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Published Articles
Memories of the 2000 CT Komen Race for the Cure
The weatherman’s forecast had promised great weather but that was five days ago. His
message has become less hopeful during these final hours leading up to the race. I awake
to rolling thunder and the drumbeat of steady rain on the skylights of my home. Another
rainy greeting for the annual Komen Race for the Cure in New Britain, Connecticut.* A
rainy greeting for those who will gather to do battle against breast cancer.
I gulp down my cup of coffee, cereal and juice, gather my gear in preparation for any and
all weather conditions, and head with my husband to join others in THE RACE. An
hour’s drive later, I make my way across the parking lot at Walnut Hill Park in New
Britain and say a prayerful thank you that the rains have stopped and the air is comfortably
cool for the expected 13,000 participants. The ground is soggy underfoot and my shoes
leave imprints in the rain-drenched grass. As I reach the crest of the hill, a panorama of
activity opens up before me. White tents festooned with pink balloons and pink ribbons
sport welcoming signs to breast cancer survivors, cosurvivors, and sponsors alike. The
music shell, whose function is to provide shelter for a myriad of events throughout the
year, is being readied for the closing recognition and awards assembly. A flood of
emotion sweeps over me, and my husband turns as he hears a muffled moan escape from
my throat.
*The Komen Race for the Cure Series has become the largest series of 5K runs/fitness walks in the world. Races will be held in 107 U.S. cities and two foreign countries this year with over 1 million participants expected. Proceeds from the Komen Race for the Cure Series help fund important breast cancer research as well as breast health initiatives on a local level. Seventy-five percent of the proceeds remain in the local community where the Race is held, helping to support breast health education and breast cancer screening and treatment programs for the medically underserved. The Komen Foundation began in 1982 and has raised more than $240 million for breast cancer research, education, screening and treatment.
My memory is stirred by the sights and sounds that I had initially encountered six years
ago when I attended my first race a short six weeks after completing my chemotherapy
treatments for breast cancer. I had come to watch one of the students from the middle
school where I work as a school counselor. She had arrived in my office one day and
announced that she was going to participate in the race and could she have permission to
wear my name on a sign that read “In celebration of..." Moved beyond words, I decided
that if she could run a 5K race on my behalf, I could and should be there to cheer her on.
The race was smaller then. In its second year, organizers hoped to increase participation
from its initial 2000 to 5000. People scurried about to ensure that the event ran smoothly
and that participants were comfortable. There was a spirit of anticipation, a spirit of
purpose, a spirit of camaraderie. A pink-visored volunteer recognized and greeted me.
She sensed my bewilderment as a newcomer on the scene. Would I like to register for the
walk ?... It’s only a mile...... Hmm, only a mile... I can do that!... Would I like to wear a
survivor’s pink visor ?..Do I qualify yet?...Removing her own visor, she placed it on my
head. And suddenly my husband and I were caught up in a wave of walkers who set forth
to do battle against a disease called breast cancer.
As the events of the morning drew to an end all those six years ago, people gathered
around the music shell in the center of the park. I nestled myself beneath a large tree with
my husband by my side. Suddenly, all survivors were asked to come forward. Hundreds
of women wearing pink visors poured forth from the crowd. Self-consciously I made my
way forward to join them. Overwhelmed by the spontaneous linking of arms among the
survivors and the applause of the spectators, I allowed the tears to escape across my
cheeks. Survivors! It is possible I thought. Survivors! And thousands of people who
care enough to join in the Race for the Cure...for others...for me.
Now. six years later, it is the same but different. There are more faces and parking is a
bigger challenge. No one seems to mind. There is a joyful undercurrent that offers
promise and hope. A bagpipe unit provides music as I skirt through the grass in a futile
attempt to avoid puddles. People step gingerly through the spongy footing of the
sponsors’ tent where they collect sample wares and gather information about good health.
Women are lined up for 15 minute massages, children chase balloons, and men stretch out
in anticipation of a race that will begin immediately following the completion of the day’s
first event: the children’s race.
I am honored to announce the start of the men’s race. The sea of faces is endless as they
cue up behind the starting line: fathers, sons, husbands, friends, and lovers. Old men with
tired bodies strengthened by determination, young men with finely-tuned muscles prepared
for competition, young boys barely able to harness their energy. They are here to fight
this disease that has changed their lives forever, robbed their peace of mind, and in some
cases robbed them of the people that they love. I want to stretch out my arms and hug
them. I say thank you, God bless you, and I love you... but it isn’t enough.
The women’s race is next. Like the men, they represent a range of ages, sizes, and shapes.
The running attire is as varied as the participants wearing it. Some have trained for this
event; others are running on gutsy will-power. This is for Mom, sis, an aunt, a friend, or
oneself.
It is after the men’s and then the women’s 5 K races that the walkers have their turn.
There are so many participants that I am convinced the beginning of the line will be ten
minutes underway before the end of the line gets started. I am energized by those around
me. The governor and first lady are in front of me. The mayor has joined in as well.
There is merriment as people surge forward. I run into a young mother I have met before.
She is beautiful both in appearance and in spirit. I had met her once right after she was
diagnosed with breast cancer and then again at the Race several years ago. She is doing
well. We hug. Her three children are walking with her. I read the signs attached to the
backs of walkers who are much quicker than I. “In celebration of me” reads one sign; “In
celebration of mom” reads another. A little boy holding the hand of an adult bears a sign
that reads “In memory of mommy.” My heart aches.
I am grateful that the sun has decided to stay hidden this day. Our walk takes us out of
Walnut Hill Park and through an older, established neighborhood with expansive lawns
and majestic trees. Pink ribbons girdle maples and oaks in recognition of the day’s effort.
As we turn onto one street bordered by three-family homes, people wave from porches
and applaud from windows. A gray haired woman beats a steady rhythm on two pots
from her third story porch. Volunteers offer water. Another woman stands on her lawn
and claps two metal spatulas together in support of our effort. I run over to her, say thank
you and give her a hug. Music from house windows and porches encourages a little more
zip in our step before we face Heartbreak Hill and the final mile of our journey.
As the multitude of walkers cross the finish line, a local radio personality asks ladies in
pink where they are from and how many years it has been since their diagnosis.
Bystanders applaud to their responses. I feel a sense of accomplishment as I join those
who have finished ahead of me. I am hungry and tired, but my spirits are buoyed by the
morning’s events.
The sun has remained hidden; the temperature is pleasing. Everyone is called to gather at
the music shell where awards are waiting. The music from a live band catches my
attention long before I have them in view. A female vocalist belts out catchy tunes. Soon
it is time to acknowledge those who have made the event possible. And then, as happens
every year, the breast cancer survivors are asked to come forward. There are six hundred
of us. Six hundred! We link arms. We sing. Unlike the first time, I do not cry. I am
happy to be a part of this event. I am blessed that I can wear a pink visor to celebrate the
seven years since my diagnosis. I breathe in the hope and promise that permeates the air.
It is early afternoon. I make my way back to the parking lot through the water-logged
lawn of Walnut Hill Park. Only a handful of volunteers remain as the tents are dismantled
and the last vestiges of food and handouts are packed away. The musicians have left; the
bagpipe unit is gone. Two walkers greet me as they pass by. I am wondering why I
parked at the top of the hill. My legs feel betrayed as I urge them to return me to my car.
It is quiet. The bustle of the morning is replaced by the muted silence of a damp and
overcast afternoon.
This is a good day. This is a good event. People coming together...people working in
harmony. There is no gender bias, no racial or ethnic discord, no age discrimination.
Strangers become friends. Friends share stories. We are in this together...a race against
the next diagnosis, a race against the next heartache, a race against another sign that reads
“In memory of mommy.”
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