Trammel Crow has been much quoted:
There must always, always be a burning in your heart to achieve. In the quiet of your solitude, close your eyes, bow your head, grit your teeth, clench your fists, ache in your heart, vow and dedicate yourself to achieve, to achieve.
I tried to become that person.
Having Betty Ford on our side on a continuing basis exponentially increased our credibility and exposure, advancing both awareness and fundraising efforts. An army of volunteers came forward. Fabulously smart, dedicated women forming the core of the group put in countless hours, and I took shameless advantage of their generosity. It got back to me that some husbands had forbidden their wives to return my phone calls. They didn’t want their names associated with breast cancer and worried that I asked too much of our corps of volunteers. Every time I met someone who was willing and able to help, I hugged her and gave her a fair, good-natured warning: “If you’re going to run, run now. I’ll be after you.”
We decided that we needed to do a major event that would bring in a major influx of cash. Carolyn Williams took the lead, and we started putting together plans for a lavish, big-ticket auction. At our initial organizational meeting, someone cracked that old joke: “The only difference between men and boys is the size of their toys.”
We all laughed, but then we looked at each other and said, “That’s it.”
I think there was an assumption that we’d be doing something very ladylike, given the subject matter and the unwritten rules that govern Southern ladies. We flipped that notion and went with the theme “Toys for Boys”—an auction loaded with manly merchandise, geared for Type A bidding. We went out and zealously shook down everyone we could think of for donated items we could auction off. Unusual, big-ticket items: cars, hunting trips, motorcycles, leather chairs, power tools, horse tack and fishing tackle, a bass boat, tickets to major sporting events, natty wardrobes of Western wear and designer suits.
The television show Dallas was at the height of its popularity then. The luminous Barbara Bel Geddes played Miss Ellie, matriarch of the Ewing family, mother of antihero J.R. (played by Larry Hagman) and conflicted but adorable Bobby (Patrick Duffy), and grandmother of impossibly saucy Lucy (Charlene Tilton). In the early 1970s, Barbara had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had undergone a radical mastectomy. To her credit, she worked with the writers to incorporate her breast cancer experience into the Dallas story line in 1980. The episodes, one of the first glimpses of breast cancer in any mainstream television show, resulted in an Emmy for her and opened the door for sensitive, accurate portrayals of women coping with breast cancer. And this was more than a decade before Murphy Brown and Sex and the City featured breast cancer story lines that were called “groundbreaking.” Both those were beautifully done, but Barbara was way ahead of them on the timeline.
She was a great friend to our little foundation from the very beginning, lending her voice and bringing major star power, including her television family, to those early events. Larry Hagman’s ten-gallon hat was one of the hotly anticipated items on our “Toys for Boys” lineup, and several cast members—including Barbara, Linda Gray, and Larry Hagman—were attending.
Over the years, we’ve benefited from the refracted star-shine of many generous people from the entertainment and sports worlds, and over the years, I’ve found these people almost universally delightful to work with. I recently walked with Olivia Newton-John in the Palm Beach Race for the Cure and did a Passionately Pink for the Cure media tour with adorable Sarah Chalke from Scrubs, a bundle of energy in great shoes. Back in the day, Jill Ireland was a powerhouse, as was Jill Eikenberry. Linda Carter—well, what would you expect from Wonder Woman? Cynthia Nixon delivered a beautifully straightforward message as part of our breast health outreach to the lesbian community. I love Ricardo Chavira from Desperate Housewives, a chivalrous Texan who approached us after his mom died of breast cancer. The luminous Tejano Grammy-winner Soraya came to us before she was diagnosed and did such great good as our Latina ambassador right up until she died of breast cancer at age thirty-seven.
In a final message to media and her fans, Soraya said, “I know there are many questions without answers, and that hope doesn’t leave with me, and above all, my mission does not end with my physical story.”
There’s a very tender spot in my heart for her always.
We were always careful about how we positioned celebrity voices, because we want the scientists to be the real stars of this talent show. We want our outcomes to be the cause for celebration. That said, the visibility celebrities bring to our events is PR platinum. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.
We’ve had many, many memorable events over the years, but that first “Toys for Boys” auction stands as one of my favorites. We wanted to use this opportunity to convey the idea that breast cancer isn’t a “women’s” issue; it affects families, and men need to get involved. Everyone had so much fun. Spirits were high, and hearts were in the right place. As the crowd roared, Larry Hagman tossed his hat into the ring to be auctioned off. The moment it was sold, the buyer gave it back to Larry, who tossed it out to be sold again and again. We brought in almost $1 million that night, and just as importantly, we got a lot of attention.
The second year we did “Toys for Boys,” Sharon McCutchin’s husband, Jerry, whose daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer at age thirty-two, donated an ultralight aircraft, which he brought in, piece by piece, and assembled right there in the hotel ballroom—the most thrilling centerpiece of all time.
“You want to look bigger than you are,” Norman said, and we accomplished that. We were still more David than Goliath, but now we were seriously on the map.
The first big cause-marketing payoff I know of was the brainchild of Bruce Burtch, who coined the friendly phrase “Do good to do well” to describe a 1976 partnership between Marriott and the March of Dimes. Three years later, a partnership between Famous Amos cookies and Literacy Volunteers of America brought about an awareness windfall for both organizations. (Cookies and a good book: the ultimate win-win.) As far as I know, the term cause-related marketing was coined by some great mind at American Express to describe a 1983 promotional campaign during which they donated a penny per transaction and a dollar for each new card to the Statue of Liberty restoration project. During the four-month campaign, transactions leaped by almost 30 percent, and Lady Liberty got $2 million worth of gorgeous.
As of this writing, cause-related marketing generates more than $55 million annually for Susan G. Komen for the Cure, which is why people refer to me as a “cause marketing pioneer” (when they’re being nice); I never claimed to have invented it, but SGK certainly put some gas in its tank. In my mind, “pioneer” conjures a picture of Ma Ingalls riding across the prairie in a covered wagon. What we did felt more like NASCAR. Hold on to your sunbonnet, Ma.
My first big idea in this area was to get a major bra manufacturer to place attractive informational hang-tags on their bras. In one fell swoop, we’d be taking up residence in every major department store in America, promoting the American Cancer Society’s breast self-exam technique and alerting women from A to double-D that the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation was here for them with information, resources, and support.
With some help from Jack Cassidy, a friend at the Intimate Apparel Manufacturers Association, I jumped through the required hoops to get meetings with the CEOs of all my favorite lingerie companies in New York. On the way up to the first meeting, I shared the elevator with an exceptionally petite woman, who eyed me like I was a Cyclops.
Please don’t let this be the meeting, I silently begged.
She was the meeting. And she was not amused. Feeling the full girth of my enormous hair and big red glasses, I found my way to the lowest chair in the room.
She asked, “What can I do for you?”
I delved into my pitch, but she cut me off.
“My customers aren’t thinking about that,” she said.
“Young lady,” she said. “The meeting is over.”
Ice burned and humiliated, I gathered my samples and slunk out the door. It had taken me a long time to set this up. The whole thing lasted all of ninety seconds and pretty much set the tone for the other meetings, which were often over before they began. A few had the courtesy to fiddle with the hang-tag sample as if they were actually listening to me for a minute before they threw me out.
“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but no.”
“Not to be insensitive, but no.”
“We want to help women celebrate their bodies, so no.”
“No. No, no. We want women to feel happy and sexy when they think of our product. We’re selling beauty and femininity. You’re selling disease and death.”
“Not at all,” I kept arguing, “We’re encouraging breast health.”
“And yet I’m seeing the word cancer. Not a happy, sexy word.”
It was terribly discouraging. I called Jack, who was also the president of a racing bra company, and he talked me off the ledge and donated a nice check plus several thousand cute plastic watches to put in our Race for the Cure swag bags. There never were any takers for the hang tags, but as we grew over the years, we had many great partnerships with bra companies and department stores, and several years later, ironically, I was honored with an award from the Intimate Apparel Manufacturers Association. It took a while to overcome those deeply ingrained ideas, and I wish I could take some credit for it, but the fact is, retailers changed their approach in response to a marketplace full of women who were evolving and making their voices heard.
“Grassroots,” I told Norman. “That’s the key. When they see how many people care about this, they’ll come around. We just have to keep ringing that bell until we turn those old ideas upside down.”
“Remember, Bruni, it’s evolution, not revolution,” Norm cautioned.
“Yes, Normie, but sometimes a little revolution is called for.”
“Conventional wisdom says ten years to really get a nonprofit up and running.”
I shook my head. “We don’t have ten years.”
In reality, it took a good seven or eight years to really get things rocking, and those were the hardest-working years of my life.
Our first real employee was our wonderful secretary, Barbie Casey. Linda Cadigan came on in 1984 as executive director and whipped our grant process into shape, not a moment too soon. As I explained to her the way we’d been doing things, she pressed her fingertips against her temples.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “You wanted to award a $100,000 grant to the University of Texas Medical School. So you wrote out a check, scrawled Dr. Sprague on an unsealed envelope and handed it to him—$100,000.”
Well, when she put it like that, it really didn’t sound right. At the time, I was just so elated about awarding the six-figure grant! This sort of casual-Friday practice was now a thing of the past. No more kitchen-table meetings, agonizing over every little check we wanted to write. Now there was a procedure, and we went by the book, but unlike other nonprofits, the volunteers actually oversaw the staff; our power core was still very much in charge.
Jill Smith, one of three vice chairs who served with me as founding chair, remembers: “We had well-known Dallas women with famous names sitting on our board. That’s how we built it up. They came in their dress suits and drank tea. But these women were so bright and so capable, we wanted to make it a working board. We changed the bylaws and required that they raise money and serve on a committee. I was scared they’d walk away, leaving us with no money and no support. Instead, they stayed and took responsibility for the organization. People started sending in résumés, asking to be on the board.”
I stayed on to chair the board of directors, and I was unapologetically bossy about it. This was my sister’s name. Human nature being what it is, and big organizations being what they are, shenanigans happen. I wasn’t about to let them happen in my sister’s name. I still feel the same way. In all the years of evolution (and a few moments of revolution, as well), Suzy has been the one constant in this organization. She anchored us to our vision from the beginning. Through the late 1980s, we saw rapid growth. The message caught fire and spread.
At our 1984 awards luncheon, we presented the Betty Ford Award to the beautiful and courageous Gigi Hill, who’d long been a pillar of Dallas society. The award recognizes those who’ve made significant contributions to increasing breast cancer awareness and is often presented to bravely outspoken survivors. Seeing Gigi there at the head table with Betty, people recognized her as one of their own. This wasn’t an arm’s-length charity to benefit the conveniently faceless “needy”; this was a fight for the lives of their own sisters, wives, and daughters.
“But we’re never going to solve this problem if we stay in one city with one group of people,” I told Mommy. “We have to raise awareness, raise money, and give it away the best way possible. We have to see it through, from the lab to the clinic, and translate that to the deepest, darkest reaches of the population where women aren’t getting decent care.”
Without knowing it, we’d already begun to spread our wings. In 1986, Nancy Paul founded the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation, which was patterned after SGK and later became our staunch ally. That same year, we had our first Race for the Cure outside of Dallas. Of course, this had to happen in Peoria. Suzy’s dear friend Linda Washkuhn stuck by Suzy to the very end, and as soon as she heard what we were doing, she told me, “I don’t know what I can do, but I’ll do something!”
She got the Peoria chapter rolling and her fabulous posse put together an amazing event. The weather was nothing short of glorious. We’d hoped for a thousand people, and twelve hundred came. Dr. John Miller organized what would later be called “3 Miles of Men,” a line of great guys in tuxedos, handing out swag bags, cheering on the walkers and runners. The decorations were feminine and fun—totally Suzy—and it was incredibly moving to see this demonstration of public affection for her. Peoria loved Suzy as much as she loved Peoria. Memories were all around us. I must have heard a hundred Suzy stories that day, big and small acts of kindness for which she’ll always be remembered in her hometown.
The first year, the Peoria Race for the Cure brought in about $20,000. In 2004, they brought in $600,000. In 2006, the twenty-year total for the Peoria Race for the Cure had come to more than $6 million. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of my dear hometown and the vibrant, unstoppable crew Linda and company have built there. That 1986 Peoria race was an important first step out of Dallas.
Scott was a solid and industrious sixteen-year-old by this time. It hardly seemed possible. He would have towered over Suzy, and she would have loved that. Steffie was twelve, and she seemed fairly overwhelmed by the day. She was touched and appreciative of all the stories about her mom, but she said later, “I was kind of jealous. All those strangers knew her better than I did. I was the only one who didn’t remember her.”
This might be the appropriate moment for me to explain that I’ve purposely written and spoken very little about Scott and Steffie in public. Their father is a private man who never wanted them to be “poster children” for a cause, famous for the worst thing that had ever happened to them. I’ve always respected that and will continue to do so.
I hope it goes without saying that they’re an important part of my life, in my thoughts daily, and always close to my heart.
In 1986, reactor number 4 at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant melted down, Oprah debuted, Jill Eikenberry and Gloria Steinem were diagnosed with breast cancer. V. C. Andrews (author of Flowers in the Attic and other chiller-thriller blockbusters) died of the disease, along with 40,534 other women in the United States.
That same year, Rose Kushner, Ruth Spear, Diane Blum, and I got together and formed the National Alliance of Breast Cancer Organizations. I was proud to be part of it, but we were
a scrappy bunch with wildly differing political views, and no fear of speaking our minds. Sometimes we giggled like eighth graders at a slumber party; other times we went at it like gladiators, but we were in the trenches together with a common goal and the same burning zeal. With Race for the Cure events coming together in several cities, we put together planning and support materials that would make it an eminently doable and consistently participant-friendly event. The first Race for the Cure logo featured an abstract runner outlined by a pink ribbon, and we liked it so well, we kept it for almost ten years.
We were making more and bigger research grants, and in addition to researching the best places to put that money, I was puzzling my way through two difficult decisions women face after breast cancer treatment and recovery: reconstruction and hormone balance. The hormones and other “female troubles” were a bit of a struggle; long story short, I ended up having a hysterectomy. I discussed the reconstruction issue with Mommy, who completely understood both my motivations and reservations. I discussed it with Norman, who let me know he was going to love and desire me with or without my left breast. If anything, he found my battle scar strangely sexy. In his mind it represented triumph, not loss; it was a symbol of overcoming. Riding the far reaches of the ranch in McKinney, I discussed it with Suzy and finally came to a decision.
My research turned up an excellent surgeon in Atlanta: John Bostwick, co-author with Karen Berger of A Woman’s Decision: Breast Care, Treatment, and Reconstruction. After reading A Woman’s Decision and weighing all my options, I went to Atlanta and had my left breast rebuilt and my right breast reshaped to match it. A few months later, I went back and had Dr. Bostwick install a beautiful nipple, using a tattooed skin graft from my thigh. When it healed, I went to Neiman’s, as giddy as a thirteen-year-old, and bought my new breasts their first bra.
In 1987, Margaret Thatcher was elected to a third term, AZT and Prozac hit the pharmaceutical market, and Kate Jackson and Nancy Reagan were diagnosed with breast cancer.
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