I don’t know why I hadn’t put it all together. When her brother, a board member, originally asked if I wanted to attend the Project Pink’d gala on August 25th, how could I not have put two and two together.
When I looked in my closet for something to wear and realized I still have yet to purchase anything that could be worn for such an occasion. So again, I borrowed a dress from one of my besties. A dress that I’d tried before. And then, at the last minute I tried I threw it on and whoa. BOOB CITY.
I rifled through my closet again. And at the very very last minute…Truly, the Uber was in the driveway and I had to ask the babysitter to zip me up right before I kissed the boys goodbye… At that moment, I’d done it. I put on the dress.
And we were en route. Why had I not thought of it though? Why I had I not realized when he asked? August 25. Just 6 days before I found “the intruder.”
The week I wore that dress. The dress I haven’t worn since. The dress I wore to a mammogram. My first mammogram. And then, met my friends for pre-reception drinks in that bar. The same bar that we would walk through to get up to the event.
So when we walked into the event… Same hotel. Same dress. Same time of year. Deja vu.
And I felt it in that place between my stomach and my heart. A big inhale. And we were doing this. I felt the tears attempting to make their way to my eyeballs. And to that, I said no.
Up the escalator. Into the line. And a tray full of pink martinis. YES. THAT. I grabbed one. Got in line. And my friends raised their glasses to me. And I had to bolt. I went and shot my martini right down the gullet, tried to hold back the tears, all while standing behind a huge column, out of sight. And then I went back into line. Two more martinis in hand. One down the hatchet. And we ate and laughed and conversed.
I was good. Yes. I was great. I could do this.
And then. And then. The program. The program that would help them explain their mission. Raise funds.to make their impact bigger. To honor the survivor in all of us. And. A survivor ceremony. In the middle of the room. They asked everyone to come in the center. I looked around. Everyone of us was completely different. Different ages. I would assume, different stages. All different stories. All one stupid diagnosis. And we all stood together.
And then I heard it. No no no no no no. The music for the “March.” I lived. The song I’d listened to on repeat through every run. The song we dance in the kitchen to. The song that’s been part of my inspiration arsenal. I lived.
I looked at Adam and he knew. I couldn’t. I couldn’t keep it in. Deep breaths. Nope. No point.
And I was bawling. Uncontrollably. Sobbing. Everyone else was smiling, it felt. And I was an absolute blubbering idiot. How had I gotten here? To this place of surviving breast cancer? Was this all just some weird dream like forgetting my locker combination over and over? How was I among this group in the middle of the room? How did I become a statistic ? It was surreal.
I found a face I knew. A strong, beautiful survivor who had done this walk before. Thank God and Jesus and May and Joseph that she let me cling to her. And we walked up the middle of the stage. Two of many. Too many.
I couldn’t even look at my hubs or friends in the audience. A portion of my co-survivors. I wanted to shout out in that moment that I couldn’t have done this year without them. Normal Ashli would have done that… Held up her drink, been laughing, smiling, maybe even yelling, “take that, cancer!” But I looked at the carpet below me and cried. Because the truth is, over the last year, without the people, I might have been able to keep breathing, but in so many ways, it was all the people… Them… My tribe… You… Who helped me live.
I didn’t cry the rest of the night. Our host and his wife made our evening a great night out. The people he filled our table with gave me the experience every girl who has worked in charity wants to have at a fundraiser.
I ran into a few blog followers. I heard other women’s courageous stories. I watched as the two women behind the Organization got their night under the lights. Their night to let their mission shine. And at the end of the night, my friends and I loaded up in a Flex and headed home. With a couple stops along the way.
It was a night. A night of resurrecting the black dress. The dress that I wore on the day I have been referring to as the day my world came crashing down. And I made it the dress that I wore almost a year after it all. A night of facing the past and letting it be just that, the past. Not my current reality. Not my future.
And now… I will come upon a week of “pasts.” A week of notes scribbled in on my calendar. Notes survivors make… “Found lump…” “Mammogram” “biopsy #1.”
I didn’t put it all together. But it might have been one of the best ways for me to cleanse the beginning of these emotions that are surely waiting to come around this week. Next week. Over the next month. To wear the dress. To feel that overcome. To see the beauty that lives in survivorship. The gift of realizing that it wasn’t the day my world stopped. It was the day my new world began. The day a doctor saved my life. The day we found it early. The day I knew, had I never known before, that I wanted to LIVE.
I will, with fear and hesitation face the past. Face the scary. Face the memories. And acknowledge their presence in an effort to move forward to now. To our future. As live-rs. Survivors. Thrivers.
