How the 2006 Seattle Breast Cancer 3-Day Changed My Life

It was Sunday morning, August 27^th, 2006, and my cell phone rang at 4:30 a.m. for a wake-up call. I was already half-awake. Here it was Sunday morning, day 3 of the Seattle Breast Cancer 3-Day event and there was much to be done before hitting the road. We had to get our gear and tents packed up and to the trucks before we were on our way.

I let my daughter, Dawna, sleep as I made my way to the showers. I liked the solitude, once again, in getting ready for the last day.

I thought about how I'd made the decision to walk this event as a way to build relationship to her. We had many years where we had been estranged, and I was hoping that this would help to build a bridge between us, and give us something we had accomplished together. I wasn't feeling very confident that my plan had worked.

When I came back to the tent, she was stirring. It was still dark, but we were able to pack up, and get our bedding taken care of because she brought a great battery-operated lantern. It was barely dawn, and we had broken the tent down and had worked together to get it packed up. She surprised me when we were trying to stuff it into the bag, remarking that it was like putting on a condom. I think that there are still some things that we mothers will always be uncomfortable hearing our grown children say. There is a part of us that will always remember them at fourteen, having no knowledge of such things!

All packed and ready to go, we loaded our gear up on the trucks, and made our way to the dining tent for the last time. Breakfast was a welcome sight for me that morning. But I simply did not want to get up to walk. Every muscle in my body hurt and my arms were also sore. I realized that the water bottles I held in my arms acted as weights the day before. This was a day that I just wanted to finish. Closing ceremonies couldn't be here soon enough.

We wore our team t-shirts the last day-white with pink lettering, "Walking Our Butts Off" with the pink awareness ribbon. Well, all of us EXCEPT Lisa, one of our teammates. She had used her shirt as a handkerchief in the middle of the night.

I have to admit, I was a bit unhappy about us not being uniform at that moment, but to see Lisa decked out in her neon orange walking outfit with a hot pink, extra-long boa wrapped around a white hat and wearing sunglasses, she looked like a caricature of an exotic bird, playfully rambunctious and squawking to everyone that it was her birthday. Amusement quickly overtook my other feelings.

I am not what one would call a "perky morning person." Throw exhaustion and muscle soreness into the equation and I can be downright cranky! And now I was on the route again early this Sunday morning when all I wanted was to be done with this crazy notion that I could do something as foolish as a 3-Day endurance event.

As a team, we all decided that we wanted to try to stick together. Dawna and Lisa were both as energetic as ever. Heather, our fourth teammate, held back to walk with me, but it became clear that that I was not going to be able to keep up with her pace, and she went on without me. We all agreed the beginning of the day that we would meet up at the last pit stop and walk in the last leg together if we didn't see one another the rest of the day.

It was my goal to walk 6 or 7 miles the last day, which would put me over 30 miles for my very first event like this of any kind. I could live with the knowledge that I'd walked over half the route, and be proud of this accomplishment. Quite honestly, I was looking forward to the sweep vans this day.

As I was out on the route a bit earlier than the previous two days, I was in the midst of more numbers of people. Watching the other walkers on the third day, I quickly realized I wasn't the only one losing steam. Of course there were those who were in tip-top shape who were far ahead, but so many more were trudging along-sore, tired, bandaged, limping, and slow.

I chuckled at my image of us as the wounded foot soldiers coming back from a pink Civil War battle. I'm still not sure who won.

One of the ladies I'd met a day or so before, found me and we tried to call a cadence she had written. It was funny to hear us, as she had it in her head. Though I'd been in the military, attempting to call cadence from someone else's memory, and from someone who doesn't quite understand cadence in the first place was one of the funniest moments of the weekend.

Voice loud and strong on a Sunday morning before 8 a.m., I helped to march our wounded pink-clad Army down the street for a few minutes, the collective voice ringing out to awaken the world with our message of the war on breast cancer.

Soon we were on the trail, and I'm not sure when Dawna and I ended up walking together again. She held back in order to walk with me. Even though I told her I was okay, she insisted that she was going to stay with me. She had so much energy, and would walk ahead of me a bit, then start walking backward until we were side-by-side. I think she knew that I was nearly spent and did her best to keep me going.

My nearly 31-year-old daughter became my motivator, keeping me moving with her display of childlike silliness. It had been a very long time since I've seen her like that and it touched my heart to see the silly girl I remembered from years past.

As grumpy as I was and as much as I wanted to just quit and stop walking, it became an opportunity for mother-daughter "bonding." We started to banter out there on the trail as we have done over the years, lost in our own world, fussing playfully with one another. I teased her about giving her up for adoption. I'm sure that it gave others a show that some never quite understood. I thought about how my own mother and I have given one another a hard time in a playful way, yet others not sure about the seriousness of the exchange.

It was one of life's "A-ha!" moments when I realized just how much my daughter is like me, and I like my mother. And all the isolation, stoicism, gruffness, or steeled stubbornness does not mean that any of the three generations of women is less than loving, caring and compassionate. In interactive relationship to one another, we simply play out some particular familial role that we have accepted, and we each have a very a sense of humor that is often misunderstood by the world around us.

About four miles into Day 3's route, I became painfully aware that I was developing shin splints. Dawna kept me going for another two miles, but it was nearly time for me to quit. Besides, we had fallen so far behind that she would end up having to sweep if she stayed back with me. I knew about her resolve to walk each of the 60 miles of the event.

She agreed to go on without me. She went ahead, flagged down a sweep van to come back and get me. They were full, so I waited for another to be swept to the next pit stop. I boarded the bus to be taken to lunch. I was proud to have walked just about 30 miles.

Dawna made up for lost time. While on the bus, I saw her on the route, passing walker-after-walker as she was determined to get the miles under her belt. I felt such pride and joy as I watched her, and even exclaimed to the others on the bus, "That's my daughter!"

At lunch, I made my way first to the medical tent for two bags of ice. I knew that I were going to be able to walk the last leg in to the holding area later in the day, I needed to keep my shins iced as much as I could. There was great relief.

After lunch, my daughter and I met back up again, and we were back on the route together again. As we turned the corner, we faced another steep hill. Within two blocks of the lunch stop, there must have been fifty walkers waiting for sweep vans. I didn't want to wait with all of them, so I started up the hill, but all the icepacks in the world could not make me go faster. Every few steps taken, I had to stop. I simply couldn't push myself faster in the heat and with the shin splints.

I told her to go on without me, that I would catch a sweep van. After reassuring her that I didn't need her to stay and that I would catch up with her at the last pit stop, she finally left me to my own devices. She was unaware that I had no intention of stopping just yet, as I wanted to try to get up that hill and sweep later. Besides, it would be a long time before we would see a sweep van, as there were so many walkers further behind waiting. My desire that she be able to finish the entire route was my way of justifying my lie to her.

A few more blocks up the hill and I came upon several others I'd seen over the course of the three days, one of which was Jo, a lady I'd met a few months ago and trained with a couple of times. They were waiting in the shade for a van. I decided I'd had enough and sat down to wait with them. Sweep me to the last pit stop! I'm not sure how much time had passed and still no van. The vans were working on overtime with all the others behind us.

I turned and looked back to the direction of our lunch stop to see if there were any vans in sight. No vans, but in the distance, I could see a lone figure struggling up the hill. A few steps at a time, stopping, wiping her brow, a few more steps, taking a drink of water, and this continued until I recognized her as Sirena, the woman who shared hair gel with me the day before!

As she came closer, I noticed that she was bright red, overheated, and I feared that she was not going to make it. We stopped her to get her to cool down, drinking more water, icing her bandana. Just taking that rest, I was feeling better that she was going to be okay. The other walkers and I encouraged her to sweep to the next pit stop with us. She refused the offer and said that she was continuing.

I looked at these other women, and we were clearly concerned, but Sirena's resolve was such that we knew she wasn't going to listen to our sensibilities. I said to the others, "She's not going by herself."

No one moved.

I looked around, said again, "She cannot do this by herself," and I stood up. "I'm going with her." Three of the women stood up with me and started up the hill with the two of us. I was so glad to have the support of these other women, but it wasn't long before Sirena and I were walking alone.

We stopped a lot. It was hot; it was tough. Up and down hills in the blazing sun, we continued.

Occasionally, we would see a lone straggler struggling up a hill in front of us. My shins started to ache again. Sirena told me that I should stop and she would be okay to be by herself and that she just wanted to do the rest of the route.

I told her, "I will stop when you stop. I'm not going to let you go through this by yourself."

Before long, the caboose joined us. We were the last two walkers on the event.

As we faced a couple more very steep hills, we also had one of the staff members in a car, get us to the crest, and then we get out of the car and continued. It had taken us about two hours to go about 2.25 miles. I was trying to keep Sirena moving, because I knew she didn't want to sweep, but she was stopping more often. I tried to remind her that we needed to keep going, and that if we didn't pick up the pace, we would be swept.

We were within a quarter mile of Pit Stop 3, before the caboose announced to us that we would have to sweep to the next pit stop. The event staff had already kept the pit stop open past closing time for us, but couldn't wait any longer.

Sirena was so angry, and I felt like the go-between between the Staff and Sirena. I convinced her that it was better that we sweep now and walk in to the holding area at the end of the event route, than have to be driven to it.

Getting in the staff car was a welcome rest for me and my shins. We rode ahead just about one-and-a-half miles to the next pit stop.

Arriving at Pit Stop 4, we had about 20 minutes before it closed. Sirena stopped and sat in the shade. I made my way to find ice for my shins. I looked around for my team. I sat down to ice after using the porta-potty, and it was announced that we had about 5 minutes before closing. If we didn't get back on the road soon, we would be bussed to closing ceremonies. I secretly hoped that Sirena wasn't going to want to continue.

I finally saw Dawna and the rest of the team, and they were frantic about getting out of there before being put on the bus. We had decided earlier that day that we would walk together, so I was conflicted about staying there with Sirena or going on with my daughter.

I called to Dawna and the rest of the team to go on without me, that I couldn't leave Sirena by herself. I then called to Sirena that she needed to get up or we were catching the bus. It was the last time I saw my daughter on-route.

Sirena and I started back out of Pit Stop 4 at 2:45 p.m. or so, with the final 2.6 miles still ahead of us. I knew when we got back on the trail, that if we didn't keep up a certain pace, we would not be allowed to continue. Once again, we started out with other walkers around us, but soon the presence of the caboose reminded us that we were, once again, the last walkers.

The first of those final miles, I pulled ahead, setting a pace and telling Sirena that she had to keep up with me. My legs had been iced, so they weren't too bad. There was quite a bit of shade on the route and it seemed a little easier. We didn't talk too much, other than the occasional, "You doin' okay?" or "C'mon! We're almost there! Let's keep up the pace!" I started to see Sirena falling a bit further behind me.

During the next mile, I knew that I had to convince Sirena to set the pace to keep her moving, so I asked her to help me. I stayed behind her, realizing that now my shins were screaming and I was having trouble moving through the pain. I wouldn't let Sirena see me limping, so every time she turned around, I would stand up straight, smile, and encourage her to keep going and reassure her that I was okay and right behind her.

Out of what seemed nowhere, there was a man who called himself "Ladybug" walking with us. He was this tall man in his 30s with a hat covered in white feathers. I thought how much more like a cousin to Lisa in her "bird" costume he looked, rather than a ladybug.

He encouraged us both, but stayed up with Sirena. We learned that he had been touched by cancer at a very young age, and had lost a dear friend to a cancer. Having him there with us, concentrating on Sirena, gave me the chance to take care of myself.

Amberlea was the staff member acting as the caboose, the one who stays with the last walker on the route. I really enjoyed getting to know her. She was outgoing, tells it like it is, and her "style" meshed with mine.

She bantered with me, and kept me motivated. I was able to be myself with her. She knew how badly I was hurting, how I was finished, done, and didn't want to do this any more. She allowed me to complain, moan, and whine, all the while reminding me of why I was doing this now...for Sirena. Amberlea became influential in keeping me focused those last couple of miles. I will be eternally grateful for her presence there, especially that day.

I'm not sure how long it actually took Sirena and I to get through those last few miles, but I'm sure that we held up the closing ceremonies by quite some time. I'm glad that they decided to allow that to happen.

I remember seeing the walkway that bridged the trail to the sidewalk at the University of Washington. We were on the home stretch! As we neared the holding area, the motorcade pulled behind us-- Ladybug, Sirena, and me, along with Amberlea, our caboose.

As we turned the corner around the trees, entering the parking lot, making our way to the holding area, I heard Amberlea exclaim, "Wow! There are the two walkers that were the last walkers into camp! They waited for me!"

As I watched the three of them embrace, the other two walkers looking rested, I began to realize that there was some sort of "honor" for the last walker in, as these two had hoisted the camp flag at least one, if not two, of the nights. I felt that if there was some sort of honor given, it should go to Sirena.

The next few minutes were tense, as I went into mode of protectiveness. There were a couple of moments where it was clear to me that these other two were trying to make sure we pulled ahead of them. I was determined to not allow that to happen, and stopped to stretch every time they fussed with their backpack or some other thing that needed to be stopped and fixed those last few yards.

Sirena was not even aware of what was transpiring, but the older of the two other walkers and I looked at each other twice. She and I both knew what was happening.

It was one time in my life, that I think I've used defiance for good. I slowed down and together, holding Sirena's hand, I limped my way into the holding area. I didn't need to pretend any longer that I wasn't hurting.

With Ladybug and the other two women ahead of us, there were two massive groups of walkers awaiting our arrival, clapping and cheering, split as we were approaching to walk between them. As we made our way closer, I remember that everything seemed to go quiet. It was as if I were in a film, which depicts a football hero coming through the crowd of teammates and fans, smiling, clapping, high-fiving, cheering, yet there is no noise and it's all in slow motion. I heard nothing from them.

It all seemed to be a bit embarrassing. As much as I like to be the center of attention, I much prefer it when I'm being silly, goofy, or doing it for effect. This type of attention was overwhelming and just a little too much for me to handle. Instantly, I had wished that I had swept in so that I didn't have to deal with this type of attention.

Then I turned to look at Sirena, to see her smiling and tears streaming down her face, and was glad I was there.

I smiled and she said, "I could not have done this without you."

I replied, "Sirena, I WOULD not have done this without you."

Then letting go of her hand, I said, "This one is for you, Sirena."

Because of her, I walked an additional six more miles that day, bringing my total for the event to around 37 miles. I turned and took a step ahead of her, and Sirena became the last walker to walk in.

As I turned around, I still heard nothing, though I know that there were literally hundreds of people cheering and patting me on the back. And then to the left I saw my teammates--Lisa, Heather, and Dawna-all crying and smiling.

It was the second time that I remember seeing my daughter cry as an adult.

I don't remember if I hugged Lisa and Heather. All I remember is my daughter and I embracing as I heard the words, "Mom, I'm so proud of what you just did for that woman."

At that moment, several years of wounds were healed.

We continued through the victory line, went to get our t-shirts and Sirena and I found water and a shady spot to rest. Soon after, we exchanged phone numbers, said our farewells and she went to find her team and I looked for mine so that we could gather together for the final yards to the Closing Ceremonies. It was the last time I saw Sirena.

It was sunny and beautiful late Sunday afternoon for the emotional Closing Ceremonies. Crew, volunteers, and our family and friends welcomed us as we made our way into the stadium. Afterward, we said our goodbyes and went to find our gear and our families.

We found our families who welcomed us back. It was good to get hugs from the grandchildren, but all I wanted to do was to get something to eat, get home and into bed.

Later as I crawled into bed, my body aching, I was proud of myself and my accomplishments over the previous six months, knowing that I had accomplished what I intended to do, and so much more.

As I drifted off to sleep, I could still hear my daughter say, "Mom, I'm so proud of what you just did."

And I knew that it was all worth it.