The Victory Lap -- brought to you as a community service
A victory lap—that’s the only way I could describe it. When the victor, the winner of the race takes an extra lap around the track to celebrate with the fans the success of the moment. A moment in time: sometimes captured on film. Often documented in print. Always carved in the heart and memory of the champion.
On October 4, 1997, exactly 17 months since my discovery of a cancerous lump in my breast, I took my victory lap around a 5.7 mile course that looped the picturesque Charles River in Boston. I joined thousands of others in the “Making Strides against Breast Cancer Walk.”
I intended to participate for lofty reasons: raising money for the American Cancer Society—for research so desperately needed, and to educate the public about breast cancer. As the event drew closer, I realize that my involvement was on a deeper level.
This was an important event in my cancer history. I was walking to celebrate my first year cancer-free since my surgery. Friends and family sent me donations to sponsor my walk. A few even sent notes expressing their gratitude for my good health. My pledges totaled $400.
I made plans to walk with J. She has the unfortunate place in my life as being the next person I knew after me to be diagnosed with breast cancer. She had her surgery just six weeks after mine. We were both in our mid-thirties, both had children in grade school, and both had mastectomies. Mine on the right, hers on the left. When we first went through this we joked that if we stood next to each other, we would have a matched pair! There’s an old war expression about the friendships that are formed in foxholes. J is one of those friends. We laugh and call ourselves bosom buddies.
Like me, J was pumped up to walk in Boston as she neared her first anniversary cancer-free. We wore hand-made “survivor” t-shirts with our names and cancer anniversaries emblazoned on them. “Survivor” is cancer-speak for living beyond our treatment of cancer. At the time we had not passed the five-year milestone that the medical journals use to be considered technically “cured.” For me, I was alive and I was walking. That was good enough for me. Every day that I woke up and lived it to the full was another day that I had victory over cancer. Any day that I felt sorry for myself, or was troubled by cancer news accounts, or worried about upcoming doctor’s appointments, the cancer would win. Fortunately, I had more “alive” days and less “cancer” days as I went along.
That is why the Walk was a victory lap.
That first year, I came to Boston to celebrate with a few friends besides J: my husband Bob and my dear friend Anne. Both have been on the front lines cheering me on through my cancer battles. Of course J walked and had her supporters too. These folks were a source of encouragement and camaraderie for every mile.
The registration area at the start of the Walk was like an outdoor festival—tents, balloons, live music and food. There was also rain. It never dampened anyone’s spirits given that thousands of people showed up. We checked in and gave our donations. We placed names on pink ribbons and hung them on a tree in memorial to those we personally knew who had died of this disease. It was a misty moment that had nothing to do with the rainfall.
The emotion of it all stuck in my throat. We started the Walk under an archway of white balloons. I held Bob’s always-warm hand and linked my arm through Anne’s. In a few minutes, it was easier to breath more freely and drink in the victorious nature of my walk. The rain ended after the first mile. The humidity kept my clothes damp, but not my spirit. We walked along the river’s edge. I could glance up and down the river, a mile in each direction, and see thousands of energetic people in a steady, pulsing march as far as my eye could see. What a wonderful view: some many people dedicated to cancer research. What a sobering reality: everyone walking probably did so because they knew someone with the disease or was fighting it themselves. I could not help noticing many groups of walkers in matching t-shirts bearing names, faces and dates of women who had died…walkers who walked “in memory of…”
We came down to the final minutes of the Walk. I was proud of our dedicated troupe. No complaining on their parts. A rambunctious, noisy, crowd of people were cheering and clapping for the walkers crossing the finish line, reminiscent in my mind of the end marker of the Boston Marathon. Walkers completed their walk under a canopy of pink balloons. Pink rainbow in sight, I grabbed J’s arm in a spontaneous move, and together we sprinted the final yards to the end. She knew. It was our moment, individually and collectively. Big hugs and teary smiles. No paparazzi took pictures, no fans rushed the course, no post-race interviews. Just a few close friends and a husband who knew that each woman came to do this on her own… to claim the success of the moment… to have suffered great losses and still have the courage to run the race…
I never considered myself a champion before. But now, that is what is carved in my heart and mind.
Epilogue
It’s been eight years since I penned those words to recall my first walk for the American Cancer Society. I have done so every year since 1997, including joining 40,000 walkers this past Sunday in Boston. I have personally raised thousands of dollars with the help of very generous supporters. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. You can still make a donation to help save lives through research and early detection. Make a donation today by clicking on http://www.cancer.org/. Do it today, and ask all the women that you love in your life to do breast self-exams and get an annual mammogram after age 40.
© 2005 Patricia W. Gohn
On October 4, 1997, exactly 17 months since my discovery of a cancerous lump in my breast, I took my victory lap around a 5.7 mile course that looped the picturesque Charles River in Boston. I joined thousands of others in the “Making Strides against Breast Cancer Walk.”
I intended to participate for lofty reasons: raising money for the American Cancer Society—for research so desperately needed, and to educate the public about breast cancer. As the event drew closer, I realize that my involvement was on a deeper level.
This was an important event in my cancer history. I was walking to celebrate my first year cancer-free since my surgery. Friends and family sent me donations to sponsor my walk. A few even sent notes expressing their gratitude for my good health. My pledges totaled $400.
I made plans to walk with J. She has the unfortunate place in my life as being the next person I knew after me to be diagnosed with breast cancer. She had her surgery just six weeks after mine. We were both in our mid-thirties, both had children in grade school, and both had mastectomies. Mine on the right, hers on the left. When we first went through this we joked that if we stood next to each other, we would have a matched pair! There’s an old war expression about the friendships that are formed in foxholes. J is one of those friends. We laugh and call ourselves bosom buddies.
Like me, J was pumped up to walk in Boston as she neared her first anniversary cancer-free. We wore hand-made “survivor” t-shirts with our names and cancer anniversaries emblazoned on them. “Survivor” is cancer-speak for living beyond our treatment of cancer. At the time we had not passed the five-year milestone that the medical journals use to be considered technically “cured.” For me, I was alive and I was walking. That was good enough for me. Every day that I woke up and lived it to the full was another day that I had victory over cancer. Any day that I felt sorry for myself, or was troubled by cancer news accounts, or worried about upcoming doctor’s appointments, the cancer would win. Fortunately, I had more “alive” days and less “cancer” days as I went along.
That is why the Walk was a victory lap.
That first year, I came to Boston to celebrate with a few friends besides J: my husband Bob and my dear friend Anne. Both have been on the front lines cheering me on through my cancer battles. Of course J walked and had her supporters too. These folks were a source of encouragement and camaraderie for every mile.
The registration area at the start of the Walk was like an outdoor festival—tents, balloons, live music and food. There was also rain. It never dampened anyone’s spirits given that thousands of people showed up. We checked in and gave our donations. We placed names on pink ribbons and hung them on a tree in memorial to those we personally knew who had died of this disease. It was a misty moment that had nothing to do with the rainfall.
The emotion of it all stuck in my throat. We started the Walk under an archway of white balloons. I held Bob’s always-warm hand and linked my arm through Anne’s. In a few minutes, it was easier to breath more freely and drink in the victorious nature of my walk. The rain ended after the first mile. The humidity kept my clothes damp, but not my spirit. We walked along the river’s edge. I could glance up and down the river, a mile in each direction, and see thousands of energetic people in a steady, pulsing march as far as my eye could see. What a wonderful view: some many people dedicated to cancer research. What a sobering reality: everyone walking probably did so because they knew someone with the disease or was fighting it themselves. I could not help noticing many groups of walkers in matching t-shirts bearing names, faces and dates of women who had died…walkers who walked “in memory of…”
We came down to the final minutes of the Walk. I was proud of our dedicated troupe. No complaining on their parts. A rambunctious, noisy, crowd of people were cheering and clapping for the walkers crossing the finish line, reminiscent in my mind of the end marker of the Boston Marathon. Walkers completed their walk under a canopy of pink balloons. Pink rainbow in sight, I grabbed J’s arm in a spontaneous move, and together we sprinted the final yards to the end. She knew. It was our moment, individually and collectively. Big hugs and teary smiles. No paparazzi took pictures, no fans rushed the course, no post-race interviews. Just a few close friends and a husband who knew that each woman came to do this on her own… to claim the success of the moment… to have suffered great losses and still have the courage to run the race…
I never considered myself a champion before. But now, that is what is carved in my heart and mind.
Epilogue
It’s been eight years since I penned those words to recall my first walk for the American Cancer Society. I have done so every year since 1997, including joining 40,000 walkers this past Sunday in Boston. I have personally raised thousands of dollars with the help of very generous supporters. October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. You can still make a donation to help save lives through research and early detection. Make a donation today by clicking on http://www.cancer.org/. Do it today, and ask all the women that you love in your life to do breast self-exams and get an annual mammogram after age 40.
© 2005 Patricia W. Gohn
posted by Pat Gohn at
10/19/2005
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home