This weekend, I worked as a crew member for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. It's my second year with this particular event, and I would be lying if I said it was all a bed of roses. Over the course of the weekend, we endured blazing heat, hours of direct sunlight, a torrential downpour, hail, lightning, and camping. (I added that last one for those of you that aren't "nature" people - I really don't mind camping at all)
At one point late on Saturday evening, I sat silently in my tent, staring down at several plastic baggies of stuff, wishing I was home-- dry, clean, and not so worn out. I had reached the threshold of "I can handle this," and inadvertantly moved directly into "I am going to break down and cry" territory. So I wiped my face down, put my pajamas on, and put myself to sleep.
The next morning, after a warm shower, a cup of hot coffee, and even hotter weather, I settled in to start duties for the day. Let it be known that when it comes to crowd control and dealing with mob mentality, my patience is at a minimum. I knew that Day 2 wouldn't be pleasant, but with the threat of afternoon rain, I steeled myself for the worst. It doesn't help that the event, in itself, is an emotionally wrenching time for anyone with any size of heart.
As we were cheering the walkers from the starting gate onto the day's route, I noticed a tiny lady tying her shoes up. Upon standing, I realized that this was the same lady who had nearly collapsed at my feet the previous evening, requesting that I radio for immediate medical assistance. Her legs were covered in bandages, her muscles reinforced with physical therapy tape (hot pink, for the occasion). An abandoned and empty water bottle lay on the grass near her feet as she rose to adjust her baseball cap and ready herself for departure. I was thinking with surprise about the rosy-ness of her cheeks when I read the front of her hat, and it said "5-time Survivor."
Like changing the lense on your camera, my perspective shifted significantly after that moment. Yes, the day would go on to be difficult, VERY hot, and very uncomfortable...I wondered if my drive to complete the event was in ANY MEASURE like the drive she had to finish the event. I hope I never find that out, I hope that I'm never tested and tried as she has been, I hope that no one I love will ever have to go through what she has undoubtedly been through. That's enough motivation for me.
There were too many photos of loved ones, memorialized on hats, t-shirts, and shirt bibs. Too many reminders that those people who we all saw in snapshots should have had the chance to attend the event in the flesh, and are being kept from that by sickness or death. Too much irony that such an enormous physical undertaking and accomplishment is happening all because this disease is keeping so many people from doing, being, and accomplishing it themselves. I pictured every person I saw as a representation of someone else - a victim, a family member, an acquaintance struggling with a vicious killer of a disease. Multiply that by 2400 walkers, and 450 crew members, and the scope is simply too much to handle.
Witnessing the events of the weekend was frustrating. My desire to help the event itself is not even a blip on the radar map of the greater problem. It seems apparent that my moment of temporary despair in my tent was nothing more than a temper tantrum - a sinking feeling that what I'm doing is not helping, is not repairing, and is not useful. I hope that I am wrong.
At one point late on Saturday evening, I sat silently in my tent, staring down at several plastic baggies of stuff, wishing I was home-- dry, clean, and not so worn out. I had reached the threshold of "I can handle this," and inadvertantly moved directly into "I am going to break down and cry" territory. So I wiped my face down, put my pajamas on, and put myself to sleep.
The next morning, after a warm shower, a cup of hot coffee, and even hotter weather, I settled in to start duties for the day. Let it be known that when it comes to crowd control and dealing with mob mentality, my patience is at a minimum. I knew that Day 2 wouldn't be pleasant, but with the threat of afternoon rain, I steeled myself for the worst. It doesn't help that the event, in itself, is an emotionally wrenching time for anyone with any size of heart.
As we were cheering the walkers from the starting gate onto the day's route, I noticed a tiny lady tying her shoes up. Upon standing, I realized that this was the same lady who had nearly collapsed at my feet the previous evening, requesting that I radio for immediate medical assistance. Her legs were covered in bandages, her muscles reinforced with physical therapy tape (hot pink, for the occasion). An abandoned and empty water bottle lay on the grass near her feet as she rose to adjust her baseball cap and ready herself for departure. I was thinking with surprise about the rosy-ness of her cheeks when I read the front of her hat, and it said "5-time Survivor."
Like changing the lense on your camera, my perspective shifted significantly after that moment. Yes, the day would go on to be difficult, VERY hot, and very uncomfortable...I wondered if my drive to complete the event was in ANY MEASURE like the drive she had to finish the event. I hope I never find that out, I hope that I'm never tested and tried as she has been, I hope that no one I love will ever have to go through what she has undoubtedly been through. That's enough motivation for me.
There were too many photos of loved ones, memorialized on hats, t-shirts, and shirt bibs. Too many reminders that those people who we all saw in snapshots should have had the chance to attend the event in the flesh, and are being kept from that by sickness or death. Too much irony that such an enormous physical undertaking and accomplishment is happening all because this disease is keeping so many people from doing, being, and accomplishing it themselves. I pictured every person I saw as a representation of someone else - a victim, a family member, an acquaintance struggling with a vicious killer of a disease. Multiply that by 2400 walkers, and 450 crew members, and the scope is simply too much to handle.
Witnessing the events of the weekend was frustrating. My desire to help the event itself is not even a blip on the radar map of the greater problem. It seems apparent that my moment of temporary despair in my tent was nothing more than a temper tantrum - a sinking feeling that what I'm doing is not helping, is not repairing, and is not useful. I hope that I am wrong.
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