In memory of Dorothy Myers and Lydia Tolman.
In celebration of Bob Starnes and Nancy Fester.
Today, over 33,000 Houstonians gathered downtown to raise money for education and early screening for breast cancer in the Houston Komen Race for the Cure.
I decided to participate this year because I wanted to do something to honor someone very dear to me who had recently been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I couldn’t find an upcoming event for pancreatic cancer or general cancer research, so I grabbed the nearest thing. I co-captained a team of participants from my company, and we headed downtown at 6:30 am on a Saturday morning. It was muggy, crowded, and chaotic. I’m exhausted. But I will be forever thankful I did it.
I was at once humbled and inspired by the tens of thousands of people who were all there to support someone else.
We waited for over 30 minutes for the runners to start and clear the finish line. Then, at 8:25, the starting pistol shot to start the walkers. We waited another 10 minutes before we started moving, then walked another block before we got to the starting line.
As we rounded the first corner, I saw a family group of 3 generations of women, 2 generations being survivors. They walked arm in arm the whole time I was behind them. I imagine they walked arm in arm the whole way.
As we passed the half-mile mark, we saw a tired man pushing a wheelchair. The back of this shirt said, “I walk for my mother-in-law.” In the wheelchair, wearing a pink survivor shirt, was an elderly woman with tears running down her face. Holding her hand, walking in silence, was her daughter.
A few hundred yards later, I see a group of people walking with shirts that say “Young Survival Coalition.” There are about a dozen men, women, and children walking together in this group. As I get closer, I see the signs on their shirts. I almost stop as I read the one closest to me that says: Diagnosed at 27.
27.
That’s younger than I am. Wow. And here she is with her husband and child.
As we approach three miles, we hear music blaring and we can hear people singing and cheering up ahead. Soon I see the source of the energy surge. There’s a man in the median with a stereo and speakers playing upbeat music, the kind you’d hear to rev up the fans at a football game. He’s cheering us on, encouraging everyone to finish. I assumed he’d be a DJ or local media personality, but he’s not. He’s just some guy who wanted to do something different to support the race. His shirt says: I’m a survivor’s brother. It’s remarkable today how so few words say so much.
I saw tears of joy, and tears of sorrow. But they were all tears of hope.
We will find a cure. For all cancer.
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