You might think it's really hard to cycle over 500 miles from New York City to Niagara Falls, but it's actually not.
Really hard is finding out that you or someone you care about has cancer. Really hard is making decisions about treatment. Really hard is dealing with the side effects of chemo, radiation, infusions, and surgery. Really hard is seeing the physical and emotional toll cancer takes on both the patient and their loved ones. Impossibly hard is saying good-bye to someone taken too soon by cancer.
But through all that pain hope can be found. Hope comes from revolutionary new treatments that improve quality of life and outcomes for cancer patients. Hope comes from medications that maybe can even prevent or cure cancer. But those kinds of revolutions can only happen through high-level research, and that research is in constant need of funding.
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My WHY
There are lots of good general reasons to ride the Empire State Ride or to participate in any number of charitable events. Who doesn't want to do something to help a cause like ending cancer?
Sometimes, though, there's a specific reason. A "why".
Four years ago, our lives changed forever.
Yes, I mean the pandemic, but it's so much more. As things were shutting down for what we thought would be a few weeks, another life-changing event was taking place in our family. I've never written about this, mostly because I'm really a very private person, but also because it was too raw to share. Time, however, has given me enough space to be able to put in in print.
The Covid-19 outbreak meant I got sent home in the middle of the day on a Tuesday in early March 2020. The next day, my wife had a mammogram scheduled. She was hesitant to go because of the impending situation, but I insisted. She was way overdue, having cancelled her annual appointment more than six months previously because of a work trip. "No telling when you'll even be able to get another appointment, given the situation", I said. So, she put on a mask and gloves and braved the subway into Manhattan for her scan.
Before long, there was another mammogram scheduled. They saw "something", probably a cyst, which run in the family. Then there was an ultrasound. By the first week of April, there was a biopsy, which immediately came back as positive for ductal carcinoma, one diffuse tumor, one in situ.
Four years and a month ago, the next step might have been straightforward. But these were no ordinary circumstances. Surgeries for all but the most dire of situations were cancelled and every available hospital space was being converted into a triage or critical care unit for the thousands of Covid-sickened patients that were deluging emergency rooms. We couldn't even get an in-person physical exam by an oncologist. All we could rely on were the pathology and genetic profile of her tumor and virtual consultations. There was much hemming and hawing about what approach to take, whether to have chemo or radiation, or both. As for when surgery could be scheduled, nobody could tell us anything. In a time of high anxiety, not having a clear path forward was the worst part of it.
It took another month, but because of the tumor type, second and third opinions, and the pandemic induced delays, neo-adjuvant chemotherapy was finally agreed upon. My wife endured 8 treatments over 16 weeks, followed by a mastectomy, and then 5 weeks of daily radiation therapy, before reconstructive surgery the following year. Side effects were hard, but not as bad as some. Recovery was challenging, but without the many of the complications that can accompany it. There is still daily discomfort, from the radiation scarring, from the implant, and from the meds. In general, though, she is one of the fortunate ones. This past fall, she was moved from "remission" to "survivor" status. This was something to celebrate. Yes, I still hold my breath while waiting for the results of every follow-up scan and appointment. I always will. But I now see a future for us. That wasn't always the case. There was a time - this time 4 years ago, in fact - where my mind kept taking me to a future without the most important person in my life, a future where my kids had only me to look after them. It was a nightmare that I couldn't wake up from. Seeing your best friend, your partner, confront a life-threatening illness, without being able to do anything to fix it, without knowing what the future holds, is a nightmare that too many people experience.
Ten percent of women diagnosed with breast cancer experience recurrence or metastasis. Over 40,000 women in the U.S. died from the disease in 2020. I am not a scientist. I am not a doctor. There have been moments over the last 4 years that I have felt helpless. But there are moments that I feel powerful. These moments are when I'm training for the Empire State Ride, when I'm on the road headed for Niagara Falls, knowing that the power of the millions of dollars we raise is going directly to changing the outcomes for everyone confronting cancer. This is my why.
by Harry Marenstein on Sun, Mar 10, 2024 @ 11:39 PM
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