The light switched on.  Something seemed wrong. I opened my eyes and peered out the picture windows framing the wall across from my bed.  I was the eldest of the three Gaudiose daughters, 9 next month.  Hence, I was given the first choice of bedrooms in our old farmhouse, nestled in the gully, between rows of tall cornfields on Frecon Road.  Mine was the smallest of the four bedrooms but had three large windows across the wall opposite the bed, giving it a feeling of space and freedom.

It was a decision that surprised my parents, but even my childhood soul knew rather than a big room with a large closet, I needed to wake up in that bedroom each morning.  Lying on the bed, I could stare out the window, gaze past the large Hemlocks towering over our farmhouse like guards to a castle, up past the hill where my father had planted hundreds of daffodils, like those in his beloved Mill Creek Park, then beyond our big red barn, and into the acres of cornfields where the Gaudiose sisters had blazed secret trails and climbed haystacks, leaping between the giant rolls of earth.

I wanted, NEEDED that view. The view of adventure, waiting outside each morning, willing me out of the bed, calling me down the 100-year-old steps, so steep and narrow, one walked sideways to avoid falling, and out the kitchen door.

This time I looked out that wall of windows into the deep dark of night, seeing only the light of stars peeking out between the huge limbs of the Hemlocks.

“Teresa” …I heard my father voice saying my name quietly, “It is 4:00 am and it is time to get up”.  “I will go wake up your sisters, but you need to get dressed, you are leaving very soon”.

Experience is the ultimate teacher.  I know this now, 35 years later.  Maybe my father knew this too, or maybe he just wanted assurance that his daughters would arrive at adulthood with ‘Gaudiose Grit’.  That by surviving the school of hard knocks, even one he and his wife may have to fabricate, they would be bred with an indomitable spirit and a hidden resilience, ready to persevere when life’s inevitable challenges fell into their path. 

My father’s father grew up 100 miles away in Crabtree Pennsylvania, a village settled by hardworking Italian immigrants, those families of the 525 men working the coke ovens of Jamison Coal and Coke company. 

Martin was the youngest of 11 children in one of those determined Italian families, and at age five had the opportunity to attend Kindergarten, unlike some of his siblings who were already working to support the large family. 

The nearest school was 5 miles from their home, and if he were to attend, Martin would have to walk to school each day, even in the cold PA winter, and, as the story is told, both ways uphill of course.  Shoes were a luxury in an immigrant family, one not provided to a 5-year-old, rapidly growing boy.  Martin, eager to attend school, would make the journey each day, barefoot.

My father and his two younger brothers, Marty and Brian also walked to school each day, although their second-generation immigrant parents ensured they had shoes for the journey.  They walked the several miles each day to St. Christine school, in all four seasons of the often-severe Northwest Ohio weather.

60 years later, my sisters and I, Martin’s granddaughters, rode a heated and air-conditioned bus to school each morning, walking just the short distance from our home to wait under the protection of the bus shelter at the end of Frecon Road.

In my father’s eyes, this was unacceptable.  His daughters, carted off to school in the safety and warmth of the school bus, were missing a critical opportunity for independence, knowledge and training to confidently engage with a world full of complex challenges. 

He would rectify this immediately.  And so, he announced that early morning, that they would not be bus riders today and would be walking the 5.3 miles from their home on Frecon Road, to their elementary school, arriving before the bell rang, ushering students to settle into their classroom seats at 8:00 am.   

I turned my head away from the picture windows, and began immediately protesting this plan, reminding our father that we were already tough kids, there was no need for this conditioning to the sufferings of generations past. 

It was ridiculous for us to be up this early.  My youngest sister was only five, and school was FAR away.  Surely, he was not actually going to make us walk there.  None of my classmates had to do this, or had parents that would even consider this idea, why did we?  I listed my parents’ friends whose children attended our school and noted that exactly zero of them had felt the need for their children to walk to school to ensure they formed a connection to their heritage and the hardships faced by their earlier generations. 

“You are exactly right Teresa”.  I was immediately relived as he spoke, hoping he had come to his senses and realized the insanity of his proposition. 

But he continued, rapidly squashing my hopes, “Your sister is five and that is young, but that is exactly how old your grandfather was when he walked to school.  Yes, your school is far, but it is the same 5-miles your grandfather walked each morning.  And remember, he walked BOTH ways, and you girls have only to walk the one way today.  Teresa, sometimes you must choose to do the hard things in life.  This means deciding to do things other people aren’t willing to do, or the things you don’t want to do. Choosing to do what is difficult makes us stronger.  You and your sisters can do this.  It will be an adventure if you think about it.” 

I laid my head back on the pillow in resignation, uninspired by the speech.  I knew he was serious.  This was happening.  My sisters and I would be victims to my father’s life lessons today. 

“Okay, no more talking, time to get up”, he finished as he left the room.

I swung my long thin legs out of the bed and put on my uniform, swept my unruly curls into a ponytail and brushed my teeth, all with eyes half open from being awake at an unfamiliar hour.        

I walked sideways down the steps and out the kitchen door into the darkness, my backpack loaded on my shoulders and my two sisters close behind. 

There were no streetlights on Frecon road, and we had only moonlight to illuminate the road.  My 5-year-old sister Becky fearfully told us about the groundhog she was sure she would encounter in the darkness, and my father handed her a flashlight.  She clicked it on and pointed it a few steps ahead so we could see our footing.  And we started our walk up the country road. 

We reached the bus stop at the end of Frecon Road, passing it by reluctantly like a teenager dutifully giving up a seat to an elderly passenger, and then turned right to head into the apple orchards.  The bony apple trees loomed like hundreds of skeletons in the darkness, blocking most of the moonlight for the next two miles.  I was thankful for the flashlight and focused on its beam to try to ignore the spooky orchard around us.  And we walked. 

When Martin first started school, on the way home one day, he got mixed up and made a right instead of a left.  Hours later when his parents wondered why he had not arrived home from school, they sent his older brother Jimmy out to find him.  After much searching, Jimmy finally found him 8 miles away in the next town over.  That school day his 5-year-old legs walked 5 miles to school and then another 16 miles home. My father decided this story was reason enough for him to follow us at a distance on our walk, just to be sure we did not walk to Shippensburg by accident.

About a mile into the orchard, the beam of headlights appeared behind us. We stepped far to the right; swallowed by knee high grass on the side of the road.  As the light from the car reached us, it slowed to a stop and a woman around 60 rolled down her window. 

“Are you all okay?  Why are you out here walking so early in the dark? Did your car break down?  Can I give you a ride somewhere?”

My father quickly approached from behind us and spoke with the woman.  “Good morning! Thank you for offering a ride, but these girls are just fine.  They are walking to Corpus Christi school this morning”.

She did not respond right away.  I knew her mind was tied up trying to comprehend what he was saying, but making no sense, her thoughts settled on the fact we still needed help.  “It is so early and still dark! Are you sure I can’t help you and these girls? she said.  “I don’t mind at all.  I work at the hospital and Corpus Christi is on my way”. 

“Thank you for the kind offer but we want to walk today, and these girls are almost halfway” he replied.  “Okay” she said, still unsure if she should continue driving.  She paused for another moment then said with a mix of acceptance and lingering confusion “Well, be careful and good luck then” and she pulled away. 

This happened at least 5 more times.  Cars slowing and asking what plight caused us four to be hiking in the dark through knee high grass and weeds, navigating the occasional broken bottle or beer can, and loaded down with backpacks along a road with no sidewalks.  Each time my father reassured these concerned drivers that we were just fine, there was no rescue needed, thanked them for their kindness and sent them on their way in their warm and fast cars.  We walked on. 

Life is made up of moments. Most of the life we live, we don’t remember. But some moments of our lives we can’t forget, even if we desperately want to.  35 years later on April 11, 2024, at 6:32am, I sat on a hospital bed listening to a doctor explain, that at age 44, I had stage 4 cancer.  Too much cancer in fact, to even count the tumors. 

A few weeks later, as I navigated the diagnosis and sought treatment, I listened to another doctor explain, that at her best guess, I had 12-18 months to live, not because I had done something to deserve that fate, it was just that I was “unlucky”.  Like the woman who stopped her car to ask why, I too could not comprehend the words I was hearing.  It did not make sense.  I wanted desperately to get into a car and drive away from the path laid out before me.  But my heavenly Father reassured me that no rescue was needed, I was just fine.  And in the dark and through the weeds, I walked on.    

As we finally reached the end of the orchards, we were greeted by sunlight and the large sidewalks of the suburbs of Chambersburg.  Things suddenly got easier.  Becky clicked off the flashlight and stuffed it into her backpack.  We could see our steps; we could walk more quickly on the even concrete.  We were making progress.  We were more than halfway now, and this half was going to be easy. Lighter and faster, we walked on.

I think my father knew that it doesn’t get easier really, you just get stronger. On May 15th, I started chemotherapy, five long weeks after my diagnosis.  I laid in the hospital bed, letting the drugs flow into my veins and attack my body, both the cancer cells and the healthy ones.  After five hours, my husband drove me home to spend days in bed, too nauseous and too tired to eat let alone run my daily 5 miles or do any of the activities that were part of my pre-cancer routine. 

Two weeks later, I was back hooked up to the chemotherapy drugs for round two. Five hours later, we made it home again and I slept.  When I woke the next morning, I swung my long lean legs out of the bed, climbed down the stairs, and willed my nauseous and tired body out the kitchen door.  And I walked. 

5 miles and several hours later, I finally returned home. 

The human experience cuts across time and place.  When I was eight years old, I walked to school against my wishes, discouraged by the unfairness that I was having to do something hard that nobody else had to do, and wanting to climb in someone’s warm car and end the journey I desperately did not want to be on.  But that morning I learned to walk, first in the dark, and then in the light, one foot in front of the other. And somehow, time passed, and I walked 5 miles. Farther than I had ever walked before.

Two hours later my sisters and I rounded the final corner of Broad Street and stopped next to Capital Grill, across the street from Corpus Christi.  We had arrived. We had survived. Other than tired feet and slightly sore shoulders from our heavy backpacks, we were fine.

Dad glanced at his watch, 7:30 am. We had made better time than he expected. He ushered us inside the Grill and announced that we had earned a pancake breakfast to celebrate.

I loved pancakes and was happy to be done walking, so this sounded great. I settled into my seat and ordered a short stack with butter and syrup, and then added a hot chocolate with whipped cream, this was a celebration after all.

Just five days ago I laid under the CT machine and held my breath as it took a picture of my abdomen. I was halfway through treatment and my oncologist ordered this test to determine if chemotherapy was working or if the cancer was progressing, as this cancer often did.

My husband and I were at the airport now, on our way out of town for a quick 2 day 18-year anniversary trip, when my phone buzzed. It was my CT scan results. Did I want to open them here, now? I took a deep breath, entered my password and opened the report.

“Congratulations” I read Dr Eng’s words slowly still holding my breath, “The radiologist agreed, you are responding to treatment”. Her words continued on to describe my progress.

I read my oncologist’s words again, making sure I was not imagining them, and then finally exhaled. I looked over at my husband and smiled. “It’s good” I said still shaking, “she said the tumors have decreased by 50 percent and I am responding to treatment”.

And with those words, I am out of the orchard, I see the sun rising in the distance, and below my feet there is a sidewalk. I am halfway, and I know the hard half is behind me. I feel lighter. I will walk on.

Tomorrow, I start the second half of my treatment. My mom will drive me to Vanderbilt where I will get chemotherapy for five hours. She will drive me home and I will sleep. And when I wake up, I will choose to walk five miles. And keep walking until I finish treatment. And when I take that last step, ring that bell, we will celebrate. I will have done something impossibly hard, something unfair that I never wanted to do, walked father than I have ever walked before, and survived.