As a living, breathing cancer survivor of one year, I was qualified to walk the first lap — the survivors’ lap — of the American Cancer Society’s Relay for Life fundraiser.

But try as I might, I couldn’t come up with a reason for wanting to. What would be the point?

Cheryl said it wasn’t that complicated. Walking the survivors’ lap would be a great way to celebrate the completion of my treatment and the prospect of continued life. Rituals matter, she said.

Marching around a college track with strangers certainly had ritual written all over it, but I wasn’t persuaded. The prospect didn’t move me.    

Rather than wait for me to see the light, Cheryl took matters into her own hands. She volunteered to staff a Relay for Life support booth organized by her coworkers.

Cleverly, she made sure her shift overlapped the survivors’ lap. And, of course, you’ll join me? she said.

The early morning scene behind Napa Valley College resembled a Renaissance Faire: an enthusiastic crowd, food for sale, dozens of tents, including several big white ones worthy of royalty.

I had imagined Relay for Life as a downer. Though the fog hadn’t yet burned off, it seemed I had misjudged.

Everyone appeared to know what they were doing. They had either worked hard to line up pledges, which would benefit cancer research and public education, or they had a support function.

I wasn’t sure where I fit in. I hadn’t raised any money. Cheryl had the booth job. My role was to show up for a victory lap? I felt like a fraud.

At the opening ceremony we listened to a Relay for Life poem — “All Are Our Heroes.” We watched four young women dance to a Relay for Life song.

A speaker choked up recounting how she was diagnosed with Stage 4 lung cancer in the 1990s, then watched it spread to two other organs. But here she was, cancer-free for more than a decade.

Her speech lacked Obama finesse, but the content — this woman had beaten the Big C!  — was awesome. We all applauded.

After two dozen doves were released, the call went out for the survivors, most of whom wore purple shirts, to line up. Cheryl disappeared. I found myself standing next to Jill Techel, Napa’s mayor.

Techel, a breast cancer survivor, said she hadn’t always been willing to attend Relay for Life. A cancer diagnosis knocks you for a loop. It took several years before she was able go forth under the cancer banner.

My feelings exactly.

As we began walking, Techel suggested we hold hands. That’s the Relay for Life tradition, she said.

Hold hands? The mayor and the city hall reporter? Won’t the god of journalism strike me dead?

I looked around. Everyone else was doing it. I took the hand of Jill, my cancer buddy.

An amazing thing happens on the survivors’ lap: People on the sidelines applaud. It’s as if you’ve just won the Olympic marathon.

Why this outpouring of emotion? I fished for an explanation.

Because we’ve been through a lot. Because we’ve stared at the limits of our mortality, but here we are, still walking. Because everyone can use a bucking up.

Even so, I was embarrassed. My eyes glazed over. I wished to be invisible.

I learned later that Cheryl had applauded more than anyone. She clapped at the start, then ran ahead and clapped again. And when that wasn’t enough, she ran on and clapped a third time.

When she told me this the next day, I was touched. Cheryl was my support hero.

At the end of the survivors’ lap, Jill and I quickly disentangled — like it never happened — and went our separate ways.

I vowed to tell my editor about this hand-holding breach in the wall between newsmakers and the Fourth Estate. If my coverage of Techel’s political life turns to fawning mush, he can trace it back to Relay for Life.

I spent the next two hours working next to Cheryl at her employer’s support table. I helped kids shoot basketballs, five tries for $1.

As the sun came out, the walker parade got thicker. It was the full spectrum of humanity. Each person had been touched by cancer in some way.

I felt good to be part of all this, although my core, where my cancer experience resided, still hadn’t thawed much. What emotions should I allow myself to experience? I didn’t know.

That night we watched an old episode of “House, M.D.” In the show, a little girl was diagnosed with cancer.

At Relay for Life, I’d been surrounded by real cancer patients, myself included, yet had kept a stiff upper lip. For the little girl on “House,” I cried.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com.