If my memory serves me, this was my 22nd annual Race for the Cure. I've completed the Susan G Komen walk in Portland, Denver, San Francisco, Reno, Seattle, and maybe Eugene (memory only has so much capacity). This year I had a little bit of a bad-itude about the Race. I wasn't so much crabby about the early alarm, the crowds, or navigating a fussy baby in the backpack, but for some reason I was rubbed a bit raw about all the CANCER itself. Like, why do I want to spend my free time wearing pink and hanging out with good friends in the spirit of breast cancer? Why do I want to expose myself to survivors, their hair gone, their bodies weak from treatments or metastasis, some ravaged enough to require being pushed in a wheelchair? I don't feel like seeing the 30-something mom with two young children walking the race, wearing pink shirt indicating her own battle with the disease. I don't want to see all the pink "in memory of" signs tagged to people's backs, listing the names of sisters, mothers, friends, daughters, reminding me what I've lost, potentially warning me of what's to come. The bottom line of my issue this morning? Fear. That one day I'll be pushing my own kids along, forced to celebrate the fact that I'm still alive, as though that's not guaranteed. That sounds like it sucks. Cancer sucks.
Fortunately, Alex, the Bean and I met up, per usual, with the Menne clan, and were also joined by Breezy this year, so I was lucky to be in the company of great family/friends, and chatted my way along the 5K course, with an intermission at one of my favorite bakeries. Plus, I paparazzied some cute pics, which is always a plus.
And the Bean was particularly cute on the MAX, hanging on like her daddy ...
No comments:
Post a Comment