While I'm away

I'm currently unavailable since I'm on a bike somewhere in D.C. trying not to get smushed by a bus.

I knew I wouldn't be able to write anything this week, so I dug around and found this piece that was written before this blog began. Before Wandering, I blogged on my Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure participant page for a few years. This gem is from that blog in September, 2009.

Ah, memories . . .

This is a hard one for me because it hits extremely close to home.  I ask for your patience.

I’ve written before that I began my 3-Day journey as a way to honor the friend that I lost to Ovarian Cancer.  Emily was my oldest friend, which says a lot because I have trouble holding on to friends.  In the past, I’ve been more of a “seasonal friend.”  

You know the kind - high school friends in high school, college friends only at college, Colorado friends while I lived there, camp friends during the summer months (with the exception of my husband who has to deal with me year-round!), teacher friends while I was teaching.  

None of these friends crossed over well when I moved on to a different place or stage in my life and it wasn’t because of any shortcoming on their parts, it was me (yes, I just pulled a “it’s not you, it’s me” – but there are times in life when that statement is true and this is one of those times).

Emily and I stayed in touch through our mothers.  I knew what she was doing and she knew what I was up to and that was the extent of our relationship for a few years.  Then one day, my mother called to tell me that the doctor’s had found a tumor in one of Emily’s ovaries.  We were 23.  I didn’t even know she was feeling poorly.  

I lived in Colorado at the time, but was home for a visit during her first surgery.  I visited her in the hospital afterward, brought her a basket full of magazines and puzzles and silly stuff to make her laugh.  Walking into that room was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do.  

I plastered the biggest smile I could on my face and plowed in with my best attitude and a basket full of nothing to soothe the pain of losing both ovaries at age 23.  I was an idiot. 

Em was well for a few years after that.  I made a bigger effort to stay in touch, determined my mother would never shock me again with another phone call like that first one.  

Em caught the bouquet at my wedding.  She did it with style too.  Leapt a good two and a half feet off the ground.  I’ve got photogenic proof!  

The years past and we met for lunches and dinners and all the little pleasantries that fill busy lives.  Can’t help but wish we hadn’t been so very busy so that we could have met with absolutely no agenda, no food to quickly consume, no laundry list of what we were both busy with, no quick goodbyes as a lunch hour passed and work and kids and so-called life beckoned. 

Shortly after my son was born, I got another call from my mother.  No matter my attempts to keep myself steeled, I was smacked down again.  Cancer was back.  I remember feeling sucker punched.  I’d looked the other way, distracted by the everyday, and here it was again.  All the air gone from my lungs, my muscles tense and tears stinging my eyes.  

Sucker punch.  

And then I was introduced to chemo, where a woman covered from head to toe in a full HAZMAT suit came at my friend with a bag full of poison, and I was meant to sit by her side and tell silly stories that felt so full of nothing to me, but made her smile and anything to make her smile because she had a great smile and an even better laugh.  

And so the last three years of our life together was mostly spent in the chemo lab.  But, man, we knew how to rock that lab.  They even started scheduling her chemo sessions for a small back room we dubbed the party room, because chemo for Em, like so many other things in her life, was about laughter and living. 

Me and my Em

The last two summers of Em’s life, we'd spend a weekend together at the lake - magical weekends full of laugh until you pee moments, karaoke on the boat, water yoga (a.k.a. mermaid training), FAST boat rides, and late night chats that rivaled the likes of those we’d had as preteens mooning over 60’s rock bands in which the members were as old as our dads.  

Bliss.  

Just a few weeks ago, we all got together at the lake again.  Em’s absence was palpable.  We laughed and were silly and enjoyed ourselves.  But, I could feel that while my life is still going on, and believe me it is a beautiful, full, thriving life filled with love, it remains a bit dimmer because of my loss. 

The 3-Day was meant to help me heal.  I have my sister to thank for it.  

It was her idea. It is her determination that pulls us through.  It is her selflessness that finds me being honored at this year’s Washington, D.C. 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk as a flag bearer in the opening ceremonies.  

Months ago, she quietly wrote to the 3-Day and nominated me as a flag bearer.  She never breathed a word of it to me until she heard back from them that they were interested.  She was delighted to find out they had selected me, but had no idea that they also wanted her to carry one.  

Me and my amazing sister

Bethann’s flag represents the “Challenges” that we all face.  I will stand before thousands of walkers and proudly carry our “Victories.”  Together, we represent the entire journey.  

I’m hoping that from where I’ll be standing, the world around will seem a lot less dim.  I’m hoping to see the spirit of hope and determination that was Emily reflected back at me from all those faces, all those who have given their time, their hearts and their tears to make this life so much brighter for so many.  

I’m pretty sure it will be so bright up there that I’ll need some shades. A big pair of Audrey shades, just like the ones Em used to wear, will help hide the very happy tears that I’m quite sure will be pouring from my eyes.  Yep.  I said, happy tears.