These past few days I have been reading with both fascination and horror the events that have been taking place in the Rodeo I and II prisons in Venezuela. As a Venezuelan, the mixture of shame, sorrow and, dare I say, hope (?) has found resonance all throughout the Venezuelan diaspora. It is a new and conflicting feeling, difficult to define, for it involves so many conflicting moral compasses that, under any other civil society, would be unimaginable to think they would ever comingle with such ease.
Our beautiful country has been living a nightmare for the past 11 years, and although many times we have felt on the brink of taking our country back, we have been foiled over and over again, to the point that, as a people, we have become cynical and apathetic. Somehow, we have forgotten who we really are, and have left this madness become our perpetual reality. We have forgotten how to hope.
It is impossible not to feel profound shame at the dismal situation that these events have brought to light regarding our prison system. It makes one's stomach turn to see how we treat the prison population. What does it say about a country when we have 30 jails holding 49,000 prisoners (in average, that's a staggering 1633 per jail, when most of them were built to hold only one fourth of that number)? It is no surprise then, that with such overcrowding -and understaffing-, chaos reigns within Venezuelan jails. Rival gangs fighting over territorial control within the jails (however small it may be) means that prisoners live in a constant state of violence. Add to that the fact that corrupt guards smuggle drugs and weapons into the jail, and what we have is a ticking bomb that has finally gone KABOOM!!
In response to the violence that erupted in the El Rodeo I and II prisons, the National Guard has vowed to quench the uprising, whatever the cost. This means that, while the president recovers from surgery for an unknown ailment in Cuba (by the way, what does THAT say about his confidence on the doctors formed by his "revolution"?), the second in command has sent 5000 troops and multiple war tanks to bring the situation under control. Only thing is that there's anything but control. How is it possible that such a vast number of armed soldiers cannot bring the situation under control? Well, because we're dealing with a mini army of its own inside that prison, that's why. And while relatives of the prisoners inside the jail despair waiting to know what has happened to their loved ones, one cannot help but to root for these prisoners, a hodgepodge made up of both criminals and innocent men. One cannot help but to hope that these prisoners make the national guard come to their knees, however improbable that may be. If nothing else, one hopes that these prisoners, who are now being systematically burned and killed, like cattle in a slaughterhouse, make the rest of the country wake up to the ineptitude of this government, that they bring back the fire, the will to get each and every last one of these corrupt government officials running for the hills.
Don't get me wrong. Many of those people are prisoners for a reason. Many have committed unspeakable crimes and deserve their fate. But in a country where the judicial system is corrupt and, quite frankly, led by the nose by one man, there are also many, many, many people who are in jail who should not be there – Innocent people whose crime has been to speak against a tyrant government, or who are still awaiting trial and have been for years, without seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. They deserve better. They deserve to be treated with dignity, and not to be piled up inside four foul walls, waiting for their turn to become cannon fodder. For them, and for the rest of us, I pray. Que Dios nos agarre confesados.
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
¡Zacataplún! y empieza el sabotaje...
No puede fallar. Tan pronto se aproxima la fecha en que uno tiene que ponerse serio para el entrenamiento, y ¡zacataplún!, va uno y se lesiona, pareciera como que si a propósito.
En diciembre fue que si la fractura del muslo, y después con que y que no podía correr sino hasta finales de abril. Bueno, no importa porque el maratón no es sino hasta octubre. Hay tiempo. ¿Y qué crees tú que pasa entonces? Llega mayo, uno mete dos o tres corriditas paupérrimas ahí, y cuando uno menos se lo espera, ¡zacataplún!, va uno y mete la proverbial pata, y ahora queda uno con un tobillo torcío, del tamaño de una toronja, que ni lo deja a uno ponerse el zapato de costumbre. Por ahí anda uno dando lástima caminando con muletas por todos lados, lamentándose del nuevo incidente que le impide a uno demostrar su verdadera naturaleza de atleta. Es que todos sabemos que en circunstancias normales no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. A correr se ha dicho, y por allí pasa uno, cual gacela veloz (o por lo menos así se imagina uno a uno mismo así) dejándole el pelero a todos. Pero ya saben cómo es la cosa, "el doctor dijo que descanso, hielito ¡y nada de ejercicio!"
Vamos a dejarnos de zoquetadas. Todos sabemos lo que está pasando en realidad: lo que pasa es que uno está más gordito de lo que debiera, que uno es 10 años más viejo que la última vez, que con dos muchachos encima, no queda ni tiempo ni mucho menos la energía, y que solamente de pensar en los próximos 5 meses de duro entrenamiento en medio del verano Marylandiano (¿o será Marylandés?), a uno lo que le da es gana de echarse al lado de la piscina con un buen libro en una mano y un piña colada en la otra. No es de extrañar que entonces el subconsciente haga las mil peripecias para que uno consiga las formas más gafas de lesionarse, cosa de tener una buena excusa.
Pero no hay marcha atrás. La cosa ya está pagada y en el calendario. Gústele a quién le guste no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. El próximo lunes comienzo el entrenamiento. Ahora sí, de verdad verdad... en serio.
En diciembre fue que si la fractura del muslo, y después con que y que no podía correr sino hasta finales de abril. Bueno, no importa porque el maratón no es sino hasta octubre. Hay tiempo. ¿Y qué crees tú que pasa entonces? Llega mayo, uno mete dos o tres corriditas paupérrimas ahí, y cuando uno menos se lo espera, ¡zacataplún!, va uno y mete la proverbial pata, y ahora queda uno con un tobillo torcío, del tamaño de una toronja, que ni lo deja a uno ponerse el zapato de costumbre. Por ahí anda uno dando lástima caminando con muletas por todos lados, lamentándose del nuevo incidente que le impide a uno demostrar su verdadera naturaleza de atleta. Es que todos sabemos que en circunstancias normales no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. A correr se ha dicho, y por allí pasa uno, cual gacela veloz (o por lo menos así se imagina uno a uno mismo así) dejándole el pelero a todos. Pero ya saben cómo es la cosa, "el doctor dijo que descanso, hielito ¡y nada de ejercicio!"
Vamos a dejarnos de zoquetadas. Todos sabemos lo que está pasando en realidad: lo que pasa es que uno está más gordito de lo que debiera, que uno es 10 años más viejo que la última vez, que con dos muchachos encima, no queda ni tiempo ni mucho menos la energía, y que solamente de pensar en los próximos 5 meses de duro entrenamiento en medio del verano Marylandiano (¿o será Marylandés?), a uno lo que le da es gana de echarse al lado de la piscina con un buen libro en una mano y un piña colada en la otra. No es de extrañar que entonces el subconsciente haga las mil peripecias para que uno consiga las formas más gafas de lesionarse, cosa de tener una buena excusa.
Pero no hay marcha atrás. La cosa ya está pagada y en el calendario. Gústele a quién le guste no hay ¡zacataplún! que valga. El próximo lunes comienzo el entrenamiento. Ahora sí, de verdad verdad... en serio.
Another Walk Done
This past weekend started out beautifully. The weather could not have been any more perfect. A glorious Washington morning greeted us, inviting with its pure, crystalline blue sky, trees in full bloom, and the smell of flowers in the air.
I was both nervous and excited at the same time. Having done this walk once before, I was perfectly aware of the grueling task I was about to undertake. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins fueled by the prospect of facing such an enormous challenge was tempered by an uneasy hole in the pit of my stomach, and a nagging feeling that I was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I put on some makeup, knowing full well that it would be all smeared by noon. It doesn't matter. It was necessary to start the day with beauty and grace, even if by the end of the journey I'd be crawling to the finish line on all four.
My dear husband, being the selfless creature that he is, woke up at the break of dawn to drive me to the starting line. With a kiss and a hug, he left me there and went back home to capture a few more minutes of blessed sleep before the entire house went into a frenzy getting ready for the day. While he slept cozily with our sons in our king-sized bed, I waited for the start of the race in the company of nearly 2300 other souls who, like myself, were there for very personal reasons, each of them just one small fragment of the same sorrow, the same hope: that one day, we will not have to suffer the loss of another loved one, that one day what we do today will matter, that one day, we will kick breast cancer's butt.
I decided not to pair up with anyone, because it tends to slow me down. I had lofty goals. I had personal records to break. It was all very well thought out. But it was, I must confess, a lonely affair, made all the lonelier by the heavy presence of my recent loss. The first time around, I walked in her honor. This time, I was walking in her memory.
The journey began, and I found myself towards the back of a long, snake-like mass, slithering slowly but steadily forward. If I was to make the time I wanted, I had to be at the head - not the tail - of that snake. So I started to increase my pace, moving steadily forward, sneaking and swerving into the close spaces left between anonymous bodies that rubbed and bumped against each other for lack of room. Before I knew it, I made it to the head of the snake, and by the time I reached mile 5, I was officially number 11. Eleven!! I was beside myself. So I continued my frantic pace, moving forward, unstoppable, a force to reckon with. This pace continued until about mile 10, when I stopped for lunch... at 9:26 am.
Then it all started to go downhill. The brief 10 minutes I stopped to eat my turkey sandwich were enough for my beaten body to catch up with my mind. My limbs let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had overdone it. They screamed loudly at my stubborn self that I had to slow down, 'cause they were just plain tired of trying to keep up with me, and if I didn't like that, well that's too bad, 'cause they weren't coming and that was that. I slowed down my pace, confident that the great head start I had would be enough to keep me in a comfortable lead (as if this was a competition?!?). But by the half marathon point, there was no denying it. I had slowed down my pace considerably, and little by little I started to see people passing me by. I stubbornly tried to command my body to obey me, to keep the pace, to move on, but my body decided to overthrow me, and I was no longer in command. Instead, my feet began to dictate what the rest of me would do. Swollen to twice their usual size, my feet felt confined into too-tight running shoes (this is a walk, why on earth would anyone wear running shoes for?), so to avoid hurting that tiny, itty, bitty little toe any more, I was forced to walk shifting my weight towards the my outer foot, making it hard on the hips to keep moving with such unnatural alignment. So, now it was not only my feet that hurt, but now my hips were throbbing wildly, radiating pain towards my thighs. The fear of a recent stress fracture and the prospect of not being able to train for the marathon in October filled my mind with dread, and doubt took hold of my self-resolve.
By mile 15, my family finally came to meet me and cheer me on, but by then, I was beyond cheering. I just wanted other shoes to change into, and maybe someone to push me in a wheelbarrow the rest of the way... an there were still 11 more miles to go. But when things get tough, having your loved ones by your side really does make a difference between being able to plow through, and complete and utter failure. Bob and the boys had to leave early due to my son's baseball game, but my parents stayed with me, determined to see me through. From time to time, my mom would walk with me until I reached the next rest stop, while my dad followed us in the car, ready to give us a lift if needed. We continued like this for another 8 miles, and by the end of mile 23 I had slowed to a crawl, and I began getting the sympathy look from other walkers --oh, how do I loathe the sympathy look. More and more, I got the "are you OK?" question, and even the event volunteers kept asking me if I was all right. At that point, 2 miles short of the finish line, my legs finally gave in, and I had to admit defeat. I asked my dad to take me the last two miles to the village so I could at least walk through the finish line for that first day. By that time, I was beyond all sense of pride and dignity. All I wanted to do was to put my feet up and sleep, everything else be darned.
This year I decided not to sleep at the village, but rather come back home and return to the walk the next day. Well, after that first day, I had decided that I would not do the next day. Why should I? I did what I had set out to do, which was to raise money for research. I was hurting, hungry and tired, and there was no telling me that I would have to do another half marathon the next day. You'd have to be crazy to do that.
At home I took a nice long shower and went to bed early. I slept soundly, finally getting a much deserved rest, and woke up before the sun was all the way up. Slowly, a funny feeling crept into me, a kind of anxiety that I could not explain away. I tossed and turn in my bed, trying to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but when it was evident that sleep had gone for good, while everyone else slept peacefully, I began pacing and worrying that I would forever regret never finishing the whole walk. When my youngest son finally woke up, I decided to wake the entire house up, because by George, I had a walk to finish! And we were ALL going!! And who cares if it is raining? And what if it is already 8 o'clock? there's still time, and boy go and put your clothes on right now! where's my pink bandana?!? Go, go, go!! Take a shower already or we're leaving without you!! and is everyone in the car? Good. Let's go.
I was not deluded enough to think that I would walk the entire length of the half marathon. After all, the damage done to my feet and legs the day before was not a product of my imagination, it was quite real. But a good night's sleep helped mend some of the hurt, and in a pragmatic move, we decided to start walking from some point in the middle of the race course. This time my mom and dad followed us in the car, and Bob and the boys walked with me. After a little while, we sent our youngest son to follow us in the car with my parents, but my 7 year old son, Daniel, walked the entire last five miles with me, without complaining one single time. I was so proud of him. It was by far the best moment of the entire weekend, being able to cross the finish line with the greatest companion a woman can have. He made me forget how much my body hurt. Just seeing his determination was enough to make me want to do better, to finish strong. And so we did.
In the end, I will remember 2011 not as the year I failed to finish all 39 and a half miles, but rahter as the year I had the enormous privilege of crossing that finish line with my oldest son, who at age 7, was not embarrassed to wear a pink bandana on his head, because he knew why we were doing this. He knew that as I held one of his hands, his aunt Michelle held his other hand, all the way from heaven.
I was both nervous and excited at the same time. Having done this walk once before, I was perfectly aware of the grueling task I was about to undertake. The adrenaline that pumped through my veins fueled by the prospect of facing such an enormous challenge was tempered by an uneasy hole in the pit of my stomach, and a nagging feeling that I was woefully unprepared for what lay ahead. I put on some makeup, knowing full well that it would be all smeared by noon. It doesn't matter. It was necessary to start the day with beauty and grace, even if by the end of the journey I'd be crawling to the finish line on all four.
My dear husband, being the selfless creature that he is, woke up at the break of dawn to drive me to the starting line. With a kiss and a hug, he left me there and went back home to capture a few more minutes of blessed sleep before the entire house went into a frenzy getting ready for the day. While he slept cozily with our sons in our king-sized bed, I waited for the start of the race in the company of nearly 2300 other souls who, like myself, were there for very personal reasons, each of them just one small fragment of the same sorrow, the same hope: that one day, we will not have to suffer the loss of another loved one, that one day what we do today will matter, that one day, we will kick breast cancer's butt.
I decided not to pair up with anyone, because it tends to slow me down. I had lofty goals. I had personal records to break. It was all very well thought out. But it was, I must confess, a lonely affair, made all the lonelier by the heavy presence of my recent loss. The first time around, I walked in her honor. This time, I was walking in her memory.
The journey began, and I found myself towards the back of a long, snake-like mass, slithering slowly but steadily forward. If I was to make the time I wanted, I had to be at the head - not the tail - of that snake. So I started to increase my pace, moving steadily forward, sneaking and swerving into the close spaces left between anonymous bodies that rubbed and bumped against each other for lack of room. Before I knew it, I made it to the head of the snake, and by the time I reached mile 5, I was officially number 11. Eleven!! I was beside myself. So I continued my frantic pace, moving forward, unstoppable, a force to reckon with. This pace continued until about mile 10, when I stopped for lunch... at 9:26 am.
Then it all started to go downhill. The brief 10 minutes I stopped to eat my turkey sandwich were enough for my beaten body to catch up with my mind. My limbs let me know, in no uncertain terms, that I had overdone it. They screamed loudly at my stubborn self that I had to slow down, 'cause they were just plain tired of trying to keep up with me, and if I didn't like that, well that's too bad, 'cause they weren't coming and that was that. I slowed down my pace, confident that the great head start I had would be enough to keep me in a comfortable lead (as if this was a competition?!?). But by the half marathon point, there was no denying it. I had slowed down my pace considerably, and little by little I started to see people passing me by. I stubbornly tried to command my body to obey me, to keep the pace, to move on, but my body decided to overthrow me, and I was no longer in command. Instead, my feet began to dictate what the rest of me would do. Swollen to twice their usual size, my feet felt confined into too-tight running shoes (this is a walk, why on earth would anyone wear running shoes for?), so to avoid hurting that tiny, itty, bitty little toe any more, I was forced to walk shifting my weight towards the my outer foot, making it hard on the hips to keep moving with such unnatural alignment. So, now it was not only my feet that hurt, but now my hips were throbbing wildly, radiating pain towards my thighs. The fear of a recent stress fracture and the prospect of not being able to train for the marathon in October filled my mind with dread, and doubt took hold of my self-resolve.
By mile 15, my family finally came to meet me and cheer me on, but by then, I was beyond cheering. I just wanted other shoes to change into, and maybe someone to push me in a wheelbarrow the rest of the way... an there were still 11 more miles to go. But when things get tough, having your loved ones by your side really does make a difference between being able to plow through, and complete and utter failure. Bob and the boys had to leave early due to my son's baseball game, but my parents stayed with me, determined to see me through. From time to time, my mom would walk with me until I reached the next rest stop, while my dad followed us in the car, ready to give us a lift if needed. We continued like this for another 8 miles, and by the end of mile 23 I had slowed to a crawl, and I began getting the sympathy look from other walkers --oh, how do I loathe the sympathy look. More and more, I got the "are you OK?" question, and even the event volunteers kept asking me if I was all right. At that point, 2 miles short of the finish line, my legs finally gave in, and I had to admit defeat. I asked my dad to take me the last two miles to the village so I could at least walk through the finish line for that first day. By that time, I was beyond all sense of pride and dignity. All I wanted to do was to put my feet up and sleep, everything else be darned.
This year I decided not to sleep at the village, but rather come back home and return to the walk the next day. Well, after that first day, I had decided that I would not do the next day. Why should I? I did what I had set out to do, which was to raise money for research. I was hurting, hungry and tired, and there was no telling me that I would have to do another half marathon the next day. You'd have to be crazy to do that.
At home I took a nice long shower and went to bed early. I slept soundly, finally getting a much deserved rest, and woke up before the sun was all the way up. Slowly, a funny feeling crept into me, a kind of anxiety that I could not explain away. I tossed and turn in my bed, trying to close my eyes and fall back asleep, but when it was evident that sleep had gone for good, while everyone else slept peacefully, I began pacing and worrying that I would forever regret never finishing the whole walk. When my youngest son finally woke up, I decided to wake the entire house up, because by George, I had a walk to finish! And we were ALL going!! And who cares if it is raining? And what if it is already 8 o'clock? there's still time, and boy go and put your clothes on right now! where's my pink bandana?!? Go, go, go!! Take a shower already or we're leaving without you!! and is everyone in the car? Good. Let's go.
I was not deluded enough to think that I would walk the entire length of the half marathon. After all, the damage done to my feet and legs the day before was not a product of my imagination, it was quite real. But a good night's sleep helped mend some of the hurt, and in a pragmatic move, we decided to start walking from some point in the middle of the race course. This time my mom and dad followed us in the car, and Bob and the boys walked with me. After a little while, we sent our youngest son to follow us in the car with my parents, but my 7 year old son, Daniel, walked the entire last five miles with me, without complaining one single time. I was so proud of him. It was by far the best moment of the entire weekend, being able to cross the finish line with the greatest companion a woman can have. He made me forget how much my body hurt. Just seeing his determination was enough to make me want to do better, to finish strong. And so we did.
In the end, I will remember 2011 not as the year I failed to finish all 39 and a half miles, but rahter as the year I had the enormous privilege of crossing that finish line with my oldest son, who at age 7, was not embarrassed to wear a pink bandana on his head, because he knew why we were doing this. He knew that as I held one of his hands, his aunt Michelle held his other hand, all the way from heaven.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The Date Approaches
It is just little over two months from today. It is practically here. I'm talking about the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in which I will be participating this coming April 30. I anticipate this date with a mixture of excitement, dread, and sadness, as this year I only have her memory to walk for.
But most of all, I have an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. You see, even though I did reach the minimum fundraising goal to be able to participate that was, apparently, the end of it. Despite my efforts, there has been very little extra support, and I cannot help but to feel extremely let down. I had envisioned doubling that minimum amount, especially in light of our recent family loss. I figured our friends –her friends– would come through for one last show of support, and give to a worthy cause so that in a hopefully not so distant future, families won't have to suffer the loss of loved ones due to this disease anymore.
There are still two more months. Should I dare to hope?
http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
But most of all, I have an overwhelming feeling of disappointment. You see, even though I did reach the minimum fundraising goal to be able to participate that was, apparently, the end of it. Despite my efforts, there has been very little extra support, and I cannot help but to feel extremely let down. I had envisioned doubling that minimum amount, especially in light of our recent family loss. I figured our friends –her friends– would come through for one last show of support, and give to a worthy cause so that in a hopefully not so distant future, families won't have to suffer the loss of loved ones due to this disease anymore.
There are still two more months. Should I dare to hope?
http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
Thursday, December 9, 2010
My Reason
Nine years ago I ran my very first marathon, and after the race I wrote a short story about the experience for a feature writing class I was taking at the time. This is what I wrote then. Enjoy.
"For my sweetie. To get in shape. For charity. For the cure.
There are many reasons why people start running for exercise. Some of these reasons are health-related, like lowering cholesterol, preventing diabetes, or keeping heart disease at bay, as well as reducing stress, or “finding time for yourself” in an overworked, fast-paced society. Most people, though, start running to shed some of the excess pounds that have begun to make of America an obese society. Whatever the reason that makes people lace up their running shoes and get going, the benefits of running can be as much spiritual as they are physical, and the impact does trickle down to all aspects of a person’s life.
In my case, it all started with a dare.
Just a little over a year ago, my uncle dared me to join him and walk the New York Marathon, an event he participates in almost every year. One evening in one of his customary visits to our home after finishing the classic New York race, my uncle, who at the age of 65 has been running marathons for as long as I can remember, started joking around and, knowing well that even walking to the corner is a great feat for me, dared me to ‘just try,’ and maybe we could walk together in the race the next year. I told him that I just might take him up on his word, and that he would be very surprised. After making this fateful statement, and for months to follow, my uncle, along with my aunt, father, mother, brother, husband, and any other human being that has known me long enough to know that there is not a single athletic hair in my body, took it as a running joke. Let’s all poke more fun at the chubby little lady.
I know that I am no Marion Jones, and that my exercising history leaves a lot to be desired, but really, must everybody laugh at my naiveté? So, I started thinking, what if? While walking on my treadmill, a Christmas gift from my husband that has been collecting dust bunnies in the dark corners of my basement, I fantasized about crossing the finish line, while everybody cheered me on, clearly awed at my endurance and speed. Of course, the fantasy lasted about five minutes or so, the length of time it took me to feel out of breath. But surely I could shape up… I still had about a year to get in tip top shape for the competition. I vowed to exercise every day, and to go on a diet, and to drink more fluids, and to do all those things my fitness magazines told me I should do to turn my rather round physique into a lean, mean muscle machine in “just 4 weeks.” But, oh, the lure of prime time TV and potato chips are so much stronger than I! If I was to succeed in avoiding the ridicule that was sure to follow if I admitted defeat, I needed some strong motivation, and fast.
And then it came to me in the form of yet another fitness magazine article. A structured program to turn most couch potatoes into first-time marathon walkers in just four months. Not only did I have a step-by-step approach to achieving my goal, but the testimony of the writer who swore by it after having tried it and succeeded at walking the Honolulu Marathon! So there was my motivation. No, not the program. The trip to Honolulu! I called my uncle and double-dared him. I told him that I was definitively going to surprise him, and that he could count on my finishing a marathon even if it was the last thing I did. The only condition, though, was that New York be replaced by Honolulu. Even he could not say no to Hawaii.
Just to make sure I would not back out at the last minute, I purchased the tickets, booked the hotel, and registered for the race as soon as possible. With finances and a nice vacation involved, even my husband got into the marathon groove and registered too. We were ready to start the long road to success.
For the next few months, both my husband and I got into a disciplined routine of five short walks during the week, and increasingly long walks during the weekends. At the beginning it was hard to make myself follow the training, but having my better half training with me made it easier for me to stick to the program. Little by little I began to notice changes in my body, not to mention my attitude. Not the kind of oh-my-gosh-lookit-yah kind of changes, but the more subtle kind, like being able to walk at gradually faster speeds on my treadmill, or an increased level of energy throughout the day, or actually looking forward to the weekends’ long walks.
At the same time that we made progress in the exercise front, I started looking at that other aspect of wellbeing that we all dread to talk about. Yes, I am talking about the “D” word. Diet. Not the “Starve Yourself Silly” diet, but the mindful eating that comes with truly analyzing what your body needs and finding it in nutritionally sound choices. I started to see the importance of food as fuel for my workouts, and making smarter choices became easier with time. So, not only did I start losing the extra poundage, but the added benefit of having a lighter, better fueled carcass to drag along in my walks was a complete bonus.
Before we knew it, we were investing in heart monitors, power gels, designer running shoes, and other little gadgets to make our training more efficient. We started alternating walking with ever-longer running segments. We browsed the Internet for hints and advice to increase our stamina and endurance. We were, in one word, hooked. As the date of the marathon approached, we fine-tuned our workouts, and planned the race to minute details -- where we would meet at the end, what time we were planning on making, how we were going to run, and what not.
The day of the trip arrived without my even noticing. We found ourselves at the airport waiting to board on the airplane that would take us from Chicago to Honolulu. While we waited, a very cheerful lady, wearing a bright yellow shirt and overalls walked around the waiting area, with a list on hand, asking people if they were part of “the team”. We were puzzled by this and wondered if we would find out what “the team” was. We found out when she came by our seats and asked us the same question. We said no, and in return asked her what was “the team” all about. As it turns out, it was “Team in Training”, a group of people who pledged to run a marathon to raise money for leukemia. I vaguely remembered to have received one of their brochures in the mail. I also remembered to have tossed it out without second thought – yeah! like I was ever going to run a marathon.
The pre-race Honolulu experience is somewhat of a blur in my memory. Although the astonishing Hawaiian landscape passed before my eyes with mesmerizing beauty, all I could think of was race day. I would have time to admire the views later… I was so excited I could hardly sleep the night before.
On race day, we were up at 3:00 am. My uncle, my husband, and I, along with about 20,000 other people started gathering at start line. It was raining and cold, but the mood was festive and upbeat. People of all sizes, shapes, and colors came together in one big party, everybody waiting with exhilaration for the gun to go off. At 5:00 am the signal was given, and an undistinguishable swarm of cheering bodies began moving through the still-dark streets of Honolulu, like a giant snake slowly slithering away into the horizon.
The rush of adrenaline kept us going for the first eight miles. We were making fast time. Throughout the race we came across two distinct groups of people representing two charities: one was raising money for AIDS research, and the second was the one we had already met at the airport, raising money for leukemia. They had an amazing support system, with group representatives stationed along the race course giving their runners water, fruit, and, even more important, words of encouragement. For the rest of us, mere mortals with no higher purpose other than to achieve a personal-best goal, there were just the water stations. I clearly remember thinking “and what about me?” “Who will cheer me on?” By the time I reached the half-race point, I had slowed considerably, and lost my husband in the process. I was able to keep up with my uncle, who is not as fast as he used to be in his younger days, but still very fast. But soon I lost him too. My morale started to decline just as I began to feel the pain in my right foot. It felt as if someone was hammering a big rusty nail through my heel. The pain started in the heel, and it soon began spreading to the plant of my foot, and upwards to my ankle. I could not run anymore. I would have to slow down and walk, as fast as possible, but just walk. But even walking was excruciating. I was sure I had somehow managed to get a stress fracture or something, and to make matters worse, there were those confounded charity people cheering, and laughing, and having a good old time. I wanted to just sit down and cry.
I didn’t sit down, but cry I did. Copiously, noisily, and drawn out.
There I was, a walking mess of tears, mucus, sweat, and mud, strolling my way through the race course. I felt no shame, all I felt was the pain in my right foot, and the outrage at the fact that all my months of preparation could very possibly end in defeat. It was right about mile 20 when I heard him right behind me. There he was, a little old man of about 75, huffing and puffing, and making his way through the crowd. He had a shirt that said he had finished this very race every year since it started in the late 1970s. He had tied jingle bells to his shoe strings. Cling, cling, cling, cling. I could hear him going just behind me, slowly but steadily, with obvious effort, but with determination. He, like myself, did not have the support system the charity runners had. He only had his determination. Cling, cling, cling, cling. He is now by my side. “I am not as fast as I once was, but this will not be the year I don’t finish,” I hear him tell a fellow runner who expressed his admiration after reading the t-shirt. Cling, cling, cling, cling. He passed me, and was now lost in the crowd in front of me. As I watched the old man go, I felt ashamed. This would not be the year I would admit defeat, either.
I tried my best to pick up the pace, but while the failure thoughts were left behind, back in mile 20, the pain in my right foot was still quite real. So I decided that I did not need to make a specific time, all I needed to do was finish. I kept going, much slower, but with an uncanny sense of relief that I did not have to beat any record. I just had to set one. My own record.
At long last I could see the finish line in the distance. Although there were loud speakers playing music at the end of the course, the last few feet play in my mind like a slow-motion picture. I can see people cheering on both sides of the line, but I cannot really hear them. I know I am walking much faster now, but I feel like I’m in a dream, moving very slowly. Shortly before I cross the finish line a Japanese gentleman steps out of the sidelines and gestures for me to smile. He lifts his hand and gives me a high five. “Well done,” he says, in halting English, “Smile, you are a hero.” I’m overwhelmed. Soon I cross the finish line, and in the confusion of people cheering and celebrating, the only person I see is my husband running towards me. He had finished a full hour earlier, and there he was, tired and hungry, waiting for me. We hugged and cried together before collapsing on the floor, too exhausted to walk. We had achieved what nobody thought we could.
We spent the rest of the day sleeping. We went to bed at around five in the evening, and did not get up until seven the next morning. As we went over our experiences, we discussed the highlights and the not-so-bright spots of the whole ordeal. Now I have bragging rights to tell anybody who ever doubted that I am a marathoner. One thing my husband and I agreed on, though, was that we would never do this again. Been there, done that. I proved myself and didn’t have to do it again. No sir. There is no way you can ever make me do it in this lifetime again. Nope.
“So, what do you think about the Ireland Marathon?” asks my uncle a few months later. Hmm!… My eyes light up. Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of this one right away. I’ll check out the hotels, the fees, the airlines. Just leave it to me, uncle dearest…" -End-
Now, we never did go Ireland, and my dear uncle is now prisoner of his own body, victim of a cruel disease that has robbed him of his most treasured pleasure. Since that time, and largely in his honor, I have become one of those people who walk for a cause. In 2009 I walked 40 miles in search for a cure for Breast Cancer, a feat I intend to repeat in 2011 (for more information, visit my avon page: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB). Also, I promised myself I would run one marathon per decade. Next year my decade is up, so it is time to plan the next big one: Marine Corps, here I come!
"For my sweetie. To get in shape. For charity. For the cure.
There are many reasons why people start running for exercise. Some of these reasons are health-related, like lowering cholesterol, preventing diabetes, or keeping heart disease at bay, as well as reducing stress, or “finding time for yourself” in an overworked, fast-paced society. Most people, though, start running to shed some of the excess pounds that have begun to make of America an obese society. Whatever the reason that makes people lace up their running shoes and get going, the benefits of running can be as much spiritual as they are physical, and the impact does trickle down to all aspects of a person’s life.
In my case, it all started with a dare.
Just a little over a year ago, my uncle dared me to join him and walk the New York Marathon, an event he participates in almost every year. One evening in one of his customary visits to our home after finishing the classic New York race, my uncle, who at the age of 65 has been running marathons for as long as I can remember, started joking around and, knowing well that even walking to the corner is a great feat for me, dared me to ‘just try,’ and maybe we could walk together in the race the next year. I told him that I just might take him up on his word, and that he would be very surprised. After making this fateful statement, and for months to follow, my uncle, along with my aunt, father, mother, brother, husband, and any other human being that has known me long enough to know that there is not a single athletic hair in my body, took it as a running joke. Let’s all poke more fun at the chubby little lady.
I know that I am no Marion Jones, and that my exercising history leaves a lot to be desired, but really, must everybody laugh at my naiveté? So, I started thinking, what if? While walking on my treadmill, a Christmas gift from my husband that has been collecting dust bunnies in the dark corners of my basement, I fantasized about crossing the finish line, while everybody cheered me on, clearly awed at my endurance and speed. Of course, the fantasy lasted about five minutes or so, the length of time it took me to feel out of breath. But surely I could shape up… I still had about a year to get in tip top shape for the competition. I vowed to exercise every day, and to go on a diet, and to drink more fluids, and to do all those things my fitness magazines told me I should do to turn my rather round physique into a lean, mean muscle machine in “just 4 weeks.” But, oh, the lure of prime time TV and potato chips are so much stronger than I! If I was to succeed in avoiding the ridicule that was sure to follow if I admitted defeat, I needed some strong motivation, and fast.
And then it came to me in the form of yet another fitness magazine article. A structured program to turn most couch potatoes into first-time marathon walkers in just four months. Not only did I have a step-by-step approach to achieving my goal, but the testimony of the writer who swore by it after having tried it and succeeded at walking the Honolulu Marathon! So there was my motivation. No, not the program. The trip to Honolulu! I called my uncle and double-dared him. I told him that I was definitively going to surprise him, and that he could count on my finishing a marathon even if it was the last thing I did. The only condition, though, was that New York be replaced by Honolulu. Even he could not say no to Hawaii.
Just to make sure I would not back out at the last minute, I purchased the tickets, booked the hotel, and registered for the race as soon as possible. With finances and a nice vacation involved, even my husband got into the marathon groove and registered too. We were ready to start the long road to success.
For the next few months, both my husband and I got into a disciplined routine of five short walks during the week, and increasingly long walks during the weekends. At the beginning it was hard to make myself follow the training, but having my better half training with me made it easier for me to stick to the program. Little by little I began to notice changes in my body, not to mention my attitude. Not the kind of oh-my-gosh-lookit-yah kind of changes, but the more subtle kind, like being able to walk at gradually faster speeds on my treadmill, or an increased level of energy throughout the day, or actually looking forward to the weekends’ long walks.
At the same time that we made progress in the exercise front, I started looking at that other aspect of wellbeing that we all dread to talk about. Yes, I am talking about the “D” word. Diet. Not the “Starve Yourself Silly” diet, but the mindful eating that comes with truly analyzing what your body needs and finding it in nutritionally sound choices. I started to see the importance of food as fuel for my workouts, and making smarter choices became easier with time. So, not only did I start losing the extra poundage, but the added benefit of having a lighter, better fueled carcass to drag along in my walks was a complete bonus.
Before we knew it, we were investing in heart monitors, power gels, designer running shoes, and other little gadgets to make our training more efficient. We started alternating walking with ever-longer running segments. We browsed the Internet for hints and advice to increase our stamina and endurance. We were, in one word, hooked. As the date of the marathon approached, we fine-tuned our workouts, and planned the race to minute details -- where we would meet at the end, what time we were planning on making, how we were going to run, and what not.
The day of the trip arrived without my even noticing. We found ourselves at the airport waiting to board on the airplane that would take us from Chicago to Honolulu. While we waited, a very cheerful lady, wearing a bright yellow shirt and overalls walked around the waiting area, with a list on hand, asking people if they were part of “the team”. We were puzzled by this and wondered if we would find out what “the team” was. We found out when she came by our seats and asked us the same question. We said no, and in return asked her what was “the team” all about. As it turns out, it was “Team in Training”, a group of people who pledged to run a marathon to raise money for leukemia. I vaguely remembered to have received one of their brochures in the mail. I also remembered to have tossed it out without second thought – yeah! like I was ever going to run a marathon.
The pre-race Honolulu experience is somewhat of a blur in my memory. Although the astonishing Hawaiian landscape passed before my eyes with mesmerizing beauty, all I could think of was race day. I would have time to admire the views later… I was so excited I could hardly sleep the night before.
On race day, we were up at 3:00 am. My uncle, my husband, and I, along with about 20,000 other people started gathering at start line. It was raining and cold, but the mood was festive and upbeat. People of all sizes, shapes, and colors came together in one big party, everybody waiting with exhilaration for the gun to go off. At 5:00 am the signal was given, and an undistinguishable swarm of cheering bodies began moving through the still-dark streets of Honolulu, like a giant snake slowly slithering away into the horizon.
The rush of adrenaline kept us going for the first eight miles. We were making fast time. Throughout the race we came across two distinct groups of people representing two charities: one was raising money for AIDS research, and the second was the one we had already met at the airport, raising money for leukemia. They had an amazing support system, with group representatives stationed along the race course giving their runners water, fruit, and, even more important, words of encouragement. For the rest of us, mere mortals with no higher purpose other than to achieve a personal-best goal, there were just the water stations. I clearly remember thinking “and what about me?” “Who will cheer me on?” By the time I reached the half-race point, I had slowed considerably, and lost my husband in the process. I was able to keep up with my uncle, who is not as fast as he used to be in his younger days, but still very fast. But soon I lost him too. My morale started to decline just as I began to feel the pain in my right foot. It felt as if someone was hammering a big rusty nail through my heel. The pain started in the heel, and it soon began spreading to the plant of my foot, and upwards to my ankle. I could not run anymore. I would have to slow down and walk, as fast as possible, but just walk. But even walking was excruciating. I was sure I had somehow managed to get a stress fracture or something, and to make matters worse, there were those confounded charity people cheering, and laughing, and having a good old time. I wanted to just sit down and cry.
I didn’t sit down, but cry I did. Copiously, noisily, and drawn out.
There I was, a walking mess of tears, mucus, sweat, and mud, strolling my way through the race course. I felt no shame, all I felt was the pain in my right foot, and the outrage at the fact that all my months of preparation could very possibly end in defeat. It was right about mile 20 when I heard him right behind me. There he was, a little old man of about 75, huffing and puffing, and making his way through the crowd. He had a shirt that said he had finished this very race every year since it started in the late 1970s. He had tied jingle bells to his shoe strings. Cling, cling, cling, cling. I could hear him going just behind me, slowly but steadily, with obvious effort, but with determination. He, like myself, did not have the support system the charity runners had. He only had his determination. Cling, cling, cling, cling. He is now by my side. “I am not as fast as I once was, but this will not be the year I don’t finish,” I hear him tell a fellow runner who expressed his admiration after reading the t-shirt. Cling, cling, cling, cling. He passed me, and was now lost in the crowd in front of me. As I watched the old man go, I felt ashamed. This would not be the year I would admit defeat, either.
I tried my best to pick up the pace, but while the failure thoughts were left behind, back in mile 20, the pain in my right foot was still quite real. So I decided that I did not need to make a specific time, all I needed to do was finish. I kept going, much slower, but with an uncanny sense of relief that I did not have to beat any record. I just had to set one. My own record.
At long last I could see the finish line in the distance. Although there were loud speakers playing music at the end of the course, the last few feet play in my mind like a slow-motion picture. I can see people cheering on both sides of the line, but I cannot really hear them. I know I am walking much faster now, but I feel like I’m in a dream, moving very slowly. Shortly before I cross the finish line a Japanese gentleman steps out of the sidelines and gestures for me to smile. He lifts his hand and gives me a high five. “Well done,” he says, in halting English, “Smile, you are a hero.” I’m overwhelmed. Soon I cross the finish line, and in the confusion of people cheering and celebrating, the only person I see is my husband running towards me. He had finished a full hour earlier, and there he was, tired and hungry, waiting for me. We hugged and cried together before collapsing on the floor, too exhausted to walk. We had achieved what nobody thought we could.
We spent the rest of the day sleeping. We went to bed at around five in the evening, and did not get up until seven the next morning. As we went over our experiences, we discussed the highlights and the not-so-bright spots of the whole ordeal. Now I have bragging rights to tell anybody who ever doubted that I am a marathoner. One thing my husband and I agreed on, though, was that we would never do this again. Been there, done that. I proved myself and didn’t have to do it again. No sir. There is no way you can ever make me do it in this lifetime again. Nope.
“So, what do you think about the Ireland Marathon?” asks my uncle a few months later. Hmm!… My eyes light up. Don’t you worry; I’ll take care of this one right away. I’ll check out the hotels, the fees, the airlines. Just leave it to me, uncle dearest…" -End-
Now, we never did go Ireland, and my dear uncle is now prisoner of his own body, victim of a cruel disease that has robbed him of his most treasured pleasure. Since that time, and largely in his honor, I have become one of those people who walk for a cause. In 2009 I walked 40 miles in search for a cure for Breast Cancer, a feat I intend to repeat in 2011 (for more information, visit my avon page: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB). Also, I promised myself I would run one marathon per decade. Next year my decade is up, so it is time to plan the next big one: Marine Corps, here I come!
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Caminando para encontrar una cura
Cada tres minutos, otra mujer es diagnosticada con cáncer de seno en los Estados Unidos. Esta estadística no cobró significado para mí sino hasta cuando comencé a contar y descubrí que conozco personalmente a 7 mujeres que han sido diagnosticadas con cáncer de seno. Siete. Ese número es bastante grande para una enfermedad de esta gravedad. De esas siete mujeres, 4 eran menores de 40 años (o recién cumplidos los 40) cuando le dieron el diagnóstico por primera vez. De las siete, 2 han fallecido, una de ellas mi muy querida y extrañada cuñada Michelle. La mayor de ellas es mi tía Noemi, quien fue diagnosticada hace como dos años más o menos, y gracias a una atención diligente y a la devoción de sus hijas y nietos que se han encargado de llevarla y traerla a donde sea con tal de que reciba el tratamiento adecuado, ahora se encuentra relativamente bien. La persona más recientemente diagnosticada es una querida amiga cuyas dos pequeñas hijas he visto crecer junto a mis hijos desde la cuna y quien se encuentra actualmente peleando esta batalla con para poder estar presente para sus hijas.
Le pido a cada uno de ustedes que paren por un momento de hacer lo que sea que estén haciendo y cuenten, y estoy segura de que estarán tan sorprendidos como yo de descubrir exactamente el número de personas que conocen personalmente que han sido diagnosticadas con esta terrible enfermedad. Ni la juventud, ni el estado de salud física, ni el sexo son garantía de que nunca se verán afectados por esta devastadora enfermedad.
Es por ellas, al igual que por todas las demás mujeres - y hombres - cuyas vidas han sido alteradas por el cáncer de seno que el próximo 30 de abril y 1 de mayo pasaré el fin de semana entero caminando, junto con miles de personas, en la Caminata Avon contra el Cáncer de Seno. Voy a caminar una distancia equivalente a un maratón y medio con el sólo objetivo de recaudar fondos y crear conciencia para ayudar a combatir el cáncer de seno. Yo no soy científica, por lo que no puedo ayudar de esa manera, pero hay muchos investigadores que han dedicado su vida entera a encontrar una cura contra el cáncer de seno, y siempre es bueno para ellos tener más fondos para ayudarlos a avanzar sus investigaciones. Y en ese aspecto sí PUEDO y VOY a ayudar de la única manera que sé: sudando la gota gorda por dos días para que yo, junto la ayuda de todos ustedes, pueda recaudar un poco de dinero para enviárselos y así ojalá algún día mis amigas no tengan que angustiarse por el destino de sus hijas, y así algún día yo no tenga que preocuparme de que mis hijos sientan el dolor de perder una madre, una esposa, o una hija.
El dinero recaudado va directamente a la Avon Foundation Breast Cancer Crusade, una fundación de caridad pública cuya misión es proporcionar acceso a la atención médica y trabajar en pro de la búsqueda de una cura. La fundación da financiamiento a organizaciones por todo el país en cinco áreas: investigaciones médicas, cuidado clínico, servicios de apoyo, seminarios educativos y promocionales, y programas comunitarios y sin fines de lucro de detección temprana para la salud de los senos. Gran parte del dinero que se recaude permanecerá en nuestra área para ayudar a la gente en nuestra comunidad.
De acuerdo con las reglas del evento, estoy obligada a recaudar por lo menos $1.800 para poder participar, pero mi meta personal es aun más alta, y es mi intención recaudar por los menos $2.500. Ayúdenme a apoyar mis esfuerzos y la causa del cáncer de seno haciendo una generosa contribución. Pueden hacer donaciones en línea visitando el enlace que aparece al final de este mensaje, el cual les llevará directamente a mi página personal. Y por favor tengan en cuenta que en menos tiempo de lo que les tomó leer este mensaje, otra mujer en los Estados Unidos (y quién sabe cuantas más alrededor del mundo) fue diagnosticada con cáncer de seno.
Gracias de antemano por su apoyo.
P.D. Pueden leer más sobre la Caminata Avon contra el Cáncer de Seno visitando www.avonwalk.org (http://www.avonwalk.org/)
Por favor visiten mi página personal en: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
Le pido a cada uno de ustedes que paren por un momento de hacer lo que sea que estén haciendo y cuenten, y estoy segura de que estarán tan sorprendidos como yo de descubrir exactamente el número de personas que conocen personalmente que han sido diagnosticadas con esta terrible enfermedad. Ni la juventud, ni el estado de salud física, ni el sexo son garantía de que nunca se verán afectados por esta devastadora enfermedad.
Es por ellas, al igual que por todas las demás mujeres - y hombres - cuyas vidas han sido alteradas por el cáncer de seno que el próximo 30 de abril y 1 de mayo pasaré el fin de semana entero caminando, junto con miles de personas, en la Caminata Avon contra el Cáncer de Seno. Voy a caminar una distancia equivalente a un maratón y medio con el sólo objetivo de recaudar fondos y crear conciencia para ayudar a combatir el cáncer de seno. Yo no soy científica, por lo que no puedo ayudar de esa manera, pero hay muchos investigadores que han dedicado su vida entera a encontrar una cura contra el cáncer de seno, y siempre es bueno para ellos tener más fondos para ayudarlos a avanzar sus investigaciones. Y en ese aspecto sí PUEDO y VOY a ayudar de la única manera que sé: sudando la gota gorda por dos días para que yo, junto la ayuda de todos ustedes, pueda recaudar un poco de dinero para enviárselos y así ojalá algún día mis amigas no tengan que angustiarse por el destino de sus hijas, y así algún día yo no tenga que preocuparme de que mis hijos sientan el dolor de perder una madre, una esposa, o una hija.
El dinero recaudado va directamente a la Avon Foundation Breast Cancer Crusade, una fundación de caridad pública cuya misión es proporcionar acceso a la atención médica y trabajar en pro de la búsqueda de una cura. La fundación da financiamiento a organizaciones por todo el país en cinco áreas: investigaciones médicas, cuidado clínico, servicios de apoyo, seminarios educativos y promocionales, y programas comunitarios y sin fines de lucro de detección temprana para la salud de los senos. Gran parte del dinero que se recaude permanecerá en nuestra área para ayudar a la gente en nuestra comunidad.
De acuerdo con las reglas del evento, estoy obligada a recaudar por lo menos $1.800 para poder participar, pero mi meta personal es aun más alta, y es mi intención recaudar por los menos $2.500. Ayúdenme a apoyar mis esfuerzos y la causa del cáncer de seno haciendo una generosa contribución. Pueden hacer donaciones en línea visitando el enlace que aparece al final de este mensaje, el cual les llevará directamente a mi página personal. Y por favor tengan en cuenta que en menos tiempo de lo que les tomó leer este mensaje, otra mujer en los Estados Unidos (y quién sabe cuantas más alrededor del mundo) fue diagnosticada con cáncer de seno.
Gracias de antemano por su apoyo.
P.D. Pueden leer más sobre la Caminata Avon contra el Cáncer de Seno visitando www.avonwalk.org (http://www.avonwalk.org/)
Por favor visiten mi página personal en: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
Monday, November 15, 2010
Walking to find a cure
Every three minutes, another woman in the United States is diagnosed with breast cancer? This statistic did not resonate with me until I started counting and discovered that I personally know 7 women who have been diagnosed with breast cancer. Seven. That is a pretty big number for an illness this serious. Of those seven women, 4 were younger than 40 (or just around 40) when they were first diagnosed. Of the seven, 2 have passed away, one of them my beloved sister-in-law, Michelle. The oldest of them is my own aunt Noemi, who was diagnosed about two years ago, and thanks to diligent care, is doing quite well and, in between treatments, is enjoying time with her grandchildren traveling around Venezuela whenever she can. The most recently diagnosed person is a dear friend of mine whose 2 young daughters I have watched grow up along with my boys and who is presently fighting this battle keeping a brave, positive attitude, so that she can be there for her daughters.
I ask each and everyone of you to stop for a few minutes whatever you are doing and count, and I am sure you will be as surprised as I was to learn just how many people you know on a first-name basis have been diagnosed with this terrible disease. Neither youth, nor health status, nor gender will guarantee that you will never be affected by this terrible disease.
It is for them, as well as for all the other women - and men - who have been touched by breast cancer that on April 30 - May 1, I'll spend the weekend walking, along with thousands of other people, in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I will walk the distance of a marathon and a half (that's a grand total of 39.3 miles) with the sole purpose of raising funds and awareness to help fight breast cancer. I am not a scientist, so I cannot help on that front, but there are many researchers out there who have dedicated their life's work to finding a cure for breast cancer, and they can always use more funding to help further their research. On that front, I CAN and I WILL help the only way I know how: by huffing it for two days so that I, along with your support, can raise a bit of money to send their way so that hopefully one day my friends won't have to fret over their daughters' fate, and so that one day I won't have to worry about my sons losing a mother or a wife to this disease.
The money raised goes to the Avon Foundation Breast Cancer Crusade, a 501(c)(3) public charity whose mission is to provide access to care and to work toward finding a cure. They provide funding to organizations all over the country in five areas: medical research, clinical care, support services, educational and advocacy seminars, and community-based, non-profit early detection breast health programs. Much of the money raised will stay right here to help people in our community.
I'm required to raise at least $1,800 to participate, but I'm setting my goal even higher, and I plan to raise at least ($2500). Please help to support me and the breast cancer cause by making a generous contribution to my efforts. You can make your donation online by simply visiting the link at the bottom of this message, which will bring you right to my personal page. Please remember as you're making your donation that in less than the time it took to read this posting, another woman in the U.S. was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Thank you for your support.
P.S. You can find out more about the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer by visiting www.avonwalk.org (http://www.avonwalk.org/)
Please visit my personal page at: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
I ask each and everyone of you to stop for a few minutes whatever you are doing and count, and I am sure you will be as surprised as I was to learn just how many people you know on a first-name basis have been diagnosed with this terrible disease. Neither youth, nor health status, nor gender will guarantee that you will never be affected by this terrible disease.
It is for them, as well as for all the other women - and men - who have been touched by breast cancer that on April 30 - May 1, I'll spend the weekend walking, along with thousands of other people, in the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I will walk the distance of a marathon and a half (that's a grand total of 39.3 miles) with the sole purpose of raising funds and awareness to help fight breast cancer. I am not a scientist, so I cannot help on that front, but there are many researchers out there who have dedicated their life's work to finding a cure for breast cancer, and they can always use more funding to help further their research. On that front, I CAN and I WILL help the only way I know how: by huffing it for two days so that I, along with your support, can raise a bit of money to send their way so that hopefully one day my friends won't have to fret over their daughters' fate, and so that one day I won't have to worry about my sons losing a mother or a wife to this disease.
The money raised goes to the Avon Foundation Breast Cancer Crusade, a 501(c)(3) public charity whose mission is to provide access to care and to work toward finding a cure. They provide funding to organizations all over the country in five areas: medical research, clinical care, support services, educational and advocacy seminars, and community-based, non-profit early detection breast health programs. Much of the money raised will stay right here to help people in our community.
I'm required to raise at least $1,800 to participate, but I'm setting my goal even higher, and I plan to raise at least ($2500). Please help to support me and the breast cancer cause by making a generous contribution to my efforts. You can make your donation online by simply visiting the link at the bottom of this message, which will bring you right to my personal page. Please remember as you're making your donation that in less than the time it took to read this posting, another woman in the U.S. was diagnosed with breast cancer.
Thank you for your support.
P.S. You can find out more about the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer by visiting www.avonwalk.org (http://www.avonwalk.org/)
Please visit my personal page at: http://bit.ly/bVe7GB
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)