My heart sank ... Chattanooga

I didn't count them, but there must have been about 300 or more breast cancer survivors gathered in front of McKenzie Arena this afternoon in Chattanooga for the city's 9th annual Komen for the Cure event.

They all were smiling. All decked out in pink. Many waving their hands to a cameraman 30 feet above them. Some wearing scarves or hats to cover bald heads.

They were hundreds proud, hundreds grateful, to have survived a disease that 6,085 of us on this hot afternoon were running 3.11 miles for to help raise money to find a cure.

When their final photo was taken, the survivors stood, hugged, and then were identified.

They were called to gather by years of survival. First was the group that had less than a year of survival, then 1 to 5 years, 5 to 10, 10 to 15, 15 to 20. As each survival group was called, fewer and fewer women made their way to be recognized.

When year 20 was called, one woman walked her way to the crowd.

And my heart sank.

My mom should have been in that group. I watched this one woman make her way to the front of the group, greeted with applause, and thought, "Why not ... why didn't my mom make it?"

And I looked at her. Tried to look into her to see what difference there was. There was no difference. She looked to be in her 60s. My mom would be 60. She looked healthy. My mom was healthy. Active. Energized by life itself. No matter if she had cancer.

So, why?

I clapped for this woman while fighting back tears. I clapped for her survival because my mom would have none of my anger. I wasn't angry at the woman; I was angry that my mom didn't live past 40. I was angry that cancer took her from me.

I was angry because it is not fair. I am angry because I don't understand.

I am angry that we are still fighting for a cure. Grateful for those who put forth such effort to do so, but angry that there isn't one yet. And I am angry when I think of my mom dying, and that it puts me at high-risk.

And then I think of my daughter.

She didn't ask for this fight. She's 5. She knows cancer kills. She knows people survive it. And she knows thousands of people are working to find a cure. But it's not fair that she has questions I have to answer.

It makes me angry that she knows as much as she does. That she has to know. That when I look at her, it is a reminder of what could happen. To me. To her.

A few women trickle in after the event's lone 20-year survivor. Gray-haired ladies, some embarrassed to even be recognized, and some, beaming. They are survivors of more than 20 years.

"We all want to be in this group," one woman said.

They all deserve their recognition. They deserve to be put on pedestals for fighting what they did and surviving it.

But it doesn't make me less sad.

I met a woman before the 5K race began, who said, "You lost yours, too ... " referring to a sign on my back that read, "In memory of ... my mom." We stood together near the front of the pack waiting for our cue to start running, and compared dates: her mom died in 1978. Mine, in 1988. We made small talk of great advances in medicine ... technology ... not the same back then.

So I wondered again, why not my mom, if there are others who survived 20+ years?

Maybe it is just that nothing seems fair when you lose your mother at 17, and face the unknown in the years ahead.