It's not every day that one's work is read into the Congressional Record. So we're thrilled and honored that Senator Paul Kirk, who took over for the late Senator Edward Kennedy, chose Fiftyshift author and UMass Journalism Program Director Karen List's essay to enter into the record in honor of the 40th anniversary of Kennedy's first speech on health care. We're re-publishing here.

While being treated at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, Sen. Ted Kennedy offered compassion and encouragement to his fellow travelers. This essay was originally published in the Daily Hampshire Gazette of Northampton, Mass.

by Karen List

As Sen. Ted Kennedy's distinctive voice passed the torch at the  Democratic National Convention and promised us that the dream lives on, all I could think of was that same distinctive voice  calling out in the hospital corridor: "Where's Emily?"

Ted was at the other end of the hall in the Proton Therapy Center, Dept. of Radiation Oncology, at Massachusetts General Hospital, where both the senator and my daughter Emily were being treated for cancer.

The proton beam is cutting-edge treatment for certain types of  tumors, and the MGH center is one of only five in the country and a handful in the world.

We were lucky to be there, though it was getting increasingly hard to feel lucky as seven weeks of daily treatment took their toll on Emily and the other patients at the center.

They ranged in age from toddlers to the elderly. Little Caroline was five. Senator Kennedy was 77.  In between them were Emily, 23, and Alex, 26, two of just a few young adults in proton beam treatment.

Radiation burn was the worst side effect for many patients, and it was now preventing Emily from eating or talking. She was at a low point, and she needed a lift.

We had seen Teddy come and go for several days, slipping in through a side entrance and out the same way, always accompanied by his wife, Vicki. When our eyes happened to meet, we exchanged a thumb's up and were treated to that Kennedy smile - as distinctive as the voice.

The day before Ted's treatment was to end, Emily's nurse stopped by the room where she was being treated and pulled the curtain aside. Several minutes later we heard him call from the other end of the hallway: "Where's Emily?" And then he was there, talking to her, encouraging her - and just as quickly, he was gone.

Emily was so excited that she was hopping up and down in the bed from a reclining position, if such a thing is possible. But because she couldn't talk, she hadn't been able to say a word to one of the few politicians she really admires.

The next day, our nurse delivered the card we'd written to the  senator, explaining how thrilled Emily had been to meet him and how distressed she was that she couldn't tell him so herself.

On the  card was a photo of Emily at her favorite English pub, smiling her own distinctive smile. She had been home for a short break from her work interning in the London theater when she'd been diagnosed with cancer. Now she was battling to get her work and her life back.

Teddy had just finished his treatment. This time, as he came down the hall for the last time, Emily was ready. On the slate that she'd been using to communicate, she'd written in purple marker: "We love you, Ted."

The senator laughed, walked to her bedside and whispered to her for a few minutes in solidarity, while Vicki talked to Emily's dad and me. We exchanged heartfelt good wishes for each other as they left the center to return home.

Emily had another week of treatment left. During that time, her nurse told us how concerned Sen. Kennedy had been about the other patients, especially the children and young people - and their parents.

He had been through this same experience with his own son decades earlier when only one type of chemotherapy was available, unlike the cocktail of diverse chemo drugs that patients like Emily receive today.

This lifelong champion of health care for all Americans, especially children, had experienced once again - this time as the patient himself - what first-rate cancer care could mean. And he kept fighting for its accessibility to everyone as the senior Democrat on the Health, Education, Labor, and Pensions Committee.

On Emily's last day at the center, there was a special gift waiting for her. Ted had left her a copy of his book, "My Senator and Me: A Dog's-Eye View of Washington, D.C.," written by him and his dog Splash. It was inscribed: "To Emily - Splash and I hope you enjoy.

And she did. Ted had provided just the encouragement she needed. He'd also left a stack of books for other young patients and the book on tape for those whose vision had been compromised by their treatments.

Now it's almost fall, and little Caroline is starting kindergarten.  Senator Kennedy, who came from a hospital bed to speak at the convention, is planning his return to the Senate in January. Alex, an Apache helicopter pilot, is back at Ft. Campbell and expects to be deployed to Afghanistan in the new year.

And Emily hopes to be well enough by spring to return to her life in London.

The dream, as Senator Kennedy promised, does live on.
                                                        --Karen List

Karen List is Emily's mom and Director of the Journalism Program at UMass Amherst. Emily will soon be returning from London for the Christmas holidays.