Hope, Light and Everyday Miracles
"Each miracle starts with one feeling. That feeling is hope."
Paula Fritz Eddy, executive director of the McKean County Unit of the American Cancer Society, made that statement as part of her opening remarks at this year's American Cancer Society Relay for Life Relay for Life. While many people may have been concentrating on money as hope during her remarks -- after all, the Relay for Life is the Cancer Society's primary fund raiser during the year -- others probably had other thoughts in mind.
I know I did.
In April 1996 my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I knew the diagnosis was a possibility as I fidgeted in a waiting room at Bradford Regional Medical Center while she was having what would end up being a lumpectomy. But hey, I'd written a few stories about breast cancer and pretty much knew all there was to know about it. Right? Wrong. One thing I didn't know was how hard it hits you when the doctor says "it's cancer" and he's talking about your mom.
Another thing I didn't know was how to let my mom know there was hope. Sure I knew all the facts and figures and could spit 'em out to anyone who asked. But how do you talk percentages to your mom when she's about to be operated on to see if the cancer spread?
You don't. You just sit there and hope. And one of the things you hope for is a way to give her hope for the future. The shock of my mom's diagnosis still hadn't worn off by the time last year's Relay for Life rolled around. She was still pretty numb. I was still pretty clueless about how to help her. We were both pretty scared.
Then we took a drive up to Parkway Field just to check things out at the relay. Around the track, we couldn't help but notice, were about 800 luminaria -- candles nestled in paper bags each bearing the name of someone who has fought with cancer. We walked around looking at the names, more than a little surprised at how many we recognized.
Although we read the names of many people who didn't make it, just seeing and reading the names of people who did make it did something for my mom I probably could never have done. The luminaria gave her hope. They put names on the statistics. During this year's Relay for Life luminaria ceremony, my mom was one of about three dozen cancer survivors who walked a lap around the field in the light of only the 1,200 luminaria circling the track.
Getting to that point wasn't easy. It took a lot of work, a lot of courage and a lot of hope. Eddy said something else very important during this year's relay: Every dollar raised by the cancer society raises hope. Perhaps equally as important, if not more so, is that every candle lighted for a survivor raises hope for someone who doesn't know where else to find it.
(first published on June 26,1997)
This year's Relay starts at 3 p.m. today at Callahan Park. Be there, OK?
Paula Fritz Eddy, executive director of the McKean County Unit of the American Cancer Society, made that statement as part of her opening remarks at this year's American Cancer Society Relay for Life Relay for Life. While many people may have been concentrating on money as hope during her remarks -- after all, the Relay for Life is the Cancer Society's primary fund raiser during the year -- others probably had other thoughts in mind.
I know I did.
In April 1996 my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer. I knew the diagnosis was a possibility as I fidgeted in a waiting room at Bradford Regional Medical Center while she was having what would end up being a lumpectomy. But hey, I'd written a few stories about breast cancer and pretty much knew all there was to know about it. Right? Wrong. One thing I didn't know was how hard it hits you when the doctor says "it's cancer" and he's talking about your mom.
Another thing I didn't know was how to let my mom know there was hope. Sure I knew all the facts and figures and could spit 'em out to anyone who asked. But how do you talk percentages to your mom when she's about to be operated on to see if the cancer spread?
You don't. You just sit there and hope. And one of the things you hope for is a way to give her hope for the future. The shock of my mom's diagnosis still hadn't worn off by the time last year's Relay for Life rolled around. She was still pretty numb. I was still pretty clueless about how to help her. We were both pretty scared.
Then we took a drive up to Parkway Field just to check things out at the relay. Around the track, we couldn't help but notice, were about 800 luminaria -- candles nestled in paper bags each bearing the name of someone who has fought with cancer. We walked around looking at the names, more than a little surprised at how many we recognized.
Although we read the names of many people who didn't make it, just seeing and reading the names of people who did make it did something for my mom I probably could never have done. The luminaria gave her hope. They put names on the statistics. During this year's Relay for Life luminaria ceremony, my mom was one of about three dozen cancer survivors who walked a lap around the field in the light of only the 1,200 luminaria circling the track.
Getting to that point wasn't easy. It took a lot of work, a lot of courage and a lot of hope. Eddy said something else very important during this year's relay: Every dollar raised by the cancer society raises hope. Perhaps equally as important, if not more so, is that every candle lighted for a survivor raises hope for someone who doesn't know where else to find it.
(first published on June 26,1997)
This year's Relay starts at 3 p.m. today at Callahan Park. Be there, OK?
.jpg)
Comments