Do you remember watching Neil Armstrong walk on the moon on July 21, 1969? Can you remember where you were on September 11? How about during O.J. Simpson's trial?
On October 3, 1995, an estimated audience of 140 million watched the verdict live, and O.J. Simpson was acquitted of the murders.
I know exactly where I was.
My roommate's TV had the trial on around the clock. When my parents arrived for breakfast, my dad commanded the remote control, as he had every day since surgery. He pulled the guest chair over to touch my bedside and studied the news. I hoped it distracted him because nothing could have distracted me from the pain.
A nurse came to check my vitals and told us that every room had it playing, so the staff were also in the loop. I suppose we deserved entertainment in the hospital, especially the patients. The fragility of our lives strangely mirrored a public figure's future in limbo. In hindsight, it was like a drug.
The verdict stopped the entire nation in its tracks. The hospital wing quieted. My dad's hand grabbed mine. "Not guilty," echoed down the sterile halls. The media's spell was undeniable. The finale was captivating. Time stood still.
My parents were shocked—my stranger-roommate was yelling profanities. Some unexpected applause was coming from somewhere, but not from my room.
An hour and a half after the verdict, the hospital's halls were still buzzing in response. Every network recapped the event from the mounted TVs—it was chaotic. Then, a procession of doctors walked through my open door. I didn't recognize any of them.
The lead doctor pulled my curtain across the bars. He pulled up the spare chair, and my mom backed out of the way and stood under the TV. She was always standing. Dad remained bedside. But he turned off the television.
The doctor, Dr. H, would become my oncologist. He explained that there were "malignancies" in the final pathology report." I had cancer—ovarian cancer at eighteen. He went on to recommend chemotherapy and told me that I "might lose some hair"—I lost it all.
How many people would care if my earth-shattering diagnosis was broadcast then? It would be movie-like, happening in slow motion.
I had never seen my father cry until that moment. He went out into the hall, and through the open sliver left in the curtain, I saw him hunched over into a shape of utter despair.
My roommate was newly silent. But I don't recall how I reacted or when I cried. I assume that was owed to shock. I can only remember O.J.'s face. Still.
I wondered if the pathologist was fully concentrating or multitasking with CNN. I wondered if Dr. H waited until after the big verdict to deliver mine. Like all cancer patients, I wondered, Why me?
O.J. was undoubtedly guilty by association with my traumatic experience. His simultaneous victory became my loss. His news screamed freedom while I was sentenced to cancer. And then to a lifetime of hoping it won't come back—it hasn't.
Last night, I dreamt about the hospital wing. However, the TV screens showed static, that fuzz when a channel would go out. Am I trying to lose the connection? Or is cancer becoming a blur? Both ideas are logical. I need both to be true.
The widespread coverage of his passing opened the wound. So, what will sew it up again? Perhaps O.J.'s death can break the bond I have with him. Maybe I've been granted the long-awaited permission to acknowledge my survival and rediscover my innocence.
Jenni Dawn Muro is a survivor of a cancer diagnosis which occurred in her teens, and a spinal cord and brain injury survivor. Jenni also braved a career in Hollywood, working with some of the most famous talent in the world. She leads writing workshops for cancer and health organizations, is an entertainment consultant, and is currently at work on a memoir. Her writing has been featured in Newsweek, Zibby Magazine, and Beyond Words Literary Magazine.
All views expressed are the author's own.
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About the writer
Jenni Dawn Muro is a professional survivor of a cancer diagnosis in her teens to a spinal cord and brain ... Read more
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