My speech at the 3-Day

I have received some requests for my 3-Day speech - here it is! If you would like to use part of it anywhere, I ask that you speak to me directly first.
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Thank you to the 3-Day organizers for inviting me to speak with you today. Thank you also to my husband, Ryan, and my daughter, Tessa, for supporting me by being here, as well as to Team Kristina and Team Warrior Women.

Anger, Sorrow and Joy

My name is Kristina Surface, and I live in West Seattle. I am a mother, wife, daughter, friend, writer, reader, 3-Day walker…and breast cancer survivor. This is part of my story.

When I was 35 years old, the stay-at-home mom of a gorgeous two and a half year old, I found a lump in my breast and I was diagnosed with stage IIb breast cancer. So the journey began. Two weeks after my diagnosis, my left breast was removed.

Showing my husband my scar hurt almost as much as the mastectomy itself: what would he say? How would he feel about this loss of femininity? Would he still find me attractive? Would he still desire me? Bitter anger at cancer filled me as I faced these questions.

In the recovery room, still groggy from anesthesia, I looked up at Ryan and, with shaking hands and tears in my eyes, said, “Look” and pulled my hospital gown aside.

He looked as I waited, full of fear. Then, he kissed the flat bandage. “It’s beautiful,” he said. “It’s beautiful because it means you don’t have cancer anymore.”

Thank you for that moment, Ryan. It taught me, for the first time in my cancer journey, that joy could overcome the anger and sorrow.

The journey continued; chemo was next. Just before my second treatment, right on schedule, my hair started to fall out. I ran my fingers through it, and a dozen strands came out at once. Reality was upon me.

I was determined to call the shots where I could, and I did NOT want to wake up with a pillow full of hair and bald patches, so I called my stylist and begged for her help. “Please, Krista. Please shave my head.”

I went to the slaon on a Saturday morning before it was opened, and Ryan, Tessa, and a handful of loyal girlfriends came to cheer me. The mood was almost festive – I received presents and coffee, and I thought I would be okay, despite my fear and distress.

I asked to be faced away from the mirror, at my family and friends, so that I wouldn’t’ see the destruction of my hair falling. Krista, with shaking hands, began.
Tessa sat in my friend’s lap, her face white. “How are you doing, honey?” I asked. Tessa’s eyes were so big and blue, and her golden baby curls looked so beautiful to me…what would my lovely daughter think of her mother’s baldness?

“It’s okay, Mama,” she told me. She was nearly shaking, bu my brave daughter did not cry. “Mama, it will grow back,” she whispered.

That a two and a half year old needs bravery makes me angry. It makes me weep. But Tessa’s strength gives me a joy greater than any other I have known.

At last, it was done, and I looked in the mirror. My baldness made it look so… so… so real. For the first time, I actually looked sick. The tears started, and the fist words out of my mouth surprised me.

“I have cancer!”

When the tears were wiped and hugs given, it was time to get on with the day. What to do? Tessa said, “Mama, let’s go swimming!”

I thought about this. Bald, missing a breast, and an ugly port-a-cath showing? SWIMMING? At first, I almost shouted, “NO!” but then I thought again. The August day was sunny and beautiful, and my strong, brave daughter wanted to swim. Was I going to take that from her? Was CANCER trying to take these simple pleasures from me, too? Anger and sorrow overwhelmed me. Damn cancer.

Well, no way. I would swim in the sun.

We got to the pool. I put on my new mastectomy suit, and took off my scarf, and stepped out on the pool deck. I’m pretty sure that the whole pool was staring at me. Tessa didn’t notice – “C’mon, Mama, jump in!”
And so we played and splashed, and I felt the joy overcoming the anger and sorrow.

But it didn’t always.
7 surgeries.
16 chemos.
33 radiation treatments.
Two years of Herceptin.
Femara.
Treatment was relentless.

I needed to believe that it could be better, that I could be better. I knew that if I could walk 60 miles, I could do anything. I had so much sorrow and anger, and I needed a place I could use it. The 3-Day was the place.

I am here today because I am a breast cancer survivor, because I am a fighter, and because I desperately want to watch my daughter become a woman. I want to grow old alongside my husband. I want to write a book, to run a marathon. I am here because I believe that the 3-Day is our best chance to make that happen.

But I’m also here because I’m mad. REALLY angry. Nobody should have to go through what I’ve gone through, and worse. I have friends who “did everything right” and still got stage IV. I have acquaintances who have died of this disease. I have seen women young and old feel the fear of wondering if they will live to see tomorrow; fear of wondering if they are strong enough to face treatment. Breast cancer is full of fear and sorrow, and it makes me so angry that these are part of mine – or anyone’s – day to dady life.
I know that you, too, are mad, and that you’ve decided to do something about it. Because you’re here, the next generation of women will survive. Because of what we’re doing here together, the cure is closer that it was before. Because of this event, somebody’s life will be saved. Maybe yours, maybe mine, maybe my daughter’s…someone’s.

I believe that because of Komen’s work, and the work of the 3-Day and other events like it, I can look my daughter in the eye, and say, “Tessa, you will not have to do what Mama did. We will find the cure, for me and for you!”

Thank you for coming here, and for being angry enough about breast cancer to do something about it. You are making the difference, and from the bottom of my heart, I thank you. I thank you for myself, and also for my daughter. What you are doing here today gives me joy. We WILL find the cure.

And to those of you who are fighting the disease, I have one final story.

In the survivor lineup at last year’s 3-Day, somebody called out, “How many years? How long have you been survivors?” I chimed in, “One year.” Somebody else said, “Five years.” Numbers flew left and right, and we cheered for those who had made it. The woman behind me said, “One month,” and we hugged her and promised that it would get easier one day.
Then one woman close to me smiled and said, “Twenty seven years.” My eyes fill with tears just thinking abou tit: twenty seven years after my diagnosis, my daughter will be a woman. What I woudn’t give to see her grow up, to see her as a twenty-nine year old, and even, if I should be so lucky, become a grandma.

The twenty-seven year survivor caught my eye, asked me about my treatment, and told me about hers. She said that she’d made a tape of herself envisioning her futre life, and all its wonderful milestone, and that she would listen to it every night as she went to sleep while she was in treatment. She said she talked about watching her children graduate from high school, and trips she would take, and other important life milestones. And at the end, she said, shefell asleep every night to the words, “I will rock my grandbabies to sleep.” She told me that she has held her grandchildren in her arms; her vision came true.

And then that woman, beautiful soul, took my hands in hers, looked me straight in the eye, and fiercely whispered, You will rock your grandbabies to sleep.”I choose to believe her.

Joy.

May you rock your grandbabies to sleep.