When the doctor tells you you have cancer, it does not seem real. I was shocked and in disbelief, not knowing what to think or how to feel. You look in the mirror. You force yourself to say the words, as if repetition makes it tangible, “...I have cancer.” …None of it makes any sense.
My name is Ryan. I am a cancer survivor! I run for Team In Training.
I was diagnosed in April of 2010. Marginal zone, stage three, Non Hodgkins Lymphoma. Cancer. What I have come to understand is that my cancer was too widespread throughout my body to cut out, and with treatment I could one day hope to reach remission. But I will not be cured. Cancer is something I will have to live with forever. Mine is one that will come back. I will always worry about blood counts. I will always worry about other people being sick around me.
I do not like to dwell on my cancer. Not publicly anyway. Not socially. Cancer is a downer. I try to make people laugh. I like to help people feel empowered. To others it may seem I pretend my cancer does not exist. Good. I try. Maybe I do because others might think their problems are more manageable if they see me doing well. Maybe it's just because I do not like to acknowledge my mortality. ...I don't know why.
If I could do any one thing in this life, I would like to hold people's hands, lift them when they have fallen, encourage them, remind them of the things in this world worth living for. That is the essence of what Team In Training is. For me it is anyway. It champions taking action to end cancer. Team In Training raises money to fund research for cures and supports patients in treatment. More than just cancer though, it is about helping others as it has helped me. Team In Training helped me get through three and a half years of chemo. For that alone, I am forever grateful to TNT. Team In Training became my support group while going through chemo.
As of Sept 26th, my oncologist said I am cancer free! I can get my port taken out! After three and a half years, that is an awesome and humbling thing to hear. During that time, I ran a number of half marathons to raise money for TNT and I am going to run another for all those that need help to fight cancer. And everyone needs help.
I am asking that you please do all you can to support and help the fight against cancer. Any amount is great, every dollar counts.
Hello, my name is Ryan. I have cancer. No it’s okay. Really.
But yes I have cancer.
My name is Ryan. I have cancer.
The last time I was an honored patient I did not prepare anything specific for this because I thought, “I have no problem with public speaking. I’ll be fine!” When I got up here I don’t think I could get anything out except tears, and thank yous, and a weak Go Team. That may have been one of the most emotionally draining speeches I have ever given. And it could have been over in less than 60 seconds. Maybe this is less impactful, but I am more prepared.
As you might expect, when a doctor tells you you have a potentially life ending disease, it is all consuming. Your mind is a tornado of emotion with the only consistent thread being the emotional rollercoaster you experience every day. At first, I was numb. Then I was sad, then angry, then confused, then broken, angry, sad, disbelieving, doubtful, angry, scared --and then blank. Because I think when you hit scared, you no longer know what to do or how to feel. You don’t. You look in the mirror. You force yourself to say the words, as if repetition makes it tangible, “...I have cancer. ..I have cancer.” None of it makes any sense.
I tried to keep it secret for a long time. I didn’t want to let anyone know because I felt like people would treat me like a social disease. Like I was contagious. Like I had done something wrong and I deserved this. That’s how I felt about myself. I was ashamed of my cancer. I do not pretend to make excuses for that. That’s just the way it happened. I do not believe I am alone in that.
After my first round of chemo was over, and close to starting the next series, I attended a recruiting meeting for Team In Training. I had a hard time keeping the tears in, or keeping the fear and doubt from showing. After the meeting I called my wife and with desperation in my voice choked out, "I have to do this." Without hesitation, she said ok. I think I needed to prove to myself that I could still be me, that I could still live. I signed up. Having never liked distance running, having never even run a 5K, not knowing if my doctors would let me run. My wife has supported me ever since, running her own TNT races, participating in other LLS events, championing the cause, and holding my hand when I am unsure or scared.
Of course I told my coaches and the LLS staff. I figured they were need-to-know. At my first Kickoff I had to walk out into the hall a couple times because I could not keep from sobbing. When I came back in I grabbed a purple pom-pom from my table and put it on like a wig to cover my face. Eventually my teammates found out. There were days I could not run. Days I felt too sick. Too horrible. Too weak. There were a couple days when I tried to run in spite of getting chemo the day before. Those runs did not go so well. Even when I couldn’t run I went to cheer my teammates on. Being there helped me feel better. It helped me feel like I could make it through treatment. It was empowering when I just wanted to quit. Only in this last year did one of those teammates tell me they could see it on my face in spite of the facade I thought I had well affixed. I didn’t like to talk about it, but I stopped lying about having cancer.
Event weekend for that season, the Seattle Rock and Roll, during the inspiration dinner with my wife by my side, when the speaker asked those having gone through or going through cancer, to please stand, I reluctantly did. I made the mistake of making eye contact with one of my teammates. Our eyes locked for a second then we both quickly looked away as we almost burst into tears. The next day we all lined up in the early hours of the morning. Coach Mike and I traded ringtones, mostly old school Mario Bros sound bites. In spite of the festivities, I was scared. Not just pre race jitters. But scared. Exactly one week before, I was hospitalized with a fever and pneumonia. When I started the season I thought I could do a full marathon, no problem. At the start of that race, I just wanted to cross the finish line -on my own two feet -without being carried. I told one other teammate about the pneumonia. She then refused to leave my side the whole race. When I had to walk, she walked. Then she would tell me to start running again when my needed rest was turning into being lazy. Somewhere around mile 8, I happen to see the back of her shirt. There, in the space where we write the names for whom we run, I saw my name. Surely that must have been someone else. So I asked. "Is that, is that MY name?" Yes. Yes it was. I wanted to cross the finish line on my own feet, but she carried me the rest of the way. She lifted my hand as I crossed the finish line. I got my first medal.
One of my favorite movie quotes of all time is from The Shawshank Redemption. Morgan Freeman's character said, "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'." The principle is that while we cannot choose what happens to us, we can certainly choose how we react. With a diagnosis of cancer in any stage, the world gives you permission stop living. And you can if you choose. Or you can pick yourself up, shake it off, and move on. That is not to say you will not fall down again. We all fall down. When that inevitably happens, if you look, you will see those around you that clamor to offer the hand to pick you back up.
During my last season, so many miles later and still in chemo, some of my teammates literally pulled me along, grabbing my hand as they passed, forcing me to start running when I was walking. I ran the BMO Vancouver BC Half Marathon with TEAM. At mile four, I realized I was running a little slower than I wanted. By half way, I calculated if I kept on pace I would finish only about 5 or 6 minutes behind what I wanted. That would have been great. Around mile 11, I just about collapsed. I believe I would have, had Coach Kevin not been running with me. I grabbed his shoulder to steady myself, my legs faltered, I was (according to Coach Kevin) very pale, but I carried on. My cancer had gotten the better of me again. Several times over the next two miles I grabbed his arm to keep from falling. I would not have finished that race without him to lean on. That is the spirit of Team In Training.
We lift each other, knowing we will either need that lift someday, or we have already needed that. Through chemo, through fatigue, emotional anguish, and just being a sissy, TNT still lifts me up when I want to quit. TEAM is not about the running or biking. It is realizing we can do something about the situation(s) in which we find ourselves. It would be easy to turn our face to the wall and give up. It would be easy to stay down when knocked over. TNT strives to help people overcome those times when we fall down. And we all fall down. Sometimes we need help. Sometimes it may be as simple as Alfred's reminder to Bruce Wayne. Get up. Yes you can.
I have had the unique opportunity through TNT to reach out to the newly diagnosed or those already in treatment. I have had friends pass, losing their battles with cancer. I have tried to give words of encouragement and thoughts of praise and strength to those in need. One friend was struggling with her own fatigue while in treatment and trying to run a TNT race. She passed shortly after completing her race, with one of her daughters by her side. While you may not be enduring the struggles of treatment, the advice I gave her is just as applicable.
“Accept that races will be hard. Accept that your training runs may be better than your race run. Accept your race is not about a finishing time. It is about crossing the finish line. It is still difficult but I know it is doable. Learn to enjoy each run for it's own unique day. Your race is about celebrating all that you have accomplished over your season.”
For any who run while in treatment, you have both my deepest sympathies and highest praise. You are superheroes. For those of you running in support of another, you have my most sincere gratitude. You may be inclined to think your race unrelated to those struggling with cancer. Do not. Your race tests the limits of both the body and mind just like treatment. More importantly, your race gives hope to those of us that have cancer or have fallen. Just as my wife has done countless times for me, your effort lifts those of us who cannot see the hope of doing it ourselves.
The last [almost] four years have changed me. I try to repay all that you have done for me. I try to lift you up and encourage you. More often the opportunity comes with being able to address groups and talk about my cancer. I have grown to be okay with that. To that fallen TEAMmate, as she fought through her own battles I imparted the wisdom of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Regardless of the struggles we find ourselves in, remember his words.
“If you can't fly then run, if you can't run then walk, if you can't walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward.”
It is my hope and prayer that we do that. Let us continue to move forward. Let us help others to do the same. Let us move ever closer toward the finish line of our races. You want to know why I run with Team In Training? Why do I fundraise and sweat and chafe in purple? I do it to try and pay back all who have given so much to me. I do it because I hope that someday modern medicine makes cancer not only completely treatable, but preventable. Cancer should become a shadow of our past. Not our present and every day. Let us cross the finish line of curing cancer. On September 26th, 2013, three years and five months to the day when I was diagnosed, my oncologist told me I was in remission.
I thank you with all my heart for the support and encouragement you did not know you gave and still give to those around you. Now because I feel gangster, my fellow Americans, it is with the utmost pride and sincerity that I present this recording, allow me to reintroduce myself.
"First, let me say how sorry I am for your diagnosis. To be told you have cancer of any kind is never something you want to hear. When I was told, it took a while for that to actually register. Then even longer before it seemed real. That was three and a half years ago, and I still feel like it is a foreign concept. And now to be told I am done is almost equally as strange. I wanted to be able to reach out to you and tell you many things. As insensitive as it may seem to do this over email, it is a conscious choice to allow you your privacy. My privacy was one of the things I wanted most. I want to extend to you the courtesy of letting you digest this in private, without the world looking at you. There are few things I wish I could have known or told myself as I started the last three and a half years. If I may be so bold, please let me tell you.
When you posted the announcement on FB, the diagnosis was not yet complete. It may still not be. When the doctor told me, it sent me into a series of tests and biopsies with periods of anxious waiting and tormented uncertainty. Unfortunately, that does not end with the results of your diagnosis. This may be the single biggest unspoken thing. Through all of it, doctors and nurses will tell you what to expect in reaction to your treatment. But they are physical reactions. What no one told me was how I would be turned into a neurotic hypochondriac. There is a "wait and see" period for everyone and it is terrible.
Typically, people go through a round of treatment which consists of several doses of chemo or radiation or whatever. My chemo schedule was once a month for six months, then nothing for six months. That's the wait and see. At the end of that you go back in for more tests, blood work, and anything the doctor feels is needed. That period between your last dose for the round, and results from the tests is emotionally exhausting. Yes, the rest from the physical reactions is a very welcome relief. But the emotional drag of not knowing can be brutal.
No one ever told me. Not that knowing would have made me less anxious or emotional but maybe I would have had a little easier time knowing that was normal.
Next, I alluded to this already but privacy is big and also very emotional. You are now going through a very personal and emotional thing. It is not easy. There will be days when you are fine and feel okay. There will be days when you are not. You will feel sick. You will feel tired. You will want to retreat to your comfort zone(s) and tell the world to go to Hell. I realized that one day when I put on a hat not to hide my baldness, but to hide me. I just wanted to be a non entity for a while. Nobody talk to me, nobody look at me, just leave me alone. When people asked me how I was feeling or how I was doing, if there was any hint of intonation beyond a standard less sincere American greeting, I wanted to claw their faces off. I wanted to fight as if they were the representation of all my misery. As if fighting them would deliver the beat down I so desperately wanted to administer but of which was undoubtedly incapable. I hope that such emotion was not what came across. I hope my response was just as shallow as the question, "I'm fine. Thank you."
You may even feel that tendency to retreat from your close friends and family. Fight that. Curb that as they are there and just want to hold your hand. To help you feel better, to encourage you and keep you going. Let them. I have the bad habit of unintentionally feeling like my suffering is mine alone and it is stupid for anyone else to have "sympathy pains." But like it or not, it happens. Let it. It is perfectly acceptable to have your withdrawal time and days, especially as the physical traits of treatment become more pronounced, but shut out the out world. Not your family.
You will find that the world will not stop and wait for you. Bills are still due, children still need a bath, husbands still need to be told they're smart and important . And that is another important lesson learned. One of my favorite movie quotes of all time is from The Shawshank Redemption. Morgan Freeman's character said, "Get busy liven', or get busy dyin'." The principle of this is that we cannot choose what happens to us. But we can certainly choose how we react. With a diagnosis of cancer in any stage, the world gives you permission stop living. And you can if you choose. Or you can pick your self up, shake it off, and move on. That is not to say you will not fall down again. We all fall down. When that inevitably happens, if you look, you will see those around you that clamor to offer the hand to pick you back up. When this happens, sooner or later I always another favorite movie quote. This time Michael Cain as Aflred, to Bruce Wayne, "Get up. Yes you can."
I do not know the extent of your cancer. I do not know how the treatment will affect you. I do not understand the fear and loss you might feel at the prospect of a mastectomy. I will not sugar coat it and say everything will be fine. No one knows that. And I am sorry. But you can decide to keep trying. Decide before it happens, when you fall down, to get up and carry on. So what if the kids go an extra day without a bath. So what if you just have a pizza delivered because you are both too tired to make anything. None of that matters. Don't let such trivial things become the obstacles that trip you up.
Cancer became my way of life. I got used to it. I knew with earned precision when I would start feeling sick or tired after a treatment. I knew when that would pass. I knew when chemo brain was thick in my head. None of that is pleasant. But you can get through it. Sometimes, you may need to just hold one of your children to help you through the day. It's okay. At times you will live day to day with the relentless swelling of emotional tides. Find what helps you get through it. I have held my children. I started running. I have wept into the arms of my wife. I have over caffeinated to get through a day (or two). Whatever. Whatever works for you, use that as a tool to get on with your life.
Rely heavily on the gospel. I wish I could have done that. I learned in retrospect that I had gained a far deeper appreciation for the Atonement than I ever though possible. It should not be surprising. What you will go through is emotional suffering that will become a lens through which you can see so many others' plights in a more sincere manor. I do not know what it is like to lose a child like the Zohars. But I know what is like to suffer and to hurt. That compassion, I feel, must be the minutest part of the love our Heavenly Father and Christ must feel for us. Just as God had to withdraw while Jesus hung on the cross, they knew this suffering would be terrible for us and for them. But they have a far greater understanding of the eternal implications that we cannot see. Many times I have been on my knees weeping and wailing. Crying out in my anger and in my frustration, "why me? Why me!" Though I do not think we get answers that we can understand to all our questions, I have rarely had an answer as clear to me as was my answer to that question. And I lack the ability to fully explain it. Well, not without writing a War and Peace length dissertation. I will summarize only by saying that such suffering is ultimately for our benefit. And I apologize for the inadequacies of that statement.
Perhaps that is the most important of all to keep in mind. This life, with all it's ups and downs, is ultimately for our benefit. It may take a lifetime to understand that. It may take longer. I have learned enough to make my peace with it, whether I fully comprehend the answers or not.
Lastly, and a complete change of topic, I wish to address the physical aspect of treatment. Perhaps more for Travis to understand what you will likely go through and feel, so he may relate. But maybe it will help endure it as well. Chemo brain is real. It is like a thick fog of confusion presses in on your brain. You cannot swat it away like flies. It is like a clamp that squeezes in on your head. It doesn't hurt like a migraine. But it disallows you to think and focus clearly on life. It comes and goes and there is nothing you can do about it.
Also, you will have fatigue. This is different than being tire. Fatigue will make you feel heavy. When you go to the dentist and they put the lead ascot on you before taking X-rays, and you feel 30 lbs. heavier all over, that is what fatigue feels like. It is all over. I felt it most in my shoulders and arms. They felt like they dragged me down until I could not walk upright for their weight. When you sit down, you will often nod off like narcolepsy. Though sleeping will not take the tire away. You wake from a nap, intentional or not, feeling just as heavy and worn out. As long as you are not driving or cooking or something, don't fight it. Just roll with it. You will be out for a bit then wake up later and try to get on with life.
Nausea will hit as well. Though from what I hear, it is not as different that pregnancy nausea. You feel horrible and just want to throw up to feel better. Just like napping does not stop fatigue, puking will not stop the nausea. Sorry. I tried any number of things to help. Ginger candies as ginger is a natural stomach aid, crackers, prescription medication, soda water, whatever I could think of and all in combination with each other. Some things helped. My mother loves Diet Dr. Pepper but the though of it while in treatment makes her want to puke. Your tastes may change. Your doctors and nurses will keep an eye on your weight. You do not want to loose too much weight because it starts to compromise your body's ability to fight and recover. Make sure you find something you can keep down when you don't want to. Protein diet shakes like Ensure or Boost or even the Costco/Slimfast things are not bad for this. You get proteins and needed vitamins and minerals and you can do it quickly without having to chew anything. Again, find what works for you.
Having gone through it, and not really sure I believe the doctor's merciful words of remission, I understand what suffering is. I will tell you, when you start losing hair, I will shave my head again so you know you are not the only person to have to go through that. :)
If you guys have any questions or need anything including dinners, babysitting, a game night or even just need to hang out with people that have been through it, please do not hesitate to ask. We will be there.
This will be a difficult journey for you. Use your friends to help you as much as you can. "Get up. Yes you can."
