LiveSTRONG.

When I see those little yellow liveSTRONG bands dangling on the wrists of the thousands of people that own them; I don't think of Lance Armstrong, necessarily.

I own one. It sits prestigiously above my latex-free, blue-gloved, left hand and above my watch. I turn the words so I can read them, because when I wear it it's not for others to admire. It's for me to occasionally glance down at in hopes to spark that Carpe Diem philosophy everyone has, yet always forgets. I use it to remind me how precious life is. And even though I'm in the "business" that affords me that opportunity every day, it's that little yellow band that actually clears out my cobwebs.

I admire Lance Armstrong. But I admire that 33 year old, newlywed with child on the way, man who I met sitting in an uncomfortable recovery chair after having received chemotherapy. The orange colored foam recliner was in full extension, feet even with his head. Blood pressure cuff and oxygen tubes leashed this young, fit man to a hospital wall. Around him, frantic nurses trying to remember that one lecture on emergency management. And by his side, round and awkward, was his wonderful wife. Eyes glossed over from not allowing the tears to escape, she sat confidently next to her new husband while he had a host of poisons introduced into his blood stream.

He had passed out. And he had passed out for a considerable time while resting flat, feet level with his heart. His blood pressure had plummeted and his heart rate soared. It was as if his heart was running a marathon and the rest of his body was on break. The wife suffocated every urge to scream and cry as the nurses performed menial, non-beneficial tasks. 911 was called.

I entered the room and quickly found the Waldo that didn't belong in this picture. Elderly, weak patients sat in these recliners reading Harper's and The New York Times. They were skinny, yellow, frail and above all, sick-looking. They were what you expected to see. But in the corner, under a window where the sun illuminated the pregnant belly of his wife like a theater spotlight, he sat. Reclined, he was pale, white as a ghost. He had beads of sweat on his forehead and his recently shaved head was two shades lighter than the rest of his body.

The heart rate monitor beeped like a time bomb waiting to explode. The closer I got to him, the louder it seemed. I smiled as I approached. Introduced myself to both he and his wife and shook their hands like a politician. Like floodgates about to explode, his wife's eyes stared right through me as I began talking to her husband.

He was my age. He was clean-shaven and dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, Nike's laced to his feet. I looked at him and it was as though I was looking into a magical mirror. The Outside magazine on his lap, the Timex wristwatch on the same arm as mine, the Nalgene bottle full of water with a sticker from Alaska, and a simple silver ring slid over his fourth index finger on his left hand. My stomach sank.

He was pale, sweaty, bald and lethargic. All he could do was smile. The cancerous tumor was growing confidently around his aorta. It was growing exponentially and was feeding on this young, healthy man. They, the doctors, were afraid this would happen, but not this soon. He, too, realized what was happening because his eyes told the story. He looked into my soul, and without words, begged me to help him make it through this.

We loaded him up. Covered him with blanket and strapped the two seatbelts across his chest and legs. The monitor still chirped incessantly in the background and the IV fluids were placed between his legs. The wife gathered all their belongings. The iPod, the magazine, her cell phone, and the emergency hospital bag with changes of clothes in it; the one they carried hoping they wouldn't have to use, the one that was packed just in case he deteriorated and had to stay in the hospital.

I told his wife he was in good hands. With a crooked smile on my face, I told them that this wasn't my first day - it was my second. We all smiled briefly as they both then realized that he was in good hands, that I would do everything in this cold, unjust world to make sure he got to the hospital safely.

We began to wheel him out of the facility and into my ambulance. He grabbed his wife's hand and held it briefly. His pale, cold hands squeezed as he told her he would be alright. The levy broke and puddles of tears streamed down her face.

As he let go I noticed that little, yellow band. The one that read liveSTRONG above his watch on his left hand. The one, just like mine, that faced him so he could look down and be inspired. That same little, yellow band that I now look down at on my wrist in hopes that it will inspire me.

The one that reminds me of him.