Tar Heel Walk 2009

We're very serious people.

I lost my mind some time in early January, when I first saw the advertisement for the three day walk. I make spontaneous decisions sometimes, but most of the time they hold no real consequence. Decisions like say, chopping off my hair, or – you know – applying to graduate school. No big deal.

But this was something different.

Sixty miles, huh? For breast cancer research? Sounds like a challenge. Oh – and you want me to raise over $2,220? I’m in. But why?

Meet Susi Norman – my mom. Eight years ago, she was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, and I was lost. Utterly lost. How could something like this happen to us? Sure, my family is quirky. We’re a little funny. But breast cancer – really? There was something in that word that just wouldn’t let me wrap my mind around the impact it would have on my mother, on myself, on my family. 

I watched my mom go into surgery. I read an entire book that afternoon in the hospital room, waiting for her to wake up. I couldn’t tell you what I did that semester or what classes I took. I couldn’t tell you if my school won any football games or what Homecoming was like. I couldn’t tell you how I felt applying for – and getting accepted to – UNC. Because all I remember is watching my mom – and waiting. Watching her undergo treatment – first chemotherapy, then radiation – with the quiet reserve she’s always had. It didn’t really hit home until she started to lose her hair. You could say we developed an affinity for hats.

At that time, I didn’t speak to many people about how I felt. About how frightened and lost I felt. About how much uncertainty I had about what would happen and the implications for my family. And even when my mom began to recover – and each test result came back clear – I still didn’t talk about my experience. There is something about nearly having your heart and soul ripped apart that leaves its mark on you. That changes you – forever. 

And so that’s why I am walking. It’s time to break that silence and face this disease head on. If my mom can undergo months of chemotherapy, radiation, and the terrible uncertainty that is par for the course with this disease – then I can sure as hell walk sixty miles and do my own meager part to support breast cancer research. 

I want to do my part so that one day daughters won’t have to worry about losing their mothers to this disease. Husbands won’t worry about their wives – brothers, about their sisters. Women, their best friends. This is for my mom – but it’s also for me. And it’s for every one else who has ever been touched by this disease. 

Let’s go.