“60 miles is hard, but not as hard as breast cancer.” That’s the Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk slogan.
Every big birthday I sign up for a physical challenge to remind me I’ve still got it. Although I don’t know what “it” is since I’m not exactly an athlete. This year, 60 miles for my 60th had not only a numeric symbolism, but three friends had been recently diagnosed with varying stages of breast cancer, and a fourth friend was a 24-year survivor still on chemo. The 3-Day Breast Cancer Walk would be a great way to test my stamina while doing something positive for my friends.
Two weeks after signing up for the walk, my 38-year-old daughter-in-law, Elisse, was diagnosed with Stage 2a invasive ductal carcinoma hormone positive — a stab in the heart that I was doing the right thing.
The training schedule from Komen started in June, but I was raring to go, so I started in March. Three miles three times a week. The three miles weren’t hard physically, but as an overthinker I had too much going on in my head. The training schedule went up to four, five and six miles during the week, and six, eight, 10, 15 and even a couple of 18-milers on the weekends closest to San Diego’s November walk date. How would I do this without obsessing about every detail of my life?
I downloaded lots of audiobooks. I listened to the stories of others instead of my own. I found a groove, a meditative state, and soon five and six miles seemed too short.
A month in while training on one of my walks, I ran into an old friend, Judy, who I hadn’t seen in ages. Thank you, she said, when I told her why I was walking. She had just found out her own breast cancer had returned. She was scheduled for a mastectomy that Thursday.
The walk has a fundraising goal that must be met in order to participate. Running into Judy inspired me to ask donors to give me names they wanted me to carry with me on my walk. Everyone had at least one, often two or three or more names of very close friends and relatives who had survived, or died, of breast cancer. I collected over 100 names while adding more miles to my training.
A friend began walking with me every week. I called her my pace car because she walked at a much faster rate. My cardio got stronger. I gathered other friends to join me for walks around the bay, five to eight miles. Some joined for the whole walk, some for a few miles, some just for the brunch at the end. Camaraderie got me up the hills.
I could feel my metabolism changing. At the start of training, I’d be tired the rest of the day, and famished, but over about two months I started feeling less hungry even though I was walking more miles.
Knowing I had an eight- or 10-mile walk the next day incentivized me to cut back on my alcohol consumption. Being hydrated had become more important. I started sleeping more soundly and more evenly. I woke up easier and earlier. With more focus, everything I did became straightforward, from writing an essay to arguing with my husband to prioritizing my time.
The time commitment for the training was much greater than I had initially imagined. Closer and closer to the walk date, my weekends were consumed with training. Yet, I had so much energy that even if I had walked 12 miles one morning I felt strong enough to be social into the night.
About six weeks before the 60-mile walk, I participated in a training walk with seasoned 3-day walkers. Some people do the 3-day 10 or more times. They started as strangers to me, but within a few miles I learned their stories of breast cancer survival — one woman’s daughter found out she had breast cancer when five months pregnant. Now, the mother walks with her granddaughter because the daughter eventually did not survive. A few women walk topless to promote that reconstruction is not for everyone. Some walkers are long-term survivors like my friend Debby. I cried most of the way as we walked 12 miles through La Jolla.
Something in my heart opened up at this point. I appreciated my mortality, and my body more than I ever had. My new physical strength had bubbled over into my emotional state of mind. The overthinking I have done my whole life, the worrying about every little thing was gone. Had that been in the way of letting my soul open up?
I felt a newfound bravery to apologize to a longtime friend with whom I had had a disagreement, and we hadn’t spoken for two years. “Life is too short” is more than a cliché. When they didn’t accept the apology, I had the confidence to know I had done all I could, and more than I could have before — I had allowed myself to be vulnerable.
I was fast approaching the 3-day event. About four weeks out from the walk weekend, I accomplished an 18-mile walk one Saturday, with a 10-mile the next day and a 5-mile the next. I ended strong. Then, the next weekend, it was a lighter weekend with a 12-mile and 10-mile walks. After the second walk, when getting out of my car, my psoas muscle — a large muscle that wraps around from the groin to the pelvis to the spine — spasmed. I could barely get from my car to the living room couch.
Devastated, I laid with an ice pack watching the movie “Nyad” hoping for some inspiration as Annette Bening portrayed 60-year-old Diana Nyad attempting to swim from Cuba to Florida. I nursed my psoas and told myself that at least I didn’t have to contend with jellyfish. Or cancer.
My psoas muscle recovered, but not without a compression brace.
That Monday, I got a call: My friend Karen had died the day before. She had told no one her breast cancer had returned. She didn’t want to be defined by the disease, her husband said.
One of the world’s most supportive women was gone.
Karen would have told me to hitch up my hip brace and carry on. The walk was one week away.
My friends showed up as I packed. One friend gave me a traditional Japanese omamori good luck charm with “perseverance” written inside. Debby, who is a 24-year survivor, gave me her own bracelet to wear while walking. Another friend, Deb, whose cancer had recurred, gave me a tee that said “Save 2nd Base.”
Day One. Wearing the Save 2nd Base tee-shirt, the bracelet, the omamori in one pocket, and all the names given to me by donors in another pocket, I started the walk in a cold, light drizzle. I put the first 20 miles behind me easy peasy.
Day Two. My blisters screamed at me. I repeated my mantra — 60 miles is hard, but not as hard as chemo. A training buddy showed up at lunch and gave me a foot massage. I put another 20 miles behind as the sun set.
Day Three. Two more training buddies joined me that morning, one was my pace car, and we set out ahead of the crowd. Blisters be damned.
I crossed the finish line with those two friends that third day.
The 1,800 Susan G. Komen walkers all lifted a shoe in the air to commemorate our friends and loved ones who were dealing with breast cancer. I was tired. I had done it. I knew I could because I had become strong.
What I didn’t know was what the nine months of training would do to my soul; that real strength isn’t about the body or even will.
I walked for the names I carried in my pocket, the friends I carried in my heart, and the friends who walked beside me. We walk together through challenges, because this is how we survive. This is strength. This is “it.”
Leave a Reply