13 years of surviving breast cancer

Team Babes Bombing Cancer

Thirteen years ago at the age of 41, a single mom with two school aged children, I became part of a club I never wanted to join -- women diagnosed with breast cancer. Today I am part of the club of women who have survived breast cancer. In that time I've lost friends and family to that terrible disease and so many other cancers. I have a friend battling right now. Diagnosed in her early 40s, with kids, like I was.

So on Mother's Day, a group of 30 or so friends and family walked, along with thousands of others, in the annual Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure (the Twin Cities event is one of the largest in the country). We walked in celebration, honor, and memory of everyone touched by this cancer.

After 13 years and in spite of the fact I had a bi-lateral mastectomy and see evidence of my survival every single day, I don't think about it all the time like I used to do. I don't worry that every cough means it's come back in my lungs, or that every ache and pain means it's back in my bones. I've moved on, sort of.

So when I signed up to be a part of our team, Babes Bombing Cancer, I was thinking more about my friend, in the throws of chemo and radiation, than me. But all survivors are celebrated at the event, and my team honored the three survivors among us. I wore the dark pink hat, marking me and all survivors, pointing us out. As much as I'm an extrovert and a bit flamboyant, I'd rather not have the spotlight on me for this one. I see the walk as about everyone and not so much about me.

But it felt good. Slowly, I embraced that this walk was for me, too. That I am one of the lucky ones. I got to see my kids grow up, witness the birth of my two grand kids, and fall in love again and get married at 51. I got to live long enough to stop being terrified that I had a disease that could have killed me, and might still.

At the finish line, I wept -- for everyone -- for the sorrow and loss, the worries, the joy of being alive. But for the first time in years, I also wept for me and for the miracle of my own survival.

Photo by Sally Nixon