The first Saturday of October, the cancer center where I'm treated holds a fundraiser run every year. My dad flew down, my whole family came together, and we planned to run the race I couldn't run last year. Then a big rainstorm was forecast, and the race was canceled.
When the organizers sent a message about the cancellation, and the storm turned out milder than predicted, some runners sent very unhappy emails. I was disappointed too, but last year at this time I was fighting for my life while undergoing chemo treatments, was exhausted and nauseated all the time, had lost 15 lbs, and was bald. I was so sick I couldn't even imagine walking to the start line, let alone the finish line. My goal was to walk it this year. We had beautiful and special shirts made by Mel Jolley at Guided Horizons Graphics for our whole family, some from out of state, to "Rally for Allie."
But because of the people who dedicate their lives to saving lives like mine, I'll get the chance to walk (and maybe one day run again) with my family another day. We will run the race anyway, and that is more than enough for me.
Because of this cancer center team, every morning I wake up I praise God for one more day to love my high school sweetheart and husband of 25 years, my five kids, and my three tiny grandbabies, two of whom were born during my treatments and surgeries.
The men and women who deliver news that changes your whole world, and who serve us in some of our worst moments, are amazing humans. They love and care in ways only patients see and feel. I hope they know how loved they are, despite the disappointment that came their way for canceling to protect patients, families, and our community. I know that's where the decision came from. It was unpopular, but their perspective always bends toward health and safety.
So a message to my fellow racers:
To everyone who donated and signed up to run: thank you. I'm sorry the race was canceled and we couldn't gather to celebrate life. To anyone who is capable, go run the race anyway, and praise God that you can.
Let every stride on solid legs be praise that your stamina hasn't been knocked out by drugs that make it hard to walk to the bathroom. Every time the wind blows through your hair, praise God you don't have to watch it fall out in clumps in your hands, or feel your follicles ache as the drugs release strands of your once-long hair. Thank God for the heart beating in your chest and the air in your lungs.
Run the race anyway, while some are fighting to run the race of their lives.
Run the race anyway, for those whose race ended too early because of the C word.
Run the race anyway, while others run from patient to patient giving toxic drugs, handing out anti-nausea tools, and gently offering support and tissues alongside news that destroys dreams, not just races.
Run the race anyway.
Those of us who know what it feels like to hear the C word, and how it touches everything in your life, will keep fighting and run our race well. We'll finish our race too. And we'll do it knowing that a little rain and a canceled race don't hit the same way for those of us who have sat for hours in a chair that becomes the delivery spot for drugs you wish you could run away from.
Thank you to each of you who paid for the race. Thank you for supporting this community. Thank you for being upset it was canceled, because we know you wanted to show up and be part of the healing. Thank you for the funding that gives those of us still battling a chance to join you next year. And thank you for running the race anyway.
To the cancer team at Singing River: thank you for loving us so well and running alongside us every day. We see you. We are grateful for you. We love you.
To all of my prayer warriors, thank you for fighting for me and running this race with us this past year. We know it is because of the healing hand of God I am still here to race another day.
Running the race everyday,
Allie Gardner
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