Dusk is my least favorite part of the day. As a morning person who loves to see the world come alive with the sun painting pinks, blues, yellows, and sometimes even green across the morning sky, seeing the day end is always slightly sad. Not that a sunset isn’t gorgeous in its own right, mind you. They have their own special beauty, but that time after the sun has gone down and before the stars come out is always a bit depressing.

There was a time when I loved dusk. I was little, and the whole world was my playground. I spent whole days running through the pastures of my grandparents’ farm, terrorizing the barn cats, swinging on a splinter-filled wood swing, and (quite dangerously) exploring sink holes at the back of the property.

Despite all those wonderfully long, gorgeous summer days, the moments I remember fondly aren’t the sunrises when I woke to the smell of my Grandma cooking bacon and making biscuits from scratch or the searing, comforting heat of the Kentucky summer sun as I got sunburnt yet again while playing hide and seek with my cousins.

Instead, it was dusk: that now hated time.

Then, dusk was not the end of another day filled with midterms and stress about my future after graduation; it was the hour of lightning bugs.

Their lights would start slowly: first one, then another. They appeared like magic every few minutes just as the sun sank below the horizon. And then, they’d all light up at once. The pastures were full of them, and my Granddaddy, the man who always reminded me to value life more than anyone, would hand all of the grandchildren a mason jar and set us loose on the fields.

We’d gather our little balls of light into jars, using them to light our way back to the porch where we excitedly told whatever fairy tales we had concocted on the walk, and my Granddaddy would take us on his lap and listen to every single one.

I don’t get much time to enjoy dusk anymore.

On a typical night, I’m rushing from meeting to meeting or longing for my Mom’s cooking as I prepare yet another BLT for dinner. Amongst all the stress, I forget to stop and observe the quiet peacefulness of dusk and remember my Granddaddy’s comforting voice as I told one childish tale after another. But sometimes, I’ll catch a firefly lighting up the night sky out of the corner of my eye, and suddenly, I’m seven years old again.

The world is a magical land filled with happy dusks and adventures through a country field, and all is well, if for only just a moment, amongst the craziness of my college kid life.

“It’s the size of a grapefruit.”

I imagined the bitter, fleshy pink fruit. In my mind’s eye the fruit sat, covered in layer of white, granular sugar, untouched with a silver spoon gleaming beside it. My trance dissipated like a curling cloud of smoke as I listened to my mother’s voice through the phone.

“It doesn’t look good,” she murmured.

I knew it was too late. It was too big. It wasn’t caught soon enough. It was a tumor, and it was draining my last surviving grandparent of her life.

The air was hot and humid, with the smell of food simmering on the stove. It was the kind of air that makes you feel like just one breath could give you a mouthful of whatever was cooking. I walked further into my oma’s kitchen and peered into the bubbling pot on the stove. With her giant spin in her hand, she wagged it towards me as she asked, “Hungry?” with her mouth pulled back into a sly grin.

She already knew the answer; no one could resist her spaetzle dumplings, dripping with browned butter. I gave her a long hug, pressed against the cool silk of the draping mumu that provided her a sort of sanctuary in the hot kitchen. Then I took the heaping plate.

“Wait, so how far along is she? Like, how advanced is it,” I questioned, still in shock, still hoping.

“Honey, she’s very sick.”

“Should I come home? Is it bad?”

“If you can, I think you should come…” To say goodbye?

It wasn’t said, but then again it didn’t have to be. The short exchange, now seared into my memory, was enough to tell me everything I needed to know. Tears began to well in my eyes, salty and stinging as they ran down my face. The cold night air rested on my tear-stained cheeks like a cold kiss, the dark silhouettes of buildings forming a voyeuristic audience to my grief. Almost shocked by the sound of my sobs, I went back to my apartment and feel into my bed.

“Hoopah-radah-ridah-da-felda-in-da-craada. Oops, there goes the baby in-da-craada.”

Memories of lullabies from a foreign land, dripping with harsh German enunciations, dance through my mind as I look at photos of my grandmother, cradling me as a baby. She was there, gazing down at my thick, black hair, my closed eyes, my rosebud lips, cherishing the simplicity of my total innocence. But now I’m here, cradling this photo of her, observing her in her youth. I take notice of her dark hair that’s so much like my own, and her air of seriousness that seems to radiate from the glossy image.

I can’t help but to pause and think of the authority of time.

It never stops—an infallible machine that never needs greasing or turning, wrenching or polishing. Who takes care of time? It certainly doesn’t take care of us. I wondered how long it took for the cancer to metastasize to form the massive tumor, situated atop my oma’s liver. How many seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, it took for the malignant mass to form, and for the cancer to stake its claim.

It took three hours to drive back to Rome, straight to the hospital, when my last class ended on Friday. My mother came to the lobby, to bring me to the sterile hospital room, where my grandmother lay surrounded by family. My mother whispered in my ear, “She doesn’t have long. I didn’t realize she would go this quickly…”

I nodded, and then neared the hospital bed, the ambient lighting casting a glow on my oma’s pale skin. I reached out to touch her hand, still as lovely as it had always been. I heard my aunt murmur, “She’s always had beautiful skin, hasn’t she?” I gazed down at her fingers, interlaced with mine. Over fifty years my senior and little differed between ours, besides my slightly darker complexion.

I gripped her hand a little firmer, feeling the warmth it radiated, wondering if I could feel the blood pulsing through her veins if I was still enough.

Of course, she didn’t stir from her sedated state, propped on her side as to avoid pressing on the painful tumor. All I could do was stare at her, sleeping so peacefully, only the slightest signs of her regular breaths. Inhaling and exhaling, her chest mimicked the ocean tides, and I felt soothed for a little while.

The hardest part wasn’t the funeral. It wasn’t the process of cleaning out her home, full of memories from my youth. It wasn’t that seeing my oma’s twin sister when she came to town was like seeing a ghost. It was saying goodbye to her, in that dimly lit hospital room, knowing that it was the last time. It’s an eerie thing, saying your last goodbyes to someone who is still alive. So unnatural and shocking it seemed to me at the time that I couldn’t utter a simple goodbye out loud.

I turned to my family who watched me as I stood by the hospital bed, and sobbed, “I can’t do it. I can’t say goodbye…” But what I could do was hold her hand, and I did.

This is why I relay.

So that no one else has to feel the pain of saying goodbye, for the last time, to loved one dying of cancer. I relay because cancer has gone too far. It’s taken one too many wonderful beings from this world. For all those who are battling cancer, know someone who is battling cancer, or hope that they will never have either of these connections: I’m implore you to direct your passion to this cause. Whatever your motives are, everyone who relays has the same goal—to beat cancer.

We can.

She found the lump.

She was told it was breast cancer and that it needed to be removed. The lumpectomy did the job, and she was considered cancer free shortly thereafter.

At age forty-eight, it must be empowering to look cancer in the face and give it the finger. It must be harder when twelve years down the road, it comes knocking angrily at your door again. The breast cancer was more aggressive this time, and a lumpectomy simply was not sufficient. The cancer had spread and more extreme measures needed to be taken.

She would need to undergo a mastectomy, a surgery that would take away part of what we consider our womanhood. But if we’re being honest, she handled it like a champ, and she was once again considered cancer free.

They say the third time is the charm.

The cancer was back and pretty pissed off that she had beaten it not once, but twice.

It had spread to her other breast and she knew this meant a double mastectomy. We had never seen her so frail and fragile, but never once did her will power and audacity cease.

Doctors say my Nana is a very rare case. Being diagnosed with breast cancer three times over the course of fifteen years, and beating it every time, is unheard of. She once told me, “It’s not the obstacles you face, but how you overcome them.”

Persevering through the loss of both of her breasts, rounds of radiation, chemotherapy, and the loss of her hair, she not only inspired me to get involved with organizations that support finding a cure, but also to live by that quote each and every day.

Breast cancer awareness is obviously something that is near and dear to my heart. It is astounding that about one in eight women in the United States will develop invasive breast cancer over the course of her lifetime.

Courageous, spirited, independent, and strong are just a few words I would use to describe my Nana. But these words describe all cancer survivors. It’s our job to support them and raise awareness and funds so that we can eliminate the “C” word forever.

The summer before my sophomore year of college, I took my dad to his annual colonoscopy.

As he was waking up from under his anesthesia, the nurses called me back to see him, where he was in a room with other patients waking up from their procedures. My mom had warned me that morning that his Parkinson’s disease would make him take longer to wake up.

I was joking with him about how groggy he was when the doctor came in. The doctor sat me down and said, “It doesn’t look good. It’s probably cancer. Once your dad is more awake, I want to meet with both of you in my office,” but all I heard was “CANCER.”

Cancer had already had a huge impact on my life.

I watched as it took three of my friends’ parents, one of my high school classmates, and other cousins and aunts. I was numb. That day we scheduled scans for the next week and more doctor appointments.

The doctor said he wanted to go ahead and do everything they could as soon as possible, so we did. Dad had scans done that confirmed he did indeed have colon cancer, and it had already spread to his liver. Doctors removed the cancerous part of his colon. Then he went through countless rounds of chemo to decrease the size of the cancerous spots on his liver so the cancerous part of his liver could be removed with more surgery.

That summer, my family became much closer. I had always been a daddy’s girl, but while I was in high school, we argued a lot. After his cancer diagnosis, we definitely grew closer again. I enjoyed being a part of my dad’s recovery: spending the nights with him at the hospital and going to his chemo appointments.

My dad completed more chemotherapy treatments, just in time so that he could be finished for our trip to Daytona Beach. But as soon as we returned home, the doctor told us that Dad’s cancer wasn’t gone. There were still some spots on his liver, so he went through more rounds of chemo and some radiation.

The cancerous spots decreased in size but haven’t completely gone away yet. He just finished his third round of treatments three years after his cancer diagnosis. After watching him endure so many rounds of chemo and radiation, eventually I started to feel a little frustrated.

I kept thinking why does it have to be my dad?

Why couldn’t I have been one of those people whose family was totally unaffected by cancer?

This fall, my grandfather was also diagnosed with colon cancer. He took chemo pills and went through radiation.

My family thought that since we had already gone through so much chemo and radiation with my dad, we would know what to expect with my grandfather’s treatments. However, instead of really helping, his chemo and radiation treatments just seemed to hurt him more.

After numerous hospitalizations and a COPD diagnosis, Hospice moved my grandfather into my parents’ home. Over spring break, I got to come home and spend lots of time with him. During that week, he really perked up and stood up for the first time in almost two months.

My parents started to talk about the possibility of taking him out of Hospice because it really looked like he was going to get better. I left home the last Sunday of spring break and kissed my grandfather goodbye and he told me to “look out for the car behind the car in front of you” like he always did.

I was planning on coming back home just two weeks later to celebrate Easter with my family, so I didn’t think much of our goodbye that day. Just three days later, my grandfather passed away.

My sophomore year, I joined UGA Relay For Life soon after my dad’s first cancer diagnosis. Relay gave me a way to help in his fight against cancer. As an executive board member of Relay this year, I have become friends with so many others whose lives have been affected by this terrible disease. Many have lost family members to cancer and yet continue to fight for a future without cancer.

For a long time, I felt helpless against cancer. I can’t help but think that if my grandfather had just lived two weeks longer, I could have said a real goodbye to him. I Relay for that two weeks.

I Relay so that one day some girl can have two more weeks with her grandfather because I know how much that time would mean to me.

What is your most valuable resource?

Some answers might vary to scarce resources like coal or oil or natural gas, some might say money, some might say people. I say time.

Everyone has the same amount but everyone uses theirs differently. You cannot exchange it or return it.

You cannot go back. You cannot go forward. Once it is gone, it’s gone. I think time is the most valuable thing people can spend. I think so many people use time as a crutch instead of a tool. If you use your time with resentment or envy, you’ll be disappointed. But if you cherish it and spend it in a positive light, I really do think you will live a fuller life. I compare my freshman year of college versus my senior year of college.

Freshman year I had all the time in the world. How did I spend it? Going out late, catching up on sleep the next day, watching movies, mindlessly playing on my phone. Now here I am a senior wondering if I had more hours in the day as a freshman. Yes this is due to the fact that I got more involved, but I just cherish my time so much more now. I think the past few years have shed light on how valuable of a resource time really is.

UGA Relay For Life has been a major factor in this. My friend found out her dad had stage 4 cancer a while back.

He died just recently.

I cannot wrap my mind around that because it is so hard to imagine. You hear horror stories of it all the time, but it is not until it personally effects you that you begin to take notice. I think it is so sad that it takes something like this for people to realize how important our cause is and why we do what we do.

This is when it really hits home.

That is the thing about time. You cannot borrow time. You cannot gain any more time. It expires everyday. What you do in that span is so important because it is a day you will never get back.

Coach Joni Taylor, the head Women’s Basketball Coach at the University of Georgia, came to speak at an exec meeting and I will never forget what she said. She stated, “if you are still thinking about what you did yesterday then you have not done enough today.”

That really struck me. I used to make to do lists with things I wanted to accomplish and I would just say “If I can just make it through today, I’ll be good. Tomorrow I can rest and relax.” And while I do think it is important to take a break from this stressful time of life, I think it is important to keep moving forward and to keep pushing yourself. I hate when people say “I don’t have time.” There is a difference between not having time and not making time.

If there is one thing I learned throughout my three and a half years at Georgia so far, it is to make the time. If you commit to something, make sure you make the time. If someone asks for help, make the time.

Don’t cancel plans. Don’t flake. Spend time with friends and family. Spend time with teachers. Spend time with classmates. Support your friends’ causes and efforts. I’ve learned that just making the effort and making the time goes a long way. I think making people realize how valuable a resource time is is tricky because it is not necessarily tangible. You can’t do anything with it but spend it. You just have to choose what you spend it on.

In my last few months here in Athens, I devote myself to not wasting a minute of my time when it could be spent towards something much more meaningful.

Cancer… That disgusting, evil, dreadful, horrifying, life-changing disease that affects each and every one of us in some way or another.

Why does it exist? I am not really sure. But I do know for sure that we must stand up and battle it until the day that it no longer exists. My very close friend of two years has been battling Stage 4 Liver Cancer for about five years now.

First meeting her, I would have never known she was fighting such a horrible disease because of the smile that she never lets slip away from her face. That smile makes coming back to college after every break only that much harder.

Back in early October, life seemed to be going pretty smooth for her.

She was living the life of a normal nineteen year old. She attended all of her brother’s high school football games and all of the big events in town. She was not letting her cancer affect her in any way.

Then one morning, I got the call that she was being rushed to a hospital an hour from home due to some major complications. I will never forget answering that call in class and completely losing it. I debated on walking out of class to make the five hour drive home to be with her, but I did not know if I was strong enough to get behind the wheel of the car. Until… I got a phone call from her begging me to leave class to come be by her side.

Without hesitation, I took off.

The drive to the hospital was probably the longest drive of my life. There were a million thoughts running through my head, thoughts of overcoming and thoughts of pure sadness. I was not sure if I would make it in time to give my friend that one last hug. I was not sure if I would make it in time to let her know how much I love her.

Thankfully, I arrived at the hospital with a red face and swollen eyes and sprinted to her room. Only to find my friend with that same smile on her face that makes it hard to go back to college after every break. That smile that brings so much joy to my heart. I wondered how she was able to carry this smile while being literally two hemoglobin levels away from death.

I was a bit frustrated with myself because I knew that my sadness and fear was radiating, yet all she wanted was happiness. After arriving at the hospital Tuesday, I did not leave her side until we walked out together with discharge papers in hand and a smile on her face.

Needless to say, her battle with cancer is not over yet. But the moral of this story is to never let your smile slip away from your face. My friend is battling some of the nastiest stuff on this planet, yet she still finds a way to let that smile shine. She can be in the most pain and be filled with so much fear, but she lets that smile shine.

Look into every situation for the positive. For when you can take that view on life, your smile will radiate. It is not just a smile that people see. It is a smile that affects people. It changes people to realize all that they have and to find greatness in the most troubling situations. Be the light of the world by smiling a contagious smile today.

Who knows, that one small smile could change the life of someone who really needs it.

We live in a day and age where it’s difficult to find someone who’s life hasn’t been affected by cancer in some way. Unfortunately, like many others, I can’t remember the point in my life where cancer wasn’t in my vocabulary.

From a young age I have been exposed this disease that has robbed me and my family of so many memories with the ones we love. It became all too real in high school, when my best friend was sleeping over on school nights while her parents were away in Mexico on experimental chemotherapy trips to attack her father’s colon cancer.

It became all too real when my aunt was asking us to come visit to explain her terminal diagnosis in person, rather than over the phone. It became all too real when my cousin, and built in field trip chaperone, was told that only 3 hospitals on the east coast would even look at his case because it was so rare and unexplored.

It became too real when the man who knew how to light up a room with his belly laugh was told he had throat cancer that barely allowed him to speak at most points during his treatment. It all became too real, and too unbearable at a speed that took my anxiety to a whole new level.

Every time the phone rang, my heart sank into my stomach wondering if it would be an update that would change everything. I lived my life in fear of what cancer was taking from my loved ones.

Day in and day out, I couldn’t find solace that I was away at college and unable to help, even though all I could do was miniscule in compared to their daily fights against this horrible disease.

And then I found Relay For Life at Virginia Tech.

As a confused little freshman, I joined a random person’s team (shoutout to my now BFF), and arrived at the rainy and chilly event, unsure of what to expect of the night. I knew there was music, food, and community, but I didn’t expect to find the comfort my soul so desperately needed.

As I heard others speak about their battles with cancer, the loss of their loved ones, their continuing bouts, my eyes were gently opened to all that I could do to help. Even from hundreds of miles away, I could do something that would help change someone’s life.

Here I am, 3 Relays later, 2 committee families created, and one final Relay For Life at Virginia Tech approaching, and I am at a loss for words to express how much this organization has given to me. Opportunities to stray far outside my comfort zone, to not settle for mediocrity, and to express all the love I feel inside of me for the wonderful members of the executive team and committee of Relay For Life at Virginia Tech.

A Relay friendship is unlike any other. It is created on the basis that we’ve all been hurt by the whirlwind of cancer in our lifetimes, and while that hurt is immense, we can counter it with hard work and determination to make our event successful and spread the mission of the American Cancer Society.

In every event we put on or Cookout milkshake we eat, we bond a little more, learn a little more about each other, and eventually fill some of the hurting void that cancer left with a friendship that will last a lifetime. I find myself at a loss for words to explain what these friendships mean to me and I’m continually thankful for all the twisted paths that brought us all together.

I am thankful to Relay this year in memory of my Aunt Marilyn and Rich Conklin, in honor of my cousin Terry Carson, and in celebration of Jere O’Brien kicking cancer’s ass this year.