Relay

We’re only a few months away from it being ten years since my sister Erin died. This is on my mind a lot right now because the Relay for Life in Elk River, which my family has been involved with since 2003, is coming up this Saturday.

In the days leading up to the first relay following Erin’s death, I got a phone call right out of the blue from the editor of the local paper in Elk River. He said they were planning to run a human interest story about the relay in an upcoming issue and were contacting the team captains (I was ours) to see if there were any participants who felt they might be interested in writing about their experience that night. My response? “Well, actually....”

I met him in his office a few days later with a writing sample and we decided to go forward. Later that week I did the Relay scribbling observations in a pocket notebook all night, then went home to sleep the rest of the morning, woke up and spent an afternoon writing my piece and submitting it that evening before going to my sister’s house for dinner with some relatives we still had in town. A couple days later the editor called me back and said they were so happy with my piece they had decided to run the whole thing, unedited, even though that meant devoting two pages’s worth of print space.

I’ve searched for it online over the years, hoping it would turn up in an archive somewhere thinking I could just put it up as a link, but I’ve never had any luck. Being that this year is the 10th relay we’ve walked since Erin’s death, I thought it would be as good a time as any to dig out my copy, type it up and post it here, which gives me a chance to edit it down for space (it is kind of long) and to polish up some of the writing I’ve been embarrassed to look at since the day it went to press. Here you go:

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My younger sister Erin died ten months ago today. There are still moments when that overwhelms me. I look at pictures of her from our childhood and instead of seeing a happy little girl mugging for the camera or tearing through her Christmas gifts or chasing down a soccer ball, I see someone completely unaware of the fate awaiting her in the final years of her life, years which will come much too soon. For my family, everything is now divided between the time we had with her and the time following her illness and death.

But that isn’t the focus for tonight. During the Relay for Life we are a part of a community who knows exactly what we’ve endured because they’ve had the same experiences. They hate cancer as much as we do, and they’re here tonight for the same reasons we are.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 5

5:15 p.m. -- We have nine people listed as money collectors on our team, but we will have more than 30 people walking with us tonight. We have designed t-shirts for the event that read, “Last year we walked in her honor -- this year we walk in her memory.” These words frame a portrait of Erin, one she had once said was the only good picture she had ever taken. Those of us arriving first get to work at setting up our campsite, a collection of chairs, two coolers, four tents, and too many sleeping bags and pillows to count. During the night our campsite will be given the nickname Tent City.

6:50 p.m. -- The opening ceremony is about to begin, and the hundreds of people begin filling the bleachers. I see dozens of groups passing by on the track, easily identified by the custom-made shirts they wear or the team banners they carry. The kids on our team, ranging in ages from 4 to 12, run to the very top of the bleachers and sit in the corner.

7:04 p.m. -- The color guard brings forth the flags as the ceremony begins, and the crowd immediately falls silent. After the National anthem is performed, different people take the microphone to share information about the Relay, directions for the events and activities throughout the night, and congratulations to the people in attendance for their participation. The Relay for Life oath is read. The line that strikes me the most has to do with making the world cancer-free for future generations. I look around at the hundreds of people sitting with us, and think of the thousands of other Relay sites across the country, and all of the money being raised by these events. I think that if it does happen, if we really do pull this off someday and find a way to get rid of cancer, those future generations are going to owe us big. I turn and look down the row behind me and see my mother, sitting with her three sisters and crying. I knew it was going to happen at some point tonight. It only took minutes.

7:30 p.m. -- The survivor lap begins. Dozens of people line up on the track to share their personal stories with the crowd, telling us their names and how long they have survived the disease. One of the survivors is my aunt, who had beaten her cancer just months before Erin had been diagnosed with hers. (She’s passed in the years since I wrote this.) Pained and sympathetic moans can be heard throughout the crowd every time a child comes to the microphone.

7:52 p.m. -- The survivors complete their lap and the Relay is officially underway. The atmosphere is celebratory, which is completely appropriate. People aren’t here tonight to think about how much they hurt and commiserate, but to show support for the cancer survivors in their lives or remember and honor those they have lost. Music blares from the DJ tent. Crowds of people play Frisbee and football on the empty field inside the track. Kids walk around with glowing necklaces and wait in line for turns in the jumping castle. People are lined up three deep at the Lions’ food counter. Hundreds of people walk, several of them slowly and methodically, closely examining each of the luminary bags lining both sides of the track. It always surprises me to read the luminaries. I see the names of people I grew up with, or people my family knew, or familiar names that follow any other number of connections.

The first two years we were here Erin had her name on brown paper bags, indicating she was a survivor. This year the bags with her name are white. I know if healthy Erin had been with us tonight, she would have been the team captain and would have found her way into the middle of everything. She would have been thrilled to see so many people from our family there, and would have convinced even more to join us.

9:30 p.m. -- While walking through the silent auction tent, I see an old friend of Erin’s from as far back as elementary school, a survivor herself. She brings up a common theme in conversations I’ve had over the past few days -- how she has been missing Erin and thinking about our family since this year’s Relay is going to be such a hard time for us. She’s right of course, but the thing is, every ‘first’ we have had since Erin’s death has been hard: The first month after she died, the first Thanksgiving, the first day of the new year she wasn’t going to see. Her first missed birthday, my first birthday without her, the day I went from being three years older to four because I got older than year and she didn’t.

9:50 p.m. -- Ironic moment of the night: I decide to walk out to my car and get a sweatshirt before the luminary lighting ceremony. As I’m walking back through the parking lot, my nose picks up the unmistakable stink of cigarette smoke. I look around and see who people sitting in someone’s truck having a smoke break -- while at the Relay for Life. Guess what, all you smokers out there: My sister died from lung cancer (even though she didn’t smoke), so because of this I’ve seen one of your possible futures from a front-row seat. The day could come when you’ll be wearing a scarf over your face in April because you won’t be able to handle breathing in cool air. When you hear the doorbell ring, if may take most of your energy just to stand up, cross the room, and answer it. Your bedroom might be filled with industrial-sized oxygen tanks. You might degrade to a point where you’ll have to be medicated into unconsciousness simply so you can breathe without panicking. These are just a few of the joys that might be at the end of the path you’re following.

9:55 p.m. -- The air is noticeably cooler, and the first mosquitoes of the night are beginning to emerge. I make my way back up to the bleachers in preparation for the luminary lighting. At 10 p.m. the overhead lights go out and the crowd is immediately quiet. The luminary bags spelling out HOPE on the visitor’s bleachers are lit while a local church bell choir performs. People are invited to begin lighting the luminaries lining the track. There are thousands, but it’s a job that only takes minutes to complete. It hits me again while I’m sitting there watching these rings of light come together: She’s really gone.

SATURDAY, AUGUST 6

12:25 a.m. -- Five and a half hours to go. I’m determined to stay awake for the whole event, and right now the night ahead seems very long. The Big Dipper is easily visible in the sky just above the north end of the track. It continues to appear larger and sink lower throughout the night.

3:00 a.m. -- Two of Erin’s close friends showed up to walk at different times early in the morning; in fact, they had both participated in her funeral. Most of the team had retired back to Tent City for the night, so it was good having new people on the track to walk with. Having the chance to talk with them highlights for me what a multidimensional person Erin was. Even though we were siblings and our family has always been close, there were things about her life that were very separated from mine. It’s easy when someone is sick and dying to construct an idealized image of them or start to see them as some kind of iconic figure. And really this isn’t fair, because doing so largely ignores many of the characteristics that made them into the person they were. I was reminded of this while walking with Erin’s friends and hearing about moments from their histories with her that I knew so little about. It was wonderful to hear these stories, but it also pointed out how widespread the pain from her death was felt. It’s easy to forget how much she meant to so many others, and how many people have also been hurting in the wake of her illness and death.

3:15 a.m. -- The only members of our team still at the track are my mother, my sister, my cousin Chris and me. I’ve taken a seat in the bleachers for a few minutes to rest my feet. I’ve just finished off my fifth Coke of the night, so I now have every confidence I’ll be able to make it through to the end without sleeping. There is no line at the food stand, which hasn’t been active since a late-night pizza delivery a few hours ago. The DJ is still playing music but I’ve switched over to my iPod, drowning out what has become a little too much country for my taste. People are mostly walking slowly in pairs or threes. Most have changed into warmer clothes, and a few have even taken to walking around wrapped up in blankets brought over from their campsites. A lot of people stop frequently along their walk, looking closely at the luminaries, which are much more than paper bags with names written on them. They have been lovingly designed, each adorned with favorite photographs, meaningful symbols or nicknames, written with heartfelt messages of support or grief: “We love you, we know you’ll win the fight.” “We miss you, even after so many years have passed.” From what I’ve experienced, grief never goes away but eventually becomes something you have an easier time managing. It’s oddly comforting to have this view of all these lights in front of me, the visual of how many people have been affected by cancer and how many collections of friends have been going through the same things we have. I feel less alone.

3:40 a.m. -- I’m officially cold now. It feels like late October instead of early August, but I’m not complaining because the cold seems to have taken care of the bugs for the night, and after the streaks of 90-degree temperatures we’ve had this summer the cold feels good. Our team is now down to three people: Chris, me, and Erin’s friend Judy who showed up about an hour ago. Chris has not stopped walking since 10:30, except for short breaks to stretch. After a few minutes I’m warmed up enough to comfortably match his pace.

4:20 a.m. -- Wow. I’m only 37 years old. When did my knees turn 59?

4:40 a.m. -- The first light of the coming day is visible in the eastern sky, and it grows a little brighter with each consecutive lap. Chris and I are still moving, but our conversation is now mostly about the several varieties of foot, leg, muscle, and back pain we’re experiencing. We’ve noticed a collection of signs displayed by the DJ tent, announcing some of the top fund-raising teams in different categories. We’re one of those teams, with our name posted on a bronze award sign. I think our team total came in just shy of $5,000 this year. I’d celebrate if I had any energy to spare.

5:11 a.m. -- I’ve hit the wall, and break off the track to rest for awhile. Chris keeps going, saying he has crossed a threshold where his pain doesn’t even register anymore, and he’s determined to keep going until six. Things are very quiet back at our camp. I try to mop most of the dew off one of the chairs, and my iPod and I settle in for a well-deserved rest.

Before tonight, I hadn’t noticed how far along I had come in my own recovery. Erin’s death isn’t something I’m ever going to be able to shake off, nor would I want to; it’s become a defining element in this new chapter of my life. It tears at me like nothing I can describe to see the people around me suffer as much as they do, and I will always have my moments as well, but as I sit there in the quiet sunrise I’m surprised to discover how much peace I’ve made with the whole experience. And I know this is due in no small way to the people in my life propping me up when I needed it so I’d have chance to work on finding my own balance again. For the first time in a long time, I realize I can feel that balance coming back to me.

6:02 a.m. -- Chris and I finished our final lap, now rejoined by our cousin Cyndi. After all of the work that went into setting up the Relay, it only takes about an hour to clean it all up. While waiting for my pancake breakfast, I overhear the final total for the night was over $100,000. A good night’s work, and well worth the sore feet.

When the time comes for me to drive home, I feel an abstract sense of closure, as if one part of my life has come to a decisive end while the next part is just forming a beginning. And I know that whatever form this next part will eventually take, even though Erin is no longer with us, she will always be a part of it.

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We’re still participating this year, and once again we’re going to have a good part of our extended family there with us. If you might be interested in donating to our team, the event isn’t until Saturday, August 2nd. I've provided a link to our team page below. You might have to login to Facebook first, but I think it should work:

Relay for Life Elk River