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."