"...And when I ask "how was your day?" and you answer "not so good"...when you know you will make your way, but you just can't see how ..I will shine the light" - Shine the Light (Sugarland)

Oct 4, 2015

My birthday has become so much more than just another day to me. Having myself and my dad both diagnosed at age 35 and only one of us making it to 36 made my 36th birthday extremely special to me. It did not make my 37th birthday any less so. Each birthday from here on out is a birthday my own father never got to see or experience. So I kinda made a pact with myself (and him) that I would live for the both of us. It has become another way for me to reflect on the previous year with a different perspective. Although it makes me a little sad, I think he’d be happy for every extra day I get that he didn’t. I know that’s what I’d want for my own kids. Maybe that’s why I feel so close to him when I’m on my bike –it’s a time when I feel completely alive – whether from the peace and happiness in my heart or from the pain in my legs and/or lungs. Both remind me that I’m alive. And that’s not something I want to take for granted. So now when I wake up on my birthday, I use the first few moments of being awake to think of all that I have to be thankful for. It’s probably something I should do every day, but it’s something that comes automatically now on my birthday. I honestly think ‘wow I made it to another birthday!’.  Which I suppose kinda sounds morbid but that’s not how I mean it. I’m just grateful. Really, really grateful.

This year we didn’t do a big huge party just because we had a bunch of busy weekends before and my Grandma who was visiting from Montreal for the summer was leaving on my birthday. So the night before we went for a nice family supper. The next night my in-laws came over and we celebrated with them. My parents stopped by for a quick drink as well.  We had The Run For The Cure early the next day so we couldn’t do anything too crazy. But it was just nice to celebrate with those who were deep in the trenches with me as I have been healing – physically and emotionally - since finishing treatment.

Part of my way of celebrating 37 was asking my friends and family to walk or run with me at this year’s Run For the Cure. My goal was to get at least 37 people on my team, to celebrate my 37 years and to celebrate my first year walking it in “remission or canser free”. It was also my way of giving canser the finger. I like to give it the finger as often as I can…

Anyways, as usual, they rose to the challenge and actually surpassed 37 people with over 40 people !! Phil and I decided to walk it this year so we could do it as a family. Our kids last year walked with the grandparents but this year we wanted to do it all together.

This year’s walk was very different for me than last year. It didn’t really have anything to do with my being done treatment really, although I did want to walk it with those who supported us, kinda like our own personal victory lap. A thank you of sorts. But last year the walk was an encouraging, hopeful event when I was in the middle of some very scary treatment. It was a place of love and acceptance and above all hope. After surviving chemo, and then running 5k I felt almost invincible. I was in survival mode so my only option was to survive. This canser world was still relatively new to me. I was still bald.

I wasn’t scarred yet – emotionally or physically. I had no time for scars when I was fighting for my life.

But this year….this year I had 8 months from the end of treatment till The Run for those scars to leave their mark.

This year I had 2 red marks across either side of my chest where my breasts once were.

This year I had emotional scars that were open wounds from the toll the previous year had taken.

This year I had wiped away tears and soothed the hurt my diagnosis had caused my children.

This year I lost Sarah.

I now had a good understanding of what it means to have/had breast canser. Of surviving and what the aftermath of treatment feels like. Of losing friends to it – most of them young mothers of little kids. Of watching those living with Stage 4 face the ups and downs of a disease that can change in the blink of an eye. It’s messy. And unpredictable. And unfair.

So I arrived to this year’s Run For The Cure broken hearted, feeling a little lost, and more somber than hopeful. The shiny eyed innocence from last year was gone – replaced by a battle weariness from scars that ran deep.

And then an unexpected thing happened.

As we pulled up to the parking lot to meet some of our team, and I saw Andrea,  plus friends and family who got up early on this cool October morning, I suddenly felt emotional. These people hadn’t had breast canser. They didn’t have to be here. They not only signed up for my team and raised money, but also got their butts out of bed before the sun was up on a cool Sunday, to support me. To show me I wasn’t alone. To celebrate the good that had come in the last year. To show others battling they also weren’t alone. To raise money to hopefully make it easier for those after me.

Ultimately they showed up because I asked.

I always knew they supported me. But to actually see it in action was something else. The heartache I was carrying suddenly felt shared. In their eyes I didn’t see pity. I saw understanding. Acceptance. Love. Broken pieces and all.

Like The Ride, it didn’t change what I had been through. But it made it easier to bear. I think burdens are always easier when they are shared. And that is exactly what those who came and supported me did – they helped to shoulder the load.

The emotion I felt caused the start of a lump in my throat. To see my kids and my two nephews along with our neighbour’s daughter all “pinked out” in crazy gear was heartening. Especially to see the words “Aunty Cindy” and “Mommy” written in their scratchy handwriting across their chests.

I had a bib too but just couldn’t figure out what to write on mine. I put it off.

We all walked over to the Mall where the Run was starting from. And suddenly I was in my element – I kept seeing some of my breast canser girls and more and more of our team showed up…by this point the lump  in my throat was quite large…and then I saw Janis. I met Janis back in 2014 when I went to Wellspring after she was done treatment. She had the same kind of breast canser I had and had a rough, emotional journey from diagnosis to present day. But if you met her you would never know it. She is just so damn positive and exudes a joie de vivre. It’s infectious – I doubt anyone could be around Janis long and not feel happy. Which isn’t to say she hasn’t been know to cry….alot lol. She cries when she’s sad, she cries when you’re sad and she cries when she’s overcome with joy (she’s probably crying if she is reading this…ha Hi Janis!). She is compassionate, and kind and fierce. She has a heart of gold and she is one of those few people you meet in life who is just pure of heart. I count myself incredibly lucky that I met her during one of the scariest times in my life.

When I saw her with her beautiful superhero Survivor cape on, we threw our arms around each other and that’s when my tears were unleashed. They just started and didn’t stop. I think she cried too ha.

And then the amazing woman that she is, she just wiped away her tears, gave me an extra squeeze, told me she loved me and off she went inspiring others around us. What can I say, the people who surround me are pretty awesome. I’m a lucky SOB.

Anyways, most of my team had arrived and I still needed to write on my bib. I had met so many amazing women, so I could do like my flag for The Ride and try to put all their names on it. But really, this year there was one woman in particular who was on my mind. Sarah. And so I wrote:

Sarah

#FightLikeSarah

That was her call to arms amongst all those who followed her. #LiveLikeSarah was the other. She fought and lived with such gratitude for every moment she got. Even on her worst days, when she was in incredible pain, she would write about gratefulness and love. You couldn’t help but feel inspired by her. And you couldn’t help but love her. Sarah was stage 4 when I first read her blog post “This time will I die bald?”. Stage 4 means incurable. Our stories are 1 stage apart but eerily similar. When I first read the blog, her story scared me. I could have chosen to close my heart and just forget about her. Pretend I never read it. But I didn’t. I chose to reach out to her. And follow her journey. And got to know her. And love her. I cheered with happiness for her victories along the way. And cried with heartbreak each time the disease progressed and she was faced with some new scary reality. From a country away, I got to know her 5 children as she spoke of them with such love and pride. I often thought of Phil as she lovingly spoke of her husband and best friend Andrew. In the year that I knew this phenomenal woman, she taught me things about life and love that I will forever be grateful for. Some people may think I just opened myself up to pain by following her story. But really I opened myself up to love and compassion and gratitude. I do not regret my decision to follow Sarah. I feel incredibly blessed that our lives crossed paths, if even for a short while.

Writing #FightLikeSarah on my bib reminded me why I was there.

That hashtag may seem simple, but it’s tremendously powerful to me. Sarah was a true warrior. She loved fiercely, lived fully and tried to bring awareness that this is a disease that still kills, and without more research dollars to get more effective treatments for stage 4, will continue to do so. And so there I was walking to raise money.

Last year I was so happy that two of my One Aimers came out to run the 5k with me. This year, I was joined by 4 or 5 times that many One Aim teammates, along with some of their family members!

Talk about a great birthday present!!

I was with Phil and the kids, my sister in Law Andrea (who captained my Run for the Cure team) and her family, our parents, friends of our parents, neighbours, great friends (some I hadn’t seen in years – Thanks Lauren!!), kids and some One Aim teammates…

I felt incredibly loved. Which I think is the best medicine for a broken heart.

So as we all made our way to the start line, and then started our 5k walk after the runners took off, I felt a kind of peace and happiness. There was still sadness too, but the edges were a bit softer.

While on the walk I ran into some of the women from my BCSCF recovery class. They looked fabulous and I realised how much I had missed them. Then I saw Kelly and Judit. I think it’s seeing all these women who have been along for the ride and been through it themselves that make up the healing part of the walk. I just can’t feel alone when I’m in their presence. They know an intimate part of me like I know an intimate part of them just by virtue of having been through treatment.

And so we walked, and talked and danced and I smiled. We finished the 5k, got a picture of part of the team at the end, and everyone scattered back to their normal Sunday stuff...

It was chilly out so by the end we were cool, but I now carried a warmth inside that lasted long into the night. Another Run was done, money raised and with it a huge reminder that I was so very much loved.

So thank you to those who sponsored us, who walked with us and who showed up. I may not have said anything (for fear of crying) but it meant alot to me :)  Thanks for being my light...

I've added Shine The Light at the end of this blog - it perfectly sums up my feelings from this year's Run For The Cure. Have a listen. It's one of my favourite songs on the rough days.