by Maggie Cushman

According to Einstein, God is in the details.

This might explain why I have such a hard time finding Him. Details give me a devil of a time. I know my mother-in-law’s birthday is in October, but I can never remember which day; I know where the car is, I’m just not sure where I put the keys; and I know we have money in the bank, I’m just not certain it’s enough to cover the check I just wrote. Another smart guy with bushy white facial hair, George Bernard Shaw, said, "It's the trifles that will wreck you at the harbor mouth," and, in my experience anyway, he's the wiser guy.

My most recent screw up was no big deal, but it was typical. I am a breast cancer survivor, and for the past few years I have wanted to run in the Making Strides 5k race to raise money for research. But each year, as the date of the race approached, I was never in shape. And even if I had been, life had other plans for me. Big plans like watching another soccer game or going to the grocery store.

This year I was determined to run that race. Since September I have forced myself to jog most days and managed to run a 5k in a time that will not be printed here but is not bad for an old bag who has survived breast cancer. The point was, I was able to run it—and the heroism ends there. The week before the race I went online to register and was directed to the site for the Making Strides WALK for breast cancer.
I’d been running when all I needed to do was walk.

There’s a message in that, I’m sure.

But I would not be deterred. Everybody else could walk, but damn it, I was going to run. Jog. My daughter said, “You can’t run! You’ll look like a freak. Just walk, Mom. It’s a walk.”

“Listen,” I told her, “I’m the survivor. I’m the one who isn’t sure how much time she has left here. I didn’t have both of my breasts cut off so that I could conform.”

She wanted to come. They all wanted to cheer me on. I didn’t want that. Cancer for me was weird thing, a quiet, sad, and ugly thing. I am happy to talk to someone who got diagnosed with breast cancer, but it isn’t something I choose to talk about. I was lucky; had "cancer lite." Nevertheless, it was a terrible time and my breasts are now bags of salt water. Other women say, “You’re so lucky. Your boobs look like a sixteen year old’s” and while it is true they don’t sag, and are a made to order perfect 34B , they also have the sensitivity of a coffee table. But hey, I’m here. And the options were fairly limited. Life isn’t cheap. When it comes down to it, we all pay dearly. Some of us in pounds of flesh.

So the day came to make strides. My husband woke up with the flu. I bartered babysitting for the youngest kid with one daughter and told the other to find a ride home from the sleepover. I was going to run this walk.
It was the kind of fall day that makes living in New England worth enduring February. The kind of day where the colors are Crayola pure. You think on such a day in Maine that if you bit the world, it would taste like apple crisp or pumpkin bread. You expect to smell cinnamon when the wind swirls a pile of leaves.

I headed for the Survivor table, made a donation, and got a key chain and a survivor medal on a pink ribbon. It occurred to me the only medal I’ve ever gotten is for not dying. Back when I was a kid, you didn’t get a medal for just showing up to a sporting event in a uniform. You actually had to have skill.

So my skill is for staying alive. I can live with that.

Even though the walk took place in our town, I only saw a few people I knew. Frankly, I felt alone, and wished I’d asked the kids to come. But then, it made sense to be alone, because with stuff like cancer—oh lets, face it, for most of it—life is something we all have to do alone. It was great watching the groups around me, generations of a family, a team from a local gym, a collection of women friends. I could have teared up, but like I said, I’m weird about cancer. I just don’t want to go there.

Somebody cut a pink ribbon and the throng of people moved forward. I had a momentary panic—I couldn’t just run out ahead of the group, make a spectacle of myself and start running. How obnoxious would that seem, “Look at me Miss Fit!” But then I stuck in an earbud and heard the Black Eyed Peas telling me to “Rock That Body,” and off I went. The only place peer pressure ever got me was somewhere I didn’t want to go.
As I pulled ahead of the crowd, and before I put my second earbud in, I heard a woman say, “Oh look, there’s a jogger!” She didn’t say, “What an asshole,” or “Who the hell does she think she is.” Her tone said, “That’s great.”

And it was great. Because here’s the thing. I am not Miss Fit. I wish I were, but I am a horrible athlete, cripplingly clumsy. My claim to fame is scoring a goal for the other team in field hockey. I spent my youth engaging in more challenging physical feats, like drinking a gallon of Gallo and smoking three packs of cigarettes in a day and then dancing all night. Who knew avoiding reality was a sport?

I was also lazy and prone to making excuses. Not exactly the makings of an Olympian. You might say, what’s changed? And I would tell you, nothing much, except everything.

Because despite myself, there I was, making strides.

The run was effortless because I was fueled by gratitude. I was lucky to have an early diagnosis. I taught a boy who lost his mom to breast cancer the year after my surgery, and one day he just broke down and wept while I held him in my arms. His mother’s cancer had eaten him full of holes. She was a beautiful soul named Grace, and I knew as I held him that she could just as easily have been holding my sobbing son.

I never understood why I got breast cancer. I want to believe things happen to us for a reason, but I’m not clear on this. Not yet. What I did know as I ran past pink bows on telephone poles, was that I was so happy to still be here. It was one of those experiences where you can’t help but think, we never got kicked out of Eden. We just lost the ability to see it. Right in front of us. All the time.

Something else fueled me on that short run, and, at 49, I’m only getting used to this feeling: pride. I was actually doing this. For other people running three miles is a breeze, but for me, it was an uphill journey.

First I had to find the time, then I had to claim the time (harder), and then I had to face my demons and tell them they weren't coming on this trip. You’ve got to lace up your sneakers and leave those suckers behind. The world awaits you with open arms.

The past may belong to somebody else. Maybe they took it, maybe you gave it. But the future is ours.
Baby elephants get shackles put their ankles to learn how to perform under the big top. A chain runs from a center pole to the shackle, and they learn to walk in a circle. At first, of course, they pull, rear up, refuse to budge, their wills run riot, but in time they learn that resistance is futile. They tow the line. They follow the tail in front of them. When they get older, the shackles are removed because they aren’t needed: the elephants think they're still chained. We all have these baby elephant ideas. We go in circles unable to move forward. Or run a walk.

At the halfway point there was a water station. I stopped to take off my jacket and gave the volunteer the map I was holding. I didn’t need it. I knew where I was going.

The second half of the run flew by. Cheryl Crow sang about how every day was a winding road and of course, I started to cry, just like I always do when God takes over as DJ. Everybody should be out here, I thought. When I got sick with cancer, people were so kind. The cards, the calls, the meals, the outpouring of love and support I received was amazing and completely undeserved. I am not and have never been a particularly good friend or popular person, but I got it, my family got it, and it helped so much. But surviving cancer is easy compared to surviving life. Nobody gives you a casserole for going to work at a job you hate. No flowers arrive when you pay the roofer. The kids don't write thank you notes for dinner. Seven nights a week. Three hundred and sixty five days a year.

Some of those days are as toxic as chemo. The guy who still can’t find a job. The kid who sits alone at lunch. The woman who opens a second pack of Hostess Cupcakes. The old person who watches reruns of “The Love Boat.” My dad used to quote somebody, maybe Tolstoy, who said, “Every man is the hero of his own life.” We all deserve a medal before the race, just for making it this far.

As I ran toward the finish line, instead of feeling sad that I had kept my family away, I imagined each of their beautiful and beloved faces cheering me on. I could see them in my mind’s eye: my husband, who has always loved me even when I did not; my three kids still at home were there cheering; my kids off conquering the world at college arrived holding balloons. My Mom, sister, and best friend, dear Pauline, had time travelled across the country and were jumping up and down, and even my dad, clocking the furthest distance from the Great Beyond, was there in the back, clapping. My future was there with open arms.

When I crossed the finish line, someone said, “You won!”

Which was exactly what I had been thinking.

But I wouldn’t have won if had walked, even if I’d been the first one across the finish line. This was a walk I had to run in order to get to a new place.

That Einstein, what a wise guy.

God is in the details.

Maggie Cushman writes from Maine. You can read more of her work at her blog, Dear Pauline.