Seidman: Why she is doing the 3-day again

When I completed the Susan G. Komen three-day, 60-mile walk for breast cancer in Tampa two Octobers ago, it was never my intention to do it again.

Teammates from Walking in Sunshine at the end of their first 10-mile training walk from left: Dariela Delgado (with her brother), Theresa Heinis, Carrie Seidman, Stephanie Kouvatsos, Kay Kouvatsos, P.J. Sorma, team captain Lisa Amira and team "Mom" Karen McClure (front). [CREDIT: Walking in Sunshine]

No, with a writer’s disregard for boundaries and enthusiasm for mining her own life for material, I walked because the Herald-Tribune agreed to let me write about the experience and I thought it would make for “a good story.” A story that could enhance my reputation! A story that might lift my name recognition, perhaps even my salary! A story that could win a prize!

(Postscript: Not so.) Even after I’d committed to training with a local team for six months to document their journey, I was a recalcitrant participant. In fact, it’s a wonder my teammates didn’t give me the boot. I resisted their cheerful efforts to get me to “surrender to the pink.” I declined fuchsia tutus and feather boas and refused to lace my shoes or my sports drink with something pink. While I begrudgingly groveled on Facebook for the $2,300 in donations every walker must raise in order to participate, when people generously responded, I felt compelled to let them know immediately that I did NOT agree with Komen’s decision to stop giving grants to Planned Parenthood for breast cancer screenings, a story then making headlines.

Members of the Walking in the Sunshine Training Team arrive at Spa Beach Park as they finish the Susan G. Komen 3-day, 60-mile walk for breast cancer on  Oct. 27, 2013, in St. Petersburg, Fla. (Herald-Tribune archive /  Brian Blanco)

However, to no one’s astonishment more than my own, by the time of the walk, I’d succumbed. I was carrying around a floppy stuffed bunny named “Booby,” sporting “Do You Tutu?” and “Cancer Sucks!” buttons on my pink backpack and displaying a smug insider’s ” 3⁄60” sticker on my car. Still, I cringe when I look back at those photos of me in obscenely tight fluorescent bike shorts lunging into the arms of some unsuspecting Tampa fireman, or crossing the finish line with pink plastic wristbands stacked halfway up my triumphantly raised arms.

So when Komen announced the walk would not be returning to Tampa, I figured I had the perfect out. Even after a group of dedicated teammates formed the “Tampa Bay Refugees” and signed up to walk last year in Atlanta, I discovered ... oh dear, what a pity ... that I had a scheduling conflict that just could not be reconciled.

So why, next month, will I be walking another 60 miles over three days, this time in San Diego?

It still doesn’t have anything to do with thinking that by begging for another $2,300 or wearing out a couple more pairs of shoes I am really doing anything that will bring us closer to a cure. Nor that, because I am fortunate to be in remission, it is my personal duty to do this “Because I can!”

Members of the Walking in the Sunshine Training Team, from left, Kay Kouvatsos, her daughter Stephanie Kouvatsos, 17, and Carrie Seidman arrive at the finish line at Spa Beach Park as they conclude the Susan G. Komen 3-day, 60-mile walk for breast cancer on Oct. 27, 2013, in St. Petersburg. (Herald-Tribune archive / Brian Blanco)

It has to do with the most important thing I learned from two tumors, two years of being attached to IVs, two bouts of hairlessness and too many sessions of “driving the great white porcelain bus” (as an alcoholic friend once put it.) I stopped believing I would always have more time. More time not only to do the things that brought me pleasure — being with loved ones was at the top of that list — but also more time to do the things that, because they were difficult or unpleasant, I tended to kick down the road.

I’m embarrassed to admit that when I was diagnosed for the first time, in 2007, I had a forgotten, decades-old will that left my health care decisions and everything I owned to a husband I’d been divorced from for almost 30 years. I had an adult son with mental health challenges who will never be fully self-supportive —for whom I’d made no future financial or managerial arrangements. I had a house full of stuff that was likely to become, at best, a burden, at worst grounds for conflict, to those who might inherit it.

I had the tendency of a busy person who has been blissfully healthy all her life to put off bothering to assemble in one place all the documents that don’t seem that important until no one can find them — house insurance policy/ automobile title/birth certificate/ Facebook password. I’d avoided for years destroying a stale stash of love letters that could cause misunderstanding and hurt if posthumously revealed.

I had a life that looked tidy and organized on the outside, but hid a pile of procrastinations under the surface. And frankly, I didn’t like the idea of dying before I’d cleaned up both my literal and figurative messes.

By the time I was diagnosed a second time in 2012, I’d taken care of most of those clerical and emotional postponements. Interestingly, it resulted in my feeling less anxious about my eventual demise. Not that I was in any hurry, but I had the comfort of knowing my son would be provided for, my sister would get the archival family photos and my wishes would be clearly (and legally) spelled out if I couldn’t make my own decisions at the end. That brought a sense of peace, serenity and acceptance of my mortality I’d never experienced.

So I’m walking this year for two reasons. One is that my longtime friend from Montana, Annie, who lost her husband to pancreatic cancer several years ago; and my very funny, very fun sister, Sarah, who tortured me as a child and brightens my every day as an adult, have both agreed to walk with me. Three days to spend with two of the people I love most in the world — free of children, spouses and any agenda other than enjoying the moment — is not something that should be postponed.

And reason number two is this: I have the tranquility of knowing my house is in order. Should I be run over by a large pink bus en route, everything you’ll need can be found in the upper left hand drawer of my file cabinet.

—Carrie Seidman is a dance, features and special projects writer for the Herald-Tribune. Email her at carrie.seidman@heraldtribune.com. Follow her on Twitter: @CarrieSeidman.