Race for the Cure

My Last Entry -- What I Learned

2008-11-09T00:01:00.001-06:00

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

2008-10-25T13:00:00.000-05:00

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

2008-10-23T09:37:00.010-05:00

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

2008-10-21T19:40:00.003-05:00

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

2008-10-19T00:01:00.012-05:00

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

2008-10-15T11:31:00.009-05:00

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

2008-10-13T10:46:00.012-05:00

... 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.)

Birmingham -- An Eye Opener

2008-10-11T13:43:00.021-05:00

I walked today.

The decision to do so came Friday after I found myself limping during a morning run the day prior because of some tightness in my right hamstring that no amount of stretching, ice, or Motrin would get rid of.

Knowing I have my last Komen race in two weeks, and the fact that running is my outlet for peace and sanity, I chose to miss a few days of running to heal physically.

And when I told my friend Dave on Friday of my decision to walk after a tight hamstring had not loosened up, he said he'd walk with me. Just like that.

I'm glad I did this.

I have never entered a road race with the intent to walk. Ever.

So I will admit I pouted a bit in the newsroom on Friday at the thought of attending a race to walk. And, that I was still upset this morning when I declined my timing chip and instead only put on my bib.

The reason for why I'm on this journey never left my heart, but the competitor in me, the runner, was crushed that I wouldn't be lining myself up with others at the front line.

It hurt to see the runners head to the front of the pack, and felt terribly strange to watch them take off, and to take so long to even get to the starting line in a crowd of 15,000 participants.

But within a few seconds, everything changed. When I looked around me, what I saw completely changed my view. My thoughts went 100 percent in the direction they should have been in the first place.

For today, my goal of being a sub-23 5K runner, or beating that little 9-year-old kid who always seems to pass me at the finish line, were pushed to the side.

I looked around and saw family and friends walking together for one cause. Who cared if they were running or walking? I got over my disappointment pretty fast when I saw men walking in honor of their wives, daughters in memory of their moms, moms in memory of their daughters. Children, in memory of their grandmothers.

I know of the walkers who have taken their place behind me at the last three races in Shreveport, Chattanooga and Nashville. I know they were there because I could hear their cheers, and even 45 minutes after I finished, I could see them crossing the finish line.

I've taken their pictures. I've helped cheer them in. They've brought tears to my eyes.

And today, I was one of them.

I don't know how long it took me to walk 3.11 miles. I do know that I got to know Dave better. He is a fellow River Region Runners club member, and is a bigger cheerleader than all the supporters on the route combined. He walked in memory of my mom, and in celebration of women from his church.

While walking with him, I noticed for the first time the number of supporters cheering on the sidelines, the number of police officers, the hundreds upon hundreds cups of water. The number of survivors.

None of the losses so many of us have faced is fair -- none of it is right, but it is real. And the need to raise money for breast cancer research was more in my face than it had been at any race these last four weeks. It forced me to reflect on why I started this journey.

And today, I couldn't have been more proud to be out walking for my mom. She would love these Komen runs.

I know she is cheering us all on.

Join me in Birmingham!

2008-10-10T08:51:00.001-05:00

I will be on the road by 6:15 a.m. Saturday to join thousands of others in Birmingham's Linn Park for the 17th annual Komen Race for the Cure.

Join me, and surround yourself with a group of men and women, as well as children, all working toward a common goal -- to find a cure for breast cancer.

You know my story. Meet others and hear theirs. They will inspire you.

Oh, and I'll be walking the entire 5K tomorrow (a first for me). An incredibly tight hamstring is not loosening up, so I'm not going to chance an injury at this point. Playing smart ... nothing wrong with that.

http://www.komenncalabama.org/

A note of encouragement

2008-10-08T13:24:00.003-05:00

A new friend, Linnea, wrote me today and said:

I have been following your travels. Sounds like the grueling schedule is starting to take its toll. Just like with cancer treatment -- circle the last race and celebrate getting there.

When I signed on for these races, and chose the cities I would run in, I thought it would be ... dare I say, easy. Fun, even! Aside from the seven-hour drive to Shreveport, Chattanooga is "only" 3.5 hours up the road, Nashville is only an hour longer. Birmingham is "just" an hour away, and Macon is a quick three-hour drive.

Not a problem.

Until the first race in Shreveport. I've been exhausted ever since.

I knew before these races began that this would be a challenge. While I have had to face a lot of emotions, I knew that if I ever got to a point of exhaustion during this journey, that I would think of my mom and the days she faced with cancer.

The days she still took care of her three daughters when she probably wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed.

The days she spent shopping for birthday and Christmas gifts.

The days she was able to watch me run in track meets.

The day she quit radiation treatments.

The day she put Christmas decorations up in the house -- even before Thanksgiving. The day she knew it would be her last chance to share the manger with us.

The day she sat with me on the couch and told me to make sure I married someone who respected me, and who loved me with all his heart. Make sure he loves you, she said again. Make sure he is "the one."

The day she stood in her bedroom, asking me what I wanted after she passed.

The last day she stood in our house, with a swollen body, knowing her trip to the hospital that day would be her last.

The day I sat at our dining table, while her parents helped her walk out of the house, her feet so swollen she could barely move.

The day we both shed tears.

I've got nothing on her. My journey is almost over, and I get to rest afterward.

She had to walk out of her house knowing she wouldn't return again.

Darlene Smith - A Survivor

2008-10-08T06:13:00.000-05:00

I met Darlene Smith the day before the Chattanooga Komen for the Cure. She is a 5-year breast cancer survivor, and served as a co-chair for her city's event.

She is beautiful, charming, inviting.

Before her battle with breast cancer, Darlene only knew people who had died from the disease -- her mother's best friend who was diagnosed at 38 and died at 41; and her cousin's wife who was diagnosed at 45 and died at 47. Darlene was diagnosed in her mid-40s.

Shortly after that day in January 2003, she wrote:

We have a choice ... we can handle life's experiences or we can let life's experiences handle us. I have seen individuals remain faithful to Christ through unbelievable tragedies and trials. Other people I had seen quit or lose their enthusiasm as problems crossed their way. I remember thinking to myself what makes some people stick by the stuff no matter what happens and others give up and fall away to the stresses and trials that come into their life.

Darlene wrote a poem for other survivors, as a way to encourage them, give them light, give them hope. It is her way of reaching out.

I am a Survivor
~ Darlene Smith

I am a Survivor
I am on a road that I never expected to travel
But I am not traveling alone
My family, my friends, my community and my God
Their love their comfort and OH the compassion they have shown.

I am a Survivor
The thoughts that went through my mind,
What will I look like? Will I live?
My husband, my children
I have so much left to give

I am a Survivor
This thing called cancer entered my life uninvited
Unexpected, unwelcome, unforgiving
Forever to change my body
Never to touch my soul

I am a Survivor
To others I look like I am tough outside
But In the middle of the night
My heart has broken
And in the darkness…. alone I have cried

I am a Survivor
This thing called cancer tried to wreck my spirit
But cancer had met its match
It takes more than pain and heartache to stop this girl
I am tough - but I have had enough.

I am a Survivor
I have met wonderful men and women along my journey
Some have completed their race
I will never forget their courage
Until once again I can see their face

I am a Survivor
As Webster's says .... I will continue
To function or prosper despite
Despite my circumstances, despite my pain
I will withstand whatever comes my way… so that others might

I am a Survivor
I have choices to make
I can quit, I can stop……… or I can survive
I have choices to make
I can hide, I can falter ……or I can thrive

I am a Survivor
Some others may not quite understand
Oh, but ……..other Survivors
They get me-they know my thoughts,
These Sisters they get my plan!

I am a Survivor
Life during and after cancer is hard
My life can change in one Doctors visit, with one phone call
The unknown future, uncertain health
I learn to enjoy each moment --- no matter how small

I am a Survivor
When it is all said and done
If I have encouraged another, if I have lightened a load
If I have loved hard, and laughed loud
I won't just have survived, I will have lived life well, …….I will have won!

Today, I Fought -- Nashville

2008-10-04T13:03:00.005-05:00

I wanted to take a break this morning while running the Nashville Komen for the Cure 5K.

A short 3.11 miles -- I run no less than 4-mile workouts during the week while training -- and I wanted to stop. It was through pure adrenaline and prayer from others that I got through today's run.

My body is spent. Seriously spent. I do not know how I ran a 23-something-minute race today other than by the grace of God.

The fact that I finished without stopping was my accomplishment for the day. I knew if I stopped, though, there would be some important people to answer to:

Today, my daughter is with me. How do I stop when she knows I'm running for a Cure? How do you answer those questions? I could not have faced her. I wouldn't have wanted to face her. Have you ever faced a 5-year-old, and had to be so honest with her that it scared you? This child of mine knows why I've been running these races the last three weekends. She knows I'm fighting for myself; that I'm fighting for her. How do you tell her you gave up when she sees all the survivors out there?

Today, my husband is with me. How do I stop today after the successes from the first two races in Shreveport and Chattanooga? How do I tell him, as he holds the hand of our Jenna at the finish line that I gave up? That I thought it would be a good idea to rest for a few seconds? That this fight I'm fighting finally became too much for me? That I am so, so tired.

Today, my dad prayed for me. That I would get through the run. That I would be at peace. That he is thankful for what I'm doing. How would I have been able to call him and say, "Sure, I did good. Allowed myself to stop at mile 2 for some water. More prayer needed, please."

Today, my mom was with me. How do you stop when she never did? I wanted those few seconds of rest like nobody's business. I wanted to give my body a break. I'm tired of traveling, of packing, unpacking, of hotels. I love the cities I am traveling to for these Komen races, but getting to them and back is exhausting me.

I wanted water at 2 miles ... to walk at an easy pace and drink some damn water. I didn't want to run the last mile without that break. I deserved it.

But my mom deserved life.

I moved on. And kept running.

That last mile was filled with my mom. My mom who died at age 40. My mom, who never gave up. This incredible woman who fought to the end. There's nothing I can do to ever reach her level, but today I tried.

Today, for the first time on this journey, I really feel I fought.

Why am I here?

2008-10-03T20:53:00.008-05:00

"God's only going to knock so many times before you realize there's something you should do."

-- Haden McWhorter, whose mom and wife died of breast cancer. Haden was the honorary co- survivor at the Nashville, Tenn., Survivor's Celebration dinner, Oct. 03, 2008. Tomorrow, he leads the Three Miles of Men to support participants in the Komen for the Cure race.

My family and I arrive to this dinner tonight, and I wonder what I am doing here. Not because I'm not a survivor, but I wonder for the first time what the purpose is of this journey.

I think to myself, "Why am I doing this? Why am I here?"

I am so tired. I have traveled the past three weekends, and still have two more races after tomorrow. My body has been shut down since the day I left Shreveport, La., Sept. 21, after its Komen race.

I don't feel I've recovered. And I am absolutely dragging.

I realize this is not about me. I realize this is about those who have died, about those who have survived. But I do wonder what difference I am actually making by running these races.

My body is worn.

I could fall asleep at any given moment during any time of the day.

So, as I sit with breast cancer survivors tonight, with my mind wandering and my eyes filling with tears from stories of survivors, I wonder what I'm doing.

And then Haden spoke. And shut me up.

Milk Duds

2008-10-02T14:22:00.000-05:00

October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month, and The Joy to Life Foundation and Bou Cou are bringing together shapes of all sizes through a contest called, "Show your Support."

The Joy to Life Foundation and Bou Cou, located in The Courtyard in Montgomery, is sponsoring a bra decorating contest.

The exterior of each bra should be completely covered or may be assembled from non-traditional materials (other than fabric). Each bra should have a name (i.e. Milk Duds, Abracada-BRA, My Cups Runneth Over). They may be dedicated in honor of a breast cancer survivor, or in memory of someone who died.

Bra entries become the property of Bou Cou and The Joy to Life Foundation and may be used to promote next year's contest.

Entry fee is $10, payable to The Joy to Life Foundation. Submit bras by Tuesday and the fee is waived.

Entries to Bou Cou must be submitted by Oct. 31. Winners will be determined by the number of "dollars" of votes received during the month of November while the bras are on display.

Grand prize is a $500 Bou Cou gift certificate; second place is a $250 gift certificate from Bou Cou; and third place is a $150 gift certificate from Bou Cou.

For more information, call Bou Cou and ask for either Candace or Carol. The store is located in The Courtyard at 2101 Eastern Boulevard in Montgomery, 334-239-0655. More information can be found on-line at: www.boucou.net. Click on "Show Your Support."

iamthecure.org

2008-10-02T06:50:00.000-05:00

The smallest tag represents the average size lump detected by yearly mammograms when past films can be compared.

The second tag shows the average size lump found by a first mammogram.

The third tag shows the average size lump found by women doing regular breast self-exams.

The largest tag shows the average size lump found by accident. The size compares to a half-dollar coin.

Be Aware:
The greatest risk factors for breast cancer are being female and growing older.
Breast cancer knows no gender, geographic or social boundaries.

Take Action:
The key to survival is early detection.
Simple steps you can take toward early detection are regular mammograms and breast exams.
A healthy lifestyle may make a difference.

What is your risk?
Find out and get educated in the process. Take the quiz and test your breast health knowledge at www.iamthecure.org

Forgiveness

2008-09-29T14:49:00.017-05:00

The cemetery isn't where she is buried, but it is where I find myself one afternoon, and where I park my car and sit on its hood.

It is a place of peace, and that is all I need today. It is where I wrap my arms around my knees, look up to the gray skies, and ask my mom for forgiveness.

It is three years after she died, and the first time I feel strong enough to ask. I am scared because I don't think I have the right to her "It is okay" for acting how I sometimes did when she was dying.

I was not the easiest teenager to live with during the three years my mom had breast cancer. Selfish comes to mind. So does anger.

When you watch your mom weaken with every day -- even on her good days -- it hurts. So I turned my hurt into anger. Instead of into compassion. Instead of reaching out. Instead of showing her every day that I cared. That I hurt with her. That I cried myself to sleep countless nights. That I could not imagine my life without her.

Being angry was easier. Easier than sharing my love. That took a strength I didn't have then. Or that I was afraid to show.

So at age 20 I sit on the hood of my car. People slowly drive by -- maybe to their loved one's site. Maybe to sit on their own hood.

I look up and tell my mom how sorry I am. That I was not there for her as much as I should have been. That I did not tell her enough I loved her. That, if I did not show her enough that I cared, that I am so, so sorry.

There are no tears during this visit. If I was at her burial spot in Iowa, where she lays next to my brother who died three years before cancer took her life, it would be tough. When I am there, it is hard to leave. Difficult to leave her behind. Difficult to leave both of them.

On this day, I am a college student in Texas, and find the quietest spot I can.

But there is a fear. I do not know what to expect. I don't understand at age 20 the strength of a mother's love. I don't learn that until 12 years after this visit when my daughter is born.

Still, it took until my little girl was 2 years old for it to hit me: If I love my daughter this much at age 2 -- and if that love grows every day -- imagine how much my mom loved me when I was 17.

Still, I ask for forgiveness.

I sit on my car, and the clouds break.

The sun comes out.

And about 5 seconds later, it goes away.

My heart sank ... Chattanooga

2008-09-28T15:40:00.024-05:00

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.

Chattanooga is ready ... Are you educated?

2008-09-27T16:15:00.008-05:00

Race officials in Chattanooga, Tenn., are expecting a record turnout of 6,000 participants at the 9th annual Komen for the Cure, scheduled for 2 p.m. Sunday at the UTC McKenzie Arena.

The Komen Story
Nancy G. Brinker promised her dying sister, Susan G. Komen, she would do everything in her power to end breast cancer forever.

In 1982, that promise became Susan G. Komen for the Cure® and launched the global breast cancer movement. Today, Komen for the Cure is the world’s largest grassroots network of breast cancer survivors and activists fighting to save lives, empower people, insure quality care for all and energize science to find the cures.

Because of events like the Komen Race for the Cure, the organization has invested nearly $1 billion to fulfill that promise, becoming the largest source of nonprofit funds dedicated to the fight against breast cancer in the world.

Did You Know??

An estimated 182,460 new cases of invasive breast cancer are expected to occur among women in the United States during 2008.

An estimated 40,480 women will die from breast cancer.

In addition to invasive breast cancer, 67,770 new cases of in situ breast cancer are expected to occur among women in 2008.

The two most significant risk factors are being female and getting older.

A majority of women diagnosed with breast cancer have no known risk factors outside of their gender.

The majority of new breast cancers and breast cancer deaths occur in women aged 50 and older.

Breast cancer is the most common cancer among African American women and the second leading cause of cancer death among African American women, exceeded only by lung cancer.

Breast and ovarian cancer are somewhat more common among women of Ashkenazi Jewish descent (ancestors who came from Central or Eastern Europe).

In the United States, nine out of every 10 Jewish Americans are of Ashkenazi descent.

It is important for younger women to become familiar with how their breasts look and feel through monthly breast self-exams, beginning by age 20.

Breast cancer is the most common cancer in pregnant and postpartum women. It occurs in about 1 in 3,000 pregnancies.

Breast cancer in men is rare, but it does happen. In 2008, it is estimated that 1,990 men will be diagnosed with breast cancer, and 450 will die from it.

The survival rate of men and women is comparable by stage of disease at the time of diagnosis. However, men are usually diagnosed at a later stage.

Information from: http://www.chattanoogaraceforthecure.com/

Photos: Klass

Aside for Komen, why run at all?

2008-09-22T10:45:00.019-05:00

The first day I ran after a 14-year absence from the roads, I wondered what happened to my body.

It moved.

A lot.

Things swished around -- parts of my body I didn't know existed -- with each step I took. Up and down, side to side. I could feel it. It wasn't the body that stopped running at age 20. Certainly not the body in its peak running form in my teen years.

That first week, I ran four times. A mile each time. After a week, I could run the mile without stopping.

Pathetic, I thought, considering I ran 5:45 miles in high school.

Embarrassing. Why even try?

But with each day, each week, it got better.

That was three years ago. I've run 5K races, 10Ks, half marathons. I lost a few clothes sizes, and became not fast, but faster.

Through all this, something important happened: I became happier. Running made me a better person. A better mom. A better wife. It gave me focus.

When in Shreveport this past weekend, I ran across the Texas Street Bridge. To me, it represented the freedom I have to run wherever I want. That's one way this is such an easy sport: you don't need a gym, a pool, a bike. You just need the roads. The morning after the Race for the Cure, I ran through downtown, zig-zagging through the city streets, and across this bridge and back and felt good for taking advantage of a quiet Sunday morning.

The 5:45 miles are a part of my past -- back in a place I don't even recognize anymore. Running back then was about competition. Running today is about me.

Still, it is not always easy crawling out of bed at 5:15 a.m. to run, or even changing into running clothes for a 7 p.m. outing, but I understand what it does for me. The roads are good for me, even the sweat. And the quick waves from other runners pounding the roads near me -- the camaraderie we share without even knowing each other.

This is a road I plan on running for as long I am able. For as long as it does what it is doing for me right now -- it is my outlet for peace, a way to reconnect with myself, a way to make me feel good for who I am.

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

"I run because it's my passion, and not just a sport. Every time I walk out the door, I know why I'm going where I'm going and I'm already focused on that special place where I find my peace and solitude. Running, to me, is more than just a physical exercise...it's a consistent reward for victory!"
~~Sasha Azevedo

"I don't know if I can do it"

2008-09-19T15:35:00.010-05:00

The first five seconds after the Komen for the Cure race this morning in Shreveport went well.

I crossed the finish line, walked away from the cheering and felt good.

Then the enormity of everything hit me -- my mom, this journey, the race -- and I felt I could not breathe. I could feel within me giant sobs about to burst, and the deeper I tried to breathe, the more I could feel everything build up.

Just breathe, just breathe, just breathe, I kept telling myself.

It did no good.

I sat on a concrete ledge on a lamppost and let the tears fall down my face, and the anguish release from my body. The only thing I was grateful for at the time was my sunglasses.

And a few seconds later, for the woman who became my temporary strength.

She saw me bent over at the lamppost and asked if I was okay. I told her I was not hurt, that I was fine.

She saw the sign on my back that read “In Memory of … My Mom Pam Klass.”

And she knew I wasn’t in tears from physical pain.

Without hesitation, she embraced me in a huge hug and said, “You’re doing this for your mom, aren’t you? Your mom would be so proud! It’s okay to cry. You’re okay!”

I have no idea who she was. She left before I could ask.

I made the 200-yard walk to my car to and kept trying to breathe. Gave up after a while, and cried. And didn’t care.

I tried gathering my thoughts, my emotions, while at the same time gathering my cell phone, camera, notes for this blog. Notes, which read Shreveport-Bossier City had a record number of race participants in its 14th year – about 5,000.

Notes, that include the name Bob Crosby, the race director, who went out of his way to welcome me into his Cure world when I arrived to the race site in Shreveport Friday, telling me to “make yourself at home” while he finalized plans with Cure volunteers. And who included me in his dinner plans with Komen executives Friday night -- and who tried to make me eat dessert, figuring who would notice if I added a couple of minutes to my 5K run the next day?

I declined dessert.

When I had finally gathered myself together -- still at my car, pretending to "organize" things in my trunk so passers-by wouldn't think I was a basket case -- I called my husband. And said my emotions weren't just because I missed my mom, but also for the fact there were more than 5,000 people in one area fighting for a cause. For one cause. For the reason my mother died.

My breathing was still shaky, but more calm.

The phone in Alabama was passed to my daughter, who was filled with princess stories from a birthday party she attended Friday night, and who said she loved me. She slowly brought me back to Earth.

And when I got back on the phone with my husband, I started saying goodbye, and, thinking of the four Komen races I still have ahead of me in the next five weeks, told him, “I hope the other ones aren’t as hard as this one. I don’t know if I can do it.”

At the same time I was saying that, I wondered whether my mom said that after her first round of chemo.

I doubt it.

She probably looked the staff in the eyes, and said, “See you next week.”

***********************************************
Photo credit (from above): Greg Pearson, The (Shreveport) Times

Travel day

2008-09-18T15:34:00.011-05:00

I'm on the road today to Shreveport, and I take with me new friends.

These are men and women I did not know less than a week ago who have invited me into their lives. Who have confided in me. Who have shared with me their experiences with cancer. People who have included me in their prayer groups and who have added me to those they pray for.

Last week, I didn't even know some of their names.

Some I did know -- but not their stories.

I also take with me your words of encouragement. I will carry with me on a sheet of paper during the Komen for the Cure run on Saturday the encouraging words from this week. They will be my focus. They will take me through the few miles I will run.

Thank you for allowing me to share my journey with you, and in turn -- through your sincerity and encouragement -- making me glad I did.

Four minutes

2008-09-16T12:05:00.004-05:00

My daughter asks me this morning on our seven-minute drive to her school, "Mommy, what is cancer?"

I have 4 minutes to answer.

"Cancer is a disease that creeps into someone's body ..."

I've explained this to my 5-year-old more than eight dozen times since I told her two years ago her grandmother died from breast cancer when mommy was a teenager.

But still, she asks. Usually, out of the blue.

"How do people get cancer, though ... and how come sometimes it comes back if doctors can take it out?"

2 minutes left.

I let out a sigh she can't hear. Sometimes, the questions are exhausting. Especially when I don't know the answers. Especially, when nobody knows the answers. I race through possible explanations to give her, as we move closer to the drop-off point at her school.

What do I say? What do I say so she'll understand?

She's 5, but smart. She'll know if I make something up because she will ask more questions to test me.

I pause before answering.

"I don't know the answer to that," I say honestly. "Nobody really does know, sweetheart. That's why we work so hard to find a cure -- to find medicine that will get rid of it forever."

1 minute.

My daughter verbally acknowledges she's the only one she can see wearing a light jacket this cool, please-Lord-let-fall-be-here morning. Already, her brain has moved on to school -- to writing her name: capital J, lowercase enna.

To lunch. To the class "leader" of the day. To who got a "red" light yesterday. To Kendal's birthday party Saturday.

30 seconds.

Our conversation quickly shifts to making sure she has her lunch, her book bag. That her face is clean.

Jenna's Spanish teacher helps her out of the car, and my daughter gives me a quick kiss and hug goodbye. As I watch her walk away with a smile and a last wave, the school bell rings.

4 minutes is up.

The questions this morning were easier than the one question she asked a few nights ago:

"Mommy, will you die from cancer, too?"

Loaded question.

How do you reassure what is unknown?

In my best approach, I did. I told her I'd live forever -- until I was 200 years old. She didn't believe it, of course, but the look of calm in her face told me she believed I'd be okay.

And that's all I needed.

Kym's Race for the Cure

2008-09-14T10:55:00.000-05:00

She closes her eyes for a few seconds.

Takes a deep breath and winces. Her forehead crinkles, fists clinch and she holds as still as possible.

I am 17, and stand in line with my mom at a convenience store as she experiences a minor seizure caused by a cancer raging in her body. It is August, and a thick blue scarf covers her head, long white sleeves fall over her thin, cold arms. Jeans hide her weakening legs.

Her attire keeps her warm, but also hides everything that is gone — her breasts. Her hair.

I stand just a couple of feet away, and watch her closely, silently, fearfully — making sure she is okay. I do not know what to do if she is not okay ... on so many levels, for so many reasons.

I don’t remember who drives us home, but my mom takes charge once we get there — makes her family dinner, cares for her three daughters, dotes on my dad. And collapses into bed.

She is exhausted — from the cancer, the day, the episode at the store.

But she falls asleep a victor.

And she remains one until her death in November 1988 — three months after the silent seizure.

That August day remains vivid in my mind because it represents my mom’s strength, her will to push through pain, to carry on. I’ve always admired that one moment — those three minutes that she silently showed me the definition of control, power and will.

Especially since it came after an almost-three year battle of fighting an all-too-often-fatal disease, and a month after doctors gave her six months to live.

They were off by three months. It just became too much.

My mom was 37 years old the year she was diagnosed with breast cancer. And 40 when she died.

I’ve thought about 37 for two decades, and once I hit it in March, I promised myself to live these next three years as my mom lived her last three years. I promised I would live knowing I am living, just as she lived knowing she was dying.

That’s a tough assignment for anyone. She passed with flying colors.

I hope to not be far behind on the grading scale.

I am fortunate to not be fighting her fight. I know that. And it feels that almost any attempt at doing whatever I can do to help fight for a cure is futile compared to what she went through.

But I will try, anyway.

This year, I have chosen to run in five Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure runs starting with Shreveport, La., Sept. 20, and ending in Macon, Ga., Oct. 25. For five weekends I will surround myself with survivors and women receiving treatment for breast cancer. And I will meet endless families who are there just like me — supporting the cause, and running for it, in honor and in memory of someone they lost.

And celebrating those who survived.

This is a personal journey. Probably one of the hardest assignments I’ve given myself.

But at the end of the day, this is not about me. I do these runs for my mom, and for the hundreds of thousands of women diagnosed with breast cancer and who find themselves in remission every year.

And I do this for my 5-year-old daughter, Jenna, who understands what cancer can take away.

I run because I want her to know one day that a cure has been found.