We Wear Pink

Through October, we stand in solidarity with those fighting Breast cancer. The month is dedicated to those who have survived and those whose memories we hold dear to our hearts. It’s difficult to overstate breast cancer's significant impact on individuals, families, friends, and society. In 2023 alone, 223,000 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer, and nearly 44,000 will lose their valiant fights. Their journeys are shared by many, and the losses are carried by loved ones, families, children, and all who call them friends.

The effects of cancer often seem distant right until it strikes those closest to you. In an instant, you begin to feel the stinging reality of often long-fought battles and the devastating toll cancer takes. Breast cancer initially impacted me professionally; later, it hit closer to home as my mother is a three-time breast cancer survivor.

At least in my mind, the face of breast cancer was older women. That changed when I came face to face with a young woman battling stage 4 metastatic breast cancer. Out of respect for her family, I’ve kept her name private. She approached me to find options to workout while undergoing chemotherapy and radiation treatment. My experience with cancer was limited, and I was in uncharted territory. I expressed my trepidation, but she remained undeterred; I was her choice. ?Our journey changed my life and perspective and continues to remind me to live a life of gratitude and grace.

Before we started training, I worked with her medical team and established appropriate protocols based on her treatment plan. I read tons of books and journals and established a reasonable education and understanding of the effects of exercise on cancer and cancer treatment. I recognized I could play a positive role and add valuable modalities to supplement her medical therapies. The relationship required honest communication, and each time she was introduced to a new medication, we’d discuss the implications of exercise on her new treatment. The research remained clear that exercise was a valuable tool and showed clear benefits if it followed doctors’ guidelines and patient's tolerance. I learned to listen carefully and ask specific questions about her physical and emotional state. Some days, we’d move a lot, and others a little, always paying attention to her physical and emotional wellbeing.

I quickly learned that stage 4 cancer is not cured but managed, sometimes for long periods. I would argue that anyone diagnosed with cancer, regardless of the stage, lives with the near-constant fear of return. The years rolled along with periods of positive outcomes followed by disappointing news of newly found spots. Eventually, the prognosis became consistently bleak, and the treatments more aggressive. Despite these setbacks, she’d show up consistently twice a week, always smiling.

One rule we adopted was that I could not ask about her cancer. She promised to inform me of relevant changes to her health, and we’d continue to train. Although slow to obey, I eventually understood and trusted the reason. The gym was her safe space, a place where she could be normal and not a person living with cancer. Cancer can become an identity, and this was not an identity she wanted to carry everywhere she went. It takes courage to step foot in the gym with a scarf around your head, to unintentionally announce that you have cancer. She may have had cancer, but she wasn’t cancer.?

There were occasions when cancer was the topic of the day because it needed to be, but most days, it was about sharing the beautiful experiences of life. Our sessions were filled with laughter and smiles punctuated by the occasional deep moments of shared concern and reflection. There was always optimism and a genuine cherishing of life, and she lived each day, staying present in every moment as long as possible.

Eventually, the news turned bleak as the cancer had spread to her brain. New treatments were initiated but with poor outcomes. Our sessions became less frequent, but we’d chat on the phone; I’d listen while she shared stories she deemed share-worthy, and they often were. Her optimism and enthusiasm remained as her smile continued to radiate through the phone. ?The days she’d make it to the gym, our workouts and conversations became more difficult. The reality had set in that there would not be a happily ever ending of survival. ?We would move when we could, and at other times, I would hold her hand and listen. I remained stoic and always positive, but inside, my heart broke. The end was near, and we both knew it.

The call came early one morning from her sister. I hung up the phone and sobbed. For years, we trained, moved, laughed, and shared the normalcy she so dearly craved. Her legacy remains, as do the cherished memories I and many others share of her.

As I said goodbye to my dear friend, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was fortunate to catch it early but early doesn’t make hearing you have cancer easier. Because of my experience, I knew the process and how things would proceed. I also knew the reality that even if caught early, it doesn’t guarantee survival. My mother’s treatment was initially successful, but on two additional occasions, the cancer returned. As true to my mother’s nature, she’s a fighter and, despite fear, stood stoically each time cancer reared its head. We don’t talk often about her cancer, but I’m proud of her and the bravery she continues to show.

These stories are not unique; they represent the powerful fight that continues for individuals, families, and friends worldwide. In solidarity, we wear pink, representing the love of self and others, expressing warmth, friendship, affection, compassion, and nurturing. ?To all the survivors, you are brave, you are strong, you are resilient, you are not alone, and you are not forgotten. ?