This morning, well before the sun rises on yet another glorious Colorado day, thousands of people — many in pink hats and matching T-shirts — will gather at the Pepsi Center in downtown Denver for the start of the 2009 Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure.
This annual event has been held every fall since 1994 and has raised millions for research and education in the fight against breast cancer, the No. 2 killer of woman in the nation (lung cancer ranks first).
The race is a remarkable endeavor of spirit, commitment and endurance and one that, as a breast cancer survivor myself, I have both supported and participated in for years. All that being said, I will be nowhere in sight today. Here’s why:
Certainly, the race is no less vital today than it was in 1994, when I first joined hundreds of women and a few men in Washington Park. There, with fall flowers and the lake as a backdrop, I walked with friends and family, enjoying the morning while raising money for a charity close to my heart.
Today, however, the Race for the Cure has ballooned into a huge media and commercial event: lots of hoopla, free food, entertainment, massive crowds and an opportunity for companies and individuals to promote their products or services — so much so that I became overwhelmed and stopped participating. I know other women who now choose the “Sleep In for the Cure” option on the registration form, walk in mini- groups in their own neighborhoods or who have withdrawn their support from this event completely in order to avoid these very same annoyances.
There is little doubt that funds generated from the Race for the Cure have saved lives and will continue to do so until breast cancer is eradicated, but it is unfortunate that so many people are “turned off” by the size and the atmosphere currently associated with such a worthy cause.
Despite all my efforts to hide from its far-reaching tentacles, breast cancer found and held me hostage in 1993 and again in 2001. Although it sucked me down into its murky recesses, I survived. As I look out my window on this beautiful fall day, I am reminded of another autumn season when my life was suddenly interrupted by the terror and the uncertainty of a disease that knows no boundaries, respects no age or gender and for some is the devil incarnate.
For many American women, breast cancer is their greatest health concern — and with good reason: The National Institutes of Health estimates that “based on current rates, 12.7 percent of women born today will be diagnosed with breast cancer at some time in their lives.”
As for me, round one was a tremendous shock, but in the scope of things, fairly easy and uneventful: lumpectomy, five weeks of daily radiation and five years of medication to keep the cancer at bay.
The memories associated with round two eight years later, on the other hand, will never be forgotten: On Sept. 11, 2001, I had my first chemotherapy session following a bilateral mastectomy. Just as the nurse inserted the chemo tube into my arm, I watched the television in total disbelief as a United Airlines plane exploded into the South Tower of the World Trade Center.
It used to be that cancer was rarely discussed in polite conversation. But times have changed. Denver is awash in pink the entire month of October in recognition of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, the media is filled with inspiring breast cancer survival stories and life-saving prevention information and with tales of the incredible impact, both in participants and research dollars raised, by the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. Last year, more than 60,000 people participated.
In years past, I have donned pink hats and walked miles in memory of friends and acquaintances now departed and to remind myself that I am not alone in standing up to this terrifying disease for which there is yet no cure.
Since its inception in 1984, The Susan G. Komen Cure Foundation has raised over $1.3 billion for research, education and health services, making it the largest breast cancer charity in the world. But now, I have put my walk-a-thon days behind me. Although I will always be sympathetic to this cause that has so dramatically touched my life, and I will dutifully send in my pledge card and checks in support of the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure, my priorities have changed.
I have traded the emotionally charged atmosphere of the race and the after-the-race smorgasbord of booths — with every health-related giveaway imaginable, a veritable trick-or-treat for grown-ups — for the opportunity to revel in quiet refection, thankful for yet another year of life and the bounty of good health set before me each and every day.
The truth is I feel as if I have paid my communal dues; I have shared my personal pain to both soothe myself and to serve as a stalwart example to the newly diagnosed, to give hope to those who feel hopeless and helpless in a situation that for some will have no happy ending.
At this stage in my life, I choose to celebrate or mourn the crucial events in my life with faithful friends and family rather than well-meaning strangers. To put it another way: I am in a different place, and it feels right.
So, on this first Sunday in October, when the lovely tree-lined path near my home beckons, I will walk alone, counting my blessings with each step, but listening, with respect and appreciation, for the faint sound of over 60,000 pairs of feet racing for the cure, my cure, far in the distance. And I will be at peace.
