It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life by Lance Armstrong
Authors: Lance Armstrong
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understand, Bill. I’m not going to have an agent anymore. I’m not going to have any contracts.”
“Well, I’m not here as an agent, I’m here as your friend. How can I help?”
It was one of those moments when everything shifted. I was obsessing over the fact that I was going to lose my career, when there were more important things to attend to.
“You can pick up my mother at the airport,” I said.
Bill and Laura immediately got up from the sofa and drove to the airport to get my mother. I was just as glad not to meet her flight, because as soon as she saw Bill, she broke down in tears
again. “This is my baby,” she told Bill and Laura. “How could this happen? What are we going to do?” But during the drive to my house, my mother collected herself. She was born without an
ounce of self-pity, and by the time she reached my driveway she was strong again. As soon as she walked in the house, I met her in the center of the living room and gave her a bear hug.
“We’re going to be okay,” my mother said into my ear. “This isn’t going to get us. We’ve had too many things to deal with. This is one thing that won’t happen. Don’t even try this with me.”
We both cried a little then, but not for very long, because there was too much to discuss. I sat down with my friends and my mother, and explained to them what the diagnosis from Dr.
Reeves was. There were some issues to go over and some decisions to be made, and we didn’t have much time, because I was scheduled for surgery at 7 A.M. I pulled out the X ray that I’d
brought home from Dr. Reeves, and showed it to everybody. You could see the tumors, like white golf balls, floating in my lungs.
I was concerned about keeping the illness quiet until I’d had time to tell my sponsors and teammates. While I continued to talk to my mother, Bill called the hospital and asked that my
diagnosis be kept confidential and that I be checked in under an assumed name. Also, we had to tell my sponsors, Nike, Giro, Oakley, and Milton-Bradley, as well as the Cofidis organization,
and it would be necessary to hold a press conference. But first and foremost I had to tell the people who were closest to me, friends like Och, and Chris, and my teammates, and most of
them were scattered overseas and difficult to reach.
Everyone reacted differently to the news; some people stuttered, and some tried to reassure me, but what all of my friends had in common was their urge to come to Austin as quickly as
possible. Och was at home in Wisconsin having dinner when I reached him, and his reaction was, in retrospect, pure him.
“Are you sitting down?” I asked.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got cancer.”
“Okay. What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve got testicular cancer and I’m having surgery tomorrow.”
“All right, let me think about this,” Och said, calmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Finally, it was time to go to bed. The funny thing was, I slept deeply that night. I went into a state of absolutely perfect rest, as if I was getting ready for a big competition. If I had a tough
race in front of me I always made sure to get the optimum amount of sleep, and this was no different, I suppose. On some unconscious level, I wanted to be in absolutely peak form for
what I would be faced with in the coming days.
The next morning, I reported to the hospital at 5. I drove myself there, with my mother in the passenger seat, and I walked through the entrance in a baggy sweatsuit to begin life as a cancer
patient. First came a series of basic tests, things like MRIs and blood work. I had a faint hope that the doctors would do all their tests and tell me they had been wrong, that my illness wasn’t
that serious. But those words didn’t come.
I had never stayed overnight in a hospital, and I didn’t know about things like registration, so I hadn’t even brought my wallet. I guess I was always too busy throwing away my crutches and
taking out
“Well, I’m not here as an agent, I’m here as your friend. How can I help?”
It was one of those moments when everything shifted. I was obsessing over the fact that I was going to lose my career, when there were more important things to attend to.
“You can pick up my mother at the airport,” I said.
Bill and Laura immediately got up from the sofa and drove to the airport to get my mother. I was just as glad not to meet her flight, because as soon as she saw Bill, she broke down in tears
again. “This is my baby,” she told Bill and Laura. “How could this happen? What are we going to do?” But during the drive to my house, my mother collected herself. She was born without an
ounce of self-pity, and by the time she reached my driveway she was strong again. As soon as she walked in the house, I met her in the center of the living room and gave her a bear hug.
“We’re going to be okay,” my mother said into my ear. “This isn’t going to get us. We’ve had too many things to deal with. This is one thing that won’t happen. Don’t even try this with me.”
We both cried a little then, but not for very long, because there was too much to discuss. I sat down with my friends and my mother, and explained to them what the diagnosis from Dr.
Reeves was. There were some issues to go over and some decisions to be made, and we didn’t have much time, because I was scheduled for surgery at 7 A.M. I pulled out the X ray that I’d
brought home from Dr. Reeves, and showed it to everybody. You could see the tumors, like white golf balls, floating in my lungs.
I was concerned about keeping the illness quiet until I’d had time to tell my sponsors and teammates. While I continued to talk to my mother, Bill called the hospital and asked that my
diagnosis be kept confidential and that I be checked in under an assumed name. Also, we had to tell my sponsors, Nike, Giro, Oakley, and Milton-Bradley, as well as the Cofidis organization,
and it would be necessary to hold a press conference. But first and foremost I had to tell the people who were closest to me, friends like Och, and Chris, and my teammates, and most of
them were scattered overseas and difficult to reach.
Everyone reacted differently to the news; some people stuttered, and some tried to reassure me, but what all of my friends had in common was their urge to come to Austin as quickly as
possible. Och was at home in Wisconsin having dinner when I reached him, and his reaction was, in retrospect, pure him.
“Are you sitting down?” I asked.
“What’s going on?”
“I’ve got cancer.”
“Okay. What does that mean?”
“It means I’ve got testicular cancer and I’m having surgery tomorrow.”
“All right, let me think about this,” Och said, calmly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Finally, it was time to go to bed. The funny thing was, I slept deeply that night. I went into a state of absolutely perfect rest, as if I was getting ready for a big competition. If I had a tough
race in front of me I always made sure to get the optimum amount of sleep, and this was no different, I suppose. On some unconscious level, I wanted to be in absolutely peak form for
what I would be faced with in the coming days.
The next morning, I reported to the hospital at 5. I drove myself there, with my mother in the passenger seat, and I walked through the entrance in a baggy sweatsuit to begin life as a cancer
patient. First came a series of basic tests, things like MRIs and blood work. I had a faint hope that the doctors would do all their tests and tell me they had been wrong, that my illness wasn’t
that serious. But those words didn’t come.
I had never stayed overnight in a hospital, and I didn’t know about things like registration, so I hadn’t even brought my wallet. I guess I was always too busy throwing away my crutches and
taking out
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