Who will join the race with June in mind? | enjoygame's Blog

June Kirchik was a stranger. She lived out the last of life in a second-hand hospital bed surrounded by the pea-green walls of a dingy room that smelled, well, like death. Embraced by squalor and Nike Air Bound taunted daily by a massive breast tumor that insidiously swallowed her, she was an utter stranger to a cure. In fact, she was little more than a name on a lengthy list of poor women with a dismal diagnosis and a sinister disease. I met June in an interview for a newspaper story about breast cancer care, a pitiful yarn about a 58-year-old woman who waited too long to get treatment and couldn't afford it anyway. It was a tale strewn with hospitals that wouldn't treat her without payment — and public clinics with waiting lists so long that the point became truly pointless. Each day became more deadly than the one before it. HerNike_Air_Alpha_Force_II_(white__grey)story appeared on a Sunday. “POVERTY, NEGLECT, THE SYSTEM ADD TO CANCER VICTIM'S PAIN,” read the Miami Herald headline. Suddenly, dozens of doctors and donors wanted to help. They offered money; they offered care; they offered clothes, comforts, bedsheets. What they couldn't offer was hope. Because there was none. The next day, she was dead. Later that week, an envelope appeared in my mail; insideAir Jordan 13 was a single worn $1 bill. Written in felt-tip pen in the thin border of the bill were these words: “For the breast cancer lady.” That was 18 years ago. I always meant to put the dollar in a church collection basket, but I never did. I stuck it in a book for safekeeping, and it has long since disappeared. But even now, it's June I think of every time the checkout clerk at Randalls asks if I want to tack a $5 cancer donation on my grocery bill. So hideousnike jordan 19 was her death (the football-size breast tumor had perforated her skin and eventually caused gangrene) that any mention of cancer puts me squarely in the pea-green room. The disease is vicious; it preys brazenly. It takes our mothers, our daughters, our aunts and cousins, grandmothers and even strangers like June. Two weeks ago, my 25-year-old daughter asked me to walk with her and her work colleagues from the Ignite Restaurant Group this weekend in the Susan Komen Race for a Cure. Honestly, I didn't really much want to do it. But there it was, the ghost of June and the $1 bill from someoneAir Jordan shoes 15 who probably couldn't afford to give it. So, I'll be racing for a cure Saturday. Not for June. But for my daughter. Because one day, her life could depend on a cure — or worse, a simple gesture of generosity that came one day too late to save her.

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