This past weekend was a fast, fun and emotional few days for our family. Some of the girl cousins decided the females in our family should all walk in the Making Strides Against Breast Cancer Walk in St Louis. We made shirts and plans, and the Cincinnati gals caravanned over Friday night. We met at Starbucks at 6:45am the morning of the walk and headed over to Forest Park to join thousands of other participants who had all donated their money, time and bodies to help wipe out cancer.
Cancer is a formidable opponent. I lost one sister to cancer, and am SO grateful another sister is now cancer-free after a hugely courageous battle. I felt so proud of her when all of us walked through the finish line arm-in-arm, symbolic of her own finish line just weeks before. It was bittersweet to be sad and angry that she had to go through the shock, fear, surgery, chemo, radiation, pain, more fear, anger, and eventual submission and resolve, but at the same time, I felt happy that she made it through and at least had the chance to fight it. Gloria never had that chance.
Walking up the final hill with Janet was one of the most special sister memories for me. She tried her best to tell me about her new perspective on life and what it felt like to have had so much support by so many people throughout her journey this past year. We both knew I couldn't fully appreciate exactly how she was feeling, and that made me sad too. For me, one of the very best things about having sisters is that deep understanding that they get you. Whether you're crabbing about your husband, your kids, the IRS or the lines at Walmart, or telling about a deeply spiritual experience you've had, or just describing the sunset, you know that your sister is really listening and gets what you're saying at the same deep place of practically being there herself... like another version of yourself to share it with. Exponential empathy. Some times you just need someone to verify you.
And in that moment on that hill, here she was, my little sister, my forever sidekick, the one who always waited for me to pave the way, to go first, to make it safe for her.. here she was telling me about the hardest, most scary and painful part of her life, and I couldn't fully get her. I couldn't be at that same deep place of practically being there myself. I couldn't verify her. I could only be honored that she dared to speak of it with me. And we cried.
And later that day when she took off her hat and I saw her six-month old hair growing in again at 54, I had one of those moments when life stops and everything freezes except your thoughts. And I took it all in. I went back to all of our growing up years, our college years, our mothering years, and now our grandmothering years. I went back to so many laughs, and the blissful, contented hours we spend each year on our boat watching the sunset or rocking to the oldies at the beach house. I took in once more her silent strength and her backstage wit she seems to have passed on to my middle daughter. And I thought of all the ages and stages that have been her, that were all together present in her during her struggle with cancer. And I was thankful she had the chance to have the new perspective she spoke of. And I was grateful for her gratitude. And I was mindful she, for once, had paved the way for me.. she had gone first and made it safe for me. And I am certain that someday if I need her, she will verify me.
I love you, Sis. You are a hero to me.
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