After losing her mother to breast cancer, a Middlebury graduate honors her memory.
By Olive Isaacs '99
Four months before I graduated from Middlebury, my mother died of breast cancer.
Though I was surrounded by friends, my first instinct was to flee. I wanted to hide from anything and anyone who reminded me of those terrifying days leading up to my mother's death.
But the thought of living apart from my roommates, friends, and professors—those who were there for me during dark times—was even more terrifying. And so I stayed. Random hugs, late-night chats, and silent walks helped soothe the initial shock, and I found my first adult sense of community. But then it was time to go, and the pain remained.
I moved to Washington, D.C., and while I was engaged by an exciting city, I felt alone. Searching for outlets to aid the healing process, I signed up for the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer. I did so silently, intending the 60-mile walk and fund-raising process to be a solitary tribute to my mother's memory. I was unprepared for what happened next.
Surrounded by thousands of strangers, I discovered what I had been subconsciously seeking: the sense of community that I had at Middlebury. Two years and three fund-raising walks later, I'm managing the New York office of the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer, and that community is my life.
In 2003, I hired a small staff, set up shop in the back half of a bare sublet, and worked tirelessly to prepare the first event of its kind in New York. Our team learned to drive pallet jacks, forklifts, and 24-foot trucks; we operated two-way radios like Special Forces; we scoured New York's sidewalks for discarded furniture; and we traversed the city by train, bus, bicycle, and foot to recruit walkers.
My arena grew to encompass thousands of participants, bound together by the desire to eradicate breast cancer. My compatriots ranged in age from 18 to 80-plus. They were professional fund-raisers and recent college grads. They were native New Yorkers and suburban families who had never visited the big city. They were men, too, sometimes slightly lost in a mostly female world, but no less broken and just as determined.
Many had breast cancer. Others were survivors, proudly bearing the scars. Many more, like me, had lost their mothers—or sisters, friends, aunts, daughters—sometimes even fathers, brothers, and uncles. They often arrived alone, but left with crowds. We came to know their families—and their deepest fears. Something about the nature of what we were creating seemed to encourage people to trust us with thoughts they might never tell others. We became, for them, a comfortable place.
Last fall, my funny and determined community of 3,300 met our goal, raising $6.5 million in nine months. Now I'm working to raise more funds and to help others become part of this amazing experience.
My Avon Walk family has become an extension of that Midd group. I know that random hugs, late-night chats, and silent walks are there if I need them. And I still do. Although five years have passed, I still miss my mother. My wounds from her death may never completely heal, but I have the support, love, and inspiration that I know I need. And I dedicate it all to her.
When I chose to stay at Middlebury after my mother's death, I took perhaps the most important step of my life. I learned the power of togetherness, of community, and of a sense of place. I am committed to helping others gain this, too. For this, I know my mother would be proud; for she always told me to find my place in the world and to welcome others in.
Olive Isaacs '99 lives in Brooklyn and is in the middle of her second successful Avon Walk season. To find out more about her work, go to www.avonwalk.org or call 1-877-WALK-AVON.