Pink
It must have rained during the night. Not unexpected. It had been raining most of the last three day, but I had really hoped the rain, at least, would stop. It was cold. Clouds masked what little light false dawn provided. I pulled on bottom thermals, black running pants, black V-neck shirt with pink patch, black jacket, socks, walking shoes. I ate a yogurt, a cereal bar (homemade. To be honest, just a cookie, but it had peanut butter and Rice Krispies™ in it. That it, also, had butterscotch chips, chocolate chips and powdered sugar, was beside the point, don’t you think? Me, too.) I packed gloves, hat, pink hoodie, umbrella, water, tissue, antibacterial wipes, wallet with money, credit cards and ID, camera, notebook and determination. A good pair of walking feet, too and a goal.

Picked up a daughter-in-law and granddaughter and headed for the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk. If you know me, you know the challenge is the driving. Once driving to Salt Lake was second nature to me, but as my mother has aged I’ve found the distance I drive has narrowed, a little more each year and when you don’t do something, you don’t stay comfortable doing it. And I’ve never liked driving in the dark. My sense of direction is so bad when there are no landmarks. I am directionally challenged and always have been, but off we headed.

The drive was much easier than I worried about and thankfully, the rain had stopped. It warmed up, too. The crowded wasn’t quite as big, most likely due to the weather, but the experience was just as inspirational. I don’t know all the personal stories, but, with my writer’s mind, I imagine them. And it is not just the survivors, though their stories are the ones you see most clearly. The story, any one of the stories, is about the supporters, too.

And you see it there: The grandmother with the survivor sash across her chest being helped along the 5-mile walk by her granddaughter, the woman…no, the girl, really, with a survivor ribbon walking with a man wearing a shirt that said: I’m walking for my girlfriend. ( I say, hold on to that man) The ten women walking with shirts that said: for Amy. The tall, blonde in the middle with: for me on her shirt, surrounded by them, looking strong and healthy and protected.

It’s October. Save the ta-tas, Save second base, Save the breastesus. Get your mammograms, do self-exams (ignore the recommendations and take the battle into your own hands, so to speak) eat right, get out there and walk. Fight the battle. Fight like a girl.

Walking for the Cure

It looked like a flock of flamingos. A sea of pink headed for a pink and white balloon arch as the five-mile walk got started. I’ve wanted to join the walk for six years, since my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. I thought it would be something I could do: walk, donate money, join others in the group.

I didn’t expect it to be emotional, still. I thought by now, emotions had burned away. The worse was behind us. My mom had won the battle, given her age. She will likely die of old age, not breast cancer. As Lynn Redgrave said in an old ad for breast cancer awareness, she wants to die of anything other than breast cancer. Me, too. Old age sounds good.

We got through surgery and recovery, drains and doctor visits and fear and worry. We’d come out on the other side, tattered, yet we’d done a good job darning the holes. They’re still there, but one would hardly notice.

As I looked at the faces of the other walkers—I already knew the faces of my loved one—it struck me. Mine and my daughter-in-laws stories were personal, but the walk put hundreds of faces to hundreds of stories as personal as ours.

The four sisters with a picture of their mom printed on the back of their pink shirts. The woman pushed in a wheelchair, her hair wrapped in a bright pink scarf. The four members of Creative Wigs walking in outrageous pink wigs, looking marvelous from behind until I realized they were, all four, bearded men supporting their clients. The women sporting bright pink feather boas. The woman who walked the whole way pushing a walker. The large group walking in memory of Gary. (Yes, men can die of breast cancer) Those who walked for their friend, for their co-workers, their teacher.

Even the team names tell stories: For the Girls, Cheering for a Cure, A Little Help From My Friends, Save the Ta Ta’s, Save the World, Fight Like a Girl, Doin’ the Walk for Dot!, Saving Second Base, Good Karma. (Their mom's name was Karma)

It was sobering. It was uplifting.

Such a huge crowd behind one enemy and this was just one of many walks or fundraisers going on around the country this month.

Best weapon is still getting checked. Do it. Tell your mother, sister, grandmother, aunt, best friend, neighbor to get checked. Remind them, offer to take them, go with them.

As my t-shirt said: I wear pink for the fighters, the survivors, and the taken.

Words are important to me. I’m a writer; I strive to use the exact right word. Taken is the right word.

As I was thinking about why I wanted to do the walk, I thought of the true reason, my true reason:

For the Warriors, the Survivors, the Taken. For Maude, Dona,
Valentine, Candi, Erin, Jen, Amanda, Alyssa, Talia, Dani,
Marilyn, Mary, Tami, Connie, Sherry and me.
For Women Writers and Readers. For Poets. For the Supporters and the Caregivers
and all those who love them.