Pop89: Hope is the thing with wheels

By Madonna Hamel

I was asked a while ago by the Canadian Cancer Society to share my story about my experience using Wheels of Hope. I'm sorry it's taken this long because I really do want to express how it has helped and touched both me and my family.

Off the top, as a writer I have to say that both "wheels" and "hope" are two of my favourite words.

Ever since I got behind the "wheel" of a car I have valued the freedom and independence driving gave me. My dad sold cars and family vacations every summer were long road trips. The moment I turned sixteen I got my driver's licence and became the family bus driver, taking siblings to school, sporting events and practices in mom's 1968 Rebel Rambler. On weekends I took to sneaking off into the hills or across the Okanagan Lake in search of new vistas and places to write in my journal. In 1977 I drove that Rebel to university on Vancouver Island and continued my rambling. To be an adult meant having the freedom to get up on any given day and decide to drive to another town, visit an old friend, attend a conference or event.

My life on the road with my bluesman beau James Armstrong was one of the best times of my life – traversing America to play clubs and festivals, getting to know each other in the way only fellow sojourners can. Musicians are professional drivers, most people don't realize that: you drive all day and when you finally arrive at your destination you don't call it a day – your day – your night – has just begun. I've driven across Canada and the States several times – earning the status as the Canadian rep of the Route 66 Federation along the way. When I was Quebec's writer-broadcaster-festival gypsy I was handed the keys to the company car and a gas card, and lived on the road for several months. And when I moved to work for Robert Harris at Radio 2 I managed to convince him to let me drive to Nashville to meet with musicians to talk about the new musical Grammy genre: Americana. "The Road" is central to Americana, Rosanne Cash reminded me. (You can hear our conversation about it in "Portrait of Lincoln with the Wart" available on YouTube.)

Having been diagnosed with brain cancer and having to give up driving means no more days of roaming – but even harder, no more driving to the nearest city for groceries, doc appointments, supplies etc. When I was taken to ICU and eventually moved into the Cancer Care Lodge – another much-appreciated service I will always treasure – I became dependent on others taking me the long 4-5 hour haul from Val Marie to Saskatoon.

I'm hugely thankful that on those days when I couldn't go to the hospital alone, I could bring my sister with me, who offered equal support, conversation and assistance. And hope. Hope is an operative word here. Lately there seems to be an attitude of despair in the world that has turned Hope into a form of naivete and even disillusionment. But, as my own childhood religious tradition reminds me, hope is faith – and in the case of Wheels of Hope I knew I could rest my faith in the driver taking me to where I needed to be. The road to Saskatoon was clogged with construction, long waits and frustrated motorists, but we always got where we were going.

Sometimes hope is confused with false optimism and a glass half-empty doubt. But if the Wheels of Hope vehicles can be compared to glasses – ours/mine were always full of hope and faith that we were getting the best care. Everybody does the best they can with what they have at the time and I saw that in action. They also had faith-hope in the services I benefited from upon arrival – they knew our stories, our struggles and the medical care that was ready and waiting to provide faith and hope in all of us.

I would not have been able to tolerate this cancer expedition without Wheels of Hope. When I was told I could have a driver take me from the cancer lodge and, later, from a friend's house in town I was so relieved. I had no idea how it would be otherwise possible to make it to all my radiation and oncology appointments. Cancer is daunting enough without the helplessness of journeying between hospitals, etc.

The support, humour and patience of the volunteer drivers made all the difference for me. They bolstered my one day at a time attitude toward my predicament. (The word "journey" gets used a lot to describe a person's sojourn through illness. I have come to call it an expedition or adventure – as I am venturing forth into unknown territory.)

The drivers were always aware of the times of my appointments, the duration and even the nature of them and they were always there, ready and waiting for me at both points of departure and arrival.

Yesterday my sister Celeste and my pal Avril drove me in my car to Saskatoon for another series of medical appointments. We talked about our own road trip histories. We've each experienced the great Canadian cross-country haul – setting up a new home in a new province, dragging our pasts with us, which, in my case, included a library of books impossible to part with.

I still remember the day we pulled into Hope, BC on our way to Victoria where we were on our way to university. Sitting by the Fraser River, eating ice cream cones, we looked at each other. I said: "Well, here we are, sitting in Hope." "In hope of what I'm not quite sure," Celeste laughed, as we'd just finished complaining about our boyfriends. While we may have felt hopeless, we never felt alone, at least, I didn't. We had each other, and we had wheels.

Hope is the thing with wheels, I heard myself say not long ago while packing for my next appointment in another town. I was paraphrasing Emily Dickinson's "Hope is the thing with feathers." If hope is a bird then my cars – including their radiator 'explosions', fender-benders and lost hubcaps – have helped me take flight with high hopes.