Help Emily raise money

It’s hard for me to write candidly about my mom sometimes, and I’m always inclined to make her health prognosis sound more positive than it is in reality. It’s difficult to put into words how it feels to know that your loved one is dying, and how heartbreaking it is to watch someone slowly slip through your grasp. It’s a constant onslaught of emotions at the back of your mind as you try to put a brave face forward, and it’s a strange juxtaposition of happy, carefree days, versus days where you feel like your world is ending. I’ve lost count of the number of cancers my mom has had (6? 7?), but simultaneously, I’ve also lost count of the number of happy moments we’ve had with her since her diagnosis 11 years ago - moments that were absolutely not guaranteed.

Last month, we found out that my mom’s cancer had spread to her liver and bones, on top of the lung cancer she’d already been battling. I’m a hopeful person but I’m also a realistic one. I remember bitterly thinking years ago how insane it was, all the collective funding and time contributed towards cancer research, only to still not have a cure. I remember holding out for a secret hope that the government would one day randomly announce that they’d found the cure to cancer, and my mom’s struggles would be over. It’s hard for me to mentally reconcile the fact that they will find a cure one day, but it’ll likely be too late for my mom. But I also think of families like mine in the future, and how one day, finding out that your parent, partner or friend has cancer might not have the same tumultuous end. One day, cancer won’t be coming home and seeing everyone’s face and knowing, without words, that the cancer’s back. One day, cancer won’t be hugging your mom and trying to convince her she’s still beautiful after losing her hair. One day it won’t be calling your siblings just to cry on the phone together because you don’t know who else to turn to. One day it won’t be watching your family members break down one by one. One day cancer won’t be terminal anymore.

I started off by calling myself out for it, but I still feel the need to end this on a positive note. Everyone for years has called my mom a warrior and told me how inspiring she is, and for a while I didn’t quite understand. Her everyday life at face value (minus the cancer) seemed relatively ordinary. But lately, I think I see it - it’s waking up daily knowing that her body is fighting against her and hurting her from within, and still choosing to have, simply, a good day. How often do we wake up with our functional health and privileged lives and think to ourselves: today is going to be a good day? Yet I come home from a long day at work and my mom is waiting and eager to tell me “Emily, I had a good day today!” And maybe it really is that simple. To choose to fully embrace each day for the small joys it can bring you, and the joy that you can bring to those around you. To appreciate each day as it comes, because the next truly isn’t promised. Quiet courage that often goes unseen.

Anyway, it wouldn’t be an Emily Ramble™ without some sort of closing statement. I think I subconsciously started taking better care of my health as my mom got sicker, and running was the most economic athletic activity as far as Vancouver options go (…I say after spending $150 on this race). It’s been one of the more positive outlets in my life, and I like to think that my mom likes tracking my race times like she used to do when my sisters and I swam in high school. As cliché as it sounds, I’ll be running this half marathon with her in mind, and I deeply appreciate any support donated. Thank you in advance!