The Foot Race
Four years ago today, my sister Mary Jo died of metastatic breast cancer (MBC). She had her first bout of cancer in 2006, her second in 2010, and then was diagnosed with MBC in 2018. Once cancer metastasizes, there is no cure, only the possibility of extending life through treatment. By May of 2019, Mary Jo had chosen to stop treatment, a decision I respect and understand.
Her life ended too quickly. She was only 61. The last four years have gone quickly, as the rest of us live on. Mary Jo liked to write poetry and this is my favorite of hers. She wrote it for her young daughters, Whitney and Rena. Those daughters are now the mothers of seven children. Mary Jo doesn’t get to see her grandchildren grow up. That carries such a deep sadness for me.
The Foot Race
First steps are tiny,
To a Mother’s eyes mighty.
Ouchies, bumps, and scrapes,
Kissed with love and taped.
Running, climbing, and jumping,
Perfecting the timing.
Hopscotch on the walk,
Sidewalk skates can talk.
New shoes on bare feet,
School is down the street.
Short legs grow long and strong,
Life’s foot race rushes along.
Graduation cap in hand,
Music of celebrations by the band
Smile on your face,
You set the pace.
Wiping the tears away,
Seems like just yesterday.
Counted ten little toes . . .
How fast the foot race goes!
Mary Jo Holthaus Clark (1991)
I wrote a post on my first blog, Habitual Gratitude, one week after Mary Jo died, on what would have been her and her husband Clay’s 35th wedding anniversary. Here are a few lines from that post, titled More than Just a Number (a.k.a Cancer Kills People):
“I have thrown out statistics at various times in my writing, to emphasize my point or to raise awareness.
My sister Mary Jo, who died a week ago from metastatic breast cancer (MBC) is now one of the 40,000 that will be counted as casualties of MBC in 2019. That number looks and feels so much different with my sister’s smiling face looking back at me in a photo from her healthy days.
Cancer is a horrible disease. It wracks and ravages bodies and it breaks hearts. It creates pain and suffering. It cuts lives short. I hate cancer and what it does.
My sister is so much more than a number. Every cancer fatality is a person who lived and loved richly. Who leaves many behind to grieve their loss and the gaping hole created. The reality of cancer is brutal.
I am still here. It begs the question posed by poet Mary Oliver: “What is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
Embrace it. Live it. Cherish it. Just for today. In so doing, I honor Mary Jo and every other cancer fatality.”
You and I have today. Savor it. Live it fully. Here is one of those pictures of that smiling face. We miss you Mary Jo!
The note on the back of the photo says she is 37 here.
