I went to the Relay for Life in Auburn, MA last night.
It was a Friday night after our second week back in school. Usually that's a curl-up-on-the-couch-and-fall-asleep-on-a-good-book kind of evening. But my mom, dad, and I hopped in my best friend's car and headed out to the track.
We got there just at six and my dad and I headed over to the survivors' tent to register as the ceremony started on stage. We were given purple shirts and paddles - mine bore a large 7. Seven years since diagnosis. My dad's said 13.
Then the speaker called for us to line up. Survivors just diagnosed were asked to stand in the front row. Then those in the two to five year bracket. Then the six to ten years. Then eleven to twenty, and so on.
Five rows of purple shirted strangers stood shoulder to shoulder facing the speaker on the stage.
Then she asked the first row to turn around and look at the survivors behind them. "They are your hope," she told them. Then the second row turned. "They are your hope." Then the third. When the last row turned, there were no survivors to look at. My quick-yet-cynical wit whispered, 'They have no hope.' But the speaker on stage was struggling not to cry as she said, "We - all of us who are here today - we are your hope."
Then we survivors walked over to the track and walked the first lap together.
I have mixed feelings about this survivors' lap. It feels a bit awkward to be a center of attention. But the applause is encouraging and inspiring. It feels safe to be surrounded by strangers wearing the same purple shirt - I'm not really alone. And I liked walking beside my dad this year.
After the survivor lap, we went over to the big tent and ate a delicious dinner -
my Mom and friend joined us. Then we strolled around the track, looking at the booths and picking up a few goodies.
After a mile, my aching feet reminded me that it was the end of a long work week. So my dad and I found a bench to sit and wait while my mom and friend walked a few more laps to hit their step goals for the day.
As we sat there in the dark, with the loud music playing and bright lights and colorful glow sticks flashing all around, I began looking at the people walking by. A tall man walked slowly by, with twin boys toddling around his feet. A group of teenage girls in red shorts, giggled and squealed as they jogged past. An old lady pushing another old lady in a wheel chair, a lady in a motorized wheel chair, a ponytailed man with a little girl holding each hand...
There was no pattern. No visible common thread.
Just a whole bunch of people who'd been touched by cancer and had decided to do something about it. A slew of strangers working - walking - together.
As we headed home, I basked in the peace of that thought. No matter how far out from my diagnosis day I get, no matter what happens tomorrow, I am not alone.
