Pink balloons and pink tablecloths were everywhere and there, in all that pinkness, were women of all ages — and girls who were not women yet, but someday would be.

Women in the middle of their lives and women with new babies. Blondes, brunettes and silver-haired beauties mingled in every corner. There were mothers and daughters, grandmothers and friends. 

In that group, two women waited. The women didn’t know one another, but both were there for the same cause — one to educate and one to donate. One woman would tell a story; the other woman would put her money where her hair was.

I came that night to learn and to give. My mother, two aunts and a sister are breast cancer survivors, and I too have two daughters. Attending and wearing pink seemed the least I could do.

The first speaker walked to the microphone with slow confidence, her bright eyes sparkling under the fluorescent lights. Her hair was barely there, a soft halo in its re-growth.   

“For those of you who don’t know me, I am Angie. I grew up in this town and I have breast cancer. Tonight, I brought my mother with me. My mother had breast cancer 20 years ago.

“She is a survivor and I will be too.”

With that, the room exploded with applause, eyes already misting at the power of those first few words. From there, that group of women walked in Angie’s shoes as she relived her breast cancer story.

Angie described how the doctor called and broke the news. She matter-of-factly spoke of her treatment, her pain, her worries, her side effects and the days she stayed in bed. Tenderness filled her voice when Angie mentioned her two daughters, and how she refused to let them think that breast cancer was about dying.

As her treatment took its toll, she decided to shave her hair to prove she was still in control of what was happening to her. Angie worried her children would be upset by her shaved head, so she invited friends over and made it a “hair-shaving party.” Together, her friends and family shaved Angie’s head, laughing and joking and making it feel like the hair on the floor wasn’t there.  

Afterwards, Angie answered questions about what to say to someone with cancer and what she would change if only she could. When she was done, most in that crowd of women had silent tears on our cheeks. Before us stood a strong, beautiful woman — a daughter, a mother, a friend.  

The next woman to address the crowd was also a daughter and mother, just like Angie. But Casey didn’t have cancer. She was there because she’d made a promise, a promise she was determined to keep. For months, Casey and two friends had been raising money. They sold crafts and took on odd jobs to garner donations for breast cancer research. Casey pledged that if people supported her, she would shave her head in support of women everywhere whose hair was lost to breast cancer.

That night, Casey kept that promise. 

Wearing pink earrings, Casey sat in front of her mother, her two daughters and all the women who had come that night. As I watched her hair float to the floor, I couldn’t help but see the reality in Casey’s eyes as she looked across the room and locked eyes with Angie. Two women, two mothers, two daughters.

Two women in a room full of pink.   

It was a memorable event, a night I will never forget. Angie and Casey both celebrated the loss of their hair for reasons that were quite different. But both shared the stark reality of what that really means. Angie and Casey reminded us that breast cancer affects everyone, not just the one with the shaved head — but also our families, our daughters, our future.

After that, wearing pink just doesn’t seem enough.

You can reach Lorry at lorrysstorys@gmail.com