THE PRESENT
“When it is dark enough, you can see the stars.”
― Ralph Waldo Emerson
I think it is fair to say that those who have heard the words “you have breast cancer” count the moments in which they heard them among the darkest in their lives. Life is from that point on viewed from opposite sides of this dark chasm that divides before from after. It is what happens in the after that makes all the difference.
Today is my birthday. The birthday present I gave myself last year was saying yes before saying no. So when a survey asked me to state if I was interested in racing at the Head of the Charles I was duty-bound to say yes. It meant saying yes I’ll go to practice when it was pouring rain or saying yes to another benchmark test when I was still tired from the last one. The hardest yes was when Coach Colin asked me if I could believe in myself. The result of all of these yesses is that this year the present I gave myself was wrapped in a blue ribbon that flowed under bridges and around tight bends, it was filled with confetti that fluttered in a riot of orange, yellow, and red leaves that lined the banks and it sparkled from the play of sunlight on water.
I lost my dad to cancer when I was 17. My children lost their father when they were much younger. My mom lost a short-lived and unfair fight with ovarian cancer just a few years later. Having to face my children who had lost a parent so young with the news of this diagnosis, the extent of which at that point was still unknown, was one of the most difficult moments in the after. This news had the power to break them - it had nearly done so before. My kids and I were all living in different states but were due to meet up that weekend at Peninsula State Park. As the sun was going down I asked them to join me for a short hike. We walked and we talked and we cried. As soon as we broke through the trees we found ourselves alone in a beautiful sea of grass. The darkness had no choice but to yield to the light of a thousand stars. We were three mere mortals, in the center of a vast meadow, being embraced by a ring of ancient pines, staring dizzyingly upward into forever.
ROW was the gift cancer gave me. It has made every day since hearing the words ‘you have cancer’ a rebirth day. This year, the amazing staff and survivors at Recovery on Water, The Survivor Rowing Network, and the Head of the Charles organizing committee all came together to throw me an amazing birthday party. The moments that shine the brightest are the words of encouragement, camaraderie, and teamwork that flew back in forth in a team group chat from the moment lineups were announced, the coming together of all of the survivor teams for an amazing photo, a coach on his hands and knees to help me into the boat and into the headspace he knew that I needed to be in to make this race happen, the minutes in the basin when we shared admiration amongst boats, the power 20s being called for by a young coxswain who believed that we could deliver the promise she was asking us to make as we maneuvered through bridge after bridge, the post-finish-line call to the other survivor teams that asked “ Can you believe that we got to do this today?!!! “From the darkness of cancer - these moments came together to shine brighter than any star on its own ever could.
Thank you for this birthday ROW (the organization as well as her staff and survivors). Thank you to everyone who gave me a smile, helped me get into or out of a boat, taught me to row and met me at the finish.
Sincerely,
Lauren Berk