Twenty Steps I did not think that morning would be any different, other than getting out of bed before noon. It is not something I would normally do, but my mother had already made me swear I would meet her in downtown Denver. I was laying there thinking about the ‘Race for the Cure,’ but it did not motivate me to get out of bed. It was chilly and I would have rather snuggled back down into my comfy covers than go walk five miles to support breast cancer research. So I got dressed and walked outside into the chilly morning air and began to drive towards downtown, half asleep and my mind a million miles away. I started to think about when she first was diagnosed with cancer, earlier that year. She did not feel sick; it was a routine check-up, until the x-ray came back. There was a lump in her right breast. The doctors tested it and everything came back fine, but they said it looked funny and decided to remove it for further testing. That was when things got scary. “T, you need to come home, we need to talk.” I could hear it in my father’s voice. I knew. I knew what he was going to say and I did not want to hear it. Hearing it would make it true. “She has cancer doesn’t she?” I asked my dad, barely able to get the words out. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach and bruised a vital organ. “Just come home so we can talk,” he replied, struggling past the know forming in his throat. Like St. Peter for the Catholic Church, my father has always been the foundation that we built upon, if he lost it on the phone, I would not know what to do. “Okay,” I said. I sat there for what felt like hours but knew it was only seconds. I was afraid that if I stood, my legs would not work properly. The sudden fear that gripped my heart astounded me. As I drove home, I kept thinking to myself, ‘What if she dies?’ Then what would I do? My mother, the strongest and most stubborn woman I knew had a disease that could rip her to shreds. When I pulled up to my house, I sat in my car for a moment. I kept thinking if I did not go inside it could not be true. I know that sounds crazy, but at that point I was grasping at straws. I finally got the nerve to go inside. When I walked into the living room, I felt like I was trapped in a box. My father was sitting next to my mother, and his eyes were bloodshot. She was holding his hand trying to comfort him. My younger brother was sitting in the chair closest to them with a lost look on his face. I took a deep breath and sat in the other chair, closest to my brother. My dad looked at me and his tears started to fall, he said the four words I did not want to accept. “She has breast cancer.” My whole world felt like it was being flipped upside down. The first step in her treatment was to take full chemotherapy. Thankfully, she did not become sick like most patients, although it made her extremely tired. She took this for about six months. The second step was full radiation. This also made her extremely tired. Imagine pumping your body full of radiation, which is to help your immune system fight twice as hard as a normal to kill cells in your body. You are constantly fighting. You are fighting for your life, fighting to breathe, fighting to just get out of bed in the morning. The first time I saw her not able to climb all the stairs in our house almost broke my heart. She paused halfway up grasping the railing, her chest heaving with every breath she struggled to take. Four steps were as far as she got. She glanced up and saw me. She smiled and said, “I’m okay.” When her hair started to fall out, I thought for sure she had reached her breaking point, but she kept on. She began to wake in the mornings with chunks of her hair lying on the pillow. She never once let me see her cry, but I know her heart was breaking. She did not get upset; she went to the beauty salon instead. She had been having a really bad week and she walked in with a hat on and the beautician asked,” Are you having a bad hair day?” Mom said she got to grinning pulled that hat off and said, “As a matter of fact, yes I am!” My mom said that the beautician’s jaw dropped and she apologized the rest of the time that my mom was there. Mom said she laughed the whole time she was there, and that just made her week so much better. It was the laugh that she needed to have.My mother completed her radiation in August and informed me shortly thereafter that she wanted me to walk with her in the ‘Race for the Cure’ in October. I could not believe it. The same woman who could not climb stairs without pausing for breath was going to walk five miles. I kept thinking she would back out, but there I was at 7am driving to meet her. When I got there and walked to her office, I could not believe how many people were there. Not just women, but also fathers and grandfathers and children, all brought together by one terrible disease. I stood there looking around in awe. Everyone was smiling, waving, and gearing up for the walk. How could one disease bring out so many smiles? This huge obstacle forges an instant bond. A look, a smile, a wave that says, ‘I know where you’ve been, and I know what you’re going through.’ In front of me stood, a little girl who was around seven years old, and on her back hung a sign that read, ‘In Memory of My Mother’. As she stood there next to her father ready to walk, I realized that this was not just about raising money. It was about supporting each other. When I caught up with my mom, I told her if she got too tired to let me know and I would go get the car. She replied, “Just because I am a cancer survivor does not mean I can’t walk as far as you!” For the first time I saw the determination in her eyes, heard it in her voice and I could see beyond the cancer. That day I stopped looking at my mother as a disease and saw her for the survivor and woman who she really is. We started the walk slow; she was trying to pace herself so she could make it to the end. I can remember looking over at her and she would smile this huge smile as if this was the best day of her life. We teamed up with about five other people, some from her office, others just strangers who either had cancer or were walking in honor of a passed loved one. In total, almost eight thousand people walked that day. All linked by one common bond, all eight thousand like members of a secret club that you’re only privy to if you’ve been affected by it. As we got closer to the finish line, the people of the sidewalks thickened to four or five deep. There were thousands cheering on the walkers. There was a podium set up where a voice was announcing how many had crossed the finish line. About a block away, six lanes had been set up. The three on the far right were for cancer patients/survivors, and the three lanes on the far left were for family/supporters of the walkers. My mom walked the last twenty steps without me by her side. I hurried through and waited for her on the other side. As she crossed the line, they put a medal with that famous pink ribbon on it around her neck. She turned to me, holding her pink victory medal up and smiled. The tears started to slide down my cheeks as she made her way to me. When she got close enough, I threw my arms around her and told her how proud of her I was. She stood there grinning as if she had just climbed Mt. Everest. When I looked at her I no longer regretted getting up so early and coming out in the cold. It was the proudest moment of my life and a memory that will last forever. Sadly, yesterday October 1, 2007, my mom lost her 6-year battle with cancer. She had a long battle and never once got down about it. She always kept her head held high and never once felt sorry for herself. We are all somewhat relieved that she is no longer in any pain and that she can rest peacefully, though that does not make it any easier to let her go. I found a shirt tonight on-line that she would have loved; it said, “I’m having a NO hair day!” Although she is gone, every year that I walk I will remember her, every time I hear Golden Earrings “The Twilight Zone” I will crank the radio and think of her. When the dogwoods come into bloom, I will smile and remember her. Moreover, when I lay in my bed at night remembering the good times we have had over the years I will smile, I might shed a tear or two, but I will smile because that is what she would have wanted me to do.
Posted on: Tue, 01 Oct 2013 02:24:16 +0000
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