Why join those walks? What’s the point? You’re never going
to find a cure by walking for three days. You’re not kicking cancer’s ass. It’s
futile; you’re raising money and exhausting yourself for nothing, really.
I wandered into Starbucks today intending to pretend to work
on Max’s book while I played on Facebook and Fark; instead I bought my Venti
black iced tea, unsweetened (so that I can add an amount of Equal to it that
really is shameful), and sat down with another semi-regular who has noted the hair
and the tattoo, and with a little additional information from one of the
baristas put the pink puzzle together.
She doesn’t get it, though. She’s all for the eradication of
cancer, but finds the notion that one can raise money, walk 60 miles, and
honestly believe it will cure anything.
Let’s just suppose that you could find a cure by raising
money; what’s the point of walking. Or biking, swimming, or any of the things
people do in the name of curing a disease. Just donate money and be done with
it.
Two years ago I couldn’t have answered that. In my little
world friends just did it; they signed up for these multi-day walk events and
asked for donations so that they would meet the minimum number of dollars
required to participate. It was done For The Cure, so that future generations
wouldn’t have to suffer through the long, agonizing fight needed to survive.
If walking could cure anything, it would have been cured by
now.
Here’s the thing: I don’t think anyone who participates in
these walks honestly thinks that 100% of their money raised goes toward the
research that will one day find a cure. I don’t think that every walker, crew
member, and volunteer is there with the belief that their efforts will be the
difference in finding a cure in the near future or not. Not everyone involved has expectations
beyond getting through the miles and collecting a t-shirt at the end.
And not every person participating is completely on board with the
organization’s overall mission.
I doubt that there are many people in general who don’t want
a cure for cancer, or MS, or heart disease, or any of the other myriad of
causes some people raise money for. You’d have to be a particular kind of
messed up to enjoy the idea that disease impacts harshly on some and destroys
lives for others. If you polled 1000 people, I’m guessing that 999 would say
they are most definitely not in favor of potentially fatal diseases. The
remaining 1 probably mis-heard the question.
If you poll 1000 people who participate in walk events and
asked them if they honestly expect this to be the year their efforts find the
cure, I’m guessing 999 will say no, and the remaining 1 is simply hopeful.
So why bother?
Ask those walkers the same question and you’ll get as many
different answers as there are people, but it probably boils down to one
fundamental thing.
Why not?
We’re not naïve people, those of us who get involved in walk events. We
understand that while we’re decked out in pink, training mile after mile, then
putting one foot in front of the other while we sweat through three days and
sixty miles of hills and broken sidewalks, all with the hope of finding a cure
for breast cancer that there are so many kinds of breast cancer that even if a
cure is found for one, we’ll be back next year to raise money and walk against
all the other forms of the disease.
We’ll walk because it’s not JUST the disease we’re trying to
stomp down.
All that money raised every year, the pinkwashing that
annoys so many, the effort made to train to be able to walk that far…it really
isn’t just about finding a cure. It’s also about raising money so that the
40-something year old without insurance can get a mammogram. It’s about funding
programs that participate in community outreach, getting rides to appointments
for women and men who are battling on their own without family support. It’s
about putting food on the table for kids whose mothers are out of work because
they need to focus every ounce of their energy on not dying.
It’s about drug trials, medications that might not work and
might break a woman willing to go through the trial down to the very fibers of
what makes her want to live.
It’s about walking with strands of pearls worn around the
necks of people who have lost someone they cared about deeply, even if they
never met her.
It’s about hope.
And more than hope, I think, it’s about being proactive. I
will never be the person in the research lab, figuring out how to combine
chemicals that will attack cancer cells and hopefully leave healthy ones alone.
I will never have that kind of brain; I will never be that smart.
I can’t cure anything. I can’t do anything for the friends I
have lost to breast cancer; I can’t do much for anyone I don’t personally know
who is fighting for their own life.
But I can raise money; I can dye my hair pink because it
makes my friends laugh; I can wear pink spandex even though I feel sorry for
anyone who has to see that; I can put up with the sneers of the cold-hearted
who think my pink is disgusting.
And I can walk.
Yes, I could just donate money. We do; the Spouse Thingy
makes and sells pink ribbon pens and I
wrote a book on doing a walk, and every
penny made from those gets donated. We could end it there, reap the benefits of
the tax deductions and be perfectly content with that. Donating alone
is worth contentment. It’s doing something. It’s contributing, and I celebrate
those who are willing to dig into their pockets and do just that.
I need people who do that. I need people who want to donate
money. I need them because I need to sign up for these walks, and I need to
reach a minimum to participate.
I cannot find a cure. I cannot do a million things I wish I
could do, but I can walk in honor of my friends who didn’t make it, and I can walk
in support of those who are gutting it out in chemotherapy. I can drive the
sweep van and support others who are walking, because whatever their reasons
are, it matters to them.
No. In September, when I walk for Avon, my fundraising won’t
find a cure. My walking won’t find a cure. Every step taken over 40 miles will
not mean that any particular person will get an injection of a wonder drug and
their fight will then be over.
I know that.
But every dollar I raise might mean that a clinic tucked
away into a run down neighborhood gets a mammography machine. Nickels and dimes
might mean someone doesn’t have to pick between rent and food. The collection
of pennies could very well mean someone without insurance gets to see a doctor
about that tiny little lump and get it taken care of before it becomes the big
lump that becomes the Big Bad. That money doesn’t line the pockets of the
organizations; it goes somewhere, and most of it goes somewhere that matters.
And I walk because it’s the one thing I can do, even though
the money is raised and donated. It’s the effort I can expend, something
tangible that deep down, while I do it in the names of the people I care about,
is only for me.
Why walk? For the hope, for the possibilities, and for
ourselves.
