Oh, man, has it really been a week since the Jog for the Jugs?

I used to think of pink as a colour that signified passivity and weakness, an emblem of the "sugar and spice and all things nice", that little-girls-should-be-made-of dealie that was drummed into my head when I was growing up in the 1950's.

Funny how your attitude about some things can change.

They give pink tee shirts to the breast cancer survivors who participate in the Run for the Cure. There were a lot of people wearing these tee shirts last Sunday and the sight of them raises complicated feelings for me.

Admiration, of course. It takes a lot of grit to gut it out through surgery, radiation and/or chemo.

Relief. Seeing survivors, lots and lots of survivors, is a reminder that even if I become part of those one in nine women who are struck by this disease, it isn't an automatic death sentence.

And fear. Because there were lots and lots of those pink tee shirts which made that one in nine number come to life, changed a statistic to living, breathing flesh.

Pink means a lot of things to me now, but weakness and passivity aren't two of them anymore.

I don't participate in the Jog for the Jugs out of altruism. A benign lump in my breast several years ago woke me up to just how prevalent this disease is.

Then my mom-in-law mentioned that her mother had breast cancer.

Then my mom-in-law's sister died of breast cancer a few years ago.

That genetic heritage means that the woman on my left, my daughter, is closer to the crosshairs of this disease than I want to think about.

She eats right, she exercises, she lives a pretty healthy life. But the spousal unit and I may have handed down more than tallness, dark hair and blue eyes. We may have handed down a vulnerability to breast cancer, and anything I can do to shield her from that is well worth doing.

The Jog for the Jugs is an amazing celebration of life and hope. A gospel group was singing as I wrote out the names sent in by my three loyal readers and added them to the Wall of Hope. Those pink cards fluttering in a breeze, the remembrance and encouragement they represent, is amazingly powerful.

I'm not a religious person, but gospel music gets me where I live. Even now, a week later, my eyes well with tears thinking about how it felt to hear that music and to write out those names, women from all over the world. Some did not survive. Some are still fighting. Statistics are one thing. Names are another.

Today is Canadian Thanksgiving. In a few moments the spousal unit, our daughter and I will head down to my mother-in-law's with food in hand to join four generations of our family. There will be good food, a new baby to coo over, much laughter and many, many blessings to count.

The most basic of these blessings is that everyone in our family, from my mom-in-law in her 80's right through to our newest addition, my grandnephew, each and every one of us is healthy. When I was young and I used to hear old codgers solemnly intone, "When you've got your health, you've got it all" I used to roll my eyes and say a little internal, "Shyeah, right".

Now? Now that seems like one of the most insanely insightful things I've ever heard.

It's official. I'm now an old codger. Oh, man, how did that happen?

--Marn

P.S.�I want to thank everyone who donated to the the Jog for the Jugs. The 2005 Bazonga Boosters (or Bustiers) to their friends are: