Most all of us have experienced it at one time or another. You're out enjoying a nice birthday dinner and suddenly six waiters in sombreros, carrying a slice of cake ablaze with candles,  gather round your table, clapping and singing "Happy Birthday!"   It's embarrasing. It's sweet. Mortifying. Aw, gosh, it's nice to be celebrated. But get me the hell out of here.

Being a cancer survivor on a Walk for the Cure is a bit like that, only way more surreal.

There are dozens of these walks, mostly for breast cancer, and now that it's spring, calls to participate are rolling in. Komen Walks, Avon Walks, American Cancer Society Walks and Other Walks Galore. 

 I’ve walked in a couple of them. You pay to register and get a T-shirt, a bag full of pink ribbon loot and, if you’ve had breast cancer, extra special recognition for still being alive. We survivors are herded together and applauded by people who dye their hair and their dog’s fur pink, people in teams with names like Kitty’s Titties and Barbie’s Brave Boobies, all out for a good cause on a happy, sunny day.

In one walk we were given a pink and white sash, ala Miss America, and safety pins to attach the sash to our Breast Cancer Walk T-shirts. In another, the T-shirt itself was distinctive, with “Survivor” written across the chest.  We also got a pink survivor hat and at the end of the walk, special Olympic-style medallions hanging on thick grosgrain ribbons.

I don’t know how to think about all this. On the one hand, yes, I am grateful to be alive, and to celebrate life every day in big and little ways. On the other hand, wearing on the back of the “survivor” T-shirt a paper sign that says “In Memory Of,” with a list of loved ones no longer living because of this disease, felt a bit like a creepy metaphor for leaving their memories behind.

Those of us lucky enough to still be living after one, two or more bouts of cancer and its attendant bodily slicing, poisoning, skewering and frying are just that – lucky. It doesn’t mean we’ve “won,” or that we’ve been through more than anyone else who’s suffered any of a vast array of painful experiences life may offer at any time.

There’s so much festive hoopla at these walks, I felt guilty for having these “negative” thoughts, and guiltier still when I got caught up in the rah-rah mood.  Some breast cancer walks are like county fairs -- music, balloons, booths with pink ribbon everything you can imagine:  dog kibble, yogurt, granola bars, insurance plans, key chains, sweat suits, jewelry, golf clubs, athletic shoes, breakfast cereal.

 If the cost of embossing and emblazoning pink ribbons on all this merchandise went directly to researchers dedicated to finding a cure, would one be found faster?  I can’t help but wonder.

I tip my pink baseball cap to all the volunteers and organizers of walks, races and other fundraisers aimed at ending a disease that afflicts the lives of some 207,000 women and 1,900 men in this country a year. It’s heartening to see people gathering outdoors by the thousands in order to “do something” to benefit a cause. And nobody’s better at promoting their cancer cause than breast cancer survivors. There’s no walk that I know of to support either of the cancers that killed my parents or the cancer that took three of my very close friends. If there were, would it make a difference?  

To support my sister survivors and those who will follow us, I write checks directly to organizations with a single focus on ending the disease of breast cancer.  I work on a hotline for women who are newly diagnosed, scared, or confused and ill treated by our health care system. When it comes to walking, though, this year I’ll be on the beach, looking forward to another birthday.