I was privileged and honored to have em-ceed the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure in Charleston Saturday morning. It was, quite simply, amazing. To see all those people -- mothers, daughters, sisters, husbands, fathers, friends -- from every walk of life, coming together in joy and hope and determination... there are no words.

There were so many highlights. Just seeing the women in their pink race numbers cross that finish line -- whether they ran, walked, held the hands of their grandchildren, were shoulder to shoulder with their girlfriends, children, husbands, or were simply alone -- the images will stay with me a long time. But perhaps my favorite part of the day was when breast cancer survivor Jean Davis and her daughter Hanna sang "I Run For Life" by Melissa Etheridge. Jean was pretty early in her pregnancy with her second daughter when she was diagnosed with breast cancer. I was pregnant with Ava about the same time that I read Jean's story in the newspaper, so her experience especially affected me. To have a young daughter and to be carrying another child -- what a joyous time that should have been. But then, to have to do battle with a monster. Now we know the happy ending: That baby girl was born healthy -- early, but healthy -- and Jean is a survivor. But at the time, I cannot imagine the fear, the uncertainty, the difficult choices Jean and her entire family had to endure. When Jean's voice broke with emotion, little Hanna sang out clear and strong, her little sister watching a few feet away, probably wondering what the fuss was all about.

It means a lot to me personally to be a part of something like the Race for the Cure, for a couple reasons. My step-grandmother Eileen had breast cancer (It feels weird using the term step-grandmother but technically I guess that's what she was, although she was and is as much a part of my heart and soul as any and all of the treasured grandmother, aunts and other much loved family members in my life), and Matt's beloved grandmother also fought, and ultimately lost, a long battle with breast cancer.

The other reason's a little different. Seven years ago, my mother died just 32 short days after she was diagnosed with brain cancer. From the very first day I scribbled the words "glioblastoma multiforme IV" onto a paper towel in her hospital room, we were told there was no hope. No breakthrough treatment, no possibility for a cure. Of course we prayed for some kind of miracle, but that was not to be.

BUT. With breast cancer, there IS hope, there are breakthroughs, there are treatments -- and women (and men) CAN and DO BEAT BREAST CANCER EVERY DAY. And if I can latch onto someone else's joy, someone else's hope, then rest assured, I'm going to do it.

Penny 

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P.S. See, I type this stuff and then I lie in bed thinking about whether I worded things the right way, or came across the way I intended. This morning for my own peace of mind I have to add that regarding Mom's illness, in no way do I mean there is no hope for others who get the same diagnosis. The two other people I know who had the same type of cancer survived a great deal longer. But the location of Mom's tumor and the speed it progressed drastically limited our options. I just hate to think of someone dealing with the same challenge to read this and feel they have no hope. Through faith, there is always hope.