Twenty-Four Years Later, We're Still Walking

Every October, my family gathers at the Jersey Shore for a tradition that has become one of the most important events on our calendar.

We meet at the same spot in a parking lot early on a Sunday morning, surrounded by thousands of people dressed in various shades of pink. There's music, excitement, and a tremendous amount of activity as everyone prepares for the annual Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walk.

We take pictures, catch up, and usually let the first wave of walkers get moving before we join them and make our way beneath the starting line arch. Eventually, we reach the boardwalk, where my family does what we've done for years. We leave the crowd behind and head down onto the beach, walking that stretch where the ocean meets the sand.

We take our time. We take lots of pictures on the beach. The walk gets slow because we spend a lot of time looking for beach glass and whatever else the ocean has left behind. Last year, my sister even found a fossilized shark tooth. It's become one of those little traditions within a larger tradition, something we look forward to as much as the event itself.

Afterward, there's always a big family lunch, sometimes at a restaurant, but more often these days at my parents' house. More pictures, plenty of food, board games, and the usual conversations that happen whenever everyone gets together.

It's a happy day. A celebration.

And the reason we celebrate is my mother.

The Year Everything Changed

In January of 2002, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer.

She would spend the next year and a half undergoing a mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, and reconstructive surgery. It was a frightening time for our family, although looking back nearly a quarter of a century later, I sometimes struggle to remember exactly what it felt like to be the person I was then.

I was a young man, barely recognizable to the person I am today. Of course, I knew how serious cancer could be, and I was certainly scared, but my mother was adamant that her cancer was treatable and that she was going to be okay.

I believed her because she was my mother.

Two months after her diagnosis, I suffered a severe eye injury that required multiple surgeries and months of medical appointments to save my vision in that eye. For a while, we were both navigating hospitals, doctors, and recovery at the same time. Some days we couldn't physically be there for one another, but we were constantly talking on the phone, checking in, and trying to get through whatever came next.

I was working nights during that period, and whenever I visited my mother during treatment, she would look at me and immediately notice how exhausted I was.

"You look so tired. You didn't have to come. Sit down and close your eyes for a little while."

There she was, undergoing cancer treatment, worrying about whether I was getting enough sleep.

That was my mother.

Months later, when I needed another surgery, she came to the hospital despite being visibly weak from everything she was going through. I could see the day was wearing on her, but I also knew there was no possibility she was going to miss it.

We were both dealing with things that were out of our control, but we always told each other that we would get through them together.

And we did.

The Strongest Person in the Room

Growing up in a traditional nuclear family, I thought of my father as the dominant personality in our household.

My parents have been together since high school, and their personalities are very different. My father is outgoing, boisterous, and never at a loss for words. I certainly take after him in that respect.

My mother is quieter, more reserved, and generally much more measured in how she approaches things. My brother and sister take after her.

My father worked in Manhattan and left for work every day wearing a suit and carrying a leather briefcase. My mother stayed home and raised the three of us. Through the eyes of a child, it was easy to assume that Dad was the boss.

It took getting older, and especially living through my mother's cancer treatment, to understand how wrong that assumption was.

My mother's quietness was never timidity. She didn't need to be the loudest person in the room to be the strongest. She was the steady presence that held everything together, the person whose even temperament and measured approach kept the family moving forward.

And her capacity for pushing through difficult circumstances was remarkable.

Shortly after completing her cancer treatment and reconstructive surgery, she needed knee replacements. She'd lived with knee problems for years, the result of injuries and surgeries when she was younger.

After everything she'd already endured, most people might have approached another major surgery with understandable reluctance.

Not my mother.

She decided to have both knees replaced at the same time. Her reasoning was essentially that she'd been through enough surgeries already and wanted to get the whole thing over with as quickly as possible.

That's the kind of woman she is.

Even in the years that followed, when complications from her cancer treatment led to recurring infections and problems with her left arm, she and my father continued researching treatment options. Eventually, they found specialists performing lymph node transplants, and she underwent a successful procedure that resolved those problems.

She wasn't someone who simply accepted that things would always be difficult. If there was a way to improve her situation, she wanted to find it.

Looking back, I realize that none of this represented a change in her personality. She had always been that strong. It just took those experiences for me to recognize it.

A Family Tradition Takes Shape

Somewhere along the way, our family began participating in the Making Strides walk, and it became an annual tradition.

In the early years, we had a much larger group. Aunts, uncles, cousins, and other relatives would join us, turning the event into a sizable family gathering.

Over time, things changed. Cousins got married and started families of their own. Relatives grew older, and some passed away. Jobs, travel, and the ordinary complications of life meant that not everyone could attend every year. I missed a couple myself while I was living out west.

These days, it's usually a smaller group made up of immediate family.

But one thing has remained remarkably consistent: how much my mother enjoys it.

Whether we're surrounded by extended family or just a handful of us are walking together, she seems to relish every minute. She has an enormous smile on her face throughout the day while wearing her “Pace Setter” sash, and it's obvious how much having us there means to her.

For our family, the walk also became an opportunity to have a little fun with the fundraising.

For years, my parents owned a vacation home near Walt Disney World, and they would raffle off a stay to supporters who donated. My father, never one to do anything halfway when an opportunity for theatrics presented itself, began producing elaborate videos announcing the fundraising results and raffle winners.

He built what amounted to a late-night talk-show set in the basement and appeared in a tuxedo to make the announcements.

One year, things escalated into a full-blown variety show with multiple comedy sketches. If memory serves, I was the bandleader of the house band.

It got completely ridiculous.

The videos eventually ended when my parents sold the vacation property, but they're a perfect example of how our family approached the event. We were raising money for a serious cause, but that didn't mean every moment surrounding it had to be serious.

There was plenty of room for laughter.

The Meaning Changes With Time

For much of my adult life, the walk was simply something we did every October.

It was important, of course. I knew what my mother had survived, and I understood why the event mattered to her. But it was also an early Sunday morning commitment, and there were certainly years when getting out of bed and making it to the starting line on time required a little extra determination.

Especially if the night before had been particularly bourbon-fueled.

That's changed.

Not the early start, unfortunately. But my perspective on it.

As I've gotten older, I've become increasingly aware that time with the people I love most isn't unlimited. My parents are approaching their late seventies, and I find myself thinking more often about the years we've already shared and the years we still have ahead of us.

It's not something I dwell on with sadness. It's simply part of growing older and developing a different understanding of what matters.

There was a time when I attended the walk because it was a family tradition and I knew how much it meant to my mother.

Today, I attend because I wholeheartedly want to be there. I want another year of meeting everyone in the parking lot, taking pictures, walking along the water, and gathering around the table afterward.

I want to see that smile on her face.

And there's another change that's a little bit harder to explain.

For years after someone survives cancer, I think there's a part of you that remains cautious. You celebrate the recovery, but somewhere in the back of your mind there's still the possibility of recurrence. You're grateful for every passing year, even while hoping the next one will be just as uneventful.

I designed hoodies that we all wear for my mother's Making Strides team. On the back of hers, my father keeps track of how many years she's been a survivor. Every year, he takes a marker, crosses out the old number, and writes in the new one.

This year that number will change to twenty-four. And after twenty-four years, something about that feeling has changed for me.

I'm not suggesting that anyone can predict the future, or that surviving cancer makes a person immune to whatever may come next. But after so many years of watching my mother live her life, recover from other medical challenges, and continue doing the things she loves, I've gradually learned to accept what once felt too risky to say with complete confidence.

My mother beat breast cancer.

And we've been fortunate enough to spend nearly a quarter of a century celebrating that fact.

Another October Together

My mother has always been clear about why she continues supporting Making Strides. She's grateful for the care she received and wants other women facing a breast cancer diagnosis to have access to the treatments, resources, and support that helped her. Over the past twenty-four years, my mother and her team have helped raise more than $80,000 for the American Cancer Society.

Her commitment to the cause has never diminished.

Neither has her enjoyment of the day itself.

Our family has changed considerably since those first walks. The group is smaller, the traditions have evolved, and the people gathered around the lunch table aren't always exactly the same from one year to the next.

But the reason we're there hasn't changed.

This coming Sunday morning, we'll meet at the same spot again, take our pictures, and walk alongside thousands of other people whose families have their own stories to tell.

We'll probably let the first wave of walkers get ahead of us before we start. We'll make our way toward the beach, look for whatever treasures the ocean has washed ashore, and eventually gather for another family lunch.

And I'll be walking beside my mother.

I know there may eventually come a year when my parents can no longer participate. When that day arrives, I suspect the rest of us will continue the tradition in their honor, just as we’ll continue so many of the other traditions they've taught us.

But that's a consideration for another time.

For now, we have another October together, another walk, and another reason to celebrate.

Twenty-four years later, that means more to me than ever.