T Incorporated

This past Sunday I ran in my first Race for the Cure. I’d participated before, two years ago up in Portland, but this time I actually ran. I didn’t give the event much thought before I went. No really, two months ago in Japan I filled out the forms barely giving it a second thought. It seemed so far away, and there were so many other things to be thinking about. Between all the big moves I barely found a moment to think about the race.

And then all of a sudden it was Sunday. It was a beautiful text book San Fransisco morning with fog cover that slowly burned off. We hopped on a bus, walked down to the Persidio, and ran right up to the base of the Golden Gate along the bay—stunning.

Everyone was there to give support. Groups of cross country runners, young twenty somethings with iPods, and grey haired folks who probably hadn’t ran all year were gathered around to dull or dilute the loss of someone close, or to celebrate with a survivor. To relish in the fact that a person close to them was beating the disease. And then there are the women with short hair, pink caps, and earings. All of the them full of smiles, but nervous smiles, tired smiles—the survivors.

I felt like I was cheating it all. I could barely look at the surviors, and I didn’t sign up for any mailing lists. If I hadn’t been with my friends I probably wouldn’t have gotten a t-shirt and I definitely didn’t sport a pink sign on my back saying in “Memory of Mommy” like a thirty-somthing man I saw running. I avoided sharing any stories when people asked. I didn’t even talk about my mother with the friends that I went with. I just went, ran and came home. I didn’t give anything to the group but a few bucks and a few hours. Sure, it’s a little something more than many people do, but I purposefully avoided being part of the group. I don’t want to admit I’m part of that group. The group whose lost someone. A person whose lost a pink person.

On the field before the race there was a group of survivors and friends all in a circle doing exercises to get ready for the event. A women was on the stage leading and shouting group therapy messages, “We can do it!”, “We can beat this together!” It was painful.

My mother dispised that stuff. Each year I watched her go with all of her friends. She had a huge group of women there to help her, yet even with all the support she seemed to dread it. It was a woman’s thing, and although I was never excluded, I just didn’t feel like I needed to intrude. So, my thoughts are only from a distance. She wanted to beat it, beat it on her own, and going to this event always made her uneasy, like she’d end up being remembered by someone wearing a survivor tag someday. She’d wear her pink hat off her belt so attention wouldn’t be drawn to her. She had support, but damnit she was going to beat it herself.

I respect the women at the race and will always be impressed by their dedication. There thirst for life is something someone can only know when there that close to losing it. I’m glad the event raises so much money, and I hope some day people won’t lose the people they love to a disease that strikes without warning. But, when I run, when I go, I won’t let my mother be remembered by a pink sign. She’s more then just pink.