That Time of the Year

In honor of three friends who are each having their first mammograms in the next few weeks, I am reposting this blog from last June. It remains as significant as it was then.

Breast Sandwich Anyone?

Last week, I went for my annual mammogram. Some of you are too young, or are underinsured, or are too male, to know what this experience can be like. For you, I will try to elaborate.

Begin by imagining your breast on the most sensitive day of the month (guys, I invite you to substitute any other nerve-laden orb to which you are very closely physically attached). Now take this breast (or other orb) and settle it onto a large, thick, cold sheet of steel. Stand awkwardly as a smiling technician compresses a second steel shelf down onto your tender orb. Stay right there while those two pieces of steel squeeze toward one another until you want to scream and squirm because of the pain. But don’t move! The technician is sweetly explaining that she really needs you to stand very still as she screws those two sheets of steel just a little more snugly together. And so you do stand very still, because this is important. Imagine if you will, that the pain is intense, but just barely tolerable. Now stand perfectly still for about a minute while the image is taken. Finally, you can release the breath you didn’t even realize you were holding as the compression relaxes just a bit.

PHEW, it’s over, or so you think. But now, you need to shift your body just a little and submit that same breast (or other orb – boys!) to more compression in a slightly altered position. Two more images on this side, and then you get to do it all over again with the other one! Each time that those shelves of metal come squeezing your flesh into a shape you didn’t imagine possible, you feel surges of pain radiate down into your fingertips. But finally, it is over. You have survived the experience of submitting your breast (or other orb) to be the filling in a sandwich wherein the bread is the thickest, toughest steel, and the greatest weight imaginable has made your body part into something thinner than a slice of bologna. Fun, huh?

And so, the other day, my annual mammogram behind me, I walked out to my car and sat behind the steering wheel. I breathed deeply for a moment. My chest was burning and my fingertips were still tingling with the sensation of radiated pain. I took a few moments to compose myself to prepare for the drive back to my office. Then I glanced at the clock. The entire ordeal had taken just seventeen minutes.

I started thinking about other women’s pain during their mammogram. And as I sat there, the focus on my own aching chest changed into a reflection on something more. I started to think about what happens when those seventeen minutes are the beginning of fear and hurt, rather than just a painful interruption in one’s day.

I couldn’t help but think about my friend Diane, a two-time survivor. She feels fear for several days after her mammogram, as she waits - holding her breath - for the “clean” report she hopes will come.

I remembered a woman I met on last year’s Walk, who described an odd look in the technician’s eyes, as she proceeded to “just take a few more images”. When we walked together in Philly, she was between chemo and radiation for the cancer that had been discovered through that mammogram.

I thought about the pain of a mammogram when it leads to difficult decisions about chemo, radiation and surgery. Seventeen minutes of compression seems a lot less painful than imagining making the choice to have part of one’s body cut away.
Seventeen minutes of discomfort seemed fairly insignificant as I thought of the family of a woman who was diagnosed too late because she didn’t have insurance for a mammogram. For that family, seventeen minutes that never even happened cost them a lifetime of loving memories.

My mind swirled through example after example, illustrating that my measly seventeen minutes were only worth considering for about seventeen minutes.

This reflection brought to mind the reasons that I keep walking and crewing in the 3Day Walks for Breast Cancer. The funds that I have helped to raise ensure that more women will have mammograms. My fundraising helps to pay for vital research so that mammograms that do lead to frightening diagnoses are more likely to have less frightening outcomes. My footsteps help to support community programs and education. My footsteps are matched by the footsteps, fundraising and hard work of all of the 3Day community. Together, we make an impact that will last way longer than seventeen minutes. Our work will last a lifetime. Our work provides lifetimes. And everyone deserves a lifetime.

If you are over forty, or have a family history of breast cancer, please schedule a mammogram right away. Not all breast cancer can be identified with a mammogram. However, mammograms – combined with regular self-exams – continue to be the most reliable diagnosis tool for catching breast cancer early. And early diagnosis means more survivors. Spending seventeen minutes as the filling in a breast sandwich seems a small price to pay for your health and well-being. Please! Run, don’t walk, to your nearest mammogram center. And then, once you’re finished, walk 60 miles with me in the fight against breast cancer, or support my 60 miles with a donation.

60Mile Daughter Training Notes

I'd like to share with you the next installment from my 17 year old 60MileDaughter. (you can read her first post here) I am so proud of her as she begins seriously training for her first 3Day Walk For the Cure. She is planning to walk with me this summer in Chicago. This past weekend, we took a training walk of "10 miles" together. She was cranky before we started and I began to dread what I had brought upon myself by inviting her to share this. Walking (and crewing) in the 3Day Walks is a precious part of my life. It has been a big part of my life for ten years, and training walks are something I dearly love. Her crankiness seared my heart. I feared what her attitude might do to my own training. My fears were mostly unfounded. Indeed, training with her will be very different than training with Matt (60MileHusband) has been. It will be very different than training alone my first year. It will be very different than training with friends has been. BUT it will be an amazing experience for both of us and I am excited to move into this new adventure.
Read on, in her words, and "hear" about her first big training walk.
**
Yesterday I walked out the door with my parents, decked out and ready to spend the day walking. It was all planned out, as my stepfather has warned me – “make sure your mother maps it out beforehand so it really is the length she promises.”
Ten miles, mapped out with a lunch break half-way through, I can do this, I thought … maybe. Five steps in I was already complaining, there was no way I could do ten miles, let alone twenty miles for three days in a row. Yet somewhere along the way, something clicked for me. I can walk, I can put one foot in front of the other and I can make it. Not for myself and not simply for the sake of saying I can do it, but because not everyone can. I am walking sixty miles in three days for those we have lost to breast cancer and for those we don’t want to ever lose.
I returned home from our walk and mapped the route for myself --- 11.5 miles! My feet were sore and my legs were tired, but I had done more than I thought I could, way more. Today I feel fine, tired muscles but not in pain.
All I want to do is walk, I want to go out there and push forward again, and walk until I don’t think I can walk any further, and then keep on walking a little more. I want to walk because at the end of each walk there is another chance, and the feeling that I really can make a difference.

I can’t do it on my own though.
I have my mom cheering me onward, reminding me of the little kids who will for cheer me on during the three days. I’ll hear them yelling “Thank you for helping my mommy”. I have my mom telling me of the tears I will cry and the memories I will make and never forget. I have my friends congratulating me on another mile walked, and telling me it is fine that I can’t spend time with them today, they understand. The walking is more important.
And I have you, supporting me in the most important way. You are supporting the fundraising, the reason I am pushing for more miles. I may be walking to raise awareness, but you are listening and supporting me.
I would like to thank those of you who have helped me so far in this long journey to come, and for those of you who haven’t it’s not too late. Your donation in any amount helps. We’re also selling t-shirts for a $16 donation if that better suits. I thank you for anything and everything.
Thank you again,


Aliza Majewski
Make your donation PLEASE visit my website now.

Proud Mother

I haven't written a blog post in a long time, since my most recent 3Day last October. Now that things are gearing up for the new season, my mind is on all things 3Day, and I am ready to start writing along with all my other training and preparing. However, today's post isn't written by me. Today I am sharing my daughter's fundraising letter. This summer, she will be walking in her first 3Day For the Cure. I am so proud of her I could burst.
Here is her letter:
***
Ten years ago this coming May I watched my mother in her first 3Day Walk for Breast Cancer. She walked sixty miles in three days. I saw how hard she worked to train and to raise money, and how dedicated she was to the cause. My family has experienced breast cancer. We have lost dear friends and cried tears of joy when other friends have survived. That first year, 2001, my mom met my step-father Matt. Since then, they have walked and crewed in the 3Day Walk for Breast Cancer each year. Each year, they have participated in this event so that hopefully one day we can live in a world where no one has to go through the pain and suffering that too many people in this world have experienced. This year I turned sixteen, and this year I can do more than just support my parents as they work for this goal. I can do more than drive to Chicago to cheer them on. I can do more than drive to Boston in snow and sleet in the middle of May to give them dry clothes because they are unwilling to give up. This year, with their dedication in my heart, I can do more. In August of 2011 I will be walking sixty miles in three days in Chicago during the Susan G. Komen Walk for a Cure. I have a lot of work ahead of me. Ever since I was six I have heard my mom talk about how the commitment is like a part time job. You have to train and train hard, you have to build up strength and endurance, and you have to raise $2,300 for this amazing cause.
The Susan G. Komen 3Day Walks for the Cure raise millions of dollars to help research cures and to support those who are suffering. Thousands of people participate in each of the 15 walks in different cities. I have chosen Chicago. My parents have both walked and crewed this walk, and I have walked along the trail cheering sore walkers along, thanking them for what they are doing. After the 2010 walk, my older cousin called me up and said he wanted to walk, but he wanted me with him. After a few days of back and forth I realized that I was being silly. I had suffered with my family; I had supported people when they needed it most. I held my mother’s hand as she sobbed over one of her absolutely closest friend’s fight. She fought this disease to, sadly, not make it through. I called my cousin back, and told him to grab his sneakers because we were going to Chicago.
I am writing this letter, not to tell my life story, but to ask for help in this battle. Help me help others, and let us try to stop this tragic disease from hurting more families. Any donation helps, the more we raise, the more opportunities there are to solve the mystery of breast cancer.
Thank you for your help,

Aliza Majewski
www.the3day.org/goto/alizamajewski2011

Every Mug Deserves a Lifetime

Yesterday was a pretty challenging day. A lot of stuff has happened all in one day.

It all started in the morning. One of my first thoughts of the day was a sense of super happy excitedness. Why? Because 3DayMug was scheduled to arrive at my office. For those of you not in this particular loop, I'll try to explain. 3DayMug is a mug. She is a very special mug. She was created and painted by 3Day Walker and fellow online ambassador, Kristen Cincotta. Through a series of entertaining Twitter-universe moments, Mug became a bit of a 3Day celebrity. Mug even has a facebook page and her own Twitter account. As part of her celebrity, Kristen has made arrangements to make it possible for Mug to participate in a large number of this season's 3Day events, escorted by walkers and crew from among the 3DayTweeps.

So, there I was, feeling particularly excited because Mug was making her way to my office so that she could come to Washington, DC with me and Matt to walk this weekend. My friend, Heather, even helped me out by making some really cute buttons for me to give to walkers who get their picture taken with Mug.

Okay, so when did my day change? I left my office for a little while. I came back and saw that a box had arrived for me. I got wicked excited. I carefully unwrapped Mug and introduced her around my office. I set her up for a little photo shoot so that I could announce on Twitter that she had made it safely to Massachusetts. I took a nice picture.


I picked up the box she was in and then something horrible went wrong. I don't even know how it happened, but suddenly there was a crash and Mug was on the floor. I shouted a word that one is not supposed to shout in one's office. Loudly. A few times. And then I cried a minute. And then I picked her up. Mug's handle had broken in three places.



I let Kristen know right away. I spent the afternoon depressed that I had harmed this Mug that has come to mean so much to so many walkers. That part has been really tough, and I am very good at beating myself up. I spent a bunch of hours focusing on all the people who kept Mug safe and what a lousy job I have done. It helps a lot that Kristen reminded me right away that it was an accident and it was bound to happen. I just really hate that it happened "on my watch". I feel like a careless lummox. But I set the self-loathing aside and focused on helping Mug. I spent the evening repairing Mug.


Her handle is now intact, although I am concerned as to how she will manage if she is held by said handle. And I really don't think she could hang from a beaner on someone's waist pack while they walk, as was planned. I have also inspected her and discovered a small crack on her body. She's been through a lot today, and she will require a lot of special care-taking to get her through the rest of the season.

THEN...
I stood back and looked at Mug, all repaired and ready to continue her 3Day adventure in DC and I had a flash of clarity. It was as though I could see the whole thing through her eyes. Here's what I think the day felt like to Mug starting with when she fell to the floor:

......
OUCH! After sitting on the sidelines of this breast cancer event for a few months, I suddenly feel like I might understand what it means to be diagnosed with breast cancer. A minute ago I was fine, and then suddenly this Thing happened to me. I will never be the same. I lay there on the floor with my handle in pieces and I thought, "Why do bad Things happen to Good Mugs? Why me? Why not that old thermos on the desk? Why did this happen to a sweet pretty young Mug like me?"

I couldn't wallow in self pity though because I was suddenly involved in my own treatment. Before I knew what was happening, I was laying on a cold counter exposed to a bright light. I was being poked and prodded and examined and I didn’t feel like I had any real say in what was going to happen next. All I know is that I was thinking, “Please just do whatever you have to do to make me feel whole again.” And then, before I really even knew what was happening, I was being treated with a stinky chemical mess. The people kept poking at me and telling me to stay perfectly still. I was frightened and wondering what was going to happen, and still they kept coming at me with more chemicals. I’m starting to think that super glue and chemo have a lot in common. The people who were poking at me kept muttering platitudes like, “It’s going to be just fine. Don’t worry, we’re taking good care of you.” And yet at the same time, I could see in their eyes a look of deep concern that maybe things weren’t going as smoothly as they’d hoped.

I felt like time had no real meaning while I was lying there for treatment. I kept thinking about all the things I still want to do with my life. I thought about the walks I want to be carried on. I thought about the people I care about and want to see again – Mom, Aunt Julie, the girls from the ATL training walks. I thought about all the people I still haven’t met and all the places I still haven’t seen. I know I am just a Mug, but I want more time and I am scared that because of this Thing, I am not going to have it.

I came through the reconstructive surgery pretty well. I don’t look quite as young as I did before the Thing happened. And maybe one side of me isn’t even with the other anymore, but you would only notice if you stared at me. It’s time to move on to the next stage. I’m ready to walk in the DC 3Day now. I’m going to need a lot of support and folks are going to have to be extra careful with me. I’ve been through a lot, you know.

Thank goodness nobody tried to say "Don't worry, Mug. After this, you will be as good as new." Because I won't be as good as new. I will never be the same Mug as I was before this happened. My whole body has changed because of this; and so has who I am. But I am stronger because I have survived this Thing.

I AM A SURVIVOR NOW! I am ready to head to DC now. I am ready to cheer on the walkers and thank the crew. I am totally ready to stand proud and strong with all the other survivors. Look out for me - I’ll be the one in pink!

Tell Them I Said Yes to Life

For the past week, I’ve been heading to my friend’s house after dinner and giving him a shot. Yup, that’s what I said. And no, I don’t mean I would drive over there and pour him some whiskey. I mean an injection, pharmaceutical-type, legally prescribed by a surgeon.

My friend, Joe, recently had surgery and needed a daily injection of an anti-coagulant. His doctor suggested that this was something easily taken care of at home, if he could find someone comfortable doing it. Having given injections before, and being not at all queasy about needles, I volunteered. I might have more than volunteered. I might have said something about being honored if he would give me the chance to be his care-provider. And that is the truth about how it felt. Joe's been through a lot of health challenges in the past couple years, and I felt fortunate to be able to lighten his emotional load even just a little bit.

And so, each evening for a week, I gave Joe a shot in his leg and then sat on his couch and visited. Each night when I got up to leave, either he or his partner (or both) would thank me and ask, “are you sure it’s not too much?” I’d shake my head in disbelief and reassure him that it was, indeed, nowhere near too much. Bottom line is that I am grateful to have had the chance to help him in this small way. I am grateful to offer him support. That’s what friends are for. When friendship really works, that’s what friends do. They say yes.

There’s a hymn I know, written by Alicia S. Carpenter, which resonates for me. Here is the first stanza:

Just as long as I have breath, I must answer, 'Yes' to life;
though with pain I made my way, still with hope I meet each day.
If they ask what I did well, tell them I said, 'Yes', to life

It’s why I walk and crew in the 3Day for the Cure – because saying “yes to life” is the thing I want to do well. It’s why I work diligently year-round to keep raising money for the fight against breast cancer – because it is how I can meet each day with hope. It is why I believe that helping my friends and family can come before anything else – because saying yes builds connections, and connections are what keep us strong. I say yes because I feel a strong responsibility to do so. I keep saying yes because I can.

Twelve years ago, through a mutual friend, I met Mary Kay. We talked on the phone before we met in person, and right away I felt that I had found someone who was going to be a part of my life forever. When we met face to face, we hugged immediately. I remember the moment clearly. I walked down to meet the boat that she was arriving on. I saw her walking towards me, her arm around a boy who was smiling and laughing with my own son. She looked up and our glances caught one another. I smiled inquiringly towards her and she nodded emphatically and she yelled out loud, “YES! Yes, I am who you are looking for!” It sounds a bit like romantic comedy when I write it that way, but it was just simple heart-filled friendship from the very start. Mary Kay and I had three years as friends before I lost her to breast cancer. But that premonition that I had that she would be part of my life forever? THAT was so very true.

I say yes to life, because Mary Kay isn’t here to do it anymore. Mar said yes to my friendship. She said yes to being a fabulous parent. She even said yes to being a fabulous parent when she became a single parent suddenly when she lost her husband to pancreatic cancer. She said yes when they said she could try to fight her breast cancer. She said yes when the doctors finally said it was time to stop trying. She said yes to planning the lives her children would have to live without her by their sides. She said yes to everything in her life. And when she had to, she said yes to saying goodbye. She said yes, even to the things she didn’t want, but didn’t have a choice about.

Sure, sometimes the fact that I say yes means that I don’t have time to keep my house as clean as I’d like. And sometimes all the yeses I have said mean that I don’t have time to hide in the basement and make a basket. And sometimes all my yeses mean that I don’t get around to writing my blog. But while all those things aren’t happening, and aren’t getting done, something amazing IS getting done. I am saying yes to life. And so, the next time that I am feeling angry and frustrated about something I haven’t gotten done, I promise myself to stop and think about all the things I am getting done. Like giving a friend something he really needed and didn’t really want.

What We Leave Behind

It’s been almost a month since I held my sneakers aloft during the Chicago 3Day closing ceremony. During those weeks, I have spent 22 hours driving home and countless more hours than that getting caught up with laundry and at my job. We’ve been fundraising and training for The3Day in DC in October. My daughter and my husband have headed back to school. But in amongst all that, I just keep thinking about everything we left behind in Chicago. By “WE”, I mean the walkers and crew of the Chicago 3Day for the Cure.

We left behind a message of hope and dozens of yards of pink crepe paper and ribbons. We left behind 4.3 million dollars raised to make a difference in the fight to find a cure for breast cancer. We left behind smiling young people cheering along 60 miles of sidewalks. We left behind funding for underprivileged women in a city that really needed us. We left behind incredible memories and a powerful message that kindness really can make a difference in the world.

But in the weeks since the Chicago 3Day, I have been reflecting with sadness on something else we left behind. This was my 17th 3Day event, and every time, I am startled anew by what is left behind on Sunday morning. Piles of tarps and sleeping bags and air mattresses get left behind. Mountains of things that the people of the cities we have walked through could definitely use. Sometimes I find it painful to walk out of camp on that final morning because I have seen sneakers left abandoned – sneakers that I realize don’t have enough life in them for a 3Day walker, but that definitely have enough life for the man on the corner begging for spare change to buy some food. Every time that I pack up my stuff on that last day, I am startled by the numbers of tarps left behind by walkers and crew too tired or too dazed to squeeze them into their bags. There are enough tarps left behind in a 3Day camp to build a small tent-city for a homeless community. There are enough tarps and sleeping bags to cover all the children left homeless by last year’s earthquake in Haiti. Enough sleeping bags for all the low-income girl scouts in any city I have ever walked in. The possibilities seem endless. What so many people treat as trash can really be someone else’s live-saving treasure.

Each time that we walk or crew, Matt and I leave extra space in our luggage. On Day3, we load up with tarps that are piling up by the trashcans and we bring them home with us. We donate them to shelters in our home area. After the Chicago 3Day this year, we shipped 32 tarps in perfect condition to Haiti with a friend who was traveling there. Maybe we didn’t change the world, but at least those 32 tarps went to a good cause rather than to a landfill. In Boston this year, a local Eagle Scout made announcements at dinner about collecting leftover supplies on Day3. He made all the arrangements to pick up and then donate the goods to shelters in the area.

There are so many ways to make a difference. I’m hoping that by speaking up today, I can encourage those walkers and crew who are getting ready for the events in the coming three months to give serious thought to what is being left behind.
Here are some ways that you can make a difference:
1. Do not leave any of your own stuff behind;
2. Make plans to take a few extra items with you and donate them to a worthy cause in your own backyard (or just keep them and use them yourself, at least they won’t go to a landfill!);
3. Make plans with a local shelter for them to come to Camp on closing morning to pick up leftovers;
4. Inspire a local scout or community service organization to contact The3Day and make a big plan to make a big difference;
5. Get creative and think of some way to take all those worthwhile items and pay it forward.

It is true that we – the walkers and crew of The3Day – are definitely making a difference in the fight against breast cancer. But that doesn’t have to mean that we forget to make a difference in other fights in our world.

Great Day to be Alive

This morning, I had the privilege of being present at the memorial service for a woman I have known my whole life. Although I had known her since my childhood, I learned more about her at this memorial through the words and stories told by her daughters, who are my peers and friends. I heard the most incredible words in the stories that they told about their mom.

Both daughters remarked that they really couldn’t recall a day of their lives that their mom didn’t say these words:
“It’s a great day to be alive, isn’t it?”

Those words resonated for me. After all, isn’t that exactly why I walk and crew in the 3Day for the Cure? We each should always be grateful for and reminded that life is short, and life – every day of it – is a gift. Although I have been walking and crewing in the 3Day walks for 9 years now, I can sometimes lose touch with the very basic reason that we walk. We walk because we are the ones who can. We walk in memory of friends lost. We walk in honor of survivors fighting. We walk for the daughters we are glad to know are healthy. We walk in the hope that someday nobody will worry about losing their loved one to this disease. But really, that simple message sums it all up. We walk BECAUSE IT IS A GREAT DAY TO BE ALIVE.

So, there I was, heading into the afternoon with that thought bouncing around in my head. And off I went with my 16 year old daughter so she could practice highway driving. About half an hour into things, another car merged onto the highway without yielding and we were hit on the passenger side. I’ve never actually been in a moving car in an accident, and it was pretty frightening. I saw the accident coming and there was little I could do to stop it. My daughter, with only 4 months of driving experience, reacted exactly right, and she probably saved our lives. She didn’t swerve into the next lane where we would definitely have been collided into, spun badly around or worse. She didn’t slam on her brakes in a panic causing us to be rear-ended at highway speeds. She remained calm enough to slow us down into a gentle collision. Sure the merging car crashed into us. And yes, we were all shook up and both cars sustained damage. But it could have been so much worse.

And there it was, clear as the squashed up quarter-panel and the badly bent passenger doorframe. Clear as the light of day that we all walked away into.

It is a great day to be alive. Every. Single. Day.