Cancer to 10K

Eleanor Roosevelt said, "You must do the thing you think you cannot do." She also said, "Thank God for the United States Marine Corps!" Eleanor clearly knew a thing or two about a thing or two. So I took her advice last month.

It started with registering for a 10K. Not just any 10K, but the Marine Corps Marathon Historic 10K. Because who wouldn't want to pay perfectly good money and wake up unreasonably early to go run 6.2 miles? What can I say? I'm a sucker for a good hashtag, and #runwiththemarines just doesn't get any better. So I did it. Forget being my first post-treatment 10K, this was my first 10K ever! And if you guessed I'm already signed up for the MCM10K, well then you've been paying attention to this blog! 

They gave me a medal and everything! Okay...they gave everyone a medal.

For the next self-imposed challenge, I got by with a little help from my friends. Okay... a lot of help from my friends... and my family... and some all around wonderful people. You see, the American Cancer Society Relay for Life Eastern Prince William County Chapter needed a guest speaker for its Survivor Ceremony. And since I just so happen to have a little first hand knowledge on the subject, I thought, why the heck not? So I signed up, and I politely harassed all of you, and you helped me raise over $1,500 in just four short weeks. How freakin' awesome are you?!?

Don't I totally look like I know what I'm doing?

So there was rain and thunder and lightening... and the outdoor event was relocated indoors... and the ceremony was delayed, like, two hours. So there's no video. Which is probably a good thing. But Mom suggested (in only the way moms can) that I share my speech here. Well...if you've got nothing better to do on this fine Saturday evening...

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1.                Loretta Warrick: Lymphatic Cancer, 2003, age 77. James Suraci: Esophageal Cancer, 2006, age 47. Katherine Warrick: Breast Cancer, 2012, age 31. Erin Shea Travis: Breast Cancer, 2014, age 39.

Though these are but a few of the 1.6 million diagnosed with cancer every year, they are far, far greater than any statistic. You see, Loretta, she is my grandmother. And she just celebrated her 89^th birthday. James? That’s my Uncle Jim. Today he’s watching his youngest graduate from Virginia Tech – Go Hokies! And my cousin Erin, she just finished chemo two weeks ago and is running her first post-diagnosis 5K today.

You’ve probably figured out by now that I’m Katherine. And I’m celebrating two and a half years cancer-free by running my first 10K tomorrow at the Marine Corps Historic Half Marathon. But first, I’m celebrating all of those names I just mentioned. Because we’re not only family by blood, we’re a family touched by cancer. We, like everyone here today, are a family who has been repeatedly challenged by the adversity and despair this diagnosis can bring. We’ve responded with bravery, courage, hope…and a little fierceness. And, like you and all of the American Cancer Society, we will continue to step up with a spirit of courage and hope until the last fight is won.    

2.                This too shall pass.

One year ago this weekend, I stood in front of the steps of the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception and received a Master of Social Work degree. This event was four years in the making. Two years prior to that momentous occasion, I received something a little different. Something I saw as a major stumbling block on the road to that Master’s. A diagnosis of invasive ductal carcinoma, stage IIb. So as I stand here with you today, I’d like to share with you how I got here.

There’s a YouTube campaign called “Dear Me”. Through “Dear Me”, our older and wiser selves are encouraged to share a message of hope, inspiration, and all-around "don't worry, it gets better" and "trust me, your goth phase will pass" to our younger and less seasoned selves. In the spirit of “Dear Me”, I’ve written a message to my pre-cancer self. A message reminding her, this too shall pass.  

3.                Dear Katherine,

Remember that really short haircut you always wanted to try but never had the guts? Great news! You’re about to get your chance! Also, I feel like I should warn you, you're in for bumpy ride. But this too shall pass.

4.                You're about to be offered a new job. A job in which you'll go from helping a few hundred Service members and their families, to a couple hundred thousand. And you'll eagerly accept the challenge. What you won’t see coming, is getting the call for that job offer as you're sitting in a breast surgeon's exam room. Because you and your husband just found out you have cancer. Didn't see that one coming, did you? But this too shall pass.

5.                You're about to attend two beautiful weddings. The first at which you’ll wear an oversized necklace to hide the medi-port implanted just below your right clavicle 8 days earlier. Thank goodness for statement jewelry! And the second, you’ll postpone the start of chemo so you can be there in Las Vegas when your best friend gets married. You’ll dance with the bride to Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer" like to two of you have done so many times before. You do see that coming. It's kinda your thing.

6.                What comes next is one long, hot summer. You'll start a blog. Your family and friends - and, thanks to the power of the internet, probably some random strangers - follow along as you irreverently create chemo playlists and chronicle the misadventures of cancer treatment. Because if there’s one thing the chemo suite needs, it’s a little irreverence and an upbeat dance mix. You brothers will offer up suggestions like “Hit Me with Your Best Shot” and “Hang Tough”. Your husband will add Michael Jackson’s “Beat It” to the list. And, of course, there’s “Another One Bites the Dust”, “Back in the Saddle”, “What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Stronger”, “Won’t Back Down”, “I’m Still Standin’”…the list goes on. You’ll poke fun at the copious amounts of time you and your dogs spend watching awful reality TV, and the absurdity of 31 year old acne, fat feet,  and a puffy face - okay, puffy everything - from the chemo and all the drugs they give you to make the chemo less ... chemo-ish. The family who runs the nearby Dairy Queen will know your order. Let's just call that the summer of the chocolate-covered-cherry blizzard. And, three years later, though your patronage is much fewer and farther between, they will still recognize you warmly.

7.                And, you will take leave from your graduate program. Just for the Summer, at first. You'll tell yourself you'll be ready to go back in the Fall. Chemo will be wrapping up a few weeks after the Fall semester starts. And then you'll have all that time off recovering from surgery. What's a few graduate classes to add to the mix? Right? Wrong! So you take the Fall off, too. But don’t worry, this too shall pass. You’ll make up the time and you’ll graduate with that Master’s degree!

8.                For a few months, you’ll take full membership into the cancer club. You’ll join the “Young Women with Breast Cancer” support group through Life with Cancer at Inova Alexandria. You’ll raise funds for Living Beyond Breast Cancer with a morning of yoga at Freedom Plaza. Merry Maids of Woodbridge will clean from top-to-bottom for you on chemo days thanks to “Cleaning for a Reason”. You’ll have experiences and opportunities that would never be possible if not for the honor, courage, and commitment of everyone involved with the American Cancer Society. The “Look Good, Feel Better” program will show you how to rock a bald head with the best of ‘em. At the Redskins All-Star Survivor celebration, you’ll tour Redskins Park, have lunch with Chris Cooley, and talk with Alfred Morris about Tom’s shoes (he can never find them in his size) and how Chipotle truly is the best fast food ever.  You’ll walk onto the field at FedEx and notice how much smaller it looks than on TV. You’ll be interviewed by ABC News, WTOP, and the Chicago Tribune. You’ll be featured in the Baltimore Sun. Your picture will be viewed by over 4 million on the Stupid Cancer Facebook page. And later you’ll be featured as a Student Success Story at The Catholic University of America. But this too shall pass.

9.                And throughout it all, you will grieve. You won't know that you're grieving. Much less for whom or for what. But all five stages, they will be there present and eventually accounted for.

Denial. It will not be a river in Egypt. But you'll spend a lot of time there. "This isn't so bad, right? I mean, my boobs are trying to kill me. But hey, cancer-schmancer. A little chemo here, a little surgery there. Then we'll get back to normal."

Anger. You’ll start to see red with every pink ribbon. You’ll mock every pink-washed product and campaign you come across. You’ll resent the commercialism and industrialization of a disease killing hundreds of thousands of people a year in the U.S. And that new normal you keep hearing about? “You can keep your new normal, I liked my old one just fine.” But this too shall pass.

Bargaining. You’ll bargain with yourself. “Just let me get past this next treatment, next surgery, next milestone. Just let me graduate. Then we’ll be back to normal.”

Depression. You’ll wake up early on a Sunday morning and have a good cry during a “Keeping up with the Kardashians” marathon. That will be one of many WTF? moments. But this too shall pass.

Acceptance. You won’t know when or how, but acceptance will come. Pink ribbons won’t affect you like they did. While they’re still not for you, you accept and appreciate the sense of community and hope they provide so many. You’ll accept the fear. You’ll accept the triumph.

9.      And the message I have for my present-day self, and for everyone here today, is a message of acceptance, a message of courage, and a message of hope. It’s the courage to say “This too shall pass”. All of our loses and successes. All of our trials and victories. These all will pass. Aesop said, “It is easy to be brave from a safe distance.” No one here today has had that luxury. If you’re here right now, it’s because you have faced fear head-on and come out on the other side. You have “Look[ed] at hopelessness in the face and [said]: ‘We are simply not meant to be together.’ [You held the hand of courage] and walk[ed] away (Dodinsky). Because courage is not the absence of fear. It is knowing that something else is more important (Ambrose Redmoon). And what is more important today is that the American Cancer Society and everyone here continues to fight! Continues to relay! Continues to celebrate more birthdays! And continues until we finish the fight against cancer!

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