Good Survival Story

HOME OF THE BRAVE

To her, every day is a gift — and Sunday was great

Before she had cancer, Lisa Covington rarely sang in public. On Sunday, she had an audience of 78,000.

“Wow!” Lisa Covington exulted after singing “The Star-Spangled Banner” on Sunday at Arrowhead Stadium. The Lenexan was chosen to sing as part of events to promote breast cancer awareness.
Lisa Covington’s heart beat hard, exactly as it did five years ago when the doctor took her hand and whispered, “You have a month to live.”

In 2001, she had breast cancer and a prognosis that she would not live. On Sunday, Covington, 37, of Lenexa, stood near the field at Arrowhead Stadium, minutes away from singing the national anthem. Her husband, two sons and about 100 friends were in the stands, about to witness something that none of them ever thought would happen.

“She went from someone who shouldn’t be alive — who needed oxygen to barely breathe — to being about to sing at a Chiefs game,” said Katie Linden, one of Covington’s best friends. “It’s a miracle.”

Covington wore a pink bandana in her red hair, a pink Chiefs T-shirt and jeans. Her cancer now is in full remission, and she is a burst of energy. She talks to strangers excitedly, hugs them once they’ve met, and talks fast and loud.

“I’ve learned to live life for today,” she said. “Because you never know. … And the cancer, it’ll come back. For me, it’s not a matter of if. It’s when.”

Covington walked over to the players’ water cooler and snagged something to drink. Then Chiefs wide receiver and kick returner Dante Hall walked out and began signing autographs, so close to her that their shoulders touched.

“Who’s that that everyone’s screaming to talk to?” Covington asked a Chiefs employee.
“That’s Dante Hall.”

“Who?” Covington said. She laughed and admitted, “I don’t know anything about football.”
Then a man wearing headphones walked over to her and said, “It’s time to go.”

Covington smiled, gulped, and walked nervously across the field.
•••

Covington was 31 when she found the lump in her right breast. It was Easter 2001. Her doctor told her as gently as possible that she had stage two ductal carcinoma.

Within two weeks, Covington had a mastectomy. Then chemotherapy. Her hair fell out. She grew so weak she couldn’t bathe herself. She left her human resources job at Sprint Corp. Covington’s younger sister, Chavon Glidewell, dropped out of college to care for her.

Somehow, though, Covington survived.

“She’s a real fighter,” Glidewell said.

Covington eventually had her right breast completely reconstructed.

In June 2003, Covington and 10 girlfriends were sitting in a Chili’s restaurant in Overland Park. She’d had breathing problems earlier that week.

Her cell phone rang. It was her doctor’s office. “The cancer is back,” the woman said. “It’s in your lungs. It’s very advanced — stage four.” She went through another 15 months of chemotherapy. She participated in seven clinical trials. A priest performed the sacrament of the sick. In 2004, the family spent much of the money they had on Christmas presents. They thought it would be her last.

“She’d be lying there on the floor, ready to die, saying, ‘I just can’t do ” Linden said. this anymore,’ Covington, her family and friends decided, needed daily goals — something to get her out of bed each day.

Covington had always dreamed of singing in a band. She had never had voice lessons, but she had a beautiful voice that she showcased around the house and on karaoke night at a local bar.
Covington sang her children to sleep every night. Son Brennon, now 9, always requested the same song: the national anthem.

“Someday you’ll sing that song at a Chiefs game,” he would tell her after she sang.

She soon began singing classic rock around town at small bars, often for free. Meanwhile, Covington’s doctor started her on a new drug that had previously worked on cases involving ovarian cancer. She started to feel better.

“Lisa had to make herself get up to go to band practice,” Linden said. “She’d pull herself out of bed when she didn’t want to and get there. … She had goals and she strove to meet them, and that’s why she survived. It was her spirit that kept her alive.”

Covington got involved with the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation and other cancer foundations. She sang at breast cancer events. When word spread that the National Football League and the Chiefs would sell pink merchandise Oct. 1 and donate the proceeds for Breast Cancer Awareness Month, Covington remembered her son’s prediction.

The Chiefs needed a breast cancer survivor to sing the national anthem. Covington made a tape and sent it in. A few weeks ago, her cell phone rang. This time it was someone telling her to mark Oct. 1 on the calendar.
•••

Covington walked across the field, stopped on the 50-yard line and turned around. She stared up at the thousands of fans and beamed.

“Here are your Kansas City Chiefs!” an announcer said over the stadium’s speakers, and out came the players, the roar of the fans beating down on Covington. Covington’s husband, Jim, was in the stands with their sons, Brennon and 13-year-old Blake. Covington’s father, her sister and other friends were there too, looking down as she cleared her voice....

The announcer’s voice blared: “Please join two-time breast cancer survivor Lisa Covington in the singing of our national anthem!” The crowd erupted again. Then they went quiet.

Covington sang for 90 seconds, her voice strong and beautiful, her face flushed with excitement. Her kids clapped. Her husband smiled. When she finished, about 80,000 people went wild.
“Wow!” Covington screamed when she finished, clenching both fists and pumping her arms. “Wow!”

She walked quickly off the field. Players stopped to shake her hand. People kept cheering. Chiefs quarterback Trent Green, still recovering from a severe concussion, walked up, touched Covington on the shoulder and said, “Great job!” They shook hands.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

“Trent Green — the quarterback,” the Chiefs employee said, smiling.

Covington then headed into the stands. She wanted to see her family, but strangers grabbed her hand, hugged her and yelled, “Way to go!”“This was great,” she said. “This was a good day.”

She got closer to her husband and her kids. “I just want to hug them” she said. When she found them, she ran across the aisle of Section 124, Row 14. They embraced and kissed. Then she sat down in Seat 15 and smiled.

It felt good to be alive.

KEITH MEYER...KANSAS CITY STAR