Cancer, Coronavirus, and the Magic of Little Richard

I was driving to the hospital Sunday evening to urgently evaluate a young woman with triple-negative breast cancer whose disease had unexpectedly spread to her brain. Thoughts of fear, isolation, and smoldering melancholy entered my mind. As an oncologist, it has been a grueling 3 months. Cancer patients and caregivers, by necessity, must operate in a realm of uncertainty—but now coronavirus-2019 (COVID-19) has asked us all to do the same. As I curved down Normal Blvd, I noticed the Japanese crab apples were already in full bloom. It happened so quickly—I missed another spring. I promised myself I would catch next year’s coloration with more curiosity and awareness. The pendulum of life swings from winter to summer, from faith to doubt, from joy to sorrow. I thought about the young mother I was about to meet in the intensive care unit. How do we create a dual framework for our lives of maintaining hope while accepting the possibility of dying?

I reflected on my own uncertainties: Am I good enough? Do I matter? Does any of this matter? I began to think about Charles Darwin and the paradox between the infinite universe and the slow, meticulous changes that occur over the arc of our lifetime. Here we are on this earthly rock, a small drop in the constellation of stars, moving through space and time. Yet in just one moment we can dramatically alter the trajectory of our own lives and the lives of those around us: a healing touch, a kind smile, an outstretched hand, a fresh batch of cookies you baked yourself.

I turned the radio on to mute my existential fear. A news report of Little Richard’s death started playing in the background. I recalled the summer of 2016, when I was working as a physician in Nashville, Tennessee. One of my patients was Jesse Boyce, a renowned songwriter and Little Richard’s close friend and band leader. Jesse approached his own diagnosis of stage IV prostate cancer with a passion and intentionality that is hard to find. He taught me that healing occurs beyond the physical. He viewed his diagnosis as an opportunity to look at the world through the eyes of the heart.

One Sunday, Jesse invited me to meet Little Richard. His whereabouts in Nashville were always mysterious. Tourists would report only rare sightings of him being chauffeured in a black SUV up and down Broadway St. We arrived at the hotel where he lived for over a decade. It overlooked the Country Music Hall of Fame and provided him with a youthful energy and steady connection to the music industry. As we entered the lobby, Jesse whispered a secret password to the hotel concierge, who then escorted us to a private elevator. After reaching the top floor, 2 bodyguards marched us to his penthouse. There he was, an octogenarian sitting in a silver chair that resembled a throne. He wore sunglasses and a dazzling pair of diamond-studded cowboy boots gifted to him by Elvis Presley. He told me about his early childhood, growing up in Macon, Georgia, and his father—a mason who sold bootlegged moonshine. He was ridiculed for his feminine appearance, musical style, and gait. As a flamboyant African American in the segregated Deep South during the 1940s, he was one of the most marginalized individuals in society. His music career began in seedy underground clubs and traveling burlesque shows. It was against all odds and at the taboo edges of society that rock and roll was born. He was later nicknamed the “originator” and “architect” of rock and roll, inspiring a generation of musicians to follow. What struck me most about Little Richard was his indelible faith, passion for life, and commitment to friends and family. He opened up about his mother’s death from cancer and the grief that followed. He spoke of how her death fractured his heart, not in a destructive sense but in a way that expanded his capacity to love. There was an urgency to his evangelical voice, wanting us to make amends with the world.

As we left the hotel, I wondered out loud how I could ever come back down from an emotional experience like that. Jesse reminded me that “you don’t need to come back down; just remain elevated and lift others up around you.” Jesse died the following year, and Little Richard spoke at his funeral. He emphasized how we must be open to the experience of loss to allow it to affect us in unique ways and to know that we are not alone. He encouraged us to hold the unanswerable questions close to our heart, to explore them, and to begin a dialogue with the world about them. To measure the events of our lives against them and to accept the reality that some things are unknowable.

As I knelt at the bedside of my own patient, I channeled the spirits of Jesse Boyce and Little Richard. I began to realize that spiritual awaking doesn’t change life; it changes our relationship to suffering. The loss is the same, only the meaning changes, and as the meaning changes, perhaps the suffering begins to fade. I broke COVID-19 protocol and placed my hand on her knee. I informed her that the disease had rapidly spread to her brain and treatment options were now limited. In that moment, there was a profound awareness that she could never go back to the world she once knew.

On the silent drive home, I looked out the car window. People were wearing face masks and walking down the sidewalk staggered 6-feet-apart with their weary heads held low. Thoughts of fear, isolation, and melancholy reentered my mind. It was a clear reminder that we, too, may never go back to the world we once knew. But maybe we don’t want to go back to the same old ways; maybe these powerful experiences will change us. The issues we face in our life are not always about resolution; they are about expansiveness. How big can we become in the face of uncertainty? How much can we hold in our hearts at any given moment? How can we channel the wisdom of our angels or the energy of Little Richard’s rock and roll into something beautiful? At that moment, I realized that faith and hope can be discovered in unexpected ways: a lasting belief that life will be OK regardless of the outcome. Joy is independent of the journey back home. It’s here, waiting patiently inside our hearts.