The Blue Footed Boobies: Walking for Boobies Everywhere!

Me thinks that the moment my legs begin to move, my thoughts begin to flow.
~Henry David Thoreau

April 3, 2009

Dear friends and family,

I trust you are all enjoying these first miraculous bursts of springtime sunshine and warmth, and are doing well. It seems amazing and wonderful to me that winter has lovingly loosened its grip so that spring may unravel and unwind before us once again; just yesterday, I was walking at dusk, awash in the colors of the fading sun, and now and then the deafening, vibrational song of the peepers surrounded me with the pulse of earth‘s ebullient verve, and I returned home glad for the fact that this spring, there are no limits to what I can do, that I can swirl and dance and take all this new life in, rake the dead winter leaves out of my garden, spread some new seeds into the ground, and run with the wind through the ripening trees.

Just two weeks ago, on March 24, I observed the one-year anniversary of my mastectomy, the day they cut the cancer out, tested my nodes, began reconstruction, and delivered some pretty good news: they had gotten it all. On the outside, this March 24th was a day like any other, caught in the rush ‘n go of my daily grind like a twig stuck in a spoke on a bicycle wheel, but inside, I was feeling the year, with all its tremulous highs and bungee-cord lows, wash over me in hushed, breathy waves. I felt the whoosh of where I’d been, the cold fingers of fear tapping me on the shoulder, the rush of love and warmth that brought me here, and the stark loneliness of the landscape stretched out before me. I was grateful for the reminder of how far I‘ve come, how much I have to be thankful for, how lucky I’ve been. You’ve all been a huge part of this continuing journey, and I write to ask for your support again.

As some of you may know, I'm currently training to walk in the Breast Cancer 3-Day, a 60 mile walk over three days in Boston, this coming July 24-26. Last December, after much torturous Libran consideration, I decided that life was too damn short to worry about my gimpy knee, or any other of my ailing Rugby Goddess body parts, that I was, quite simply, good enough to put my Used Baggage to the test and register already. Training has been exhilarating, a clear testament to the power and inspiration to be found in raising the bar and working together to chase down a goal that benefits the greater good, a marriage between Nike's Just Do It and Obama's Yes We Can campaigns. I feel honored and privileged to have this opportunity to give back, and in return, enjoy the rewards of extending my reconstruction to body, soul and spirit.

I am walking as Captain of The Blue Footed Boobies, a team of inspired women who have come together to conquer each and every mile and raise money for the Susan G. Komen for the Cure, which has, to this date delivered close to 1.2 billion dollars to fund research, awareness, education, screening, treatment, and support programs, making it the largest source of nonprofit funds dedicated to the fight against breast cancer in the world. What’s better yet is that the financial support is backed by the largest grassroots network of breast cancer survivors and activists all “fighting to save lives, empower people, ensure quality care for all and energize science to find the cures.” Since every major advance in the fight against breast cancer over the last 27 years has been impacted by a Susan G. Komen for the Cure grant, every facet of my own personal journey has, in turn, been touched by a Komen grant, making every step easier, lighter, smoother.

It is my hope that all women diagnosed with breast cancer feel as supported as I have been--by friends and family who took me by the hand and led me through the darkness and into the light, by the excellent doctors who put me back together, and by the untold numbers of researchers, nurses, doctors, philanthropists and regular folk who continue to work tirelessly behind the scenes and on the frontlines to ensure that all women have the best possible chance at not just making a full, comfortable recovery from breast cancer, but at enjoying many years of being able to live life to the fullest. Can you help me?

Each walker in the 3-Day is responsible for raising at least $2300. Thanks to the generosity of a handful of friends and family members, I am close to meeting my minimum, but I know together we can, and should, do a whole lot better. I would like very much to be able to raise enough money to support other walkers and team members who might not have the fundraising resources that I have.

There are many ways you can support The Blue Footed Boobies in our 3-Day efforts.

• Make a donation. It’s easy! To give on-line, simply click on this link http://www.the3day.org/site/TR/Walk/BostonEvent?px=1980919&pg=personal&fr_id=1292 This will take you to my page on the 3-day site, where you can donate on-line. OR, if I have already cleared my minimum goal, please consider either donating to one of my teammates who may have not yet reached her goal, or mailing a check (made out to the Breast Cancer 3-Day) to me at 385 Main Road, Gill, MA 01354. This way, I can distribute the money to other teammates and walkers in need. All money raised goes to the same place, and helps The Blue Footed Boobies meet our team goal as well.
• Walk with us! We are looking for teammates! My good friend Angie Murphy was the first to join me; my mother, who, at age 69 and with two artificial hips, has just recently signed on as a walker, demonstrating a firebrand of moxie that could only have come from her mother, the irrepressible Kay Reed. (With my ultra-fab new left girl, the Blue Footed Boobies could very well be renamed the Bionic Boobies.) There are several others waiting to take the plunge. I'd like to say: Go for it! The walk is rigorous to be certain, but it is also a great opportunity to set some personal goals and get in shape, embark on a real team expedition, and be a part of something truly inspirational.
• Serve on the 3-Day Crew. They need all kinds of help, including medical professionals. Check out the 3-day site for more information. This is a huge piece of their success--and crewbies are the reason why we walkers don’t have to carry our packs, cook our own meals, or worry about getting ourselves to the ER if something should go awry (though my biggest fear is getting lost and not being able to find my tent on my way back from the porta potties at night, eek!).
• Help me train! I am looking for walking partners, and additionally, people who want to ride or cross-train with me on my off days. I am always in need of encouragement, deep tissue work, and advice regarding blisters, workout gear, and the very best yoga positions for stretching those walking muscles. Plus, if you have any music in your collection that you think might be perfect for walking to, feel free to burn me a cd, and I’ll do the same for you. And, if you should find me on your doorstep one of these days, I’d appreciate it if you’d let me in so I could use your potty.

I consider myself very lucky to be able to continue to rebuild spirit and body through my training, to be able to give back, to quite simply be here now--exulting in the coming springtides, and nursing my first big blister. Truly, as much as luck is relative, I’ve been lucky from the get-go, and that has not been lost on me. My cancer was caught early, all my surgeries went without complication, and I was able to bypass the dreaded chemo. Most importantly, I was able to activate a large, wonderful network of friends and family, who have blessed me with support of many kinds: steering me through the labyrinthine jungle of breast cancer treatment options, and sending a steady supply of encouragement, dark chocolate, and love in the form of good healing Juju that still courses through my veins. With your help, I was able to assemble a team of the best breast cancer docs around, who carefully disassembled me and put me back together with tender loving care. My girls are doing well; my left girl received her finishing touch—a tattoo to restore some semblance of nipple and areola color—this past January and is settling into what she hopes will be a long, healthy retirement. And despite the nodules that have appeared on my thyroid, the hot flashes that have dismantled my memory, and the changes that have upended my moon cycles, I have fared fairly well on my first year of Tamoxifen (really!). And my boys are doing well, too. Luke will start at Northfield Mount Hermon next year as a freshman, and Dominick will begin his fifth grade year of home schooling with me. Over and over again, I am stunned by the speed at which my children are growing up. I am reminded often to cherish this time with them, that there will be more time for me later, that the wheels on this time-thingamajig spin way too fast.

And, as I train for the Breast Cancer 3-day, feeling my legs regain their strength and speed, my lungs expand and fill with each step, I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to be a player again. Life is not a spectator sport, after all. I am happily engaged in the ongoing process of learning how to best take care of myself, just part of the bumper crop of new lessons that were seeded long ago and that will undoubtedly continue to come to fruition as part of my ongoing journey: that it is in the reaching out that we receive what we need; that we should not wait to be cradling our own mortality in our arms before breaking free from the tethers of fear and shame and self-doubt and plunging ourselves into the deep languid pools of life’s richest waters; that it is within our interconnectedness that we find our comfort and strength, our grace and divine humor; that the best possible way I know to live my life is to try to find the bits of joy, no matter how tiny, in each and every day, and to share that joy with the world around me, and infuse our collective spirit with compassion and positive energy; and that we all have our dark days, when our inspiration whispers and rages from the deep, dark wells within, creativity flies in the face of our most spirited muse, and forgiveness chases away the demons.

I hope you’ll join me in supporting the Breast Cancer 3-Day. At a time when government funding is being redirected to try to stimulate our struggling economy, it is more critical than ever to work together to make sure organizations like Susan G. Komen for the Cure remain fully supported. And remember: The Blue Footed Boobies walk for all of you who have been touched by breast cancer: for you, for your mothers, grandmothers, sisters, aunts, and most especially, for your daughters. We walk for boobies everywhere!

I look forward to hearing from you, getting caught up, and having the chance to convince you to join the Boobies (!). Please take note of my new email address at zilrendrag@yahoo.com (not to be confused with zilrendrag, that spammer from Zimbabwe, over at Comcast.net).

I send you love and light and all good things. Be well. XO, Liz

Why run? Because you can. It's as good a reason as ever.

Marathon Monday ~

We’re watching the Boston Marathon. On TV. The day dawned and it was clear that I would not be up for braving the traffic to drive into the city, or anywhere in that suburban jungle along the marathon route, try to find a parking spot, a prime viewing spot, watch the marathon, and then somehow, make our way out of there and back home without losing my head. I felt terrible, TERRIBLE, that once again I was letting my boys down. Sure, it would be great to go to the Marathon. But we can’t. Mom isn’t up to it. Again. Blech.

Just yesterday I had to bow out of heading north to Chocorua, NH for my Uncle Herb’s service. I would have loved to have been there to help honor and remember a wonderful, warm, funny man, and to have given and received hugs from all sorts of Damon family members who, like most of us, as we all scatter deeper into our busy days, are harder to gather together in one spot at the same time. But it was not to be. Driving up and back three hours each way in one day would have undone me.

It’s frustrating, not to be up to speed. I think I’m golden, and so go about my usual flurry of activities--performing in the three ring circus of endless domestic wrangling, entangling, and finagling, half-baked home schooling lessons and the rush ‘n go sports schedule, while trying desperately to fit in daily walks, some quiet time to myself for reflection and repose, and those independent creative projects that keep me sane (which is why to so many I am utterly insane). But then I hit a wall of some serious heft and spiral back into the exhaustion zone. So, why is it so hard to find time in my day to just sit quietly, feel unfettered if for but a few minutes, check in with myself? Probably because I’ve never been very good at doing it, and maybe, too, it has something to do with the fact that I’ve got too many things on my plate, and really, as hungry as I am for change and adventure and something new, I’ve little appetite for what’s there.

Bob Lobel keeps cutting everyone off and I wish someone would just tell him to shut up. There are always amazing stories on this day, and we want to hear them. Each and every runner, or wheelchair competitor, has a story. This is where inspiration comes from: the Hoyts, the wheelchair athletes, the everyday runners who push through mountains to get to the finish line, Lance Armstrong and his LiveStrong spirit, and particularly this year, the Kenyan runners who have endured and defied so much to be here. We are curious about the personal stories of the wheelchair athletes, every bit as world-class as the elite runners, but there is not much revealed. We’ve recently watched the amazing documentary Murderball, and wonder if any of these marathoners ever trade in their streamlined chairs for the rugged battering rams of quad-rugby. The front pack of the elite men have separated itself from the rest of the group, and now run in a v-formation, a patch of migrating Canada Geese, working together to get to the finish line. I could watch the elite runners, with their long, magnificent, effortless strides, for hours. This is how to run.

When I was a kid, either my Mom or Dad would take us in to see the Marathon, and we’d jostle into spots along the curb, as part of the Screech Tunnel at Wellesley College, or at Heartbreak Hill, where we’d get an eyeful, runners either making it up or not, unraveling, cramping, swearing, vomiting, defecating on themselves before finding the strength to somehow battle on. A few times we made it to the finish line to watch, in amazement, the top runners cruise through, and then the everyday folk, who had climbed mountains to simply get to the starting line, persevered through the course, slapped 26 miles of hard pavement under foot and lived to tell about it. And there, we'd see the same souls we’d seen at Heartbreak Hill, now finishing the race, shorts defiled, tops emblazoned with their breakfasts, medals of honor, all. When I was a kid, I’d watch them and cry. It seemed a bit surreal--scary, moving, wonderful, and god-awful, all a the same time.

Today, we are inspired. How could we not be? Watching the marathon always makes me want to go out and do something way out of my comfort zone, set up some kind of training regimen, hit the streets in defiance, and just go. (sounds precariously close to Just Do It, and you get an idea of where that ad campaign had its nascent roots, some ad exec watching the marathon, perhaps?) Of course, it all depends on how you watch it. If you’re watching it on TV, the way we are, you see the elite runners, gliding along through the course as if they were out for a Sunday stroll through the park. But, go to the finish line, and stay, long past the elite runners have come in and been greeted by Mayor Menino and the parade of photographers, you’ll see the real people coming in, the ones who lost track of their bowels halfway up Heartbreak Hill, the ones sporting a touch of vomit on their shirts, the ones who look as if they just might keel over and die. If you watch it here, you might receive inspiration of a different kind. No thanks, I don’t ever want to do anything like this. This is the impression left on me when I was a kid. Maybe I'll play rugby instead.

When Luke was little, maybe 3 or 4, we took him to the Museum of Science in Boston to see the Everest I-MAX film at the Omni. After the film had ended, Luke turned to me and said, “Mom, I don't ever have to climb that mountain, do I?" Of course, I told him he had to, Sorry, honey, it’s required. When you turn 18, you’ll head up. Better start training, buddy. That’d be just the kind of horror you could inflict by teaching your baby all the wrong words for everything. Oh, the fun you could have. But at what cost?

No, sweet child, we told him, you don’t ever have to climb that mountain. You’ll have your own mountains to climb.

But today, since we are watching on the television, we hardly notice the chaos of the race. Ernst van Dyke cruises to an easy win, and we focus on the women’s race, which has taken an exciting turn. The two lead runners are running neck and neck, each pushing the other to extraordinary heights of athleticism, competitiveness, and drive. The boys and I are screaming along with the crowds as they each try to lose each other with less than a quarter mile to go. And then, it’s over. The Ethiopian runner has somehow unearthed a final kick that has propelled her farther faster than the Russian woman. Amazing. And we see, too, that if we had gone in to watch, we would not have been able to watch this drama unfold. We might have seen other dramas, the stories amidst the chaos, the chaos itself--but there are always trade-offs. For now, the women's race has made the day. The men’s race seems unexciting in comparison. Boston Bobby, having ditched the pack on the hills, makes his way to the tape, for his fourth Boston win. We watch for a while longer, while the focus shifts to Lance Armstrong and his posse. And this man, who has climbed more hills on bike and foot and in spirit, and who seeks the bigger and tougher mountain always, may have finally met his match in this marathon. We are moved, again, by the capacity for human achievement, the strength of the human will, the warrior spirit, and the grace of landing on one’s feet, only to start climbing upwards again.

WE, too, have chosen our next mountain to climb. When life throws unexpected mountains at you, sometimes it feels good to chose your own. We’ve decided we’re going to run our own marathon. It’s called the Breast Cancer 3-Day , and its held in major cities throughout the US in the summertime, and it benefit’s the Susan G Komen for the Cure Foundation. We’re working on putting together a team that will walk 20 miles a day for 3 days, for a total of 60 miles, and raise lots of money for breast-cancer research. Like any well-planned, reasonable hike, there are plenty of breaks along the way, for re-fueling, staying hydrated, changing sweaty socks, tending to blisters, cooling off, dilly-dallying, taking in the masses, and replenishing one’s resolve. A traveling village, filled with pink tents, greets each walker as each day’s final pit stop. Along with the pink tents, (not to be confused with the Red Tents), the village will be teeming with medical services, food, entertainment, and thousands of walkers, breast cancer survivors, supporters, fundraisers, people like you and me.

So who’s with us? We are in the process of naming our team (Hens, Hens, with our funny upturned ends? Team Lizard? Zilrendrag? Personally, I like the Blue Footed Boobies. We could all wear blue sneakers. And the logo will be, of course, way-cool, because boobies are so beautiful.) We’ll let you know the details as they develop. For now, click here for more information: http://08.the3day.org/site/PageServer And if you think you might want to be on our team, and actually walk with us, or be on our team, and donate money, please let us know!

Later in the afternoon, we head to the bike path in Turners Falls to start our training. Luke flies about on his bike, while Dominick and I walk along the canal for about four or five miles. 15 to go. And tomorrow is another day. 3 1/2 months to go.