A Performance Cut Short

Photo by @PlanetBlond

“And…. It’s. Starting. To. Rain.” I mumbled to myself with frustration as I felt the unmistakable raindrops strike by head moments before my favorite band, Imagine Dragons, were about to take the stage at the Quebec City Summer Festival, on July 13, 2019. I stood with Tonya in the “Avant-Scene” zone - a section close to the stage reserved for special ticket holders among a crowd of about 50,000 people- a treat that we had splurged on - something we never do. We not only bought the more expensive tickets, we drove about 18 hours from our home in Indiana (with an overnight stop in Toronto) to watch this band. This was not just a concert. This time the music felt personal.

It had been just over a year (June 2018) since I was diagnosed with gastric cancer. Although I enjoyed Imagine Dragon’s music before then, something changed in the way that I experienced it after the day that I was told to wear the C word on my chest. It would only be months later that I became impressed and moved by the band’s affiliation with cancer support groups, such as the Tyler Robinson Foundation, which helps financially support families who have children with cancer. But, my love for the band was rooted in their music. I remember listening to “Believer” and “Thunder” on my way to my first chemotherapy treatment. Just the raw energy of those songs made me feel a little stronger, a little braver, a little more confident that I could do this - that I could face the ugliness of cancer - and beat it. When I debated on what and how I should tell my girls (then 11 and 13) about my diagnosis and prognosis, the song “Bad Liar” hit pretty close to home.

“So look me in the eyes

Tell me what you see

Perfect paradise

Tearing at the seams

I wish I could escape

I don't wanna fake it

Wish I could erase it

Make your heart believe

But I'm a bad liar, bad liar.”

I started listening to their songs more intently and in almost each one, a story emerged that connected directly with me - giving me strength during my treatments, but more importantly, a voice or way to acknowledge the uncertainty that both lied in front of me and within me. When my prognosis became worse after my cancer spread (making it Stage 4) my conversations with the doctors couldn’t conceal my likely fate. Yet, others would tell me that I just need to believe that it will all be OK. Perhaps my favorite song, “Smoke and Mirrors” both lyrically and musically embodies my struggle of “just believing.” When those drums pound right before the chorus, it beautifully captures the disruption and anguish that this disease has brought my family and me.

"This is my word dream maker, life taker

All I believe, Is it a dream?

That comes crashing down on me?

All that I own

Is it just smoke and mirrors?

I want to believe

But all that I own

Is it just smoke and mirrors?”

And yet, here I stood over a year after my diagnosis, after 7 rounds of chemotherapy and 17 rounds of immunotherapy, feeling pretty incredible (thanks immunotherapy), standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowd of people in Quebec City staring at the stage hoping that the drop that I just felt on my head was somebody's drink. Or, maybe it was only my imagination. Perhaps it, too, was just another illusion, just part of the smoke and mirrors.

On the stage, you could see the silhouettes of the band members, who certainly needed no introductions, picking up their instruments and taking their places. And with little delay, blue lights filled the stage and a single deep unmistakable note from the bass guitar caused the crowd to erupt and the hair on my neck stood and chills went down my spine.

“B - o - o - o -m! Boo’da’DaBoomp!_ _ Boo’da’DaBoomp! _ _ Boo’da’DaBoomp!”

I shouted the opening lyrics to the opening song - “Believer” - as if I was directly confronting Cancer himself, this spiteful creature that crawled into my life.

“First things first

I’m gonna say all the words inside my head. 

I’m fired up and tired of the way that things have been, oo ohh.

Second thing second

Don’t tell me who you think that I can be. 

I’m the master of my sail. I’m the master of my sea, oh ooh.” 

The drizzles quickly turned to a steady rain, but it no longer mattered. The moment belonged to the Imagine Dragons and the crowd. The rain was secondary. And, as the song continued, Dan Reynolds, the lead singer, made clear that the rain was not going to control the evening. He was as he had just declared, “the master of his sail. The master of his sea.”

In fact, as he continued in the song, the rain that was streaming from above the lights looked just like another prop - part of the act. As he sang, Dan jumped to the beat of the music waving his arms in jubilation like a kid dancing in the rain. Smiling and singing, he looked up at the clouds as if to say, “Thanks for the rain.” He tore off his shirt, tossed it into the crowd, and seemed to celebrate getting drenched in water and then with perfect pitch and timing bounced in the puddles still looking up still singing (and declaring), “Til it broke up and it rained down. It rained down.”

It was magical. Tonya and I bounced with the music also singing the words - like two kids that had never seen rain before. The celebration of the rain moved right into the second song, “It’s Time.” And, once again, I felt like the band and the entire crowd were my back-up singers - singing with me - shouting at cancer that it doesn’t get to define me.

“I’m just the same as I was

Now don’t you understand

I’m never changing who I am” 

But, before the third song, Dan announced that there was some lightning in the area and they had been asked to take a 10 minute break, adding, “So I will hang out with all of you.” With that, the music came to stop and Dan jumped down off stage into the crowd and started giving out high-fives and meandering through the crowd as if he was a ticket holder at his own concert - just making his way to the beer line. His bigger-than-life personality and invencible stage presence suddenly dwarfed in comparison to the dark skies forming above. He may be able to control the sails of his ship, but it suddenly became clear he too was at the mercy of the forces from the clouds above.

A cool gust of wind swept across the crowd and the rain increased in intensity and dropped in temperature - no longer feeling refreshing, but instead chilling. Over the PA system, a pre-recorded message in French gave an announcement to the crowd. Although the voice was pleasant, the message didn’t seem to carry good news. It included “urgence” and “evacuer” and “reste calme”. Even though I don’t speak a lick of French, I thought it sounded a lot like, “Stay calm, but get the hell out.” Furthermore, the moan of the crowd was not a good sign. The crowd shifted like robots and started nudging towards the exits.

“Surely, they are just taking a break. They’ll wait out the storm and they will play some more.” I foolishly told myself. But the more the wind blew and the cold air blanketed us and the brighter the lightning became, the more I started to realize the hard truth. The concert was over. And with it, so vanished the joy and jubilance of the crowd. We were no longer fans joined by the love of the music capturing our attention. We were now just part of a living amoeba trying to squeeze around some barricades - leaving soaked and defeated through the entrances that we had only passed when entering a short time ago.

We returned safely to our hotel room. I looked out the window to the massive crowd of people along the streets shivering in the torrential rain hoping that the wait for a spot on one of the many city busses aligning the streets would move quickly. This was not just a delay. This was a cancellation. The concert really was over. There would be no third song. No encore presentation. No refund. No plan B. This was it.

I stripped out of my wet clothes and climbed into my bed next to Tonya and muttered my realization out loud, “That really was it.” But, after lying in my own disappointment for a moment, I replayed the image of Dan jumping - looking into the sky with that big smile and found myself also grinning ear to ear. I repeated my sentence - only this time changing my tone to enthusiasm. “That really was IT!” Adding, “I was hoping for more songs, but that was still worth it. This really was something special, something magical. That was the best performance that I had ever seen.”

Sure, I can’t help but wonder what I missed, but I also couldn’t stop thinking about what I had gained - both in this concert and in my life experiences. And, although I was disappointed that I didn’t get to see them perform my favorite song "Smoke and Mirrors," there were no illusions about what I had witnessed that night. I watched the rain pour down and reflected on my many fortunes and some of the lessons that I had been reminded of by my favorite rock band:

1. Turn “F**k. It’s raining.” to “F**k yeah it’s raining!”
   Although life will bring you struggles and suffering, see all challenges as learning opportunities and find joy even on cloudy days.


2. You may not get to decide when the curtain comes to a close, but you get to shape the memories that last from your short time on the stage.
   Live a life that brings joy to others, that reveals your talents, and makes the most of each moment.


3. Your real fans won’t just cheer you on like a rock star when the skies are clear, they will be there to carry you when the skies turn dark.
   Surround yourself with people that love you and support each other both on the good days and bad days.


4. Math and science explain the world around us. Language lets us share thoughts among us. But art let's us convey what stirs within us.
   Whether you are a creator or consumer of art - a poem, a painting, a song - your life is made richer, fuller with art. 

Thanks, Imagine Dragons, for sharing your art, for making my life fuller, and for giving me strength and peace this last year. I also want to thank you - and all my fans - for showing me that even a performance that is cut short can be pretty incredible.