About Me

Profile

About: Hi Everybody!

My name is Kate Fisher (but those who knew me as a teenager call me Honey Badger). I am a sophomore here at the University of Texas, and I am from Southlake, Texas (and also Reno, Nevada; Frankfurt, Germany; Smyrna, Georgia; Marietta, Georgia; St. Louis, Missouri; and probably someplace else who even knows). I have two brothers, one who’s 22 and named Nick (also goes by Nuck) and a 16-year-old named Michael (but requests to be called Flapjack). My mom is an aspiring hippie, and my cycling fanatic dad has enthusiastically signed on to be my Texas 4000 pageant mom/momager.

I am thrilled to be a part of this wonderful organization and beautiful celebration of life. Thank you for taking the time to visit this page and learn about Texas 4000, and I would be so grateful for any and all donations! (Please help me)(All donators to my page will receive a complimentary baby giraffe)(Shipping and handling and baby giraffe not included).

Why I Ride

I’m one of the lucky ones - my family doesn’t have a strong history of cancer. Nevertheless, it has touched my life through friends, neighbors, teachers, co-workers and even strangers. One summer I spent seven weeks shadowing doctors at the Dallas Veterans Affairs hospital, and I often think of a patient I met there.

“Mr. Jackson” was a grumpy, tired man. After returning from the Vietnam War, he rarely ventured from his remote Texas ranch. He’d become terrified by cities, and even more so by hospitals. So he let years pass as cancer crept across his face, from one ear to the next, and only sought help when he could no longer pry either eye open to see.

Mr. Jackson endured the turmoil of war as a young man, and he retreated to a quiet life. Mr. Smith’s cancer forced him from his sanctuary and into an incessant battle with his body.

When the doctor I shadowed would check in on him, Mr. Jackson would lift his body up out of bed, gather his things, and threaten to board the next bus to a different hospital. He would sometimes banter, often desperately plea, and then furiously cry. He was determined to find a hospital that would perform the risky, and perhaps impossible, surgery to place a metal stint on one of his eyes. He would endure anything to regain just enough vision to return to his quiet ranch.

Mr. Jackson was confused by his condition and deeply distressed by his suffering. In my time with him, I saw the physical, mental and emotional toll cancer takes. I saw what it’s like for a person to have his body sabotaged and betrayed by his own cells. I don’t want this to happen to me, or my family, or my veterans, or any one else.

Though our only paths crossed briefly, I am moved by the fight within Mr. Jackson. I will ride for him, who lived his last few months in a cold, strange-smelling hospice unit, wishing for a bus to take him back home.