I typically don’t do much for Mother’s Day. I send a card every year, and I make sure I call, if Mom happens to be in the country at the time. She seems happy with that arrangement; mostly, she just likes that I’m thinking of her.

There is one thing I try to do every year, sort of indirectly related to Mother’s Day, even though it’s not tied to strictly to the calendar. It stems from a couple incidents in the last five years or so, when Mom found little lumpy things while doing breast examinations. Both of my folks are a little reticent to tell me about their various medical issues — “We don’t want you to worry,” they say. I finally laid down the law: I don’t have to know about routine trips to the doctor, and I don’t have to know about all the little sinus infections and goopy stuff like that. But if there’s a trip to the hospital/a specialist involved, I get a phone call.

So Mom called. I worried. And in both cases, the lumps turned out to be little benign collections of tissue — nothing more.

Breast cancer is scary. Any cancer is scary. That’s probably why I’ve written three paragraphs before I even mentioned the word. The relief I felt when tests came back negative was nice, but the knowledge that this could come up again sort of looms, just around the corner, not quite where you can see it, but you know it’s there just the same.

So the centerpiece of this weekend’s trip to Columbus is to participate in the Komen Columbus Race for the Cure. I don’t do any actual racing — I don’t do any actual running, for that matter. But I can walk 3.1 miles, and I’m happy to fork over my $25, which is put in a pot with the $25, from the other 20,000 people or so who participate every year, and they take that money and try to find a way to ensure that my Mom, my sister, or my wife doesn’t have to worry about breast cancer anymore. It’s the best 25 bucks I spend all year.

I should give equal time to my dad, who had surgery for prostate cancer a couple years ago. I should pay special attention to that issue, because it’s likely to be an issue for me, somewhere down the road. My doctor always asks how old I am, and does this little countdown — “Three more years and it’ll be time for that.” I don’t mind hearing that from him because he’s about as old as I am; when I turn 40 and start having prostate exams (I already find the snap of latex gloves disturbing) he’ll be doing the same thing. Fact of life…

I’ve already dealt with my own cancer, although I’d hardly compare it to the experiences my folks have dealt with. That lumpy thing on my shoulder that didn’t ever really heal? Oh, that’s skin cancer. I had always been a little stubborn about sunscreen and that stuff, even though I burn like a redhead. I guess all those doctors were serious about the sun being bad and stuff…

It’s wasn’t serious. Basal cell carcinoma, the slowest-growing, least-serious kind. The plastic surgeon numbed my shoulder, hacked it out and left me with a cool-looking scar. Since then I carry a tube of SPF 45 everywhere I go all summer, and I’ve become a real connoisseur of bucket hats and beach umbrellas.

That stuff I can do for myself. Dad’s fixed up. But with the women who are most important to me, there’s no guarantee that breast cancer won’t catch up with them. So here’s another $25. We’ll walk the 5K, and The Wife, the runner in our family, will be waiting for me, Fred, Ethel and my mom when we cross the finish line. We do it for fun, no question — but it’s also the best Mother’s Day gift I can give my mom.