Walking for Hope

Every year my daughter takes part in a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society, the Relay for Life. This year she invited me to participate in it with her. I had no idea of what to expect - I knew it had to do with walking, and with getting pledges for the amount of time walked. She put together a team for her Lions Club, and sent me an invitation to join the team. "Why not?" I thought. "How difficult can this be?" It turned out that taking part in that adventure was a very healing experience for me. I made the four-hour drive to Potsdam, NY where the event was to be held. There were many teams, mostly of college students, lined up to register for the event in the field house of the large, state university athletic facility. Each team was given a specific piece of the indoor track infield in which to set up a "base camp." Teams would walk from 8:00 p.m. Friday night until 6:00 a.m. Saturday morning, nonstop - hence the concept of a "relay." My daughter and I took two camp chairs, a small table, and the cardboard diorama my daughter made to go along with the Dr. Seuss theme of this year's event. Our little "encampment" was entirely surrounded by the members of several sororities and fraternities, who claimed their spaces with canopy tents, sleeping bags, pillows, stuffed animals, and all manner of interesting slumber-party type items. Other groups included athletic teams, an entire conglomeration of North Country firefighters of all ages, several service clubs, and various other committees, individuals, and alumni. It was colorful, to say the least! After opening ceremonies, we bought and decorated luminarias, paper bags that would hold tea light candles (battery operated) for the 10:00 p.m. ceremony honoring loved ones who had died of cancer. My daughter and I each made one in honor of my father (leukemia in '93) and my brother (lung cancer in '17). These were put aside while our teams began walking. First there was the Survivors' Lap, in which purple-shirted survivors took a lap with a special banner while relay members cheered from the sidelines. Then there was a Caregivers' Lap. My daughter urged me to take part in this - as a Hospice volunteer, I have helped care not only for my brother, but for five other cancer patients since beginning this work in September. I began the lap with a large group of others. When we rounded a corner, all of the firefighters were standing at attention, saluting us as we walked by. That was a hard moment not to cry. The firefighters have put their own lives on the line time and time again, ready at a moment's notice to help save lives. To have their respect was a humbling moment. After those two laps, all the teams began their relays. As people became tired, one or two members would go sit out a lap or two at their "base camps" while others took their places in the walk. There were special fundraising events throughout the evening: People could sign up to hula-hoop, and the firefighters held a very popular fundraiser involving donating money to walk a mile in their gear. Other groups sold wrist bands, hats, and other artifacts to add to the money raised for cancer research. There were musical groups performing, a DJ, and tons of free food - nachos, popcorn, cotton candy, veggie platters with humus...something for everyone. And lots and lots of coffee. At 10:00 we stopped walking for the remembrance ceremony. All of the luminarias were placed around the inside of the track. Lights were put out, and candles were not yet turned on while various survivors told their stories. Then, a silent lap was taken in the total darkness. Slowly, as each person was moved, the luminaries memorializing loved ones were lighted, until the entire track was lit by candlelight while music played. It was profoundly moving. There were tears, hugs, and an overall sense of camaraderie among everyone there. The firefighters put their helmets next to the luminarias memorializing their lost members. Eventually the lights came back on, the upbeat music returned, people donned their costumes and Seuss hats, and the party went on. My daughter and I left around 11:00, leaving the relay to the students on our team (we're too old for all-nighters any more.) The Lions Club earned a special award that night for fundraising. In all, the state university raised over $42,000 for cancer research. It was a challenge, both physically and emotionally, to take part in this large-group extravaganza. But it was totally worth it. The overriding message was, You are not alone. If you or a loved one are living with cancer, or have lost family and friends to cancer, you are not alone. These relays take place all over the country. Our loved ones live through our memories, and in our willingness to step out on behalf of those who do the research and caregiving to beat this disease. It is a walk for hope.

O Brother, Where Art Thou?

It's been a long couple of months. While I was writing my earlier blog posts, my brother Jim was struggling with lung cancer. He was diagnosed about a year ago, but after radiation therapy, they thought they got it all. Think again. In late September, Jim found out he had Stage IV lung cancer. Terminal. My husband and I were able to make it out to Ohio to visit him and his family four times between September and his death a few days ago. Those visits were so very important to us. Each visit found Jim just a little bit weaker, although his spirits remained high. Each visit left me wondering if it would be our last. We went out in October, and Jim was still getting out to enjoy eating out and other trips. We went back in December. He was on heavy pain meds then, and slept a lot. We did have a few good hours with him, exchanging Christmas gifts and sitting around the kitchen talking and laughing. I had made a fleece blanket for him, green with white deer (bucks, of course. With antlers.) We drove back out in February, just after he spent a week in the hospital. He went home to Hospice care. That weekend, we arrived on a Friday. It was a shock to see him in his hospital bed in his living room, a darkened room curtained off from the rest of the house. The green and white buck fleece I had made him for Christmas was on his bed. I spent a lot of time sitting by his bedside, praying. Slowly over the course of the weekend, he began to get up a little, and by the end of the weekend, he was using his walker to get around the house a little bit, even venturing into the kitchen. After we departed, his wife Kim told us he had made it out to a casino! That just seemed miraculous. Then the call came a few days ago. Jim was failing. Did we want to come out? Of course we did. We made the drive, even though a wind storm had left our home in Rochester, NY without power. We found my brother sitting in his elevator-chair, the one that was bought during our last visit. However, this time I don't think my brother recognized me. At all. My husband and his sons helped put him back in his bed, as his legs would no longer bear his weight. Once again, the green buck fleece blanket was his cover. He was heavily medicated. Although his eyes opened, and he even recognized his wife, sons, and the wife of his best friend, he was clearly on his journey. The family sat vigil around the clock, and we spent many hours with them. Twice I was sure his time had come, but he rallied both times. He had the unexpected energy burst that sometimes happens with one who is ready to leave this world. Then he crashed. My husband and I had to leave on Sunday afternoon, which was very difficult for me. The family had "cocooned" so deeply that I felt cold and alone when I left the house. Of course, Jim's family continued the vigil...until I received the call about 24 hours later that my brother had passed away. I cried. I sobbed. I howled into my own fleece blanket. My brother! My brother! Where are you now, my brother? My daughter gave me a beautiful flower arrangement which I placed on the cover of my grand piano, along with candles and a photo of Jim, laughing and smiling for the camera. My brother is at rest now, at peace. My brother is no longer suffering. We believe that he is with God. We were blessed to have him on this earth for 69 years, but now my brother has gone home. Sleep well, dear Jim. We will see you in the Great Bye and Bye.