Mommy sent me a wooden box in which she’d collected all the letters Suzy and I wrote home from Europe, and I felt a little guilty when I read what I wrote on our arrival in London. We’d laid hands on an American newspaper as soon as we could, hoping for news of the space flight, but finding news of the Watts riots—six days of violence that left thirty-four dead and over a thousand injured—and the body count from a bloody summer in Vietnam. Suzy and I were both distraught.
Please, Mom and Dad, don’t think I’m being melodramatic, but I can’t help feeling the need to be reassured of humanity. Are we in the U.S. civilized? No, adults throw the philosophical crap about: tolerate people, act mature, be good—but then they kill each other. Now I know why Kennedy’s favorite play was Camelot—it was real. It ended in war. May God help us, and I mean it. I’m sorry to pour myself out like this, but I can’t help it. I think I may never grow up or something. Or ever be able to believe adults are basically good or people are basically rational. I admire you more and more every day. I guess people manage to stay alive and not kill each other because of “guarders” of our world like you. I just pray every day that people will stop destroying each other.
“Where did all my outrage go?” I wondered when I read that. “Where did everybody’s outrage go?”
Mulling the numbers in those headlines—thirty-four dead, a thousand injured—and remembering how it affected me, I did some digging on one of my regular excursions to the library and came up with a startling frame of reference.
“During the ten years of the Vietnam War, about 58,000 American men and women died,” I told Norman the next morning at breakfast. “During that same ten years, 339,000 American women died of breast cancer.”
“Wow. If that’s correct, …” He glanced up from his newspaper, gauging his response the way most people do when they first hear those numbers, trying to decide if it could possibly be right. Norman knew me well enough to know that it was. “That’s a powerful number.”
“Isn’t it? It’s unthinkable. Why aren’t we out on the streets with anger and protest signs and T-shirts? Where are the monuments and marches? How is it that so few people care about this cause when so many are directly affected by it?”
“You know how,” said Norman. “You’ve done enough PR to know people don’t care about a cause, they care about other people.”
“Agreed. There has to be a face on it.”
“And they have to know about it.”
“So you think it starts with awareness?”
“It starts where everything else starts,” he said. “Money.”
“Funding,” I nodded. “That’s what Blumenschein said.”
“That’s going to be the easy part,” said Norm. “I’ve seen you in action. Nobody’s better at fundraising than you are.”
“I do know how to raise money. What I don’t know is how to spend it. It’s not enough to fund research; we need awareness, advocacy, support services. There’s a million components to each of those, and somehow it all has to be integrated.”
Norman made a flat gesture with the palm of his hand and said, “Focus, focus, focus. Begin with the end in mind.”
“Well, the end would be to cure breast cancer. And to keep as many women as possible alive while we do it.”
“Okay. You’ve defined the vision. If you were building a business, your next step would be to set goals, then seek out people with the expertise to help you get there.”
“That’s the way to do it. Build it like a business.” I toyed with my coffee cup, carefully considering my timing. “Norman, I’ve been thinking about starting a foundation in Suzy’s memory. Specifically for breast cancer. To keep my promise to her and realize some of the things she talked about while she was sick. Little things in some cases, but I think if it was done right, … Mommy always said, ‘Go where people aren’t and do what’s not being done.’ God knows, there’s a lot of not being done in the area of breast cancer.”
“It’s a big undertaking,” said Norman.
“It is.”
“But it sounds like something you really have to do.”
I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you for knowing that.”
“Do me one favor,” said Norman.
“Anything.”
“Please, don’t call my friends.”
“Of course not,” I said.
I’d already collected all their names and numbers and had them neatly organized in a shoebox.
Before Suzy died, Dr. Blumenschein had asked me to participate in a study tracking the sisters and other female relatives of cancer patients. Every six months, I went to his office for an exam and took advantage of the opportunity to pepper him with questions about conferences and clinical trials.
“I’ve decided to start a foundation,” I told him. “I was wondering if you’d help me figure out where we can most effectively make research grants.”
“Sure,” he said. “There’s some very exciting stuff happening on the scientific front.”
“Like what?”
“One big thing on the horizon right now is monoclonal antibody therapy.”
“Monoclonal antibody therapy.” I repeated it carefully, digging in my purse for a pen and notepad so I could write it down. “How does that work?”
“It doesn’t. Yet. It’s just a theory. But we know that a certain type of B-cell found in multiple myeloma produces a certain type of antibody, and the hypothesis is, if a compound could be made that would deliver a toxin to a particular type of tumor in a very targeted way, we could manufacture a sort of magic bullet for that specific type of cancer, and the side effects of treatment would be minimal.”
“Magic bullet? That’s perfect! Wonderful. So we’ll raise the money to fund that. That’ll take—what—a year? Maybe three?”
Knowing what I know now, I have to give George Blumenschein credit for not laughing out loud.
“It’s going to take a while,” he said. “Ten to fifteen years.”
“Ten to fifteen …,” I echoed. It sounded like a prison sentence.
The meagerly built group of women in Blumenschein’s waiting room didn’t look like they could have scraped together fifteen years among the lot of them.
“FDA approval is even further off,” he said. “That’s just to get viable clinical trials in place. It’s going to take time. And significant funding.”
“How can I learn more about what’s going on in the field?”
“I’ll make you a list of seminars and symposiums. The presentations tend to be pretty academic, not really intended for the general public, but you’ll be able to get the gist and make some interesting connections.”
I gratefully accepted the list and dutifully went to the conferences, and yes, many of the presentations were mind numbing, but I did meet people, and a nebulous plan started forming in the back of my brain. Mommy always said about this sort of thing, “You might not get all the answers, but you usually come away knowing what the questions are.” I followed up every dry presentation with phone calls, lunches if they’d meet me, and many trips to the library. I spent my afternoons on a wooden chair with a stack of books on my left and a yellow legal pad on my right and hardly looked up until it was time for Eric to get home from school. I called the National Institutes of Health and said, “Send me everything you have on breast cancer.” I had enough knowledge to make myself dangerous now; possibilities were blossoming inside my head.
Armed with my binder and legal pads, I attended a breast cancer seminar at Baylor Hospital in the spring of 1982 and was pleased to see a senior officer from the American Cancer Society. I cornered him during the first coffee break and introduced myself, eager to tell him about my plans for Suzy’s foundation.
“We’re having an organizational tea at my home next month,” I told him.
He nodded and said that was nice.
“I want to firm up plans ahead of time so these ladies know what we’re raising this money for. People kn
ow and trust the American Cancer Society. Believe me, I know. They feel very comfortable giving money to you. It’s the perfect umbrella for us to come in and do a major project specifically dedicated to breast cancer, encompassing the key elements—awareness, advocacy, and research funding—really setting things in motion.”
“Well, I applaud your enthusiasm, Mrs. Brinker,” he said diplomatically. “We certainly do appreciate your support, and I assure you, we’re very conscientious about how we distribute funds raised in our name.”
“Yes, absolutely. That’s why this is such a perfect partnership. You’ve got the administrative machinery in place, and you’re in the best position to help us figure out the clinical trials and research specifically dealing with breast cancer.”
“That’s not how we do things, Mrs. Brinker. If we did a breast cancer project, we’d have to do a lymphoma project and a pancreatic project—we don’t single out one disease.”
“But breast cancer is the number-two killer of women. I’m sure you know that better than I do. But thirty years ago, one in twenty women were diagnosed with breast cancer, now it’s one in thirteen. Ten years from now …”
“Yes, I’m familiar with those numbers,” he said.
“When people start hearing about this, there’s going to be a groundswell of great concern. There’s going to be a real outcry.”
“There should be,” he nodded gravely. “But what experience has taught us—frankly, Mrs. Brinker, it won’t work. People are receptive to general messages about cancer, but breast cancer is a very private matter for the patient and not something people want to see up on a billboard.”
“But women need to see it on a billboard. They need to know it’s out there and it’s okay to talk about it. We have so little idea of what this thing is until it’s in our lives in a very big way, and then—well, then you’re in crisis mode. Then talking time is over. You need to access information immediately and be ready to take action.”
“You’re right about that. We’ve created some excellent brochures and booklets, and of course, we have our Reach to Recovery program.”
“Yes, all that is terrific. I so appreciate everything you’ve done. But my vision for my sister’s foundation …”
“Yes,” he said, glancing at his watch. “As I said, you can be sure that whatever funds you raise will be put to very good use. We can certainly earmark donations for research related to breast cancer. A wonderful group of ladies in Houston supplied the Reach to Recovery gift bags today. We’d be happy to send some with you for your tea party.”
“Actually, it’s an organizational …” I bit my lip and offered my hand. “Thanks so much for your time. I truly do appreciate the work you’ve done.”
Over the next thirty years, this gentleman and I laughed a lot about that conversation. Often in the context of Susan G. Komen for the Cure handing the American Cancer Society a check for $5 or $6 million. He was a great man, the ACS is a great organization, and I still believe in the importance of working collaboratively. We’re happy to fund projects within the ACS and within other organizations—some of whom turn around and criticize us in the media, along with the critics who turn around and copy us. I don’t care; as long as they’re providing meaningful help for women with breast cancer, I support them.
And I have to wonder what would have happened if the response from the ACS had been different, if they’d taken us in. Or if any of the other hospitals, foundations, or institutions I approached had taken us in. Things would have turned out very differently, and I rather like the way things have turned out, aside from the fact that I really had planned to be done by now. I genuinely thought it would take ten years. The vaccine would be announced. The bells would ring. The factories would shut down for the day, and mothers would cover their faces and cry the way they did the day polio became an anachronism.
I had told Suzy, “I promise. Even if it takes the rest of my life …”
I had no inkling that it actually would.
When I told Norm my plan to find an umbrella organization had met with defeat, he could tell I was feeling stung.
“Did you really listen to what people were saying to you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “But they’re saying a breast cancer–specific foundation isn’t viable. And they seem to assume this is a whim—like I’m dabbling in this to keep myself busy between shopping sprees.”
“That’s understandable, based on the information they have.”
“But they’re wrong!”
“Prove it,” he said with that tilted smile.
I invited about two dozen ladies to the first organizational tea for what would become the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation on July 22, 1982. Ten or twelve attended, every one of them a smart, capable, fabulous woman who has my undying gratitude. I think all of us were there because we’d lost someone we loved to breast cancer. It was personal. The conversation was committed and energized, a deep breath of fresh air after all the nay-saying I’d been listening to.
We had a little over $200, which I’d squirreled away from my grocery budget. Someone brought a typewriter I could borrow. And I had my shoebox.
It made sense to have our first big event at Willow Bend because I knew the place like the back of my hand and figured I could get the biggest bang for our buck there.
“You always want to look bigger than you are,” Norman sagely advised.
This happening was all about launching our tiny foundation in a very big way. Maximum visibility at minimum expense, diving for the deepest possible pockets. I had my shoebox of names, plus all the goodwill and the Rolodex fodder I’d built through years of helping others with their fundraising efforts. Annette Strauss, a city council member who went on to become mayor of Dallas, co-chaired the event with her charming daughter Nancy, and they had quite a shoebox of their own. Soon we had RSVPs for a very promising lawn party at the polo grounds.
I wanted so much for this to be a lovely, lovely day. I envisioned the women stepping out of their cars into the glorious sunshine of a classic Dallas autumn. We took great pains to decorate the place in a way that evoked elegance, femininity, and grace—my way of bringing Suzy’s spirit to the place. Pink crepe paper streamers fluttered in the breeze below tufted pink paper roses. The porch rails and patios were festooned and pleated within an inch of their lives. The land once occupied by the polo club has been absorbed into the city suburbs now, but back then it was out in the country, a fairly substantial drive from the upscale neighborhoods in town. The parking lot was large but not paved. The dining room was spacious enough for the Sunday crowd, but we were going for the garden-party feel with attendees strolling about the beautifully green grounds.
Almost everything we said about our plans for the day included phrases like “as long as it doesn’t rain” or “assuming the weather is on our side.” Knock wood. Salt over the shoulder. Fingers crossed. It really wasn’t a stretch to assume it would be lovely, because most Dallas autumn days feature the stunning cloudless blue sky the camera zooms in on during the opening theme of the television show Dallas.
Of course, speaking the very words lawn party is probably the most effective rain dance ever devised. We should dispatch to every drought-stricken area on Earth a contingent of well-heeled Junior Leaguers in white shoes and wide-brimmed hats with instructions to stage an elaborate afternoon social under the dependable sun. Storm clouds will roll in. Guaranteed. That morning, it looked like the entire Gulf of Mexico had evaporated into the atmosphere and was pouring down on us. Standing at my kitchen window, watching the sky fall, I felt Norman’s hand on my shoulder.
“You okay?”
“No one’s going to drive all the way out there in this downpour,” I said. “We’re going to have to hustle out our husbands, kids, dogs … anybody we can get. I feel sick thinking about the money we laid out for catering, flowers.…”
“I thought you got most of that donated.”
“Well, it cost them money. An
d it cost us a favor we could have used on a better day.”
“On the other hand,” he said, “don’t overlook the opportunity here. If people don’t come out for the event, you can blame the weather. It’s a freebie. You’d be able to try a different tack without looking like you got thrown off the horse.”
He was good, I’m telling you. Norman Brinker was really good.
Heartened, I put myself together in a tailored pink suit, did my makeup, got ready to meet whatever the day had in store.
“Okay, Suzy. Let’s go do this.”
Walking out the door into the impenetrable humidity, I could physically feel my hair swelling like a sea urchin. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, but the drive to Willow Bend was treacherous and slow. The radio jabbered about the freak storm, telling people to stay home. Thanks a lot. The only vehicles in the parking lot belonged to the food service workers who’d braved the weather out of loyalty to Norman, I suppose. Our sodden crepe paper decorations dangled heavily from the front porch. Some of the pink streamers had been beaten down and lay in squiggles like earthworms on the flagstone patio. But my wonderful team of volunteers arrived on time, dashing through the rain with umbrellas flapping and hats pulled down over their ears, and we all gamely went about putting the finishing touches on our preparations.
A little while before the luncheon was scheduled to begin, I stepped out onto the porch. The rain had let up for the moment, but the gray sky hunkered low over the old turkey farm. It was quiet except for an occasional distant whinny from the stables. The outbuildings were all but invisible through the mist. Strangled bunting had blown down onto the polo field.
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