The club you join when you become a breast cancer survivor is hardly exclusive. You got it, you are admitted, no class is denied, no race is turned away, age plays no part.
You find a lump, you get to jump - into the Survivors' Club.
The inclusivity of breast cancer was made explicitly clear to me at 7:00 a.m. this morning at the Philadelphia Art Museum circle as thousands assembled for the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure. The chaos was loosely organized; the swag was flowing; snacks were tossed out to the crowds.
Groups small and large gathered with banners, memoria, pink from head to toe, pinned racing numbers. Survivors and those lost to the fight were honored in glitter, spray paint, airbrush, ink. Donned in t-shirts, sweatpants, jackets, and sneakers, the crowd was ready to walk, walk, walk - 3 miles - 5 kilometers.
At 8:15 a.m., the masses moved to the start line. My walking partner, the ever-lovely and supportive Leslie Carlis stood side-by-side with me in sisterly solidarity. The crowd strolled down the Parkway to City Hall, hooked a right and around to JFK Boulevard, another turn up Market to West Philly, and back. A puddle of puke reminded me of the frailty of the human body; baby strollers championed the next generation of fighters; preteen cheerleaders shouted, "Race for the Tatas!" at every mile marker.
The crash from the endorphine high was solid. When I got back home, my pillow winked and invited me to lie my head upon it. I did; four hours later, I awoke.
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