Why We Walk
Sammi Van Ausdle & Boone
Cancer doesn't care. It doesn't care if you have a village, if you can afford to miss work, if your kids live hundreds of miles away, or if your life has room for appointments, surgeries, and treatment. Cancer doesn't ask permission. It just shows up.
But here's the thing about dogs: they don't care either. They don't care if you're sick or bald, how much money you have, or whether you're having the worst day of your life. They just love you.
Cancer is indiscriminate in the worst possible way. Dogs love us indiscriminately in the best possible way.
And somewhere between those two truths, Barks for Boobs was born.
I grew up in Alameda, in the kind of community where your village extends a lot further than the people you see every day. I don't think I fully understood that until my mom was diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer this year.
When people found out, they showed up. Our closest friends and family were there, of course. But then childhood friends and their parents reached out offering meals, former teachers checked in, and care packages arrived at our doorsteps. People I hadn't spoken to in years asked about my mom - and asked how I was doing with her diagnosis.
I've felt a lot of anger through all of this. Angry that it isn't fair. Angry that I live hundreds of miles away. Angry that I can't be there for my mom in all the ways I want to.
But while I was focused on all the ways I couldn't show up, I watched the people around her do exactly that. Somewhere along the way, I realized I could take some of that anger, helplessness, and love and use it to show up for someone else.
I could show up, too.
Rescue dogs have always been part of our family's village. Dino, Max, Faith, and Boone have been beside us through different chapters of our lives—making us laugh, licking our tears, and curling up beside us when we need them most.
So I decided to bring two things I care deeply about together: helping families affected by breast cancer and helping rescue animals find families of their own. And, because I can't sit still, I planned a walk.
Barks for Boobs started with my family's story, but I don't want it to end there.
I want to take some of the love our family has been lucky enough to receive and pass it on—to fund research that gives families more time with the people they love, help rescue animals find homes, and make someone else's village a little bigger.
So that's why we walk. For the people we love. For the ones we've never met. And, of course, for the dogs.
Susan G. Komen 3-Day Walk October 2009
My Dad’s Story
My dad's first battle with cancer was in college, when he was barely younger than I am now. He was diagnosed with spindle cell sarcoma, and the odds were stacked against him. His doctors told him to get his affairs in order.
He fought anyway. And, more importantly, he won.
Growing up, he made it clear that he never took that second chance for granted. He coached others through their own diagnoses, raised money for cancer research, and even walked all 60 miles of the Susan G. Komen 3-Day through San Francisco—in a pink tutu I picked out for him.
He spent weekends training for that walk, and I would ride alongside him on my Razor scooter. Being the smartass he is, my dad joked that my legs were going to end up disproportionate because I refused to alternate which one I used to push.
Looking back, there's something pretty special about knowing that some of my favorite childhood memories with my dad were made during the miles he walked to help give other families more time with the people they love.
My Mom’s Story
This spring, cancer became part of our family's story again when my mom was diagnosed with Stage III breast cancer.
Before she even had her first surgery, she had 19 appointments. Yes, first surgery. Since then, she's endured three more surgeries, a week in the hospital with sepsis, and now chemo. After everything she's already been through, this is still only step one of four.
From 700 miles away, it felt like there was so much I couldn't do for her. I can't be at every appointment. I can't sit beside her through every infusion. And I certainly can't make any of it go away.
But in the middle of an overwhelming list of things I couldn't do, the people who could show up for her, did.
Friends and family brought meals, gave rides, rearranged schedules, and stepped in wherever they could. Aunties made sure I wasn't alone while my mom was in surgery. Friends offered airline miles and even sent me flights so I could be with her. Again and again, our people have made something incredibly hard just a little easier.
In a time filled with so much uncertainty, we have never felt more loved or supported.
And that love has made me think constantly about the people who don't have a village like ours. The person hearing a diagnosis alone, without a sister or son beside them taking notes. The person sitting through chemo without a husband waiting with a maple bar. The daughter hundreds of miles away who desperately wants to get home but can't afford the flight or take the time off. The families trying to navigate treatment alongside work, bills, and all the other responsibilities that don't stop just because cancer shows up.
I don't know what the months ahead will bring. But I do know that every ride, every meal, every flight, every phone call, and every person who has simply been there has made these last few months feel a little less impossible.
To our village: thank you.
