“I’m not sure,” I said. “But she is who she is, and she’s worked hard for it. If she wants to be a size six, let her be a size six. Why should the customer fit the clothes? The clothes should fit the customer.”
Everything in my life seemed to be coming together. I adored my job, and was quite taken with Jake, that nice man I’d been dating. I was fairly certain I loved him, but we hadn’t had time to build much history together. My father’s disapproval was a major impediment, so we’d been taking the small steps people do in a blossoming relationship. Just as we began exploring the idea of a future together, Jake suffered a massive coronary and died. I couldn’t have been more stunned, and as the numbness wore off, anger and guilt swamped me. I knew my being there wouldn’t have prevented his death, and I had no idea how things would have worked out for us if he’d lived, but I knew for a fact that I hadn’t followed my heart, and having failed in that, I felt oddly unentitled to the grief that weighed me down. I had no standing, no right to feel so widowed. For many days in a row, I called Suzy, weeping, and she stuck by me patiently as I cried it out.
“When a young person dies,” she said, “it’s not just the person you’re grieving. It’s the death of a dream. Everything that was possible.”
She was right, I would later learn, but at the time, all I took from the experience was a core-deep determination to never make the same mistake again.
Cents and Sensibility
IT TAKES a lot to get noticed in Southern California.
The San Diego Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure is a breathtaking, blistering, 60-mile spectacular, featuring ocean vistas, a sea of magenta pup tents, bikers in black leather and pink tutus, friends and strangers in tears and embraces, cheering crowds, flying banners. It’s a celebration of diversity, and in 2009, when Jennifer Awrey walked it with her mom, Tina Herford, the event generated a whopping $9.5 million for breast cancer research and outreach.
Tina, who lives in Alaska and works for the United Way, was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1998 when Jennifer was a senior in high school. It was rough during treatment, but Tina’s a do-what-needs-doing kind of woman, and Jennifer is her mother’s daughter. Tina first suggested doing the SGK 3-Day for the Cure when Jen was fresh out of law school, but Jen was busy finding her stride in life. A few years later, she called her mom and said, “Let’s do it.”
They started training with the best of intentions. Jennifer walked her Los Angeles neighborhood; Tina did treadmill at home on the Kenai Peninsula. SGK coaches provided a walker’s handbook, stretching workout, weekly guidance, and encouragement by e-mail—even a guide to selecting the right shoes—but life got busy, and Jennifer slacked off a bit. Plodding to the end of a Saturday practice hike, she felt like she’d whipped it good, until she realized she’d walked only 12 miles. Facing 20 miles a day three days in a row, she was a little nervous.
Bright and early on November 21, 2009, mother and daughter joined four thousand walkers and volunteers for the opening ceremony at Del Mar Fairgrounds.
“It was awesome to see my mom in the survivor’s circle,” Jen says. “But the coolest part was all these people who’d come out to cheer us on. Thousands of people all along the way in crazy outfits and hats, waving signs, offering us candy and cookies and tequila shots.”
Energizer had supplied tall pink Energizer Bunny ears for everyone. Upbeat music played. It was cold, but a wave of warm energy swept Jennifer and Tina along. They didn’t talk about cancer; they talked about life, happily chatting, catching up. As the morning sun climbed higher, they took off their jackets and tied them around their waists, walking briskly. At the first of many pit stops, San Diego police officers working security danced with the ladies waiting in long lines at pink Porta-Pottys. Breast humor was everywhere.
Pins stitched like baseballs: SAVE SECOND BASE!
Scrawled on the back of a minivan: THESE BOOBS ARE MADE FOR WALKING!
On a sandwich board: STOP THE WAR IN MY RACK!
After lunch in La Jolla, the walkers pushed on through Torrey Pines to Pacific Beach, and finally arrived at the base camp in Mission Bay. Blues musicians warmed up on the lawn. Local youth groups had labored all day, setting up tents to create a temporary village. The extraordinary community came together, people of all ages, sizes, religions, races, and persuasions. This was one of those rare, precious moments when differences didn’t matter. Everyone was there for a common purpose. Exhausted and limping with blisters, Jennifer and Tina toyed with the idea of checking into a hotel, but they decided to stick with the group.
“Mom and I were wiped out, but determined to see it through,” Jen says. “We heard so many stories along the way. Mom met a lot of survivors who were two or three years out of chemo. When she said she’d made it more than ten years, they were so thrilled. I hadn’t realized before what it means to someone going through it to see this woman walking, living her life, happy and healthy.”
They iced their aching feet, crawled into sleeping bags, and crashed, not even vaguely aware of the breakfast crew up and working at three in the morning.
Day 2, rain threatened, but morning mist burned off to reveal another beautiful afternoon. Tromping a wide circle through Ocean Beach, Jen and Tina didn’t talk much.
“We were just together, making it through, looking at the stunning scenery along the coast. A peaceful, bonding kind of thing.”
Waiting in line for a shower that night, Jen met a woman who’d just finished chemo.
“My doctor advised against it,” the woman said, “but I had to be here, even if I can only do two miles a day. I can’t believe I finished two twenty-mile days with everyone else.”
If she can do it, Jen figured, so can I. She spent some time in the party atmosphere of the supper tent, iced her feet, and hit the sack.
As the walkers made their way through Balboa Park on Day 3, bikers roared by, wearing helmets with nipples. Loudspeakers blared “I’m a Survivor.” People danced. High school cheerleaders shook pink pom-poms. Families shouted thank you, holding up photos of loved ones they’d lost. Volunteers stood ready with cold water and warm hugs. With many walkers, including local CBS news anchor Barbara-Lee Edwards, blogging and tweeting along the way, the word was out, and crowds swelled. A San Diego Police Department chopper hovered over the finish line, cheering people in over the loudspeakers.
“The closing ceremony was incredibly powerful,” says Jennifer. “We each had our triumph shirt. Mine was white; mom was in pink with the other survivors. I walked with these great people we’d met along the way, and as we came in, each of us was given a pink rose. There was this outpouring of gratitude. As exhausted as we all were, it meant so much.”
The Susan G. Komen 3-Day for the Cure, from opening moment to closing ceremony, is a masterfully planned, professionally coordinated event that makes grown men cry. Even the coolest hipsters describe it as life changing. We live in a cynical world. Some roll their eyes at the idea of grown women in bunny ears, dogs in pink tuxedos, and bikers in nipple helmets. Some feel this sort of frivolity trivializes breast cancer. But it’s an experience no one within shouting distance can ignore and no one in attendance will ever forget. The moment that always gets to me in the closing ceremony is the march of the survivors; as they enter the arena, all the walkers hold up one shoe. It’s a simple thing, but it makes me weep. Here’s someone who just walked 60 miles, saying to these survivors, “I did all I could, and I did it for you.”
We can’t overstate the importance of the millions of dollars generated for cancer research, but the impact of the SGK 3-Day for the Cure is in the lives it changes as well as the lives it saves. It speaks to the tandem goals of survival and survivorship: You fight for your life. Then you live your life, regardless of what others think of your particular mode of self-expression.
We’d like to think we’ve come a long way since Ike and Tina couldn’t sit down at a Dallas lunch counter, but there are still private clubs in the United States that I, as a Jewish w
oman, would not be welcome to join. The diversity of participants at SGK events bears witness to what a brutally equalizing sledgehammer cancer is. Breast cancer has no religious or sexual preference, no race, no age, no political predilections. But in cancer treatment, those differences cost lives. At this writing, a woman diagnosed with breast cancer in predominantly African American Cook County, Illinois, is far more likely to die than her white counterpart in Peoria.
How long? asked Martin Luther King Jr., and we’re determined to answer, Not long.
As we expand our global reach, cultural biases throw out as many roadblocks as scientific conundrums, but there are times—scientific collaborations, support functions, social gatherings—when we’re able to sweep all that aside, if only for a moment, to illuminate our reason for being. It never happens as quickly or easily as we’d all love for it to happen, but every once in a while, crossing one bridge to build another, we hold hands and allow ourselves to speak the diplomatic language of light.
In October 2009, at the second Bosnia and Herzegovina Race for the Cure, more than 2,500 Bosnians, Muslims, Croats, Serbs, and Jews came together side by side with one goal. A regional conference was held by the Women’s Health Empowerment Program, which cultivates leaders, creates support networks, and facilitates patient-physician communication throughout the former Soviet Union, eastern Europe, Israel, and the Palestinian territories. It’s tremendously encouraging to see these meetings of disparate hearts and minds.
Thirty years ago, at Suzy’s funeral service, the synagogue was jammed with people who had nothing in common but their love for Suzy. Rabbi Goff stood before the assembled crowd and said, “We gather here today as a community. Some of us are Jews and some of us are Christian, but at a time like this those kinds of distinctions are unimportant. Because Suzy loved people—all kinds of people—whether they were Jews or gentiles, rich or poor, black or white. Her commitment was to the goodness she tenaciously sought for in others, and inevitably found. There was nothing petty or parochial about her, and we who have gathered to celebrate her life, do so in keeping with the breath and the universality of her spirit.”
That gathering of souls, that universality of spirit, has been a guiding vision for this organization.
Behind the scenes at the San Diego 3-Day for the Cure, an amazing team of diverse, committed volunteers works hard all year to create an experience that evokes deep feeling and a safe environment in which to express it. But the most profoundly moving moments are the ones we could never orchestrate. As Jennifer walked into the arena for the closing ceremony, she saw a woman at the side of the road, cheering on the walkers, calling out thanks.
“She was bald, really thin, clearly in chemo. It was obviously a struggle for her to be there. One of the walkers passing by had given her that pink rose, then somebody else gave her one, and another and another until she had sixty or seventy roses piled higher than her little arms could hold. They were spilling onto the ground around her feet as she stood there with tears streaming down her face.”
In that moment, every mile, every step, every blister was worth it.
“We were all like … yes” Jennifer says. “This is why we’re here.”
∼ 6 ∼
We All Fall Down
Neiman Marcus Fortnight of 1973 had a British theme. The main floor was transformed into a grand manor hall with soaring banners, Celtic musicians, and mummers. When Suzy came to see it, she and I agreed that Robert Leitstein was perfect for me. In fact, we agreed that Robert Leitstein was perfect, period, with his electrifying good looks, timelessly upmarket style, and a seamless, witty brand of repartee that subtly but distinctly showcased how smart he was. Bob was on his way up the ladder at Neiman Marcus. And he was Jewish. I was starstruck the first time I met him and did everything but handsprings trying to get him to notice me. He finally invited me to a party he was giving, and I was further starstruck when I saw his lovely apartment: clean lines and cultured accents, the haute of everything, just like the man himself. I did my best audition material, he quickly zeroed in on me as prime mating material, and after a year or so, we were engaged. I knew my father wouldn’t be thrilled about the difference in our ages, but if anything, that added to Bob’s charm.
“He’s a vice president,” Suzy teased, “and you’re his vice.”
But in retrospect, I think I was more of a sociology experiment. There was a very Henry Higgins-Eliza Doolittle dynamic to our relationship. I’d come a long way and learned enough to recognize how much I could still learn. Now here was Bob, eager to be my Pygmalion. He was wise in the ways of style and had a brilliant vision of the exemplary wife he wanted me to be and the refined life he wanted us to live—right down to the nth ramekin and throw pillow. I had a lot of respect for Bob and welcomed his direction and constructive criticism. It was thrilling to envision myself through his eyes: a moderne Donna Reed who kept an immaculate, upscale home, raised beautiful, lockstep children, and maintained a thriving, upwardly mobile career.
Of course, that career couldn’t be on the same track as my husband’s. I’d have to leave Neiman Marcus.
Mr. Marcus was loath to lose me after all the time and energy the company had invested in me, but it wasn’t even a question. These were the good old days; an assistant buyer didn’t become the wife of a senior officer and stay with the company. I didn’t necessarily accept this unwritten law of corporate nature, but I wasn’t bullied into the decision. I was happy with it, and not just because I’d completely bought into Bob’s Jewish Wunderfrau scenario. The truth is, I’d realized marketing was where I wanted to be. As much as I appreciated the art of couture, I never really had a burning passion for fashion like Suzy did.
“There’s a lot more to life than retail,” I told her. “It wasn’t going to be a life of meaning for me.”
Suzy readily agreed, probably thinking I was talking about the meaning I’d find as a wife and mother, because this was a moment when Suzy felt her own life had a lot of meaning. She and Stan had moved back to Peoria and were living in a cute little house not far from Mom and Daddy. After Scott came along, they’d adopted a baby girl, Stephanie (Steffie for short), which gave Suzy a sense of completeness about her family. She loved her husband, loved their comfortable existence in this homespun, salt-of-the-earth community. Suzy’s dream was for the two of them to do well enough to have a little vacation condo in Florida someday, but other than that, she now had everything she’d ever really wanted.
She was a goddess when it came to throwing birthday parties—for her children, for children of her friends, for Boppie—it didn’t matter how many candles were on the cake, the occasion was done up right with lavish decorations, innovative party themes, hats, favors, games, and music. Suzy was born on Halloween, so naturally, there were extravagant costumes and festivities every year.
She had a terrific circle of friends and was a bit of a local celebrity, in the paper on a regular basis, modeling for department stores and boutiques. People recognized her from the photo spreads and from Junior League and all her other charities and activities. She thoroughly enjoyed being a big fish in the little pond. Suzy also did a lot of things no one ever knew about. Sometimes in her volunteer work at St. Jude Children’s Hospital, she’d become acquainted with a teenager who needed a shoulder or a mother who needed a day out. She never walked by someone in pain or need, but she never felt the need to broadcast that.
Having found this particularly sweet spot in her own life, Suzy was eager to see me settle down. Some of my romantic assignations during college and my first few years in Dallas had caused Suzy a lot of angst. Watching me edge into my late twenties, well past the point where a nice Jewish girl should be married, she was delighted to see me with this fabulous man who was going to turn me into a classically trained wife.
Mom was not quite as enthusiastic.
She didn’t like the way Bob had taken charge of planning the wedding, which was to be a small but precisely tailored event at the Fairmont
Hotel. He wouldn’t let Mom or Suzy or me touch anything related to staging and particulars. He chose our china and silver patterns, designed the bouquets, orchestrated the wedding cakes and flower arrangements, presided over the linens, table settings, music, menu, seating chart—every swizzle stick and cocktail napkin.
When I took my parents out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant to “discuss” the arrangements from which they’d been pretty much excluded, my father folded his arms and made a blunt assessment: “There’s something funny about the whole thing.”
“I think he’d like it better if the bride and her family weren’t there,” Mom said. She was worried that I wasn’t speaking up—which was very unlike me.
“Mommy,” I said, “the truth is, Bob has better taste than I do. I could never come up with anything as chic and elegant as all this. Why should I argue about it?”
He’d selected a sophisticated Ungaro gown for me and had it sent to Neiman Marcus, where he stood frowning while a seamstress finessed the stiff, matronly collar. He arranged a practice run for my hair and makeup, and I hardly recognized myself. There was something unsettling about this total stranger in the mirror, but I must say, she looked fabulous. I’d never felt truly glamorous before, and it felt good. Daddy was just disgruntled about the age thing, I decided, and Mommy would be happy when she saw how gorgeous everything turned out.
The night before the wedding, Bob and I had a cocktail party at the beautifully done apartment that was to be our home. Waiting for guests to arrive, I was kidding around instead of focusing on where the hors d’oeuvres were supposed to be positioned. Bob took off his shoe and threw it. And not playfully.
“You think this is a joke?” he said sharply.
“No … I was … I’m sorry.”
I stood there, stung and astonished as it dawned on me: I was going to be apologizing for the rest of my life. The only thing out of place in this immaculately appointed apartment was me. Perfection. Nice place to visit, as the saying goes, but you wouldn’t want to live there. The moment Suzy arrived for the party, I dragged her into the bathroom and shut the door.
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