Magically 3

My pink ribbon

My pink ribbon gets a new set of wheels


I am honored to once again write a column for my newspaper about the Pink Zone game, which is coming up on Feb. 16. This will be my third year attending as a survivor. I love writing personal columns and so lucky I have the opportunity to. I write a column each year for our breast cancer awareness spread, the first of which also appeared in our sister magazine publication. And I also write one whenever Pink Zone rolls around.

I have to admit, my first column in our breast cancer awareness spread just kind of rolled out of me. (“My pink ribbon”) It was the first time I was really introducing myself in The Gazette as a breast cancer survivor. The second one, “My pink ribbon gets a new set of wheels,” was about my Tour de Pink experience. That also just rolled right out of me. Easy peasy, lemon squeezey. My first post-Pink Zone column also came right out rather effortlessly. I spoke at a variety of Pink Zone events, including after the Pink Zone game, so I used a lot of what I said in my column – just about my experience as a survivor during the game and what the annual event means to me.

And now it’s time to write another one. I love deadlines. I thrive on deadlines. But for this, I’m a little nervous.

I haven’t come up with anything to write about.

Now, I know my writing patterns like the back of my hand. I can’t force words; they’ll come when they’re ready. And when they come, hot damn are they good. They pour out of me as fluidly as when you juice a cucumber; the juice gushes from the juicer. And because of this, I try to never force it. If I can’t write (writers’ block), I leave and come back. And when I come back the writing comes. If it stops again, I take another break. When it’s ready, it’s ready.

Right now my writing feels like when you’re juicing kale. Kale may be nutritious and delicious and gorgeously green, but you don’t get much juice from it. Juicing kale is slow and stifling. Not a lot of liquid comes from that vegetable.

This year will be my third year attending Pink Zone as a survivor. When April rolls around, it will be three years since my diagnosis. And in March Sean and I will celebrate our second wedding anniversary.

Three years as a survivor.

Third year out on the floor during halftime with hundreds of other survivors holding their signs, which indicate how many years they’ve been a survivor.

My story hasn’t changed. I’ve shared my story.

My missions haven’t changed. I’ve shared my missions.

And here I am, a nearly three-year survivor, and I feel completely lost.

My life is in no way slowing down. In fact, just the opposite. It’s moving a lightning speed. And it’s great. But where’s my number in all of this? Where’s the 3? The 3, as in 3 years since I was diagnosed, feels a little lonely, a little stuffy, a little stuck, a little isolated. Where does it fit in?

The 3 isn’t my only number, nor is it the only thing in my life. It’s a PART of my life. Just like my other numbers. Granted, the breast cancer is a larger part of my life than other things, but I have made it that way for a reason.

But the 3. What do I say, this year in particular, about the 3? What do I do now, as a 3-year survivor? Do I just attend Pink Zone again, and again and again, just with my numbers? Do I hold up those numbers as the years go by, and just let them be numbers? Or am I supposed to have a different feeling, different emotion each time? What do I do with 3?

I’m writing about it, speaking about it, cycling about it. I’m sharing and diving and immersed in everything about my journey and my story. I’m all in. I’m all in for survivorship and for awareness. And when my breast MRI comes each year I’m nervous. When my doctor does a breast exam I’m nervous. And then it passes.

And then it’s another year?

Yes, that’s what I WANT. More and more years past the breast cancer, of course. That’s the ultimate goal, the ultimate vision. Be a survivor, 1, 2, 3 and 200 years after that.

But 3 seems too small of a number to just let it be a number. It should be a story. Not in the same way my diagnosis was a story, or years 1 and 2 were a story, or how it was a story during my wedding planning. 3, to me, seems too new to sit alone, yet too old to be as painful as it was when it was a 1 or 2.

So what do I write about? Another year has gone by and I’ve accomplished more of my dreams and goals, with new and exciting ones on the horizon? I’m happy to be at year 3.

It’s not enough.

But also this: why can’t it be?