I Will Survive

18 is not supposed to be an age when you find out you have breast cancer. 24 isn't either for that matter. In fact, there is no age, no time, no life where a woman should have to find out that her body is holding death as close as a heartbeat.

I'm a survivor. That sounds good to say--"survivor" is such a strong word, but really inside, I'm not a strong person. It's been 11 years since my first breast cancer and 6 years since my second. When my husband asked me how many years he should say when he entered the registration information for Race for the Cure, I had to stop and think and wonder: do I say since the first cancer or the second? Should I add the years together since I'm a double survivor? (I hadn't realized any math would be involved when I asked him to sign us up.)

Tomorrow I will walk and cry and celebrate and remember--the sting of the chemotherapy drugs as they entered my body through the i.v.; the way my father cried when he said "breast cancer" for the first time; the nurse who sang to me "His Eye is On the Sparrow;" the young intern who blushed and left the room when he came in to observe me during one of my countless sessions of radiation; the way my hair wisped over my head when it grew back in again all baby fine; the choking feeling of holding back anger when I found out one of the surgeons had made a mistake--I am overwhelmed and at a loss.

I think of my daughter and wonder at this world; will she be safe? Will she see the wonderful amidst the horror and hurt? I see her face and pray so many impossible things for her.

I will see other women tomorrow--bald women, women surrounded by love and women who look all alone--young old white black latino skinny fat beautiful plain women. Women who are, just like me, racing for their lives and those that they hold dear. Racing so that they can stay in the human race. Racing for a cure. Racing to survive.