Promise Me (34 page)

A few weeks after I finished chemo, I played in a polo tournament, pink helmet on my bald head and pink socks on my pony. What a glorious day! Oh, it felt good to fly down the field on that swift pony, fully engaged again, completely alive and finally outside. This was that day in the park I’d promised myself, and I said a prayer for that little boy from the PT room. I never saw him again, but I do hope he had many days, many years, of sunlight and air.

On the downside, I did bruise my arm, and it swelled up like an elephant’s leg. The lymphedema from that day never fully went away. This is an issue that affects a lot of women with breast cancer, but I’d never fully appreciated what the impact can be. It’s painful, and it’s scary because
a giant swollen arm that never goes away is frankly a lot more visibly disfiguring than a mastectomy, which can be reconstructed or compensated for with the right clothes. (I was still sporting the singleton Righty; I didn’t opt for immediate reconstruction like Suzy did.) Lymphedema can’t be cured per se, but it can be controlled. I studied up and aggressively went after it with physical therapy, compression wraps, and pharmaceuticals. And a nice selection of three-quarter-length sleeves. Sometimes keeping up appearances is the best you can do for the moment.

In retrospect, once I got my arm back to a presentable size and shape, the polo match was worth it. I learned something the hard way, and those are often the lessons that stick with us. But more important, I stayed true to the woman I was before I had cancer. If it comes down to a choice between risking and settling, I’ll take the risk. Cancer couldn’t take that away from me—or perhaps I should say chemo couldn’t cure me of it.

Norman understood this. Neither of us was hardwired to sit on the sidelines.

I was vigilant about my follow-up schedule. Walking out of your last radiation or chemo treatment is elating, but there’s also the feeling of suddenly working without a net. Your support network goes on about their business, and so do you, but the fact that you’re no longer actively fighting the cancer is a little unnerving. Limbo is my least favorite state of being, and the very word
remission
is uncomfortably open to possibilities. I was hypersensitive to every twitch and ping in my body. Dr. Blumenschein must have wanted to hide every time he saw me coming.

“You’ve got what I call ‘toe cancer,’ ” said my friend Carolyn Walker, who’d been there and done that. “You start thinking every headache is a brain tumor, every tummy rumble is congestive heart failure.”

Mom’s diagnosis was “checkup crazies.” Basically the same idea.

“What’s the treatment for that?” I wondered.

“Time,” said my wise mother.

I kept my sanity by expending every ounce of my energy every day. What I didn’t give to my family, I gave to SGK—and not always in that order, I’m ashamed to say. I was always immersed in data, trying to get a handle on the freshest science, wanting to know everything that was going on in clinical research, patient advocacy, insurance issues, bills
before Congress. As our visibility expanded, requests for help flooded in—grant proposals from researchers, patients wandering the wilderness, families frustrated and terrified—and we did everything we could, but there was never enough time or money to accommodate everyone.

“We have to do more,” I kept telling Norman. “We have to do better.”

Trammel Crow has been much quoted:

I tried to become that person.

Having Betty Ford on our side on a continuing basis exponentially increased our credibility and exposure, advancing both awareness and fundraising efforts. An army of volunteers came forward. Fabulously smart, dedicated women forming the core of the group put in countless hours, and I took shameless advantage of their generosity. It got back to me that some husbands had forbidden their wives to return my phone calls. They didn’t want their names associated with breast cancer and worried that I asked too much of our corps of volunteers. Every time I met someone who was willing and able to help, I hugged her and gave her a fair, good-natured warning: “If you’re going to run, run now. I’ll be after you.”

We decided that we needed to do a major event that would bring in a major influx of cash. Carolyn Williams took the lead, and we started putting together plans for a lavish, big-ticket auction. At our initial organizational meeting, someone cracked that old joke: “The only difference between men and boys is the size of their toys.”

We all laughed, but then we looked at each other and said, “That’s it.”

I think there was an assumption that we’d be doing something very ladylike, given the subject matter and the unwritten rules that govern Southern ladies. We flipped that notion and went with the theme “Toys for Boys”—an auction loaded with manly merchandise, geared for Type A bidding. We went out and zealously shook down everyone we could think of for donated items we could auction off. Unusual, big-ticket items:
cars, hunting trips, motorcycles, leather chairs, power tools, horse tack and fishing tackle, a bass boat, tickets to major sporting events, natty wardrobes of Western wear and designer suits.

The television show
Dallas
was at the height of its popularity then. The luminous Barbara Bel Geddes played Miss Ellie, matriarch of the Ewing family, mother of antihero J.R. (played by Larry Hagman) and conflicted but adorable Bobby (Patrick Duffy), and grandmother of impossibly saucy Lucy (Charlene Tilton). In the early 1970s, Barbara had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had undergone a radical mastectomy. To her credit, she worked with the writers to incorporate her breast cancer experience into the
Dallas
story line in 1980. The episodes, one of the first glimpses of breast cancer in any mainstream television show, resulted in an Emmy for her and opened the door for sensitive, accurate portrayals of women coping with breast cancer. And this was more than a decade before
Murphy Brown
and
Sex and the City
featured breast cancer story lines that were called “groundbreaking.” Both those were beautifully done, but Barbara was way ahead of them on the timeline.

She was a great friend to our little foundation from the very beginning, lending her voice and bringing major star power, including her television family, to those early events. Larry Hagman’s ten-gallon hat was one of the hotly anticipated items on our “Toys for Boys” lineup, and several cast members—including Barbara, Linda Gray, and Larry Hagman—were attending.

Over the years, we’ve benefited from the refracted star-shine of many generous people from the entertainment and sports worlds, and over the years, I’ve found these people almost universally delightful to work with. I recently walked with Olivia Newton-John in the Palm Beach Race for the Cure and did a Passionately Pink for the Cure media tour with adorable Sarah Chalke from
Scrubs
, a bundle of energy in great shoes. Back in the day, Jill Ireland was a powerhouse, as was Jill Eikenberry. Linda Carter—well, what would you expect from Wonder Woman? Cynthia Nixon delivered a beautifully straightforward message as part of our breast health outreach to the lesbian community. I love Ricardo Chavira from
Desperate Housewives
, a chivalrous Texan who approached us after his mom died of breast cancer. The luminous Tejano Grammy-winner Soraya came to us before she was diagnosed and did such great good
as our Latina ambassador right up until she died of breast cancer at age thirty-seven.

In a final message to media and her fans, Soraya said, “I know there are many questions without answers, and that hope doesn’t leave with me, and above all, my mission does not end with my physical story.”

There’s a very tender spot in my heart for her always.

We were always careful about how we positioned celebrity voices, because we want the scientists to be the real stars of this talent show. We want our outcomes to be the cause for celebration. That said, the visibility celebrities bring to our events is PR platinum. You can’t buy that kind of publicity.

We’ve had many, many memorable events over the years, but that first “Toys for Boys” auction stands as one of my favorites. We wanted to use this opportunity to convey the idea that breast cancer isn’t a “women’s” issue; it affects families, and men need to get involved. Everyone had so much fun. Spirits were high, and hearts were in the right place. As the crowd roared, Larry Hagman tossed his hat into the ring to be auctioned off. The moment it was sold, the buyer gave it back to Larry, who tossed it out to be sold again and again. We brought in almost $1 million that night, and just as importantly, we got a lot of attention.

The second year we did “Toys for Boys,” Sharon McCutchin’s husband, Jerry, whose daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer at age thirty-two, donated an ultralight aircraft, which he brought in, piece by piece, and assembled right there in the hotel ballroom—the most thrilling centerpiece of all time.

“You want to look bigger than you are,” Norman said, and we accomplished that. We were still more David than Goliath, but now we were seriously on the map.

T
he first big cause-marketing payoff I know of was the brainchild of Bruce Burtch, who coined the friendly phrase “Do good to do well” to describe a 1976 partnership between Marriott and the March of Dimes. Three years later, a partnership between Famous Amos cookies and Literacy Volunteers of America brought about an awareness windfall for both organizations. (Cookies and a good book: the ultimate
win-win.) As far as I know, the term
cause-related marketing
was coined by some great mind at American Express to describe a 1983 promotional campaign during which they donated a penny per transaction and a dollar for each new card to the Statue of Liberty restoration project. During the four-month campaign, transactions leaped by almost 30 percent, and Lady Liberty got $2 million worth of gorgeous.

As of this writing, cause-related marketing generates more than $55 million annually for Susan G. Komen for the Cure, which is why people refer to me as a “cause marketing pioneer” (when they’re being nice); I never claimed to have invented it, but SGK certainly put some gas in its tank. In my mind, “pioneer” conjures a picture of Ma Ingalls riding across the prairie in a covered wagon. What we did felt more like NASCAR. Hold on to your sunbonnet, Ma.

My first big idea in this area was to get a major bra manufacturer to place attractive informational hang-tags on their bras. In one fell swoop, we’d be taking up residence in every major department store in America, promoting the American Cancer Society’s breast self-exam technique and alerting women from A to double-D that the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation was here for them with information, resources, and support.

With some help from Jack Cassidy, a friend at the Intimate Apparel Manufacturers Association, I jumped through the required hoops to get meetings with the CEOs of all my favorite lingerie companies in New York. On the way up to the first meeting, I shared the elevator with an exceptionally petite woman, who eyed me like I was a Cyclops.

Please don’t let this be the meeting
, I silently begged.

She was the meeting. And she was not amused. Feeling the full girth of my enormous hair and big red glasses, I found my way to the lowest chair in the room.

She asked, “What can I do for you?”

I delved into my pitch, but she cut me off.

“My customers aren’t thinking about that,” she said.

“Well, that’s the problem. Awareness of—”

“Young lady,” she said. “The meeting is over.”

Ice burned and humiliated, I gathered my samples and slunk out the door. It had taken me a long time to set this up. The whole thing lasted
all of ninety seconds and pretty much set the tone for the other meetings, which were often over before they began. A few had the courtesy to fiddle with the hang-tag sample as if they were actually listening to me for a minute before they threw me out.

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but
no.
”

“Not to be insensitive, but no.”

“We want to help women celebrate their bodies, so
no.
”

“No. No, no. We want women to feel happy and sexy when they think of our product. We’re selling beauty and femininity. You’re selling disease and death.”

“Not at all,” I kept arguing, “We’re encouraging breast
health.
”

“And yet I’m seeing the word
cancer
. Not a happy, sexy word.”

It was terribly discouraging. I called Jack, who was also the president of a racing bra company, and he talked me off the ledge and donated a nice check plus several thousand cute plastic watches to put in our Race for the Cure swag bags. There never were any takers for the hang tags, but as we grew over the years, we had many great partnerships with bra companies and department stores, and several years later, ironically, I was honored with an award from the Intimate Apparel Manufacturers Association. It took a while to overcome those deeply ingrained ideas, and I wish I could take some credit for it, but the fact is, retailers changed their approach in response to a marketplace full of women who were evolving and making their voices heard.

“Grassroots,” I told Norman. “That’s the key. When they see how many people care about this, they’ll come around. We just have to keep ringing that bell until we turn those old ideas upside down.”

“Remember, Bruni, it’s evolution, not revolution,” Norm cautioned.

“Yes, Normie, but sometimes a little revolution is called for.”

“Conventional wisdom says ten years to really get a nonprofit up and running.”

I shook my head. “We don’t have ten years.”

In reality, it took a good seven or eight years to really get things rocking, and those were the hardest-working years of my life.

Our first real employee was our wonderful secretary, Barbie Casey. Linda Cadigan came on in 1984 as executive director and whipped our grant process into shape, not a moment too soon. As I explained to her
the way we’d been doing things, she pressed her fingertips against her temples.