An unlikely friendship: How an undergrad formed a forever bond with a cancer patient at Vanderbilt

Randy Lowe was no foreigner to death’s doorstep but this time felt different. He had pulled so many last minute surprise miracle recoveries that even his oncologists started to believe that cancer wasn’t strong enough to defeat him.

But this time was notably different for one major reason- this time, it was Randy who didn’t think he was going to make it.

I had gotten this bit of heavy information during my pre-shift report as a nursing assistant at Vanderbilt University Medical Center on the myelosuppression/Bone Marrow Transplant floor. This was a place where the sickest oncology patients received care, a place where Randy had called home for many months.

Having served Randy and his wife Becky since they first checked in on the floor, I walked into his room to assess the situation. Taking one look at him, I immediately knew that he looked significantly worse than I had left him at the end of my last shift.

I looked at Becky whose face was absent her normally contagious smile. I nervously asked both of them my standard greeting when entering a patient room: “How’s it going guys?”

“It’s not looking good” Becky replied for the both of them. “We’ve had a really rough day.”

I cautiously approached Randy, who wasn’t even able to lift up his head. I put my gloved hand on his shoulder and quietly said “Hey buddy- it’s Ben. How are you feeling?”

Randy’s eyes barely opened and he arduously turned his head toward me and replied “Not good my friend, I think this might be the end.”

As his words to me sunk in, I knew that his condition had to be really bad. Diagnosed with an aggressive type of Leukemia, Randy had been sick for a long time and had had countless ups and downs. Throughout his time in the hospital, it seemed like everything that could go bad, did. One step forward, two steps back seemed to be the motto for his battle with cancer. But in the weeks I had known him, he never complained or showed any sign of doubt. So when he told me that he thought he was close to dying, I was really shocked.

As I contemplated what to say to my patient turned friend, I remembered a brief conversation I had with them a few weeks previous. At the time, I was in Naval ROTC in college, and Becky and Randy always asked about my Naval service. They are both great patriots and love the armed forces.

In a lighthearted tone, I posed a question to Randy: “If you don’t live through the night, then how are you going to come to my Naval commissioning ceremony?” As I had told them a few days prior, my commissioning ceremony would be the formal ceremony where I transitioned into an active-duty Naval officer.

Right away, Randy picked up his head and asked me in a fully serious tone “When is it?”

“Next May” I replied. “I’ll be there,” he said.

He set his head down and I knew at that moment that he was going to survive, that he was going to make it to my ceremony almost a full year later. What I didn’t know was how deeply this moment would affect me in my own life, and how immensely I would come to value Becky and Randy’s friendship.

A few weeks later, Randy was discharged from the hospital and went to an in-patient rehab center. I went to visit him shortly after, and he surprised me by standing to greet me. I hadn’t seen him stand for months due to him being bedridden- I nearly yelled in excitement. This was classic Randy- defeating the odds regardless of what anyone else told him.

A few months later, well after Randy was discharged, I drove 5 hours from Nashville to Kingsport to visit Becky and Randy. My incredibly gracious hosts showed me around their whole town- with special stops at the church where they were married and the church/school where Becky works part-time. I saw where they came from and met many members of their extended family.

It was this trip where I started to more fully understand Randy’s hard-earned wisdom gained only through enormous sacrifice and personal hardship. Sitting in his living room, I asked how he remains so positive despite such tragedy. His answer was one that I will never forget: “You know, I’ve been told by doctors 13 different times that I am going to die. But I’m still here. When my time comes, I am ready.” In Randy’s presence, I reflected on my own life. What were the things that were taking up my concern? What problems of my own were way out of proportion? It is hard to still feel the weight of your problems while looking at a man who has real ones.

When it finally came time for my Navy commissioning ceremony, Becky and Randy did make the 5-hour trek to support me. We coordinated the logistics of getting them into the auditorium on the day of the ceremony- no easy task with Vanderbilt University’s large campus and Randy’s wheelchair. Barely able to stand, it sent chills down my spine to know that the only time throughout the weekend that Randy forced himself to stand up was for the national anthem played by the US Army band.

I have learned so much from Becky and Randy, and have always admired the fact that I have never once heard either of them complain about Randy’s illness. Even in the worst circumstances, Becky still has her infectious smile and Randy always finds the energy to jam out to the Charlie Daniels band. These people know what life is about- what really matters. For Randy and Becky, every day is a gift- literally.

On September 3, 2022, Randy’s time finally came- he was finally called home. Most powerfully, Becky told Randy that if he “sees Jesus reach out his hand, it’s okay to take it- but to keep fighting until then.” We can only imagine what it was like for Randy to see that outstretched hand after such a long and well-fought battle.

The night after my Navy commissioning ceremony, my caravan of family and friends from Pennsylvania spent hours with Becky and Randy in their hotel room visiting and laughing. As I sat in the corner looking at the 15 people in their hotel room smiling and inspired by them, I grasped the incredible gift that Becky and Randy are to the world. Thank you, my great friends.