Shame on You!

I did it again. I came back to my blog, said I was ready to write again, then got yanked away. I’ve fallen into old habits of getting pulled in too many directions. Being spread too thin. Doing more for others than I do for myself. I know this and can recognize it, but always have a hard time of peeling back again to make my life simpler, my mental state saner, and my overall temperament less stressy.

I’d love to catch everyone up to speed on what’s been going on around here but right now I need to get something off my chest (no pun intended). There is a very valid reason for what has kept me away from this comfortable place of words and thoughts and inner reflection…and that reason came from a complete stranger in the form of a comment left for moderation on this blog. It took me by such surprise, and quite honestly, my initial reaction to it was a knee jerk and instant recoil from something I love to do or a place I like to frequent.

I know when you put things out into cyberspace—it’s out there—there’s a permanent record—somewhere. I know that there are some creepers that have nothing better to do then surf the web, spend hours of time looking through public content (and that’s what this is once you hit the publish button), and cutting and copying to their heart’s content. I guess I’m frustrated by the endless possibilities that await certain sick minds and even though I have used this as a source of purging and regrowth, I have done so willingly in an attempt to help someone else. In saying that, have I actually aided certain stalkers in their quest? I have spent countless hours writing and then deleting—often times by accident—and then rewriting again. The writing portion has always been the focus of content theft for me and never, in my wildest dreams, would I have ever thought that there was someone out there stealing my photos. Not just stealing them, though—actually laying claim to the individuals in the photos! I will definitely be checking into my Flickr account settings and going over the privacy settings. However, it makes me sad to possibly do this. Isn’t there a foolproof way, an absolute of sorts in the realm of the wide world web with regard to this type of theft?

As I began this blogging journey over two years ago, I found quickly that there were several key elements you should have on your blog and one of the most important I have found is the spam filter for any incoming comments. It quickly weeds out the real comments from spam based on certain code sequences that are tracked. It has moderated hundreds and hundreds of pieces of spam—I only wish I received that many real comments! Lol! Before I delete them permanently, I always peruse through them just in case something gets put into the wrong inbox. I have received the most perverse and disgusting mail through this blog and I’m sure that much of it is generated based on the tag/key words I use in many posts. Many of them are from overseas and they are the strangest things to see because they are all symbolically coded in other languages of which I have no way of translating. Through the real comments, I have made friends around the world with women that have gone through similar or are facing similar situations as to what I went through. Some stop by from other friend’s blogs, some are friends through Facebook or my other writing hotspots and as with any new comment that comes in—whether its from someone I know or don’t—It is always placed in que to be moderated. Who knows what kind of sicko or fanatic would actually pop in just long enough to whip off something nasty. So, before any of that can be read by my loyal readers, I try to spare the filth of others.

Last month, though, I received an email stating that a comment was waiting for me. I was so excited! It had been months since I had written or quite honestly paid much attention to the blog—(I’ve been too busy living :)). When I opened it up to read it, I was immediately saddened and disgusted. My fear of some sick person out there has come true. I’m not sure if this is just something I should expect, or if there’s actually something I can do, but I will post here for you the email I received and if any of you have specific advice—don’t hesitate to leave a comment.

Hi Christina,

I just wanted you to know that a man supposedly named Cliff Grant is claiming the picture of your daughter Jordan with the Harp from christmas 2009 is his daughter – I had been in contact with this person through a dating site and when my suspicions got the better of me I used tineye.com to search the picture he had given me – which is your daughter Jordan!!! You may want to put some copyright channels in place to protect your children.

Good luck with your battle!!

Regards

Melissa

Now, as far as I know, this particular person could also be spamming me with the provocation of luring me to the tineye.com website. I am always hesitant to open web sites since I have suffered the agonizing feeling of despair each time I receive a virus that completely crashes my system. So, I checked it out on the library’s computer. Lol. I know—not very nice should it contain a virus, but I figure they probably have better firewalls then I do. It seemed like a legit site. I just couldn’t do a reverse search on any pictures at the time. I’m curious if any of you have had the opportunity to use this site, if its real, and really works. My mind started racing and I had all these questions like:

Which dating site was it?

I wish I was also given more information as to whether or not this person, Cliff Grant, was reported to the key people in charge of clientele on this dating site.

I wonder what measures they have in place as consequences for misrepresenting yourself.

I wonder if that was his real name.

I wonder how many other women he’s done that to.

I wonder if he’s used more than that picture.

I wonder if he’s disgustingly photoshopped my pics.

I wonder if he’s a con artist trying to bilk unsuspecting women out of their money.

I wonder if he does this with more than just my photos.

I wonder if anyone else who writes a blog and puts personal family photos on it realizes that there are people that do this.

I wonder how I can backtrack this guy, find him and get him to stop.

I wonder if I’ll need a lawyer to discuss copyright or cease and desist orders.

All this comes on the heels of a contest I had with my daughter where we sat at the computer bored one day checking out Youtube videos, seeing how many people on FB worldwide have our same name, and googling bizarre stuff. We decided to google ourselves. Have you ever done that? Unless you have a one of a kind name, you’re bound to find something that google has found on you thanks to their search engine optimization. Out of all those names, though—how many actually apply to you? My daughter and I started laughing our heads off as we counted higher and higher—page after page—for entries dealing with me. I stopped at page 40. I’m sure there was more. As we scrolled through laughing at this or that, I stopped on one particular highlighted entry. It was an excerpt of a blog post from a couple years back titled, Race for the Cure . I clicked on the link and was horrified at what popped up onto my screen. There was my entire post on the front page of a triple X rated porn site with images flanking each side and top and bottom. WTF! Seriously, what in the hell was that about?

I know there are some freaky people out there that have strange fetishes, but what could this site possibly want with my blog post dealing with the Walk for the Cure? I then wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I tried desperately, risking virus and Trojan horses, to find a contact on the site, a name of some company or a subscription box that might have a field where I could leave a comment to TAKE THIS POST OFF THEIR SITE IMMEDIATELY!!! I found nothing. I do not know where to go or who to talk to about this and it got me so upset that I have stayed away. I’ve contemplated shutting the site down, but it has served a source of comfort and inspiration to many—including myself. This is a clear breach of copyright since I did not authorize the use of my content in this manner. I try to joke around about it, but I really don’t find it a laughing matter and if someone were to google me, I really don’t want anything I’ve worked so hard for being lumped in with something of this nature.

So, I’ve sat silent. For months. I have so much to write. I have so much to tell. I have so much I want to share with you all. I’m just stuck on this issue. Has this happened to any of you? How did you resolve it? What advice do you have for me?

I know that there are individuals that would love to use electronic content for their personal gain, individual pleasure, or twisted misrepresentation. It was a worry of mine when I first configured this blog. I researched how to protect my content and kept coming up with a simple solution which consisted mainly of a copyright badge on my page. I’ve had one in the sidebar for a couple years now and even though its there, I still wondered if it was deterring others from claiming something they found on my site as their own. I found a site once, and put a widget in the sidebar for Copyscape. It’s a site where you could enter a phrase from a post or the entire thing and it would do a search of many search engines to see if there were any hits that came up. I think it’s the same kind of tool that professors and teachers use to make sure students aren’t plagiarizing from an uncited source. I suppose I will need to be more diligent and proactive when it comes to what I’m about to publish.

I guess I am most disappointed in the moral decay of many individuals. I’ve tried to do something that has been hard for me to do, but I really force myself to do it. I tell myself that the individual posing the threat is obviously in greater need of prayer than myself. And then I say a small prayer. Many times they are sincere. Many times, truthfully, they are prayers that are…ahem…asking for karma to intervene. Thinking about this “Cliff Grant”—I’d have to say if he just absolutely felt like he needed to misrepresent himself with a fictitious daughter—at least he picked one that was talented and beautiful. In the same breath—BACK OFF, she’s mine. And to the porn site that feels the need to bait their web page under the guise of my blog post—I’m not sure I’m thrilled about this particular form of advertising, but since it’s free—hmmm—I’d like to say thanks? But yeah, NO. BACK OFF, it’s mine.

Let this serve as public notice that I am demanding you remove my content from your site. I will pursue this until it is removed and if you think I’m not a threat, you may just wanna make sure you got your big girl panties on. I have fought cancer and can tell you first hand that fighting you will be a cakewalk for me. To all those that are tempted to reprint portions—I’m an awfully cool person to deal with—all you have to do is ask, and then cite me. Let me know what you’re up to. Link to my page and I’ll link to yours. But to just take something without asking and to use it in a way that is grossly misrepresentative of yourself or my name—I’d like to say very clearly…SHAME ON YOU!

(Just prior to publishing this post I checked one last time on the WordPress support page forany information regarding help with content theft and this is what I found. I remember looking at this a couple years back, but haven’t reviewed it lately. I will go back into all my photos and start watermarking them. I will also get a free license and take into consideration many of he other points listed on the website. Even if you don’t have WordPress for you fellow bloggers out there, this is a good place to start to get information. if you are facing a similar situation)

I Run for Life…

It’s that time of the year. Race for the Cure. I have been looking forward to it for a year now. When I walked my first race last year, I had just undergone my first chemo treatment and the start of my second; I had suffered respiratory arrest due to the severe allergic reaction I had to the chemo drugs; and I had lost all my hair. Slowly, but surely, though, I walked that route surrounded by a sea of pink. Overwhelmed by the shear magnitude of the event (my first ever), I walked proudly with tears streaming down my cheeks and told myself I would be back again in 2010. When I crossed that finish line, I pulled my signature Superstar move and although I felt like a winner, there was a small seed of doubt. Would I make it?

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Superstar!

It has been a whirlwind year–at times moving at warp speed and at others, creeping along at a snails pace. For months now, I have looked forward to walking this race once more, crossing the finish line, and pulling my Superstar–only this time with the assured confidence that I had/have beaten this disease. Is there any doubt? Yes, a smidgeon. Enough to pull me down every once in a while, especially when I get sick and my mind starts to race through the “what if’s”. I came across a few pics from right after the race last year. Pictures I was too embarrassed by to put into my Flikr photos with the rest. When the pictures were taken, I was sitting on the front porch. Jordan came along and snapped a couple pics of me. It seems like yesterday when I think back. I was caught up in my anger then and it’s written all over my face. My eyes look sooo tired and expressionless. The worry lines had been chiselled deep into my brow by fear. My chest was non-existent and my hair–well, see for yourself.

Lost in Self-Doubt

She told me to smile. “Just Fake It”, I remember her saying. So, I tried. I really did.

“C’mon, Mom…you just Raced for a Cure…you should be happy!” I was. I smiled. I guess it wasn’t convincing enough. So, I tried again…

It was no use. That earlier feeling of euphoria while walking had been replaced with the weight of the world. I attempted one last try at a decent picture–one full of hope and determination–hell my before and during pictures in my Flikr photos are absolutely night and day compare to just a few hours later. (click on “more photos” in the sidebar to view last year’s 2009 Race for the Cure pics), but it just falls short.

I remember thinking how badly I needed a nap. Right after the race last year I worked at the Arsenal for several hours and then went on to piano lessons. When those pics were taken, I was exhausted and you can see it in my eyes. For the most part, these days, my head is in a completely different place than it was a year ago. Thank God.

I really wanted to go this year. I planned on going. I was all set to assemble Team Superstar and proudly walk with my fellow sisters. Then, I got a call, from someone that gave me some news. Nothing bad, in fact, very humbling news. I am being awarded something (I can’t say anything more until afterward). My presence was being requested in Iowa City to accept the award–on the same day. Of course, I felt honored, and after the surprise of the call began to wear off, I realized the event was on this Saturday, June 12, 2010–the same day as our local Race for the Cure. I wondered if I could actually swing both, but it really didn’t take long to make up my mind. I would probably only get this honor once in my life and the race will be here next year. So, I’m going to Iowa City on Saturday. My family will meet me up there to video. I’ll upload over the weekend so you can all share in the news.

For all those planning to walk or run in this year’s Race for the Cure–do me a favor and keep me in mind–even scribble my name into a corner of your memorial badge if you feel inclined to do so. I’ll be there walking in spirit and to show my support–I dyed my hair this past week–platinum with fuschia tips in the back. It has been cut in a way that shows off the tattoo I got last year, and as I promised, I will be going back really soon to have the word “Survivor” added underneath.

Showing My Support

I also found a video this past year that has gives me the chills each time I hear it. I have made the song my ringtone on my cell phone and I thought I’d share it here for all of you to enjoy as well. For all my sisters who are fighting this fight, have won their fight or have lost their fight, I will be running for you…soon.

Race For the Cure

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Throughout this past year, with all the ups and downs and major family crisis, there is one event that really sticks out in my mind–a moment where we ALL came together (including Jasmine)–The Race For the Cure. I am going to be completely honest here, I had always heard of it, but had never participated before. I had always read about it in the paper, but had never witnessed it. I had always seen news clips of our local race, but I had never been touched personally by breast cancer up until this year. I take that back, as I’ve stated before in my post Strapped In Tight , my oldest daughter’s daycare provider was affected by the disease and yet, after she got remarried and moved, we lost touch. We weren’t thinking about it daily anymore and therefore, details and extra curricular activities once again busied our lives.

I have spent a great deal of time flip-flopping between being on the outside looking in (even though I was very “IN”) or “owning it”. I have said openly–“I DON’T WANT TO BELONG TO THIS CLUB”! I don’t. A big part of me really just doesn’t want to ever have to worry about cancer, statistics, prosthesis, chemotherapy, metastasis, reconstruction, wigs, mastectomy swimwear, etc. etc. etc. It’s like this…when you are pregnant for the first time, you are hyper tuned to all the strollers you see passing you in the mall, all the laughter of a preschooler playing in a park, a toddler crying for a piece of candy in the checkout lanes of the grocery store, or a baby and its mother conveying their love for each other through their eyes. If you aren’t pregnant or trying to conceive, you are busy with many other routines of life. Same goes for cancer. I am now, on alert when I read things in the newspaper regarding cancer treatments. I am more aware of (young and old alike) women that have lost their hair and whether they are wearing a head covering of some sort. I am more aware of the anguish some women are feeling as they are sitting in the Center for Breast Health. I know what they are feeling now. I have been there. I have walked a mile in their shoes. I have deep compassion and respect for these individuals who are facing their own mortality.

So, it goes without too much saying that when all the buzz about our local Susan G. Komen’s Race For the Cure was getting underway, that I found myself drawn to signing up. What an experience that was! I couldn’t believe how many people were at the sign up. I couldn’t believe how much pink was being proudly worn. I couldn’t believe how huge this was. The signup happened on a weekday and since I provide childcare during the day, I thought I’d just take them down with me–no big deal–we’d sign up–they would be my sign up supporters and we’d high five a good job done for Tina and we’d go grab a pizza somewhere. Little did I know that it would turn into a huge nightmare.

It was COLD and windy that day. The parking lot was jam packed and we had to park all the way to the back of the lot and run up. Once inside the convention center, I had to navigate through lines of women all the while continuously counting heads even though the kids are all knowledgeable about the rules I have while in public–hands on the stroller at all times, listen carefully for instructions, etc. We made it to the line where the applicants who hadn’t pre-registered were asked to stand. I waited approximately 20 minutes only to get to the front of the line when I remembered I left my debit card in the van. We turned around and headed back out into the cold to retrieve it. Once we returned the line had grown. We waited again for approximately another 30 minutes and once I reached the head of the row, the lady explained that they do not accept debit cards. I couldn’t believe it. I was so angry! She knew that was what I was going to get. It was the same lady. She heard me! Couldn’t she have told me then and saved me the trouble? Yes–but she didn’t. I turned everyone around and out we went to the van yet again. I loaded all the children, the double stroller and away we went looking for an ATM.

We ended up at a bank and after getting the exact amount of money we would need–plus a little extra to spend at the mini pink ribbon store that was there–we went back for a third time to the convention center. Pulling into the parking lot, I pulled out the snacks and had everyone finish up those before going in. I knew if I attempted it again, I would ultimately hear, “I’m hungry”. So, I crossed that one off the chesklist, first, and made my way through the throngs of women who were now standing in long lines. I found the same lady’s line that I had already stood in twice before. I know, you’re all probably wondering why I chose her again, afterall, she had already failed to give me pertinent information that would have made my life easier given the fact that I was trying to get through this process with 6 children by my side. It was a matter of principle at that point. I was going to prove to her that I was not easily deterred. That I was determined to sign up for this event–and really, if I left now without signing up after going through all the hassle, I would have been more mad at myself!

I thought that if we went and looked through the store, killed some time while picking out some bumper stickers, the lines would diminish some. I kept my eyes on their status and when I realized they were only getting longer, I figured I better go and grab a place. As we stood there, we played Simon Says and amused all the women around us. We also played I Spy until I was sick of it. I was getting hot and so were the kids. I started to peel coats off and pray the line would move faster. I finally get to the front after another 40 minutes only to have her smile sickeningly at me and ask me where all the registration forms were. That was it! I was about to blow and I knew I couldn’t because I’d have 6 children watching me. It’s moments like these when you know they are watching you. This is a teachable moment in patience, tolerance, and keeping my mouth shut firmly. I tried. I really did. I couldn’t help it, though and so I leaned over the table and got very close to her and as I smiled sweetly to her I told her through clenched teeth that this was my first time here. I had no knowledge of the process, the order to get that process done, or that I needed to bring cash or check. I told her that it was her duty as a volunteer to be trained adequately so that when someone shows up and looks lost, they are given ALL the information they need to produce the items necessary to register”. I then asked her where in the hell are the forms. She pointed to the back of the line where a table was set up. AAAAGGGGHHHH!!!!!!!!

“Calm Down”, I told myself. “Breathe”. So, I did. The sound in the convention center was becoming deafening with all the chatter and women’s laughter. I was totally over stimulated. The kids, although satiated for the time being, were bored. What was supposed to take me 15 minutes had now taken me over two hours and I was still no closer to getting my race badges. Here is where the crucial mistake was made. Recall, I had given the children snacks in the van? What goes in must come out, right? Yeah–I never thought about that in all my frustration. So, after spending 10 minutes filling out all the information on front and back of 5 forms and standing in line for another 20 minutes, I hear that familiar sound, “Tiiinnnnaaa–I have to go potty!!!!!” That prompted the next one to grab themselves and start dancing–and the next one and the next one–etc. etc. etc. I looked at the front of the line–I was second in line. The women all behind me were secretly happy. I could tell. They were tired of listening to the umpteenth repetition of “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush”. “Can you hold it just a little longer?” I begged. “NOOOOOO! They all cried”. I should have pottied them when we were filling out the registrations. Hindsight. Crap. “I give up”, I dismally said out loud.

I took them all to the potty but the women’s line was out the door. Double crap. I can’t go in the men’s bathroom, especially with a double stroller so, I am going to let the 4 preschool boys go in as a buddy system and I would be standing right at the door listening for them. The first sign of trouble, I was coming in. Note to self: Never let 4 boys go into a public restroom with urinals hanging from the wall because 1.) they are not preschool sized or hung at a preschool height; 2). They can’t reach the sinks or the soap hanging from the wall; and 3.) the toilets are usually plugged and not flushed and no one will want to go. I could hear the laughter. I knew something was going on. It was just a matter of time, really. They all were bored and it was more fun to be playing in a big boys bathroom then to stand in a line waiting to be helped. I asked a man coming out how it was going in there. He was in there and I know not only had he heard me, but many, many women all around me heard the ongoing conversations I was having loudly with the boys. The man told me they were the only ones in there–noone else if I needed to go in and check on them. I thanked him and started maneuvering the stroller into the narrow opening.

What I saw was comical to say the least. On the one hand, it completely helped break the tension that had been building in me from our disastrous morning and on the other showed me how ingenuitive these boys really were. There they were–still buddied–only not hand in hand as I sent them in there. They had collectively figured out a way to use the urinals so they could all have a chance of peeing on the blue urinal cake. One buddy hoisted his partner up by holding onto his legs. Boy being hoisted was leaning with both hands on the wall on either side of the urinal and the forward lean was helping point the arc in the correct downward spiral. Once done, they switched spots and the hoisters now became the urinators. I do wish I could have taken a picture of that–although highly inappropriate–it was hysterical. My boy was heard throughout the immediate vicinity to say very loudly–“Just don’t pee in my mouth–ok?” I laughed and helped the boys all up to wash hands. I congratulated them on their use of logistical thinking skills and their cooperative teamwork, but asked them kindly to just use the normal potty from now on–even if it means you have to pee on someone’s poo (that was the overwhelming concern they all voiced).

As we emerged from the men’s room, I realized how odd that statement probably sounded coming from my son for those who had not witnessed what was going on. I couldn’t help but openly smile. I re-entered the line to register with all my applications and noticed the lady I had dealt with was now gone. “Probably out to lunch”, I thought. The lines were starting to dwindle and as I approached the front and got all the applications turned in and paid for, I mentioned to the lady as briefly as I could how unprofessional I felt the woman she replaced was. She asked me if the woman had shown or pointed to where the ATM machines were located there within the facility. I was horrified and speachless and as I turned around and looked down a dark corridor, I saw it. AAAAGGGGHHH!!! I turned and told her “Absolutely Not”. She shook her head and apologized. She finished up and told me to take my badges over to the T-shirt table to pick up our groups shirts. I thanked her and headed over there hoping we were close to being done. It was there that the gentleman helping me shorted me one shirt. He swore he had only received 4 vouchers. I swore I gave him 5. He went back through a giant stack of vouchers and began to check. I looked to see if I had dropped one somewhere. Then I saw it. One application that had gotten shoved down by the coats in the cargo bin of the stroller while I was in the restroom with the boys. It was Jasmine’s application. Triple Crap.

You know what that meant. I had to return to line to pay for hers and get her voucher. At that point I was wondering if I should just forget about it. I mean, she was, at that time, MIA and Lord knows when she was going to be back. I went with my gut and decided to wear her badge along with mine should she not show up. Knowing that if she were in her RIGHT mind, she would not miss this and if she did, she would walk in spirit with me. When I got to the front, the first lady was back. I glared at her. She asked me for the money and I handed it over. She said I was $5 dollars short. WHAT??!!!!! I was FURIOUS!!! I had no more money, time, or patience left. I began to replay the events of my entire morning to her including the part where she failed to tell me there was an ATM ON SITE!! Her supervisor came over and it was waived. I was not trying to get out of donating to a worthy cause, mind you, I had spent upwards of $100 that day and knew I would spend more at the race as I perused the vendors, so it’s not like the organization wasn’t going to be making any money off of me, that’s for sure. I snatched the voucher out of her hand, marched over to the T-shirt table and had the man bag up all my shirts. I was relieved to be done, finally. The kids were relieved to be done, finally. Finally, we were going home.

We left the center and it was so nice to hear the quietness of that cold morning. We went to the van, loaded everyone up, loaded the stroller, and began to exit the parking lot. QUADRUPLE CRAP!!!! This sickening feeling washed over me as I looked in between the seats for the bag of shirts. “Oh God, please tell me I didn’t forget them all in there!” I kept muttering “Please, Please, Please” as I pulled over to check the cargo bin of the stroller. Not there. I looked up at the convention center and realized I had to make one more trip inside. I was about to say “Forget It” and take off without them, but I had paid for them. I wanted my family to all wear theirs with me. I pulled back into the parking lot and for the last time, I unloaded all the kids and walked into the center. Now–I just hope someone hasn’t stolen them. We waded through the sea of women and came to the table. There, all bagged up and sitting on top a pile of t-shirts were mine. I opened the bag, counted the shirts, made sure the sizes were all right, and left for the last time.

This would be my first Race For the Cure. I prayed that my children would walk it every year in memory of me and not because they had been affected themselves by the disease. I prayed that I would be a more willing participant of the “Club” once I could see visually how many people are affected by breast cancer. I prayed Jasmine would come home. I prayed that I would have the strength of an army to get through the rest of this year. I was just happy I had made it out of the damn convention center without killing someone!

The morning of, it was chilly and rainy. Not bad, very spitting conditions, yet not my ideal forcast for my first race. We didn’t let it get to us. We donned our shirts, our race badges, and peeled Jasmine out of bed–she had made it. I’m not sure how with us she really was, but she was physically there and she was willing to participate–so that spoke volumes to me at least. I was overwhelmed and found my eyes tearing up on more than one occassion. I had never seen so many people! I even knew some of them–more members of this club of women–some I had even remembered seeing in the Center for Breast Health’s waiting rooms. We walked that day–all 5 of us. Jasmine pretty much walked ahead of us and at times I wondered if she were looking for an escape route somewhere along the way. We posed for pictures and I secretly wondered if I would be around for next year’s. I began to notice the little patch on the survivor caps that delineated how many years cancer free they had been.

I didn’t wear a wig and I was trying to own my baldness on that day. I had a baseball cap and a smile and my family. That was all that mattered to me. We walked the long route. We saw all sorts of crazy and funny things from t-shirts to dogs decked out in pink ribbons and booties. We saw memorials emblazoned across the backs of countless idividuals walking for loved ones they had lost or were battling their dragons. It’s hard to explain, but the whole time I walked, I had a lump in my throat. It was hard to swallow. Just as it is hard to swallow the fact that 1 in 8 women will be diagnosed. Seeing that many women walking, and watching more intently to the chatter on Twitter regarding similar walks all around the country has prompted me to really think that statistic is not correct. “It just has to be lower than that”, I kept saying to myself as we walked.

One of my all time favorite movies is Superstar featuring Mary Katherine Gallagher, a clumsy parochial student who is just looking for acceptance. She always strikes a pose and cries, “Superstar” as an affirmation to her awesome-ness. When I passed the finish line I pulled my signature Superstar move. Everyone there laughed and cheered! The news crew came down and asked me to give my name so they could give a shout out to me on the radio. I told them I was Christina Heald, 3 month survivor so far, and I was a Superstar!

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Superstar!

Moral of the story: Always pre-register for the damn race!!!

Started Tracking on 12-1-09

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souzzchef

Adventures in food, travel, and backcountry kitchens

The Impatient Traveler

Impatiently awaiting the next adventure

travailsonatandemwithboo

Father and daughter cycling duo swapping pedals for paddles to kayak the length of the longest lakes of Wales, England and Scotland.

from victory road

a journey of faith, art, and life

Ticket to Adventures

Travel blog from around the world, near and far.

The Wallflower Wanderer

The true adventures of a timid world traveler

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