For the past nine consecutive years, I wake up early on a Saturday morning in May surrounded by more than 50,000 women. A recurring dream? Sort of. I join a large group of female—and some male—participants in the annual the Revlon 5K Run/Walk for women’s cancers.
All of us have our reasons for raising money and awareness for women’s cancers … and it’s not just for the free t-shirt.
My reason is I am a breast cancer survivor. I’ve never had the disease—though men can get it—but I am the son of a breast cancer survivor, my mother Linda. And I, and the rest of our family, feel we survived it with her. The battle against cancer isn’t to be fought only by those who have it.
The race never feels convenient for me as it’s always during a busy time in my life. Not to mention, I’m no fan of rising at six a.m. on my only day of the week to sleep in so that I can battle the crowds and congested traffic around the Los Angeles Coliseum just to get to the race.
But my mom, and the 200,000 plus women per year who are diagnosed with breast cancer, presumably find their diagnosis not only inconvenient, but troublesome and horrifying.
So each year I go, happy for and challenged by the huge crowds that show up for the event.
Upon arrival, I assimilate into the masses. I carry a goodie bag filled with free stuff from the many booths set up throughout the Coliseum grounds.
Pinned on the backs of some in attendance are handmade signs dedicated to loved ones lost to the disease and survivors: on a woman with short red hair: “I’m a cancer survivor!” On a middle-aged man: “In honor of my wife, Lisa. I love you.” On a college-aged Latina girl: “In memory of my mom and best friend, Maria.”
As the race starts, I nudge as close to the front as I can and wait impatiently for the extraordinarily loud starter blast. I’m annoyed that “walkers” are near the front of the pack, surely to be trampled and elbowed as we runners scurry past. I feel guilty that I’m annoyed at a charitable event like this. But when I think about it further, I realize the woman I’m running in honor of, my mom, would be annoyed too.
In fact, I get a lot of my speed and temperament from my mom. She was a great athlete at a time when females were hardly allowed to compete in sports, when it was thought to not be “lady-like.” But this lady liked sports and didn’t care what others thought. She was a very successful athlete who could’ve gone on to play a number of college sports. However, my arrival during what would’ve been her college years ensured her athletic ability would be utilized chasing around a rambunctious baby boy instead of a basketball or tennis ball.
As a young mom concerned for her infant son, she would place her hand on my chest and stomach as I went to sleep each night, feeling it rise and fall, buoyant with life. It put her at rest knowing her son was alive and well. She was truly “hands-on” baby monitor.
She put up with a ruffian boy and a girl to follow. I boxed in the basement; I played football until she had to call me in from dark, and I got muddy playing in the woods all day with my friends.
All year round she drove me to my sports games. I can’t recall her missing one from fifth grade all the way until I was a senior in college. She said thousands of tiny prayers every time I was involved in a collision on the field.
On one occasion, she drove me to the emergency room after a particularly rough collision. But she never asked me to stop playing, to stop fighting, to stop striving. She couldn’t because she’s that way too.
