tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-51124364174329109092024-02-20T13:28:56.301-05:00The Flip Side of FortyHi, I am a breast cancer survivor from Oceanic flight 815. I'm also a Rugby Goddess, Captain of Boobies, collector of chestnuts, banana seat bike rider, former home educator, and mother to two boys and two furry girls (not to be confused with my other girls). This blog is my coping mechanism. One of them. Thanks for listening. ~ Lizzilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.comBlogger130125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-76165585751983115122014-07-14T22:04:00.002-04:002014-07-16T11:34:05.533-04:00Naked Yoga: Keeping the Black Panther at Bay<div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span class="gmw_"><b>Thanks to naked yoga, I'm not feeling so cranky anymore.</b> (see previous, <a href="http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com/2014/06/when-i-grow-up-i-want-to-be-old-woman.html">F-bombed post</a>) </span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">I am happy to report that my knee is well on the mend, that I’ve had the <a href="http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com/search/label/More%20MRI%20Cow%20Bells">blessed(</a></span><a href="http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com/search/label/More%20MRI%20Cow%20Bells"><span class="gm_ gm_055134d6-1db2-58d4-a5e3-867e945acafa gm-spell">ly</span> noisy) MRI</a>, seen some good docs, and have a plan. Doesn’t everything feel better when you have a <i>plan</i>?</span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">I no longer am feeling like an old lady (aside from my B.A.V. status--and I will say here: I am holding out for real connection and affection). In fact, I am feeling full of youthful vigor again (</span></span><i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_897edbdf-7d40-2d9b-106f-9a4859dea55b gm-spell">yee</span></span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">-ha!</span></span></span></i>), thanks to a few small changes I’ve made to my daily wellness routine: I’m eating more (seriously, I am </span></span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">terrible</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> at feeding myself), and incorporating weights and hip-stabilizing exercises into deeper, longer, more frequent yoga sessions. And it feels </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">great. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The anxiety sticks around. It has a way of doing that. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Hello, I'm here again. </i>Pressing its sticky fingers against my throat.<i> </i>Filling my head with weighty clutter. Clenching my belly. Making my heart skip a beat. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">And there’s nothing better for dealing with it than getting back into the body as much as possible. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Working out.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> To good music. In the summer heat. Naked. Yes, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>naked.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Really. You should try it. In the privacy of your own home, of course. And perhaps with the shades drawn. (I don’t have to worry about that where I live, lucky me).</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anxiety, after all, is often about being stuck in your head, trapped in an endless loop of imagined trauma and tragedy, of catastrophic outcomes that haven’t happened yet, and may never happen, and that suck the lifeblood out of your ability to simply live in and enjoy the moment. There are no bigger demons. In my family, we call it the Black Panther, particularly when it comes to us at night, a palatable, suffocating darkness that can swallow us whole, and make getting any semblance of sleep impossible. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">But here’s the thing: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The best way to get out of your head is to get into your body. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It is so simple, and yet, somehow, can be incredibly difficult to do. There’s a vast range of how we experience anxiety; sometimes the sense of overwhelm is so great that to suggest that a few simple moon salutations before you go to bed might just help keep the Black Panther at bay might seem a bit ridiculous. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">But I beg to differ.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">There have been times in my life when I haven't been able to get any sleep at all, save for a few snatches here and there just after the sun had come up to chase the demons away. And </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>particularly</i></span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> during t</span></span><span class="gmw_">he time when I was waiting for my breast cancer diagnosis, and then for landscape-altering surgery, and still later, my prognosis, I was so full of fear that I would spiral every night down a dark, murky well, where I'd try to fend off the black panther, who smothered me with panic attacks that sent my heart a skitter and made it hard for me to find my breath. And when I was able to finally close my eyes and sleep, <a href="http://www.boredpanda.com/childrens-nightmares-surreal-photography-dream-collector-arthur-tress/">my dreams </a>were often overtaken by</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> desperate, malevolent spirits, who swarmed into my bed space to torment and taunt me. Crazy shit, I know, but there it is. Fear will do that. Taking back control was instrumental to my being able to get through--not only did I need to reclaim my body, but I needed to welcome in the positive forces of love and light that shimmer on the edges of those shadows, inside and out, and at times, just beyond, just out of reach. Y</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">oga--a practice of making peace with a body that had betrayed me, of pushing myself physically to feel strong and healthy again, of letting in that light--quite possibly saved my life. Yoga, and of course, </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">walking</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">--although, of course, I didn’t do my walking at bedtime. (and that's a different blog post)</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">"All the variety, all the charm, all the beauty of life is made up of light and shadow." </span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"> ~ Tolstoy</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It's not that I don't love my shadows. I do. What would I be without them? </span><span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">I would not be whole otherwise. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">Where would the beauty come from? Even the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2014/07/16/science/space/stalking-the-shadow-universe.html?">darkest shadows</a> bring gifts, providing the backdrop for those stars to shine.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">But when the light filters through in only tiny fleeting slivers that dance, then fade quickly into darkening skies, it's time to take action: to wrangle with those demons, birth some new stars. I was determined to be free of the anxiety and negativity that was making it so hard for me to stay afloat, let alone sleep enough to make it through my days, and be able to deal with the inevitable stress of managing fear while managing a household (and homeschooling my two boys). I wanted to be hopeful. What else is there to be? Friends had sent me lovely cards, candles, shells and trinkets chosen, they said, especially to help me get through, so the first thing I did was to intentionally create an altar of sorts next to my bed with a few of the special objects that had been infused with their love. And I started a nightly yoga practice at bedtime, with candles sending light into the night skies and illuminating the approaching shadows. Those gentle moon salutations stretched out into whatever I needed at the time, at the foot of my bed, where I’d untangle and camber and flesh out the spaces in between the <a href="http://www.thisiscolossal.com/2014/07/graphite-portraits-stefan-zsaitsits/">twisting, dark patches </a>until they vanished altogether. I found my breath, and it filled in all the hollows so there was nowhere for the fear to hide. Yoga allowed me to climb back into my physical self, leave the dread-head behind, and instead, open my body and spirit to the Pandora-like collective love of friends and family. Powerful stuff, indeed, akin to an elixir of life, soothing and emboldening me, while vanquishing the Black Panther. I felt strong and loved, and </span><span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">started to feel hopeful again. To shine.</span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I was able, finally, to <i>trust what was to come,</i> rather than to fear the uncertainty of what lay ahead, and to believe that everything would, indeed, be okay. Sleep came swiftly and sweetly that first night, cradling me in comfort and surety. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">I suppose we must revisit these lessons over and over again as we make our way through life. Six years later, under totally different (thankfully) circumstances, I find myself once again sitting upon the realization that I have to pace myself, particularly when the terrain becomes unfamiliar, or unforgiving; that I have to try to stay in the present as much as possible; and that I have to breathe myself back into all that is <i>right</i> with my body. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">And so, I continue to work through the fear and doubt. Make my adjustments. Forgive myself. Let go. I walk. I work out with weights. I do yoga. I dance. And as I step back into the wholeness of my body, I feel the ache and gimp in my knee, the crackle and pop in my hips, the searing tightness on my left side, and I listen to the way they all talk to each other, and to me, a constant, resonant hum that makes my body sing, the <a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174740" style="font-style: normal;">body electric</a>. And they have become <i>my</i> s</span></span><span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">tories, </span><span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">bound deep in my scars, </span><span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">echoing, traveling, across arterial trails, a reawakening landscape, mapping out a rich archipelago, and coursing through my veins, in the rhythm of my breath, the beat of my heart</span><span style="line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">. </span><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">I am glad for the way my body responds. It wants to fight back, always. I think we're like that. No matter how hard or far we fall, we pull ourselves up and stand tall as best we can. We rediscover, over and over again, the blessed strength at our core, fused by our imperfect angularities, our irregularities, our scar tissue, our stories. Climb back into your body, and let those stories feed you, heal you.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 1.15; white-space: pre-wrap;">And naked yoga? Well, that’s even better. Especially after all my girls have been through. Sometimes it's better to bare all. </span><br />
<h2>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: small;">Old lady? F*#k that shit. I've got things to do!</span></span></h2>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a><a href="http://www.pinterest.com/pin/create/extension/" style="background-image: url(data:image/png; border: none; cursor: pointer; display: none; height: 20px; line-height: 0; min-height: 20px; min-width: 40px; opacity: 0.85; position: absolute; width: 40px; z-index: 8675309;"></a>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-81610325630931830742014-06-20T19:40:00.002-04:002014-07-15T19:46:53.834-04:00When I grow up, I want to be an old woman. Just not yet, thank you.<span class="gmw_">(with an upfront apology for all the <span class="gm_ gm_230f994f-e6f7-86d0-56c8-92111d439819 gm-spell gm_tiny">F</span> bombs scattered about this post)</span><br />
<br />
<b>I'm feeling like an old lady today. And I hate it. <i>Hate</i> it.</b><br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">It's my knee. And a few other things (ok, a lot of other things, but they'll have to go in another post, because there are far too many to cover here), but mostly my left knee, which has recently given notice: <i>no longer will I be supporting all your crazy activity.</i> <i>Sprinting down hills? Really, sister? I mean, WTF? How old do you think you are? Twenty? </i></span></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><i><br /></i></span></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Sigh.</span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">My knee--in fact, most of my joints--have been bugging me all spring in a barometric sort of way.<span class="gmw_"> Bad weather coming? Humidity on the rise? Barometric pressure dipping? My body lets me <i>know</i>. Many a-mornings have I awakened, hair all dewpoint-curly, to steamy weather, river fog rising, sun burning through, and my knee, all stiff and achy, making me wince as I get out of bed, and take my first steps of the day. And on those days, swampier air settling in by the hour, the knee moans, and then screams, and I feel <i>old</i>. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Plus, there's the little something I did to it several weeks ago. Running hills. Trying to stay kickass. Pushing it a little too much. <i>Pop</i> goes the knee. </span>I know, I know. What's the big deal? I've been through <i>so</i> much worse. This is nothing. Just a little blip on the screen. A speed bump, for </span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_4980cd26-305b-6bbb-cd10-5d7d67aa57cb gm-spell">chrissakes</span>. So what's the problem? </span></span></span><i>Suck it up cupcake.</i> I mean, <i>really. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
There's nothing quite like your mother having a heart attack to put it all into perspective.<br />
<br />
Yeah, so, I'm trying hard not to complain, but the shifting sands just won't stop, and it feels like the universe is talking to me. Again.<br />
<br />
And my mom? She's doing okay, but dang, she deserves so much better.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_">Here's the thing: <i>at my age</i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"> (<span class="gm_ gm_1717afd6-735f-a683-f759-b2f10c13cf48 gm-spell">gah</span></span></span><span class="gmw_">!), there's a whole lot of stuff that starts to happen, and it comes in waves, hitting you and those you love in equal, crappy measure, sending you to crash against the rocks, scrape up against the barnacles, and consider just giving in. Whatever the ensuing wreckage,</span></span><span class="gmw_"> and wherever you wash up, things shift immeasurably, irretrievably, and suddenly, a sort of unwelcome bump into the next phase of life. You're suddenly afloat, alone, on an iceberg, slowly but decidedly drifting into whatever's next, screaming, "<i>I'm not ready!!</i>" You find yourself having crushes on 25-year old farm boys and sprinting down hills full speed. Yep. I remember being acutely aware of going through such a passage when my grandmother died. Two days after the memorial service, my mother starting walking with a limp. A year or so after that, she had both hips replaced. I broke down visiting her in post-op, where she lay all wrapped up in white blankets, the bed swallowing her whole. Nothing would be the same. We had both moved up. <i>Next!</i></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span><span class="gmw_">And there's this: "Nobody gives a shit about old ladies. We remind everyone they're going to die." ~ <i>Orange Is The New Black</i></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_">Damn.</span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_">You first notice how different everything feels. There's more anxiety to manage, more imagined peril, more preoccupations with what might happen next. Especially if you're on your own. And people start to see <i>you</i> differently. Or maybe, they stop seeing you at all. You start to become the Invisible Woman, gradually erased into nothing. "You're <i>small</i>," my son has said to me in a fit of anger, "you're <i>nothing.</i>" It's how you start to feel. And yet, you realize, too, that you started this process yourself, when you chose not to follow your dreams, not to step completely into yourself. <i>You're giving up your power,</i> your mother used to say. And you'd brush her off. <i>Oh</i>, the irony. You feel yourself being pushed to the margins again and again just as you are screeching to take center stage in your own life. Is there any use? Is this the beginning of the end? Is this<i> it</i>? Is there ever any going back? </span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_">I can't help but wonder, will I ever be able to ski hard and fast again without worrying about my knee? Sprint down hills? Run down mountains (my favorite part about hiking)? And there's more, too: will I ever feel <i>eyes on me </i>attractive again, abuzz with dopamine, the nectar of longevity, the sweet honey of youth? </span>Will I ever feel invincible again, or just invisible? Not worry about my mother? My children? Will I ever be able to think about her--and myself--in the same spots along the generational trail, within the aging loop, than I did just a few months ago? I once believed that <i>this too shall pass</i>, that I could apply that to most everything. Most things (and some would argue, <i>all</i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"> things) are temporary, after all. Even a messed up knee. But a heart? Add to the mix Parkinson's and lung disease, and you start to worry, all the <span class="gm_ gm_d4456c8e-b85c-5dba-48fe-069e3c66a97d gm-spell">fuckin'</span> time. And it hits me, too: if I feel old, how does she feel? Mom says that she's "no longer the Bounce Back Baby." I suppose if there's one definition of aging, there it is.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
And, of course, I want nothing more than for her to bounce back. To regain her 3-Day strength and stamina. <i>To walk on.</i> And I want the same for me, too. <i>Right?</i><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">The universe is always talking, isn't it? And our bodies serve as conduits for all sorts of messages and meaning, and I'm trying, despite the constant hum and buzz of <i>all-things-at-once</i>, to listen. Trying to consider what simmers just under the surface of this and that, to make connections, and see those physical maladies for the complex emotional, circumstantial, metaphorical, and often mysterious <i>subtext </i>they are. Since I spent my adolescence honing my ability to sniff out the Deep Hidden Meaning, or DHM, for short, I can't <i>not</i> do this.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Perhaps, then, it is simply the collision of so many simultaneous transitions at work here, not just an unsettling injury to my knee, but also having to help my mother start to transition into greater dependence while helping my sons move into greater independence, navigating an impending divorce and all the work of processing, trusting, and letting go it requires, <span class="gmw_">and trying to jump into something new, something that feels better: rhythms, work, relationships, and play, too. And realizing throughout it all just how much I've lost, especially, all those years that I <i>can't get back</i>. There's the nagging, persistent feeling that I lost myself somewhere along the way. I've spent many years now trying to unearth and recapture her, but she's squirrelly, used to hiding out, shy, weary. At times I wonder if she's even there at all. I am no longer that person who submerged herself all those years ago., but there are echoes and shadows that call to me, reminding me to stay feisty, take no prisoners, make those leaps. It'll take some time to come to terms with where--and who--I am now. And yet, I'm not ready to leave it all behind, stop sprinting down hills, skiing hard and fast. Two questions remain: What exactly happened in between and why am I not still <i>twenty</i>? </span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Whatever it is, dealing with an injury, within the larger context of my mom's health issues, is bringing it all to the surface, a sort of subtle</span></span> <span class="gmw_">but fiery plea to take a long look in the mirror, to please acknowledge <i>yes that's you</i>, and move on. How can I even imagine taking those leaps if I can't even walk? I'm trying to feel </span><i>awesome</i> again. Not like this. Fark.</span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">And perhaps there is the idea, too, that I was being prepared for what was to come, what is to come, with my mother. A chance at a gradual reckoning, rather than a slap in the face. <i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Yo, Liz, you're almost fifty. Just sayin'.</span></span></i></span></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_">And yet, maybe it was just<i> time.</i></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
It could be that <i>blowing out </i>(I know, so dramatic of me)<i> </i>my knee was inevitable. After years of downhill skiing with much abandon, biking without a helmet (not that <i>that</i> has anything to do with my knee, but it's the idea that maybe, just maybe, I have used up my rope of invincibility, and now am forever tethered close and tight to the <i>be careful </i>crowd), running down hills, walking endless miles, playing every possible sport, my knees are entitled to be a little <i>cranky. </i>And who knows what else is going on in there. There's a trail loaded with DHM-explosives that I could follow, one trauma leading to the next, and the body, ever responsive, making its adjustments accordingly as each new revision takes shape. I have imagined tracing myself on big paper, and deconstructing, with collage and text and color and anything that comes to mind, all the connected tales, trails, and travails, the scars and aches and joys, too, that my body has become. Bodies are funny that way, and fascinating too: our stories take root in the hollows in between, in all those parts working in tandem, each depending on the other, compensating for each other's weaknesses, or overbearing tendencies, making the story whole. Such a study in the grace and grit of physics, in collaboration, despite what the insurance companies would have us believe. And then there is the emotional piece, too, <i>what do you do with that?</i> which manifests in the physical, hiding out in the shadows, and then bringing light to the complexities of all that symbiotic cross-pollination. So much to consider. Especially when you are an <i>over-thinker</i> like me.<br />
<br />
It happened like this.<br />
<br />
About three weeks ago, I was on one of my usual 6+ mile walk/runs, which often includes hills and sprinting, just so I won't get too bored. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ib3Duz_6a9M">Dance walking </a>hasn't hit the valley quite yet, but I'm working on it. On this particular afternoon, I had just run down a long steep hill and settled in on the relative flats for interval training, walking, sprinting, walking, sprinting, when I made the stupid decision to sprint down a hill. I suppose I was feeling sporty or something. <i>Not my best</i>, as my son would say. About halfway to the bottom of the hill, I felt something go <i>pop!</i><span class="gmw_"> in my left knee, somewhere on the inside, and extending around the back to the outer tendon. I slowed to a walk, started to swear, and greeted the cows <i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Hellooo ladies! </span></span></span></span></i>who had started to gather along the edge of the fence, drawn, clearly, to the sound of the F bombs I was lobbing with every painful step.</span><br />
<br />
When I got home, I swore some more, iced the knee, and took arnica, sprinkling those magical little pellets onto my tongue with the same kind of eagerness as if I had been dropping acid at some music festival. (not that I've ever done that, but nearly every time I've administered a homeopathic remedy to my kids, I've been reminded of the scene in <i>Hair </i>when Bukowski gets in line in the groovy-trippy-music-in-the-park-scene, on knees, and sticks his tongue out, waiting for his tasty dash of LSD.)<br />
<br />
For the next few days, the knee felt really unstable, like it could<i> go</i> any minute. Boom pow. I babied it, staying off of it for the most part (haha!)<span class="gmw_"> and walking with attentive apprehension. And then, one afternoon, at home, doing nothing more than puttering about, I sidestepped the cat and the knee gave out, totally and completely. Instant, intense pain. Could not put any weight on it. More F bombs. The cat gave me a look, "Really, <i>again</i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">?" Just the week before I had cut my finger badly on a hand saw outside by the old, recently felled pear tree, which I was attempting to carve up for winter wood. Blood dripping all over the kitchen, a bit of rage (ok, more than a bit) thumping through my gullet, out it came: FUCK FUCK FUCK (so sorry, but it really did feel good at the time). And so much more, too. T</span></span></span>he cat, Mischief, and not above throwing a good tantrum herself every now and again, had not appreciated my noisy display, and ran to the door with a look in her eyes I hadn't seen in awhile. <i>Let me out now. </i><span class="gmw_">I couldn't help it, and after all, why should I? T</span>here is <a href="http://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-do-we-swear/">scientific proof </a>that swearing out loud several times over when you're hurt can help you manage pain, anger, frustration, and whatever else you might be experiencing. But like so many other things, we probably didn't need an expensive study to tell us what we already knew. I used to tell my kids to save their swears for when they really matter. Like now. No sense in wasting them on the stupid stuff.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">There's nothing like being on crutches when your -ex comes for a visit for your son's graduation, and you want to feel powerful and super hero like, because that's what the last twelve months have required you to be, after all, and you've been all that and more, but instead, you feel--and look--weak and old, powerless and ineffective. </span></span></span><i>Hey! Doing great, just can't walk right now! </i>Uh-huh. </span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_">Of course, maybe the knee giving out was telling me that I can't keep carrying all of this myself, that I need help, that I am only so strong. <i>Nah. </i>Screw that. I got this.</span><br />
<br />
Do I?<br />
<br />
I am constantly amazed at how quickly and seamlessly my confidence can be dismantled--by an injury, or an offhand comment, a certain look, or by any small bit of dismissal or unresponsiveness that works its way into my day. <i>Yours, too, I bet.</i> There's simply no way around it. And some days I can fend it off brilliantly, and other days, it wraps its fingers around my throat, and I can't breathe.<br />
<br />
Finally, finally, after the useless x-rays (just what I need: more radiation), and the requisite wait while the doc got approval from the insurance company, I had an MRI. "Have you ever had an MRI before?" "Oh, <i>yes. </i><a href="http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com/search/label/More%20MRI%20Cow%20Bells">Quite a few</a>." "Would you like to listen to music?" "Just give me more <i>cow bell</i>, please."<br />
<br />
<a href="http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com/2014/07/naked-yoga-keeping-black-panther-at-bay.html">No results yet</a>, but I'll see the ortho-guy in a couple of more weeks. And in the meantime, I am wondering how best not to feel like an old lady.<br />
<br />
I am certain there's much I could, should be doing to mend, strengthen, heal. And, as always, I am ever grateful for the resources that I have to figure it out for myself. But what about all those people who don't have those resources, whether a network of support, or access to equipment and help to start rehabbing? What do they do? What do the insurance companies expect them, us to do while we wait? Double up on the pain killers? On the whiskey? The F bombs?<br />
<br />
It's absolutely nuts how our health care has been hijacked by insurance companies and a system that has absolutely NO stake in our well being.<br />
<br />
I am, though, so much better, and that's a very good thing. I do need to be strong and able for my mother, for my children, for me, too, or at the very least, <i>present</i> that way. That's all that matters. I need to be there for them, to show them that I've got this. Glad to be done with the crutches, the ace bandage. Glad to be done, for the most part, with the tin-woman-rusty feeling, except for damp weather days like today. On dry days, it feels oh-so-much-better. I can bend, walk without any noticeable limp, pretend everything is working right. Add to that a little deep tissue work and yoga to keep things in balance, and I've been feeling pretty good, <i>hopeful </i>even,<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"> around </span></span><i>fifty</i>, maybe, which is still old for me, since I usually feel about <i>sixteen. </i>And I have been known to over-do. <i>Who, me? </i>I might have played a little stand-and-reach badminton, did an hour of yoga before bed, let myself get duped by the feeling that everything was going to work out <i>just fine</i>. And then, the damp settles in, and I feel about <i>eighty.</i> <span class="gmw_">And, oh, look, there's some new grey in my hair. <i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Halle-fuckin'</span></span></span></i><span class="gmw_"><i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">-lujah.</span></span></span></i></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span></span></i></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">And what's with all the new wrinkles, too, that just seem to keep showing up? They certainly aren't helping me feel any younger.</span></span><br />
<br />
Here's how it starts: you go to bed and everything is dandy. And then, at some point in the middle of the night, you wake up because something is not quite right. It hurts to lift your knee to turn over, to straighten and bend, and the creak and grind of the rusty hinges have re-appeared. You go to bed feeling youngish, and wake up in the morning feeling, quite suddenly, <i>old</i>. (Actually, I think I woke up to the sound of my son and his friend raiding the freezer for ice cream, the big <i>whoosh</i><span class="gmw_"> of the drawer in and out, the <i>clink</i> of metal scoop on marble, and the heavy <i>thud</i> of 6' 6" big boy footsteps startling the quiet of the house.) There's the godforsaken pillow-between-the-knees, the scheduled meds, the grocery bag boys calling you <i>ma'am</i>. You find yourself cursing your way out of bed. <i>Old, old, old.</i> (with no offense to those who are, actually, by definition, "old," though as they say, you are only as old or young as you feel).</span><br />
<br />
Hobble, hobble. Everything takes so much time! And you feel so gimpy, spastic! It seems like it all snowballs: your knee goes and suddenly, you lose your coordination, your balance, your amazingly fast reflexes. Good grief! Slow, slow is <i>not</i> my usual speed (and maybe that's partly the point). My 102 year-old great grandmother moved faster than I can. And she was partially blind and mostly deaf. Didn't complain or whine about anything. Liked her scotch at 5 o'clock sharp. She had it going on. And all her own teeth, besides. Something to <i>aspire </i>to.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
The good news is that I can happily report that I have not hurled any F bombs (save for the ones I keyboarded into this post and that are now reverberating in your head) for several days at least. The cat is pleased.<br />
<br />
But I <i>am</i> going a little crazy--such massive lessons in patience, in asking for help, in realizing the ridiculousness of my own vanity, of my righteous claim to invincibility, an invincibility that I worked so hard to get back. Do I have the right to feel invincible again? Isn't that what feeling young is all about? Lose that, and you're <i>old.</i><br />
<br />
And there's this, too: that sweeping new terrain that sits and shimmers before me, full of rich possibility, and all for the taking? It <i>scares</i> me. There's an abyss between this life and the next. It requires a leap. And even before that, a need to pull myself out of the deep loneliness and longing that has filled the space in between heart beats for far, far too long. Suppose it's a challenge: so you've got a bum knee. Climb out of the hole--you're strong enough--and then, leap. Leap with all your might. You are able-bodied and whole, despite all the scars that map your stories and the sadness that runs through your veins. You'll get there. My mother has told me, <i>There is power in your story; use it. </i><br />
<br />
I suppose one can never fully understand the full scope of what this world, what one life, truly demands, and just how much we can carry. But honestly, some days, the shit is so heavy, I've just got to put it down.<br />
<br />
Usually, I walk it out, my go-to way of lightening my load. The fact that that I haven't been able to do this, nor any of my usual--run up and down the stairs, move nimbly through my days, bust out a dance move whenever the feeling strikes, and walk, walk, walk, through the beauty and the sadness, shedding the shadows, the heavy boots, the detritus of life, to feel light, restored, expansive--that is starting to weigh on me. Anxiety works fast--opportunistic, relentless--igniting insecurities, second guessing, and overthinking, opening the door for the dread to creep, creep in. And there's my mom, too. Worry, worry. Stuff that keeps you up at night.<br />
<br />
It's amazing how badly I miss my walking, being active, mobile. Walking has been so essential to my recovery, my daily rhythms, my sense of well being. After all, it was walking that saved me, that brought me back, that feeds me, still. It was walking that enabled me to regain a bit of invincibility, sense of strength, and self, and that keeps me moving through the headwinds, the sea changes, all the shit Life doles out. And, most importantly, perhaps, it's been walking that has enabled me to slow down and take notice, of the tiny, glinting bits of beauty and possibility that reside in those moments that stretch out and fill slowly and completely with joy. At once healing, empowering, and liberating, walking helped me get my groove back.<br />
<br />
No doubt, I will get it back. Again. But for now...<br />
<br />
...I'm feeling like an old lady. Way the F*#k before my time.<br />
<br />
Oh well. This too shall pass. Time to <i>Suck it up, cupcake. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Soon, soon, I'll be running hills again. Feeling like I'm <i>twenty</i>. Why stop now?<br />
<br />
<br />zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-42389649015873696392014-04-01T11:53:00.000-04:002014-04-03T10:08:45.031-04:00Winter Weary, Whither Spring?It's been a long winter, hasn't it? Even today, on this first day of April, the sun burst onto the scene to shine strong and bright, only to dip and fade behind thickening clouds. And as I walked along roads still littered with winter's mess, geese flew overhead, birds gathered on tree tops to sing into the darkening skies, and I cursed the last of the snow stubbornly clinging to its hideous, gravel-soaked shape. Spring, with all its colors and life and promise, can't come soon enough. And these days, it's all too easy to be duped by the expansive sun. Here in New England, it's simply not to be trusted. Wander into the thickets of trees, past streams roaring with snow melt, and the pockets of cold will find you again. Even so, I am swept along, my heart astir with the changes underfoot. <i>Forward motion.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
On this day, the kind stuffed with chores and errands to cross off the endless list (and shout <i>yay me! </i>for remembering to return the Redbox movies before a small fortune was due), I was glad for the chance to slow it down, take a walk, write, eat, drink in the sun. My usual rhythms and routes of travel are well-worn and threadbare; lately, I have felt a deep urge to go off-road, leave behind the familiar, comfortable, if unremarkable banalities of standard-issue daily rhythms, head in a different direction, and seek the sublime in not knowing what comes next.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_">But there's stuff we just have to do, and after a morning visit to my awesome chiropractor/friend to keep my crooked neck from rusting and my hip from howling, I found myself in the endocrinologist's office for a biopsy on my thyroid, which had sprouted nodules--now overgrown--soon after my breast cancer diagnosis in 2008. There was something all too familiar about this road--the unhappy discovery during my annual exam, the failed, follow up ultrasound to try to "make it go away," the slightly bizarre needle biopsy--and as the procedure progressed, it was all I could do to <i>not </i><span class="gmw_">go there, to <i>not</i> jump ahead to the surgical biopsy, and those searing three small words, <i>You have cancer. </i></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">This time, it <i>must</i> be different. I've done this before. Even the thyroid biopsy part. I'm <i>fine.</i> </span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><br /></span></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">The young doctor was on time, this time, and I was happy to bypass a long wait in the cigarette-smokey room that quickly filled with the unwell and took on a depressive, weighty energy that made me think the Dementors were close by. Once in the small pea-green room, I hopped onto the table, too short, as usual, for my long legs, and tried to get comfortable--no <span class="gm_ gm_23e26a40-0a49-066f-4a44-6b70cc5e610e gm-spell">johnnie</span> gown, even, just my boots up on the table under me, and the collar of my shirt wrapped in little towels to protect it from the ultrasound goop, the blood, the brush of the doctor's gloved hand. The doctor smiled a lot, called me "my friend" a few too many times, and reminded me of one of my older son's friends. Things started off with a literal bang, with the young doctor knocking the ultrasound monitor smack into the back of my head. </span><i>Shit, really?</i> I almost asked him, <i>Have you done this before? </i>But I figured he was just <span class="gmw_">nervous, like me, and told him, instead, <i>Hey, no worries.</i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"> But soon after a <span class="gm_ gm_1f48a9d5-f29b-1e18-6c28-1afaddd86c3e gm-spell">pinchy</span><span class="gmw_"> dose of local anesthesia, I felt the unexpected sharp sting and</span></span></span><span class="gm_ gm_2b28dd42-2ce5-c2d2-f540-10010783c65b gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span><span class="gmw_">deep ache two or<span class="gm_ gm_ea9a9221-d4e0-4e86-81ce-0408c28848f2 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>three needles in, and found myself having to fight back tears. </span><i>Really, Liz? Pathetic. This should be cake for you, sister. </i>But for a half a minute or more I was unraveling, all the sting and ache of the past year surfacing, screaming, and it was all I could do to keep it down. I tried to concentrate on the lame-o tropical fish print tacked on the ceiling above me, got lost in how ridiculously askew it was, and then, in feeling as if I might slide off the table altogether, legs out from under me, drop into the sea. <i>Drowning. </i>A second dose of...what was it? Narcan? No, that couldn't have been it, that's the wonder drug that brings Heroin overdosers back to life. Whatever it was, it didn't help. I closed my eyes, just breathed. Four, five, six needles, and finally, up for air, my throat feeling strangely locked up, bruised, sore. <i>You're good to go, my friend.</i></span></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
I suppose I could have surrendered to that sense of overwhelm and panic and sadness as I could have countless times over and over again, could have canceled my day and went home to do what? Wallow? Call my mother? Cry? What would the point be? I was fine. Stitched together right. Stuffing re-stuffed. Shiny and new. A work in progress, always. Instead, I gathered up the loose ends, tucking a few stray threads here and there, and set out to have my day. There was still time, after all, and I had things to do. Drink too much coffee, for one. Meet with my students. Clean the car out. Bank. Redbox.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Once <span class="gmw_">home, the cat invited me to the deck for a<span class="gm_ gm_721feb90-0708-f7d5-653f-8af91386da82 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>late lunch, so I obliged, and was amazed, as I always am, at how good food can make me feel (or maybe it was the coffee, still). Whatever. Refueled, I put the sleds away, the shovels, cross-country skis, buckets of sand. Swept out the debris left by countless armloads of wood dumped on our deck just outside our wood box. </span></span></span><i>Winter, be gone! </i>Trash, recycling, compost: all emptied, sorted, turned, scrubbed cleaned. Crumbled a half eaten loaf of stale bread onto our decaying picnic table, while the cat rolled in the sun, belly up, and the birds found the bread. Such good distractions, and yet, there it was, still, the heavy thump in my chest, the sick, sticky, weight in my belly.<br />
<br />
I needed to walk. Walk it all off--the jittery jumps from too much coffee so many hours ago, the cobwebs that had settled in my head, and especially, the sense of dread that had been welling up throughout the day. Pincers around my head. Heavy boots. And then, four miles later, <i>gone</i>.<br />
<br />
Now, light fading again, night has settled in and the cold has returned to snap the spell cast by the day's warmth. And I am reminded of this poem, below, that I've been reworking since last year, and honestly, I can't tell if it's lousy or okay, but it's time to let it go. Keep it in for too long, and it'll rot inside and reek when it comes out, because it <i>will</i> come out, one way or the other. Nodules on your thyroids, perhaps, or tumors in your breasts. Quiet, until they <i>scream</i>. Life requires that we constantly let go to make room for something new, something brave. Especially now, during this season of extended, noxious decay of winter and the gradual return to life, we are reminded of how beautiful it can be, if we take the time to notice and invite the small, unheralded moments of our days to fill the space between shadows and light, and become our stories.<br />
<span class="gmw_"><i><br /></i></span>
<span class="gmw_"><i>The light hits in a certain way, and everything stops. </i></span><br />
<br />
We are filled with a hushed, simple joy, the best Life can offer, really. Those shadows run deep, and will wait for you. Tell your stories, and you tend to your shadows. Scar tissue. And the waiting? The uncertainty? Whatever the outcome might be, we climb those hills, head down, so we can greet the sun at the top, just the same. And sometimes it's not there for us, not then, not when we want it to be. But it's all we can do, however fleeting. Into the light, we stay as long as we can.<br />
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Winter Weary</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; font-weight: bold; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The sun climbs high then goes,</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Vanishing shadows dance with light</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Hungrily awakening</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To shed winter’s cold bite.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A gradual thaw, rebirth:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Circles of warmth around trunks grow</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As snow melts in a slow ache.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Above, the raucous crow</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Spills his sharp discontent</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Into pallid skies torn apart,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Singing the deepest stirrings</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That echo in my heart.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Spirit cleaved, I walk,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Down woodland trails and dusty roads,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To mend the jagged splits and</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Release these weighty loads.</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">With each step, a prayer,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tethered to the place I’d call home</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">If it weren’t so adrift--</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">To let it go, alone,</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I shake my best self free.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The trees speak of death in these woods,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Bend to whisper secrets lost,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Of love and solitude,</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">That hide in my shadows.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I carry mine close to my chest,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Buried deep, snowbound, and still,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until the final crest,</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">When a bright sun explodes</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Shattering the frozen landscape.</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Mockery, or just reward:</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Feet under me, heart agape,</span></div>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I start to unravel,</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Then smash! Beautiful broken glass</span></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Reflecting the blinding light</span></div>
<br style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;" />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 16px;"></span>
<br />
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 1.15; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fading hard and fast.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-77294912782100485882014-02-21T16:46:00.000-05:002014-02-21T20:18:35.456-05:00"And now, we walk."<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"Don't be satisfied with stories, how things have gone with others. Unfold your own myth." ~ Rumi</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Life hits hard sometimes, doesn't it?<i> </i>Life<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"> will always be a magical, horrible blend of tragedy, beauty, and happenstance--your dog dies, your wife leaves you, your father has a heart-attack, your friend overdoses on heroin--but still you somehow stumble into perfect moments of joy, again and again, and with</span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_7bfe3bd6-5dee-6b82-988e-9fad3bf34b29 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span></span><span class="gmw_">open heart, take it all in, and you laugh, again and again, even when, </span><i>especially</i> when, life insists on tears. An ongoing, constant unraveling, and then a tidying up. Expansion and contraction. It can be so difficult to trust the rhythm, and all to easy to feel overwhelmed by it, as if things are totally beyond your control. And maybe they are, right? What do we know, anyway? What's there to trust, after all?</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">If there's one thing we <i>can</i> expect out of life, it's the unexpected. Cancer? Yeah, that happens. A lot. Do I need to remind you of the statistics? I don't think so. What good will that do? Does it matter? It just <i>happens.</i> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span class="gmw_">And when it happens, when <i>you’re</i> hit with an unexpected cancer diagnosis (is there any other kind?), of course you imagine the worst: stage four, metastatic, and only months, if that, to live, precipitating desperate last-ditch efforts to salvage hope, through chemo and radiation that burn and tear into any remaining healthy cells and tissue. Hooked up to an IV drip, drip, drip, you’ll eventually lose your hair, clumps at a time, fight back nausea, beg for mercy. People will give you the death-scan, the once-over, top to bottom, to see if you look like you're dying. </span><i>Does she look a little grey to you?</i><span class="gmw_"> You shave your head in an act of defiance, and summon your warrior girl spirit. Your friends will give<span class="gm_ gm_0cbf5d4c-c7f0-5d58-6fb8-74438f225da8 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>you scarf after scarf, but you are bared, now, down to your raw elements, the wretched caverns that once existed to hide the tremulous shifting shards of doubt and dread, flooded out, then emptied of secrets, all sun-bleached now, so no, but </span><i>thank you</i>. They bring you food, which you can’t keep down. Tell you that you're beautiful, still. And throughout it all, you’ll tell jokes, smile, find your grace, try to inhabit the light: this is your fight, and you’ll blaze in that darkness, a real star, before fading into nothing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Slowly, but surely, you begin
to imagine a different scenario, and line-by-line, page-by-page, you begin to
write your own story. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">There’s another cancer, after
all; there always is. And it belongs to <i>you</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">You’ve imagined everything you will miss, everything you won’t be able to do. You look at your children, and you wonder if you will be there to see them graduate from college, get married, or not, discover, do what they love, in no particular order. The emptiness in your arms, the pull and ache where you once held them close, feels lonelier still as you imagine not being around to hold your grandchildren, and watch your children come back to you. The uncertainty of what the next day will bring weighs heavily, a constant disturbance in your peripheral vision, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">oh yeah, that</i>, to render you speechless and immobile throughout the
day, and blanket you with a thick, depressive darkness at night. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So when you gradually realize that it will be
better that you first imagined, that the story isn’t written yet, and not so
airtight, that it won’t be as bad, those small cracks start to let in some
light, and it seeps into your deepest corners and awakens your warrior girl
spirit, and you find a strength in you that you didn’t know existed, and it
pushes you out the door, takes you by the hand, and says, “And now, we
<i>walk.</i>”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's all we can do, after all. Somewhere, we come to realize that with every step, we write our <i>own</i> stories, even when another hand has been at work, meddling with how we thought things would go. Is there any other way for it to unfold? Those unexpected potholes, delays, disruptions, and worse, <i>there's always something worse</i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">: this we can count on. What matters is how we navigate, respond, and reclaim</span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_86e16724-85cc-238e-b56e-c69838c74804 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span></span><span class="gmw_">authorship over our own stories, ownership of our lives, especially when they've been hijacked, when things feel out of control. The wind blows </span></span><i>hard</i> at times, pushing us off course. And thank god for that. After all, what would we do if not for the occasional nudge off course? How else would we grow? What would we do without those often unexpected, slightly obscured opportunities to explore unchartered territory, that rise up out of the destruction, or suddenly appear in the glinting, illuminated edges, to pull us out of our pain? To keep the lamp lit, help us climb down into those dark, dusty, deeper corners of ourselves, bring them to the surface, to breathe in fresh air? I say, don't be afraid of the unknown: grab the damn rudder, reset your sails, and let the wind carry you where you want to go. When there's nothing else to rely on, count on </span><i>that</i>.</span></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">"I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you, and that you will work them, water them with your blood and tears and your laughter 'till they bloom, 'til you yourself burst into bloom." ~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes</span></blockquote>
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zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-69992851786545546302014-02-04T21:16:00.001-05:002014-02-21T20:19:00.700-05:00ListeningToday is World Cancer Day. <i>Glad to be here.</i><br />
<br />
Glad to be wrestling with so much change and transition, the push and pull of Life as it continues to flip things on end and inside out, reminding me to return, always, to my heart. Glad to be in that precarious spot, that <i>in-between</i>, with forward motion temporarily arrested, and a tangle of suspended, possible destinations ahead, just beyond the <i>giant leap </i>across the abyss. Glad to be readying this jump, even if I can't see what's next. I'm pretty good at walking around in the dark. What's difficult is the going alone. It's what I've always done, of course, but I'm tired of it, and wouldn't mind some company. But glad, still, to be strong enough to go it alone for as long as I need to.<br />
<br />
I suppose, too, I am missing my <i>dog</i>, whom we had to put down just before Thanksgiving. But I can't even begin to write about <i>her</i>, or I'll come completely unhinged and cry and have to seek solace in my cat, who has <i>no</i> use for crybabies. Gah.<br />
<br />
It's strange how everything feels different when your dog dies. The cat looks for her everywhere, her low, drawn-out, plaintive, pathetic yowls echoing from all over the house, which feels by turn achingly empty and painstakingly filled with her spirit. Outside, the squirrels have multiplied. And the birds have started calling to me, but I, with my blindside in full swing, have taken little notice, save for the ridiculous amounts of birdseed they seem to go through every week. <br />
<br />
Today is different. Today, I <i>listen</i>.<br />
<br />
Circling around the house and back again, bringing armloads of wood to the deck, to fill both the wood box and the pockets of anxious cold that have opened up just below my heart, I hear them, from branches high and bare, letting me know.<br />
<br />
As I fill the feeders, a fat gray squirrel hops onto the top of the picnic table to grab and nibble a rice cake, just one stale snack of many I had left in a pile atop this altar of sorts this morning. Rotting, falling apart piece by piece to herald our decay, the table, much like a fallen tree, is slowly being reclaimed by the earth. A feast for decomposers, its green, mossy, scarred veneer peels off in layers to reveal the raw materials at its core, a veritable city of industriousness ensuring the inevitability of constant change. Everyday, a tiny little change, or a big one: an entire board peels off, the edges soften, the table sinks ever so slowly into the earth below. <i>We're coming for you.</i><br />
<br />
Tracks scurry and scatter across snow to our winter compost pile, a mix of Christmas greens, egg shells, and citrus peels and skins. I dump a bucket of ash from the woodstove atop bounding rabbit tracks, and the delicate, careful steps of our cat, which belie her copious fluff and fat.<br />
<br />
The birds have discovered the fresh seed, and slowly return to the feeders. Male cardinals pop red against backdrops of pine and snow, while their mates, made ever more beautiful by the understated humility of their display, beg a little more effort from the watcher: harder to see, but so much more rewarding once they're found. Glad for the chance to watch them hide, then reveal themselves--<i>nothing to prove.</i> The chickadees fear not; unassuming, bold, friendly, they regard me with a tilt to the head as I lug past with the empty bucket.<br />
<br />
Even after last night's frosting, the trees reach out, limbs bared, ready to catch tonight's snow. <i>More, more.</i> Skies gray and muted, a quiet hush has descended over the awakening trees, the fields of stubby cornstalks, even the birds, who know, as they always know, to move deliberately, and above all else, when things get squirrelly, to <i>listen.</i><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-60980312189775347832013-03-24T16:58:00.003-04:002014-02-21T20:20:29.665-05:00Five YearsMarch 24. It's been five years to the day since the good doctors cut out my cancer, put my left girl into an early grave, and started to grow a new girl in her place. As a cancer survivor, you hear a lot about the "5-year mark," the supposed milestone that everyone wants to reach: the rate of recurrence drops significantly, you can rest easy, you're golden. Yeah, well, I don't believe it.<br />
<br />
Just like I don't really believe spring is ever going to come. But it will.<br />
<br />
The vernal equinox came and went four days ago, ushering in a snow storm, colder temperatures and a wind that cut its teeth back in January. I've been waiting for the red-winged blackbird to return, the crocuses to burst through the soft snow, the snow to melt in circles around the bases of the trees, fill the streams with a throaty roar, and then, just go. But, no. Not yet anyway. Winter is hanging on. Sometimes, it just happens that way.<br />
<br />
For now, the sap is flowing, and that will have to be enough. Isn't that how it works, after all?<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_">Statistically, it seems good news abounds about breast cancer, its treatment and rates of recovery and survival. And yet, we all have friends and loved ones whose stories run against the tide and say otherwise: cancer is a tricky, sneaky little devil of a disease, after all, and why we'd like to claim full understanding of how it works its black magic, we can't possibly make sense of why more and more young women are being diagnosed, why </span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_1d56d8e3-676b-150e-8985-f0f7649dc191 gm-spell">metastatically</span></span><span class="gmw_">, it remains insidious and powerfully destructive, and why the rate of occurrence is so staggeringly high across the board. Cancer kills, and it does so indiscriminately. There is little rhyme or reason to it. Kind of like our weather these days.</span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
NED, or No Evidence of Disease, is what the folks in the medical-lingo-know call this state of being "cancer-free." Given all the different types of breast cancer there are, NED and all its possible rates of recurrence after the five year mark, are achingly complicated.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">Since my surgeries back in 2008, I've seen my breast surgeon and oncologist on an alternating six-month schedule. They've been upbeat, brisk, even, suggesting that they have patients who need their time and attention much more than I do. While my time with my oncologist typically feels unrushed, sequestered, even, my visits with my breast surgeon have often felt more like a speed-screening session, five minutes of catching up over a quick breast exam, </span><i>any changes?</i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_7ffe741a-1599-fa01-3f05-56f5c05d788c gm-spell">, </span>an exchange of smiles, </span></span><i>everything is great, </i>a send-off with some sense of security in this mad world. The mammogram--digital now, thanks to advances made at Mass General with the 3D imaging called breast tomosynthesis--takes another five minutes. A few quick squeezes of my left girl in the pancake-machine, <i>hold your breath</i>, the inevitable kink in my neck, the bruised rib that mistakenly gets claimed as breast tissue, <i><span class="gmw_">thin, flat-breasted women are indeed a special <span class="gmw_">challenge, and <span class="gmw_">you're so tall!</span></span></span></i><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_c6132a12-6eb1-5b48-92fa-86c11a3609e8 gm-spell">, </span>and it's done. The visits, however quick, seem to swell into long, drawn-out days. The anxiety that </span><i>maybe this time they'll find something </i>starts to creep in days, sometimes weeks, before, and there's the long drive into Boston, the red line to Charles/MGH, the precipitous wait in my johnny gown, to fill out, again, the electronic questionnaire (the question about smoking <i>still </i>stumps me: what if I never bought my own pack of cigarettes? does that count?), simmer in my worry, fashion magazines on my lap, and then, the pancake-session, and then, again, another wait, for the results, that all-too-familiar dread rising to fill my hollows with its stink. </span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">I have sought reassurance from my docs, but clearly, they have patients who need it more than I do. After all, I've been healthy, I'm walking, I'm strong, a model of <span class="gm_ gm_059d8912-7f10-8bed-a5fb-7f1771a28938 gm-spell">survivorhood</span> on the outside, right? Eh. My reassurance has come mostly in the form of having screenings done--first every six months, now once a year--and receiving good test results (read: </span><i>your mammogram showed nothing new that looks alarming, abnormal, or </i></span><i><span class="gm_ gm_172727a1-bc61-2174-188f-acc2e2d27559 gm-spell">cancerish</span>. your right breast is still dense and cystic and a little wonky, but it's not necessarily wonkier than it was the last time, so all's good). </i>When I graduated to annual screenings, it freaked me out a bit. I had come to depend on getting that reassurance every six months that I did <i>not </i>have cancer. <i>The cancer is still gone. It has not come back. Your right girl is healthy, cancer-free. </i><span class="gmw_">It gave me a new lease on life, every time. To go a full year in between screenings felt like torture, the <span class="gmw_">dread and fear rising and</span></span> <span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">swelling and stinking</span> <span class="gmw_">up my better sense, but because it had been presented as something to be proud of, I felt as if I was obligated to make the most of it: </span><i>suck it up, cupcake. this is how it is. </i></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><i><br /></i></span><span class="gmw_"> What, exactly, happens at the five-year-mark? What, exactly, was I expecting? I see my oncologist sometime this spring. I don't remember when. I am still taking my Tamoxifen. I don't intend to re-fill the bottle that I have<span class="gm_ gm_8f3d9d1b-0a85-b816-15d4-b71b354a3c42 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>but rather, let it run out. Good riddance, right? Five years of Tamoxifen has been enough. Or has it?</span><br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_">As much as I am looking forward to letting my body recover from some of the side effects that the Tamoxifen has wrought--hot flashes, especially early on; severe leg cramps;<span class="gmw_"> erratic, unreliable periods; brain fog; </span></span><span class="gm_ gm_d87a2b41-e8c5-916f-0d62-daf509940c19 gm-spell">yadda</span><span class="gm_ gm_c3ee6396-0bf5-b469-aa89-d89105cdecd6 gm-spell"> </span><span class="gm_ gm_c3ee6396-0bf5-b469-aa89-d89105cdecd6 gm-spell">yadda</span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_c3ee6396-0bf5-b469-aa89-d89105cdecd6 gm-spell">-</span>-I wonder (ok, I </span><i>worry</i>) about how else my body might "recover" after I stop taking Tamoxifen. I know it is protective. I know it is an amazing drug. Will the five years offer enough protection as I head into the six year mark? The ten? The twenty? <i>What happens now?</i><br />
<br />
I took a walk today. It is good tonic for me in every way, to get out in the fresh air and sunshine, take in a changing landscape (though, I would argue that it is not quite changing quickly enough), take notice of the natural world that seems, at times, so distant, given how <span class="gm_ gm_0874f5ba-a59c-29b4-d2fa-794ebe7f11d1 gm-spell"><span class="gm_ gm_b5fd15ef-cbc0-60a4-a96c-0236170b6354 gm-spell">freakin</span></span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_0874f5ba-a59c-29b4-d2fa-794ebe7f11d1 gm-spell">'</span> busy I've become, fill my lungs, get the heart going, swing my arms, relax my addled tech-neck, let my faraway eyes land on something other than a screen for awhile, clear my musty head, and hope that my dog's unabashed joy for such serendipitous walks is contagious, even if it just a bit.</span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_">Whatever happens, I suppose, I'll walk on. After all, it has become my religion, my good tonic, my reassurance. Reassurance comes from living my life the way I see fit, from taking care of myself, for making time for those regular cathartic walks in nature, leaving behind the overload of responsibilities every now and again, taking some chances on something, anything, and write, write it all down, here I am. This has been much, much harder to do than I expected, more difficult to sustain. It takes time and love and acceptance and a field of fucking daisies, and sometimes, it's just not there. It's been a battle, most days, to take care of myself, to believe that I am worthy of such care, of a love that comes from the ground up, that seeps into every fiber of my being, a sinewy strength to carry me every step of the way. The shadows are with me, always. But that's not where I want to live. </span><br />
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After all, I should never have gotten cancer in the first place. There is no reassurance in statistics for me. I don't feel reassured by having hit my 5-year mark. Happy, yes, but reassured that it's all smooth sailing from here? No.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #666666; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;"><i>"My oncologist tells me that the longest he has personally seen a woman go before a breast cancer recurrence is 21 years. Using five years to measure success in the fight against a slow growing cancer may be giving us a false picture of progress." ~ Phyllis Johnson, <a href="http://www.healthcentral.com/breast-cancer/c/9692/31161/limitations?ic=2602">Health Central. </a></i></span><br />
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My cancer was Estrogen Receptor +, or ER+<span class="gmw_">. There's a lot we don't know about this particular kind of cancer, but I suspect it is in cahoots with all the endocrine disruptors in our environment, working as a tag team of sorts to bring the house down. Can we truly get away from it --the BPA in our plastic, the pesticides in our food, the hidden chemicals in our day to day? And what of the sedentary-electronic disease that has gradually taken hold of so many of us? What will become of our collective nature-deprived spirit, overloaded by information, overwhelmed by social media, desperate for a real connection? How does it all factor in? I believe all the toxicity in our environment plays a giant role, interacting with our particular brand of genetic and emotional vulnerabilities to work that black magic, a wretched malady, a special kind of malaise. Just exactly what is the disease? And what is the cure? </span><br />
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There are no formulas, despite our desire to find reassurance in them. Shit happens. It just does. You can get cancer even though you were in a "low-risk" group. You can get hit by a car and find yourself in a wheelchair for the rest of your life. Or you might die. I won't even go into all the freak things that can happen. We could all get hit by a meteor, or the Big One. The cancer could come back. Or a new cancer could appear. Or MS. Early Parkinson's. The Plague. Whatever. Anything is possible. The good and the bad and everything in between. We all know that.<br />
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<span class="gmw_">ER+<span class="gmw_"> breast cancers are no exception. I remember when I got my pathology report that having </span><span class="gm_ gm_f859046e-f7d5-3ecc-0329-650604db1cd3 gm-spell">ER+</span><span class="gmw_"> breast cancer was considered the "good kind" of breast cancer to get. Oh, the irony. </span>The thing about <span class="gm_ gm_7d7cdf01-0506-7390-7ea8-74e67584ed9e gm-spell">ER+</span> breast cancer, is that it can recur at any time after five years. And I wonder: what happens when we go off the protective Tamoxifen? Does it have a lasting effect? Is it enough? Is there something else (flax seed?) that does what it does without the side effects, and that can be taken indefinitely? What are those cancer cells doing now? Lying in wait? And what will they be doing once the estrogen blockade wears off? Revert to out-of-control party mode? Hoping they've learned their lesson. <i>Don't mess with me. I'll kick your ass if you come back. And I mean it.</i></span><br />
<span class="gmw_"><br /></span>
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"> I counted on </span><i>not </i>getting cancer, but I got <span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">it. The only thing I can count on is the unpredictability of life, and because of that, I have to</span> live each day as if it were a milestone. To</span></span> <span class="gmw_">open myself <span class="gmw_">to the <span class="gmw_">gratitude that springs eternal in each and every step, that warms these cold, early spring days, and that offers </span></span></span>reassurance that whatever happens, I will have lived each of my days... </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><span class="gmw_"><span style="color: #666666;">"</span><span style="color: #999999;">So, not to be philosophical or anything, but I think every year is a milestone. Two years, 4 years, 5 years, 7 years...if we have invasive <span class="gm_ gm_eefc03d9-e691-9c7f-a592-f7819adfd655 gm-spell">ER+</span><span class="gmw_"> breast cancer, we can't ever really be considered "cured," But every year is, well, ...one more year." ~ Otter</span></span></span><span style="color: #999999;"> </span></i></span><br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_"></span><span class="gmw_">Five years = five years. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. A handful. I'll take each and every one of them. And many more, too, please, if I may. Spring will come, but for now, I'll walk through the last remnants of winter's last gasp and enjoy the expansive light and growing warmth, the treble and touch of every step a prayer for many more years to come. I'll celebrate these five years and continue to try to find the nuggets of joy in each and every day. </span><br />
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<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>"There are different goalposts of certainty. We could be killed by a meteor, but we don't count on that. Some us (specifically me) need more help with dealing with uncertainty than others. But we can only take care of ourselves the best we can, and try to live our lives the best we can." ~ Leaf</i></span><br />
<span style="color: #999999; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Amen to that.</span><br />
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<br />zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-23326508621080452852012-10-02T22:56:00.001-04:002014-02-21T20:21:28.839-05:00Intellectual Disabilities<div>
Found this old, unpublished post languishing in the dusty drawers of my blog today and thought I'd share it, uh, anyway. This was written four (four!) years ago, when we were all trying to get our heads around the fact that McCain had chosen Palin as his running mate. I had written a longer, more politicized version that gathered several scathing nasty comments from fans, not of the Flip Side, but of Palin, and I chose to scrap it, wanting to keep the focus on generating positive vibes and juju, and not feeling armored enough to deflect so much negativity.<br />
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<span class="gmw_">It's fun to laugh about it now, thinking about that insidious, strangely sublime pairing (after all, the brilliant Tina Fey would not have been able to trot out her own brilliant "you <span class="gm_ gm_543d1549-f185-8b34-81eb-984eb69298bc gm-spell">betcha</span>" version of Sarah Palin had she not been catapulted into the spotlight), and how much fun it was to make fun of her despite our absolute terror that she just might get elected. And it's a little wild to remember how we thought that it couldn't get much crazier than this. </span><br />
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And now, four years later, we learn that it <i>can</i><span class="gmw_"> get crazier. It can always get crazier. And thank god for the funny people out there who <span class="gm_ gm_7bd5f0e9-d9c9-5c84-7eb6-22a42f2eb3e2 gm-spell">offer</span> up some much-needed comic relief during election season.</span><br />
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I'm a tad bit worried that I might have inadvertently contributed to the McCain/Palin campaign yesterday.</div>
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Dominick and I were walking into our local Stop and Shop yesterday afternoon. There was an older man standing outside, wearing a bright yellow vest emblazoned with "Helping God's Special Children." He held a canister in one hand for donations, and a bag of tootsie rolls slunk on the ground next to him. As we passed him, he shouted out to Dominick, who was wearing his Red Sox hat, "Do you play ball?" Dominick looked at me, as if to ask, "Mom, what kind of a question is that?" I raised my eyebrows. "Ah, yeah," Dom said, still unsure as to why this total stranger was asking him such a seemingly obvious question. The guy tossed Dominick a tootsie roll, his reward, apparently, for answering correctly. "Thank you!"<br />
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<div>
On our way out, I gave Dominick a dollar to put in the man's handy canister. And of course, after he did so, he was awarded with yet another tootsie roll, and as we crossed the street to our car, the man called him back and asked him if he had any brothers or sisters. Dominick did not miss a beat this time. "Yes, I have fourteen of them." (Actually, he wouldn't have thought of lying; he dutifully answered with a simple <em>yes</em>, and a <em>thank you</em>, when handed a <em>third</em> tootsie roll.) Score!</div>
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When we got to the car, I inspected the tootsie rolls, which I quickly noticed were covered in customized <em>"The Knights of Columbus Thanks you for your Support"</em> wrappers. But it was when I read the other side of the wrapper that I thought that perhaps I had just given a dollar to the McCain/Palin campaign:<br />
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<em>"Helping People with Intellectual Disabilities."</em><br />
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Oh well. I'll double my usual donation to Obama, and maybe I'll get a box of junior mints. ;)zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-43633312861706959402012-09-15T12:45:00.000-04:002014-02-21T20:22:58.752-05:00Heavy Boots<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: #134f5c;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappoin</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;">ted by th</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><span class="gmw_">e things you didn't do than those you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from<span class="gm_ gm_2aee284f-f075-7211-d132-35fd70aff073 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>safe harbor. Catch the wind in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." </span></span></i></span><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; color: #134f5c;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 18px;"><i>~ Mark Twain</i></span></span></blockquote>
Strange energy afloat the last few days, leaving me unable to sleep, melancholic, restless. Sails luffing. Must be getting ready to come about. Hard-a-lee!<br />
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Night arrives earlier and earlier each day as fall continues to pull the curtain on summer's light show, and with each pressing, lovely shade of darkness, it's all I can do to stop myself from climbing out of my own skin, head outside for some night-swimming, leave it all behind. But there's no lake here, just endless fields of corn and barley, and I walk the long roads looking for something to lighten these boots, fill these sails...<br />
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Or perhaps, it's the opposite: the need to climb back <i>into</i><span class="gmw_"> my skin, trust in my body again, spend a little less time in my head, and more time surrendering to the sentience of living <span class="gm_ gm_34ac5933-8a7e-1475-349f-d9522901c340 gm-spell">aflush</span>, here, and now, nerve-endings awake and alive and electric with connection, a little passion, flow. Please? I don't think I can wait another day, another night.</span><br />
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I walk until I find some moonlight, and fill my hollows with the stillness and the shimmer of the stars above. And yet, it is not ever enough. <br />
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Sleep seems intangible, something of an other world, something that no longer belongs to me. As if my days cannot end, as if those missing pieces are indeed starting to talk to me, demanding that they be dealt with, polished and examined, loved, again. <i>Don't you forget about me. </i><br />
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What will it take? Why is it so hard to make a change? To trust that it will be okay? Why can't I break free, gather the winds from the skies above to power my own sails and passage through stormy seas? This is, after all, no longer a safe harbor. It's time to throw off the bowlines. Have an adventure.<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: #134f5c;"><i>"I am not afraid of storms for I am learning to sail my ship." ~ Louisa May Alcott</i></span></blockquote>
Sometimes I think I <i>want</i> the big storm to roll in, as if I will respond only to the catastrophic with a force equal in thunder and verve, to take action, my fight or flight instinct taking over, and harvest the glad tidings and joy that wash in with the tide. But things remain puddle-stuck, unchanging, stat-quo, blue gloom, in this little spit-spot, and I don't intend to languish here for too much longer. That there are still things and people here that get me through, that feed me, that I love, is not lost on me, and I am grateful: just this morning, walking through this wind-swept day, noticing that change is all around me, in the burnished tops of grass and corn stalks catching the light, the periodic dance of flocking birds, the sudden shifts in light and air and even the way the earth-smell has deepened with a richness of a slowly rotting, forever cycling world, I was reminded that change is what makes us, keeps us, alive, echoing the force, the beauty, the necessity of unbridled, seasonal tack that lies deep within us, and without.<br />
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And this, too: walking through a shiver of Saturday morning comings and goings, happy for a few serendipitous face-to-face connections and real conversations with friends, and starkly aware of the absence of others, I am, by turns, encouraged and disheartened, the ache deep and palpable, the swell and tilt of emotion rising to the surface to find release in this gently blustery day. <i>I hear you. I know you're there. </i> There is a sharpness to the emptiness, an expansiveness to the loneliness that fills the space, and I don't trust it fully; my breath restarts again, and I am transported back to the slow burn of fear and dread, where my mind takes me to all the worst possible conclusions, and then back again, to the searing, soaring hope, above all else, for something better.<br />
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<i>Something better. </i>I've imagined it, letting the possibility roll on my tongue, the kernel of promise split into an anticipation huge and luminous and a-shimmer with the dance of heartache.<br />
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Heavy boots. Pulling in the sails. Just going to luff it out for awhile, sit with the tears spilling salt on my cheeks, listen to the wind moving through the trees, whispers of my heart, my hollows. <br />
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We fill those hollows as best we can, with star dust and sunflowers and sweet, unexpected kindnesses that smooth out the rough edges, and it's all we can do, over and over again. Fill it up again, restock the shelves, prepare for stormy seas, and then, when we're ready, when we can't stand it another day, trust that our strength and light will see us through, and go. Go.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katie Daisy original</td></tr>
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zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-4603848815010338842012-09-09T13:55:00.004-04:002014-02-21T20:24:29.241-05:00Humpty Dumpty: Picking up the Pen to Pick up the PiecesHello out there!<br />
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I have missed you.<br />
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Life has swallowed me up, and I've been unable to spend any time here for a long while. I find myself this morning with a lovely little stretch of time while I wait for my mother to have a bronchoscopy at Mass General Hospital in Boston, and well, without the usual distractions, I am tempted to do a little writing. I'm not sure if just being here in this gargantuan bee hive of workers and drones and Queen bees at MGH has reminded me of the times when I myself have been the patient and needed to process, dismantle, defuse the building, encroaching shadows, or if just simply watching my mother navigate the increasing menacing terrain of aging has triggered this sudden need to examine where I am with it all, but whatever the reason, here I am, eager to fill the blank space with a few words. Not for work--where I write the same kind of email, have the same kind of conversations on the phone, over and over again, the repetition bordering on the inane dripping from fingers, paralyzing tongue. Not on Facebook--where I slice and dice snippets of my overlapping worlds and force them into tiny little boxes of intrigue and wit--the status update. Sigh. No, this kind of writing is just for me, perhaps, and for you. A bit of sublime, self-directed, creative play with words. An expression of this moment. A look back, a new perspective. A romp through my sleep-deprived brain. Do bare with me. (yes, pun intended)<br />
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I was up early, after all. 5 am. Thanks to a wake-up call full of sweetness and unexpected humor from a friend and neighbor (a farmer who is up even earlier than that most mornings), I was able to ease into the dark morning with a smile ("Front desk," he deadpanned on the other end), offer my mother some reassurance with my own wakefulness, and look forward to the day. <br />
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Long drive into Boston aside, I often think that early morning time is the best part of the day, if you can get it. The kids are still asleep, the dog and cat are full of sweet, sleepy love, and the world is quiet, save for the morning doves cooing in the thick fog. Of course, I can't get it all that often, given how late my teenagers keep me up (and recently, all those fiery, get-up-and-do-something speeches from the DNC), how sleep has become such a necessity, how exhausted I usually am at the end of a full day. But wouldn't it be nice, to wake up long before the fog starts to climb the<span style="font-family: inherit;"> distant mountains</span>, catch the ripeness of the moon setting every now and then, sit with a cup of tea and write those morning pages.<br />
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Strange to think that nearly every day for many, many months I shared, here, so much of what was going on with me, my internal landscape laid bare and brazen for the picking. At the time, it was all I could do: share my story, process all the muck before it destroyed me, and let it go. Faced with an unexpected breast cancer diagnosis, blogging became a matter of <i>survival.</i><span class="gmw_"> Without it, the sheer weight of the uncertainty and ludicrousness of the initial diagnosis--that blasted, <span class="gm_ gm_cf3e4895-c53b-6b52-9ba8-eaccc6ce8ed5 gm-spell">spitfire</span> bitch--would have toppled me. Without it, the insidiousness of the fear and dread would have hooked its barbed teeth into me, eaten me alive, spit out my bones. Without it, I never would have realized that the 'bitch, as with most difficult, life-altering experiences, offered unexpected opportunities and lessons in wisdom, clarity, gratitude. Without it, I never would have experienced my own sense of rebirth--back into a light and love through reaching out and connecting with all the shimmering juju that is ours for the taking, if only we ask. The best thing that came out of all my earlier blogging was hearing from so many women who were going through similar struggles with breast cancer, who were re-experiencing the world with fresh eyes, and rediscovering what really mattered to them. </span><br />
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(as an aside, I just went to the bathroom down the hall; it seems my 5 am wake up time has left me with dark circles reminiscent earlier days of nursing my babies through the night, and still earlier, staying up several days in a row, for marathon study sessions, or, more likely, rugby-banquet-inspired 3-day drinking-round-the-bonfire binges)<br />
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We make our choices: we can swim in the dark, brave our murkiest depths to shine the light on our two-headed, cross-eyed monsters, and bring them to the surface for refashioning; we can stay in the light, and never venture below, staying close to the surface and denying ourselves rich opportunities for getting to know our truest selves, the unplumbed dreams, hopes and fears that make us who we are. The sun rises for us each and every day; cancer taught me that we must never lose sight of that chance for renewal, growth, change, even when, especially when the darkness threatens to overwhelm.<br />
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There's a great Aimee Mann song (there are many), <i>Humpty Dumpty</i>, about the push and pull of depression, and particularly, being in that stasis state when nothing, it seems, is working to "bring you back to zero":<br />
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<i>"Say you were split, you were split in fragments</i><br />
<i>and none of the pieces would talk to you</i><br />
<i>wouldn't you want to be who you had been</i><br />
<i>well, baby I want that, too..."</i><br />
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Life does that--over and over again, shattering your world into bits and pieces that suddenly make no sense to you, or to one another. Parents suddenly announce their impending divorce. A cancer diagnosis comes out of nowhere, and four years later, an over-sized pick-up truck does the same, slamming into you with the same kind of force that leaves you grappling for meaning and purpose amid the wreckage and gasping for the breathy lightness of gratitude. Another blip, another reminder: it is good to be alive, after all. <br />
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And there are times when we are the masters of our own destruction, for good and for bad. We end a long time relationship with someone who used to mean everything to us. We switch jobs. We take a hiatus from the rush 'n go and hibernate, a forced sabbatical to deliberately re-set our balance, reclaim what matters most.<br />
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Our task, after all, is to constantly engage in that ongoing rich, creative process of dismantling and re-assembling the pieces that make up our lives, to intentionally deconstruct, take apart, surrender to the natural falling away; accept the sudden, unexpected decimations; consider the pieces, through close, careful examination, and decide which are worth saving, and which must go. Our task is to<i> listen</i>. It all comes back to the central question:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Katie Daisy print:
<a href="http://katiedaisy.com/">http://katiedaisy.com/</a></td></tr>
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Starting at a young age, we develop tools that provide critical support for getting us through. I started writing at an early, early age, and there was great power in that: to recast something unsettling in a more manageable light, to edit and revise my life in a way that allowed me to listen, reflect, let go, move forward, forgive. It was a way to stake my claim in a life that sometimes seemed beyond my control, to reassert my own presence in directing its course, to make sense of it all. And when everything was blasted to bits, and I had to gather up the pieces and get on with it, writing often proved to be the best way to get those wayward bits and shards and pieces to talk to me, to make peace with their dark beginnings, put myself back together.<br />
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If you've read any of my other Flip Side of Forty posts, you know that Walking, and all its wonderful charms, has always proven to be just as therapeutic, and healing for me as Writing. I walk so I can stay grounded; I am instantly transported back to what gave me strength, heart and hope as a child: our undeniable inter-connectivity to nature, and to each other. Walking fine tunes my sense of all that I love about the world, hooks me into the rhythms of the natural world, and forces me to be here now, take notice, listen and learn. And the combination of Writing and Walking has been <i>especially</i> powerful: a delicious, cathartic tonic to whatever ails me. <br />
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So, I encourage you: Go find what it is that works for <i>you</i>, and whatever it is--that allows you to connect to your best self, discover and get to know all the fragments that make up your mosaic self, change your course, decide your next step, and inhabit your "one wild and precious life"-- that's where your time and energy has to go. Be disciplined, be dedicated, be relentless in your pursuit of what keeps you well. Set those boundaries and prepare to fight for what you need. It's your right--don't let anyone ever tell you differently. <br />
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I'm trying desperately to do the same, to get back to my Writing, make more time for my Walking, count on more quiet and stillness in my day, surround myself with the good vibrations of intentional practice and let myself, my life, <i>breathe</i>.<br />
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(funny, all this talk about breathing while Mom comes out of her bronchoscopy)<br />
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I don't want Life to swallow me up. I'd rather air out legs, head, and heart on the lovely back-country roads that surround me, spread my wings on the pages of my writing, and fly...<br />
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I wish you well.<br />
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zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-18411933049354431332011-08-01T14:25:00.000-04:002014-02-21T20:26:54.558-05:00Eight Minutes<span class="gmw_">I want to write. I want to write everyday. I've always wanted to write. When I haven't written for a while, I feel all clogged up, ready to spew, or so bogged down that I can barely drag myself about. So, why has it been so damn hard to find the time--and take it--to write? I've realized that I've been waiting, quite foolishly, for those long stretches of quiet time to arrive and buffer me from the usual brouhaha before settling in front of the '<span class="gm_ gm_2c245cd1-9105-448b-d19f-b3a3619c0cd5 gm-spell">puter</span>, uninterrupted hours that have not been mine for many, many years now, and may not come at all. So, why wait?</span><br />
<br />
Like now, for instance. I have exactly eight minutes before I must hop into the car and drive about 15 miles south of here to pick up my younger son at soccer camp. I just arrived home from working several hours about 20 miles north of here--not quite yet a regular gig, and only part-time, but it seems to be consuming a large part of my day--and tossed aside the usual fillers to instead take a stab at an eight minute post.<br />
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<span class="gmw_">You know the drill--you arrive home, in between trips, errands, jobs, <span class="gm_ gm_457cb8a6-fda1-9759-38b0-da178d3bcca1 gm-spell"><span class="gmw_">yadda</span></span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_4cd6a44d-3772-fbee-4d9c-78103700d487 gm-spell"> </span></span><span class="gm_ gm_4613c1c1-baaa-d99a-f8fc-a38daab6a7d4 gm-spell"><span class="gm_ gm_4cd6a44d-3772-fbee-4d9c-78103700d487 gm-spell">yadda</span></span><span class="gmw_"><span class="gm_ gm_4cd6a44d-3772-fbee-4d9c-78103700d487 gm-spell">,</span> and instead of doing anything meaningful, or something that you really want to do, you fill the time with a succession of ridiculous little tasks designed to make you feel more in control of your Time, and, consequently, your Life. Sweep the porch. Rearrange the jumble of shoes on the front porch. Make your kid a sandwich. Ask him, again, to clean up his room. Give the dog fresh water. Brush out the burrs that she's collected during her morning amble. Switch the laundry. Fold a few towels. Flush the toilet (a problem in my house). Move some papers around. Pay a bill. Check Facebook. Wipe the crumbs off the kitchen counters. Put the cat out. Again. Pull a few weeds around the front patio. Brush your teeth.</span></span></span><br />
<br />
Of course, we need to spend some of our time grounding ourselves in our daily rituals, whatever they may be. And sweeping the front porch has always been one of mine. But much of the domestic oddities I preoccupy myself with are nothing that I really want to be doing. I'd much rather shift gears entirely, re-establish writing as a daily ritual, and start giving myself permission to write--whatever, however long--as a filler. Leave the dishes in the sink. Forget about trying to start dinner early--I've never been able to do that anyway. Say this a little bit more often: "Busy! Make your own sandwich, please!"<br />
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<span class="gmw_">My eight minutes are up. Time to get back in the car, drive over hills and rivers and under stormy skies (am expecting to see the Dark Mark at any second), and back again, <span class="gm_ gm_b53e5094-cea6-fbb8-9705-1c3282f084d7 gm-spell">jiggety</span> jig. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to grab another eight minutes. It's a worthy goal. I've got to start someplace. Might as well be here.</span>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-65017787362337636942011-07-29T21:00:00.000-04:002011-07-29T21:00:12.036-04:00A Salute to the Boobies, Past, Present, & Future, 2009-2010<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwH0EyBtv3s000LY-FIrIKhJzggOXCzrBqkSSLnHIbpVSSn0iRP_xNa6pKKzH0HCi1JoGBey-H2mXKBgbzYig' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Another one in the works for 2011! Enjoy!zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-10397847618133925002011-07-29T20:25:00.001-04:002011-07-29T20:48:55.651-04:00Record Heat No Match for the Blue Footed Boobies: Boston 3-Day 2011<div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDhBditSbewA-MFvSRwAaGbR_s_ZTONzFXWlsdEpwrpzIJYNtlxxSnvo5tPNGaydL6g1PbUN7gwY3YWvgqNjGg7i1oitDxd8355UULKMbiJHuRJRniIeh5yWXn27Xr9yrJwExihxaZVnR/s1600/IMG_5068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDhBditSbewA-MFvSRwAaGbR_s_ZTONzFXWlsdEpwrpzIJYNtlxxSnvo5tPNGaydL6g1PbUN7gwY3YWvgqNjGg7i1oitDxd8355UULKMbiJHuRJRniIeh5yWXn27Xr9yrJwExihxaZVnR/s320/IMG_5068.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boobies B.J. (Before Jeannie)</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We did it!! WOOT!! The Blue Footed Boobies got it done!! Last Friday-Sunday, we blazed through 60 steamy, sweltering, blistering miles, navigated a hazardous heat index, unexpected delays, and logistical minefields, and successfully completed the 2011 Boston 3-Day for the Cure. It was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">epic</i>. Fueled by a constant diet of water, sports drinks, shot blocks, bananas, Gu, salty peanuts, and most importantly, the spirit of Ubuntu and moxie that Boobies are well-known for, the team—including our newest member, Jeannie Gray, who found us at 5 am during the first morning, and never looked back—did amazingly well. Yes, the Boobies showed some true grit, kicked ass, and rocked the walk (and quite literally, too; thank goodness for that cheap little battery-operated purple portable speaker that hooked up to my iPhone, blasted out such old-school favorites as Funkytown & You Dropped a Bomb on Me, & kept us going!). Linda, Roxanne, Lydia, and Jeannie gutted out one of the toughest 3-Days on record. I am so proud of my Boobies! </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSCdbb0A0dbPVhRkQb3igw3HcCehL90ZKOXjwb6nea2TyGZkInQUcV5AIzYS2gSaBDVzhvbTVirrMVIb0j8jr2uiqJOdtpNFu4gZq6hn1m9LCHKLMD1wWXgDqN_H4AJGGm7GYGqk3IPGFb/s1600/IMG_5069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSCdbb0A0dbPVhRkQb3igw3HcCehL90ZKOXjwb6nea2TyGZkInQUcV5AIzYS2gSaBDVzhvbTVirrMVIb0j8jr2uiqJOdtpNFu4gZq6hn1m9LCHKLMD1wWXgDqN_H4AJGGm7GYGqk3IPGFb/s320/IMG_5069.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Thanks to our rigorous training regimen, which began in January, and included steamrolling hills, interval training, and logging more than 700 miles each, 3 pairs of running shoes, and many, many hours of twalking (that is not a typo: walking + talking = twalking), cross-training, and constant stretching, the Boobies were able to soar through those 60 miles. But we couldn’t have done it without YOU. Thanks to all of you, who gave generously, sent encouraging messages of love and support, came out to cheer us on, and infused the experience with good juju, we were able to not just survive but <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">thrive.</b> The Blue Footed Boobies suffered only minimal blisters, no injuries, no bad tempers, no heat sickness. We enjoyed ourselves, made new friends, and deepened friendships. We danced through the streets of Boston. We raised over $22,000, earning Power Team pins for our efforts. And--thanks to some last-minute donations, and in particular, a $56 contribution from Dominick to put me over by a dollar, I cleared, for the first time, the $10K mark in my own personal fundraising goal. Woot! It felt great to be amongst the top ten fundraisers for the third year in a row. Thank you all so much for making that possible.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJbhiP9w6QGxE1jG5Wei52X6y-zy6KpLzhKiT89qpLyOMDwenqY0L2El1ZI8hF1sx6OEKgvlAcjUmO2b5b8VK7hEhwSkVa8HHAj7dFdMtnCdIQ2vkclClgQmrSQXnvDHbwDoqdcMN1yCY/s1600/IMG_5077.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XH7TEsZ5swxhhfrKMCwtoejukmym7_92kwbL3bzQk7EtJzD0PAKf8DmNuQwkGzgihpHEe6taxwQvNOdvo67SY13CmxapbUou86FpAmF_0MvDxbiH6VYMJVqlz9Xjhx0eJPbPA36TFztd/s1600/IMG_5087.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2XH7TEsZ5swxhhfrKMCwtoejukmym7_92kwbL3bzQk7EtJzD0PAKf8DmNuQwkGzgihpHEe6taxwQvNOdvo67SY13CmxapbUou86FpAmF_0MvDxbiH6VYMJVqlz9Xjhx0eJPbPA36TFztd/s320/IMG_5087.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Exactly a week ago today, the Boobies stood amidst throngs of other walkers—over 1700 in all—and, in this sea of pink, watched the sun rise and burst through the morning skies above Farm Pond in Framingham, the site of the Opening Ceremonies for the 2011 Boston Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure, and the kick-off to the 2011 season that will include walks in 14 cities. It would be a premonitory sunrise, fair warning of the heat that would build throughout the day to unprecedented levels, forcing the organizers to implement contingency plans to minimize heat-related mishaps, emptying Friday’s cheering sections and challenging even the most well-conditioned athletes on the walk. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77fPjpdpv5uyvcH_1hJU6qrmhIqzePBW7dt61POYWG2rDY43JHVydXeV5j6Tc0HTIBDnNpHpVM2Vy_lJygn31PvfiyJFc5XczhB2b_K6O7ZFMN-m-PjlsZu5UqlMb1wPv4VHnEpFiIcnZ/s1600/IMG_5084.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj77fPjpdpv5uyvcH_1hJU6qrmhIqzePBW7dt61POYWG2rDY43JHVydXeV5j6Tc0HTIBDnNpHpVM2Vy_lJygn31PvfiyJFc5XczhB2b_K6O7ZFMN-m-PjlsZu5UqlMb1wPv4VHnEpFiIcnZ/s320/IMG_5084.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lydia, Liz, and Linda</td></tr>
</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The night before, we had gathered for dinner, shamelessly putting away pizzas and salads proportioned for giants (or 3-Day walkers). Roxanne, veteran walker and captain of a gigantic team in San Diego, and Linda, at 71, the most experienced member of the team (ie, the most kickass), had come from the OC rehearsal, where Roxanne would carry the “Friend” flag in honor of her buddy Carol. Lydia and I had driven in together from out this way, feeling emboldened by the new henna tattoos that Kelly Flaherty had given us a few days before. After dinner, I wrote the names of many of the people I would be walking for on a long Boobie-blue ribbon: Cindy, Betsy, Jeanne, Barb, Rima, Rosalinda, Gabrielli, Maribeth, Mimi, Katie, Joy, Sarah, Anja, Karen, Judy, Corky, Molly, Tony, June, Judy, Suzanne, Betty, Kit, Henry, Liz …. It was a long ribbon. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">After managing to wrest a few hours of sleep from the dark night, we awoke at 4 on Friday morning, Day One, to step outside and greet the already impressive, oppressive heat. Taking our places on the shuttle bus that would take us from our Natick hotel to the Opening Ceremonies, we felt instantly and hooked into that powerful 3-Day magic, that collective spirit of courage, resilience, and tenacity that brought us all together to “Share Our Courage” with its Obama-esque promise of “Together We Can…Go Further Than Imagined.” It would be a deep wellspring of love and compassion and ice cold water that lined the route, and we dipped frequently, and it made all the difference.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Fill me up, fill me up, I’m a long way from home</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And I don’t have a lot to say</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Fill me up, fill me up, ‘cause you’re all that I’ve got</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And I traveled a long, long way</span></i></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJbhiP9w6QGxE1jG5Wei52X6y-zy6KpLzhKiT89qpLyOMDwenqY0L2El1ZI8hF1sx6OEKgvlAcjUmO2b5b8VK7hEhwSkVa8HHAj7dFdMtnCdIQ2vkclClgQmrSQXnvDHbwDoqdcMN1yCY/s1600/IMG_5077.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuJbhiP9w6QGxE1jG5Wei52X6y-zy6KpLzhKiT89qpLyOMDwenqY0L2El1ZI8hF1sx6OEKgvlAcjUmO2b5b8VK7hEhwSkVa8HHAj7dFdMtnCdIQ2vkclClgQmrSQXnvDHbwDoqdcMN1yCY/s320/IMG_5077.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sp34lZZVcX2Fq0lZGKiXjMdX5pmEh44_GG4ArzATg8KUh239BXtFNNXvcIu7JGHh-RC0WTNuw9E-ihyphenhyphen1oAIo-sAbOzPu118Co-Cnyz3gcHmBSIvk4ECh3QwWPLB0nwVbX-wVMHvsqkST/s1600/IMG_5079.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7sp34lZZVcX2Fq0lZGKiXjMdX5pmEh44_GG4ArzATg8KUh239BXtFNNXvcIu7JGHh-RC0WTNuw9E-ihyphenhyphen1oAIo-sAbOzPu118Co-Cnyz3gcHmBSIvk4ECh3QwWPLB0nwVbX-wVMHvsqkST/s320/IMG_5079.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The popular pink mohawk</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFvXaIeC0fQv22-S0W1bvYVgrBbzDwJBpAIIXnJjAt_FMhWrg_u-XvpF9Qg9qw3fhw0hTe2OU-hOROY6m3SKod5FFXn67_C3SI3wrbJps90dES9mpInd99JojOmyMwIWj6N3VCjVTE7yU/s1600/IMG_5078.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOFvXaIeC0fQv22-S0W1bvYVgrBbzDwJBpAIIXnJjAt_FMhWrg_u-XvpF9Qg9qw3fhw0hTe2OU-hOROY6m3SKod5FFXn67_C3SI3wrbJps90dES9mpInd99JojOmyMwIWj6N3VCjVTE7yU/s320/IMG_5078.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A vision!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8dLkqqaSROAS_nm4A3_bv0BC8wGzGKjipxDpIAfG_lJCPXtPpy4lLPX455KPid49mS9TP22uYZihxrWvFYoLYtHOssvtQojzyM8YkDh8mOua0xguPEqhl8gHaqMAGEZ4yvmRzHD09axO/s1600/IMG_5095.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgt8dLkqqaSROAS_nm4A3_bv0BC8wGzGKjipxDpIAfG_lJCPXtPpy4lLPX455KPid49mS9TP22uYZihxrWvFYoLYtHOssvtQojzyM8YkDh8mOua0xguPEqhl8gHaqMAGEZ4yvmRzHD09axO/s320/IMG_5095.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Intrepid crew</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NLAoxcirmwVEjjc9ayNEzhkRbnq1O7WsEy6KHtfljenY8CXXQTXEmZL0MpWgoFik8YLLarA2CN28PQ5K1J_dkMlKLjQJO3w2z_qmnrW9U9OrtMBaZw8FdUHhBGVOTb4fMX_XTs3Lk8an/s1600/IMG_5197.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0NLAoxcirmwVEjjc9ayNEzhkRbnq1O7WsEy6KHtfljenY8CXXQTXEmZL0MpWgoFik8YLLarA2CN28PQ5K1J_dkMlKLjQJO3w2z_qmnrW9U9OrtMBaZw8FdUHhBGVOTb4fMX_XTs3Lk8an/s320/IMG_5197.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The first thing I noticed at the Opening Ceremonies, aside from the pale moon and the fiery sun sharing sky space above, and the fact that my Boston accent was quickly returning, were the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">men</i>. So many more than last year--and wearing such (wicked) awesome get-ups! There is something about the 3-Day that compels the men to air out their Priscilla, Queen of the Desert fantasies, and go all out. Not that they are competitive or anything, or trying to outdo each other, no, no. Beards and mustaches and hair dyed pink. Ginormous, bright pink, bling-bras edged in fur—faux, I am certain. Kilts. Skirts. Dresses. Knee socks. Spiky pink Mohawks. Team Men with Heart in their orange-yellow shirts, backpacks filled with things walkers might need, singing their songs. The 60 Mile Men, calendar pin-ups, walking with beauty pageant ribbons across their chests and well-muscled calves. The men, in particular, dress for the occasion. I have my theories (haha). And I appreciate the way so many of them put so much thought and effort into the appearance. Really. William Wallace meets Frank-.N- Furter. There is nothing better. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw71NS_EDAGN_C4vXgaFxd-SyoHvad5Au7Wxsf9hodxW7_J-0SoiaPgdrToCgjlcSNSh1ck_Bd8cDNXkfPed0xDgaDEjky0gNKAtg9G15_76fBwrgH2mb6rotg9GiZhwJIpSVo7lzjPwg3/s1600/cropped+henna+girl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiw71NS_EDAGN_C4vXgaFxd-SyoHvad5Au7Wxsf9hodxW7_J-0SoiaPgdrToCgjlcSNSh1ck_Bd8cDNXkfPed0xDgaDEjky0gNKAtg9G15_76fBwrgH2mb6rotg9GiZhwJIpSVo7lzjPwg3/s200/cropped+henna+girl.jpg" width="171" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My war paint--under wraps</td></tr>
</tbody></table><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGrc3lslE2if8FSChhgCDapfxf8Z4F8cU0QbBGO2wH-65bMkZw3EWfKCnqeUE3jANys4H5j-VpmdvAGPwoPCQnJWGK275aXTjccfzZQBQpP0CMav78LmQRHi5zXFyNO5Z2Kc4WWRpLGEg/s1600/IMG_5031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNGrc3lslE2if8FSChhgCDapfxf8Z4F8cU0QbBGO2wH-65bMkZw3EWfKCnqeUE3jANys4H5j-VpmdvAGPwoPCQnJWGK275aXTjccfzZQBQpP0CMav78LmQRHi5zXFyNO5Z2Kc4WWRpLGEg/s320/IMG_5031.JPG" width="240" /></a><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We all, men and women, wear our own particular brand of battle gear—matching team uniforms, henna tattoos, pins and buttons and beads and bandannas—declaring our readiness, our resolve, that fire in the belly that’s going to see us through those 60 miles. Plus, it’s all part of the show, the spectacle, that shimmering river of hope and love that winds its way through Boston and its ‘burbs, to make people sit up and take notice: “We are here, and we are walking to find a cure, and to make breast cancer history. Are you with us?” It’s the reason why they don’t hold the 3-Day out here in the sticks, where the walking is as fine as it comes, with hills, views, and fresh air, but alas, not enough people to take it all in.</span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-KbTInbjFtPOND9DshoMDzWvAUN1ep8Wv-6FXQfGuZsoIilj7bVX2L9mssgU3oNGumlxFUR7i-KriMxTktAMEYm7-OeT7XajDo04ORVmYiCX6SjUqsZO-Bvh9kyp8c5Mrw5faRZWcKMo/s1600/IMG_5102.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-KbTInbjFtPOND9DshoMDzWvAUN1ep8Wv-6FXQfGuZsoIilj7bVX2L9mssgU3oNGumlxFUR7i-KriMxTktAMEYm7-OeT7XajDo04ORVmYiCX6SjUqsZO-Bvh9kyp8c5Mrw5faRZWcKMo/s320/IMG_5102.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Veteran Walker Roxanne showing us how it's done!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-chtwVTbwyy4uPW3flVy8Z9xge1NE5NjUwAesMzu96yZ-GlGnOZXxgmvJxmoM3nIqHziDGNumlbm7PF3mXJFurKVa4KzBZomM0hnIsZYAesdVjOtPJQvfB1HITFyfvLNl2qH1VWaMkuB/s1600/IMG_5101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP-chtwVTbwyy4uPW3flVy8Z9xge1NE5NjUwAesMzu96yZ-GlGnOZXxgmvJxmoM3nIqHziDGNumlbm7PF3mXJFurKVa4KzBZomM0hnIsZYAesdVjOtPJQvfB1HITFyfvLNl2qH1VWaMkuB/s320/IMG_5101.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The indomitable Linda Batty</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There is no place to hide on the 3-Day. There is no escaping the cycling through of emotions that range from deep sadness and a profound sense of loss to intense gratitude, pure joy and a sense of hope that is as much overwhelming as it is exhilarating. And why hide? The whole experience is wonderfully cathartic—a mixture of blood, sweat, and tears, with a whole lot of laughter thrown in for comic relief. I’ve described the Opening Ceremonies before as a Pandora-like, pulsating, interconnected sea of focused intention, energy and good will, and this year was no different: we were packed in like sardines, eager to begin the first of 60 miles, full of anticipation, music blasting, making us bounce, beach balls zipping about. Good cheer, civility, and compassion at its absolute best, a force field lighting up the breaking dawn. Everyone was here for their own reasons, some universal, some incredibly personal. And the stories presented themselves everywhere, etched on the lines of the faces surrounding us, on team t-shirts and buttons emblazoned in the pink light of the morning, on the ribbons and beads and homemade signs festooning fanny packs and necklines, along the route, in cheering sections, in the faces of young children who stand in the hot sun to thank us for walking. One girl of about seven held a sign that said “My mother died from breast cancer. Keep walking for a cure.” Another older girl passed out her story to walkers on pieces of paper that asked us to remember her mother, taken from her when she was eight. And there are the survivors and the fighters, out to thank us for doing what they cannot. “Thank you for saving my life.” “Celebrating 30 years of survivorship.” At times, it is almost too much to bear. And yet, it is the manna of the Walk. The reason we do what we do: the faces behind the stories, the stories behind the statistics, the one in eight. This girl is why we walk. However heartbreaking, we need to see her.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzZ6Fli4CenxDlFkn_-DQNP4UZ07Bev6UV6pacTBth2gyXDiHY5uZXueO08YdAwDVIaD9rrJgasy9g0Ugf_c6-DzDoMoiWOtdzJ6BOxEix38DbWIu-Il9fVu2_4sucbNmgCY6KOPwgXM1/s1600/IMG_5106.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWzZ6Fli4CenxDlFkn_-DQNP4UZ07Bev6UV6pacTBth2gyXDiHY5uZXueO08YdAwDVIaD9rrJgasy9g0Ugf_c6-DzDoMoiWOtdzJ6BOxEix38DbWIu-Il9fVu2_4sucbNmgCY6KOPwgXM1/s320/IMG_5106.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Team Boobie<br />
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</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Bolstered by the addition of Jeannie, who graced us with her warm, sweet spunk and fine sense of humor, the Boobies set off Friday morning to walk the first several miles along smog-infested, morning rush-hour congested, traffic lanes, which made us pine for the clean, country air we had trained in. I can’t imagine what we were breathing in. Such was the perfection of the addition of Jeannie that at lunchtime I pinned an I Love Boobies pin on her and dubbed her an honorary Boobie. I warned her: “Once a Boobie, always a Boobie.” She accepted. Hooray!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQrM1iPKKJ8oRziG6ShC4I-kWkuSG72eeZlrBgyPwSNCzBKqazTIbdEdPbGbWaVbWYQBLnsm-Tcibp_odgaLMVxLs-_nni99OEWWQeGHhodv8jnIKDuoUmer7kaIDxCWv3zyESfudptSx/s1600/IMG_5080.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAQrM1iPKKJ8oRziG6ShC4I-kWkuSG72eeZlrBgyPwSNCzBKqazTIbdEdPbGbWaVbWYQBLnsm-Tcibp_odgaLMVxLs-_nni99OEWWQeGHhodv8jnIKDuoUmer7kaIDxCWv3zyESfudptSx/s320/IMG_5080.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Welcome to the Boobies, Jeannie!<br />
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</tbody></table></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The heat roasted us like smooth little chestnuts on the route, and on several occasions, the organizers were forced to shut the route down, detaining walkers with a military-styled “You’re not going anywhere,” and bussing the sweaty, heady throngs from one pit stop to the next. Ambulances careened past every now and then, sirens filling the air, and we’d say, “Uh-oh, that’s not good,” and keep on walking. The medical tents were filled with overheated people on cots, getting ice and fluids and medical attention of all kinds. But, God bless ‘em, the cheering sections were full of brave souls who were not going to let a little heat wave get in the way of coming out to show their support. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngcasKD9Zo7ZzBbJtXoYCXS4gDz5lFGo5l2b1auNAiV-KQ_4ay6xuiXD_NHGypWQHw6xcDzLHm4CvUtTIgiYeTlRG2z-pbJBdTRRJFtnMQj7zuCRE66-fKInVIDqWfPPGXk5XKQNl5VHh/s1600/IMG_5109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgngcasKD9Zo7ZzBbJtXoYCXS4gDz5lFGo5l2b1auNAiV-KQ_4ay6xuiXD_NHGypWQHw6xcDzLHm4CvUtTIgiYeTlRG2z-pbJBdTRRJFtnMQj7zuCRE66-fKInVIDqWfPPGXk5XKQNl5VHh/s320/IMG_5109.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif";"> Med tent overflowing </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXK-hlgNG7I7wwBzb1cbaMG0-ZBUFQa7akd88fYYVMs_1t9fuwZXc1KoWGx97gHszNRqbnRw77Y_Y11Gurq2m-fSEmD3KcxO7QpbRCu-ocEhtlbFZ6EvWTOWko-EO3LMw9wnlV_CKzR3d/s1600/IMG_5110.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrXK-hlgNG7I7wwBzb1cbaMG0-ZBUFQa7akd88fYYVMs_1t9fuwZXc1KoWGx97gHszNRqbnRw77Y_Y11Gurq2m-fSEmD3KcxO7QpbRCu-ocEhtlbFZ6EvWTOWko-EO3LMw9wnlV_CKzR3d/s320/IMG_5110.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I won the hula hoop contest at lunch, just sayin'</td></tr>
</tbody></table><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">We were five of just a hundred or so walkers who actually walked most of the route the first day, having been detained at lunch for a short while, then allowed to walk to pit stop 4. This particular 4 mile trek through unrelenting pavement in Waltham center (or was it Woburn?) was brutal. No trees, no shade, no grass. And no people—the heat had sent everyone running in search of A/C. We could have really used the extra watering stations the organizers had promised us, but even they were not to be found. As strong (and indignant that we were forced to climb into the bus for a 2 mile ride to lunch) as we were feeling when we set out after lunch, by just a mile or two into this leg we had developed a healthy respect for the heat. I remember thinking, “I totally get now how this could kill someone.” I could feel my heart, big and busy, trying to keep up with the cooling process. I thought, maybe I shouldn’t have hula-hooped at lunch. We were drinking constantly, and staying energized with frequent nips of Gu. We wore our bandannas around our necks filled with ice, which all too quickly melted to drip, drip down our backs. We wore hats, slathered on the zinc oxide, walked in the shade—however paltry--when we could. I knew we had to keep on, otherwise risk melting, quite literally, into the asphalt, to simmer and stink amongst the rotting garbage that seemed to lurk on every corner. So, we kept on. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Keep walking for a cure.</i> By the time we got to Pit Stop 4, there were hundreds of walkers—maybe even all 1700 minus us—already there, having been bused from earlier pit stops en route. The course was absolutely and officially closed for the day. The heat index was just too high. We would be bussed to camp. Some were pissed that they couldn’t finish, others were plainly relieved, and still others were too dazed and depleted to register the decision. We endured a long wait in long lines to sit in an overly-air-conditioned bus that rocketed and jittered its way to camp—once there, the driver got lost, and after several near-misses with other buses, finally let us out. Hallelujah. We were baked. And I don’t mean that in a good, hey-I’ve-got-the-munchies kind of way.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSoZ9Ml8aWcFoey2nOQiMUzHr__moHb-bQCAenr0QMc2VhI3BLzieTbqWnYwB6dQah0wwzyAIFKWD7t5z62XMSDnPwrSQ9rNZIPMb_zDnuWq6rhlhZLFSM9h3oa0gVduGmugJDXTz_1rj/s1600/IMG_5103.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitSoZ9Ml8aWcFoey2nOQiMUzHr__moHb-bQCAenr0QMc2VhI3BLzieTbqWnYwB6dQah0wwzyAIFKWD7t5z62XMSDnPwrSQ9rNZIPMb_zDnuWq6rhlhZLFSM9h3oa0gVduGmugJDXTz_1rj/s320/IMG_5103.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">At camp, we had time to kill before they allowed us to shower or set up our pink tents on the heat-soaked artificial turf fields that would be our home for the next two nights, so we took advantage of some of the camp offerings before dinner, getting foot and back massages at the Bank of America tent, charging our phones, looting the post office for lovely letters and chocolates, and all the while constantly drinking more water, refilling our water bottles, and draining them again and again. It cooled off sufficiently to get some Zombie-land sleep, even though my air mattress deflated in the middle of the night and I woke up with my butt on the ground and pinched in on all sides. It was already 3, so almost time to get up anyway. (yes, really).</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The next day, while still in the high 90’s and a hazardous heat index to boot, felt immensely better. The organizers had hoped to open the route at 6 am instead of 6:30 so we had a better chance of beating the heat, but their ice vendor refused to get up a half hour early, so we all had to stand and wait at the start for a good 45 minutes before they would let us go. I tried to reason with the head honcho, but she would not be swayed. There was a moment when I thought the walkers would erupt into a MLK-Ghandi-Alice Paul-inspired protest, and there was some synchronized clapping and chanting “Let us walk!” for a few minutes, but it faded quickly, and before we knew it, we were slip, slapping the pavement once again, high-fiving the Pink Angels, and rushing to those porta potties at every pit stop. With the exception of some thunder and lightning that closed the route for a short spell in the morning, forcing us into our clingy, plastic, cheapo ponchos to dodge puddles and truck sprays, we cruised through our 20+ miles, meeting up with family and friends and favorite dogs along the way. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The final day dawned cloudy and cooler, and we were glad for the light rain that followed us for the first few miles down Brattle Street and into Harvard Square. We were happily surprised by BFB Gretel and her three kids, who jumped out of a coffee shop to see us, inspired us with their signs (“Little Girls Thank You! You make the world better!”) and 3-Day attire, and later, by a happy hatch of Boobies—and walkers in the 2010 3-Day—on Comm. Ave. Such a wonderful treat to get to see so many beloved Boobies along the way--my mother and Dominick, and Gretel, Meg, Marggie, Barb, and Cindy. So, so glad to see everyone, but especially Cindy, whose smile proved to be the best shot block around. We took turns carrying the Blue Footed Boobies banner, filled with all the names of the Boobies: Angie, Ursula, Jeanne, Damon, Marggie, Rachel, Meg, Gretel, Barb, Cindy, Gail, Dominick, Katie, the very latest Booby, Jeannie, and yours truly, Captain Booby. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On Boston Common, we very nearly followed groups of tourists—not walkers—off the course, finding that those little understated black and white arrow signs were easy to lose in the rush and splendor (well, that’s one word for it) of the urban landscape. We bounced along to music coming from my mini-boom box that screeched and swung from my hip like a howler monkey. It seemed perfectly suitable for the theater district in particular, and by the time we got to the Seaport section of Boston, we were flying along. Roxanne’s friend, Carol, and Jr. Boobies, Dominick and Lydia’s two boys, Noah and Pierre, joined us for the final stretch along the Harborwalk in South Boston, and represented exceptionally well. Blue Footed Boobies in training, indeed! Noah and Dom wore their “Save Second Base” pin, while Pierre relished being a “Pink Man.” They got in the spirit even more at the finish, where Noah and Dom sprayed their hair, fingernails and toenails pink, and they all took it upon themselves to commandeer a water station, filling cups with ice water for parched Closing Ceremonies-goers and keeping the coolers filled. Next year: Youth Corps!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It felt great to have finished. The first day was particular grueling, which made it all the more awesome. Boston walkers—about 1700 in all—raised an astonishing $4.8 million! Komen is launching some exciting new initiatives, and has now sunk $1.8 billion into breast cancer research and community outreach and education programs. YOU should be proud. YOU made this possible. Thank YOU so much for your support, for being a part of this, for taking up the banner and holding it high. You ROCK.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A few special thank yous: to my incredible teammates, Roxanne, Linda, Lydia, and Jeannie, who invented a new kind of BFB-mojo (better than cajones!) to kick some heat wave ass; to the walkers, who smoothed out the belligerent bad-itude of the weather with grace and civility and humor; to the 3-Day crew, who took such good care of us during what must have been an incredibly difficult, potentially litigious time; to friends and family who took the time to send encouraging letters and messages, hugs, and good juju; to our families, for keeping us strong, walking with us, and holding the Boobie banner high; to Kelly, our team henna tattoo artist, for adorning us for battle; to all the Boobies, for being there, always, for each other (BFBF!); to all our family and friends and all the folks who braved the heat to cheer us on, offer up frozen grapes, and spray us down with water; to those who have lost loved ones to breast cancer and shared their stories and made us cry; to my fellow survivors who inspire me to keep walking year after year; and to all the men who squeezed themselves into bras and skirts, walked with us this year, and made me laugh. THANK YOU!</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The fight isn’t over. Not until Cindy doesn’t have to keep looking over her shoulder to try to figure out where her breast cancer will show up next. Not until all cancer is curable, and not just treatable. Not until those little girls lining the route with their hand drawn signs can rest easy, knowing that there is a cure for the breast cancer that took their mothers. Not until all women have access to mammograms and free screening and treatment options. It is within our reach. But there is still work to be done. I have my eye on Boston 2012. The hatch is expanding for next year. Let me know if you are interested in joining us.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Thanks again. And thanks for listening to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> story.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">With love & gratitude,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">BFBF,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Gisha","sans-serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Liz, aka Captain Booby</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-24422626295312717632011-02-14T13:39:00.000-05:002011-02-14T13:39:30.962-05:00Another Take<a href="http://theoatmeal.com/blog/valentines_day">Valentine's Day at the Oatmeal</a><br />
<br />
Couldn't resist. zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-54309593655662579382011-02-14T12:08:00.002-05:002014-02-21T20:26:00.780-05:00LOVE YOU<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1n5DTl_IF6GVFMHCTl1Tx-o7vP6KkNbZ3FPZYpaCTrngEZzuodWjNh4Ogn8cI_2DkggDfJsddW9jFDCwGjvGbo_xGLjxxHXIeLBZNnegaRfwRALQu-5r4VSBklgz5ccPUqFQOMYvoCQQ/s1600/scan0059.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF1n5DTl_IF6GVFMHCTl1Tx-o7vP6KkNbZ3FPZYpaCTrngEZzuodWjNh4Ogn8cI_2DkggDfJsddW9jFDCwGjvGbo_xGLjxxHXIeLBZNnegaRfwRALQu-5r4VSBklgz5ccPUqFQOMYvoCQQ/s320/scan0059.jpg" height="150" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Today is Valentine's Day. Just what does one <i>do</i> with that??<br />
<br />
GOT LOVE?<br />
<br />
I feel very confused and hollowed out by all the marketing frenzy around these holidays. Blame it on the Dementors.<br />
<br />
A week or so ago I was shopping at our local mega-supermarket and was drawn down the "seasonal" aisle--you know the one, with its steady rotation of colorfully wrapped candies, novelties and other proclamations of holiday fervor, all emanating a sickly sweet smell that drapes its cloying, oppressive scent within and without, and sucks all the joy from your soul. The experience is a bit like meeting up with a sudden flock of Dementors in Harry Potter's world, I suppose, but worse, because it is so well-masked. Under a guise of festivity and light and a promise of love and fulfillment, Valentine's Day rolls into February like a steam train shimmering with an expectation of something better and leaves most of us stranded at the station. Ugh. I don't even want to go there anymore.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_"><span class="gmw_">But there I was, feeling some unseen, unsightly pull into the land of pink and red, standing amidst all the sugar-fuel for diabetes and obesity and cancers, and forgetting at once just what<span class="gm_ gm_e08b16e8-5e5f-e8c5-3ab3-8aa50751f0b2 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>holiday it really was. Expecting to see candy corn, or little foil Santas, I was overcome instead by endless bags of red-foiled chocolate hearts singing shiny and bright BUY ME, EAT ME, FEEL LOVED, and bags of conversation hearts stacked high for the Great Flood calling to me with their inane text-like messages, </span><span class="gm_ gm_4e05adc6-f53a-8a8c-3cf6-17888761e78c gm-spell">I-M</span> SURE, MAD 4 U, U GO GIRL, and, sigh, E-MAIL ME.</span><br />
<br />
That's when the Dementors came, hoods pulled over a faceless ghastliness, the swoosh of their cloaks announcing the hiss of cold fear that suddenly encircled me. I could barely moved, but as I reached for a bag of candy hearts--UR MINE--and then another, NO WAY, I could feel all the sparkle and life being sucked out of me in frightening speed, the emptiness spreading, the anxiety taking over. DON'T TELL.<br />
<br />
I knew I had to get out of there fast. SEE YA. So <i>lost in a supermarket</i> was I that when I saw the egg coloring kit on the other side of the aisle, I actually breathed a sigh of relief and thought to myself, "Oh, yeah, at least we can dye eggs..." I took only a split second to register my mistake. Wrong holiday. LOL. My head-spin complete, I stumbled to the end of the aisle to try to save my soul, but it was too late. <i>I can no longer shop happily. </i> My happiness mere fodder for the Dementor-led marketing blitz, I stumbled out towards the check out line with my two bags of conversation hearts, depressed and disenchanted. GOOD BYE.<br />
<br />
<span class="gmw_">At this point in my life, Valentine's Day has merged with a whole host of other holidays that I enjoyed much more when my kids were young, and we had time together for creating handmade cards, baking treats, and reading picture books. It was all about spending time together, and now, well, MISS YOU. The holidays lurk out there like shadows from the past, old snapshots of happier days, songs fading in the background. And yet, there's something about Valentine's Day that I always disliked: the excess of candy JUST ONE, the pressure to pair up, to flaunt what you've got, to make it all glossy and show-<span class="gm_ gm_6a414728-8b53-9e5c-b369-2310c0a1d0dc gm-spell">offy</span><span class="gmw_"> and suitable for the Valentine's Day showcase of lovers. Ugh. When my kids were little, I refused to buy the Sponge Bob Valentine's Day cards at the supermarket; instead, we spent hours losing ourselves in the painting and collage and cutting and pasting and creating, until, well, all the other kids were sending out Sponge Bob with candy attached<span class="gm_ gm_01ef052c-2346-64c8-20e6-13de467c0154 gm-spell gm_tiny"> </span>and Valentine's Day became more insidiously-sweet than Halloween, and that's, I suppose, when I stopped being able to tell one holiday from another.</span></span><br />
<br />
Nowadays, Valentine's Day merely taunts, reveals the faulty wiring of a memory that, thanks to the Tamoxifen, has seen better days, and reminds me that despite my best efforts to stay connected and true, the prodding fingers of loneliness often strip me down to an empty shell. Still waiting for my train, I suppose. <br />
<br />
And there's the matter of the dupe-marketing-machine and the collective crush of spirit and creativity and brings out my inner cynic. I want to take no part in it and yet, I've wrapped up two cellophane bags of conversation hearts for my boys-- MY BOY, BE MINE-- bought them some really good chocolate, and made little cards for them out of pink construction paper and markers and a deep, simmering love that overflows for them and can't quite resist the Dementors. Better work on my Patronus charm. And be glad I wasn't shopping at (Lord) Wal-de-mart. Might have been the end of me.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
LOVE YOU </div>
zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-73536050540323672322011-02-11T15:50:00.000-05:002014-02-21T20:28:47.849-05:00The Journey<div align="left">
<b><i>The Journey</i> by Mary Oliver</b></div>
<div align="left">
<b><u><br />
</u></b></div>
<div align="left">
One day you finally knew<br />
what you had to do, and began,<br />
though the voices around you<br />
kept shouting<br />
their bad advice--<br />
though the whole house<br />
began to tremble<br />
and you felt the old tug<br />
at your ankles.<br />
"Mend my life!"<br />
each voice cried.<br />
But you didn't stop.<br />
You knew what you had to do,<br />
though the wind pried<br />
with its stiff fingers<br />
at the very foundations,<br />
though their melancholy<br />
was terrible.<br />
It was already late<br />
enough, and a wild night,<br />
and the road full of fallen<br />
branches and stones.<br />
But little by little,<br />
as you left their voices behind,<br />
the stars began to burn<br />
through the sheets of clouds,<br />
and there was a new voice<br />
which you slowly<br />
recognized as your own,<br />
that kept you company<br />
as you strode deeper and deeper<br />
into the world,<br />
determined to do<br />
the only thing you could do--<br />
determined to save<br />
the only life you could save. </div>
<div align="left">
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
This time of year, when the days start to lengthen, and that bit of discernible change in the light fills your heart with gladness and hope for the coming changes that spring will bring, there's a feeling that things <i>will</i> get a little better, bit by bit. That in spite of the impending collapse of those very foundations that you once worked so hard to build, something new will be built, that you will build it, that it will suit you much better, that it will be a safer, more nourishing space, a room of your own. You stand and wait for the explosive shudder, the taste of grit in your mouth, the clearing of the dust. Things must sometimes fall apart--the road full of broken branches and stones, the skies obscured with fear and uncertainty, the abyss beckoning from below--before we can seek something new. We are reminded that death begets life, and spring brings renewal. That as the stars continue to burn through the sheets of clouds, that voice within might just be the brightest light of all. </div>
<div align="left">
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
Thank you, Mary Oliver, for the reminders that <i>The Journey</i> brings. As I struggle to find my way in this world, to shed the self-doubt, step out of the rubble and embrace a deeper love, I am grateful for the wild nights that make those starry skies possible.<em><br />
</em></div>
<div align="left">
<br /></div>
<div align="left">
<em></em></div>
<div align="left">
<em>Pema Chödrön</em> speaks of the "Dance of Gloriousness and Wretchedness," in <em> "Start Where You Are":</em></div>
<br />
"Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both.<br />
<br />
Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that's all that's happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The gloriousness becomes tinged by craving and addiction.<br />
<br />
On the other hand, wretchedness--life's painful aspect--softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody's eyes because you feel you haven't got anything to lose--you're just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We'd be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn't have enough energy to eat an apple.<br />
<br />
Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together."<br />
<br />
Indeed.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div align="left">
<br /></div>
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</style> <![endif]--> <div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 16pt;">3-Day Diary</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Day One, Friday, July 23</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">6 am. The sun is out! We’ve just arrived at Farm Pond in Framingham, site of the Opening Ceremonies, and as I step off the shuttle bus that has delivered us from our hotel in Natick to where we now stand, it’s all I can see: reddish and searing bright, rising up and over the water, and illuminating all the <i>pink </i>that has gathered to glow and hum. A year ago, we began the 3-Day in a cold, torrential rain storm that turned the site into a mud bowl, soaked our sneakers long before we had taken our first official steps, and lasted most of the day. But this year…the sun is up with us, working its magic, and everything feels much more hopeful.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My team of 13 women and men—The Blue Footed Boobies—have come from afar to walk these 60 miles over three days together, and as we retrieve our duffels from the underbelly of the bus, I am aware of an urgency to stick close together. As their Captain and as their friend, I feel responsible for each and every one of them, but they make it easy.<span> </span>Up until yesterday, when we all gathered for the first time as a team, the team had been separated by simple geography, with the Northern Boobies training together here in Franklin County, and the Southern Boobies—three wonderful, old friends of mine from high school and college—gutting it out on their own in their respective neighborhoods: Carlos, in the Fort Lauderdale area, Mike, in Orlando, and Dara, in Atlanta. Now that we’ve come together, it feels like a warm and wonderful reunion, not just for me, but for everyone, thanks to an ongoing exchange of hilarious emails and Facebook postings that allowed us all to come together in spirit long before we had all actually done so in person. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">While eleven of us will be walking--Carlos, Mike, Dara, Jeanne, Barb, Cindy, Gretel, Marggie, Rachel, Meg, and myself--two, Gail and Damon, my mother, will be serving as part of the indispensable crew team, helping to keep us safe, well fed, and happy. Gail has already been hard at work since Thursday morning, helping to set up the 3-Day Camp where we will rest our weary heads (and feet) for two nights. My mother, who walked with me last year, opted to crew this year, and we are hoping that her assignment--Camp Safety--allows our paths to cross many times throughout the weekend.<span> </span>Though I am not sure where I might see her, I am eager to be able to check in with her and make sure she is doing okay. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Duffels in hand, we walk towards the jumble of crew members, all decked out in colorful, matching shirts, wide open smiles, and eagerly reaching out to take our bags to the row of pre-assigned gear trucks that will deliver our <i>exceptionally</i> well-packed essentials to Base Camp.<span> </span>Packing for the 3-Day requires meticulous care--everything, from air mattress and sleeping bag and tarps to individually packed outfits for Days Two and Three, the all-important extra pair of sneakers, shower shoes, and only the most necessary toiletries (toothbrush, comb, soap, shampoo)--has to be well-chosen, road-tested, and then packed and double-packed in zipped plastic bags to protect it from the rain that will inevitably fall at some point along the way.<span> </span>There is no room for anything extraneous, save a small pillow for comfort, a paperback book, a thin journal.<span> </span>This is, after all, guerilla packing: there’s a feeling that we’re headed out to walk some larger-than-life, Cormac McCarthy-infused Road, with all the peril and unexpected salvation, and if we forget something, we could be putting ourselves at dire risk.<span> </span>Of course, the route will be <i>nothing</i> like the post-apocalyptic Road, the only dangers ours for the making, and we are well taken care of along the way, but the sense that everything we have packed fills a critical role on this adventure remains.<span> </span>What we haven’t packed in our duffels, we wear around waists in fanny packs, or over shoulders in small back packs, a veritable 3-Day survival kit, containing everything and anything we might need along our trek: extra socks, snacks, water bottles to be refilled every 3-4 miles at Pit Stops, electrolytes, blister kits, Advil, Arnica, cameras, cell phones.<span> </span>My own fanny pack is stuffed to the brim; if Monty Hall should suddenly appear and ask for something out of the ordinary, I’d win some big bucks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As soon as I hand off my duffel, I feel infinitely lighter, ready to go.<span> </span>It crosses my mind that the next time we see our bags, they might be sitting in a puddle of water, being pelted by heavy rains.<span> </span>But it’s a fleeting worry--and unsubstantiated, given how many layers of plastic are covering everything--and I leave it behind to walk with my team deeper into the <i>Pink</i>--that bubble of sweet humanity that surrounds us on the 3-Day and fills us with gratitude and love.<span> </span>Amidst all the earnest helpfulness, I spy my mother, directing walkers to the gear trucks, waving, smiling, trying to get my attention. Our tears are instantaneous. This is to be such a morning. And this, too, is what makes the 3-Day completely addictive: the genuine, heart felt kindness and compassion of the people along the way, from crew and walkers to people who come out to cheer us on and thank us for walking, and the tenacity and spirit that joins people together in a most spectacular kind of human triumph.<span> </span>Known affectionately as the Pink, it is what brings walkers and crew back, year after year, and inspires us go home and try to recreate some of the Pink’s magic in our own daily lives.<span> </span>After experiencing it first last year, I knew instantly that I <i>had</i> to experience it again.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Just six months after my breast cancer diagnosis in the winter of 2008, I went looking for something, anything that would help heal my broken spirit, mend my patchwork body.<span> </span>I had found some clutch inspiration just a few weeks after my mastectomy, first in April, watching the Boston Marathon—with its gritty, uplifting, iconic images of heroes like the Hoyts and the scads of everyday folk who dig deep and do something amazing—and later, in June, in the Celtics’ Ubuntu-inspired championship run that brought back the magic of the Bird era, and reminded me that “Anything is possible.” (thank you, KG).<span> </span>And so it was that I found my wings, and signed on for my first 3-Day, in a fit of wanderlust and hopefulness, and founded the Blue Footed Boobies, named after the beautiful, fearless, whimsical birds who made our 2006 visit to the Galapagos so magical.<span> </span>Instantly emboldened by simply having this on my calendar, my spirit soared.<span> </span>After all, I had always loved to walk, and walking, even long distances, was the one thing I was allowed and able to do while recovering from my surgeries. And as tempted as I was to walk the Boston 3-Day in July of 2008, I agreed to wait until after the surgeries and procedures to fully install my new girl were complete. I threw myself into training, gradually building up to long, challenging walks on the hills of Gill, Williamstown, Guilford. It all felt good, an expanding lightening of being, an all-over buzzing sensation of being very much alive.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">That first year, I walked with four friends, including my mother, who, at the age of 69, walked each and every mile on two artificial hips (making us the Bionic Boobies).<span> </span>I was proud of my team for their fortitude and dedication. As well, I had proven to myself that cancer had not defeated me.<span> </span>Body and spirit mended, I re-established trust in my physical being, and reclaimed a sliver of that invincibility that had been shattered by my diagnosis. But I knew that my recovery journey was not over. Being a breast cancer survivor is an ongoing, lifelong passage through the cycles of fear and dread and deep relief that arrive with every regular checkup and blessed test result.<span> </span>The scars are deep.<span> </span>The 3-Day proved to be a powerful way to get back into my body, open my heart, and experience the intensity of life--a cathartic release of sweat and tears, making room for all that good Juju to stream in and smooth out the cracks, fill me up and carry me through.<span> </span>How could I not go back for more? </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Fortified by teary hugs from my Mom, we make our way into the fields of pink along the water‘s edge, where I can more fully take in what last year’s rain had all but obscured: the pink banners, tents, crew members in different color shirts bustling about, walkers arriving from all quarters, and everyone, it seems, positioning themselves for an early entrance into the holding area close to the stage and its mega sound system. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We stake out our spot as close to the gates as possible, a jumbled heap of fanny and hydration packs, water bottles, and extra layers that we’ve already shed marking our territory, and begin to make our final preparations, stretching, using the porta potties, filling up our water bottles, and re-lacing sneakers.<span> </span>We’ve already pre-treated our heavily callused feet, coating them with un-petroleum jelly before slipping on wick-away, high-tech socks.<span> </span>Before training for my first 3-Day, I used to think that socks were just socks, and I’d wear the same pair of sneakers for several years.<span> </span>Since starting training in 2009, I’ve gone through eight pairs of running shoes, two pairs of custom-made orthotics, and have come to rely on special $15 socks that custom fit and cushion each foot in all the right places to prevent blisters and foot fatigue.<span> </span>We’ve all come to appreciate the finer points of well-made work out gear, and yet, it is the smaller, personal touches--most gifts from each other--that mean the most, and unite us in battle dress and spirit.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Henna Gathering in Gill, Wednesday, July 21</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With only two days to go before we head into Boston for the start of the 3-Day, the Boobies have gathered at my house in Gill, to finalize the logistics of car and luggage retrieval, paint each other’s toe nails blue, and exchange a most unexpected, wonderful batch of homemade, festive gifts: Cindy has made a large banner for the team, which will mark Boobie Camp, and which we will carry at the end of the Walk. Meg has made mixed cds for everyone, full of great walking music, and has painted everyone‘s names on Boobie-blue bandannas.<span> </span>Gail is putting the finishing touches on ponchos from Cindy’s husband, which have already been decorated with the team logo by Cindy and Jan, an art teacher at NMH.<span> </span>Barb has brought laminated luggage tags for everyone, complete with our credentials and favorite team photo of the blue bikini clad Blue Footed Boobie.<span> </span>I’ve made BFB business cards, complete with silly officer-ships for everyone, Chief Officer of Procurement, Director of Luggage and Transportation, Chief Urination Officer, Team Horologist.<span> </span>Gretel arrives with colorful bead pins that her kids have made for everyone on the team.<span> </span>The best part is that there are extras of everything for the Southern Boobies, whom we will see tomorrow.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And there are the henna tattoos, a Blue Footed Boobies tradition that started last year, and the main reason for our coming together today.<span> </span>This spring, I’ve hosted three henna night fundraisers, bringing women together for delicious, simple dinners, great company, and of course, beautiful henna tattoos by Kelly Flaherty, an incredibly talented henna tattoo artist from Shelburne Falls. Kelly’s own sister has been battling breast cancer this year, and the cause has taken on a new meaning for her.<span> </span>With her help, we raised over $1000 in just three nights. We are grateful in so many ways.<span> </span>Today, just forty-eight hours before the 3-Day, Kelly has generously more of her time to decorate and embolden the team with beautiful, bad ass henna tattoos, on arms, legs, chests, bellies, breasts.<span> </span>An ancient art form with traditions going back to the Bronze Age, henna has long been used by women to embellish and honor each other, in celebration of battle victories, birth, and marriage, and to offer blessings in the form of<span> </span>joy, luck, beauty, and fertility.<span> </span>Earlier today, before the rest of the team arrived, Kelly gave me what I’ve been talking about getting for months: a henna-tattoo of a lizard, tail wrapped around my nipple, amidst a garden of flowers blooming on my chest.<span> </span>Now suffused with love and beauty, my new left girl, with all her residual trauma and scars and strangeness, has been blessed.<span> </span>It means a lot.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Jeanne has raided the Dollar Store for pink leis and scepters and the biggest pair of pink framed sunglasses we’ve ever seen, and as we gather in the yard for a photo, we are well-adorned.<span> </span>Many of us are wearing the wonderful, whimsical I <3 Boobies t-shirts created by local graphic designer Anja Schutz of Fruit & Sugar Industries, and the image--of two sprightly, vibrant blue-footed boobies walking side by side, feet slightly raised--is everywhere: on our shirts, on pins stuck to our packs, on our ponchos, and on the banner.<span> </span>Heading into the Walk, we will all be emboldened by what we’ve given and received today: team gear--our form of battle dress--and a whole lot of team spirit, camaraderie, and affection for one another that has grown out of our months of training together and supporting one another throughout this journey, and that will steel and protect us along our upcoming 60-mile tour.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">In a swirl of playful banter, the Southern Boobies and Northern Boobies are getting to know each other quickly.<span> </span>Taking advantage of all the photo-ops.<span> </span>Christening the blue lagoons.<span> </span>Dancing to the awesome dance music blaring from the enormous sound system.<span> </span>Ribbing each other for this and that.<span> </span>Wondering what the weather will bring. Our ponchos, along with small portable umbrellas, have been folded deep down into the bottom of our packs to ward off rather than welcome the rain that is expected to hit later in the day.<span> </span>We’ve been on a weather watch all week, and though we have trained in all kinds of extreme weather conditions, and know full well how weather can change on a dime in New England, we are hopeful that we can use our ponchos to decorate our tents, and nothing more.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Several of us write the names of loved ones on memorial ribbons that will be displayed later at the Closing Ceremonies, and are suddenly pulled inward into our grief and sense of loss, to remind ourselves why we are walking, to unlock and share our tears with each other. The 3-Day echoes Life that way, with its alternating moments of joy and despair, the constant interplay and cycling of light and dark, and the ability within each and every one of us to hitch a ride on the rollercoaster and take it all in.<span> </span>We dance, we cry, we laugh.<span> </span>It’s all part of being a part of the Pink.<span> </span>And even though we are all--walkers, crew, 3-Day perma-staff--in this together, there is a sense of team spirit that transcends the greater communal vibe.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It doesn’t take long before Farm Pond is filled to the brim with the nearly 1600 walkers and several hundred crew members who have joined forces to not only walk sixty miles in three days but take care of each other along the way—a Walk symbolic of not only the miles and miles of training already put in, but also all the money raised for the Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure. Given the numbers here this morning, altogether, it is an awe-inspiring, collective commitment and sacrifice of time and energy almost too enormous and impressive to fully comprehend.<span> </span>And there are teams from all over—Texans for Tah Tah’s, Tigers for Ta Ta’s from Louisiana, the Granite Angels from New Hampshire, and the more local Wild Women Originals, The Pink Angels, The Cup Crusaders, Men with Heart and of course, the Blue Footed Boobies, from Gill, Shelburne, Northfield, Sunderland, Williamstown, Winchester, Orlando, Fort Lauderdale and Atlanta.<span> </span>That each walker here this morning has raised at least $2300, checking and rechecking their totals, and spent hours upon hours training, logging over 600 miles in training alone, fine-tuning gear, and preparing for this incredible experience is impressive. That many have come from so many miles away to share in this experience, is simply awesome.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The fact that the 3-Day is able draw so many people in, get them to commit wide swaths of time, quite possibly our most precious resource today, and bring out their best for a single mission is testimony to how exceptional an organization Komen for the Cure is. Since 1982, when Nancy Brinker promised her dying sister, Susan Komen, that she would do everything in her power to put an end to breast cancer, the organization has invested more than 1.5 billion dollars to keep its promise, becoming the largest source of nonprofit funds dedicated to the fight against breast cancer in the world.<span> </span>Komen has basically created an army of people willing and able to fight together to find a cure.<span> </span>Impressively, 85% of the proceeds from the Walk go towards breast cancer research and community programs. Here in Franklin County, Komen’s affiliates fund numerous programs to ensure that every woman has full access to screening and treatment. The 3-Day is their premier event, and Boston just the first of fifteen host cities. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I am struck, again, by the sense that being a part of the 3-Day allows us to not only be a part of something much bigger than ourselves, but also to climb into the Pink and feed off of the communal positivity and dedication that binds us all together, that essential, earthly interconnected spirit of humanity and gratitude and compassion that makes us who we are, and empowers us to do great things for each other. On this first morning, this energy is palpable, pulsating throughout the crowd, which is growing larger by the minute, and the Boobies, particularly the first time walkers, are pacing, beaming, soaking it all in. The Pink, a veritable pre-battle gathering of warriors at the ready, is bouncing, nearly frenetic with pent up energy and an inexorable anticipation.<span> </span>It is a powerful place to be.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Finally, the gates are opened, and along with the masses, we make our way to the front of the crowds, as close to the stage as possible, positioning ourselves for an easier exit onto the route.<span> </span>One by one, speakers take the stage to gradually whip the crowd into a frenzy, and turn Opening Ceremonies into a cosmic blend of fist-pumping excitement and heart-wrenching motivation, a little pre-Walk inspiration-load.<span> </span>The 3-Day soundtrack only adds to the heightened emotions, with the music deftly shifting to match our ever-changing moods.<span> </span>There is good news, and bad.<span> </span>The sponsors remind us just how far we have come in such a short time, the statistics staggering, but hopeful.<span> </span>The cheers that rise up deep from the belly of the Pink are soon replaced by tears that fill us up and leak from just below the surface, as Ronnie, the woman who heads Komen’s Massachusetts affiliate, talks about how she‘s just had to tell her kids that her cancer is back.<span> </span>Despite what she must be feeling--fatigue, discomfort, pain--she speaks loud and clear, urging us on, and sends us on our way with a simple message: the 3-Day saves lives, and that she, along with countless other survivors in the audience, is exceedingly grateful, for the statistics today are so much more hopeful than they were ten years ago, offering those facing a diagnosis with so many more treatment options, with so many more years.<span> </span>More battle cries.<span> </span>Jenne Fromm, the National Spokesperson for Komen, follows, and within the space of minutes has made us laugh, cheer, and cry out loud.<span> </span>Jenne is a genuinely compassionate, down to earth person, and she is a pro; her words are carefully chosen and spoken for maximum effect, and she gets results, conjuring up all the people we’ve come to honor and memorialize--our mothers, our grandmothers, our aunts and sisters, our friends, our selves--and sending us to spiral inward once again to fetch our grief and air out our sorrow.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The tears come.<span> </span>I pull Dara, who lost her older sister Valerie to breast cancer three years ago, close. We tilt heads together, cry.<span> </span>All around us, people are doing the same thing, holding hands, linking arms, leaning on each other, spilling memories of loved ones lost in tears that roll unbridled down cheeks and faces rewritten with the pain of loss, the promise of fear, and the joy of life.<span> </span>There are some who are trying desperately to hold it together, bear it up, stuff it back down, and the strain of their efforts show in their crossed arms and somber grimaces, crumbling fortresses.<span> </span>And it is staggering to bear witness to this kind of emotional release, the collective loss at the same time overwhelming and reassuring.<span> </span>Each one us has our own reasons for walking, reasons that have faces and names and it is in their honor and in their memory that we walk, the very purpose fortifying ourselves against all the elements of the 3-Day--tough weather conditions, blisters, pain, fatigue, and whatever hardship or discomfort that may come our way.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And the Boobies are no exception.<span> </span>Marggie lost her mother to breast cancer when she was just 22, and carries with her a bandanna filled with the names of all the women we are walking for, survivors and victims: my grandmother, who had breast cancer twice, lost her left breast, and lived her life with verve and grace; Meg’s and Mike’s mothers, a survivor and a victim; Barb’s good friend, who has battled metastatic breast cancer for eight years; Gretel’s babysitter, who has taken care of many of our children over the years; Rachel‘s grandmother who lost her battle this past January, and whose name--Joy--she wears on her arm in a beautiful henna tattoo thanks to Kelly; Rachel’s aunt, a two-time survivor; Kelly’s sister; and the three of us who are survivors on the team, myself, Jeanne, and Cindy.<span> </span>There are many more names on the bandanna, too many to list, all with inspiring stories of courage and strength that we hold close and that urge us on.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Rachel, at 28, is the youngest member of our team, my mother Damon, at 70, the oldest: despite the range, everyone gets along, takes care of each other, and is ready for this walk.<span> </span>In between, there is Gretel, with three young children, comes next.<span> </span>Gail.<span> </span>There are a bunch of us in our mid-40’s: Marggie, myself, Dara, Mike, and Carlos.<span> </span>Meg is a few years older.<span> </span>Cindy, and then Barb.<span> </span>Jeanne, at 63 the oldest walker on the team, has battled breast cancer twice.<span> </span>She walked last year with me, for many of the same reasons I walked: to prove to herself that she could do it, that she was still invincible, a fighting spirit.<span> </span>This year, though, she walks for and with Cindy, our friend and teammate, who stands just a few feet away, her tears testimony to what she’s gone through to get here this morning, and the struggles that lie ahead.<span> </span>I know that this--this constant ebb and flow of emotional release--is hard for her, and as a group of survivors walk from stage to the round centerpiece to hoist banners and flags, I want to sweep through the crowd and wrap my arms around her.<span> </span>Just this spring, in the midst of training, Cindy discovered that her inflammatory breast cancer was back, and had metastasized to her spine and ribs.<span> </span>Cindy has inspired us all: in the midst of cancer treatments and chemo, she kept up with the intense training schedule, engineered team wide fundraisers, ponchos and banners, and kept us all smiling with her generous, infectious love of life.<span> </span>Ironically, she has an aversion to the color pink, so this morning her orange hair is set against the Boobie-blue of her shirt, which matches her feet, happily wrapped in her Boobie feet, the Vibram Five Finger shoes that quite amazingly, she has worn for all her training.<span> </span>Cindy is determined to walk the whole and entire 3-Day.<span> </span>To stand here this morning, feet at the ready, about to embrace a walk of epic proportions, is heroic.<span> </span>And she is not alone.<span> </span>We are all together, all the Boobies and all the walkers and all the crew, here for the very same reason, here to see each other through, and there is profound comfort in that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Just as quickly as the tears come, laughter and cheering sets the crowd to pitch and roll, our anticipation jettisoned suddenly into the air around us, thick with a fervent eagerness, and teeming with hope, optimism, love.<span> </span>The music pulses through the crowd, and Jenne announces that it is time--to start walking!<span> </span>We surge forward, being careful to move through the throngs together, not leave anyone behind, as we are herded like cattle through gates so our credentials can be scanned and each walker accounted for, and so we don’t topple each other over in our mad rush to get it done.<span> </span>We see Mom and Gail one more time in the swell of crowds, and begin to march, heel to toe, and shoulder to shoulder, slowly, past people who have come out early to wish us well, hand out colorful beads and Energizer bunny ears, and fill us up with love and encouragement.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It is suddenly clear that we will lose each other--to the crowds and the traffic lights and our varying paces and strides.<span> </span>With eleven of us, we split into three groups, making sure that we check in with each other along the way.<span> </span>It is important that we each walk our own walk, but that within our little groups, we take care of each other.<span> </span>We agree to meet up at lunch, start passing on the left, and skip the first grab ‘n go to put some distance between us and the crush of walkers.<span> </span>And then--there is the <i>smell.</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It is morning rush hour on a summer Friday, and Framingham reeks--of pungent garbage that’s been left out too long in the hot sun, of thick smog being cast out by the endless stream of traffic to sit and stew in the humidity, and of cigarette smoke that wafts out of open windows to further strangle the air.<span> </span>The incessant honking from cars only adds to the urban assault, and my headache comes on fast.<span> </span>I have to keep reminding myself that it is NOT raining, that it could be so much worse, and yet, I am suddenly homesick for the quiet country roads and fresh air we’ve left behind.<span> </span>I’d easily give up the convenience of being able to use porta potties every few miles, or flush toilets at the frequent Dunkin Donuts and Starbucks and fast food joints that line this strip, just to be able to smell the pines, take in the beauty of the surrounding hills and forests, and dash behind a tree every now and then to mark our territory.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Training Walks</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Our training walks have taken us all over Franklin County and beyond.<span> </span>Since January, when we began our training in earnest, we have gradually built up to the kind of distances--over hill and dale, along the Turners Falls bike path and the Noho-Amherst Rail Trail, down woods trails and town forests, atop roads paved and graveled and oiled --that we simply wouldn’t have been able to get our heads around a few months back.<span> </span>It wasn’t too long ago when many of the first time walkers thought that walking 8 miles was a real feat.<span> </span>On this day, we will walk our final 18 mile training walk together before the 3-Day sets sail in another two weeks. Since I’ve done it before, I know what is possible (anything!), and as their Captain, I encourage my teammates to believe in themselves.<span> </span>This is a Yes-We-Can-inspired undertaking, and over the months, each and every Boobie has made significant changes in their lives, giving themselves permission to spend time taking care of themselves, pushing through the inevitable issues that crop up and make you doubt your decision to take something like this on, and finally, growing strong and fit, and fully embracing the camaraderie of the team and the challenges of the experience.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">During the week, our training has included shorter walks, cross-training, and always, a day of “rest” on Monday.<span> </span>Cross-training has included everything from biking, lifting weights, and yoga to gardening, vacuuming the house, and chasing around the kids.<span> </span>Our families are now well-versed with our weekend routines, when the mileage peaks and we leave our houses at insanely early hours to meet up with a cache of Boobies and spend the day walking.<span> </span>And talking.<span> </span>And running into the woods to pee a whole lot.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Since walking along the quiet, bucolic roadways of Franklin County is so totally different than walking the uneven, over-stimulating urban terrain of Boston, I’ve planned a route that will at least try to simulate a few of the other elements of the 3-Day which have been lacking on our previous walks: regular stops at our favorite pit stops, with flush toilets, food and drinks, and a few cheering sections and signs along the way to keep us going in the right direction.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We’ve come together at Gill Center, and it’s our usual early hour, 6:30, to beat the heat, get it done, and get out at the absolute best time of day, when the day still radiates a certain hopefulness that seems to fade as the day progresses.<span> </span>According to the skies, which brightened at sunrise only to darken soon after, it looks as if we might be walking to beat the rain as well.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We do our usual pre-walk warm-up, pushing against the trees that line the common to stretch our calves and Achilles, reaching down to the dewy grass to release hamstrings, to the skies to lengthen, and work out the morning kinks.<span> </span>We set off down Main Road, past meadows and hillsides dotted with cows, old hardwood and pine forests, a scattering of houses, still quiet with the hour of the day.<span> </span>Traffic is non existent, and it is not unusual for us to walk many miles without seeing a single car go by.<span> </span>There have been some odd encounters, though, and just last weekend, Marggie, Rachel and I had set out on a 12 mile walk together from Gill Center, when we ran into two young men, pants on the ground, walking the other way.<span> </span>“Do you know how far New Hampshire is from here?<span> </span>Our car broke down in Turners, gotta go back and get a ride!”<span> </span>They look like they’ve been up all night.<span> </span>We send them north, tell them if we can walk all those miles, then so can they, and later, when we are looping back at mile ten, they fly by in a car, heading to Turners, waving like mad men.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A half hour in, and Gretel has to pee.<span> </span>If there is one thing that the Boobies are good at, it is working together, to stay well hydrated, take in enough electrolytes, and pee a lot, all things that would make our 3-Day coaches proud.<span> </span>Carlos has emailed us all that he does not pee on his 18 mile training walks.<span> </span>How is this possible?<span> </span>We are not shy, and are grateful, always, for a thick of trees and brush along the road.<span> </span>We’ve put Rachel in charge of finding all the good spots. She is particularly adept at it, infinitely better at it than keeping her feet free of blisters, especially in the rain. Dr. Marggie has taken it upon herself to research all there is about those pesky little buggers, and to equip herself with all the necessary medical accouterments.<span> </span>And from cases of shot blocks and Gu and all the other cool things that I’ve procured from Bob at Bicycles Unlimited, it all adds up to a whole lot of stuff for us to carry on these long training walks.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Today, though, we will enjoyTypically, on these long training walks, we’ve got to feed ourselves, find pee stops along the way, tend to our own discomforts, provide our own cheering sections, and carry enough water to see us through for 18 miles.<span> </span>Today, we’ll<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At mile four, we stop at the Second Street Bakery in Turners, Pit stop #1. We sip coffee, iced tea, and nosh on a phalanx of pastries--not exactly sports drinks and salted peanuts, but infinitely more enjoyable--and cross back over the old bridge into Riverside, where we spy a group of white swans along the Connecticut. A minute later, Mike, one of the Southern Boobies who often calls us during our long Saturday walks, sends me a text with a photo attached…of white swans.<span> </span>There have been quite a few freaky little coincidences, as if the Southern Boobies were somehow leading walks parallel to the ones the Northern Boobies were taking, living in two parallel universes, our portal, the 3-Day.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Mile five. Pit stop #2. We arrive at the Wagon Wheel, site of many past and future BFB feeding frenzies, and quench our thirst on their stellar homemade lemonade, drinks on the house courtesy of Carolann Zaccaro, BFB supporter and WW proprietor.<span> </span>We are grateful, and plan on returning the next day to fill our bellies properly after another long training walk.<span> </span>We follow signs heading east on Route 2, and walk side by side in pairs in the wide shoulder before turning onto Pisgah Mountain Road.<span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Mile Nine. <span> </span>Pit stop #3.<span> </span>After walking down and up the gravely hills and potato fields of Pisgah, we’ve just arrived at Barb’s wonderful house, and her golden Basil rushes out to greet us.<span> </span>It has started to rain.<span> </span>We quickly escape into the house, and we feast on curried chicken salad, avocadoes and hearty bread while watching the rain come down from the comfort of her screened-in porch.<span> </span>Stretched before us lies the river below Barb‘s colorful gardens made slightly blurry by the sudden downpour, and we are in no rush to head back out.<span> </span>Before we leave, we recoat our feet with unpetroleum jelly, a BFB staple, and put on fresh dry socks.<span> </span>We unroll rain coats and umbrellas.<span> </span>Hats.<span> </span>Ready, set, go.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Mile Eleven.<span> </span>Pit stop #4.<span> </span>Dominick, my 11-year old son, has made us frozen grapes, and even though it is raining, we welcome the refreshing bites of juicy succor and the brief respite from the rain as we take cover on the deck.<span> </span>We head down the hill to Upinngil,<span> </span>going north on Main Road, until we turn onto the Mount Hermon campus, and loop up and around to Meg’s house, Pit stop #5, where her husband, Glenn, brings out icy cold watermelon.<span> </span>We really are being spoiled today.<span> </span>I take off my sneaks and jump on the trampoline until my head starts to bobble and spin.<span> </span>Meg’s clothesline is filled with blue bandannas.<span> </span>Huh.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We’ve made our way into Northfield, walked the gorgeous new sidewalks through town, and taken a right up Pine St. to the home of Louise and Dick Schwingel, two long time NMH faculty members who have agreed to be pit stop #6 at mile seventeen.<span> </span>We are eager to dip our feet in their pool, but really, have no idea what they have in store for us: bowls of blueberries, raspberries, and blackberries, three kinds of sorbet, lemonade, and iced tea.<span> </span>We are a-flush with gratitude.<span> </span>Do we really have to put our socks and sneakers back on?</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We end at Marggie’s, the final mile a sore, blistering finale.<span> </span>We’ve been walking for hours.<span> </span>The day is, essentially, done.<span> </span>Marggie’s quartet of wonderful dogs come out to greet us, and wonder why this time they had not been invited.<span> </span>We sleep well that night.<span> </span>And in the morning, we rise and do it again.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">As we make our way through Wellesley, the air feels fresher, the traffic sounds and smells abate, and the crowds thin.<span> </span>It feels good to air out the legs a bit, enjoy the sights a little more, relax into the festive atmosphere.<span> </span>After all, with all the costumes and beads and celebration, the 3-Day is like a little Mardi gras, full of revelry, mischief-making and fun.<span> </span>From the kooky crew who dress up for each themed pit stop, the decorated Sag Vans and cars that fly by, music blasting, horn honking, bras flapping in the wind, to the crazier fans who come out each and every day in sparkling pink outfits, dress up their dogs in angel wings, and do whatever it takes to make us feel like we can do anything, anything! for three days and beyond, the 3-Day is full of revelry, mischief-making and fun.<span> </span>And then there are the walkers, for whom outrageous frippery and Boobie puns seem to be the rule.<span> </span>A group of Tigers for Ta-Ta’s walk ahead of us and I can’t help but want to grab hold of one of the striped tails that they have attached to their fanny packs and pull.<span> </span>Later, I walk behind a man who had attached a black negligee-clad paper-mached torso to his back, sporting a sign that said, Save the Ta-Ta’s.<span> </span>I see another guy in a plaid, short dress, and a trio of guys along the route squeezed into big pink bras and lipstick.<span> </span>Seems a great excuse to raid your girlfriend’s closet and dress up like a girl for a few days. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The route quite cosmically goes right past my plastic surgeon‘s, Dr. Pitts’, office, site of countless expander fill-ups and my first ever tattoo, and I think of running in and saying hello and having my “after” picture taken, lizard and all, but press on, past Newton-Wellesley Hospital, where I had the bulk of my surgeries and procedures done two years ago, where Dr. Specht took care of the cancer and Dr. Pitts installed my new left girl, and my new lease on life.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At lunch, we enjoy a longer break than we’ve taken at the pit stops along the way.<span> </span>More than a mere re-fueling station like the other Pit Stops, the Lunch Stop offers walkers the chance to stretch out more sufficiently, eat a more substantial meal, and catch up with their team.<span> </span>But there is a trick to it: stop too long and you’ll stiffen up, and have a much harder time getting back on your feet.<span> </span>We still have a long way to go, and while the skies continue to darken, that old Grace Jones’ song <i>Walking in the Rain </i>begins to ear worm its way into my head.<span> </span>Every now and then, we walk behind people who are blasting tunes out of portable speaker sleeves for their iPods, and the effect is instantaneous: a spring in my step, a few dance moves, a little hum to get going, beat this dang rain.<span> </span>And while there is no talking or texting or listening to music through ear buds while walking allowed on the 3-Day--all grounds for expulsion from the Walk--people have figured out how to still enjoy their tunes along the way.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Rachel and Carlos, who have been playfully competing against each other all day to see who can get it done first on Day One, seem especially motivated to get back to camp before the rain hits. Carlos, who never seems to stop to stretch or pee, has been ahead of us most of the day, with Rachel catching up and creeping up on him every now and then to give him the big <i>waaaa-hahaha! </i>as she speeds by.<span> </span>Right before we get to camp, with just a hundred yards to go, Rachel sees Carlos up ahead, and flies past him, sending him to sprint to the finish in a futile effort--futile, because he is laughing so hard--to beat her.<span> </span>The crew, who has assembled to cheer us in, love it.<span> </span>And so do Rachel and Carlos.<span> </span>I know that they have both been carrying heavy emotional loads today, for Rachel, thinking about her Gram, and for Carlos, his mentor, who died of cancer earlier this year. Quite wonderfully, the day has been like a rebirthing, bringing them back, as Carlos put it, into the joy of life.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s always great to take in Base Camp for the first time.<span> </span>Crew has been hard at work for two days to set up shower trucks and wash stations, rows and rows of porta potties, the dining tent, the 3-Day swag store, camp post office, and the row of sponsor-tents, each offering something of comfort for the walkers: new this year, the addition of cell phone charging stations in the Energizer tent.<span> </span>There’s already a line for free chair massages.<span> </span>In between the shower trucks and the dining tent is the medical tent, which on this afternoon at the end of the first day is still relatively quiet.<span> </span>It won’t always be so. We are among some of the first to get in, and as we find our designated row by the trucks for gear retrieval, the piles are still huge, indicating all the walkers who have yet to arrive at Camp.<span> </span>We find Gail; not only has she been able to set up all our tents, but she’s pulled aside most of our luggage too, using our laminated BFB luggage tags to quickly id Boobie bags.<span> </span>We lug our stuff over to our row of tents that sit perched atop turf fields in a residential section of Waltham.<span> </span>Boobie camp includes five pink, two-person tents, three on one side, and two on the other, back to back.<span> </span>Later, we’ll hoist the banner and set up the chairs that some of us have brought.<span> </span>For now, we are eager to get tarps up and over the tents, secure them with clothespins, and line the tent floor with another.<span> </span>Barb has arrived, and it starts spitting rain just as we get our air mattresses blown up and stuffed into the tents, along with our duffels and fanny packs.<span> </span>We pull on our ponchos and head out to call in the rest of the flock at the finish.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I am relieved to find my mother, who seems engulfed by her big poncho and the imminent rain, looking happy, bringing walkers in to camp.<span> </span>I can tell she is exhausted, though, and<span> </span>urge her to get a good night’s sleep tonight.<span> </span>By the time the rest of the Boobies arrive and start to set up, the rain begins to come down rather mercilessly.<span> </span>But everyone looks ecstatic to have finished Day One.<span> </span>Looking more flummoxed than ecstatic, Team Courage--a quartet of big, tall, well-built young guys wearing grey t-shirts and black shorts--straggles in, wiping sweat off their brows, legs a little stiff, feet wincing.<span> </span>I remember seeing them at the Opening Ceremonies: standing tall and proud, arms crossed and faces full of quiet resolve, their grey and black colors standing out in the sea of bright pink.<span> </span>Meg has gotten to know them a bit on the route.<span> </span>Two of the guys had lost their mothers to breast cancer, and had been joined by two friends who had come from afar to walk with them.<span> </span>Despite the fact that they were all athletes, well-conditioned, and fit, none of them had trained. What’s a little walking?! They clearly struggled this first day, and have arrived with their tails between their legs, with a new found respect for the rigors of endurance walking.<span> </span>I wonder how they‘re going to fit in the tents. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A poetic juxtaposition of life at its best, 3-Day walkers come in all shapes and sizes, ages and fitness levels.<span> </span>One team wore t-shirts that emblazoned a bit of self-deprecating humor: “Yes, we did all the training, and our butts are STILL this big.“<span> </span>Thanks to our unique genetic make-up as bi-peds and our evolutionary history as long-distance running champs across the scorching savanna, we are each and every one of us potential endurance phenoms. Walking is a perfect fit for us, and despite the fact that my foot doctor has told me that my equinal feet, my anteverted hips, my off-kilter neck, often askew thanks to some old rugby injuries, were not, or no longer, made for running, I know to my core that my whole being—toughened feet, long, strong legs, love of the outdoors, & tendency towards alternating bouts of solitude with the need to surround myself with people—was made for walking. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s nightfall.<span> </span>The rain has let up some, after pounding us all evening, and making our all Camp miles--those numerous trips from tent to shower trucks to dinner and potties and back again--fairly miserable.<span> </span>And yet, despite the rain, the first day is done, bringing much relief and comfort in being together.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We all take turns writing in our team journal.<span> </span>For many, the 3-Day, just one day in, has already been life-changing.<span> </span>Mike writes that “from this point forward, I know I will refer to my life as before-and-after the 3-Day.”<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I am happily scrunched into my sleeping bag next to Dara, and her voice is soothing and the pitter-patter of the rain like a lullaby, and soon, I am asleep.<span> </span>Amazingly, I awake just a couple of times at night, and fall back to sleep again easily.<span> </span>Last year, after a sleepless first night at camp, I posted this update on Facebook around four in the morning:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Baskerville Old Face"; font-size: 14pt;">can’t sleep, surrounded by snores, tent zippers, squeaky air mattresses, and the grind and chug of big heavy trucks…missing the crickets, coyotes, peepers…that lovely rural din.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Day Two, Saturday, July 24.<span> </span></span></b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">5 am. Camp is already abuzz.<span> </span>We have a lot of miles to cover today--nearly 22--and everyone it seems wants to get an early jump on the day.<span> </span>Fog enshrouds camp, but soon, the sun arrives, a chary dim light to slowly burn off the low clouds and set the pink tent city ablaze with color.<span> </span>The day will be hot.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We grab a quick breakfast, brush our teeth, and double check our gear.<span> </span>Cindy has arrived from her hotel, looking fresh and well-rested, and after a few trips for blister care at the self-care tent, the team is ready to go.<span> </span>Our 6:30 start this second morning feels much different than yesterday, and we are able to go at our own pace right away, past the crew on the outskirts of camp, the wonderful Pink Angels, who come every day in their tutus and pink wings and hand out hugs and high fives, and the Men with Heart, a team of about twenty guys who devote themselves not just to raising unbelievable amounts of money for Komen, but to supporting the women during the walk as well.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">On this day, I am eager to get to Lexington Center, where I know my family will be waiting for me.<span> </span>But first, there is <i>the hill </i>to be reckoned with in Belmont, a long stretch of uphill climbing that for us Northern Boobies, who have trained on hills much tougher than this, will be a breeze, but for Mike and Carlos, who are used to the Florida flats, the hill looms ahead of them like a monkey on their back.<span> </span>But they get it done.<span> </span>Carlos’ knee is bothering him, and Dara offers one of her knee straps for extra support.<span> </span>He takes to the shoulder on the road, leaving behind the unforgiving, uneven terrain of the broken city sidewalks for smoother ground.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">By midday the sun is ravenous.<span> </span>The heat index has climbed into the “extreme caution” zone, and everywhere, along the route, people are out to help us along and keep us cool.<span> </span>In town, fire fighters have set up hoses in front of stately old brick fire houses, and there are certain groups of female walkers who seem to delight in stopping at every fire house to have their pictures taken with the firemen, the same women, no doubt, who spent the first day kissing all the police men who stopped traffic and let through the endless strings of walkers while the people sat in their air-conditioned cars.<span> </span>Sprinklers rain down on us as we walk the suburban sidewalks, and supporters of all ages have come out to offer popsicles, watermelon, frozen grapes and peppermint patties.<span> </span>At the cheering sections, I make a beeline for the friendly dogs and the good folks with spray bottles at the ready, and raise arms out to be misted, before making my way through the line of people, some holding signs, some saying “thank you for walking,” some crying.<span> </span>It is hard, sometimes, to hold back the emotion.<span> </span>And there are those who appear every now and then to urge us on: the kids with their hand drawn signs, bowls of candy and homemade cookies; the pet duck in the kiddie pool; the lone husband sitting with his newspaper at nearly every turn, awaiting his wife; and the grandmother driving her grandbaby around, waiting every few hours along the route for his mother, a walker, to come by and breast feed him. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">At the pit stops, which come every 3 or 4 miles, we fill and refill our bottles with water, grab salty snacks, bananas, and sliced oranges, and use those porta potties.<span> </span>We fill our bandannas with ice and wrap them around our necks to drip deliciously cold water down our backs.<span> </span>At lunch, everyone is crammed under the one<span> </span>tree on the site--a park at a school with a woeful lack of shade--eating, stretching, taking care of blisters.<span> </span>The porta potties have heated up so much that one can’t help but worry about passing out in one and never being found.<span> </span>The three groups of Boobies have settled into a sort of relay system, with each group catching up and communicating with the next as to how everyone is doing so that we can at the very least be assured that all is ok.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Finally, at about the seventeen mile mark, we wind into Lexington Center, where an assortment of family members wait.<span> </span>It’s great to see everyone, and as Dara and I walk with Dominick and my brother Eli to the next cheering section, I am acutely aware of how lucky I am.<span> </span>At Parker Field, we pose with the Lexington Minutemen for pictures and buy some sassy buttons to add to my fanny pack: <i>Cancer Sucks! </i>and <i>Hey Cancer!<span> </span>You picked the wrong bitch!<span> </span></i>A favorite moment: A tall young woman, college age, suddenly takes a detour from the line of walkers and runs onto the basketball court, where a group of guys are playing some pick up ball.<span> </span>She asks for the ball, and they give it to her, standing, stunned, as she sinks three pointer after three pointer.<span> </span>She returns the ball, says thanks, and rejoins the Walk. A few minutes later, they are still standing there, watching her go, unable to really get their heads around what has just happened.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’s been great tonic to spend time with my family, and knowing I will see them tomorrow, it feels like I can easily get through the last five miles of the day, which can often feel like another twenty.<span> </span>Down tree lined sidewalks, through the shade and quiet of some lovely little neighborhoods in Arlington and Belmont, where mothers with small children and elderly people wave from behind screen doors and windows, we reach Waltham. Mike has been walking with the Men with Heart, a large group of terrific guys who walk with their knapsacks stuffed with personal items and other things the women might need on the way.<span> </span>At the twenty mile mark, they start singing the theme song from Gilligan’s Island and other old TV shows.<span> </span>Another Komen mile, and we see the bright yellow shirts of the Youth Corps up ahead, handing out homemade chocolate chip cookies, stickers, and smiles.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It is nearly four in the afternoon when our first group arrives at Camp.<span> </span>We’ve been walking for nearly nine hours straight.<span> </span>The bottoms of my feet feel tingly and slap-happy.<span> </span>I head for ice, shower, and then stand vigil at the finish with Rachel and my Mom, who has lost her voice entirely. Dara, Mike, Carlos, knee still ailing, and Barb are all in, and head off to the showers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The heat has taken its toll on the walkers.<span> </span>The Men with Courage come in, leaning forward as if about ready to fall, grey shirts soaked in sweat.<span> </span>A woman plops down on the grass next to Rachel and minutes later, is taken away by medical crew for heat stroke.<span> </span>The medical tent is already brimming, the line starting to grow, and the docs and nurses--all of whom donate their time and expertise throughout the weekend--are busy, using triage to treat the most extreme cases first.<span> </span>There are all kinds of issues--heat stroke, dehydration, blisters, sprains, road rage rashes, chafing, swollen feet and ankles, sore hips and knees, aggravated old injuries and fresh, annoying new ones--and soon, camp looks like a war zone, with people limping, hobbling about on crutches, wrapped up and iced, medical staff running about.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">We first spy Marggie and Gretel dancing their way to the finish line, caught up in the infectious party-atmosphere that greets walkers back at Camp.<span> </span>Soon after, Cindy, Jeannie and Meg appear, and while they are all smiles, I know that the day‘s 21+ miles has been rough-going.<span> </span>I am relieved that everyone has made it to the end of Day Two.<span> </span>Despite some pretty nasty blisters, a smattering of road rage, sore hips, and several troublesome knees, the Boobies pressed on and got it done.<span> </span>Jeanne’s back gave her trouble earlier in the day, and she wisely hitched a ride on the an uproarious Sag Van once or twice, receiving a legacy pin for her sage decision.<span> </span>Cindy has done remarkably well, but she is tired, feeling grateful for all the support she’s received along the way, from Meg, especially, who danced to “Walk Like an Egyptian” with her when they could hardly move, and from the man in Dunkin Donuts who announced he was buying donuts for her and Jeanne and three other walkers standing in line.<span> </span>It truly is the little random acts of kindness that make the Pink what it is--and the Walk a much better place to be.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">After dinner, Cindy leaves for her hotel, where we are hoping she will at least get some good sleep in between all the endless walking.<span> </span>Under the big tent, the Youth Corps take the stage and share their stories, and once again, the tears come.<span> </span>These are kids who have lost their mothers to breast cancer, watched aunts and grandmothers battle the disease, and have dedicated themselves to helping find a cure.<span> </span>Quite wonderfully, Jenne announces that the highly successful Youth Corps program, once unique to the Boston 3-Day, will soon be gracing the other fourteen 3-Day cities, a fantastic opportunity for kids who are too young to walk (you must be 16) to participate and experience all the opportunities--for friendship and catharsis--that being a part of the Pink offers.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Late that night, or in the wee hours of the next morning, I wake up and head out of the tent city to find a porta pottie.<span> </span>There is an eerie glow from the distant lights, and I feel like I am at sea, trying to find my way to the lighthouse in the dark.<span> </span>All around me, there are other walkers walking like zombies to the porta potties and back again.<span> </span>Eyes half shut, legs stiff.<span> </span>And no one is looking at or acknowledging each other.<span> </span>It is a strange zombie land, an endless elevator ride right out of my dreams.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><b><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Day Three, Sunday, July 25.</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I can’t seem to rouse Mike and Carlos, both still quite sunken into their Advil PM-induced slumber.<span> </span>It is 5 am, and it’s time to wake the Boobies. We have more to do this morning than yesterday: take down the tents, pack up and get our duffels on the gear trucks, eat breakfast and all the rest.<span> </span>I am amazed that anyone could sleep through all the hushed commotion of camp: zipper sounds, the slap of flip flops, the flinging and scattering of those pesky little black turf pellets with each step, the whispered voices.<span> </span>Finally, after a particularly loud sneeze, everyone is up, climbing out of their tents and rubbing the sleep out of their eyes, and soon, Boobie camp is being broken down amidst the sun rising in a rapturous wash of colors.<span> </span>It will be another hot day. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Rachel has hit the med tent early, and with her feet all taped up, she is ready to get it done.<span> </span>She gets an early start with Mike, Dara, and Carlos, while I hang back to start this final day with the rest of the Boobies. Cindy has had to get medical clearance to walk this last day, and given all the people who have queued up in line at the medical tent this morning, we get a late start. By the time we reach Belmont, we’ve been further separated by the usual traffic lights.<span> </span>In Cambridge, my friend Angie, who walked with me last year, joins us for a stretch before heading back to find Jeanne.<span> </span>I catch up to Mike and Dara at Harvard Square, and we walk down shaded cobblestone sidewalks into Central Square, where the T beckons in a funny, Rosie Ruiz-sort of way.<span> </span>Further along, the architecture around MIT is stunning.<span> </span>We stop to snap pictures like silly tourists, catch some curious glances, and stretch on a few front stoops.<span> </span>There is much to take in, this parade of city life and landscape, and I am thrilled to be walking with such great friends.<span> </span>There are far fewer walkers on the course, and it is quite easy to confuse tourist for walker and go the wrong way.<span> </span>Without a steady stream of walkers in pink to follow, we start paying a little more attention to the black 3-Day arrow signs.<span> </span>Ahead of us, a pair of walkers start to follow a big arrow sign into a parking garage before we set them straight.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The wind whips up as we cross the Mass Ave Bridge into Boston, to take away some of the punch of the sun, and as soon as we reach the promenade down Commonwealth Avenue, with its statues and giant trees and park benches, we are happy to be in the shade once again.<span> </span>Close to the Public Gardens, we are treated to our own personal cheering section by Gretel’s wonderful family, who has made a huge banner and signs for each and every one of us and who greets us all with smiles and hugs.<span> </span>It is so wonderful to see familiar faces along the way, and soon after making our way into downtown Boston, I hear footsteps coming up fast behind me, and turn around to see my brother Eli, who has chased me--in flip flops--all the way from the Common, where he first caught sight of me.<span> </span>Dominick and my brother Will are close behind.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Here, in Boston’s Seaport, the sun hangs above us like a unrepentant, noxious entity, and I am happy for the comfort of Dominick’s hand in mine and the sound of his voice to keep me walking in this heat.<span> </span>At lunch, just three miles before the Big Finish at UMASS, we catch up with Rachel and Dara, meet up with my father, and chase down the ice cream truck.<span> </span>Lunch is eaten, too, though by this time, I am subsisting on sheer adrenaline, a little bit of Gu, and a whole lot of water.<span> </span>Before we leave for the final stretch, Barb arrives, looking fresh and strong.<span> </span>She updates us on the rest of the team, whom she has seen at an earlier pit stop: Jeannie was doing okay, but her back was bothering her a lot.<span> </span>Meg was walking with Cindy and Jeanne, and Marggie and Gretel were a little bit ahead of them, soon to arrive.<span> </span>And Carlos?<span> </span>No one had seen him, but we knew that his knee was hurting a lot.<span> </span>Had he taken the van?<span> </span>One of the air-conditioned buses that was taking walkers by the hundreds from pit stop to pit stop?<span> </span>Not Carlos.<span> </span>We must have passed him when he was--incredibly--in a porta pottie.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The final stretch--3 or 4 miles along the beaches that line Quincy Bay--feels a bit surreal.<span> </span>We are all exhausted by this time, not just from all the walking, but from lack of sleep, the emotional rollercoaster ride we’ve been on, and months of preparation and build-up, and I‘m a bit bleary eyed, taking in the volleyball game on the beach, the community pool, the boardwalk beneath my feet.<span> </span>It seems like a totally different world.<span> </span>I am tempted to shed socks and sneakers and jump into the ocean, but it seems risky--instead of totally reinvigorating me, it could completely derail me, and reduce me to a sniveling puddle of tears. This is when the mental toughness has to kick in: stay sharp or melt right there on the sidewalk.<span> </span>We walk on.<span> </span>At just one mile to go before Holding, I feel a little sad that it is almost over, that I’ll have to leave behind the Pink to navigate life on my own again, and say good bye to these dear old friends who have come from so far away to walk this 3-Day with me.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">With Dara and Mike just behind us, Rachel and I set our sights beyond the beach and boardwalk, to the sidewalks lined with hundreds of people, cheering us on.<span> </span>I start to fall apart all over again when I see my family, and then really crumble when I see my good friend Kim and her daughter Katie, and words, truly, fall short at describing my joy and gratitude at seeing them all.<span> </span>Rachel‘s mother Bonnie sweeps her up in a hug at the finish, and together, Rachel and I walk into the air conditioned gym to retrieve our 3-Day shirts: white for walkers, and pink for survivors.<span> </span>Soon Mike and Dara come in, then Barb, and quite amazingly, Carlos, the Energizer bunny, rounding the bend into the hoopla of the finish, grinning, limping slightly, stopping only now, for hugs and besos.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There are many things we’ve learned along the way: that a Komen Mile is not really a mile; it is usually a bit longer.<span> </span>That the Woburn cops are the best looking ones along the route.<span> </span>That the resiliency and tenacity of the human spirit is its real triumph.<span> </span>And that there’s a whole lot of Boobie magic that has seen us through on this 3-Day.<span> </span>Magic that helped us push through the pain and get it done.<span> </span>Magic that surrounded us on every corner, to cheer us on and make our hearts sing.<span> </span>Magic that mended those broken little bits of spirit and body and soul, long-forgotten and wedged in deep.<span> </span>And magic that brought out our better selves, helping us work together to bring everyone home.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">My trusty little iPhone, which has been overworked this weekend, as camera, video camera, pedometer, boom box, weather forecaster, note taker, Pony Express rider, and cell phone, alerts me that Gretel has just posted on Facebook that she and Marggie are just a few miles out.<span> </span>After a while, we begin to think that they decided to wait for Jeanne, Cindy, and Meg, and walk the final three miles together.<span> </span>More and more buses, having just dropped off injured walkers at the lunch pit stop so they could walk the final three miles to the finish, are rounding the corner.<span> </span>We scan the crowds for the Boobies, cheer all the walkers in:<span> </span>A guy in a kilt.<span> </span>The Tigers. George, with the walking stick, who has become a wonderful fixture on this Walk, after losing his wife, sister-in-law and daughter to breast cancer in recent years. And finally, two of the Men with Courage, looking a little stunned that they‘ve actually finished, their dedication to their moms, and to each other, and maybe a little pride, pushing them through to the end.<span> </span>Crew begins to stream in from all quarters, and we are joined by Gail and Damon, and the Boobies’ cheering section grows.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Our anticipation--nearly unbearable--turns to elation as we spy the remaining five Boobies under the banner, coming into view.<span> </span>Jeanne and Cindy are holding hands, sobbing, their faces etched with the hard fought battle now behind them, and Meg, Marggie and Gretel just a few steps behind them. Our hearts, filled with pride and relief, leap and propel us over the side rail to welcome them home.<span> </span>We round on them with hugs and hoots and hollers and we all join hands and walk the final steps of this 3-Day together, banner in tow, through the screaming thousands.<span> </span>It feels fantastic to be together again, to know that everyone is okay.<span> </span>And I am grateful for so many things, but especially for that crazy, powerful kind of Boobie magic that brought us together as a team in the first place, and encircled and empowered us all along these sixty miles to bring each one of us home safely.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I am aware of how fleeting such magic can be.<span> </span>But I am determined to let that magic trickle down and saturate my every fiber so I can take it with me wherever I go in this world.<span> </span>Something to forever tap into.<span> </span>Steel ourselves with.<span> </span>Roll in.<span> </span>Uncork whenever we need a boost.<span> </span>Rub the bottle and make a wish.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The crowd grows ecstatic as the last walkers come into camp.<span> </span>The organizers start to herd everyone into three groups, and the amazing crew, who has put all this together, fed us, and tended to our every need, initiates the long march to the site of the Closing Ceremonies, just over the hill on the UMASS campus. After them, the walkers line up in matching white shirts, to follow the crew who have circled around them in front of the stage.<span> </span>And finally, the survivors, in pink, walk with arms linked and raised into the forum.<span> </span>All around are thousands who have come to support us--family and friends and complete strangers, who feel compelled to be a part of the Pink, to thank us for walking, to cry, openly, for those they’ve lost.<span> </span>And as I walk in with Cindy and Jeanne, all around us people are holding up shoes and sneakers to salute the survivors.<span> </span>The Shoe Salute is breathtaking, humbling, deafening in its quiet eloquence.<span> </span>I can hear Jenne’s voice, but it seems far away.<span> </span>It feels inspiring to be a part of this group of survivors, which includes women of all ages, and one man, and if it were not for the pink shirts, I don’t think that one could not tell who was a survivor and who was not.<span> </span>In front of me is a woman who had been diagnosed when she was just 26, just two months after she found out she was pregnant with her first child.<span> </span>An older woman wears a t-shirt emblazoned with her own proclamation: 25 years cancer-free!<span> </span>Several wear bandannas and scarves on their heads. And there are a whole lot of sassy buttons pinned to everyone’s shirts.<span> </span>It feels good to tell Cancer to f*#@ off every now and then.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">These are the faces of breast cancer, the reasons why we walk, and why I am here today--feeling invincible, strong, happy--thanks to all the countless walkers who came before me.<span> </span>We stand acutely aware of who might be missing from this group of survivors, and feel the collective sadness and sense of loss of those in attendance; all those people out there, here for someone, someone they’ve lost or are worried about losing.<span> </span>But there is good news, always: Jenne announces that 1600 Boston 3-Day walkers have raised over $4.5 million for Komen, and it truly feels incredible to be a part of that.<span> </span>The crowd goes wild.<span> </span>I look at my team--instantly spottable under the Boobie banner--and am beside myself with pride. Together, the Blue Footed Boobies raised over $48,000 for the Cure.<span> </span>We did good.<span> </span>But we know all too well that there are still lives to be saved, and that our work is not done.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The final flag is raised--A World Without Breast Cancer--and it speaks of the hope and promise of the 3-Day.<span> </span>I’ll keep walking until they find a cure.<span> </span>I’ll keep walking for Cindy.<span> </span>For myself.<span> </span>For everyone.<span> </span>I’ll keep walking because I can.<span> </span>There is a simmering, unrelenting joyfulness, too, rising up and smoothing out the spaces between the cracks and binding us all together…that crazy, powerful Boobie magic, the magic of the Pink.<span> </span>The Boobies are suddenly surrounded by our families, and I can see just how proud everyone is.<span> </span>I hold my youngest son for a long time; the emotion of the Closing Ceremonies has been overwhelming for him, too.<span> </span>The 3-Day, in its celebration of life and love, tenacity and courage, is life-changing.<span> </span>It has a way of knocking you off your feet, infusing every fiber of your being with the very best that you and humanity has to offer, and sending you back to radiate and glow and share the magic with others.<span> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">It’d be lovely to feel that way all the time, to hang on to the power of the walk, suffuse our days with all that good stuff. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Driving home in my little car, I realize that my fanny pack, with all its stickers and pins, now looks like the back of my Toyota.<span> </span>And the closer I get to the Valley, the more relaxed I feel. There’s an expansiveness inside that echoes the gradually opening up of the landscape outside. I am at once struck by how beautiful and peaceful it is, and by how boxed in I suddenly feel. Even with the windows down, I feel uncomfortably isolated from the rush of the river, the rise and fall of the hills, the warmth of the people who make this place their home. It’d be nice to shed the car on a regular basis, get out into the land, and walk, a daily renewal of spirit. There is a certain charm about walking about the countryside, captured by writers and poets for many generations; and yet, in this day, since we spend so much time in our cars and in front of computer and TV screens, it promises much more than just reconnection with the natural landscape. Walking allows to take in and experience life at a slower pace, take in the changing seasons, clear out the cobwebs from our heads, deepen connections with neighbors and townspeople, and reacquaint ourselves with our made-for-walking feet. It is the pulse of life. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A week has passed since the Walk, and we’re already missing each other, the Pink and all its good Juju, the cheering sections with those frozen grapes and peppermint patties always at the ready, all that positive reinforcement.<span> </span>We begin to wonder if the Pink Angels might be for hire, to follow us around during our busy lives, to give us high fives while hanging out the wash, send a few “Way to go, Ladies!“ our way while we made dinner, urge us on as we tried to juggle the usual brouhaha of our lives, be there with a hug at the end of a really long day.<span> </span>I meet Marggie for a trip to the Farmer’s Market, and a lovely hike with our dogs.<span> </span>It is amazing how much I have missed her. </span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;"><span> </span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">A few days later, nine of us reunite to meet with a woman at NMH who will be writing an article about our experience.<span> </span>Our fondness for each other instantly fills the room, and as we answer questions about the 3-day, and begin to process what the experience has meant to all of us, all the emotions of the 3-Day are uncorked. Joy.<span> </span>Sorrow.<span> </span>Despair.<span> </span>Pride.<span> </span>Hope.<span> </span>Love.<span> </span>For Cindy, the experience has been particularly moving.<span> </span>I am blown away by how positively and powerfully transformative the 3-Day has been on everyone’s lives, and by the common threads that we all seem to touch on: how the training was the very best motivation to reclaim our physical selves, the commitment of time and energy, blood, sweat and tears a wonderful way to give back and honor those we’ve lost while honoring ourselves, and the overall experience an incredible way to experience humanity at its best.<span> </span>We all agreed that our walking excursions together blossomed into critical outlets for love and support in many areas of our lives, the Blue Footed Boobies quickly becoming the best support group any of us had ever been a part of.<span> </span>The benefits have been profound, and today, together again, the gifts are numerous and unexpected.<span> </span>We talk, we cry, we laugh for two hours.<span> </span>No walking on this day.<span> </span>Just being in the Pink.<span> </span>Reveling in the magic.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt;">The 3-Day has been the single most powerfully positive force in my own recovery and in my day-to-day—the benefits of all that exercise and fresh air, connectivity and community, laughter and love have been tremendous, and the absolute best medicine of all.<span> </span>And it has been a great practice to extend the lessons of the 3-Day into our own everyday lives.<span> </span>I will walk again next year, and hope to expand the flock.<span> </span>The Blue Footed Boobies got it done in 2010.<span> </span>We had a lot of help, and we are infinitely grateful for all the support we received along the way.<span> </span>If you are interested in joining the Blue Footed Boobies, or learning more about how you, too, can experience the magic of the Pink, please be in touch.<span> </span>And remember: Anything is possible.</span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;"><br />
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</div>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-43689407737085671362010-08-02T17:37:00.007-04:002010-08-02T18:45:20.408-04:00The Blue Footed Boobies Take Boston and Get it Done!<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tqxDFXiUipGYV5cSzkC4xzPmM_LxY_z3Vgvd14vzjrMtxJDMBItGHBV54Dzu5xn0R_1YW6D_j3skSqgcclYQENARpABi-l_pmRSJJqeaMfjd_IP3BXlm5FBH0o3X5Nv1P-Sh1YIPMEab/s1600/liz+day+one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tqxDFXiUipGYV5cSzkC4xzPmM_LxY_z3Vgvd14vzjrMtxJDMBItGHBV54Dzu5xn0R_1YW6D_j3skSqgcclYQENARpABi-l_pmRSJJqeaMfjd_IP3BXlm5FBH0o3X5Nv1P-Sh1YIPMEab/s320/liz+day+one.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Captain Boobie--Day One</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Dear Friends and Family and Blue Footed Boobie Fans,<br />
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Apologies for yet another group email, but I am excited to share with you news about the 3-Day Walk, held last weekend, July 23-25, and update you about how the Boobies are doing, and this seemed the fastest way. You might want to sit back, relax. This is a<i> long </i>one.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
After all, I have a lot of people to thank. Countless supporters. 110 generous donors. 14 incredible fellow Boobies and team mates. A wonderful, extended family. The innovative people behind Gu, shot blocks, and Brooks sneakers. My dog. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4GUmNlKFEP5zxbWQJHHjkIyYD24rqn_OoIog6S91t2WQk1P3meaW758F_g7EfDSY3Bqno7zk4Z9zOwa2zd0OUXq_mBYSnECw-S2oaaYtz28noCzYKa9BL7nKr89i001p9l_yCSEnOp1Z/s1600/hey+cancer%21.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG4GUmNlKFEP5zxbWQJHHjkIyYD24rqn_OoIog6S91t2WQk1P3meaW758F_g7EfDSY3Bqno7zk4Z9zOwa2zd0OUXq_mBYSnECw-S2oaaYtz28noCzYKa9BL7nKr89i001p9l_yCSEnOp1Z/s320/hey+cancer%21.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hey Cancer! You picked the wrong bitch!</td></tr>
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Just six months after my breast cancer diagnosis in the winter of 2008, in a fit of residual inspiration gathered first that April, 2008 upon watching the Boston Marathon and feeling like I Must. Do. Something., I signed on for my first 3-Day and founded the Blue Footed Boobies. In a strange, wonderful and empowering way, after completing my first Walk last summer, I felt a sense of closure with my recovery. In many ways, I had come full circle, regained my strength and good health, and proven to myself that cancer had not defeated me. But I knew that my journey was not over. Being a breast cancer survivor is an ongoing, lifelong journey, through the cycles of fear and dread and deep relief that arrive with every regular checkup and blessed test result; the frustrations and pitfalls of the health care system that, time and time again, falls woefully short; the often confusing, conflicting, harrowing world of treatment options, side effects, and preventative measures; and the challenge in each and every breath to live in the present moment, live strong, and not look back. The 3-Day has been the single most powerfully positive force in my own recovery—the benefits of all that exercise and fresh air, connectivity and community, laughter and love have been tremendous, and the absolute best medicine of all.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmekvz7MI7COmOiwBfTSlrFNdf1UJ1j0mRYmOA-7dyJnN3wfbOp8n6PSmvicGp15Le-SX7u6VUbLu3vEzTFZodnUmRrxoP5hX7In2f8PBkaza-BJx_DI6yqlPiAxothPD7MWjuWLJzUjTO/s1600/Liz+Dara+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmekvz7MI7COmOiwBfTSlrFNdf1UJ1j0mRYmOA-7dyJnN3wfbOp8n6PSmvicGp15Le-SX7u6VUbLu3vEzTFZodnUmRrxoP5hX7In2f8PBkaza-BJx_DI6yqlPiAxothPD7MWjuWLJzUjTO/s320/Liz+Dara+feet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dara and Liz: Boobie feet</td></tr>
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Recovery aside, there were plenty of other reasons to walk again. Let’s face it: the 3-Day is a bit addictive. All that positivity and good Juju surrounding you, following your every step, radiating from each and every moment is simply awesome, and it is hard not to go back for more. In fact, since returning home, many of us have wondered if some of those supporters—men like the Pink Angels, who don crazy pink angel wings and dresses and line the sidewalks throughout the route each and every day just to cheer us on—might be for hire, to follow us around during our busy lives, give us high-fives while hanging out the laundry, clap for us as we juggled the usual brouhaha of our lives, make us feel appreciated. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnrAQtBNYDNjGPYD73qMnib5VFoUe-6c1P2YWgQnBw-4Nb2e6KgD4D9VpCpiRW7LEsmwsyGlTbBCSJ5oQEBhh-XYP0UPXdAfk1g6RGe93KGkt6H5zbBXe1ZIR1opTvMcKffGI-5JVOQgc/s1600/pink+angels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPnrAQtBNYDNjGPYD73qMnib5VFoUe-6c1P2YWgQnBw-4Nb2e6KgD4D9VpCpiRW7LEsmwsyGlTbBCSJ5oQEBhh-XYP0UPXdAfk1g6RGe93KGkt6H5zbBXe1ZIR1opTvMcKffGI-5JVOQgc/s320/pink+angels.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dara with the awesome Pink Angels</td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
Most importantly, however, there is still work to be done, and I will continue to walk and fight for a cure as long as there are women—and men—facing this terrible disease. I walk because I can, and others cannot. And there is plenty of rich inspiration to keep me going. While in the midst of treatment—including chemo and hormone therapy—for metastatic breast cancer that has spread to her bones, my teammate and friend Cindy Harris not only trained with us but walked every one of those 60 miles this past weekend. Cindy walked with a smile on her face and an undeniable bounce in her blue Boobie Vibram feet as well, her spirit speaking volumes about her dogged determination to get through the Walk, and this latest round with cancer—with strength and dignity. There was never a prouder Boobie moment when Rachel, Mike, Dara, Carlos, Barb and I—who had reached the finish line earlier on Sunday—spotted the I Love Blue Footed Boobies banner rounding the final corner, and Cindy, fellow survivor Jeanne, and teammates Meg, Gretel, and Marggie all coming into view together. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv65HY-3k3xQ0X9P0zjqF1Pt9-xxxP0EIP3IMX3hBzdV3XMEQM6SYpEANlukD-X621PLOxaUpqVOungKyWBnX4lSSPFP-agl0U5R3ViUZT_XVOsIhWTeQe-crTvuXDFPSn2rADRRBFwnWv/s1600/boobie+banner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv65HY-3k3xQ0X9P0zjqF1Pt9-xxxP0EIP3IMX3hBzdV3XMEQM6SYpEANlukD-X621PLOxaUpqVOungKyWBnX4lSSPFP-agl0U5R3ViUZT_XVOsIhWTeQe-crTvuXDFPSn2rADRRBFwnWv/s320/boobie+banner.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Blue Footed Boobies banner at Boobie Camp</td></tr>
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Since beginning the process two and a half years ago, there have been many moments like these that have helped balance some of the more difficult moments in life with absolute joy, and an uprising of hope that has brightened my world. I have been touched by the love, support, and generosity of old friends and new, family members, neighbors, teammates and classmates—from people like you—who have come forward, reached out to me, and encouraged me to push myself beyond what I thought possible. In the last two years, you have helped me raise nearly $20,000 for Komen on my own. This year, over $3,000 came in during the final four weeks, bringing my individual fundraising total to <b>$9,348.</b> And my team--the Blue Footed Boobies—cleared a phenomenal <b>$48K</b> just a day after the Walk. In two years, the Boobies have raised over <b>$73,000</b>. At the Boston 3-Day, over 1700 walkers raised over <b>$4.5 million </b>for Susan G. Komen for the Cure. The Blue Footed Boobies were recognized as being one of the Power Teams, garnering the sixth spot on the top fundraising team list. The support we received was incredible. Many of you are repeat donors. We could not have done it without your continued support, your compassion and generosity, and I am deeply grateful. <b>Thank you.<o:p></o:p></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1opCv77ZBamo3vw-Y5bi9IVn2vvMdZahcFYYp6KH948bytCK4nM3tKSpnQu-qeJ6saAc0-9fJf_hrNetu3bql56HXwI6LihJX89lkvE2EVw_DJixcgBcDNrK7qvvnjgxPrx4B58qjT6Y/s1600/survivors.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEga1opCv77ZBamo3vw-Y5bi9IVn2vvMdZahcFYYp6KH948bytCK4nM3tKSpnQu-qeJ6saAc0-9fJf_hrNetu3bql56HXwI6LihJX89lkvE2EVw_DJixcgBcDNrK7qvvnjgxPrx4B58qjT6Y/s320/survivors.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Survivors Cindy, Jeanne, and Liz at the Closing Ceremonies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>This year’s 3-Day Walk was, again, incredible. Life-changing. Mind-blowing. Joyful. Challenging. Emotionally and physically exhilarating and exhausting. And since it was in Boston, I have to say that it was <i>wicked awesome.</i> My team was amazing, got it done, mile after mile and day after day, and made me so proud to be their Captain. From training and raising money to preparing for the 3-Day and walking those 60 miles, each and every one of my teammates showed incredible dedication and devotion to the cause and to each other, summoning a true fighting spirit that enabled them to push through some issues and persevere. Coming together as a team was truly an enchanted process that began many months ago, when our training began in earnest, with 10 of us training, for the most part, together up in the hills of Western Massachusetts, while the three Southern Boobies had to go it alone, in Orlando, and Fort Lauderdale, and Atlanta, and showcased our special breed of Boobie-hood when we walked the finish together under the banner. As I’ve said before, it takes extra dedication to train solo, and Mike, Dara and Carlos deserve special accolades for preparing as well as they did, and bringing it to the Walk! Boobies get it done! Thanks to the wonders of email and Facebook, we were able to start functioning as team—through constant and often hilarious exchanges of banter and photos and the usual logistical details—long before all of the Boobies landed in Boston. There were a few <i>looooonngg</i> weekend training walks during which we kept in touch with each other, sending and receiving photos that we took along the way, checking in with each other on our cell phones, and running into some eerie coincidences (ask us about the <i>swans</i>). There was much anticipation, and it was an incredible, wonderful moment when we finally gathered together the Thursday night before the Walk for the first time and for most, began the process of getting acquainted the sweet, old-fashioned way. For me, it was a warm and wonderful reunion, with two great friends from Exeter, Mike Miller and Dara Simmons, and one from Williams, Carlos Diaz, whom I had not seen since 1987! I have really appreciated the opportunities for reconnection, deepening friendships, and camaraderie this whole process has afforded me—whether with old friends or new, I have been touched by how easily it has been to pick up where we left off, be able to share some of the tougher stuff of life, laugh, cry, and lean on each other. And for all of that, I am profoundly grateful. As for the group, the spark, of course, was instantaneous; the Blue Footed Boobies came together in a warm, wonderful, glowing fusion of compassion, humanity, and gratitude. It was something to behold. As well, the collective energy and heart of the walkers, crew and supporters, made the sidewalks shimmer with love and encouragement, and radiated an electrifying conveyer belt of positivity that carried us all to the finish. The Boobies hooked into this greater communal vibe of Ubuntu and Pandora Juju, took care of each other, walked our own walk, and triumphed. This truly was a team effort. The Blue Footed Boobies got it done! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRo06cbroF0U9aRzpHF_M0Snm3kju3pMmDmM62HUpVFtD-xCMk3qb8BqAV-qxJUhbVR_pL-xdfqy7xI8J_hBHJkZ6dIEXPHa1DMR_PTihxtDu3RPcRkwgZt5wGtaAKKl2lSWJhDQAFPFB/s1600/Boobies+at+the+ready.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpRo06cbroF0U9aRzpHF_M0Snm3kju3pMmDmM62HUpVFtD-xCMk3qb8BqAV-qxJUhbVR_pL-xdfqy7xI8J_hBHJkZ6dIEXPHa1DMR_PTihxtDu3RPcRkwgZt5wGtaAKKl2lSWJhDQAFPFB/s320/Boobies+at+the+ready.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our "Before" picture!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>We were up before the sun on Friday, gathering at Farm Pond in Framingham to leave our duffels on pre-assigned gear trucks, coolers at the medical tent, and all worries behind. This was, after all, Day One, and it was NOT raining! Ya-hoo! The crowd of 1700+ walkers was a-glow in the early morning sun, in their restless, eager, an-ti-ci-<i>pation</i>. There was time to pace, get in some porta pottie practice (clean and fresh smelling!), stretch, fill our water bottles, and grab some snacks. We wrote the names of our loved ones on memorial ribbons, and declared our own goals for the walk: “to enjoy each and every step and each and every moment along the way.” There were photo-ops, always. And we looked damn good in our awesome team swag, thanks to all sorts of teammates and supporters: laminated BFB luggage tags that made finding our duffels a whole lot easier, personalized Boobie blue bandannas that we filled with ice and wore around our necks to cool off throughout the Walk, incredible ponchos hand-painted with the I Love Boobies logo and personalized with our names, nicknames, and officerships, hand-made bead pins, and of course, our Anja Schutz-designed I Love Boobies shirts and hoodies and pins that upped our hipster ante and emblazoned our trail. Despite being surrounded by a sea of pink, the Boobies were for the most part decked out in our trademark Boobie blue. As well, many of us were sporting beautiful henna tattoos—given to us by our friend Kelly—gifts of adornment and empowerment. It’s good to feel a little bad ass every now and then. We would add to our collection along the Walk—some great, sassy buttons, “I Kicked Cancer’s Ass,” “Cancer Sucks,” and my favorite, “Hey Cancer! You Picked the Wrong Bitch!,” soon festooned our packs, as did stickers and beads and all sorts of festivity. The 3-Day was to be our own little Mardi gras, full of revelry, mischief-making and fun.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDUiq3wIB3MqakTBai9qegoZbE8rVASIaxOE2sGVp6M38qMm9xlOiU_DGhNbRndYrKqGSSXbhJbpB33FmUhWFolwc72hB1IFVfIygaRcsgL2jiP-LQoGjX4cB39IBJIIo_wf1cguVpU0J/s1600/Opening+Ceremonies.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJDUiq3wIB3MqakTBai9qegoZbE8rVASIaxOE2sGVp6M38qMm9xlOiU_DGhNbRndYrKqGSSXbhJbpB33FmUhWFolwc72hB1IFVfIygaRcsgL2jiP-LQoGjX4cB39IBJIIo_wf1cguVpU0J/s320/Opening+Ceremonies.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Opening Ceremonies--a sea of pink, and a whole lot of bunny ears</td></tr>
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The Opening Ceremonies—always a bawl fest—pulled us right into that space inside where we hold our losses and fears close. We cried for Valerie, Dara’s older sister who lost her fight just a few years ago, for Rachel’s grandmother Joy, who died just this past winter, for Marggie’s Mom, who died almost twenty years ago, and for ourselves and all the survivors and warriors still fighting, we let the tears flow for them and held on to each other. And we positioned ourselves for an early, easy exit onto the route, making sure we did not repeat last year’s disastrous start, when we were the last team on the course and were forced to spend the first few hours slogging behind the masses. This year, we entered the course breezily, gave hugs and kisses to Gail and Damon, and as we took the first steps of the day’s 20, the urgency of why we walk filled every fiber of our being and fortified us against the elements: the heat and humidity, which was, by all accounts, oppressive throughout the weekend, and the constant traffic, honking, and smog that followed us along the way—so unlike the clean air, quiet country roads, and hills of Gill, but lined, too, with wonderful supporters who came out to cheer us on. I had to take some Advil to keep a creeping headache at bay; the hideous stench of traffic fumes, cigarette smoke, and rotting urban garbage would irritate us all that first day, and make us long for the quiet country roads we had left behind, but we pushed through. It became instantly clear that we would lose each other—to the crowds and the traffic lights and the varying paces and strides. We agreed to meet up with each other at lunch, get it done.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
We made our way through Framingham into Wellesley, where the air was decidedly fresher. We walked by One Washington Street, site of countless visits to my plastic surgeon’s office, where I had gone for weekly expander fill-ups for a while before my exchange surgery brought in my new girl, and later, where I had the color for my new nipple tattooed on. I wanted to run in to say hello to Dr. Pitts, show her the beautiful lizard and flowers that I had had henna-ed on my new girl, and have my “after” picture taken then and there, but with skies starting to threaten rain, I kept walking, past Newton-Wellesley Hospital, where I had most of my surgeries and procedures done just two years ago, through Newton, and into Waltham. A few times, we skipped a Grab ‘n Go or cruised through a Pit Stop, just to put a little distance between us and the crush of other walkers. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqwvlPRoTIvs2gd-lhivZvJvCc3RSS0raQ2YN5ZptQ0neFjk5CNjjCYvC0YYL0f4yroGtOIrBsTlaVoEvCoFtZzCQ66cJUvaBTjYRMMNA2ahHMiPQRaz2s3qWzwFxqst2nKyJDg0_ChQI/s1600/Rachel+and+Liz,+day+one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVqwvlPRoTIvs2gd-lhivZvJvCc3RSS0raQ2YN5ZptQ0neFjk5CNjjCYvC0YYL0f4yroGtOIrBsTlaVoEvCoFtZzCQ66cJUvaBTjYRMMNA2ahHMiPQRaz2s3qWzwFxqst2nKyJDg0_ChQI/s320/Rachel+and+Liz,+day+one.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liz and Rachel--Day One</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The weather held for the most part, and although Grace Jones’ song “Walking in the Rain” ear-wormed its way into my head on Friday, we escaped the torrential rain that made Day One of the 2009 3-Day such a challenge. The mere threat of rain was enough to stir up those competitive juices, and Rachel and Carlos, who had been playfully ribbing each other all day, and competing to see who might “win” this first leg of the Walk, had a hilarious, all-out battle for “first” towards the end of Day One. Carlos would forge ahead, and then Rachel would sneak up on him and take the lead, and so on. Right at the end, Rachel spied Carlos up ahead and crept up on him with a loud “aha!” Their finish—with Rachel cruising past a stunned Carlos, who makes a last ditch effort to sprint to the finish—reminded me of the million-dollar run at the end of the Amazing Race. The crew loved it. The winner? Rachel, of course.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<div style="text-align: left;"></div>Day One was a rollercoaster ride of emotions for all of us. Opening Ceremonies allowed us to process our sense of loss and grief and sadness for those casualties of the collective cancer battleground, while the actual walking that followed provided ample time for reflection, head clearing, and a hefty dose of hilarity that kept our feet and hearts well-grounded. In our 3-Day Diary, Carlos wrote about “life’s rebirthing energy,” and how in a single day he had gone from feeling “heavy with the weight of my friend’s loss” to “finishing the walk with pure laughter…,” the race with Rachel “bringing me back to the joy of life.” </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_C7ju9m9raJFpdSNv3EMFteDrRCbC9xj9SMc8IGQ6yuaHJEJO-rrlY3NcZ2DTDIzZFq7tGcjbF8b6nnKX6cJqehpDwu16cXbLGbDxxPQJcGbTBzOqHTSgkniZZpExVYV3KsdiCTrirx06/s1600/goofy+crew.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_C7ju9m9raJFpdSNv3EMFteDrRCbC9xj9SMc8IGQ6yuaHJEJO-rrlY3NcZ2DTDIzZFq7tGcjbF8b6nnKX6cJqehpDwu16cXbLGbDxxPQJcGbTBzOqHTSgkniZZpExVYV3KsdiCTrirx06/s320/goofy+crew.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Silly crewbies at pitstop</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Everywhere, there was humor, reminding us of the constant interplay of light and dark, those dual, balancing, intertwined forces in life, and the healing power of a good laugh. One pair sported t-shirts that said “Yes, I did all the training and my butt is still this big.” Another walker had attached a black negligee-clad paper-mached torso to his back, with a sign, Save the Ta-tas! Puns abounded. Costumes were the rule. One guy walked in dress; the next day I saw him in a kilt. Another group of guys showed up along the route wearing big pink bras. Some were decked out in lipstick. Seemed a great excuse to raid your girlfriend’s closet and dress up like a girl for a few days.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfZCz4LA5k3oLmoH4qPpzjshcGHGXgBtFCUw2AoyLWvc175Wp3cUrBiUCPQqagcyOfUTSpQXSZFirLMg_OV3l0sdlAoD5j2z-Ymf_YYecGIcUmiHbDDPVIYLTdx9kx-7SYCdCxDO44U3z/s1600/pink+tent+city.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfZCz4LA5k3oLmoH4qPpzjshcGHGXgBtFCUw2AoyLWvc175Wp3cUrBiUCPQqagcyOfUTSpQXSZFirLMg_OV3l0sdlAoD5j2z-Ymf_YYecGIcUmiHbDDPVIYLTdx9kx-7SYCdCxDO44U3z/s320/pink+tent+city.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cozy pink tent city under darkening skies</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRLzs6vJSBQ2IScjTkJ_6K9ZdgiLMHogUd9TO_AR1u9NhWK8O_mosKzxaRR4L99Ed0Ysj7_XsOhMUDlICEtzetJaDLHcnciDD67t80Qx78qVyJX9zGVqq8F21pBdJ0SX_WEktEb5LKhYN/s1600/Meg+at+camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFRLzs6vJSBQ2IScjTkJ_6K9ZdgiLMHogUd9TO_AR1u9NhWK8O_mosKzxaRR4L99Ed0Ysj7_XsOhMUDlICEtzetJaDLHcnciDD67t80Qx78qVyJX9zGVqq8F21pBdJ0SX_WEktEb5LKhYN/s320/Meg+at+camp.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Meg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Rain did fall on camp that night, but not until most of us were in, and able to crawl into our cozy pink tents at Boobie Camp that our BFB crewbie Gail Doolittle had set up for us on the dry turf fields in Waltham. Clutch! Thank you, Gail!! It made transitioning from walking to nesting so much easier. Case in point: Marggie and Rachel had a veritable slumber party set up, with sheets and pillows and blankets on their air mattresses that made the thought of sleeping in these little tents on this turf field appealing even to the non-Girl Scouts among us. Meg was convinced the little bits of black rubber from the turf that got in everything and all over the tent was actually mouse poop; she even had herself convinced that it smelled like mouse poop, until we set her straight. That first night, while it poured outside, we ran from tent to camp and back again in our ponchos, enjoyed hot showers, dinner under the big top, mail at the Camp Post Office, chair massages, and an early bedtime under the pitter patter of rain that soothed our weary selves into an off and on again slumber, the best one can hope for when you are tenting back to back and side to side with 1700 other walkers! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1NHysrlKe1JFmShlvrSx_V4-61Fadf05GZ3I1uZoGqtXuwUHgr8lQYk66H8sa82P4bAhhbLBkkoDZdwrJOVmj6CXre_-LSLKMlW7xCFaH-EcG4M0pPx0avHXmev161OKX4mNf7LB7sVH/s1600/Marggie+at+camp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI1NHysrlKe1JFmShlvrSx_V4-61Fadf05GZ3I1uZoGqtXuwUHgr8lQYk66H8sa82P4bAhhbLBkkoDZdwrJOVmj6CXre_-LSLKMlW7xCFaH-EcG4M0pPx0avHXmev161OKX4mNf7LB7sVH/s320/Marggie+at+camp.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Marggie at Boobie Camp</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Saturday’s sun rose to burn off the early morning fog and set the pink tent city ablaze in color, promising a day whose heat index would quickly climb into the extreme caution zone. We grabbed a quick breakfast, brushed our teeth, and repacked our fanny packs with the essentials: water, electrolytes, extra socks, un-petroleum jelly, and blister kits. Saturday’s route was extra long and extra hot—and an early start, it took us to well into the afternoon to finish the 21.2 miles. There was a long hill early on that fed the fear of many walkers, but the Boobies, most of who had trained on hills much tougher than this, welcomed the change in terrain and got it done in a snap. It was great to see the benefits of our training. Highlights of Day Two included meeting up with Jim, Dominick, my step-mother Martha, and my brother Eli in Lexington Center. Dom and Eli joined me for part of the route, down to the next Cheering Section at Parker Field, where Dom took photos of Dara and me posing with the Minutemen (gosh, they even let us hold their rifles!). The cheering sections were wonderful, and we were awed by the expressions of gratitude and love (and food!) that lined the sidewalks. Like last year, there were certain individuals and groups who made the extra effort to keep us going and bring us home each day: the Pink Angels, who greeted us around every bend with high-fives and hugs; the Men with Heart 3-Day team, who, while walking alongside us, carried knapsacks stuffed with things the walkers might need, offered assistance, and cheered us on at the finish; and the scads of people who made signs, set up little roadside stands with popsicles and frozen peppermint patties and watermelon and ice for all the walkers, sprayed us with water bottles, and made us feel not just welcome but truly loved. One of my favorite sightings along the route each day was a woman whose daughter was walking in the 3-Day, and who drove around with her grandbaby in tow and waited every few hours for her daughter to arrive so she could nurse her baby. There were at least two pregnant walkers. Many teams were inter-generational—including mine. It was a pleasure to meet and get to know all sorts of people along the way—there’s really nothing like ‘twalking in the 3-Day for making fast friends. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mom</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gail</td></tr>
</tbody></table>After making our way through some lovely little neighborhoods in Arlington and Belmont, we arrived at camp, our home away from home, situated at Gann Academy and the town fields in Waltham. It was great to see both Gail and Damon, our two crew Boobies, at camp after such a long day. Mom was at the finish and start most afternoons and mornings, cheering us on and sending us off with kisses. Gail spent her free time supporting us in many different ways, and it made a huge difference. From setting up camp, feeding us and cleaning up after us, to tending to our medical needs, cheering us on, and keeping us safe along the route, the 3-Day crew proved once again to be an indispensible part of the experience. As well, the Youth Corps, a group of about twenty kids ages 11-15 who were selected to serve on a special kid-crew of sorts, impressed us all with their sweet attentiveness, their sense of devotion and responsibility, and their compassion. They were often on hand towards the end of each day, distributing homemade chocolate chip cookies, high fives and stickers. They presented BFB Mike Miller a coveted and rare Youth Corps legacy pin for having made an extra special connection—and effort—with some of the kids on the crew. All of the Youth Corps members spoke Saturday night after dinner about their reasons for being there: many had lost their mothers at a young age to breast cancer, a few had lost grandmothers, aunts, and good family friends, while others had watched their moms battle the disease and emerge victorious. Dominick is considering applying to the Youth Corps for next year. He’d be great—and I know it would be a wonderful experience for him, so I am excited to think that he might be able to experience the 3-Day in this way. It was announced on Saturday night that this highly successful program, which originated in Boston about fifteen years ago, and which has spawned hundreds of Youth Corps alums who have gone on to walk and crew and mentor other Youth Corps members, will now be gracing the fourteen other 3-Day walks. Very exciting! It is such a fantastic opportunity for kids who are too young to walk (you must be 16) to participate, and in doing so, process some of the emotions and experiences they’ve had while watching a loved one go through breast cancer. We are all grateful.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The Boobies were up extra early on Sunday—to take down our tents, pack up our duffels and get them to the gear trucks, and get a jump start on the crowds. It would be another hot day, but the morning route quite happily took us through shade, from Belmont into Cambridge, where we met up with BFB Angie Murphy Timm, who had walked with the Boobies in 2009 and who had come in to support us in our final day. We enjoyed the sights and sounds of a sleepy Harvard Square, caught a few curious glances, and wondered what had happened to Crate and Barrel. At Central Square, the T beckoned in a Rosie-Ruiz sort of way, but we opted to keep on following the arrows through some gorgeous MIT architecture and over the Mass Ave Bridge onto Commonwealth Avenue. Near the Public Garden, we were treated to our own personal cheering section from teammate Gretel Schatz’s wonderful family, who had made a huge banner and signs for each and every one of the Boobies and greeted us all with smiles and hugs. Once on the Common, it became harder to distinguish the route and walkers from the other pathways and groups of tourists. One pair of walkers started to follow a big arrow sign into a parking garage. Oops! </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gretel</td></tr>
</tbody></table>Sunday’s route—through Cambridge and downtown Boston and out through South Boston and Dorchester along the awesome, blazing hot, blustery Harbor Walk—kept us snapping pictures like silly tourists, stopping to stretch on front stoops, and chasing down the ice cream truck for a cold treat. Mike and I were walking through Boston’s Seaport when I heard footsteps coming up fast behind us. My brother Eli had chased me all the way from the Common, where he, my brother Will, and Dominick had caught sight of me and had started off in hot pursuit. It was great to walk three or four miles with the three of them and meet up with my father at the lunch stop—our final resting place before the finish at UMASS, where I would see their familiar faces again among the sea of fans. Before we left for the final stretch, Barb Watson had arrived, looking fresh and strong. She was able to update us on the rest of the team, whom she had seen at an earlier pit-stop. Jeannie was doing okay, but her back was bothering her a lot. Meg was walking with Cindy and Jeanne, and Marggie and Gretel were a little bit ahead of them, soon to be arriving. And Carlos? No one had seen him, but we knew that his knee was hurting a lot. Had he taken the van? The bus? No way--we knew that he would not let that stop him from finishing, and from finishing strong.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
After all, this was day three, the final 20 miles. We were all fairly exhausted by this point, not just from all the walking, but from lack of sleep, sheer emotional release, and months of preparation and build-up. Because so many walkers were suffering from all sorts of injuries and maladies, there were far fewer of them on the route Sunday. Blisters, sprains, rashes brought on by all that heat, chafing, swollen this and that, aggravated old injuries and fresh, annoying new ones—by Saturday night, camp looked a lot like a war zone, with a lot of people wrapped up and taped and hobbling on crutches, icing all sorts of body parts, and waiting in line at the medical tent. We didn’t hear about anyone fainting in the showers this year, but there were plenty of other stories. A woman got heat stroke and crashed out on the lawn at the finish, right next to some Blue Footed Boobies. A quartet of gray-shirted, towering, well-built young men nearly dropped a few times in the heat throughout the weekend. Two of the guys had lost their mothers to breast cancer, and had been joined by two friends who had come from afar to walk with them. None of them had trained. They were, after all, athletes, well-conditioned and fit. What’s a little walking?! They came in late in the afternoon on the first day, tails between their legs, clearly humbled by the experience. But their dedication to their moms—and to each other--pushed them through to the end. Sag vans and big air conditioned buses awaited at every pit stop to bring people to the next pit stop or to just before the finish, so they could make their way across and enjoy the sensation of finishing on their own. Despite some pretty nasty blisters, a smattering of road rage, sore hips, and several bum (old!) knees, the Boobies pressed on, and just one of our teammates needed to use this service—a sore back forced the irrepressible Jeanne Rees to make some wise compromises on Saturday and Sunday, hitch a ride here and there, receive a special sag van legacy pin for her trouble, and be able to finish strong on Sunday afternoon. That’s how you get it done.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dara, Mike, and Liz</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="text-align: right;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMN08ax16bSWsCv_z-6IoKYazcyc5TMISJRKZU0mSUlUo491m1stVSXOY60jInZsxfVD0oarMxUxB3T2aUh_Rk2gMZmzY25mXM54EnMM-NRYGIpYSP36McavHZk31yhP2sZT0mQKPIEVPq/s1600/Carlos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Carlos, the Energizer Bunny</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The final stretch—3 or 4 miles along the beaches that line Quincy Bay—tempted me to shed socks and sneakers and jump into the ocean, but I thought better of it. Rachel and I were eager to get it done, and with Dara and Mike just behind, we set our sights beyond the beach and boardwalk, to the sidewalks lined with cheering people who showered us with applause and appreciation that was almost as overwhelming and unexpectedly emotional as it had been the year before. It was simply awesome to see my friend Kim and her daughter Katie at the finish—words cannot describe my joy and gratitude at seeing them, and my father, brothers, and youngest son, Dominick, who had made their way to the finish—and for Rachel, it was her mother, Bonnie, who greeted her with a sweeping hug. We made our way into the air-conditioned gym—the coldness of the air felt a bit jarring, but for many, I am certain it was a welcome change—through a line of cheering crew and supporters and around the corner to retrieve our 3-Day shirts, white for walkers, pink for survivors. Soon after, we cheered Mike and Dara in, and then gathered outside to keep watch for the rest of the Boobies. Barb arrived soon after, all aglow and looking great, and then, from around the corner, we saw the unmistakable, Energizer Bunny gait of Carlos rounding the bend. Quite amazingly, there he was, clearly in a lot of pain, but a smile on his face. His strategy—to not stop for too long and simply keep walking—seemed to work like a charm for him.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Never a prouder moment...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aRmnCd0-0n4CP8E8A57LszJxETjO6VMJ2eRAYbR0ll9w9eQ5jECdWs00QDWAWI2lEZqgKH8aBbpQ5FhUyNqaPxN2xZqai6HVlNsYpWdU18FctoUttiahvkBsP90-V1eEG3jfL6hUN_9g/s1600/Barb+at+finish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0aRmnCd0-0n4CP8E8A57LszJxETjO6VMJ2eRAYbR0ll9w9eQ5jECdWs00QDWAWI2lEZqgKH8aBbpQ5FhUyNqaPxN2xZqai6HVlNsYpWdU18FctoUttiahvkBsP90-V1eEG3jfL6hUN_9g/s320/Barb+at+finish.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Barb at the finish</td></tr>
</tbody></table>There was a whole lot of Boobie magic on the 3-Day. Magic that helped us push through the pain and get it done. Magic that made my heart sing. Healing magic that mended those broken little bits of spirit and body and soul, long-forgotten and wedged in deep. Magic that helped us work together as a team, keep us all safe, and bring us all home. While Dara, Mike, Rachel, Barb, Carlos and I stretched and cheered on the other walkers, I checked Facebook on my iPhone and saw that Gretel had left a post saying that she and Marggie were just a few miles out. Several of us were posting updates and photos on Facebook, and it was immediately clear that it was a great way as well for us to keep track of each other’s progress. We figured that they had waited for Cindy, Jeannie, and Meg, and would be finishing together. Buses were arriving to drop off gimpy, beat walkers so they could walk the final steps to the finish. The crew was coming in from all quarters—camp and pit stops and along the route. Gail and Damon arrived, and joined the cheering section. And within an hour or so, we ecstatically spied the remaining five Boobies under the banner and very nearly lost it, so great was our pride and joy at seeing everyone. My heart leapt—we climbed over the side rail to join them, cried and hugged and held hands as the eleven of us walked the final promenade, united under the banner and beaming through the two lines of screaming, cheering walkers and crew. It felt fantastic to be together again, to know that everyone had finished and was feeling strong. And it was some kind of crazy, powerful Boobie magic that we all felt that afternoon, and there was the sense, too, that it was fleeting, that we'd have to let it trickle down and saturate our every fiber so we could take it with us wherever we went in this world. Something magical to forever tap into. Steel ourselves with. Roll in. Uncork when whenever we need a Boobie boost. Rub the bottle and make a wish. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_tqxDFXiUipGYV5cSzkC4xzPmM_LxY_z3Vgvd14vzjrMtxJDMBItGHBV54Dzu5xn0R_1YW6D_j3skSqgcclYQENARpABi-l_pmRSJJqeaMfjd_IP3BXlm5FBH0o3X5Nv1P-Sh1YIPMEab/s1600/liz+day+one.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgHlrc8WppUCV34ItVKEjYJILSFD2Vhm12e1uyR23m-H_IxObZfGObjcNcUXYliLy2Irm5u4iibjuLLx9IzpJw-4cTHoQeqXVPVWL_e4hy8C9dpluozFXtH7e38YHjN2sGEy5nIZkWww7/s1600/Liz+and+Dom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Shoe Salute, Closing Ceremonies</td></tr>
</tbody></table>The Closing Ceremonies further drained our tear ducts, with more dramatic entrances and speeches, the announcement that the 1700 walkers of Boston had raised $4.5 million, the poignant memorials for all those lost to breast cancer. So impeccably orchestrated is the 3-Day, with music and motivational speakers, inspirational signs and banners and a well-choreographed ceremony that first brought crew to be recognized by the throngs lining the arena, and then walkers, and finally, the survivors, all in pink for maximum effect, that by the end you come away with the impression that these people could pull anything off—getting all those thousands of troops out of Iraq safely, stopping the oil spill and cleaning up every last drop, saving the planet. Indeed, if each person who participates in the 3-Day returns to their lives with some of the compassion and humanity gleaned from the experience intact and aglow, to radiate and share with others, then this world will surely be a better place as a result. The impression I was left with was that the group of survivors should have been much larger, that all those 1700 walkers, each walking for someone, had no doubt lost someone they loved to breast cancer, and that the collective sadness and sense of loss at the 3-Day was enormous and powerful and intensely sad. There was a simmering, unrelenting joyfulness, too, though, that rose up and smoothed out the spaces between the cracks and bound us all together...that crazy, powerful magic.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
The Boobies have scattered once again, but for many of us who live close by, we are already planning dog walks and mini-adventures and time together. The Southern Boobies have invited us Northern Boobies to come visit, and to visit often. And I’ve already signed up for my third 3-Day (ok, I wanted that 3-peat legacy pin and the $35 off coupon for registering early), am thinking about walking Boston and Atlanta next year, and am setting my sights on expanding the flock. <b>Please think about joining us next year.</b> Truth is, we need you, and you just might come to realize that you need us, too. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
Summer is flying by, and with the Walk behind me, I suddenly have a little time to get into my gardens, make pickles and jam, hang at the neighborhood pool, and spend my Saturdays not walking 18 miles but instead, taking advantage of the simple pleasures of summertime: carousing the local farmer’s markets, harvesting and canning and cooking and eating, walking barefoot on the lawn, tossing the Frisbee to the dog. It feels good to kick back a little, spend some time writing, and give my feet a little rest. But the roadways beckon, and the woods trails call to me, and I have already enjoyed getting together with several Boobies, for walking and talking and watching the dogs dart and dash like phantoms through the trees.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgHlrc8WppUCV34ItVKEjYJILSFD2Vhm12e1uyR23m-H_IxObZfGObjcNcUXYliLy2Irm5u4iibjuLLx9IzpJw-4cTHoQeqXVPVWL_e4hy8C9dpluozFXtH7e38YHjN2sGEy5nIZkWww7/s1600/Liz+and+Dom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCgHlrc8WppUCV34ItVKEjYJILSFD2Vhm12e1uyR23m-H_IxObZfGObjcNcUXYliLy2Irm5u4iibjuLLx9IzpJw-4cTHoQeqXVPVWL_e4hy8C9dpluozFXtH7e38YHjN2sGEy5nIZkWww7/s320/Liz+and+Dom.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Liz and Dom enjoying Sunday post-walk feeding frenzy with the Boobies </td></tr>
</tbody></table>I am serious about expanding the flock, so if you are at all interested in becoming a Blue Footed Boobie, please be in touch. I can answer your questions, convince you that <b>YES, YOU CAN </b>do this, and that it would be as every bit a life-changing, transformative, incredible experience for you as it has been for all of us. In the meantime, I thank you again for being such a big part of the Blue Footed Boobies’ success. We couldn’t have done any of it without your help. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbYxeqhXbd3AF0FhEHDW60oV3PSvCM_yXvFR5XKStDlS5qys8J5eOcNB0YOLBRMGSwQd7F82IQYxmRUyDPOY8YEd7pK35M12249FwqkSJS_SvAyslzezKJ6Hg7NcQu9WRXkIid4b7em10z/s1600/Cindy's+feet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbYxeqhXbd3AF0FhEHDW60oV3PSvCM_yXvFR5XKStDlS5qys8J5eOcNB0YOLBRMGSwQd7F82IQYxmRUyDPOY8YEd7pK35M12249FwqkSJS_SvAyslzezKJ6Hg7NcQu9WRXkIid4b7em10z/s320/Cindy's+feet.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">YES YOU CAN! Cindy's Boobie feet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>A special thank you to all the Boobies, for your friendship and commitment and all the fun; to all our donors, for digging deep and coming up big; to my favorite training partners, Dominick and Daisy, for your constant love and support; to Jim and Luke, for putting up with all those long weekend training walks; to my Needle Man, Dan P., my chiropractor, Elizabeth P., body workers, Nancy P. and Rebecca C., therapist Meg B-P., and personal masseuse, Dom P., for taking such good care of me, mind, body and spirit; to Upinngil and Carolann at the Wagon Wheel for keeping us so well fed; to Kelly, for the sharing your time and incredible henna tattooing talents with the Boobies; to Jamie and Anja, for keeping us looking hip in our team gear; and to the Greater Boston Running Company in Lexington and Bob Perry at Bicycles Unlimited in Greenfield, for outfitting me with everything I needed.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nv6zIpo7jIdqFyzw5JSSbtQ9trWlW6O6-Y8so7H78xQQYDEVJJu9Eki8PKLrPinsTiwO_mZ2a-FrGS_ksIyF-9hCj6NaFFTgjXHXnhgO70JCCl76K0aZjXP_-HrkUvR82qEcHxTT6ciC/s1600/Liz-3-day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-nv6zIpo7jIdqFyzw5JSSbtQ9trWlW6O6-Y8so7H78xQQYDEVJJu9Eki8PKLrPinsTiwO_mZ2a-FrGS_ksIyF-9hCj6NaFFTgjXHXnhgO70JCCl76K0aZjXP_-HrkUvR82qEcHxTT6ciC/s320/Liz-3-day.jpg" /></a>I’ll be in touch again soon, to try to convince you to join the flock, and to talk to you about my new project, <a href="http://www.thethriveproject.org/">http://www.thethriveproject.org/</a> which will no doubt be keeping me busy until the next training season begins!</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
LOVE & THANKS,</div><div class="MsoNormal">Liz<span class="apple-converted-space"><span style="color: black; font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 13.5pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-60887256864721992502009-12-29T15:31:00.001-05:002009-12-29T15:39:55.557-05:00Out with the Old, In with the New<span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s that time of year again, when the start of a new year promises to usher in a fresh start—and the chance to shed the residual, cloying </span><st1:place style="font-family: georgia;" st="on">Holiday</st1:place><span style="font-family: georgia;"> bling and reconnect instead with what you </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">really</i> want.<span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">It’s not about what you </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">didn’t</i><span style="font-family: georgia;"> get, it’s not about even what you really </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">need</i><span style="font-family: georgia;">, but more about those innermost, deepest, best-for-you wishes that belie any advertising campaign or marketing blitz, resound with a latent urgency that’s been simmering for awhile now, and call you out: just who do you want to be and how you gonna get there?</span> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">I had a lovely Christmas; surrounded by an ever-growing, extended family and blessed with a bounty of food and good cheer, I cherished having ample time to make gifts, baking, crafting, burning (ah, cds), cutting and pasting (my favorite).<span style=""> </span>I got a bunch of beautiful new warm Smart Wool socks to replace the holey, droopy, puckered ones that have been clogging up my sock drawer for the last twenty five years.<span style=""> </span>I had time to play with my kids.<span style=""> </span>Do some genealogy research (I know, I know, but I’ve always been a geek).<span style=""> </span>Take long walks in the expanding sunlight, play in the shadows, get reacquainted with the birds.<span style=""> </span>And yet…</p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p style="font-family: georgia;" class="MsoNormal">In some ways, this is more about the <i style="">space</i> we inhabit than anything else.<span style=""> </span>Mental, emotional, temporal physical, metaphysical, spiritual…all together, that collective space that surrounds us and infuses our being with a sense of who we are, how we’re feeling, and where we are.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s that distilled present moment, the afternoon light sweeping through the house, the flutter of morning doves at the feeder, the sharp inhale of snow on pines and fir trees that brings us into that place.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s meant to be lost every now and then so it can be appreciated all the more when rediscovered.<span style=""> </span>Maybe it’s always there for the taking, an irrepressible echo of spirit that summons us from our usual slumber and demands that we take notice. <span style=""> </span><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Lovely Christmases aside, my </span><i style="font-family: georgia;">space </i><span style="font-family: georgia;">needs some work.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">There are changes I haven’t yet made to my quirky ensemble of ah, furniture that would, I think, make it all feel better.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">And as another year passes, I am reminded, again, as I was on my birthday this past October, and on most days that shimmered in possibility, beckoned the virtual completion in my mind, yet failed to follow through, that I haven’t quite cleared out enough of the old—the broken down, the busted up, the no-longer-fits or works or feels right—in order to make room for the new.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">My space, it seems, is a little cluttered.</span><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span><span style="font-family: georgia;">And I’m going to have to clean out much more than old socks to remedy the situation. Wish me luck.</span><br /></p>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-3960478014714845212009-10-15T12:40:00.011-04:002009-10-17T10:03:13.409-04:00Hello again<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwXlHOSZI6w_I4cCXnlgCMG0GvbzGjAVzOR6xplKXnKhmjh3JeIY-NQX15D5QNrvcyBxlcZiZSSE1zPeAWl4RPIgT0__CeyFIArflewjFDwUH6UEyyTWoatvnaCwFLH63EZnAkqjuZkDP/s1600-h/Shadow+Lake.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOwXlHOSZI6w_I4cCXnlgCMG0GvbzGjAVzOR6xplKXnKhmjh3JeIY-NQX15D5QNrvcyBxlcZiZSSE1zPeAWl4RPIgT0__CeyFIArflewjFDwUH6UEyyTWoatvnaCwFLH63EZnAkqjuZkDP/s400/Shadow+Lake.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392876108246395826" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it, and if I were a bird I would fly about the earth seeking the successive autumns.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> ~George Eliot</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hello again. I have missed you.<br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">It doesn’t happen very often, but today I have <i style="">a day</i>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A day to myself, a day to <i style="">do</i> or not, a day once threatened by the usual rush ‘n go suddenly come undone to open before me like an unexpected blank canvas awaiting a creative flourish. This day, without the usual boundaries and shape, save for a few drive bys and trips to the front door--to let out the cat, the dog in, the cat in, the dog out--and the need to eat some food, drink my tea, and take my meds at noontime, seems ripe with possibility. This happens so infrequently that I could very clearly freak out, sit in stunned silence, or busy myself with stupid chores about the house, and waste it entirely.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But I won’t.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Yesterday I peeked at my horoscope for today, which warned me, in the best possible way, that I might have to <i style="">do nothing</i> today, sit back and watch from the sidelines, take it all in.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">So I am prepared. Since there are no games to go to, I am interpreting this as: do whatever you feel like doing, sit in front of the blazing fire in the wood stove, the windows framing the water-colored outside world of fall, and take it all in: the startling quiet and mesmerizing stillness of the house, the lovely view stretched before you, opened up now to the wetlands below, where the trees, wind-swept and nearly bared of their colorful wrapping, stand as heralds amid the resounding hush of the final days of pageantry in this autumnal parade.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">(Decay never looked so good.)</span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5vYNYJ87HfwGei5Z0wo0GFlRVZ85FvZqzyupscJjvljNbiAXmPjyIiWr7CHRsy2TlSWgJ-ebGriZxjsxM3lWelblnNVlsHTPCbSfql6YJy_hsxORozfIVNC6U_QfRqyALEVuT4dDuPBv/s1600-h/woods.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiY5vYNYJ87HfwGei5Z0wo0GFlRVZ85FvZqzyupscJjvljNbiAXmPjyIiWr7CHRsy2TlSWgJ-ebGriZxjsxM3lWelblnNVlsHTPCbSfql6YJy_hsxORozfIVNC6U_QfRqyALEVuT4dDuPBv/s400/woods.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392876683198277458" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Everyone must take time to sit and watch the leaves turn. </span> ~Elizabeth Lawrence</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Plus, I can write.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I can and I may.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Yipee!</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But why the need for permission?</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Need to work on that.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1PTs-8RagzryuEffTBroubcEt94KrQr1sK1CnMxa5eeODxx2ovZy7D7fDiYAag0YnYoiph0H2EljBxP00AgrO-hN7fewWg69xv3dPUXdwPx8Ewe7A1pd87Mkr_xrXQ1UA9zNjmrsFmyC/s1600-h/Dom+and+Daisy+on+trail.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB1PTs-8RagzryuEffTBroubcEt94KrQr1sK1CnMxa5eeODxx2ovZy7D7fDiYAag0YnYoiph0H2EljBxP00AgrO-hN7fewWg69xv3dPUXdwPx8Ewe7A1pd87Mkr_xrXQ1UA9zNjmrsFmyC/s400/Dom+and+Daisy+on+trail.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392877751299361442" border="0" /></a>Between starting up the homeschool year with Dominick, helping Luke transition to high school, and the seemingly endless tugs and pulls on my time (all of my creation, of course), from chairing and serving on town committees and writing class notes to running a buying club in town and a concession stand on soccer Sundays, it’s been hard to get to my writing this fall. The words, of course, come anyway, in ceaseless waves that crash into each other and stumble and roll to some deserted, neglected shore only to fizzle back, lie flat in the suds and seep back into the swirling abyss from which they came.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">They come to peck and poke and prod, scratch at the front door and whine about my ears, but I have not been able to let them in, nor give them full audience. They have had nowhere to go, nothing to do but recede; n</span><span style="font-size:100%;">ot to usher forth in bubbly voraciousness onto morning pages alight with the rising sun, a brain drain to reset my artist’s clock and purge the eerie synapses of my soul.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not to fly from well-caffeinated brain to keyboard to screen at the Lady Killigrew, sip green tea, soak up the watery music from the stream below and the vibe of hipster work dates, and riff on various slices of life that have caught my eye.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not to be hammered out and reworked in chains of incensed, simmering passages from the deep wells of bared consciousness in precious moments stolen in front of the desk top at home.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not to be scribbled hastily into composition notebooks on bedside table or purse or car, no.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Not to be polished for the blog, a muse on the flip side, to strain outward from these inner sanctums, a more public display of my verbose affection (or is it affliction?) So sorry.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGkVJzXayQ7gv0gopYMjH_6tg3pYlnB0huUAewyjXoQ_xILNdGlvlsgo02j2cQhJ1vbvXK01KhJzZitlvC2OFvat3dmPkpzDKozdnp5UdowS0Y8DJigXfOWtrO92yoq6SK-iP9hVsyHFP/s1600-h/stream+view.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSGkVJzXayQ7gv0gopYMjH_6tg3pYlnB0huUAewyjXoQ_xILNdGlvlsgo02j2cQhJ1vbvXK01KhJzZitlvC2OFvat3dmPkpzDKozdnp5UdowS0Y8DJigXfOWtrO92yoq6SK-iP9hVsyHFP/s400/stream+view.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392876594362903538" border="0" /></a>The words have built up, of course, and clogged my head, rising up and over again to be heard, only to be lost in the ensuing crash.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">There’s such a great energy they bring, such anticipation and excitement in the promise that they will be voiced, and then, <i style="">nothing</i>.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Oh, the disappointment.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I’ve been there, and wouldn’t wish it upon anyone.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And yet, there it is, and at a certain point, there’s simply nothing to do but let it wash through and over you and spill onto the page.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Otherwise, it makes it hard to sleep, since the words come out to play when darkness descends, and aside from hooking my brain up directly to MS word on the computer and letting it decipher just what exactly those words are saying, I haven’t figured out how to quiet them once they’ve appeared.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Life is so full, each and every day, of images and exchanges and thoughts and experiences that we take in, that if we don’t take the time to process it all into some manageable lump of consciousness and reality, we will be overwhelmed by the sheer unfiltered echo of Life.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">All those things we should have sifted through the sieve, sorted and tucked away suddenly rebound into our streams of awareness and we can’t quite catch a break.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">And of course the way we process Life is different for everyone.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Some people write, others fight, some make art, others make love, some take their herbals, others meditate.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The list goes on.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRDd3oYM9pN9YEa7K46pGsowaFVnpUZN3rBgbc95xVp4_2FTKIIgjSuI3pHNApaOIxSkQywvD2RkUjAAih1nExI_Dw50HuMfqkxYrLJt7zX5rdhqQsxKXIMobZR-c2h2BGZLBh4xLLPes/s1600-h/bettter+meadow.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtRDd3oYM9pN9YEa7K46pGsowaFVnpUZN3rBgbc95xVp4_2FTKIIgjSuI3pHNApaOIxSkQywvD2RkUjAAih1nExI_Dw50HuMfqkxYrLJt7zX5rdhqQsxKXIMobZR-c2h2BGZLBh4xLLPes/s400/bettter+meadow.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392877585387026162" border="0" /></a>Lately, I have felt the clutch of fear return, and without the chance to release it onto the page, it has caroused through my consciousness, wreaking havoc, hiding out behind more dignified expressions, waiting for the ambush.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Lately, I haven’t walked enough to clear my head, haven’t danced enough to shake the stresses out of heart and limb, haven’t written enough to examine and filter and sort and make sense of all those mechanisms of response and reaction and memory, haven’t let my soul sifting center take the wheel and take me for a joy ride, sing like there’s no tomorrow, silence the lurking anxiety and resound with something close to elation.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Tomorrow, I return to Mass General for my 6 month check up with Dr. Specht, my breast surgeon.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I’ll have my mammo, I’ll have an exam, and I hope to reassured that everything looks fine, perfectly normal, A-okay.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">A week or so ago, I started focusing on this appointment, surrounded, as it has been, by a cluster of busy days that felt breathless and winded at the same time.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I worried that I would not be able to spend some time with my old nemesis, look it in the eye, and cast it off, that it would stalk me, along the drive down Route 2 into <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>, in the shadows of the parking garage, and into Dr. Specht’s office.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I wanted this time to be different.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">I wanted to feel confident, fearless, invincible.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">But here I am, the very day before, worried, wondering, thinking of my cousin Molly, who is just starting to go through her own cancer hell, much worse than mine ever was, and of my neighbor, who has been fighting brain cancer, and another who just succumbed to bone cancer.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">Sometimes, when I collect the names of those I’ve known who have done or are doing battle with cancer, and roll them about in my mind and warm them in my heart, it seems so arbitrary: who gets cancer and who stays healthy, who catches it early enough and who must cope with the ravages of a metastatic beast, who lives and who dies.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">There seems to be no master plan, no rhyme or reason, just a randomly picked bunch who happened to have the wrong genes at the wrong time, and as much as I hope to find reassurance in my own luck, I do not.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8gHdBVReQwQCzYsGz9E7KYUK6MndkUzNByO2UWpLMgXn6iAii9-Gbh7a8Ch0d4A_1J1wLUNoaukHjIr2KBI7Tn_ZHnZdYJN1KtUHWDCDDwmSIYg7o5Gr0iViltjIusgOfso2vW4yz24oU/s1600-h/more+Jack.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8gHdBVReQwQCzYsGz9E7KYUK6MndkUzNByO2UWpLMgXn6iAii9-Gbh7a8Ch0d4A_1J1wLUNoaukHjIr2KBI7Tn_ZHnZdYJN1KtUHWDCDDwmSIYg7o5Gr0iViltjIusgOfso2vW4yz24oU/s400/more+Jack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392876469003358114" border="0" /></a>Instead, on this day, gifted as I’ve been with time to realize my fear, I will descend into my mantle of raging fire, and squelch the flames with the love and tenderness that encircles all of us, every day, ours for the taking, sharing, giving; with this day that feels, for now, as if it is all mine; with the comfort of a warm, quiet house that will soon fill with young voices and the busy-ness of family; with these words, liberated from an endless rinse cycle; and with this view before me—of trees draped in soft colors, a sky muted in grey, and an absolute stillness that, if it were not for the occasional orange maple leaf drifting in a singsong to the ground, I might think I was looking out on a painting. The peacefulness of the day has been pure tonic.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">The surrounding calm, of course, only portends the incoming storm, due to roll in tonight.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The quiet will recede into the corners, the days will fill, and Fall will eventually give way to the clutches of winter, but for now, they’ve teamed up, and Frost, now a nearly nightly visitor, has taken Fall’s handiwork to a new level, creating absolutely beautiful white ice-lined red leaves, with a delicate precision that makes me think that life is not so random after all.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuhqLFUIEG89tjKpupV1avXnwnnFyieBEPU91xYpQ9ZBccoiO8IerwpPZPKGgHaPb4GQLqvWhWKLdTAzKtQsGvhc8PXx-YdTmYsSoE7twYAb4HuX1glaiiuYGHxjDCsYW67Fbc5DVMYnD/s1600-h/Jack+Frost.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUuhqLFUIEG89tjKpupV1avXnwnnFyieBEPU91xYpQ9ZBccoiO8IerwpPZPKGgHaPb4GQLqvWhWKLdTAzKtQsGvhc8PXx-YdTmYsSoE7twYAb4HuX1glaiiuYGHxjDCsYW67Fbc5DVMYnD/s400/Jack+Frost.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392876365161450194" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower</span>. ~Albert Camus</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:100%;" >A chickadee is calling to me: <span style="font-style: italic;">Come out, come out. It's time to walk. </span><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=";font-family:Georgia;font-size:100%;" ><o:p> </o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuloXZO6yM0cCZ77kfXMhEEqCRxCx3JTXTOr2eNtOwrDJVOglaJajBXFiEdJ32Q29A1JhhmFVwk275VVOLY56KH_APua4ydjRQ9wvaHeR68oBo2swJCbVXfTxxaRyGTxH_r-LzNHJAYzcH/s1600-h/IMG_1170.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuloXZO6yM0cCZ77kfXMhEEqCRxCx3JTXTOr2eNtOwrDJVOglaJajBXFiEdJ32Q29A1JhhmFVwk275VVOLY56KH_APua4ydjRQ9wvaHeR68oBo2swJCbVXfTxxaRyGTxH_r-LzNHJAYzcH/s400/IMG_1170.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392878233938041490" border="0" /></a></span></p>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-5434620231605931522009-07-31T11:49:00.066-04:002009-07-31T16:55:32.597-04:00Photolog: Boobies Take Boston!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqsMXkgjFqeGIjl9uvFN01p8UF1GgjcA5pyS_-vhgus_fVzMXXEMN0sCvj2fzNMIKQrdQKchYEbPxmIXumm7FW75u95AGhSThYbzuXSRoxOIMBmYVX8Lfw0TzVYoVfVTGacOqMaXvTFOJ/s1600-h/Blue+on+pottie.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364721011832609426" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpqsMXkgjFqeGIjl9uvFN01p8UF1GgjcA5pyS_-vhgus_fVzMXXEMN0sCvj2fzNMIKQrdQKchYEbPxmIXumm7FW75u95AGhSThYbzuXSRoxOIMBmYVX8Lfw0TzVYoVfVTGacOqMaXvTFOJ/s400/Blue+on+pottie.jpg" /></a> Herewith photos from the Blue Footed Boobies 3Day Team storming Boston and vicinity! Finally! After hanging out on my iPhone for days, the photos have finally been uploaded, organized, and posted. You'll have to excuse the blurry shots; my iPhone camera does not have a flash (love it anyway), and I have a tremor in my right camera-holding hand that seemed to only get worse over the 3-Day (from lugging those lovely, poignant, heavy signs, perhaps), so when the light was waning, and my hand was shaking, there was really no hope for clarity. Apologies. Hope you enjoy anyway.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9RnQwFNCZUN565ZDfx52-W7piPM-mDfzd_KV552FvccAgOihh0ww9u1hDEfXntWzCNjRU9ET54fq_xPtkB_ozcUky-hFVnZ8uGvwqohL31lOatTZLrZZJ57ll3l0CRJMgYLeUrYnk9n2/s1600-h/fine+dining.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364678070937095842" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9RnQwFNCZUN565ZDfx52-W7piPM-mDfzd_KV552FvccAgOihh0ww9u1hDEfXntWzCNjRU9ET54fq_xPtkB_ozcUky-hFVnZ8uGvwqohL31lOatTZLrZZJ57ll3l0CRJMgYLeUrYnk9n2/s400/fine+dining.jpg" /></a>Here we are--clueless--the night before the big Walk. We stayed at the Crown Royal in Natick, a stunningly beautiful (ok, not) hotel along route 9 that offered a nice buffet dinner for all of us walkers, who had, at this point, absolutely no idea what we were getting ourselves into.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43Qbzvs0JVj3Z16fnQXDSgEZD5IfU4-Th5dQ2DtBCCjT4qtbBQVSCjMqUElLMH8EV2Mdux3hnPrrUigh2cYBPbyVTw23H6ZwFjOCtLGkGc8DbvrnyXbQauNIOwFi39XtzO50x_j0CMwKA/s1600-h/Angie+with+Blue.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652524778677458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg43Qbzvs0JVj3Z16fnQXDSgEZD5IfU4-Th5dQ2DtBCCjT4qtbBQVSCjMqUElLMH8EV2Mdux3hnPrrUigh2cYBPbyVTw23H6ZwFjOCtLGkGc8DbvrnyXbQauNIOwFi39XtzO50x_j0CMwKA/s400/Angie+with+Blue.jpg" /></a>Here we are back in our hotel rooms, acting a wee bit silly. Such anticipation we all felt that night! Good thing Ursula brought some wine to take the edge off...<br /><div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYma3K7NDBiJhl5BalcCAqHDbkvZZ6W2r_Jnrp5JcgI2zTyW5W-a-4OuU7ldBczgeLApZ5Vq8IheIqhCEvdntDkp9TqWO1DOrl_cIvRj2EWUyzkRpRNx3EbS1V26oWj03QJeLyTgVqjgCu/s1600-h/pre-walk+Ursula+and+Jeanne.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364655219079838386" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYma3K7NDBiJhl5BalcCAqHDbkvZZ6W2r_Jnrp5JcgI2zTyW5W-a-4OuU7ldBczgeLApZ5Vq8IheIqhCEvdntDkp9TqWO1DOrl_cIvRj2EWUyzkRpRNx3EbS1V26oWj03QJeLyTgVqjgCu/s400/pre-walk+Ursula+and+Jeanne.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJjHNk07W_okZNrY8M0yGoZ0rrCfRkwXTs6mUdBViJ2_SMJXKLoxccv3xBz29T5VRciJFWAAWhNaF8RePmjjFRCTv238BwS6yP_STna-PaEd0pbOIQc4Zb2V5yzfneqfWoP628k3jFAqe/s1600-h/Liz+with+Blue.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654315862143858" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJjHNk07W_okZNrY8M0yGoZ0rrCfRkwXTs6mUdBViJ2_SMJXKLoxccv3xBz29T5VRciJFWAAWhNaF8RePmjjFRCTv238BwS6yP_STna-PaEd0pbOIQc4Zb2V5yzfneqfWoP628k3jFAqe/s400/Liz+with+Blue.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Zg8LbJaEoMD0cWLsA5SRzu08ZSuEUpX_TIXzHWpTzwwW2ZqHJ2vI0okEZdTqpd0GwLAhvFwhWIHb-HYF7u1gZxdwca7-XI3O23MKBVFV6ujVGMQIdQJrmTJbz5OwC_LxboXZclo5OeKC/s1600-h/GRanny+Jeanne.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653781371140082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Zg8LbJaEoMD0cWLsA5SRzu08ZSuEUpX_TIXzHWpTzwwW2ZqHJ2vI0okEZdTqpd0GwLAhvFwhWIHb-HYF7u1gZxdwca7-XI3O23MKBVFV6ujVGMQIdQJrmTJbz5OwC_LxboXZclo5OeKC/s400/GRanny+Jeanne.jpg" /></a>Granny Jeanne showing off a great card made by one of her grandsons.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMXMBNpXnJy_AVlB-9WWJkDwYGC_wEgD1WRY5-NtxwoZ5OQooAIdKQD41D_GwcbkdCNOtnO5jtW4P44ZAgFl4eoFdemgO9wA9GNUTla0SYhSBk43DTt2aflQCNgL4Szpi_ndY-lFigqzA/s1600-h/Boobie+in+hotel.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652215554872402" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKMXMBNpXnJy_AVlB-9WWJkDwYGC_wEgD1WRY5-NtxwoZ5OQooAIdKQD41D_GwcbkdCNOtnO5jtW4P44ZAgFl4eoFdemgO9wA9GNUTla0SYhSBk43DTt2aflQCNgL4Szpi_ndY-lFigqzA/s400/Boobie+in+hotel.jpg" /></a>This fluffy lovebug Blue Footed Boobie above was our mascot, our spiritual guide, our fearless leader. We kept calling it a HE but really would have preferred if what rolled off our tongues had been SHE. I called him BLUE. He came everywhere with us, quite a good sport about it all. So very glad I did not drop him down the porta pottie.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXtZr6q8y8pTtj0rE5Z3EJOipoO0DQWU1tcSMowKTOLRLAgcpK1ROBAf2nrPpXJMn5LK0p98bFyPKy6-hE4dgsASfG6RTVDd0QznTbcmcoM-_NjqQy4STQaoVFInV14m6y5oyQqhM7GUp/s1600-h/Mom,+day+one.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654889460147746" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXtZr6q8y8pTtj0rE5Z3EJOipoO0DQWU1tcSMowKTOLRLAgcpK1ROBAf2nrPpXJMn5LK0p98bFyPKy6-hE4dgsASfG6RTVDd0QznTbcmcoM-_NjqQy4STQaoVFInV14m6y5oyQqhM7GUp/s400/Mom,+day+one.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuzUU2Vj_7xcT7xOZkDg6r184CLLJEw0AtOPXakMIZFtAwLgDyfeB5qfXRqgxc4K7Covup32LH88ssCskQ63yIj6ZbPzIiWCFJbzPwCEc5075Q_wdv5fPI08QUc6nDGXGUDSytAYwOsdR/s1600-h/BK+pee+stop.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677459402403810" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuzUU2Vj_7xcT7xOZkDg6r184CLLJEw0AtOPXakMIZFtAwLgDyfeB5qfXRqgxc4K7Covup32LH88ssCskQ63yIj6ZbPzIiWCFJbzPwCEc5075Q_wdv5fPI08QUc6nDGXGUDSytAYwOsdR/s400/BK+pee+stop.jpg" /></a>It poured the first morning. It was beyond dismal, but we were sporting our Energizer bunny ears, our yellow rain ponchos, and had slicked our feet with un-petroleum jelly, so we were doing okay. Here we are trying to make the most of it, waiting in line to use the BK flush toilets, flashing smiles...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1m5tcY-QRlfm6QqnmzLYNqKk7X82lydxkQy-H6o2x3JBywfAJ_RQMBUdsRtD0CFuOoQ0MIQSTCGv8AobnV9op0-AMK4tW1qwxo7C4L7vZPjcYLeGLcAvA9v10zntQyD_4YVw931vJZF9f/s1600-h/bunny+ears%21.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653047057043522" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1m5tcY-QRlfm6QqnmzLYNqKk7X82lydxkQy-H6o2x3JBywfAJ_RQMBUdsRtD0CFuOoQ0MIQSTCGv8AobnV9op0-AMK4tW1qwxo7C4L7vZPjcYLeGLcAvA9v10zntQyD_4YVw931vJZF9f/s400/bunny+ears%21.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCALv6JFN15D_8P5FN3zOUh3A5_YBGnZaOKOsRG66-mzXsIyua4eovCEIGW0QJgNA55kR9sdXbpm0sB71tCBdSre5U87tdsYQ3zCgb05zau2tJ9ZJR2b8DKImj7GG7CuFmKHMer6p-r43j/s1600-h/all+smiles,+day+one.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652404514199618" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCALv6JFN15D_8P5FN3zOUh3A5_YBGnZaOKOsRG66-mzXsIyua4eovCEIGW0QJgNA55kR9sdXbpm0sB71tCBdSre5U87tdsYQ3zCgb05zau2tJ9ZJR2b8DKImj7GG7CuFmKHMer6p-r43j/s400/all+smiles,+day+one.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAQJm_0FB10jz3GSiW4uPCSz_oX-bQNv7JP7v3P4AnGk6L866BMcwWJQyVXkfssc5fyZrxX1cyxBPeNAues3VuhmldfARKVcu1ZFiqftltrac6XJJygTbZ9DlLBJMmf-cuxz8D6-bEnpU/s1600-h/Ursula,+day+one.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656564820312578" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglAQJm_0FB10jz3GSiW4uPCSz_oX-bQNv7JP7v3P4AnGk6L866BMcwWJQyVXkfssc5fyZrxX1cyxBPeNAues3VuhmldfARKVcu1ZFiqftltrac6XJJygTbZ9DlLBJMmf-cuxz8D6-bEnpU/s400/Ursula,+day+one.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhgrkZ-vEnw4ysLe73cj4CQ8NJFQnbLdZI_3Id_HuhGWAmcq2SrlqTINwR4q_tBfZIu6X7SjaSraMimTkSMdzvpxjet9RE9qBLAK7EXpg0yKJcAt_SjaNFh_3WO2b6k0eo8L-pHxN1Fdxr/s1600-h/Liz,+day+one.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364678281349765330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhgrkZ-vEnw4ysLe73cj4CQ8NJFQnbLdZI_3Id_HuhGWAmcq2SrlqTINwR4q_tBfZIu6X7SjaSraMimTkSMdzvpxjet9RE9qBLAK7EXpg0yKJcAt_SjaNFh_3WO2b6k0eo8L-pHxN1Fdxr/s400/Liz,+day+one.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoRIYLEaUZvbdHE3iYY4SGtcxnnaOal5aDdtlmNrNf0vDR5-W6Mkcz8GMYa1Mol-HsEddFMgxn-eHhGDuMJEmn2aXu_fVtEzeDOz-xbu0ORB_uQv6aYqNBirT5INbD54TmBeVMJxAmi0o/s1600-h/potties,+day+one.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364679933465201186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDoRIYLEaUZvbdHE3iYY4SGtcxnnaOal5aDdtlmNrNf0vDR5-W6Mkcz8GMYa1Mol-HsEddFMgxn-eHhGDuMJEmn2aXu_fVtEzeDOz-xbu0ORB_uQv6aYqNBirT5INbD54TmBeVMJxAmi0o/s400/potties,+day+one.jpg" /></a>Finally, after soaking us, then spitting on us, the skies cleared a little, and we found some respite and comfort in a team gathering at lunch.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglLIeqDP1aOpjfdQ9u_GJreLBjpap-AOirMKHWDKMqlQO3qf1rP2wLKL_6V04GJxpLGBgkflLE-I-DIlzWRlXMkXw6cmWUB8RlaRoLv-y3zHjnWy79n1b2K_yzySlfN4HGLmmr5nbW2I7/s1600-h/team,+day+one.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656041877353394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjglLIeqDP1aOpjfdQ9u_GJreLBjpap-AOirMKHWDKMqlQO3qf1rP2wLKL_6V04GJxpLGBgkflLE-I-DIlzWRlXMkXw6cmWUB8RlaRoLv-y3zHjnWy79n1b2K_yzySlfN4HGLmmr5nbW2I7/s400/team,+day+one.jpg" /></a>Our day had begun at 4 that morning. Over 12 hours later, we strolled into camp, set up our tents, and heaved big sighs of relief.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA46Ocqgfvet-FeXSFmVhHHmykIc16KL3abuDl7h7nZAy-8GHIrUXJxpB5AffyBsbFO0BR7Dxa5-SAmtqGWsIoS8cMXTaNsEsCFgl1q-8Dt3DWDOIr_R0Hrr4sAzmsApQNRkmvlXp_vf_E/s1600-h/pink+tent+city.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364655114044682178" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA46Ocqgfvet-FeXSFmVhHHmykIc16KL3abuDl7h7nZAy-8GHIrUXJxpB5AffyBsbFO0BR7Dxa5-SAmtqGWsIoS8cMXTaNsEsCFgl1q-8Dt3DWDOIr_R0Hrr4sAzmsApQNRkmvlXp_vf_E/s400/pink+tent+city.jpg" /></a>Here's camp! A beautiful pink tent city, covering three artificial turf fields, with stations of all kinds stretching out over parking lot pavement and beyond. Below, Ursula catches some down time before lights out at 9.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqB3UGR_2PQ7tPE8kalWSHiNaROiWTP8CNl2LLGxkc6iCU1vEuIJh7BhLEv72PIynYVRb45BM2z8vmGk33GDtsA4IbvtcTD3JNblvWNelyAkykxAmDTeGHc0RR0efAnA7fuQaJ-TxVnARA/s1600-h/U+reading.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656484539945826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqB3UGR_2PQ7tPE8kalWSHiNaROiWTP8CNl2LLGxkc6iCU1vEuIJh7BhLEv72PIynYVRb45BM2z8vmGk33GDtsA4IbvtcTD3JNblvWNelyAkykxAmDTeGHc0RR0efAnA7fuQaJ-TxVnARA/s400/U+reading.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0edTpTHZJPcaTb2QYO8JtdwXN37iNft3Yjj7d5aCyPN9WHwYFLy8FfG5P_pjvTwB2PRfo417S8vhEV2C9O1lFjEHxeVMaGmFRr9K3XRgCtgTij45AP3aELaQNth4kfQR2yBYuBlbW-InT/s1600-h/camp,+first+night.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653168999907938" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0edTpTHZJPcaTb2QYO8JtdwXN37iNft3Yjj7d5aCyPN9WHwYFLy8FfG5P_pjvTwB2PRfo417S8vhEV2C9O1lFjEHxeVMaGmFRr9K3XRgCtgTij45AP3aELaQNth4kfQR2yBYuBlbW-InT/s400/camp,+first+night.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUANhyphenhyphenBQqBqZQ9FKROqWSELCYvxLegSqruqhASOPYrAyBHLRBDNch8RDWXyVi8d_a5eTJ-f-QjtM748mRFJf7J0GYYfjtAGTzGDlLUlrrUMDXZxAQ0X21vn92dlFNS-da-DlLFVVChs6uW/s1600-h/camp+sneaks.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677688178115714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUANhyphenhyphenBQqBqZQ9FKROqWSELCYvxLegSqruqhASOPYrAyBHLRBDNch8RDWXyVi8d_a5eTJ-f-QjtM748mRFJf7J0GYYfjtAGTzGDlLUlrrUMDXZxAQ0X21vn92dlFNS-da-DlLFVVChs6uW/s400/camp+sneaks.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZusrYLIcxB3l4FHTqHPM53VO6Ker6AuWgKMRdAy3a5oKgYfxLBO7w6Yclb7iynT3o_qtaROXVgeCCx_jUyssfFUyj7eG4DT-khiGCby-hIxKBLYyO1P9q39rl3qFXgTODwmVauVG5JuQ/s1600-h/Blue+on+top+of+tent.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652812248642514" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoZusrYLIcxB3l4FHTqHPM53VO6Ker6AuWgKMRdAy3a5oKgYfxLBO7w6Yclb7iynT3o_qtaROXVgeCCx_jUyssfFUyj7eG4DT-khiGCby-hIxKBLYyO1P9q39rl3qFXgTODwmVauVG5JuQ/s400/Blue+on+top+of+tent.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lmizSWqL5FiP30aOkAqez1rJTbOYrZN-DX407oATKSDpz2jucd0sX2Li6I83IpavdxAsHO6uYBPoYechsNJRYuW0rCU7Q2TPo1U-0J4NzyqQ_w5xIKT9KkEbSoBlP74SHR5oWXVuNEAB/s1600-h/blurry+Liz+at+night.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677773261247314" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_lmizSWqL5FiP30aOkAqez1rJTbOYrZN-DX407oATKSDpz2jucd0sX2Li6I83IpavdxAsHO6uYBPoYechsNJRYuW0rCU7Q2TPo1U-0J4NzyqQ_w5xIKT9KkEbSoBlP74SHR5oWXVuNEAB/s400/blurry+Liz+at+night.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vsCsXUrERHps_ZMRNVQGjYdP6NQkuoAog80cmzEExKPf43jSHqatuOYDBc_ciFDNpfLiWnWK3Uh8Uzq0YlA6HadZyBmrdlt6rmZbnZJLGJ8zJCYy7Zgxs78TGKGZzCAsSlQu98AKE9C0/s1600-h/dawn+breaking+at+camp,+day+two.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653598928422002" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2vsCsXUrERHps_ZMRNVQGjYdP6NQkuoAog80cmzEExKPf43jSHqatuOYDBc_ciFDNpfLiWnWK3Uh8Uzq0YlA6HadZyBmrdlt6rmZbnZJLGJ8zJCYy7Zgxs78TGKGZzCAsSlQu98AKE9C0/s400/dawn+breaking+at+camp,+day+two.jpg" /></a>The light at dusk and dawn that washed over camp was so pretty. Here we are below, in a pair of team shots, in the early morning hours of day two, gearing up for our longest, toughest day yet. 22 miles?! We'd done 18, 19 even, but 22? The sun warmed the dew off the tops of our tents, and we set out. Go Boobies!!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YTXLsBJgxcDu8pejOjN4yk8qXb_v9rVyFreje415Jabc8ZmxKrhu95Zxf5WF1M_bOlEAg5-sR8qELz1xJfxMTxXS3fFpjvBICs-Rvr0eA2E7vC3z6TLjJiThzI1eziLXj8mWEoKHkgRz/s1600-h/team+shots,+day+two.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364655725451645906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YTXLsBJgxcDu8pejOjN4yk8qXb_v9rVyFreje415Jabc8ZmxKrhu95Zxf5WF1M_bOlEAg5-sR8qELz1xJfxMTxXS3fFpjvBICs-Rvr0eA2E7vC3z6TLjJiThzI1eziLXj8mWEoKHkgRz/s400/team+shots,+day+two.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrXpUmIDnMISoQxCqxzubLi_fCvOOzOyBIyYfcRhLlFMgv2ll8TCkYF-Rs7n0m1FSLz6IGL7H8RQIzp6uwvay4c7jrhBGigoMsAJdGOlBOo4ixrqnnYyTGU8mmQsylk_1_lrN7rGe0VC35/s1600-h/best+team,+day+2.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652713598090770" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrXpUmIDnMISoQxCqxzubLi_fCvOOzOyBIyYfcRhLlFMgv2ll8TCkYF-Rs7n0m1FSLz6IGL7H8RQIzp6uwvay4c7jrhBGigoMsAJdGOlBOo4ixrqnnYyTGU8mmQsylk_1_lrN7rGe0VC35/s400/best+team,+day+2.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gxr5CnUthxZiY5VG-hxUlxMboWx6L78uzEHtbiQjB3S-JPAdlAePvI5skXk3bBNsLkpEnu7PsuFat2SzIlW5cD3SjYx5j8q5KKJ3k1hb1RzgZ5CyDCCPgPGHieE8HSmrs65XWgzqyLB2/s1600-h/working+the+pit.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656641043809186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gxr5CnUthxZiY5VG-hxUlxMboWx6L78uzEHtbiQjB3S-JPAdlAePvI5skXk3bBNsLkpEnu7PsuFat2SzIlW5cD3SjYx5j8q5KKJ3k1hb1RzgZ5CyDCCPgPGHieE8HSmrs65XWgzqyLB2/s400/working+the+pit.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9PIPaK3jdl3QZ_7kXhxhsKfW9m9cSp3zszhrSdaVbC0veyDIV621xTA144h6nxlzdm-30V1o31Yzb-xm9vN7p0rOS85ZpPJFvwSTFT1cSp6mxMtC_yihRyCJ3do6fu_yq-LLnDrcz3gG/s1600-h/back+of+Liz.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677368926308818" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU9PIPaK3jdl3QZ_7kXhxhsKfW9m9cSp3zszhrSdaVbC0veyDIV621xTA144h6nxlzdm-30V1o31Yzb-xm9vN7p0rOS85ZpPJFvwSTFT1cSp6mxMtC_yihRyCJ3do6fu_yq-LLnDrcz3gG/s400/back+of+Liz.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05SPpFy_TTvjHN5tQH7Xq1aWAVqS231fYVHQhKViW58jZ5xCxBPjuE2sgD3W4ogJdD6xISEqiEdWiE9Ehu0C7_XycTIHzpS53Kl1emsVRQkDSgqPpKcGNtUlvwDvxSgsPe8ttGkz-mu6j/s1600-h/Starbucks+stop.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364655412506943394" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg05SPpFy_TTvjHN5tQH7Xq1aWAVqS231fYVHQhKViW58jZ5xCxBPjuE2sgD3W4ogJdD6xISEqiEdWiE9Ehu0C7_XycTIHzpS53Kl1emsVRQkDSgqPpKcGNtUlvwDvxSgsPe8ttGkz-mu6j/s400/Starbucks+stop.jpg" /></a>We worked the pit stops and grab 'n gos, much like you might work the Fast Pass line at Disney World, quickly learning to be efficient, grab those bananas, bags of pretzels, fill up those water bottles, use the porta potties, and stretch, always stretch, while waiting for your teammates. Of course, since we were walking through suburban and urban areas, there were plenty of opportunities for unofficial pit stops, too, and the Boobies were awfully grateful for Starbucks, Peet's, and a host of other spots that provided flush toilets and shelter from the rain the first day, and air conditioning, coffee, and the chance to recharge my iPhone on the second two.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvtFm6ur8b5Ihgp60-NMP-EPRRhza_fEiC4MNYJvOCiDVhxR6SM0S2R5yDwgXH4HL8D9AdllFCzBLtOAH6AHATTU2t8B-q9aCZq6Whr-dOBYBGGS0bjoKExtGkxm_r9Vv5Dygkm5H0dXW/s1600-h/Angie,+happy+with+coffee.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652615036636114" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvtFm6ur8b5Ihgp60-NMP-EPRRhza_fEiC4MNYJvOCiDVhxR6SM0S2R5yDwgXH4HL8D9AdllFCzBLtOAH6AHATTU2t8B-q9aCZq6Whr-dOBYBGGS0bjoKExtGkxm_r9Vv5Dygkm5H0dXW/s400/Angie,+happy+with+coffee.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqUyuC85VlhIfHSxSDUHGQMixRv-19ewPaHXHZ6uhuM_XImT9cB3TzHD7ecna6jLMQwjbnnmv_o_QdyqrgeCD7OefvxlqW4a-gRDgbZmVPULQliQTYdofKnmmtqgtLaJQKx6pMstv7aLBx/s1600-h/Angie+on+bike.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656244080679122" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqUyuC85VlhIfHSxSDUHGQMixRv-19ewPaHXHZ6uhuM_XImT9cB3TzHD7ecna6jLMQwjbnnmv_o_QdyqrgeCD7OefvxlqW4a-gRDgbZmVPULQliQTYdofKnmmtqgtLaJQKx6pMstv7aLBx/s400/Angie+on+bike.jpg" /></a>Here's a sampling of some of the guys that came out every day--all along the route--to cheer us on. Angie asked if she could grab a photo with the guy on his bike, above, who was one of the many crew members who formed the safety patrol. He was great about it, even granting Angie her wish to sit in the front. (I don't think he minded at all sitting in the back.) The Pink Angels were also an ever-present, creative, enthusiastic bunch, er, posse, and I couldn't resist getting my picture taken with them on Saturday, as we made our way through a nice park on our way to Lexington.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ikyq3CQPj3h0LAZ9IeXbI3qxDDa8uZK_hwVXzpyAHrwN3R-EI2bt-2y5kaYXLXSbU33dEFRTpmZcLwElpwiAWMM2b80CVs_D1PskS2OevTSbtgk1YjdMG0DnDcPgXyMIkUhe9xK5g4Cp/s1600-h/Liz+with+pink+angels.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654631530062418" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9Ikyq3CQPj3h0LAZ9IeXbI3qxDDa8uZK_hwVXzpyAHrwN3R-EI2bt-2y5kaYXLXSbU33dEFRTpmZcLwElpwiAWMM2b80CVs_D1PskS2OevTSbtgk1YjdMG0DnDcPgXyMIkUhe9xK5g4Cp/s400/Liz+with+pink+angels.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6Uud_X97a6Ui1ABTx16cvczbS-rqOgh_aCPD2iLnaQydcfeE1MYRj7gtyWOrADa2fdwRMYuTYiFvTeurZgqRTu-Qg96c7-RCLPJhJm3qaciE_G8vBOw-HZktDl-lO11CO0k-pEl_Mj0u/s1600-h/Blue+at+dinner.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677548756430754" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT6Uud_X97a6Ui1ABTx16cvczbS-rqOgh_aCPD2iLnaQydcfeE1MYRj7gtyWOrADa2fdwRMYuTYiFvTeurZgqRTu-Qg96c7-RCLPJhJm3qaciE_G8vBOw-HZktDl-lO11CO0k-pEl_Mj0u/s400/Blue+at+dinner.jpg" /></a>Here's Blue at dinner, and snuggling in for a good night's sleep on Saturday night.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DxrNCLVTEKF3QGAmUaKww27IpJRDC_tJkgFLTuk6FamUPsYl32SSGdwEb8VbnlMhvJzn154VIDli-gluq6ab-t_nul5IZyL2YkC1SepcdP6vsE7qjAd0wWJhL3961iQ1ZBnmZG6X8eqx/s1600-h/Blue+getting+sleepy.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364681069697331602" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9DxrNCLVTEKF3QGAmUaKww27IpJRDC_tJkgFLTuk6FamUPsYl32SSGdwEb8VbnlMhvJzn154VIDli-gluq6ab-t_nul5IZyL2YkC1SepcdP6vsE7qjAd0wWJhL3961iQ1ZBnmZG6X8eqx/s400/Blue+getting+sleepy.jpg" /></a>Day Three! Morning comes quickly; camp had been quiet the night before (weary campers, no doubt) but by morning, it erupted in activity and in anticipation of this final day, when we would have to take down our tents, pack up our gear, and put on our I love Boobies! team shirts.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZ2H-fnR9AwyLT9nD5AEUDrvr6sO_oFO-a5v6mRzxw4edpcpJOVU4aSnomwgQkq98VO53TLrgnpW0Z-BqG_UxYRvzB92T7Dcc4XdArQLiAKLOTnubKPs1pWPfbKXR9g9X9y3JXYXdykon/s1600-h/early+morning,+day+3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677983465371714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifZ2H-fnR9AwyLT9nD5AEUDrvr6sO_oFO-a5v6mRzxw4edpcpJOVU4aSnomwgQkq98VO53TLrgnpW0Z-BqG_UxYRvzB92T7Dcc4XdArQLiAKLOTnubKPs1pWPfbKXR9g9X9y3JXYXdykon/s400/early+morning,+day+3.jpg" /></a> Here's the starting gate, below, where eager walkers gathered at 6:30 to start the day. ON this final day, we were warned that if we were not out of camp by 7:45, the sag buses would take us to the lunch pit stop. I wondered how many people opted out of the first 12 or so miles. For many, it was the only option. For the Boobies, it was never an option. Lucky us.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh23EuzOR4MKkrJwYcVRPhssgBqOr9Y6dlY0VSK5ivevRUu2nLuyfQU8w69PA8RfFULPZW7-S9qj6lcb11xMD3Qb6ESWhyNKX3HSSyGS6O3lbNziMAjBcv5CkZzvedAPDgMXXLV_VANzRX/s1600-h/start,+day+three.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364679790855108482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh23EuzOR4MKkrJwYcVRPhssgBqOr9Y6dlY0VSK5ivevRUu2nLuyfQU8w69PA8RfFULPZW7-S9qj6lcb11xMD3Qb6ESWhyNKX3HSSyGS6O3lbNziMAjBcv5CkZzvedAPDgMXXLV_VANzRX/s400/start,+day+three.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuovhQFWj1_oUl0wNW3wAZpZFjf30T6UEn8sRbTbdLdAuPzbpzEkJ_8am0SBQLg0GtwRVa8THYj1m9bJvJvn0xdg8szkm0kyf58czBfYY5Kqm_XBER3Xwqyvvuenb5y8l8bduOM7fgwyL/s1600-h/Mom's+ready.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654980437449186" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYuovhQFWj1_oUl0wNW3wAZpZFjf30T6UEn8sRbTbdLdAuPzbpzEkJ_8am0SBQLg0GtwRVa8THYj1m9bJvJvn0xdg8szkm0kyf58czBfYY5Kqm_XBER3Xwqyvvuenb5y8l8bduOM7fgwyL/s400/Mom's+ready.jpg" /></a> Here's Mom, above, in her I love Boobies! tee shirt, Mardi Gras beads, and rain gear wrapped about the waist: just in case! Notice the lanyard in her left hand, route card in right that she's just about to put in the plastic case in the lanyard. The route card was our daily map, telling us how far we'd have to walk in between pit stops and grab n' gos, when the next cheering section would be coming up, and what camp schedule was like for the day: camp services, showers, dinner service, local entertainment, "Today at the 3Day Show," 3-Day Rock Star, Dance Party. The funniest thing on the back of the route card: instructions for those walkers who were Leaving Camp for the Night, with telephone numbers for local taxi services, and a pick-up location.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VKuMu_SAjKX44ZOn3eeGLRdc5_snXgbT_sIH9ZqK8ul2Iwfi9LNq3Ohxxuk2oGBgcJCPE3l1dybK0lyV4OE0x_U4BwggzhpHKXk6t5JVIxcpzvy0GfEev_bGDa38ZioHKyKWliQz3iZb/s1600-h/Liz,+downtown.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364678687519037778" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0VKuMu_SAjKX44ZOn3eeGLRdc5_snXgbT_sIH9ZqK8ul2Iwfi9LNq3Ohxxuk2oGBgcJCPE3l1dybK0lyV4OE0x_U4BwggzhpHKXk6t5JVIxcpzvy0GfEev_bGDa38ZioHKyKWliQz3iZb/s400/Liz,+downtown.jpg" /></a> Walking into the city of Boston was wicked awesome! For a long while, we walked solo, at our own pace, staying focused, listening to our bodies. I was carrying the Courage banner, and kept forgetting to drink, my hands were so damn full. Blue hung up in my fanny pack most of the time, but I did take him out for some good photo-ops every now and then. By lunchtime, below, we all caught up to one another and enjoyed refueling for a bit before heading out again. Everywhere, but especially on this last lunch stop (actually, last stop period), there were some hilarious people who came to entertain us. I was impressed with and emboldened by all the good energy about. With just 3.2 miles to go, it was good to take with us some laughter in the belly.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5djNzkhdISg2KVG66QWnEWUanLUGP6VI1mlQ8lGmM5PEv-m6f9IEgCQWXXhPlgy4N-hnTkPdCgBkAFXMV6zyrEx90Mma77odHFMB3PnInhikKelBfaA4j8RhASpvWj-PQzwJyl9VR3x3/s1600-h/U+and+Damon,+day+3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656372505019986" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5djNzkhdISg2KVG66QWnEWUanLUGP6VI1mlQ8lGmM5PEv-m6f9IEgCQWXXhPlgy4N-hnTkPdCgBkAFXMV6zyrEx90Mma77odHFMB3PnInhikKelBfaA4j8RhASpvWj-PQzwJyl9VR3x3/s400/U+and+Damon,+day+3.jpg" /></a> Here, Ursula and Damon relax under a tree. Notice the red rash on Damon's legs--ouch! She was such a good girl, though, icing it at every stop. Love this t-shirt below. My sentiments exactly.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54HRuWjQjqWSLoKGqSYvwe6rU23Pb9zNMV-yN_qn-6IB19mneglIoIjA0ks0CzyFsDC7QBm43o6nEsUz93qVrJ2PGDkJHXlOB6olWo5OeYOGUNUJKYEecVwSSLmtaxiI1gp4HbbSha9dB/s1600-h/Cancer+Sucks%21.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653267629765362" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh54HRuWjQjqWSLoKGqSYvwe6rU23Pb9zNMV-yN_qn-6IB19mneglIoIjA0ks0CzyFsDC7QBm43o6nEsUz93qVrJ2PGDkJHXlOB6olWo5OeYOGUNUJKYEecVwSSLmtaxiI1gp4HbbSha9dB/s400/Cancer+Sucks%21.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIZcdA2bX_ALIm4j-yF4PVLVXzJiDxYgPqIq-EjW2AjVjhcJmNQy8qTpJhzn8bnnoIXOIdNxF6wsbczDd7RCez4W9yMKHf8W_zPFP9kBXKfJm_7fdKgg-qLNk7DEu3kF7FMrNEgColkwW/s1600-h/Angie+at+lunch,+day+3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677256821498786" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIZcdA2bX_ALIm4j-yF4PVLVXzJiDxYgPqIq-EjW2AjVjhcJmNQy8qTpJhzn8bnnoIXOIdNxF6wsbczDd7RCez4W9yMKHf8W_zPFP9kBXKfJm_7fdKgg-qLNk7DEu3kF7FMrNEgColkwW/s400/Angie+at+lunch,+day+3.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhoY0HFXjNJTOlCF2qFlHEGEj_RMC6VJP-WStpW8FDXNcbsQH8bTQakJ-B_MCdWzPVHcJSC2JItQp6YvLUtat9Kglj52u3UPaHBqOOLqWXLRF0lO2ylCN6erEi1jQmjHXl8QxZgZY10CS/s1600-h/lunch+stop,+day+3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654754955421330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhoY0HFXjNJTOlCF2qFlHEGEj_RMC6VJP-WStpW8FDXNcbsQH8bTQakJ-B_MCdWzPVHcJSC2JItQp6YvLUtat9Kglj52u3UPaHBqOOLqWXLRF0lO2ylCN6erEi1jQmjHXl8QxZgZY10CS/s400/lunch+stop,+day+3.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZyd0KEt6v7bfLEiNbeeW3I5yHrU9OsiFrdYQfltwtP3CXkQP9aWBZcn2rYgWwVwn9iSyFjpYOGM5-BL4GbWxY0l1pJoIOZtJZdEtAjZSkJLAdF3XPfA-wTIvwd1bBkJh9VfIlqKzCht7/s1600-h/Youth+Corp,+day+3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656718870572338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdZyd0KEt6v7bfLEiNbeeW3I5yHrU9OsiFrdYQfltwtP3CXkQP9aWBZcn2rYgWwVwn9iSyFjpYOGM5-BL4GbWxY0l1pJoIOZtJZdEtAjZSkJLAdF3XPfA-wTIvwd1bBkJh9VfIlqKzCht7/s400/Youth+Corp,+day+3.jpg" /></a> These two girls above were part of the Youth Corps, a group of kids who totally blew us away with their maturity, compassion, and all around great energy. I spoke to these two at length, and wanted to give them all big hugs, they were so endearing. Plus, I was missing my boys!<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2VO2UKCbvzbAbSME8iORTOXCIazqzgul4s55-dnTMeiX0ihNR-sINv-bWV78BS0Gix0wut_v4ef3PFruWm0ISfvmPXU8NebJuv_AoJQMZdJDm-Fo35-KsyvnWp_6ymS3VKZJjhn56i2G/s1600-h/Borat+ladies.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652948978327458" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2VO2UKCbvzbAbSME8iORTOXCIazqzgul4s55-dnTMeiX0ihNR-sINv-bWV78BS0Gix0wut_v4ef3PFruWm0ISfvmPXU8NebJuv_AoJQMZdJDm-Fo35-KsyvnWp_6ymS3VKZJjhn56i2G/s400/Borat+ladies.jpg" /></a>These Borat ladies from behind caught my eye (how could they not?!)...so I rushed over and asked someone to take my picture with them! Did not ask--but wanted to--what they had used to stuff sacks.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKp-P45OzOpNyAIJv4o0fn280EyP7SaN3eRljtnfajO0ND68NgOmTzElut6p06ZJfpQ57hHiFOycSP8lnifrfKV9-hTWVpZz49LexM9lMEzB7qCXNOXVBEl2F6XN5lNazwaeCa6xny3J8s/s1600-h/Liz+with+Borat+ladies,+day+3.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654451821907410" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKp-P45OzOpNyAIJv4o0fn280EyP7SaN3eRljtnfajO0ND68NgOmTzElut6p06ZJfpQ57hHiFOycSP8lnifrfKV9-hTWVpZz49LexM9lMEzB7qCXNOXVBEl2F6XN5lNazwaeCa6xny3J8s/s400/Liz+with+Borat+ladies,+day+3.jpg" /></a> After lunch, we set off and found ourselves walking through the unexpectedly lovely neighborhoods of South Boston and Dorchester. Here I am with Blue, below, with the beach and ocean behind us. No dogs allowed, but Blue Footed Boobies? You betcha! (to steal a line from Sarah Palin)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqxDaONU9nbqAXz86DL2sYequ3BQEt3UEev6A27oyu6wv2O5iq8pW9xQQaJRctwYgJKeoRwr8Y6WMfZPYw4c4IiV9HC8XAtE62UwmJPDV6vZWOVwoFcHDqzD7q4WHUt-drYdrwpegpxV_/s1600-h/no+dogs+on+beach,+but+Boobies+allowed.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364678506981358706" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggqxDaONU9nbqAXz86DL2sYequ3BQEt3UEev6A27oyu6wv2O5iq8pW9xQQaJRctwYgJKeoRwr8Y6WMfZPYw4c4IiV9HC8XAtE62UwmJPDV6vZWOVwoFcHDqzD7q4WHUt-drYdrwpegpxV_/s400/no+dogs+on+beach,+but+Boobies+allowed.jpg" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5nW_DF378skWNkRhFOo-FYO3O_c3kXWrLs0suouDSEulahcCTCeZ_taiPQ_6gQGLon4KsBg7Wjf4m0V_lNyz3GphukqXQMG4B5PeH39VqFn_mdV-JCtKG5QcHf3bvejb14ta1YYxnnQT7/s1600-h/1+mile+to+go.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364652336331596434" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5nW_DF378skWNkRhFOo-FYO3O_c3kXWrLs0suouDSEulahcCTCeZ_taiPQ_6gQGLon4KsBg7Wjf4m0V_lNyz3GphukqXQMG4B5PeH39VqFn_mdV-JCtKG5QcHf3bvejb14ta1YYxnnQT7/s400/1+mile+to+go.jpg" /></a> 1 mile to go before <span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Holding</span> (strange name for the finish! No wonder we felt a little like cattle.) I walked the final three with a great woman named Ann, a resident at Mass General in psychiatry. In the short 45 minutes or so that we talked, I felt like I had made a good friend.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9ljVONdSOd3DNfaSRgblrsxuOOCoBLSOvfviQRdTnOMBziaWpXOvEFur8SdHF8Ls1-AoJ_ws6xz9MPMObi9-rIZH-i6xHSPHfm5Gg0kuyGDm-74mXEppDSYnn-0Xe-tmEW7i1unI4VI9/s1600-h/Courage!+day+three.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653478750470050" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy9ljVONdSOd3DNfaSRgblrsxuOOCoBLSOvfviQRdTnOMBziaWpXOvEFur8SdHF8Ls1-AoJ_ws6xz9MPMObi9-rIZH-i6xHSPHfm5Gg0kuyGDm-74mXEppDSYnn-0Xe-tmEW7i1unI4VI9/s400/Courage!+day+three.jpg" /></a> Ann took this shot of me, above. Even suggested it for the cover of my book! Once we finished, we gave each other a big hug, and I turned right around to find the rest of my teammates on the route.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />It felt great to cheer on the other walkers as they came closer to the finish. There was such relief on their faces, such a look of accomplishment mixed with the unmistakable strain of the 60 miles, the lack of sleep, the intensity of the experience. And then, through the steady stream of walkers, there they were! Angie, Ursula and Jeanne strolled into view and I rushed to greet them, walking with them into the stadium. I turned around again to look for my mother, and Angie came back to find me on the route, heading in the opposite direction. It wasn't too long before we saw her blue cap and big smile. So proud of her! If felt great to be able to walk the finish with her.<br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-udjUCHln_XZUhpr8uODpdzOCtEIsseLVolIm62rC6unnCxFLnpm4D05zZweoShLc1LvxcmBEPCfp3cfMMCTYV8k_fqijx5eRo7QXnwaBS-ww9f6Uf5pFTveQP89X3MUYdjgYZr-qnOA/s1600-h/there's+Mom%21.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364656144656458722" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb-udjUCHln_XZUhpr8uODpdzOCtEIsseLVolIm62rC6unnCxFLnpm4D05zZweoShLc1LvxcmBEPCfp3cfMMCTYV8k_fqijx5eRo7QXnwaBS-ww9f6Uf5pFTveQP89X3MUYdjgYZr-qnOA/s400/there's+Mom%21.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EvSjygJnXRA28U3sEFJ2vC2wuxTucvwcqsytNzPXApIMvNPWOO3fatjlEdAa97otynZIl_-PVt5IDJYLa9U2owl2mhcng1dKuxcO4MC8c5e02z1ay6iaOWFjKIJbNekX-ZKbxM-lEccn/s1600-h/L+and+D+at+finish.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364654135530266482" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9EvSjygJnXRA28U3sEFJ2vC2wuxTucvwcqsytNzPXApIMvNPWOO3fatjlEdAa97otynZIl_-PVt5IDJYLa9U2owl2mhcng1dKuxcO4MC8c5e02z1ay6iaOWFjKIJbNekX-ZKbxM-lEccn/s400/L+and+D+at+finish.jpg" /></a>Good genes. Thank you, Mom.<br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEDZrGKL3yHoVNACtYu8Xcp1bRHCOPd6IPNiQ3SSjQnUh-JqjFsY8uzu89KDR5h6_xOD8Tu1XkH2ObiYH8FX3zQi1KVdxXExfvsHWGBAi0gJUpRp6GJAmy4q-ukYwFvENMOtS14xOu76F/s1600-h/the+finish.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364678830565793490" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMEDZrGKL3yHoVNACtYu8Xcp1bRHCOPd6IPNiQ3SSjQnUh-JqjFsY8uzu89KDR5h6_xOD8Tu1XkH2ObiYH8FX3zQi1KVdxXExfvsHWGBAi0gJUpRp6GJAmy4q-ukYwFvENMOtS14xOu76F/s400/the+finish.jpg" /></a>The finish was pretty uncrowded when we went through, above, but as the afternoon progressed, it started to really fill up with people, below. You can see the medical staff in red waiting to catch weary walkers in their arms. The med tent was brimming, the docs and nurses all busy, much like at the end of the Boston Marathon, and buses were bringing into the holding all the injured walkers, some having been Red carded the day before, and others having met their ends on the third day. Below, big crowds came out to cheer on the final walker, just before the Closing Ceremonies got underway. I felt very happy to be feeling so good, and to be in the company of such strong women! Well done, Boobies!!<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58COvhPgiFRKPxWHbfu40e7CVyuEWsynO9C-8WY0EdJhTeaTrQMXh1l0C_c5oV-ZzDfEdTS6hv9VISFui4AjjE42sJO44Nh2JFoWLhyphenhypheniu5M4bz-A3F2lW0P8lpjXBA-5ipd-_uUHrJy81/s1600-h/crowds,+finish,+last+walker.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364677862840051026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh58COvhPgiFRKPxWHbfu40e7CVyuEWsynO9C-8WY0EdJhTeaTrQMXh1l0C_c5oV-ZzDfEdTS6hv9VISFui4AjjE42sJO44Nh2JFoWLhyphenhypheniu5M4bz-A3F2lW0P8lpjXBA-5ipd-_uUHrJy81/s400/crowds,+finish,+last+walker.jpg" /></a>An amazing and decidedly grand finale to our three days of fun. Emotion was in high gear at the Closing. Here, below, are the Survivors in our pink victory shirts, with a smattering of Crew about in blue-green, and other walkers in white. Big stage. Big sound system. Big message. Big show. Brilliant. Bawl!<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8LU8FnDFQNELBGsCLgCw_UC4yMX-82U9FPEUTOBG1raIQn_0P1j3UvKKF84OeQ3CbCgc6prFSvaN6LkcnzBm5agAmkQXwx7IjBo8dDLmCj4ACZ32iQSnTQc8-kDdAE8YmGb1x8nlTyao/s1600-h/survivors,+closing.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364655635952852082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEja8LU8FnDFQNELBGsCLgCw_UC4yMX-82U9FPEUTOBG1raIQn_0P1j3UvKKF84OeQ3CbCgc6prFSvaN6LkcnzBm5agAmkQXwx7IjBo8dDLmCj4ACZ32iQSnTQc8-kDdAE8YmGb1x8nlTyao/s400/survivors,+closing.jpg" /></a>Below, a circle of survivors, including one man, hoisting the flag: A World Without Breast Cancer. Here-ye, here-ye. I'm all for that.<br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aa3ypmBIarDTBAknStVCNhxDb9k-yEQGIw3tSY9lVvjh70Ai02F8gstMpAqAUbr8gGzt4Kq6lz15tak80nyu9RKx1VD7fP8Aef9t6PDk5Gygo5VbF2mcjhPNGXk9keAs6hyphenhyphenOiovBWkRm/s1600-h/closing+circle.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 300px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364653381430310546" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-aa3ypmBIarDTBAknStVCNhxDb9k-yEQGIw3tSY9lVvjh70Ai02F8gstMpAqAUbr8gGzt4Kq6lz15tak80nyu9RKx1VD7fP8Aef9t6PDk5Gygo5VbF2mcjhPNGXk9keAs6hyphenhyphenOiovBWkRm/s400/closing+circle.jpg" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEd4fI8paKFThiFBLVJALBMIeX3PeobnxH73dkVDiT35G3e3eJ5W1orAIBOjCtrQUKHhfA7cf7kqVL8LbQln5R_UTRUjmL_Ou2Sy09ojoM2F_q7eGZ9GmHUN8uPDu7PymzwOdqTJ5xPlh4/s1600-h/raising+the+flag.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 400px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5364655314318412338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEd4fI8paKFThiFBLVJALBMIeX3PeobnxH73dkVDiT35G3e3eJ5W1orAIBOjCtrQUKHhfA7cf7kqVL8LbQln5R_UTRUjmL_Ou2Sy09ojoM2F_q7eGZ9GmHUN8uPDu7PymzwOdqTJ5xPlh4/s400/raising+the+flag.jpg" /></a><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">VICTORY!!!!!!!<br /></div></div>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-77687806612838729642009-07-31T10:19:00.002-04:002009-07-31T10:56:13.126-04:003-Day Journal<span style="font-weight: bold;">Day One/Friday:</span> By the time we began, we were already soaked. Farm Pond in Framingham, site of the Opening Ceremonies, was a mud bowl, and our sneakers were completely and utterly saturated. I’m sure it was normally a lovely spot, but on this morning that had started all too early, with rain that dimmed our view of the surrounding lake and made sodden every step, it seemed dismal. Beyond dismal. Our bunny ears proved to be our rally caps. I kept thinking: I played lots of rugby games in this kind of wet muck, I could certainly handle a little weather. I only wished I had a little nip of schnapps tucked inside my sock for keeping me warm--my old trick in my fullback days--but clearly, I would not need it. As we all soon found out, despite the well-known fact (according to Gene Wilder, anyway) that <span style="font-style: italic;">candy is dandy but liquor is quicker</span>, it would be the candy that would claim the victory. <br /><br />We were ready after all. We had trained hard, and we had trained in the rain. It would be a good test of the un-petroleum jelly we coated on our feet, our wick-away socks (yeah, good luck with that!), the toughness of the calluses we had built up over all these months of training. And so, on that first rainy morning, after being herded like cattle into a promenade of sorts to make sure we didn’t topple each other at the start, we <span style="font-style: italic;">walked</span>. We walked in our rain gear, doubling up with ponchos and umbrellas that the wind kept blowing upwards in some strange fury. We walked in our Energizer bunny ears that soaked up the water and needed to be squeezed out every now and then. We walked in fanny packs and knapsacks filled with 3-Day essentials: sunscreen, lip balm, extra socks, cell phones, cameras, pink bandanas, water bottles, snacks. For a while, the sidewalks were filled, filled! with bunny ears. The route was so crowded with bunny ears that we bypassed a few grab ‘n gos, stopping at Burger King to pee instead, then Starbuck‘s, Dunkin Donuts, just to put a little distance between us and the rest of the herd. Moooo! We passed several Laundromats and wondered what it might be like to climb into a dryer, spin for a while, soak up all that good heat. While I kept hearing Grace Jones taking turns with Flash and the Pan singing <span style="font-style: italic;">Walking in the Rain</span> in the back of my head (<span style="font-style: italic;">Walking down the street, Kicking cans, Looking at the billboards, Oh so rad…Walking, walking, In the rain.…</span>), my mother and Ursula sang <span style="font-style: italic;">Singin’ in the Rain</span>, twirling umbrellas, making splashes. <span style="font-style: italic;">Dance the swivel hips</span>. The mood was festive, somehow. And finally, the maddening crowds thinned, the smog lifted, and we were able to air out our legs a bit. We caught up with each other at lunch, and eyed the skies suspiciously. The rain had stopped for the most part, but it threatened to spit and we kept our ponchos close. In the afternoon, we made our way through Wellesley, and I found myself walking past right past my most excellent plastic surgeon’s (Dr. Pitts) office, site of countless expander fill-ups, reconstruction consultations, and my first ever tattoo, and I thought of running in and saying hello, showing her my henna tattoos, or having my <span style="font-style: italic;">after</span> pictures taken (maybe with lanyard showing, zoomed in on The Blue Footed Boobies?), but figured she’d be off on some summer holiday, it being a Friday in July, and that it would have to suffice to wave, close the circle, take note of this milestone. A few minutes later, I was walking past Newton-Wellesley Hospital, where I had all of my surgeries and procedures done last year, where Dr. Specht took care of the cancer and Dr. Pitts installed my new girl, my new lease on life. I wondered how many other walkers were remembering their last visits to NWH, musing over the irony, and that wonderful way things have of coming full circle. <span style="font-style: italic;">Well, look at me now...</span><br /><br />Finally, after walking most of the day in the thundering rain, we entered camp exhausted but fairly delirious in our excitement to be there, and to be done for the day. We greeted the sun, grabbed our gear, put up our three pink tents side by side to take their places in the rows of tents that made up the tent city (a bit like Oz, if you ask me), found some respite in the shade, and made sure we were feeling fine before taking our place in the shower line (new experience: shower trucks). Later, we made our way to the 3-Day village, where several sponsors had set up tents (Energizer, New Balance), where the 3Day post office offered up letters from friends and family members, the Remembrance Tent the chance to honor loved ones lost to breast cancer, and the 3-Day Store the opportunity to outfit yourself in every possible 3-Day-logoed gear. After picking up our new pins--power team, for having raised so much money, and the $5K+ pin--and feeling a bit like Girl Scouts with our new merit badges, we grabbed dinner--spaghetti and meatballs, salad, and big gooey brownies--took our seats under the big top, and heard about some of the more amazing people in the crowd: the man who will walk in every 3-Day event this year, the woman who raised over $20K, the people who have walked since the very beginning. The first night culminated with tears of relief and crazy applause when they announced that we would not have to take our tents down the next morning before setting out on our 22 mile route. Go figure.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day Two/Saturday:</span> No sleep at night. It’s amazing how at 2 in the morning, you can hear every little sound from every person in the camp as if they were right next to you. Sometime after four, I posted this update on Facebook:<br /><h3 style="font-weight: normal;" class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">can't sleep, surrounded by snores, tent zippers, squeaky air mattresses, and the grind & chug of big heavy trucks...missing the crickets, coyotes, peepers...that lovely rural din.</h3>We had set the alarm, but hardly needed it; when the camp began to stir at a little before 5, there was no way anyone could sleep through all the hushed commotion: the zippy zipper sounds, the slap of flip flops against the turf, those annoying little black pellets made of some unearthly material springing up to bounce against calves and ankles, the whispered voices, the creak of bones, the slam of the porta pottie doors. Crew members, last to go to sleep, first to get up, were up at 4, getting breakfast ready for us, setting up the medical tent, getting the stations all set: beverages, self help for blisters, shower trucks and washing sinks. We were so happy we didn’t have to pack up. It was enough to prepare mentally for the day that promised a challenging 22 mile route through some of the prettier towns in the area: Waltham, Woburn, Lexington. Though it had rained a bit in the night, the sun was up and out, and we breakfasted, restocked our fanny packs, refilled our water bottles, and took our places at the start, where the sheer anticipation of walking in the sun (sun!) gave us an all-over shimmering energy that made for an especially happy start.<br /><br />They had been talking up the big hill we would have to climb at the start of Saturday’s route, but we didn’t fear the hill. We’d trained on hills. <span style="font-style: italic;">The hill is nothing,</span> we spat. Gill is all hills. I was eager for the hill. <span style="font-style: italic;">Bring on the hill!</span> The first day’s route seemed a bit flat, boring. Better for the muscles if there is some variety. So, of course, the Boobies, used to the high cliffs of the Galapagos Islands, powered up and smacked the hill, meeting at the top to walk across the overpass together, cars honking underneath. We walked through some great neighborhoods, where folks greeted us with enthusiasm. There were the occasional display of pink balloons, signs in windows and on lawns, a few elderly waving from their doors, and one of the finer moments: someone blasting <span style="font-style: italic;">We are the Champions</span> from the windows of their ranch house, which reverberated with some kind of spine tingling energy that the other houses, sitting quietly and comfortably, lacked. The crowds on Saturday were really amazing, and on a little corner of Lexington, I crossed the street to see the unmistakable ambling gait of my father, followed by my step-mother Martha, and brother Will, and rushed to enjoy a visit that would provide a much-needed boost that fueled my afternoon with the warmth and love that only family can provide. <br /><br />Throughout the Walk, at various cheering sections, people gathered to pay their respects, cheer us on, offer frozen grapes on bamboo skewers, ice pops, York peppermint patties (candy is dandy, after all), a few cooling spritzes of water from their spray bottles. The organizers told us <span style="font-style: italic;">the 3-Day is not a diet</span>, and given the excess of sugar, er, <span style="font-style: italic;">food,</span> en route (that felt a bit like a bizarre, rather sublime form of trick or treating), they were clearly right. Children held bowls of lollipops, watermelon slices, cold bottles of water out for us to take; we quickly learned that it was always best to help ourselves to whatever it was the kids were offering, lest be responsible for letting them down, and it was a whole lot more fun to leave them with big airy smiles on their faces rather than watching their little crestfallen faces pinch and fall in disappointment. <br /><br />Aside from a few favorite hand-outs, it was the Gu energy gel, the electrolyte shot blocks, the pit stop bananas, and our pre-packed gorp that fueled our adrenaline and ensured success. And even better than the glucose was the high amplitude and abundance of positive reinforcement, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Great Job, Ladies!</span>, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Way to Go!</span>s, the <span style="font-style: italic;">Thank you for Walking!</span>s that made every step a little easier. And so much of it came from the many men who had festooned themselves for the occasion, positioned themselves at, seemingly, every corner, and clapped and high-fived and hugged us on. They seemed to delight in the opportunities for dressing up and vamping, and were there everyday, from start to finish, showcasing their talents: the Pink Angels in their pink (what else?) wings and Cleopatra suit, the three older men who adorned their shoes with pink tassels and had nothing but good cheer to spread, the crew member who danced in his kilt as he passed out snacks at the pit stops. And there were others, the older woman in the wig who held her <span style="font-style: italic;">thanks from a survivor</span> sign at nearly every stop, the people who brought boom boxes out onto the sidewalks to blast <span style="font-style: italic;">Walk this Way </span>and other inspirational tunes, the girls in pink who followed us in their car, honking wildly, the crewbies in their decorated sweep vans, music blaring. And there were the ever-present Men with Heart, a team of walkers who carried backpacks stuffed with things they dispensed freely and frequently to other (female) walkers in need: pink bandanas, band aids, tampons (!), encouragement. By the end of the Walk, it was clear just how much these people had meant to us and just how big a role they had played in seeing us through. <br /><br />Saturday night at camp was its usual festive self, with dancers performing under the big top, a dance party slated to begin after dinner, and legions of walkers, starting to feel the miles, turning camp into a war zone. The medical tent set up a triage system of care, and soon there were scads of people on crutches, clutching bags of ice, grimacing in pain. The Boobies were doing okay, taking good care of ourselves and each other, but the hustle and bustle of the crew was much appreciated, because we wouldn’t have had the energy to do much for ourselves. We were a bit weary, and were not lacking for misadventures: when my mother went to grab the clothespin that was holding the tarp in place at the very top of the tent, the tent collapsed under her (minimal) weight, and she went flying, the tent ripped, and hilarity ensued. And there was something pretty funny about washing up at the little outdoor sinks, too. There were three sinks on each side of each station, with a strip of mirror at the top, so that when you looked in the mirror, you saw your face atop the body of the person on the other side. This new kind of Exquisite Corpse game was a bit disconcerting at first, but by the second night, it only added to the giddiness that had already started to build.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Sunday/Day Three:</span> The morning dawned bright. I was grateful for the Tylenol PM I had taken the night before; all those wild sounds faded into the background, and I was able to sleep until about 4:30. It’s always nice to see the sun come up, it’s something I don’t see enough. For the last day, we wore, with pride, our <span style="font-weight: bold;">I love Boobies!</span> Team shirts, packed up our tents and our duffles, hauled them to the gear trucks, where they were tossed up and stacked, ate breakfast, and again, grabbed a spot under the brightly colored (pink! Everything pink!) banners where the cheering Youth Corps had already lined up to send us off on our final leg. There were considerably fewer people walking on the third day, and at every pit stop there were more who filled the sweep vans that would take them to the finish line. The route on this day was beautiful, taking us through Belmont into Cambridge, where we had to tiptoe down Brattle Street, a neighborhood that was less than happy at hosting us. In Cambridge Square, we walked by throngs of people who had no idea what was going on. By this point, I had picked up the <span style="font-style: italic;">Courage</span> banner, which I carried over my shoulder. On the second day, I had carried <span style="font-style: italic;">Celebrations</span> for a stint. Both seemed apt. <span style="font-style: italic;">Cancer Sucks</span> was a popular sign and t-shirt slogan, and it was clear that on this, the third day, teams dressed in matching outfits, evoking their spirit, and infusing the stops with a kind of rollicking carnival atmosphere. With fewer walkers, the line of people stretched out, and as we made our way through Central Square and the MIT campus, across the Mass Ave bridge, and down Commonwealth Avenue, it was hard to tell walker from tourist, and at some points, I had to focus carefully so as to not follow one of the little groups of camera-toting tourists off the course. On Boston Common, a costumed guide led bunches of tourists around all the historical sites, and I couldn’t help but thinking how cool it would be to have themed 3-Days: an American History tour for the Boston 3-Day, with pit-stops at Paul Revere's house, the Old North Church, the USS Constitution. There is talk that they will make this year’s route permanent; if so, I hope they mark it with a long pink trail of hope. <br /><br />It was a good day to get to know our fellow walkers: I found myself walking alone at various times, and so started conversations with a bunch of different people, some of whom I had met on the first day, and kept running into here and there: there was Marie, a young woman walking for her aunt; Joan, who was walking her fourth 3-Day; Marilyn, walking with her 20-year old daughter; and at the end, Ann, who walked the final three with me at a fast clip that made me feel every sinew and fiber of my being. Every now and then, at the pit stops, the Boobies would find each other, make sure everyone was doing okay. At lunch, there was a trio of women dressed in nude unitards and thongs, wearing black curly wigs and mustaches. Borat! It felt great to walk through Boston, through the Theater District and Downtown Crossing, into South Boston, and along the Harbor Walk, a boardwalk of sorts that runs along a (fairly beautiful--who knew?!) beach in Southie and Dorchester. The wind kicked in, providing a cooling breeze for the final leg of the Walk. The cheering grew more feverish…just a little bit more…and then, suddenly, we entered a stadium, and somehow, letting the crowd pull us in, made it to the finish area. I was acutely aware of how good I felt, and how proud I was, and how eager I was to see my family. But that would have to wait; I wanted to go back for the rest of my amazing team, and especially, find my mom, and walk the finish with her. So proud of her.<br /><br />At the Closing Ceremonies on Sunday, where thousands had gathered to welcome us to the finish, dispense hugs and Gatorade, and celebrate this sprightly, wonderful, fervent slice of living, I saw on the faces of many the anguish of loss and pain, and the deep appreciation for what we were doing. Many held signs thanking us, or memorializing a loved one lost to breast cancer. And I remember thinking: These are the faces of breast cancer, these are the reasons why we walk, and this is why I am here today--here walking, feeling strong, cancer-free, even a little bit invincible, thanks to all those countless walkers who came before me, giving selflessly of themselves to raise money and awareness, to fuel the good graces of Susan G. Komen and the National Philanthropic Trust, and raise the more than 1.3 billion dollars that they’ve given to the breast cancer cause. My gratitude was and is overwhelming. <br /><br />This--this display of people helping each other out, checking on each other, encouraging and cheering each other on, this <span style="font-style: italic;">non</span>-race, this particular, spectacular kind of triumph--felt to me to be the exact opposite of the <span style="font-style: italic;">every man for himself</span> system of hard-driving, take-no-prisoners kind of capitalism that our culture has allowed to suck the life blood out of our better selves. But here, on the 3-Day, our better selves were out in full force, and the Walk seemed a symbol of the natural, innate goodness of people: the generosity, the kindness, the loving, caring nature, the tenacity that pulled us all through.<br /><br />After the last walker had made it in (and this, a group of partiers who, it seemed, made it a habit to visit one of the local bars before crossing the finish), victory shirts distributed, Gatorade spilled down our fronts, families reunited, the organizers once again took charge. With magical skill reminiscent of the way Disney World handles such massive crowds, the organizers split the walkers into two groups, sending the survivors, wearing our pink victory shirts, to the back, in rows of six, while the rest of the walkers, in white, took the lead. Ursula, Angie and Damon joined the walkers, while I found Jeanne in the back with the Survivors. The stream of walkers in white stretched out forever; as it moved into the waiting crowds, the applause grew thunderous, and the MC continued to whip the crowd into a frenzy. The amazing crew, who worked so hard to take such good care of us entered the arena next, and then, with much fanfare and apparent anticipation, the survivors in pink entered last, splitting in two groups to encircle the platform, where we stood surrounded by circles of crew, walkers, family members, grateful well-wishers. <br /><br />I walked with much pride as part of this group, pink rows, hands raised in triumph. We were <span style="font-style: italic;">all </span>ages, in all stages of recovery, and there was a radiance about the group that was truly powerful. In front of me was a woman who had been diagnosed when she was 30. Another wore a t-shirt emblazoned with her own proclamation: <span style="font-style: italic;">25 years cancer-free! </span>Some wore bandanas over their bald heads; these were women who had just finished chemo. Others were still in the throes, in between rounds. There were a few men in the group of survivors who had managed to get through their own bouts with metastatic breast cancer. And my fellow Blue Footed Boobie and friend Jeanne walked next to me, and on the other side of her, a woman who had taken my picture for me in downtown earlier that day. During the Walk, you really have no idea who is a survivor and who is not. Now all adorned in pink, we were all together, united in experience and surrounded by love, and it was so hard to keep it together as we walked in to take our places around the circular stage, where a group of survivors would stand before raising the flag…<br /><br />This is when I took in the crowds. I remember a blur of faces, some smiling, most contorted and streaked with tears; there were people mouthing the words “thank you” so they could be heard through the din of applause and music, and there were those standing quietly stricken, families split apart by the disease, loved ones left behind. I passed a man standing alone with two small daughters, and when he said thank you to me, he started to cry, and I reached out and gave him a big hug, and that was the end of trying to keep it together for me. Keeping it together, I’ve decided, is far overrated. As the final flag, declaring <span style="font-style: italic;">A World Without Breast Cancer, </span>was raised to commemorate the end of the 3-day and the ultimate goal of the Walk, I couldn’t help think of those two little girls. We were there for them above all else. There for ourselves, and for each other, yes, but especially for all those girls growing up in an environment rank with toxicity and uncertainty, for giving them hope that maybe one day we will live in a world without breast cancer.<br /><br />The Blue Footed Boobies walked for Boobies everywhere; for ourselves, for our mothers, our aunts, our sisters, and especially, for our sons and daughters.<br /><h3 class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">amazing three days; faith in humanity restored. Feeling strong & healthy, & so grateful for my Boobies & all of you. Thank you!</h3>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-61833594731739680742009-07-31T10:12:00.002-04:002009-07-31T13:12:28.772-04:00One Step at a Time is Good WalkingDear Blue Footed Boobies Supporters,<br /><br />We did it!<span style=""> </span>Woo-hoo!!<span style=""> </span>I am proud to report that every member of the Blue Footed Boobies 3-Day Team--Ursula, Jeanne, Angie, Damon and yours truly--walked each and every mile of the 60 mile route, gritting out torrential downpours and blustery winds on the first morning, a hot, unflinching sun on the second, and a building humidity that rose in waves from the city streets on the third.<span style=""> </span>Most importantly, with your help, we raised over $25K, putting us in the top five among the 3-Day power teams (while my $9000+ earned me the number six spot among all top fundraisers) and the Boston 3-Day raised more than $4 million, most of which will stay in New England. <span style=""> Throughout it all,</span> the Boobies bonded, made new friends, soaked up the empowering vibes throughout the weekend, proved that we are strong, fit and healthy (!), learned some new tricks, and loved every minute of it. <br /><br />Of course, we couldn’t have done it without you, and we are so very grateful for your support!<span style=""> </span>Whether helping us clear our $25K fundraising goal, sending letters of encouragement to the camp post office, setting us up with reflective training vests, outfitting us in <span style="font-style: italic;">I love Boobies!</span> Team gear, posting <i style="">yahoos</i>! on Facebook, or calling to check in, you pulled us through, and we thank you!<span style=""> </span>I can’t tell you how moved I was when I received a batch of letters on Friday night, all from dear old friends, offering up love and support that I welcomed with open arms and let wash over me as I sat reading them (and weeping) in my tent.<span style=""> </span>It would not be the only time I bawled during the 3-Day!<span style=""> </span>In fact, dinner each night was a lovely, hilarious, high-energy emceed laugh/bawl fest, complete with cued music, very funny jokes, performances by local dance troupes, the much-anticipated weather forecast, and the chance to herald the accomplishments of several teams and individual walkers. <br /><br />On all levels, the 3-Day is an <i>amazing</i> event.<span style=""> </span>I feel much honored to be a part of it.<span style=""> </span>And the 3-Day organization is incredibly well-run, with a team of spirited, professional full-timers overseeing a huge number of volunteer crew, who did everything from cooking our meals, making sure we were staying hydrated along the route, and entertaining us at pit-stops to tending to our medical issues and keeping us safe as we traversed all those city streets.<span style=""> </span>Carefully orchestrated for maximum effect, the 3-Day extracts the very best from its people—staff, crew, walkers: determination, cooperation, courage, compassion, and strength.<span style=""> </span>Unique to the Boston 3-Day is its team of Youth Corps, kids ages 10-16 who work tirelessly as crew during the event, cheering us on, handing out homemade chocolate chip cookies near the end of each day’s course, and making us bawl at dinner with their stories of heartache and loss--this, the very critical <i>why we walk </i>piece that has grown by leaps and bounds since completing my first 3-Day.<br /><br />As well, I can’t emphasize enough the importance of all that good Juju we received from all of you, as well as each other, fellow walkers, the amazing crew members, and all the people who came out to say <i>Hey, thanks for walking</i>.<span style=""> </span>I posted updates and photos on Facebook throughout the Walk, and the messages I received in return were pure tonic!<span style=""> </span>I truly felt as if you were walking with me, that I carried the strength of an entire tribe of good people, that I could do anything.<br /><br />Against a backdrop of classic <st1:place st="on">New England</st1:place> weather, where everything and anything is possible, we journeyed through a beautiful sixty miles over an incredible three days: grueling, exhausting, exhilarating, empowering.<span style=""> </span>And while our soggy start on Friday was not exactly welcome, it was very much expected.<span style=""> </span>Rain, however, can make for an auspicious start, and when the sun came out Friday afternoon as we strolled onto the campus of <st1:placename st="on">Gann</st1:placename> <st1:placetype st="on">Academy</st1:placetype> in <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Waltham</st1:place></st1:city>, our camp site for the next two nights, it was a <i>hallelujah </i>moment.<br /><br />The weather, of course, would prove to be the least of our worries.<span style=""> </span>As Angie, whose Achilles began to swell and bruise on Saturday, making each step a tender one, said on several occasions, “I can do anything for three days.“<span style=""> </span>True heroism abounded: Ursula walked with a crutch in hand the first day, doctor’s orders after learning that she had not one but two hairline fractures in her foot a few days before the Walk.<span style=""> </span>Jeanne’s feet suffered badly from the chronic soaking of Day 1, and were covered (covered!) in painful blisters that she kept cheerfully under wraps.<span style=""> </span>And Damon came down with a horrible case of road rash all over her legs that burned bright and red.<span style=""> </span>My plantar fascitis kicked in a bit every now and then, but I couldn’t complain.<span style=""> </span>It all felt good, an expanding lightening of being, an all-over buzzing sensation, a feeling of being very much alive.<span style=""> </span>And after all, we were surrounded by people in much worse shape than we were, and by Saturday night, camp looked a bit like a war zone, with long lines at the medical tent, a beefed-up Shower Police, who made sure we had eaten and hydrated enough before heading into the showers (where more than five people had passed out that afternoon), and many people hobbling about, icing ankles, knees, and feet, waiting in line to see the 3-Day docs, and trying to escape the wrath of the Red Card, which would prohibit them from walking on the third day.<span style=""> </span>By this time, Ursula had left her crutch behind, and it seemed that she, like all the Boobies, was only getting stronger, more determined, and focused on the finish.<br /><br />A few days now after the Walk and everyone has recovered beautifully. <span style=""> </span>I came home to a sick child (my youngest, Dominick), and the worry and sleepless nights have caught up to me, and I am feeling a bit exhausted.<span style=""> </span>And I am missing my fellow Boobies, of whom I am enormously proud for the amazing job they all did, and especially, my mother, Damon, who at the age of 69, conquered the 3-Day with strength and grace, a walking advertisement for Dr. Thornhill, her hip-replacement surgeon, and for aging (particularly) well.<br /><br />It’s been great to reflect back on the Walk and what it’s meant, what I’ve taken away, what I’m already missing.<span style=""> </span>I truly loved spending so much time outside, watching the sun come up in the morning, and go down at night; being surrounded by such positive energy; spending so much time with women and supportive men, and having the time to talk, really talk, and walk, just walk, a la Forrest Gump, forever and ever.<span style=""> </span>I am proud of what we’ve accomplished, and grateful for what I’ve taken away. <span style=""> </span>I have appreciated being part of something bigger than myself, the chance to get to know my teammates a whole lot better, and all the time—walking, talking, tenting, laughing, crying—I got to spend with my mother.<span style=""> </span>Above all else, I think, the Walk has given me the chance to prove to myself that I am strong, healthy, fit, loved, and maybe, just maybe, that there’s still a little verve of invincibility left in me.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Can do anything!<span style=""> </span>Cancer-free!<span style=""> </span>Young!<span style=""> </span>Fly!</i><span style=""> </span>I joked with my friend Clinton that they’d be playing old Helen Reddy music at camp, a little <i style="">I am Woman Hear me Roar</i> to get us going in the mornings.<span style=""> </span>No Helen Reddy, but Donna Summer, Jem, Pointer Sisters, all the best in motivational kickass tunes that seemed to follow us around from breakfast to pit stops along the route and all the way<span style=""> </span>back to camp.<span style=""> </span>Never underestimate a good soundtrack!<span style=""> </span>It’d be lovely to feel that way all the time, to hang on to the power of the walk, infuse our days with all that good stuff.<br /><br />I started this as a highlights reel, but there was so much to write about, that, well, I’ve done my usual and written a small novel.<span style=""> </span>This, believe it or not, is the short version.<span style=""> </span>Find the detailed tome, complete with day to day highlights, camp misadventures, photos, and other tales, on my blog, <a href="http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com/">http://flipsideofforty.blogspot.com</a>.<span style=""> <br /><br />I hope you’ll stay in touch.<span style=""> </span>And I thank you again for being such a huge source of support. I am proud of all of <i style="">you</i>, too!<span style=""> </span>After all, WE did it.<span style=""> </span>Together.<span style=""> </span>And next year I hope we can do it again.<span style=""> </span>The Blue Footed Boobies are recruiting!<span style=""> </span>The colony is expanding!<span style=""> </span>Requirements: a willingness to train hard, raise at least $2300, sleep in a pink tent, wear pink, and pee in porta potties.<span style=""> </span>I promise that if you do join us, I will bestow any and all wisdom gained from my inaugural 3-Day experience.<span style=""> </span>For instance, here’s one: Always (always!) take your fanny pack off before you use the porta pottie!<span style=""> </span>(alas, I am mourning my poor water bottle, lost forever!)<br /><br />">I haven't got any special religion this morning. My God is the God of Walkers. If you walk hard enough, you probably don't need any other god</span><span style="font-size:12pt;">. ~ Bruce Chatwin, In <st1:place st="on">Patagonia<br /><br />Enjoy the rest of the summer.<span style=""> </span>May your feet take you out the door on many lovely walks, and remember the old Chinese proverb: </st1:place></span><i style=""><span style="font-size:12pt;">One step at a time is good walking</span></i><span style="font-size:12pt;">.<span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></span><p></p>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-47769535630431866452009-07-21T11:32:00.003-04:002009-07-21T11:36:41.803-04:00Very Nearly There<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9UQ8B9qF_ywmvVUoYoqotCOyAzozk94v69_fyfezF-1CT04WiLPiJm2rJLVgE2-aVcurzvgSSbQ1dCERYQx3BL9rl4yOEVHynkZdXXzQNgIAmB29A7NrfsrJnT0ARndF9Z3kBCHRmqulF/s1600-h/IMG_1920.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9UQ8B9qF_ywmvVUoYoqotCOyAzozk94v69_fyfezF-1CT04WiLPiJm2rJLVgE2-aVcurzvgSSbQ1dCERYQx3BL9rl4yOEVHynkZdXXzQNgIAmB29A7NrfsrJnT0ARndF9Z3kBCHRmqulF/s400/IMG_1920.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360937783804100562" border="0" /></a><br />(from left to right) Ursula Nadolny, <b style="">Liz</b> Gardner, Angie Murphy, Damon Reed, Jeanne Rees <span style=""> </span><i style="">Liz is in fruit and sugar’s I Love Boobies! shirt.</i><p>July 20<strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">, 2009<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p><strong>Dear Blue Footed Booby Supporters,<o:p></o:p></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Well, we are very nearly there.<span style=""> </span>With just four days (!) to go until Opening Ceremonies on the 24<sup>th</sup>, the Blue-Foots are gearing up for Boston: packing our gear (including awesome I love Boobies team shirts and hoodies), trying to stay healthy and limber, getting in those final training walks, and finalizing a preposterously long list of logistics.<span style=""> </span>After all, we’re all mothers, and we’re all going to be away from our families for three nights and four days, three of which we’ll be chasing pavement.<span style=""> </span>We’ve laughed that for some of us the 3-Day just might feel like a mini-vacation: no cooking, no cleaning, no driving back and forth a zillion times a day.<span style=""> </span>And instead: just walking, eating, staying hydrated, stretching, talking, walking some more, and ah, using those porta-potties (something else we have had to train for).<span style=""> </span>Plus, it is rumored that there are massage therapists available at camp.<span style=""> </span>If it weren’t for having to walk those 60 miles and sleep in pink tents on a turf field with thousands of other people, it might just feel like a mini-spa vacation.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p><strong><i style=""><span style="font-weight: normal;">Did you know there are 2.5 million breast survivors in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> today?<span style=""> </span>(Two of them are Blue Footed Boobies).<o:p></o:p></span></i></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">This past weekend, in between taking in awesome music, food, friends & family, weather (blue skies!), gorgeous hot air balloons, and the serendipitous harmonious vibe that filled the fields with good Juju for the masses at the Green River Festival, I completed my own half-3-Day, walking 10+ miles Fri-Sat-Sun.<span style=""> </span>Just yesterday, all the Boobies gathered together for our final official team training walk, a lovely 10+ mile walk through the bucolic back roads of Guilford, Vermont, where our teammate Ursula lives.<span style=""> </span>Today, we “rest” (though telling the Boobies to rest is a bit like trying to get a pack of 6-month old puppies to lay low after they’ve been fixed).<span style=""> </span>Tomorrow, our virtual trainers have us down for an easy 5.<span style=""> </span>We’ll pack.<span style=""> </span>Make last minute arrangements with our families.<span style=""> </span>Do some last minute weeding. A few of us will be henna tattooed by henna artist Kelly Flaherty, who has very generously given her time on several fundraising occasions.<span style=""> </span>Thank you, Kelly!<span style=""> </span>Her beautiful designs have emboldened us throughout our journey, and we are grateful.<span style=""> </span>On Wednesday, we’ll put the recommended 30 minutes worth of cross-training through our own interpretations: gardening, cleaning the house, bicycling, playing tennis, stacking wood, packing for the 3-Day!<span style=""> </span>And on Thursday, we’ll leave for <st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city>, <i style="">yahoo!,</i> spend the night at a hotel in <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Natick</st1:city></st1:place>, and wake up way too early in order to be at the start by 5:30 am.<span style=""> </span>I feel a bit like a racehorse, frothing and chewing at the gate, ready to bust out and do my thing.<span style=""> </span>Must lay off the caffeine!<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p><strong><i style=""><span style="font-weight: normal;">Nancy G. Brinker founded the Susan G. Komen for the Cure 25 years ago, in honor of her sister, Susan, who died at the age of 36 of breast cancer.<span style=""> </span>Since then, Komen for the Cure has become the world’s largest source of not-for-profit fund dedicated to curing breast cancer at every stage.<o:p></o:p></span></i></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">Fundraising update: we have surpassed $22K and are now closing in on the $23K mark!<span style=""> </span>Thanks to some last minute reminders, the highly effectiveness of those instant status updates on Facebook, and the spirited generosity of friends and neighbors and family members both near and far, we’ve been able to raise a couple more thousand dollars over the past ten days.<span style=""> </span>I am proud of my Blue Footed Boobies, and I have been touched by the big heartedness and munificence of our supporters.<span style=""> </span>Thank you so much!<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p>It is important to remember just how critical this fundraising piece is: thanks to Susan G. Komen for the Cure, and the millions raised by 3-Day walkers, the 5 year survival rate of breast cancer, when the cancer is caught before it has spread beyond the breast, now stands at 98%.<span style=""> </span>Compare that to 74% in 1982, and you understand just how dollars raised really do = lives saved.<span style=""> </span>As well, 75% of all women over 40 now receive regular mammograms.<span style=""> </span>In 1982, less than 30% of women even received a clinical exam (!).<span style=""> </span>Early detection through my annual mammogram quite possibly saved my life.<span style=""> </span>The $1.2 billion invested by Komen for the Cure ensures that all women have access to the advances in early screening and treatment options that I had.<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p><strong><i style=""><span style="font-weight: normal;">Over 200,000 women are diagnosed with breast cancer each year in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region><span style=""> </span>40,000 will die, that’s one woman dying of breast cancer every 13 minutes in the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">U.S.</st1:place></st1:country-region> alone.<span style=""> </span>Over 1500 men are diagnosed each year, and 400 of them will die.<span style=""> </span>Isn’t it time to make those statistics history?<o:p></o:p></span></i></strong></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">A few links to share with you:<o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;font-family:Garamond;" ><span style="">☼<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span></strong><!--[endif]--><strong>BFB Team Gear:</strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> If you’d like to deepen your support of the Boobies, and enjoy some wonderfully-designed I Love (heart) Boobies gear, please visit <a href="http://www.cafepress.com/fruitandsugar/5560906"><span style="">http://www.cafepress.com/fruitandsugar/5560906</span></a> Or, go to </span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">www.fruitand</span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">sugar.com>swag. Once there, you can click again on the Blue Footed Boobies 3-Day Team to specifically order merchandise (Sigg water bottles!<span style=""> </span>Thongs! Organic t-shirts!<span style=""> </span>Big comfy hoodies!) with not only the I (heart) Boobies! design but the BFB 3-Day Team bit on the back as well.<span style=""> </span>The whimsical image of the pair of Blue Footed Boobies—blue feet raised, taking their first steps, no doubt, towards doing great things--is truly wonderful, and we are so grateful to local graphic designer, Anja Shutz and partner Jamie Berger, who very generously donated the image to our cause.<span style=""> </span>Thank you Anja and Jamie!<span style=""> </span>Our team gear is super-fabuloso!<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><span style="">☼<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">We’ll be crossing the finish line on Sunday, July 26 together in I love Boobies! BFB team gear.<span style=""> </span>If you have any interest in joining us at the Closing Ceremonies, or along the route at specially designated cheering sections, I welcome you to check out the </span>Spectator Page</strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"> on the 3-Day site: </span></strong><a href="http://www.the3day.org/site/R?i=yLTlvTFyZ-ccK_4xng_96w" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts"><span style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">http://www.the3day.org/site/R?i=yLTlvTFyZ-ccK_4xng_96w</span></span></a><span style=""> </span>It’d be great to see you somewhere along the route!<span style=""> </span>If you decide to come, please let me know so I can look for you.<span style=""> </span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><span style="">☼<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">We just received a rough outline of the 3-Day route, a </span>journey map </strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;">of sorts that has us starting at <st1:city st="on">Framingham</st1:city>, walking east and camping somewhere near <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Waltham</st1:city></st1:place> (Bentley?<span style=""> </span>Brandeis?), spending the second day in and around <st1:place st="on"><st1:city st="on">Lexington</st1:city></st1:place> (hurray!<span style=""> </span>I was hoping we might take in some history), and finishing up with a walk through <st1:city st="on">Cambridge</st1:city> and <st1:city st="on">Boston</st1:city>, where we’ll enjoy the Closing Ceremonies at UMASS, <st1:place st="on">Dorchester</st1:place>.<span style=""> </span>Here’s the map: </span></strong><a href="http://www.the3day.org/site/R?i=SUaBk1pZuxL-hN6rEMLbkA" target="_blank"><span class="yshortcuts"><span style="text-decoration: none; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">http://www.the3day.org/site/R?i=SUaBk1pZuxL-hN6rEMLbkA</span></span></a><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><span style="">☼<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->A few of us will be trying to update our supporters on Facebook during the walk.<span style=""> </span>Of course, the safety monitors will be making sure that we won’t be using our cell phones while we walk (three strikes and you’re out!) so we’ll be sure to follow the rules and step off the route every now and then to make our calls.<span style=""> </span>Feel free to send us a hello or word of encouragement via email or on FB or cell phone.<span style=""> </span><span style="">We</span>’d love to hear from you!<span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><span style="">☼<span style=";font-family:";font-size:7;" > </span></span></span><!--[endif]-->We’ll be in touch after the Walk to recap some of the highlights for you.<span style=""> </span>Keep your fingers crossed for good weather—especially since it looks as if summer has finally arrived, with all its wretched heat and humidity, just in time for our Walk!<span style=""><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in;">A friend reminded me that 60 miles equals 316,800 feet.<span style=""> </span>That’s 11 times the distance of <st1:place st="on">Mount Everest</st1:place>. We’re ready.<span style=""> </span>And w<strong>e are most grateful for your support.</strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.25in; text-align: center;" align="center"><strong><span style=""><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" spt="75" preferrelative="t" path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f"> <v:stroke joinstyle="miter"> <v:formulas> <v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"> <v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"> <v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"> <v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"> <v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"> <v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"> <v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"> </v:formulas> <v:path extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" connecttype="rect"> <o:lock ext="edit" aspectratio="t"> </v:shapetype><v:shape id="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75" style="'width:343.5pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\DOCUME~1\ELIZAB~1\LOCALS~1\Temp\msohtml1\01\clip_image001.jpg" title="IMG_1920"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><br /><!--[endif]--></span></strong><strong><span style="font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></span></strong></p> <p><b style="">Love to you and thanks on behalf of all the Boobies, blue-footed and otherwise!,<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p><b style="">Liz<o:p></o:p></b></p> <p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /><i style=""><o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-16764623511561033102009-07-03T12:19:00.003-04:002009-07-03T12:46:17.674-04:00"If you want to know if your brain is flabby, feel your legs." - Bruce BartonI suppose one could argue that all this walking is good for more than just my body; that it is good for my brain, too, helping me sort out thoughts, streamline my consciousness, drop into the pensieve all those extraneous memories (oh! that's where they've gone!) and lighten my load. Not that my memory has gotten any better lately (see previous post for ode to post-40 memory loss), but I have been able to feel a bit more balanced, less full of nervous tension (except on mornings when I overdo with the green tea, alas), and more focused. And my body has definitely changed, returning to those days when I could run a switch on the pitch and feel fine. But that's been a side benefit, truly. Feeling stronger, lighter--that's all good. But I think I've come to realize that I walk because it's the best way I know how to get out and take in my town--its unique mix of people, its rolling hills and deep woods, its lovely roadways, its undiscovered treasures. Walking, it seems, might just be the best cure for loneliness.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-family:Verdana;" ><strong style="font-weight: 400;"></strong></span><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:worddocument> <w:view>Normal</w:View> <w:zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:punctuationkerning/> <w:validateagainstschemas/> <w:saveifxmlinvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:ignoremixedcontent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:alwaysshowplaceholdertext>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:compatibility> <w:breakwrappedtables/> <w:snaptogridincell/> <w:wraptextwithpunct/> <w:useasianbreakrules/> <w:dontgrowautofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:browserlevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:latentstyles deflockedstate="false" latentstylecount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><style> <!-- /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0in; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:none; mso-layout-grid-align:none; punctuation-wrap:simple; text-autospace:none; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-font-kerning:14.0pt;} @page Section1 {size:8.5in 11.0in; margin:1.0in 1.25in 1.0in 1.25in; mso-header-margin:.5in; mso-footer-margin:.6in; mso-page-numbers:1; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} --> </style><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;"><strong style="font-family: georgia;"><i style=""><span style="font-weight: normal;color:black;" >There is nothing like walking to get the feel of a country. A fine landscape is like a piece of music; it must be taken at the right tempo. Even a bicycle goes too fast.</span></i></strong><i style="font-family: georgia;"><span style=";color:black;" ><br /></span></i></span><span style="font-family: georgia;font-size:100%;color:black;" >~ Paul Scott Mowrer</span><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><br />No doubt about it, walking <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a great way to get to know your town--and its people. In this little farm town where I‘ve lived for twelve of the past fourteen years, I’ve never experienced so many serendipitous, agreeable encounters with my fellow Gillbillies, taken in so much of the ever-changing landscape, been privy to so many breathtakingly beautiful views, skies, trees, and slices and snapshots of that life typically gone unnoticed, than I have since I started walking my town. I’ve logged hundreds (at least!) of miles since beginning my training last December--upwards now of 50+ miles a week--and its proven to be the very thing to put a stop to the usual rush ‘n go that often derails my attempts at adopting any sort of zen-like, meditative, mindful living-in-the-moment mantra--and allow me to slow down and take it all in. After all, there’s not a whole lot of multi-tasking you can do while walking. Can’t check e-mail. Fold the laundry. Read a book (you can listen). Knit (ok, so I don’t knit, but if I did, I couldn’t do it). You can only walk. Breathe. Look around. Be there to witness all the snapshots of life that usually pass you by. Turn just in time to see the pair of red winged blackbirds leave their fence post for the skies. Take in the overwhelming sweetness coming from the woods. Wave to Farmer Flagg on his tractor. Greet the neighbor’s dog. Say hello to Susie the Pony. Keep walking. Listen to a little music on the Pod, or a chapter from Mayflower, or Alice in Wonderland, or hit shuffle for a little divination from the iPod goddess: Shivaree’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Goodnight Moon</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Police & Thieves</span> by the Clash (oooh yeaaaahhh!), and a little 70’s nirvana, Hot Chocolate’s <span style="font-style: italic;">You Sexy Thing.</span><br /><br />I’ve walked past the same fields and stretches of farmland, day in, day out, watching them cycle through the growing season, from their stark, lovely beginnings--when they were filled with the leftover stubs of last season’s corn, dried, dead grasses, and mole mounds, and that simmering energy of that early spring damp--and back into life again, plowed, then furrowed, stately rows awaiting seeds, which, when sown, brought the fields back into that frenzied, uproarious life, filled with the pendulant charm of spring’s first growth. There are the fields that fill over and over again with tall, sprightly yellowish green grasses with burnt umber tops that rise and swallow up the distant barns like a tumultuous sea, only to be threshed, slain, and left like fallen soldiers to lie and dry in the sun. A day or so later, they‘ve been gathered together into tidy rectangular parcels of hay, left scattered here and there only to be taken away.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Walking takes longer... than any other known form of locomotion except crawling. Thus it stretches time and prolongs life. Life is already too short to waste on speed.</span> ~ Edward Abbey<br /><br />Everywhere there is evidence of industriousness—stacked bundles of fresh hay, new fences being put up, new decks, new gardens put in, the yard junk being cleaned up after years and years of inertia. But it is the Wood Pile that most impresses me--those lovely piles that reek of muscles earned the honest way, of strength and stability, of sweet wood smoke, of an honest day’s work. So many of them stand as works of art, and I envy them for their solidity, their orderliness, the perfect roundness of the ends reserved for later splitting. My piles seem to wallow in imperfect symmetry, clinging to some semblance of balance that allows them to sway and threaten disaster but hang on in some lucky happenstance, an <span style="font-style: italic;">Amazing Race</span> Road Block gone nearly awry.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The civilized man has built a coach, but has lost the use of his feet.</span> ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson<br /><br />There are things you notice when you go by at a walking clip that you miss out entirely from the zippy confines of your car or bike: the tiny, lovely details of somebody’s garden; the smattering of slugs along the roadside; the preponderance of crows, suddenly, that caw and screech and drown out the sweeter melodies of the songbirds; the trill and silent flight of an overhead hawk; the comings and goings of daily life.<br /><br />Gill, a semi-suburban, quasi-bedroom community, feels more like a small agricultural town bordering a bigger small city of Greenfield. There are a remarkable number of small family farms that have survived here to continue to offer up foodstuffs that are locally grown and lovingly coaxed from the fertile soil that lines this river valley. The Connecticut River, it seems, is always a stone’s throw away, but because it is a hilly town, with a few higher ridges overlooking the river, it is easy to forget its close proximity, especially if you were driving through, unless the fog had spread its thick spectral magic over the roads, forcing you to drive at a snail’s pace. But take a turn off the Main Road onto one of the smaller roads that lead straight down to the river, and you’ll enter land that seems unchanged in centuries of farming. A few old farms may dot the landscape, and perhaps a beautiful (and much coveted) old family house sharing space along the river with a grove of trees, but for the most part, the perfect rows of corn, or tobacco, or overflowing mounds of squash and pumpkins take center stage. Here there is a sense of yonder when you stand amidst the land, with views opening up all around you. And in other spots, where the quiet of the woods beckons, a comfortable knitted-in feeling pervades, drawing you into the soft shadows that fall amongst dappled sunlight stretching across trees and streams. There have been many times when I have stood and felt the hush and rush of such beauty. There is a sense of history, too, in the land, in the old farm implements that dot the landscape, the old grist mill wheels that people have planted in their yards, the old foundations here and there that evoke an earlier time in the town’s history, when the green was filled with taverns and inns, schools, and stores, and town farmers and travelers clicked glasses well into the night. The Gill Tavern sits where the old Gill Store used to stand, serving up dinners and spirits, and providing a spot where the townsfolk can gather and greet each other and celebrate things small and large, Obama’s election, a neighbor’s homecoming from the hospital, graduation, the Oscars. But the town is quiet for the most part, with few gathering spots other than the Tavern and the small, lively library that sits across the way. It’s hard to see people. There are no real neighborhoods here, where you can step outside and greet your neighbors, where kids can spill out into yards and cul-de-sacs for instant play-dates and self-governed misadventures. Walking, it seems, has been the best way to pop into people’s lives every now and then, remind myself that there are, in fact, people out there, and, out of all the little impromptu chance meetings, to knit together a richer sense of community.<br /><br />Sometimes, but only a few times, I’ve felt uncomfortable walking about. When the sun dips suddenly and I worry that I will run out of light; when the familiarity that has cloaked me suddenly falls off, and I find myself in a strange place. I’ve walked into and walked past a few big blow-out domestic quarrels, too, and have had to speed up to clear out, give some space, my ears filled with the sounds of shouting that was no doubt used to a more private audience.<br /><br />Mostly, though, I have felt more and more comfortable in my town as I have walked it, more enamored of its quirky mix of people, its breathtaking beauty, its imperfect charm. Walking, I have found, is the best way for me to get out and see people. Since our closest neighbors live nearly a mile up a dirt road behind our house, or across the street in the big old stone lodge, or down the hill in either direction, there are very few opportunities to say hello in this car-centric culture of ours. You walk from your front door to the driveway, where you climb into your car and shut the door on any opportunities for face-to-face contact. And the long winter months, when people hunker down inside and hole up in front of wood stoves, can be absolutely bone-crushingly lonely.<br /><br />Walking—even in the clutch of winter—affords me the luxury of running into friends and neighbors and people I didn‘t know but get to know by the sheer act of stopping to say hello--people doing yard work, shoveling snow or hail (!), walking or running or biking, playing with their dog, catching frogs at the campus pond. Walking has, for me, hemmed together those long stretches of roadways that separate us into a smaller, more accessible patchwork of people, farms, lives, a neighborhood of sorts, and with it, the opportunity to stay connected and hook into a decidedly more enchanted flow of life, through which I have happily been a bigger part of that living breathing organism of Gill life, all interconnected and interdependent, flowing through and with each other, those streams and brooks and tributaries flowing throughout town before ultimately emptying into the big river.<br /><br />I remember one such walk that I took several weeks ago with Daisy. It was a Saturday. I had planned on making lots of swim spots; it was a hot day, and she’s prone to overheating in her thick black coat, so we headed down Main Road from our house, intent on swinging down to the NMH boathouse by the river, where she could jump off the dock and swim to her heart’s content. On the way, we ran into several neighbors just out in their yards, putting in gardens, watering porch plants, playing with their children. If I’d been driving by in a car, I would not have been able to say a proper hello, much less enjoy an exchange of conversation. Closer to the turn off for the river, we encountered a family setting out with a new acquisition: a pup named Cita, who was flying about the leash like a wayward over-caffeinated planet trying to stay in orbit. Daisy and Cita ran about together for awhile before we set out for the dock, where Daisy slid into the pollen-coated water and swam in tight circles before I letting me pull her up to shake and splatter yellow wet across the dock. Up on campus, we said hello to a bunch of people, stopped to get caught up, and then made our way to Shadow Lake, where a friend and his young son were trying to catch frogs. We stayed for a good twenty minutes, Daisy splashing in and out of the pond, lily pads tangled around her skinny ankles, and ruining any chances we had at actually netting one of those bull frogs. In the woods, we had just begun to run the two miles, and beat the bite of the intrepid mosquitoes, when we quite literally ran into a border collie named Max and a woman on her bike. We got to talking, since it was that kind of a day, and discovered that she had walked the Boston 3-Day several years back, when they still had it in May, and a sudden bone-chilling snowstorm overtook the walkers, and hundreds were brought to the hospital to be treated for hypothermia. It is no wonder that they decided to hold the event in July after that!<br /><br />A full 12 miles and 3 hours later, Daisy and I were at home, and I felt as if I had spent the morning <span style="font-style: italic;">gone visiting</span>. There was a certain residual warmth about it that stayed with me for hours.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">My grandmother started walking five miles a day when she was sixty. She's ninety-three today and we don't know where the hell she is.</span> ~ Ellen DeGeneres<br /><br />And there are things you get to know, things you learn, from walking so very frequently and such very long distances: where the trees offer up cool shade on the really hot days, where the mosquitoes and black flies will swarm, where the good pit-stops are (again, <span style="font-style: italic;">trees</span>), where people seem to want to drive you off the road and where you might not see a single car go by, where you might stretch out along a bridge overlooking a stream, where the psycho dogs live and which ones, tied up or restricted to their underground electric fences or smashed against the door screen, might bark in a mounting, wild frenzy before settling into a tail-wagging love-fete (oh, that would be my dog). That there are a lot of red pick-ups in Gill. That someone seems to drink endless nips of vodka on the ride home and tosses the empties out their car window at precisely the same spot every time. That cars have a smell to them, and if the windows are down, you can tell what someone has just been eating, or smoking. The greasy stench of fast food. The nose-tingling scent of cigars. Juice boxes. Cheese doodles.<br /><br />The air, too, has been filled with the fragrance of life returning, then blazing, and time passes so quickly, and the warm season is so short here in these northern valleys, that soon the smell of decay will too be upon us. Summer always feels so truncated--by the lateness of springtime’s pendulant arrival, on one end, and at the other, by the premature rush to autumnize and back-to-school everything, beginning, it seems, in early August, just as summer is beginning to sink its hooks into the landscape.<br /><br />Never was there anything more sweet and satisfying, though, as walking through air this spring scented with the lush, rich blossoms of apple, peach, pear and wild cherry trees opening to the first breath of air, lilacs, black locust, the shad bushes that once heralded the return of millions of fish (and gathering tribes) to the river every May, and meadows ripe with wildflowers and grasses. The trout lilies ushered in a host of spring wildflowers, clover, wild geranium, may apple, that lay straining and scattered along the dusty roadsides and across the leas, infusing the air already flush with lilacs. The succession of colors have been lovely to watch; the yellow sea of dandelions, the bright pinks mixing with the white of the daisies and yarrow, the Indian paintbrush in many colors, and all those I have never found a name for. And now…the milkweed has come up in our perennial garden again, and I will leave it, as I did last year, to cycle through its wonderful stages, the pink globes of small clustered flowers that welcome bees and butterflies, and then, the sudden appearance of pouches and seed purses, and the sticky white sap that runs down the tall green stalks while the winds spread the seed ‘chutes over the land.<br /><br />We sampled spring’s fare: ramps, dandelion greens, fiddleheads, nettle, scapes, asparagus., and just a few weeks ago, the first strawberries of the late springtime that edged into these few short weeks of summer that never seem to stay long enough, like a bird in constant flight, never stopping to rest or stay, always swooping and searching the tips of ocean waves for food, a constant, restlessness at its side.<br /><br />There was the familiar pop of strawberry pulled from stem, the fine white bubbles of the spittlebug nymphs, the enormity of the first strawberries, the miracle of the first taste…<br />There’s something about this time spent in the rows surrendering to the task at hand, the meditative search and rescue of strawberries suffering from too much rain, surrounded by neighbors and strangers alike, that feels like an instant gathering…I’d like to stay all day if I could, awash in conversation and community and the feeling of connection and bounty. But the skies are threatening, the air is humid and buggy, and there is, of course, walking to be done. We make jam, line our pantry shelves with the ball jars bright red , ready to spill some of summer color into the white grays of the coming winter.<br /><br />And then the rains came. Rain, rain, chilly rain. Torrential rains. Flash floods. Hail that blasted through the leaves and pocked the gardens. Big, booming thunderstorms that sent the dog to simper and pace and take refuge under the bed. The strawberries never quite recovered. Pickers were few and far between, convinced that the rain had made a soggy mess of the patch, that it was not worth it.<br /><br />Of course, they were pretty much wrong. On my last day of picking, a season, it seems, without last year’s leisurely stretches of picking opportunities, and instead, squeezed into ½ hour slots like some regimented parent-teacher conferences, I expected the worst: soggy rows bereft of any plumb picking, and instead filled with overly ripe mushy wasted berries, rotten to the core. Like all those would-be pickers who stayed home, I, too, was wrong.<br /><br />Sure, there were many berries so covered in the dusty grey mold that you wouldn’t recognize them as anything being once remotely edible, let alone delicious. And yes, there were plenty that had waited on the stem far too long to be picked, and now suffered in silence, destined not for the expectant mouth of some eager child, or a batch of fresh jam, a pie, or to be sliced, sugared, and heaved into a pile onto some shortcake, covered in whipped cream, and memorialized as the season’s best, but instead for a lonely, gradual decomposition, aided along by the intermittent nibblings of curious, hungry birds, animals, insects. But everywhere in between there were bright red lovely strawberries that caught my eye, clumps of good picking that filled my box in less than thirty minutes, and sent me home with enough berries for another 6 jars of jam.<br /><br />Sometimes, you forget that there is <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> an upside.<br /><br />When the sun comes out after weeks of rain and gray skies, it seems like some blast of life that pulls you from the trenches and refreshes your better sensibility, your spirit. And really, we’ve had so much rain that it’s been tough to feel good, to let out that inner sunshine. Plus, there’s the fact that the slugs are threatening to take over. They splatter the roads and when we walk, there they are, underfoot, unavoidable, disgusting little lumps of sticky smooshed flesh that seem to have been dumped from the skies. They have eaten all our basil, and are starting in on our lettuces and greens. We have discovered their secrets, though: they love beer, and it seems, will do anything for a sip. So, we entice them with low vats of the frothy stuff, into which they clamor and climb and eventually drink themselves silly into such a stupor that they don’t quite get that they are drowning. We’ve been pulling twenty or more of the little fat, frat boy-slugs out of the beer vat every day. Who knew?<br /><br />The rain has not stopped me from walking. As Charles Dickens once said, <span style="font-style: italic;">If I could not walk far and fast, I think I should just explode and perish. </span>Boy, do I <span style="font-style: italic;">get </span>that. It seems that once you start walking, it is hard not to do it every day. A little addiction. <span style="font-style: italic;">Must walk today else my head will spin.</span> So, rain or shine, I’m out there, chasing pavement. And besides, walking in the rain is good training, to see if my rain gear will hold up, if slathering my feet with un-petroleum jelly before setting out will really prevent blisters when every other step is one that takes me into through a puddle, if my gear, body, spirit can prevail through whatever the weather.<br /><br />Rain or shine, I have my favorite spots: the quiet of the unpaved, back roads that wind through town forest and farmland, the pooling streams that form falls through old grist mill walls and tumble and roar into the Connecticut, the kitsch and warmth of the Wagon Wheel, a lively, comfortable spot along Route 2, where the people are always friendly and the food is always good, and where I can use a flush toilet…<br /><br />And the best thing? There is always something waiting to be discovered. To borrow a couple of quotes from John Burroughs, the American naturalist and essayist:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter... to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird's nest or a wildflower in spring - these are some of the rewards of the simple life. </span><br /><br />And yet,<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />I still find each day too short for all the thoughts I want to think, all the walks I want to take, all the books I want to read and all the friends I want to see.</span> ~ John Burroughs<br /><br />Some day, perhaps. For now, I am happy to find the time to be able to put some thoughts down before heading out to walk the beat. Hope to see you on the trail.zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5112436417432910909.post-89634602386447475102009-07-03T09:35:00.004-04:002009-07-03T09:44:06.343-04:00Trading Meds with my Dog: the Pitfalls of a Dilapidated MemoryI hate it when I forget to take my Tamoxifen.<span style=""> </span>Worse is being unable to remember if I’ve taken it or not.<span style=""> </span>It makes me feel like a demented old hag (or perhaps just a regular old Used Bagge), my brain all crumbly and spent, those bong hits coming back to torment me from my Iron Lungs days.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Ha ha, you did kill too many brain cells.</i><span style=""> </span>So, I pace, I try to reconstruct my day, try to remember grabbing the bottle, unscrewing the cap, popping the pill into my mouth with a swig of water, draining the glass.<span style=""> </span>But I can’t.<span style=""> </span>Did I take it?<span style=""> </span>Did I take it?<span style=""> </span>It might have been yesterday, after all, or another day.<span style=""> </span>What’s to distinguish this time from another?<br /><br />I have to remember to give my dog, Daisy, her Phenobarbital, too.<span style=""> </span>They are round, white tablets, like the Tamoxifen, but smaller, and she gets two at a time, once in the morning and once in the evening.<span style=""> </span>I just get one Tamoxifen, at midday.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I accidentally take two Tamoxifen in my hand and begin to put them in my mouth.<span style=""> </span>Oops!<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I grab the Phenobarbital bottle instead, and start to dump a few into my hand.<span style=""> </span>Ooops!<span style=""> </span>Those plastic medicine bottles look pretty much the same, and if it weren’t for the doggies on the top of Daisy’s, I’d really be screwed. <span style=""> </span>But just the same, I don’t always take notice of the little doggies on the top, or the fact that my bottle is orange, Daisy’s is green, and am often left wondering if I have given Daisy her Phenobarbital or if I have slipped her a couple of Tamoxifen instead.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I wonder if I should try taking her Phenobarbital instead of my Tamoxifen, a swap.<span style=""> </span>I could use a sedative every now and then.<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><br /><br />Initially, I took my Tamoxifen in the morning, along with copious amounts of supplements all intended to make me think I can control my destiny, my health.<span style=""> </span>Vitamin D, because it just rains and rains and rains and there is no way we’re getting enough from the sun this summer, let alone in the winter.<span style=""> </span>A big fat multivitamin, a big fat B complex, good for de-stressing.<span style=""> </span>A bundle of cal/mag, keeping the bones strong in the wake of the Tamoxifen, which sucks the calcium out and sets you up for osteoporosis.<span style=""> </span>Extra magnesium citramate, to help me absorb all that calcium.<span style=""> </span>Evening primrose oil, flax seed oil, fish oil.<span style=""> </span>Anti-inflammatories, all.<span style=""> </span>CoQ10.<span style=""> </span>Why not CoQ11?<span style=""> </span>Milk thistle extract, to keep my liver healthy.<span style=""> </span>Daisy gets that, too, in her dinner.<span style=""> </span>And my latest addition:<span style=""> </span>Glucasomine, to help with all the joint pain.<span style=""> </span>And then, of course, the Tamoxifen, in the plastic orange bottle, no doggies on top.<span style=""> </span>It was infinitely more easy to remember to take it when it was part of the pack.<span style=""> </span>Sure, what’s one more?<span style=""> </span>But I was hot flashing like mad at night while I tried to sleep, whipping off the covers, then my clothes, and finally, wishing I could shave my head, lose the long, thick hair that enveloped me like a Russian Ushanka, a brick oven, a fat cat, and stop the damn sweating.<span style=""> </span>My breast doctor suggested taking the Tamoxifen at noontime, see if that helped.<span style=""> </span>It did.<span style=""> </span>The hot flashes, for the most part, stopped torturing me at night; instead, they crept up all of a sudden at various times during the day, seizing me in the car, windows down, <i style="">quick,</i> or while grocery shopping, sending me running into the ice cream section for relief, or trying to teach the boys some Spanish, <i style="">estoy muy caliente!</i><span style=""> </span>I dress in layers, and a tank top is always my first one, just in case I have to strip down to the bare essentials.<span style=""> </span>What else is a girl to do?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><br /><br />So, now, instead of losing sleep over the relentless thump of hot flashes that yanks me from my better dreams to set me afloat in a sea of sweat, I lose my head over trying to remember if I’ve taken the damn thing.<span style=""> </span>Did I?<span style=""> </span>Did I? <span style=""> </span>I can’t remember, I can’t remember!<span style=""> </span>I curse myself. <span style=""> </span>Why am I so <i style="">stupid??</i><span style=""> </span>What if I think I didn’t take it, and I take it, and I actually did take it, and so have now taken two in one day, what will happen to me then?<span style=""> </span>There are silly, insidious places in my head where I try, desperately, not to go, but go I do, imagining all the horrible that might be.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><br /><br />I’ve tried to be systematic and smart and deliberate about it: marking it on a calendar, using sticker charts (yeah, that went over big), and finally, putting the container of Tamoxifen in the middle of the kitchen counter in the morning during my supplement feast so I would see it later and <i style="">remember, remember!</i> to take it, and then, once I’ve taken it, return it to the masses of bottles to the side, so I would <i style="">remember, remember!</i> that I had, in fact, taken it.<span style=""> </span>But sometimes I will see it there amongst its more alternative friends, and I’ll think to myself: perhaps I didn’t take it at all, perhaps I only forgot to put it into the middle of the counter, and it hasn’t moved since yesterday. <span style=""> </span>Two things to remember: take the meds, then remember that you’ve taken your meds.<span style=""> </span>Shit.<span style=""> </span>Why is life so complicated?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><br /><br />Daisy, it seems, remembers.<span style=""> </span>She comes into the kitchen after breakfast and nudges me, stares me down with her ridiculously big pleading eyes until I say, “Oh, Daisy, are you ready for your medication?”<span style=""> </span>Which means to her, “Oh, Daisy, would you like some chicken?”<span style=""> </span>I learned early on that the only way she’d take it, without spitting out the little tablets onto the kitchen floor in distaste, was to give her a piece of chicken first, then open her jaw, toss the little buggers in, tell her to “swallow, swallow!” in a high, sing-songy voice that promises something more fabulous (a walk, a ride in the car, a chance to chase the ball, the Frisbee, a present to open, someone to bark at up on the road) than what she’s getting, and then quickly give her a second piece of chicken, which she’ll take greedily and which helps the Phenobarbital go down.<span style=""> </span>She is not tricked as much as is in on the game herself, knowing full well that I’ve given her foul-tasting nasty little pills in between something delicious.<span style=""> </span>It’s worth it, obviously.<span style=""> </span>She’s willing to put up with it.<span style=""> </span>Plus, I think she likes being a little spaced out on Phenobarbital.<span style=""> </span>Takes the edge off her usual frenzy of friendliness and anxiety.<span style=""> </span>Makes those thunderstorms seem more like squabbling neighbors than an all out assault from the gods above.<span style=""> </span><i style="">Easy peasy.</i><span style=""> </span>Doesn’t everyone deserve something that helps them feel a little bit better about everything?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><br /><br />I don’t always remember to give Daisy her meds.<span style=""> </span>Sometimes I go to bed and am haunted by bad dreams telling me I have forgotten to do something vitally, critically important.<span style=""> </span>I spring to, half-awake, half-entranced by sleep, and suddenly, my mind is absolutely clear: I know exactly what I have forgotten to do, and I can‘t for the life of me understand why I wouldn‘t remember it in the morning.<span style=""> </span>It is there, right there, in my mind.<span style=""> </span>I see it.<span style=""> </span>Oh, yes, I think, I did forget that.<span style=""> </span>Forgot to take my Tamoxifen.<span style=""> </span>Give Daisy her Phenobarbital.<span style=""> </span>Answer that e-mail.<span style=""> </span>Teach the boys about appositives.<span style=""> </span>Or, something with more catastrophic consequences.<span style=""> </span>Something so important that the darkness surrounding me seems filled with demons and goblins and mean spirits scolding me, pulling me deep into an underworld of regret that spits me out, a malcontent insomniac wondering when the sun will come up.<span style=""> </span>And yet, in the light of the morning, my mind is as dark as the night, and I have no recollection of what it is I forgot.<span style=""> </span>All I know is that I have remembered to forget something, again.<span style=""> </span>That I am pathetic.<span style=""> </span>That my brain is a slippery mess of curly-Qs, nonsensical, hollow tubes leading to nowhere.<span style=""> </span>That I am surely doomed when I am an old biddie and have more than just Tamoxifen to take, more than just Phenobarbital to give to my dog.<span style=""> </span>By then, perhaps, I will be on Phenobarbital, and Daisy will be on Tamoxifen, and she’ll be duping me with chicken, tossing the pills down my throat, Swallow! Swallow!<span style=""> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;">Oy.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:12;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>zilekulmod productionshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03394159441867516278noreply@blogger.com0