the United States; nor the leader of a widespread social movement, like Mahatma Gandhi in India; nor a warrior or a prophet, like Joan of Arc in France. Where other nations idolize big people from big families occupying big places in world history, Canada has a suburban kid from Port Coquitlam whose heroism didn’t lie in organizing the people, or conquering the people, or even telling them what to do or how to think. And that’s what makes him great.
If you grew up in this province like I did, you’ll surely remember the countless hours of class time dedicated each and every September to discussing Terry’s legacy — his Marathon of Hope; his stubborn, unwavering dedication to the goal of raising money for cancer research in the face of his own declining health; his untimely death at the age of 22.
Imagining Terry as an icon and not a human being takes away from the real heroism of what he accomplished.
I don’t mean to make you relive this story. Terry’s tale has been firmly and repeatedly ingrained into the collective consciousness of British Columbia; we’ve all heard it over and over again.
What we often miss out on, though, is the portrait of Terry as he really was: not some heroic übermensch or irreproachable deity, but a regular kid with a commitment to making the world we live in a better and healthier place.
Think of Terry before he became the cultural icon he is today, before his statue, in mid-gait, stood in the Academic Quadrangle he once walked through as a regular undergrad. His mother convinced him to enrol in Simon Fraser University, where he chose to study kinesiology. He wanted to be a PE teacher — in another world, it’s easy to imagine him coaching ninth graders to run laps in the mud and rain.
By all accounts, Terry was a friendly, goofy kid with a passionate love for sports and competition. He would not have been unrecognizable as a university student to you or I. He earned a spot on the school’s basketball team during his junior year; after his cancer forced the amputation of his leg, he played on Canada’s wheelchair basketball team, and helped win them three titles between 1978–1980.
It was his experiences during this period of his life, before he received surgery for the osteosarcoma which had spread in his knee, that inspired him to run his Marathon of Hope. His time in chemotherapy treatment inspired his deep empathy for other cancer survivors; his resolve to change the way that we think about and research cancer originated from his human need to reduce the suffering of others. He promised himself that, if he survived treatment, he would do everything he could to make life better for cancer sufferers around the world.
This is something we all do in our daily lives. We see systems that are broken, and people in need; we feel for them, and we want to help them, even if we’re not sure how. It was Terry’s choice to do something about it, to find a way to make a lasting contribution to a cause he so believed in, that made him truly great.
Terry trained for 14 months before embarking on his now-legendary Marathon of Hope, and it must have a been a gruelling experience. He said that it took 20 minutes of running before the pain reached a threshold where he could ignore it; his prosthetic running leg gave him cuts, bruises, and blisters that took weeks to heal.
When he began his run in April of 1980, he maintained that the public response should be focused solely on promoting cancer research; he shied away from media scrutiny, insisted that his corporate sponsors not make any profit off his marathon, and only attended events and promotions he felt would result in more donations to the cause. Until the spread of cancer to his lungs forced him to end his run short, he never took a day off — even on his 22nd birthday, which would be his last.
It’s easy to bristle at the story of a folk hero whose inspirational struggles seem cheesy and idealized, especially when schoolteachers and media outlets have been forcing you to revisit the story every year since childhood.
But there was plenty about Terry that was subversive and challenging. He ignored the calls of doctors and friends who told him he was endangering his own life. He refused to think of himself as ‘disabled,’ and maintained that his life had become more rewarding since his amputation. Despite the immense toll his 143-straight-day marathon took on his physical and mental wellness, Terry never sought out any personal attention or glory.
We should remember Terry now, 34 years later, for his willpower, his success in uniting people towards a common goal of curing one of the most destructive and tenacious diseases in human history, and for his courage and kindness, even in his final moments. Each year, we run — like he did — to raise money for those who still suffer through surgeries and chemotherapy.
Ultimately, imagining Terry as an icon and not a human being takes away from the real heroism of what he accomplished. It ignores the fact that Terry wasn’t born exceptional. He made a choice he felt was in the best interest of those he cared most about, and he didn’t waver once until his disease forced him to step aside. That’s an example we could all learn from.
