Ignorance, or lack of awareness, so often manifests itself as a result of comfort. What we don't know won't hurt us.
While attending the WPSA Duluth National Snocross in November, I became aware of the Pink Ribbon Riders, a group of snowmobilers dedicated to helping fight the No. 1 killer of women, breast cancer. During the race, the group made a presentation, which included giving $500 to a local breast cancer victim just beginning her treatment to use for anything she wanted.
Many people in the crowd didn't pay a lot of attention, and perhaps there might have been a time when I wouldn't have listened very attentively either. I suspect I didn't know this group existed until then because the cause had never invaded my personal comfort zone. I hope I'm never that comfortable again!
First shoe dropsThe first shoe dropped after my 41-year-old wife's routine mammogram in August. The docs saw "something that didn't look right," something they called "calcifications," which sounded to me more like a George W. Bush made-up word than a real medical term.
Then came the inevitable percentages, which I have learned can be a big foe or a friend, depending on which side of the coin you happen to be on. "95% of these cases turn out to be nothing, but we want to be sure." A biopsy was performed and we waited nervously at first, but after a few days we went about our daily business, smugly convinced that she was certainly on the 95% side.
The other shoe dropped Sept. 10.
I was traveling back via motorcycle from the Twin Cities after attending a Rush concert. I had taken that Monday off and was looking forward to a leisurely day of working my way home, the long way, under little or no time constraint other than parking in the garage before the sun fell and the brown, four-legged road rats came out to play.
While stopping for lunch, my cell phone showed one message that turned out to contain an unusually shaky version of my wife Jeanie's voice telling me I had to get home ASAP. Her doctor wanted us to meet him that afternoon in his office. My wife's last words were "this can't be good." I concurred.
I floated home that day, oblivious to how I was getting there, just focused on one thing, movement. Hitting the interstate, I don't think my speedo left 85+ the whole afternoon. I suppose I was on a mission.
I didn't have to worry about target fixation, my brain was already too fixated on scenarios, rationalizations and a few evil thoughts to give my eyes any backup. I had no business being on the road, but I had no choice.
Home again?All at once I was home, but it didn't really feel like home. It felt like a place I wanted to run away from. The skies had gone from inappropriately sunny to appropriately cloudy and foreboding.
The surgeon's words came in isolated, echoing explosions of disconnected, sometimes incomprehensible sounds. "Pathology report; cancer; non-invasive; DCIS; check the lymph nodes; surgery." The tears instantly rolled down my wife's face.
At least two sets of ears are necessary to comprehend it all, and even then there's no guarantee. Stomachs become instantly upset. Feet and hands begin to tingle. The brain begins to race. Cold sweat begins to drip. You keep waiting for the alarm clock to go off, but it never happens.
My wife, like so many other women, make up the mothers, wives, daughters, sisters, friends, neighbors and co-workers that we encounter everyday. They are our riding partners, they help watch the kids, wash our riding clothes, keep our dinners warm, reallocate funds in the family budget to feed our passions, listen attentively while we tell our tall tales and generally keep the home fires hot amongst many other things.
Snowmobile enthusiasts rank pretty high on the list of charitable individuals who promote philanthropy through their favorite sport. Help out or stage a ride or charitable event and become involved in groups like Pink Ribbon Riders.
Close your eyes and think of your mothers, your daughters, your husbands, whatever, because this disease does not discriminate. It doesn't care how much money you have. It doesn't care where you live. It doesn't care how many people, including little children, you have depending on you. Whether you treat your body like a temple or you treat it like a shed, it doesn't matter. And the disease is everywhere. If cancer hits your inner circle, you will suddenly hear countless stories of survival and loss, countless triumphs and tragedies.
Let it get to you. Put down your armor. Do something to fight it - something, anything.
It might feel like we are getting nowhere with cancer, but we are. People diagnosed with breast cancer today, who wouldn't have had a chance even 10 years ago, are surviving. With all the brilliant doctors out there doing the research and making the connections needed to fight this damn disease, there are the regular people like you and I that can help out the cause in some tiny way and we're doing it.
PINK RIBBON RIDER INFO: www.pinkribbonriders.com or 269-744-5157
Tom Clement was raised in Grand Forks, N.D., and has been involved in the snowmobile industry for 30 years. Besides being a college business instructor and writer, he enjoys spending his spare time with his wife Jeanie and family, when he's not finding new excuses to go riding. His columns regularly appear on www.AmSnow.com.