You see them everywhere — rubber wristbands worn by man and woman alike. Symbolizing advocacy for many causes, the bracelets are wildly popular.
Cancer-related diseases alone have at least six colors.
Several wristbands are on my dresser. The most iconic one — the bracelet that launched a thousand bracelets — is Lance Armstrong’s “Livestrong” yellow band for cancer research. Another, bright purple, bears the words “Complaint Free Living,” the premise being every time you complain about something, you have to move the bracelet to your other wrist. I thought about just buying two and calling it a day, but that defeats such noble intentions.
Lately, however, I wear a piece of twine on my right wrist.
Two pieces of pink string to be exact.
Tied to each center is a small white bead with a painted pink ribbon representing breast cancer awareness. I could have bought one of those silicone versions, but my string jewelry is special. A girlfriend made these after hearing of another friend’s cancer diagnosis. I remember calling her to share the news because she can rally the troops in a New York minute, or, in this case, an Ocala second.
A widely distributed e-mail soon followed. Sure enough, my friend made bracelets — free to anyone who promised to wear them. Within days, many others were wearing pieces of pink string that reminded them, at all times, of those in the fight of, and for, their lives.
She didn’t stamp out cancer.
She didn’t erase the gut-gripping worry of our friend.
But she did something.
I picked up the bracelets in honor of two extraordinary friends. They are mothers. They are wives. They are true call-them-in-the-middle-of-the-night friends. They sometimes sing badly to karaoke. They think Patrick Dempsey is the bomb. They make too many grocery runs to get that one item left off the list.
And they are battling breast cancer.
Every time I wear the bracelets, I think of them. Most of the time, when I look down at my wrist, I try to do something, like my friend did. Maybe it’s making a homemade meal. Or sending a thoughtful note. Or babysitting their kids during chemo. Or taking a moment of intentional quiet, sending every ounce of love and hope I can muster in their direction.
One of my friends who is fighting cancer lives across the street. Daily, I see people dropping off casseroles, driving her children to school and activities, and leaving notes and flowers of encouragement.
On my answering machine is a reminder about a golf tournament for my husband’s friend who just found out he has ALS — Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, also known as Lou Gehrig’s disease. A large group of friends decided to raise some money to support a costly experimental treatment.
Long ago, I discovered something about my hometown, the place I once vowed to leave and never return after high school (Note to self: Never say never.) We are a community of givers. When it comes to helping others, to showing up and showering love, this place has it in spades.
When I see the bracelet on my wrist, I think about my friends. I also think of my good fortune that I didn’t heed the admonition of my youth.
Sometimes it takes the simplicity of a string to remember there’s no place like home.
