My Last Entry -- What I Learned

I am not invincible.

Running in five Komen for the Cure races in a six-week span in memory of my mom showed me just that — that the mixture of exhaustion from travel and emotions can knock me over.

I learned I am not so strong that I can not be broken down.

But that I am strong enough to pull myself back up.

And keep going.

That’s what happened on my journey.

My mom died of breast cancer 20 years ago Nov. 26. She was diagnosed at age 37 — my age — and died three years later.

I wanted to find a way during these next three years to live how she lived — to live, knowing I am living, just as she lived, knowing she was dying.

When I made the commitment to run the races, I knew it would be good for me. I just didn’t know how. I didn’t know that it would bring me closer to my daughter, or that the race to find a cure for breast cancer would provide tremendous insight to my husband.

That it would bring strangers to e-mail me their stories for no reason other than to have someone to share it with.

And that it would emotionally and spiritually bring me closer to my mother.

I lost her when I was 17, and I learned through this journey of races, that there still were wounds to heal.

That I still needed reassurance that there was love in our family, that we had happier times before cancer took hold of us. Before the cancer eventually won.

I found that.

It was through an old family photo taken about 10 years before my mom died. But in this photograph was a place of peace, of love, of a time when cancer didn’t dominate our conversations, our fears, our unknowns.

It was a place I desperately needed to find. It helped me move forward through the journey. It helped me push through.

Through the races, I learned breast cancer can take away a woman, but leave behind stronger women — a daughter, a friend, a mother.

It can take away a woman, but through that woman’s journey with breast cancer — through her teachings to her children about strength, power, control, faith and an indomitable spirit — the women left behind survive in so many ways.

My Komen Journey:

Years ago, my mom passed on to me her incredible strength. In the last few weeks, I learned to use it wisely. I have felt her spirit in me, and used the strong will she left me to push through when times were tough. I have the vision of her struggling with an all-too-often fatal disease.

I learned to use that as my strength — as my reason to push harder.

Sharing my thoughts on a public forum is daring, but eventually, I quit caring how much I shared — because the more I wrote, the more people responded. I found that some needed to hear someone else say it first. Whether that was about fears, regrets, sacrifices — sometimes it just takes someone to make that first step.

I learned to take chances.

Emotionally, it drained me to share so much. And just when I wondered why I was doing this in such a public way — and it happened more than once — someone responded, someone reached out, and that kept me going.

I learned to not be afraid to share.

Being at the Komen for the Cure races made me realize me how proud I am of my mom. For what she endured. For loving her family throughout — for always putting us first even when feeling her worst.

I learned to live by my mom’s example.

I’ll be honest. I knew my mom was with me the entire journey, just like I know she is with me everyday. Just like she is with my dad, my sisters and my daughter.

But it was not until the last race in Macon, Ga., that I really felt her with me.

I felt the strength I had built on my six-week journey. At the starting line of that race, I finally felt her presence. I can not explain it in any other way, other than I knew she was there with me, pushing me through.

We finished the journey together.

Journey continues with my daughter:

I took four days off from running after the last Komen run in Macon, Ga., on Oct. 25. My body thanked me. So did my daughter, as we spent a couple of those would-be-running-nights curled up on the couch watching movies.

She traveled with me to three of my five races, and embraced them all — through racing herself, to jumping on bouncy castles, to having her face painted with pink ribbons.

Through this journey, she taught me how to be a better mom. I learned how to talk to her about breast cancer — I learned how to be honest about it. That yes, it is possible I could be diagnosed with breast cancer. Yes, I could die.

But yes, sweetheart, I could live.

My daughter and I grew closer during these runs. She prayed for my safety, and that I would do well in races. She held tight to an angel coin when I traveled to the first two races without her — she squeezed them whenever she sent me good wishes.

She said she was sorry my mom died.

We had talks in the car about cancer, about balloons floating up to grandma (and what happens if she has too many). And sometimes, I would catch her just staring at me — the time during the runs was an intense time in our house. It was filled with so much emotion, so many questions, so many tears.

There sometimes seemed to be questions I couldn’t answer well enough at home. The questions: "But what if you die ... but what if you get cancer and it comes back, then what? And it doesn’t go away? Then what?"

That is why it was so important that she watch, at every race she attended, the parade of survivors. They gave her hope — as much hope as a 5-year-old can understand. It was important for her to see so many women who battled the disease, and lived. So important for her to understand that not everyone dies. So important to know how hard people work to raise money to help find a cure.

She understood. She got that not everyone dies. She is reassured.

About a week after the races were complete, she looked up at me from the dining room table, and — out of the blue — said, "Mom, I hope you are a survivor, too."

Macon -- Me and Mom

I stood at the start of the Komen race in Macon, Ga., today, locked my hands behind my bowed head, and prayed.

I prayed because I was thankful for this being my last race. Thankful that I made it. Thankful I worked through an injury and was able to run today. Thankful, because I knew my mom was with me throughout this journey.

She's with you, I told myself, my head still bowed and standing among 3,500 other runners, joggers and walkers desperate to find a cure for breast cancer. She is with you. Take it easy today. Today, go out and have fun. Run for the fun of it. Run, because you love running.

So I did. I had fun. I was relaxed. And I spent my 3.11 miles running today praying for others. For Marie Root, a Faulkner professor and breast cancer survivor who, at the same time I was running, was in Atlanta walking Komen's Breast Cancer 3-Day (60-mile walk). For Darlene Smith, Chattanooga's Komen chair and a 5-year survivor, who will walk her 3-Day in San Diego next month. For a woman I met long ago, Dana Miller, and her survival.

For the beautiful women I met in Nashville's Komen. Month-long survivors to more than 15 years. For Bob Crosby's wife. She's a survivor. For Dee Dee. For Kathy's family. For Linnea. For Shannon.

For my 5-year-old daughter, who, at the same time I was running, was participating in her first Kid's for the Cure event. For my daughter, who -- I was later told -- took time during her race to let her red balloon float up into the air, saying, "This is for you, Grandma."

And I thanked God for a husband who could stand the cold mornings of these races, holding Jenna's hand and keeping her entertained with bouncy castles, face painting, "runs." Who gave me my space to do what I needed to do. And who didn't ask questions. Just accepted and embraced what was in front of him.

And for my girlfriends, who, on every race day called me. Every time.

Then, my prayers were over.

The rest was about me and my mom.

I looked at my watch and saw I had .84 miles to go, and I almost let the emotions of the journey take over. I quickly shifted gears and thought, "No, no, no, no, no, no." You don't get to give up. Even if it is to let out your emotions. That can wait.

I was too close to the finish line of both a journey and a race.

I was approaching a hill at this point, so I fought back the emotions and picked up the pace. A couple of men walked that hill. I ran past them.

Then I caught the woman I wanted to catch. And passed her. And then it was me and the road to the finish. It was me and what I set out to accomplish. Me, and my mother's strength and endurance.

With about a half-mile left, it was just the two of us.

It was me, doing this for her.

And her, pulling me through.

***********************

“I have fought the good fight, I have finished the course, I have kept the faith.” -- II Timothy 4:7 (thanks, Dave)

Flowers, notes, tears

I will be late to work today.


I am at home trying to compose myself after an unexpected gift was handed to me by my daughter's Prattville Christian Academy kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Kathy Moore.


Her gift, and that from Jenna's classmates, came at a perfect time.

At a time when I wondered why I was continuing on this journey ... on a public forum.


I wrote to a friend this morning that sometimes I question why I'm writing on this blog -- why I share what I have been sharing this last month. I wonder who I reach out to, who is reading, and who is "getting" something from this journey of mine.


I told him this because last night he e-mailed me to tell me how what I am doing affects his life.


And then this morning, my daughter received flowers and cards at school as a good luck wish for particpating in her first 1-mile "kid's race" at the Macon, Ga., Komen for the Cure on Saturday. It is my last Komen race on this journey. It is her first.


God works in wonderful ways: through children, teachers, friends.


You never know who you touch through words, actions, the way you look at them.


The people who read this are a quiet circle. They are strong, but quiet. This journey is personal. I told you that from the beginning. And I told you it was the hardest assignment I had ever given myself. It has been. It was not easy sharing at first, but the responses from you, and the stories shared by all of you every day keeps me writing.


And just when I wonder why I'm even doing it, someone reaches out and shows me. That they care. That they understand. That they've been there.


Many tears have been shed not only by me. But by my family. Colleagues. Friends. New friends. Strangers.

I'm going to sit at home until I'm done crying. I'm going to change out of dressy work clothes and head to the newsroom casual. I'm not going to cry until I quit missing my mom, or until I can get over the outreach from the community and my friends from throughout the country, because then I'd never leave the house.


I will be in soon.


Until then, enjoy some of the cards made for my daughter by her classmates -- I wish I had time to photograph all of them this morning. Thank you, Mrs. Moore, for your kindness. You have such a big heart. You make such a difference.

Bad Dog

Sir,

I am pretty certain you don't read this blog.

But, I thank you again for answering your door tonight after I couldn't get that black Labrador off my heels while running on Rambling Brook Lane. I don't do well with dogs, and I've never encountered this one on a run before.

I will skip this part of the Silver Hills subdivision in Prattville on future evening runs.

Sorry to bother you, but thank you for being so kind.

Kym

A story on macon.com

Komen race director attacked by dogs while jogging in north Macon
Liz Fabian - lfabian@macon.com

Scott Tankard doesn't know exactly how long he fought off two dogs Saturday morning while he was running down Alexandria Drive in north Macon.

The man who was supposed to direct the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure this Saturday called the attack a mauling. The seven-inch gash on his right calf, sprained ankle and wound on his hand will keep him from race this weekend, he said.

Tankard, 53, said he was jogging down Alexandria Drive at about 10 a.m. when a mixed-breed dog lying on the grass in front of house number 104 started barking at him. He had encountered two other dogs at that house before, a boxer and labrador, who routinely barked at him and charged toward the invisible boundary of their electric fence, Tankard said.

This time the boxer charged through the boundary with the labrador following behind. The boxer ripped the back of his hand in two while the labrador got a good grip on his leg, he said. The unfamiliar mixed breed dog didn't attack.

He charged through them, thinking if he got on the other side of the invisible barrier, he might be safe. In his haste to run, he fell in the yard, rolled and got back up, he said. When the dogs kept coming at him and biting at his legs, he sought refuge on the porch and began calling out for help. With the dogs snarling and barking, he was cornered on the right side of the porch where apparently no one was home, he said.

He kept screaming until a neighbor came to his aid. The 5-foot-10 inch, 180-pound teacher at the Georgia Academy for the Blind doesn't know how long he cried out for help. From now on he'll carry his cell phone with him.

"With that much adrenaline running through my body, I don't know how many minutes it was, but it seemed like the longest stretch of minutes ever," Tankard said. "I left a lot of blood on the owner's porch."

A neighbor called the ambulance and the crew rescued him from the porch.

"The ambulance backed up the driveway to the porch and opened its doors," he said.

Tankard spent five hours in the emergency room of The Medical Center of Central Georgia receiving treatment for his seven wounds and was at the doctor's office for another three hours Monday and will go back again Wednesday, he said.

He hasn't been able to reach the owners of the dogs, John and Sarah Wright, through their listed phone number. A phone message left for John Wright at different phone number listed on the Macon police report was not immediately returned.

Jim Johnson, director of Macon's Animal Control Department, said the dogs have no prior history of bites and were current on their rabies shots. The animals are being quarantined at their home for 10 days in the custody of the Wrights, Johnson said.

"They were given a citation for the dogs being loose, but we're not real sure that's what happened," Johnson said.

The Macon police report states the Wrights have the invisible boundary fence but the batteries in the dogs' collars were run down.

After the quarantine, Animal Control officers will visit the dogs to make sure they are fine.
Tankard said it was unnerving to see the dogs still at the property.

"I do want to make sure nobody else gets hurt," he said. "Somebody smaller than I would be hurt worse."

Our Two Families

There are two photographs I hold in my hands.

They are the same families, but different people.

Same faces, but different smiles.

In my left hand, we are united.

My brother died the year prior after falling off a cliff while hiking in Hawaii. The picture shows us together -- we stand close to each other. Our smiles are smiles of having gone through this tragedy, and of having pulled through.

We grew closer that year.

Our smiles are from having crossed over a line of grief to survival. Of having the unexpected happen, and having survived the process of shock, anger, grief. The smiles do not hide our inability to understand why he died -- but our knowing that there had to be a reason.

And knowing it was our job to take that reason and learn -- and teach -- from it.

I am 14, my sister, 7. My parents, just months from receiving bad news.

At this point, in this family portrait, cancer sits in my mom.

And so my eyes move to my right hand -- the other family.

Same people. Just three years later.

Same faces. Different feelings.

In this picture, death doesn't hit us just hours after church one day. Death, and its often slow process, has been in our house for three years.

I hate this picture. Our smiles are fake and forced -- so are our poses. The only one who can pull it off is my mom. I run my finger over her face, her smile, and her strength hits me with a force.

She knows her family is crumbling around her, she knows they are crumbling because of what is being taken away. Falling apart because they are going to miss her. Dying inside because her body is shutting down.

We have been beaten down and don't know how to handle it. We don't know how to fake our smiles. There is no faking death in this photo. Cancer has spread. We know it is about to take our mom. And we know it has torn us apart.

The photograph is obvious. We are tired. The family has been defeated.

I sit at home comparing the two photos, and yearn for something else. For something before we lost our family. For something before all the sadness.

And then I find this photo. Me, my younger sister, mom and grandparents all posing for a camera. It has been a while since I've seen the picture, and after the two family photos I looked at, I am grasping for a moment of happy.

And I find it when I realize my arm is wrapped around my mom's back. At first I think my grandmother has stretched her arm around me and onto my mom.

I pray it is not my grandmother's. I almost beg it to be my arm.

It is. And I cry. It is a happy moment. I let my tears quietly fall. I need this moment. Thank you, thank you. I need this closeness.

Because after all that was taken away, knowing and seeing that love existed before death took over our family, was proof that at one time everything was okay. Sometimes we need reminding to soak in those moments.

Sometimes, when we miss so much those we love, all we think of is the loss.

And not about the life.

Dee Dee Child -- A Survivor

Dee Dee Child was 42 when diagnosed with breast cancer on Oct. 22, 2007. The Texas native was the first in her family to be diagnosed with the disease -- the lump was found on her first routine mammogram.

In her words: "I have learned through the journey of life and its trials and tribulations that each one of these challenges has been an opportunity to learn. Through my cancer challenge I came to realize I was never alone. I had family, friends, and colleagues who supported and encouraged me , and God has always been there. I was blessed with a wonderful medical team and the outreach of the American Cancer Society. Those who have gone before me have opened so many doors and paved the way to new treatments. I am grateful for their strength I am grateful for their strength and courage and I know through it all none of us walk this path alone."

My Cancer Experience

Lord, when I first heard the diagnosis, I didn’t know what to do.

I cried and cried out to you, Oh Lord this can’t be true.

How will I get through this? I’m all alone can’t you see?

Oh Father God how could you, lay this burden on me?

You heard my cries and waited, and gently wiped away my tears.

Just like you’ve done since childhood, and all through the years.

You patiently waited till I was ready,
to listen and hear your loving voice,

Till I sat still and quietly, and drowned out the worldly noise.

Then you lovingly held me in your arms, and wiped away my tears.

You helped me understand, and calmed all of my fears.

You asked me to trust your will, for you know just what you do,

And all can be turned into good, if we learn to trust in you.

On the nights I’ve been so sick, and I feel I can’t go on,

You let me rest in your gentle arms, and you make me strong.

When I rest in your arms, I feel you touch my soul,

It’s something I can’t explain, but it’s made me whole.

I love to be in your presence Lord, I find true peace there.

I find rest, love, and understanding, and I know you really care.

Your love is undescribable, more than one can understand,

When I rest so gently and peacefully, in your loving hands.

And things that used to be important, like earthly things and hair,

Don’t really matter anymore, when you are there.

For your love surpasses understanding, your love is really true,

Oh Jesus, My Lord and Savior, how I Love You.

Divina Montez Child (Dee Dee)
January 29, 2008

Birmingham II

... sometimes the journey to the finish line is more important than arriving there quickly ...

This message was passed on to me by a running friend this morning, and it capped exactly what I experienced while in Birmingham on Saturday, although my journey to the finish line actually started with my decision to walk.

I know. I'll get over it after this. Promise. Won't mention it again.

But you might like this:

When you are a runner, you don't want to walk a race. If you do walk, even for 10 seconds, you hate yourself for at least a couple of weeks after.

But while runners may walk for a multitude of reasons or causes -- Komen for the Cure, Relay for Life -- there's always that strong itch to walk fast enough that you're ... running.

My hamstring was hurt this weekend. Running just to run would have been the worst decision. I have played dumb only one time in a race. With a strained hip flexor -- considered to be the most important muscle in the running process -- I continued on with my plan to run the San Antonio Half Marathon two years ago.

After nine days off beforehand to "rest" the muscle before the race, I thought I'd be okay.

Until race volunteers carried me off the course at mile 8.

I was sitting on a curb, crying in pain because I could not move my right leg.

I was carried into a van, transported to another van, and wheel-chaired into the Alamodome. Once inside the dome, with runners passing by me toward the finish, and family and friends waiting in the stands, I put my head down and tried to hide my face.

Really, this was humiliation at its finest.

But the marathon staff was kind. They took care of me -- carried me, lifted me, brought me bananas and water. Bundled me in blankets. Told me it would be okay. Even let me cut in line at the massage table.

At that point, I was unable to even lift my right leg an inch off the ground. I couldn't run again for 7 weeks. Barely was able to walk the first 2 weeks.

My hip flexor still pops every morning when I stretch. It's almost a security at this point.

While my tight hamstring will never compare to the severe injury two years ago, I still played it smart in Birmingham. But I told my friend Dave -- a fellow Montgomery running club member who graciously walked with me -- more than once, "This really is a great course. This would have been an incredible run!"

Runners are kind of geeky to the rest of you that way. The fact that we are out the door at 5:30 a.m. for our daily run doesn't make sense to a lot of people. We run in the dark, the rain, snow.

I'm okay if that is weird to you. I'm okay if you think it's strange to find me running the dark streets in Prattville early in the morning. Or when I pass by you at night as you play with your children, or walk your dogs. Or that I run on the street instead of the sidewalks -- although I realize I'm risking my life on McQueen Smith and Highway 14 at times.

All is fair on those roads. But thank you for moving over.

My daughter thinks what I do is pretty cool.

She wants her own running shoes, her own bib number at races. Her own races.

When I signed her up for soccer a couple of years ago, an old friend asked me if my daughter would be "athletic like her mom." Well, every day she asks when soccer and softball start, and that she wants to "practice running" with me, so I'd say yes.

On Saturday, as Dave and I neared the finish after what seemed like 1,435 minutes of walking, my daughter ran to me, grabbed my hand and we crossed the finish line together. It was 50 yards of pure bliss to her.

50 yards of enjoying the moment. Of us being okay. Of understanding.

Of understanding that the journey -- to becoming an athlete, getting through injuries, the walk -- is important.

(If you've made it this far down, then, bless. And, thanks. Really.)