Avon Walk for Breast Cancer - Los Angeles - September 12 & 13, 2009

After staying over at a friend’s house in Huntington Beach, Jill and I woke up to dueling phone alarms at 4:15am on Saturday morning. We uttered unrecognizable words, and then quickly got showered and ready and we were in the car at 5:00am. We drove through the streets of Long Beach and made our way to the Queen Mary, chattering anxiously about what was to come. It was still dark out when we dropped off our luggage and headed to the breakfast station and opening ceremonies. All of our preparation, training, and fundraising had finally brought us here, and we felt overwhelmed and excited by the sea of pink shirts, hats, tiaras, and tutus.
We ate our breakfast, drank coffee, and chatted with two sisters who were walking in honor of their mother. After a guided stretch, the opening ceremonies began, and a few speakers told stories about who they were walking for. As Jill and I blinked away tears, the crowd of walkers held hands to symbolize that in these two days, we would all be walking as one. Then, at 7am, we began our walk!

Over 2,000 walkers filed out onto the pathway, and up a bridge, forming a snake half a mile long. We walked along the beach for 6 or 7 miles, cheered on by people having coffee out on their balcony, couples walking their dogs, groups of runners out on their Saturday morning run, children and husbands holding signs, and dancing ladies in pink wigs handing out candy. Every mile marker was surrounded by applause and excitement and picture taking. We walked and we walked. Our emotions were erratic; our eyes would well up from seeing a sign posted on someone’s back; “I walk for: MY MOM. I miss you, Mommy,” or we’d break into hysterical laughter from seeing a tuxedo black and white cat wearing a pink ribbon, standing proudly on a balcony alone next to a sign that read, “Go Boobs”. We imagined that he painted it himself. We stopped at each Quick Stop and Rest Stop to stretch, fill our water bottles, and get a snack. For some reason, it was like Christmas morning every time we saw a candy bowl with Tootsie Rolls in it.

Lunch was at mile 9.5. We rested in a nice grassy park and devoured turkey sandwiches quickly. Only 16.7 more miles to go! We were lucky, for most of the day, to have a cloud cover and a nice breeze. The sun came out at around 1pm, but we still had the ocean air cooling us down. Mile 13 was really exciting, as it marked our halfway point. We had walked half a marathon already!! We saw Cathy and Cindy (the sisters), and walked with them for awhile. Along each mile or so, there was a woman blasting music from her car, and dancing on the sidewalk by herself, just to keep our spirits up. She took her job of high-fiving and dancing to Shania Twain songs very seriously, and we just loved her for it. Little children out on their lawns gave us thumbs up, and yelled "Good job!" Cars driving by would honk and cheer out the window. At Mile 20, we could feel a surge of energy from the walkers around us. Collective determination. Only 6 more miles. Mile 22 to 23 felt like a 45-mile walk. I thought maybe the sign had fallen down, and we had passed it already. Nope. There it finally was, fastened to a stop sign, smirking at me. Mile 24 to 25 was even longer. The dancing woman said, "Mile 25 is just up ahead!" Every step was so painful, but we didn't care. "We got this," Jill said. We started skipping for about 30 seconds, happy to be using different muscles in our legs. When we stopped, we realized what a mistake that was, as the bottoms of our feet burned and ached. Then, there it was: Mile 25. Only 1 more mile left to walk.

Up ahead, I saw a woman who I recognized because she was the biggest fundraiser for the Avon Walk. I told Jill, and we picked up our pace to catch up with her and ask her a bit about her story. This was her 107th walk. The 7th Avon Walk she had done this year, with 2 more to go. She has raised over 1 million dollars. We finished our last mile with this inspirational woman. We strolled to Wellness Village, high-fived and cheered on by crew members, a high school cheerleading squad, and dozens of friends and family of other walkers.

We were finally done walking for the day! We got our luggage, found our tent spot, and put up our tent. As we hobbled to the showers, we made a plan to visit the medical tent before dinner so that Jill could get her blisters worked on. This was not a good plan. We hadn't eaten lunch since 10:30am, and it was now 7pm, and we had to wait for Jill's name to be called from the long list of other blister people. As the nurse finally began to drain Jill's first blister, I stood behind Jill, and watched the chaos in the tent. My low blood sugar, combined with anxiety from seeing paramedics and people laying on cots with mylar blankets around them, made me suddenly feel queasy. I left the tent and sat outside in the fresh air. I came back in to find Jillian keeled over in her chair with her head in her hands. Knowing my best friend, I thought, "she's going to throw up." She looked up at me, and her face was white, with a hint of green. Other nearby nurses began to rush over, as Jill muttered that she might pass out. As they began to take her over to the cots, I stood there, again, overwhelmed by the panic in the room, Jill's sudden condition, and my own exhaustion and hunger. I knew that if I stood there any longer, I would probably throw up or pass out as well, so I guiltily walked out of the medical tent without saying anything. It was a terrible feeling to leave my best friend alone in there, but I knew that my own possible panic attack or vomiting probably wouldn't help her much. When I came back in, Jill was sitting up on a cot, drinking gatorade and looking much better. They almost put an I.V. in her arm, but she insisted that she would be fine after some food. We ate dinner, and all was well. At last. And it was time for bed.

We slept soundly in our tents, and woke up to the voices of two very enthusiastic women discussing food and coffee in the tent beside us. We had another 13 miles ahead of us. We packed up, ate breakfast, and started out again. There were even more cheerers out on the route, and every sign and "great job" made us teary. Having gone through so much already, everyone walking was more vulnerable, but this day was particularly emotional for me and Jill, as it marked the 5th anniversary of the death of my brother (and Jill's cousin) Ian. On September 13th, 2004, he had lost his battle with cancer. There was one moment when we were talking about Ian, and both of us couldn't stop tears from rolling down our faces. Just then, it was as if Ian had placed a situation right here just for us, just at this moment, to say, "stop crying, you babies, and laugh at this instead". A man had parked his jeep alongside the route, gotten on the hood of his car, and was dancing. In a cowboy hat. With no shirt on. He was slender, and physically looked ok, but he was the most awkward dancer I've ever seen. We passed by him, and stared up in amazement. The look on his face said, "why am I doing this," as he swayed uncomfortably back and forth to a slow song, shirtless, on top of a car, in a cowboy hat. I wish I had been there for the exact moment when this idea entered his mind. I couldn't help but explode with laughter. Soon, Jill and I were both in hysterics, and the fact that no one else was laughing at all made it even funnier. We howled as we each took turns imitating his swaying motion.

The day went by fast, as we laughed and made up songs, and chatted with people around us. Jill's husband Morgan surprised us at Mile 8! We had no idea he was even nearby, and we turned a corner, and there he was with his camera. I could hear the emotion in his voice as he told us how proud he was. He was my brother's best friend, so to have him there on that day was amazingly special.

Every ache, pain, bruise, and blister was beyond worth it when anyone would wave to us or cheer us on, or when a mother sitting on her front lawn with her tiny daughter would say thank you, or when we saw a bald woman at a cheering station holding a sign that said that our efforts were helping her. Every moment of this experience was amazing, and getting to the finish line was awesome. As we cried and hugged friends and family, we were so proud of ourselves. We had walked 39.3 miles! It was 2 days I'll never forget, and I can't wait to do it again next year!

The Simple Things

It’s been almost five years since my older brother Ian died. September 13^th, 2004. I don’t like to dwell on that day, but around this time of year, I can’t help but think back to a couple days before he died. A good memory. One that will stay with me forever.

As I had done for many days throughout his stay, I sat in Ian’s hospital room all day, hanging out and keeping him company. The next morning, he was getting out. It had been two long months, and he was ready. For the last two days, he had been questioning the nurses and doctors; when, when, when, when, what time, when. That day, September 9^th, we joked around a lot. He was feeling better. He was eating. And he was excited to get out of that hospital bed, and hospital gown; out of that bleak room and into the comfort of our brother Josh’s house.

I was moving the next morning, so I had to drive back home to San Diego that night. I told him I was sad that I couldn’t see him be freed of the hospital chains, but I was so happy to be there with him on his last night. For the last few weeks, I had been reading The Da Vinci Code, which was one of Ian’s all-time favorite books. He had read it four times, as he liked to tell everyone. I was almost finished with it, and while he would nap, I would read. Throughout the course of the evening, friends and family would pop in to say hello, nurses would come in to say goodbye, and I sat beside him, reading his favorite book. He checked on me often, making sure I was still enjoying it; wanting to see all my different reactions to the unexpected twists and turns and newly unraveled mysteries.

Two of his (odd and slightly obnoxious) friends came in to visit at around 9pm. The two of them talked over each other constantly, like loud squawking birds. Justin, the motor-mouth of the two, had constant foot-in-mouth syndrome. I’m not even sure that he had the mental capacity to realize when his foot was in his mouth. He would still keep talking, no matter how many feet were in his mouth. So here we all were. Justin and Armand on one side of Ian, and me and Dan Brown on the other. I could tell that Ian was anxious, and just wanted the time to pass, and he remained fairly quiet, watching TV. Justin would make an unfunny joke, and Ian and I would simultaneously say, “Shut up, Justin!” which would make him silent for about twenty seconds, before he picked another argument with Armand. Any time the two arguing birds would become too loud or say something really stupid, I would look up at Ian. He would give me a little sideways smirk, roll his eyes, and shake his head. I would laugh and continue reading. It was getting late, and my reading was somewhat frantic, as I became determined to finish the book while sitting by Ian’s side. Finally, the raucous birds left when they saw Ian drifting in and out of sleep. He would sometimes pretend to be asleep when people came to visit, so that they’d leave him alone and not ask too many questions, and then, once they were gone, he would comment on the conversation we were having while he was “sleeping”. His trick worked on his annoying friends. His focus shifted to me as he looked at me worriedly and said I shouldn’t drive home too late. I had a two hour drive ahead of me, and it was 11pm. I told him I was almost done, just a few more pages. He said, “It’s good, huh?” I nodded. A few minutes later, I had finished the book. We both felt a proud sense of accomplishment. I packed up my things, said goodnight and “I love you” to sleepy Ian, hugged him tight, kissed him a couple times on his fuzzy head, and walked out of the Sylmar Hospital forever.

As I walked to my car that night, I felt light and free. I always hated leaving, knowing that Ian was there alone, but this time it felt different. Ian was going home.

I, of course, had no idea what was to come in the next few days; had no idea that the night I sat beside Ian reading would be the last time we would hang out.

I don’t like to think of him and how he looked on the day he died. I like to remember this night, and how we were, brother and sister, laughing, talking, joking. Feeling free.

Doing All That I Can

Jillian and I are doing the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer in about a week and a half, and we wrote a new song inspired by it and the fight against cancer. We're selling it on our website for a dollar, for our fundraising, and all I want is for people to download it. It feels frustrating when you want people to hear something you worked so hard on, and you just don't know how to reach them. I've asked many people to send out an email on our behalf, letting them know about this. I strongly believe in the inpirational power of this song, and the video that goes along with it. I just don't know how to get it out there. My thought is: How about doing some good with music, as opposed to buying songs about sluts on the dance floor. Sorry.

Here's the video link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D5djuvEx_k0