|Posted October 2nd, 2014|
(Editor’s note: Ann Murray Paige used to joke that breast cancer deserved more than one month, that after all, women get breast cancer 12 months of the year. She also said many times that “the irony is not lost on me that I found out my cancer had come back during October–Breast Cancer Awareness Month.” She wrote many times about this month of pink, and here is one of my favorites. This is the start of a new series of classics–the best of Ann–that will run from time to time on Project Pink Diary. It reminds us of the faces behind the sea of pink. And speaking of October–please visit our Project Pink Facebook page for more information and links to sign up as a “virtual runner” for the big Project Pink 5K fundraiser on October 25th.–LP)
So here we are, another Breast Cancer Awareness Month. I was hoping we’d be over this by now, that we’d have beaten the beast. But we haven’t. We still have a long way to go. And thank goodness we are lucky enough to have a month to remind the world that breast cancer is an evil still yet to be destroyed.
And this is the month that you’ll see pink ribbons donning soup cans from Sacramento to New York City, from Tuscon to Salt Lake City. And you may wonder, why do they matter. They’re everywhere , and you may get tired of seeing them. I mean, they’re on soup cans for heaven’s sake. What do they really mean?
I’m here to put a face to those pink ribbons: they mean me. And they mean my friend Carolyn and my friend Christopher’s grandmother and my young friend Mel and all the people who email me at Project Pink who’ve seen my film–I’m talking every 1 in 8 women who are diagnosed with breast cancer each year in the United States.
I know “the Pink” is everywhere this October, but so are we. And we need you to stand by us as we fight to get through another day without caving. We are as ubiquitous as that pink ribbon you see. We’re your mother or your sister or your daughter–we are 1 in every single 8 women in this country who get hit with a disease that threatens our health and our hope and our lives. We are standing next to you at the grocery store as you pick up that pink ribboned soup can.
And we, all of us, thank you from the bottom of our breast cancer hearts–because those hearts are still beating thanks to the help you give us. Thanks to the donations you make and the walks you take and the ribbons you buy that have that rose hue and that meaning behind it.
Each one of us thanks you for tying that ribbon on any way you can; so that some day–in part because of your simple effort this month, that pink ribbon may once and for all become obsolete, never to be tied around a soup can again. (October 1, 2010 by Ann Murray Paige)
|Posted October 1st, 2014|
Ann shared so much with her husband Sandy and that clearly included the gift of writing. Below is Sandy’s essay published today on Facebook.
A Pack of Light Junkies
During the week of Annie’s services eight weeks ago, my people and I stopped for music in two of the pedestrian tunnels in our town. I put our pack there for a reason. We paused for musicians playing Annie’s tunes there, we held hands and we cried in these dark tunnels together. We wrung out our emotional mops, dried ourselves off and emerged as a pack from the other end of the tunnel where the light was brighter, warmer, drier and sweeter. As we are still doing now, each day, little by little.
In near death experiences, we often hear about the “light at the end of the tunnel.” It turns out that’s not just for the dying. Those who survive, people in grief like me and my pack, we look for that light at the end of our own proverbial tunnels. Sometimes we think we see it but it goes out. Sometimes we actually see it and it’s really there, like the horizon 30 minutes before sunrise, we reach for it, desperately hoping to turn up an imaginary dimmer switch.
Sometimes we move ahead too soon. Like the Susan G Komen event I went to yesterday. Too soon for all that positivity and all those survivors. “99% survival rates” blasted over speakers by people like my Annie of 2011. I blew the horn for the 5K and blew to the car, skipping the rest of the races. So happy for all those survivors, so desperately wishing for faster deliverance from my despair. Needing a fresh hit of that sweet, forbidden light. Other times we run ahead in the tunnel, delighted to breath the fresh air, drinking it in and bathing in it, injecting ourselves with the future. It tastes so sweet that we don’t want to return to the tunnel where we still belong.
The challenge for me is about prioritizing, sorting and preserving the memories. How to filter them, keep some, let others go. Keep enough that I don’t lose her, but let enough go that I’m not carrying her like an elephant on my back. I can’t live in a museum or shrine to her — living amidst the pictures, videos and relationships dedicated to the preservation of her Wonderful Life. I hate the feel of her sand slipping between my fingers and trailing behind me as I trod on, as I inch towards the light at the end of my own tunnel. That feels disrespectful, yet I know otherwise. The light tells me so. My pack reinforces it.
Eight weeks out and I know the light is there. I have seen enough of it to be sure, it is a good pain killer. It now tugs at me, dangerously whispering that if I have some I’ll feel better. Despite my addiction, I know, in my intellectual heart, that I can’t start racing towards it. I have to trod forward, backtrack when necessary, occasionally leapfrog forward for some joy . . . but not hurry there. As our pack metabolizes our grief in our tunnels, the light becomes less about pain killing and more about hope. Our glasses are getting more half full.
So it will be for me and my pack of light junkies.
Mothers Day, 2014
|Posted May 11th, 2014 by|
It took some time for me to make this entry in the Project Pink Diary, as if, by letting Ann’s last diary stand, I could pretend for a moment, that she was already at work on her next entry. In the weeks, months, and years to come we will keep Ann’s positive spirit alive on this page. It is our challenge to ourselves, affirmed by Ann’s husband Sandy. –Linda
This is an excerpt from the eulogy Sandy delivered at Ann’s Celebration of Life:
Annie’s casket was made by Mike Fields, one of the most
unselfish demonstrations of love I’ve ever seen, and we left it
unfinished so we can finish it with our love today. Sometime
before you leave, go see it, grab a sharpie and tell her why you
love her. I figured that would be better than lacquer or stain.
This week has been about sharing in Annie’s memory. A
serious, collective celebration of her life. My goal here today
isn’t to heal, isn’t even to preach. I will meet you where you
are – and, I know, this is a tough place to meet. I want to share
my perspective on the wonderful woman I married in 1997 in
Shrewsbury, MA. But, I am not going to blow sunshine up all
these pretty dresses and tell you everything is going to be okay,
blather on about how the hurt will pass. That will take care
of itself in time. As we did last night in her Irish Wake, we are
going celebrate, remember, and I hope to give us all some tools
to carry her spirit forward.
Let’s start with something fun. So much of Ann was just her
spirit. Even when her body left her, her spirit fought on. And
we all want to capture that spirit and soak it up . . . that’s why
we’re here. So, let’s actually do that. Put your hands in front
of you, drop the best parts of her into it. Now on the count
of three, let’s toss the contents of our hands into the air. And
when we do it, let’s all reach up and grab some, and place over
our hearts. Now you get everybody else’s piece of Ann, too.
And you can take that with you.
Born outside Boston in 1965, raised in Shrewsbury, MA.
Attended Boston College and Emerson for graduate studies.
We met in the Maine State House while she was on the news
beat, fell in love, married, had two fabulous kids and lived in
Maine until moving to CA in 2008. She was a great journalist,
but never comfortable covering the murder and mayhem
that was required of a beat reporter. I still remember well the
night she camped out to speak with the poorly treated Spanish
workers of an egg farm in rural Maine. She knew it was good
journalism, but hated it. She wanted to tell stories of strength
and humor – stories that made people smile.
And I could talk about her full life up to 2002, had she
been struck by lightning I could have given her eulogy
then and it would have a fabulous life. By then we had two
amazing children and that, in itself, remains our greatest
But in 2003/4 she got cancer, but she also got new meaning.
She found herself in new and important ways. In fact, it’s a big
part of why we are all here. Ann and Linda Pattillo put together
The Breast Cancer Diaries and traveled the country sharing it
with audiences. It has since traveled the world, been translated
into new languages, and even today has legs which are truly
In 2008 we moved to California, in part at least, to heal
emotionally from the treatments but also to find her some
space. And in that healing process, in this new land of
opportunity, she found voice . . . . as well as her favorite place.
It is where she decided to write and self-publish Pink Tips and
make it available on Amazon, where she wrote a One-Woman-
Show, where she found her soul mates. It is where the non-
profit Project Pink began to come alive.
Sure, breast cancer killed her. But didn’t it also save her? Ann
found her lost voice through cancer. And here in Davis, she
found an un-biased audience for her heart.
Let’s face it: Ann could be drawn like an emotional moth to
the most tragic of flames, she sought out the most difficult
moments, captured them, embraced them, spoke through
them and to them. She cried when she saw the homeless.
She hurt watching old people struggle. She had emotional
transparency, depths of highs and lows, that even now astonish
Lows, and HIGHs.
How many of us will remember her
contagious laugh, the silliness, the margaritas, the last minute
texted invites to drinks and potluck dinner at the Paiges where
everybody showed up? Everybody showed up.
So Annie will lie in rest here in Davis, the place she was
happiest during her life. And in the most fitting closure, she will
rest in a plot at the feet of an 8 year old boy she never knew,
but with whom she shared the deepest, most personal love.
It is so tempting to be drawn in to the chasm of darkness that is
our sadness and grief today. And, perhaps because we had so
long to prepare, she knew this would happen to us . . . and she
gave us guidance – through her actions and words. I want to
share them, I want to give us some tools to carry forward.
Tool 1: Show Up
This one is the first and it is also the hardest. Even Ann, who
did this better than anybody, was not perfect at it. But she will
lay to rest with at least this on her gravestone. Show up. It
means more than it seems, take the phrase apart over time
and you’ll hear more and more meaning in it. It’s not simply a
question of being physically present, in some ways that’s easy.
Showing up is emotionally risky, it can make you vulnerable,
but it will always make you stronger. Try it in your marriage.
Use it in your friendships. Use it in your work. You will never,
ever go wrong by showing up. Meeting people where they are
emotionally. Showing up means trying to do the hard stuff.
You don’t have to do it right every single time, there’s always
tomorrow, but it means you show up whenever you can.
Christopher … you are already showing up. I have never
been prouder of you than over the last 10 days. You have
opened your heart to the world, with square shoulders and big
embrace, wiping tears and helping friends and family cope. And
you are just 14. Keep showing up like this and you will make
mom and me very, very proud.
Tool 2: Half Full
This is from Ellie, who held out longer than anybody for a
miracle and reminded me so many times that I needed to see
mom’s fight glass as still half full. And I cherish that love and
that optimism more than anything. Thank you for being so
So today, and tomorrow . . . and forever more . . . when you
grab a glass of wine or beer or juice or water, fill it half full. See
the top half, the one that appears so empty, see it with our
spiritual pixie bouncing around the inside, challenging you to
see the top half as opportunity, not emptiness.
Annie got a terminal cancer diagnosis 3.5 years ago, but lived
her life half full to the end. 48 hours before her death, when
she couldn’t stand without somebody on each arm, she could
barely form words anymore, but the words she formed that day
were “TAKE ME TO SPIN CLASS AT FITHOUSE.” She could barely
stand. She could barely speak. But she could still dance. Her
glass, more than anybody’s on this green, was nearly empty. Or
The volunteers pouring wine, water, lemonade and beer behind
you are instructed to fill the glasses half full. Start practicing
Tool 3: Walk in Ann’s shoes
So . . . Ann had a bit of a shoe problem. Of course, like most
addicts, she did not see it as a problem. As her therapist on this
issue, I should have been fired, disbarred, my license revoked. I
failed in my interventions and the addiction continued.
I really want us all to walk in her shoes – figuratively, of course.
Think about how hard it was to do what she did. We called her
Superwoman, but she had no superpowers. She put one foot
in front of the other, pants on one leg at a time. What am I
asking? To the doctors in the crowd, walk in your patient’s
shoes. To the lawyers, be your client’s true advocate. To the
teachers, feeling that child’s pain, struggling with Geometry.
Walk in their shoes.
And . . . if you are a size 6.5 or 7, why don’t you ACTUALLY do
it. On the way out, there are about 50 pairs of Ann’s shoes.
I invite you to take a pair, just one pair, for yourself or for a
daughter or granddaughter whom you know they will fit. But
they really need to fit. Not just in the foot, but also in the heart.
This isn’t an opportunity to collect a piece of Ann, because
it comes with responsibility. These shoes are like the ruby
slippers in the Wizard of Oz. You may only wear them to do
good works. You must explicitly be thinking of Annie and doing
something for others.
And because not everybody is a size 6.5, if you’d like to come
as close as you can to Annie’s shoes, visit The Wardrobe in
downtown Davis. Heather and her friends will find something
for you, as close to Annie’s tastes as possible in shoes, hats
or the many other things which Annie loved in Heather’s
shop. And when you buy something in Annie’s memory at the
Wardrobe, some of the proceeds will help Project Pink.
But your obligation doesn’t just stop with wearing the shoes
and doing good work . . . you must tell others about what you
did. Write on FB, tweet about it. Call me. Call others. You can
have a pair of her ruby slippers if you promise to wear them in
her honor, share the good works you do. Find your tin man . . .
and give him life.
Walk in her shoes.
Tool 4: Wear her ring.
Our marriage was always public property. From our first date,
when we couldn’t have dinner without being mobbed, to the
documentary when I returned home to find a video camera
in the corner of our bedroom. To the blog I opened at work
one day . . . where she wrote about dragging me to a marriage
therapist. I knew that publicity was the price of admission to
The day we got engaged on Togue Pond in Baxter State Park
in northern Maine, I was not prepared. I had no ring. I had
something more important, though, I had Veuve Cliquot. So
we celebrated, and I slipped off to the woodshed. I took my
leatherman and pulled a nail from a piece of kindling and
formed a crude ring. She wore it. And she cherished it. And she
is wearing it now.
But not before I had a cast of it made – and some sterling
silver poured into it. We got an exact replica. Last week, in her
final hours, I slipped sterling silver copies on her fingers and
gave them to Christopher and Ellie the moment she passed.
They wear them now, too. And this week I gave sterling silver
copies of that ring to some of her closest friends. But that’s not
enough. The public property of our successful marriage offers
another opportunity, perhaps a glass half full. I want you all to
share in that cast, the cast sits in the safe at DeLuna’s Jewelers
here in Davis. She was tough as nails. And you can be too.
So if you want to share in it, go to DeLuna Jewelers in Davis.
Or call them. Tell them you want a copy of Ann’s nail ring,
tell them how you’d like to use it. They have the cast and
permission to use it – to fill it with anything other than sterling
silver. The silver is only for us. Try platinum for your wife. Try
the special allow for your second grade teacher. Try 10 or 14
carat gold. Have them make you rings, necklaces and earrings
from her nail ring and some of the benefits will fall to Project
Ann was tough as nails – and a sterling silver friend. You can
be, too. Just drop by or call DeLuna’s, ask about Ann’s nail ring.
They’ll find a way for you to share in her beauty.
Honestly, one of the beauties of Annie was she had a purity to
her. Almost naivete in her willingness to trust, to embrace and
to join with others. And in her humility, she underestimated
herself, always. I am certain she is as overwhelmed by the
response over the last week as I am. The calls, texts, emails and
tears from around the globe have proven her reach to be far
more extensive than any of us knew.
It is often that you don’t know what you had until it is gone.
This is just not one of those times, is it?. We know very well
what’s missing. And that’s why it’s so darn hard. So let’s
not wallow in our grief. Let’s fight for her, not just Ann the
individual, but the Ann the spiritual pixie, Ann’s values, Ann’s
soul. And in doing so, we’ll get some emotional and spiritual
justice from this tragedy and we’ll carry her forward on our
shoulders, in our shoes, in our glasses, or on our fingers. This
week, and last night, the Davis community has joined hands,
simply refusing the let the memory of Annie fade. Time will do
what it must, but we will do our part to maintain the splendor
of her legacy.
What can you do?
You can Show Up.
You can keep your glass Half Full.
You can walk in her Shoes.
And you can wear her Ring.
I dare you – I DARE you — to see if it won’t improve your life,
and the lives of those around you, forever.
We love you, Annie. We won’t forget, I promise.
Donations to Project Pink can be sent to:
245 N. Highland Ave.
|Posted April 3rd, 2014 by|