Every walk is important

     Idyllic spring weather for me consists of days that are not too warm, skies that don't threaten rain, and evenings with a view of the moon and stars.  On June 21st I shared just such a day with hundreds of others during the 2013 edition of the Canadian Cancer Society's Relay for Life.

     Relay for Life is an annual event held in numerous locations across Canada.   Their goal is to raise money for Cancer research.  Their ideal is to erase Cancer as a disease.  Throughout this twelve-hour event,  they honour those who made it through their ordeal, and  reflect on the ones who have passed.   Their creed is summarized as:

     CELEBRATE - you are a survivor!
     REMEMBER  -  in honour of the ones we've lost
     FIGHT BACK! -  and help other so they don't have to suffer

     Early in my post-cancer period I had visited the Relay For Life  as a spectator.  During those occasions  it was to remember the passing of my parents.  Naively I had assumed that I needed to be "five years cancer free" to be considered a survivor.  Nothing so formal is required:   being alive and fighting Cancer makes you a survivor as far as I'm concerned.  But I wanted something definitive to tell the world --and myself-- that I was done with Cancer.   What I hoped to get was door-slamming, "In your face, Cancer!" closure.   So I signed up to do the Relay for Life Survivor Walk.

     The process begins with registering on the Canadian Cancer Society's website.   As a survivor, you are not required to pay an entry fee, and your yellow T-shirt says "Survivor" on it.  I'm not particularly fond of yellow, and the primary colours of my wardrobe are White, Black, Blue and Gray.  In particularly flamboyant moments I've been known to for the 'daring' earth tones of Beige and Green.   On this day however I am  resplendent in Daffodil Yellow:

Windsor/Lasalle Relay for Life, June 21, 2013

     I can truly say, "Been there, walked that, got the (survivor) shirt."

     In the weeks leading up to this particular event I would casually mention that I would be walking the Survivor Lap, as the inaugural lap is called.  What surprised me was the enthusiastic offers of people willing to pledge.  I did not wish to solicit sponsorship at this time, as I had distinctly mixed feelings about my motives for this event.   It is difficult to articulate, but suffice to say this was something personal between me and Cancer.

      On the event day itself I was eager to get going, to be among other survivors to hear what they had to say, to share this intensely personal experience with others who just know what you've gone through.   Upon arriving at the Relay site,  we received VIP treatment:  preferred parking for Survivors, so we didn't need to walk the approximately 17,000km from parking lot to the venue.  

      More pleasant surprises, the registration had a novelty 'hand tracing' banner.   All survivors were encouraged to trace their hand, as a sort of group High-Five I suppose.   During the event it would precede the walkers, carried forward by willing volunteers.   Speaking of Volunteers if you've got some spare time and are looking for a cause, I'm sure the CCS would be interested in hearing from you.

      Supper was in that fine Summer tradition of  hot dogs, hamburgers (or veggie burger in my case), pasta and salad, coffee and dessert.   Cheerful volunteers served us in picnic-buffet style.  I had lost my  ticket entitling me to a free dessert shortly after registration.  But I suspect the un-missable "Survivor"  caption on my shirt got me a yummy treat anyways:  cupcakes that were tasty works of art.

      To my way of thinking, the Relay For Life bears a similarity to a Wedding reception.   Both have lots of guests.   Both feature enthusiastic participants.  Both have lots of food and entertainment.  And finally, both have lots of after-dinner speeches.    As I was in the group that was to kick things off, we were semi-sequestered far from the stage where numerous officials, politicians, community leaders, fund raisers, and CCS representatives talked at length about why we were all here.   Though I missed most of what was said, my observation of the audience tells me they liked what they heard.   Speeches completed, the Knights of Columbus would be the honour guard as the walk commenced. 

      By tradition, the youngest survivors lead the walk.  They may be kids, but thanks to events such as the Relay For Life,  they are kids with a future.   Flanked by the K of C honour guard, we proceed with that inaugural lap.   I'm aware of how proud I feel to be here.  I'm startled out of my introspection when I suddenly realize that everyone wants to  high-five the survivors as we walk by.   Little kids reaching way up, eager to do their share to help us Survivors.  I'm happy to oblige and make sure I slow down to gently tap  small palms.  Victory assured, I keep walking.

      I walk fast.  I suspect that to some observers I might have appeared somewhat over-eager.  Initially the walk started out solely as Survivors.  Halfway through the Care Givers were permitted to join in.  As my first Survivor Walk drew to a close, I tried to figure out how I felt, if I had a better understanding of what I had gone through three years ago.  But it was just a walk,  shared with some nice people.    My hoped-for  closure did not manifest itself.  There wasn't any over-the-top emotional spillover.   I think I've  had enough cancer-related emotional drama for a lifetime.

      Yet I can't deny it wasn't uplifting to participate in the Survivor lap.  I had set out three years ago with a plan to get through treatment and return to work.  I reached my objectives and was satisfied.  I thought perhaps the Survivor walk might invoke a feeling of sadness for a life so changed.  But no tears from me at this time.  Later that evening however,  I would be emotionally ambushed  during the Luminary Ceremony.  

     Perhaps the most intensely  moving experience of the this twelve hour evening event is the Luminary Ceremony.  At its core it is  a simple thing, a white bag that wouldn't look out of place if it contained sandwiches and an apple.  Within this flameproof bag however is a small votive candle.   Upon these bags are written  the names of those we need to remember.  The names of those that may be going through their journey.  The names of those that made a difference when your life changed forever.   There are thousands of these little white bags, some, plain and unadorned (like mine), others cheerfully decorated.   Some bearing photographs or prayers.  Some are works of art.  They are all paper shrines with emotional bonds stronger than forged steel.

      As dusk approaches, prayers are said for those who have passed, and we observe our moment of silence.  I think of family could not be here this night.  Of coworkers and friends who were abruptly taken away by cancer.  Twinge of guilt for not being among their number.   Twilight no more, night is about us.  A moon close enough to be called full is rising.   The Luminary candles are lit,  while  the piper stirs within us that haunting sadness  whenever  "Amazing Grace" is played.   A ribbon of light encircles the field.   I walk around the track to find the two Luminaries reserved for my parents yet unlit.

     I cannot get to the luminaries reserved for my parents.  A woman sitting perfectly still blocks access to  them.   I cannot see her face, nor determine her age.   I presume that her luminaries are adjacent to the ones for my parents.  Another woman approaches, dressed in the same uniform as her seated teammate.   She kneels beside her friend,  maybe sharing in grief, maybe consoling her, I do not know.   There is no sound of crying,  but the shoulder-wracking sobbing is unmistakable for it's anguish  .  At that moment I'm profoundly saddened for her loss.  Self conscious now that I'm wearing a bright yellow shirt boldly proclaiming "Survivor".   Not wishing to intrude on this intense event, I quietly move away.   I do not wish to meet her eyes if she should look up.  How would I answer the unspoken question of why one survived, and one did not? 

         
      I continue my walk that evening with conflicting emotions.   I'm proud for meeting my life's toughest challenge,  but humbled by a stranger's grief.   There would be no cathartic release for me this evening, no feeling of joy at 'beating' cancer.   The walk did not release me from Cancer's hold, any more than it could erase other painful memories in my life.   Although my expectations of closure were not fulfilled, I did  not leave disappointed. 

     I guess what I learned from this event was  that in order to celebrate my life I don't need any grand gestures.   Whenever I want to explore life,  I just need to open up my front door.  And go for a walk.