Race for Life

There was a funny moment at the warm up session for the Race For Life at Hampstead Heath on Saturday, in which I was down to join the joggers, raising money for Cancer Research UK in memory of my sister. One of the volunteers, her job to get us motivated and hyped up for the run, took the mike and said, Cancer affects everyone. Here's an example. Raise your hand if you know someone who has been affected by cancer. Every single one of us raises a hand. You see, she says, that proves it. No it doesn't, says my neighbour. It proves that everyone who has lost someone to cancer feels so bloody helpless to do anything that they join Race For Life. She is right. I am not sure how many of us would be doing this thing if we had not ourselves witnessed the horror of a loved one succumbing to cancer. I know I'm one of them. The first time I did the Race For Life, my sister had just been diagnosed with an aggressive breast cancer. She was about to have her mastectomy and I felt so helpless that I signed up for Race For Life just as a way to channel my emotions. I signed up late so I didn't even try to raise any money. I just paid my sign up fee, and turned up. In fact, I couldn't even run. I had horrible stuff going on with my left foot, the mobility of which had been degenerating for years, and was giving me a lot of daily pain. So I didn't run it. I walked it, in just over an hour. And yes, it really did feel as if I was helping. I was back again this year. This time, two years later, I had much more baggage. Firstly, my sister had died. There was no way of kidding myself that anything I could possibly do, would help. Help was too late. I was now in the ballpark of doing whatever I could to reduce the impact of the appallingness that my sister had gone through, on other people. If any money I raised could further research into surgical termination of tumours at multiple sites, then I was going to support it. Could we support more efforts to find life prolonging medication for women with secondary breast cancer? If that had been around for my sister, perhaps she would have had five more years. Five more. You have no idea how precious that would have been to us all. How many more milestones she would have witnessed, including her daughter's 18th birthday, her daughter taking her A levels, her son graduating university, her nieces and nephews competing in sporting events, moving up school, winning prizes for their achievements.  So there I now was, with my sister's name pinned to my back. And this time, I was with the joggers. Last year I had major medical surgery to rebuild my left foot, which had been causing me so much pain. I had worked incredibly hard to restore its mobility with months and months of physiotherapy and I was not just at the Race For Life to raise money for a worthwhile charity whose issues had huge emotional significance for my own family experience. I was also there to settle a score with a physiotherapist who told me I would not run again. Great to have the new foot, she said. You'll be able to walk pain free up the street. I want to run in the Race For Life, I told her instantly. She laughed involuntarily (and pretty insensitively) and said, yup, well, maybe if you join them at the back. With the buggy walkers. Not for the first time in my life after a patronising encounter with a medical specialist, I found myself working out in my head what it would take to defy such a generic assessment of my capbilities, deciding she had underestimated my determination, and gearing myself up for the challenge. Now here I was. I thought I would join the joggers somewhere towards the back, but not quite at the very back. I was dressed in purple, because that was my sister's favourite colour. And because there was no way I was wearing pink. After much motivational screaming, we shot off. Well, not quite shot. Too many of us to put up much more than a speedwalk for the first 100m. But then as we streamed over the glorious Heath in fantastic weather, we fanned out a bit, flanked by cheering spectators and bemused Heath walkers, and we found our stride. I jogged carefully, deliberately, maintaining consciousness of the flexiblity in my foot, deploying a heel to toe movement, finding my rhythm. I ran behind three women who looked like sisters, each with a card on their back that said "For Mum And Dad". I blinked the tears back. It was emotional enough remembering the loss of my sister. Among all the cheering, there was a pall of sadness among the runners who carried bereavement on their backs. I overtook the sisters and tracked a mother and young daughter for 1km or so. Her card said "My best friend Sarah" and her little daughter's said "For Sarah". Some peoples' cards listed 5 or 6 people. One person's card said, for everyone who has had to go through this" and another's said "In solidarity with all these runners who have lost someone". Inspiring stuff, but I tell you what' it's not easy running, weeping, wiping your eyes and nose, and still keeping pace. Well. I made it. The last 1km was downhill or flat, with just a last lurch uphill to the finish, and I spotted my son in the crowd yelling Mum, Mum!! as I approached. I waved to him and all my sadness disappeared in the sheer happiness of having reached my own goal - to defy that stupid physiotherapist and reach the heights of what I knew I was capable of doing - to run 5k without stopping, 18 months after major reconstructive surgery - to remember my sister, to join in solidarity with others, to raise money (nearly a thousand pounds, since you ask) for cancer research. I was sweaty, streaming, aching and laughing. I cannot wait to do it again next year.