The New Normal

In 2000, I was an adult, already 30.  The "C" word (yes, cancer) had never been a part of my family medical history.  My parents had some friends who had battled the dreaded disease, but I didn't know anyone personally who had been affected.  At the time, my grandparents (my mother's parents) were nearing 80 years old and were in near perfect health (unless you count Grandpa's grumblings about his feet and how they were never the same after he suffered from frost bite in the war).  My great grand mother lived to the ripe old age of 96.  My father's mother had died when I was much younger of heart disease, but his father was still alive and well.

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My family had planned a spring break trip.  We'd drive six hours to see my grandparents, another three to see my father, and then another three to see my mom.  About a month before we were to leave, my mom called.  I don't remember her exact words, but she basically said that since we'd be there over spring break there was something she needed to warn me about.  She proceeded to tell me she would be losing her hair....from the chemotherapy she was about to start the next day....for the cancer the doctor had found in her breast and lymph nodes the week before....from the lump she had known about for well over a couple of months.

I was in shock.

Cancer was something that happened to other people.  I had run the Race for the Cure.  It was other people whose cure I raced for.  I had seen the celebratory and memorial signs runners wore on their backs; I had cried silent tears for THEM.  There had to be a mistake.  My mother had cysts taken out years earlier, maybe they were wrong this time.  She told me again...she not only had breast cancer, but it had spread to some of her lymph nodes.  At the time, I didn't know what that meant, but I knew it didn't sound good. 

When we got to her house, we discovered her prediction was correct.  Her hair had started falling out.  In keeping with her take charge character, my mom got her cigarettes and a bottle of wine and we headed to her friend's house to shave her head.  All I kept seeing in my mind's eye were all the pink (survivor) t-shirts, and the "I run in celebration of...." from the Race.  What was worse, the "I run in memory of...." signs kept flashing up.  My mother never entertained the fear that the cancer would win the battle.  At least not out loud.  At least not to me.

Several months later, after chemo and radiation, the doctor declared her the winner of the battle.  Five years later we celebrated the milestone that every survivor looks for.  (Five years cancer-free is when the chances of relapse go down significantly.)  Just as I put the memories behind me...The rematch bell was rung.  My mother's other breast decided it was time to get some attention; she was diagnosed with a different kind of breast cancer.  A "very aggressive" type.

Undaunted, my mom had a mastectomy, and continued to move forward in her fight.  I don't know if it was because I was in the middle of my own life crisis (a horrible divorce), or if I was in complete denial, but the second time around was not nearly as scary for me.  After the initial shock was over I never really even thought much about it...as if cancer was a normal part of life.

...as if cancer was a normal part of life?

Ideally, I'd like to have a world where the new normal is one without cancer.  THAT is why I'm fund-racing.  It seems cancer has become a normal part of life, but it shouldn't be.  Prevention, treatment, a cure...help for families hit in the gut by the disease.  American Cancer Society is working for all of those things.  Because they are doing all they can to help others, I'm going to do all I can to help them.