It has taken me a while to bring myself to write this. It hurts too much too often, and I wish it was not true. My mother passed away August 12th, 2015. It was in the evening. My wife and I, my younger brother and his wife, my sister and my father were all in the room when she went. My older brother had stopped by earlier that day to say goodbye. She was 67 years old.
It was the hardest thing I think I have ever experienced. I wept.
...Well, we had her funeral out of state. She wanted to be buried next to her parents in Idaho Falls, ID. With the proper permits acquired, my father had her loaded into her casket and into the back of a Uhaul truck. The smallest kind that has the enclosed back. We drove her across state lines. I thought about editing down what I said at her funeral. I would have done to hide religious beliefs because I don't like to put it all out there for others to see. But I think I will leave it as I said it. It was honest and heart felt. I would not want anyone to think any different.
I am driving through the high plateau of Eastern Oregon and Idaho with my parents. I have always loved the patchwork landscape of farm country. Seeing the gold of dry wheat, cattle, irrigation canals and massive sprinkler systems. There is something heartwarming about it to me. It brings peace to me. There are a lot of family memories in these long drives. Not that we ever really stopped or did things along the way, but every summer we would drive to Idaho Falls, as a family, to visit grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles. The long drive through farmland was all part of the experience. That's probably why it is pleasant for me. This drive reminds me of childhood innocence and excitement. It was such a different life.
My dad is calculating our speed in miles per minute then per second and who knows what else in his head to keep himself entertained. Outside of a small town called Weiser, I see the Snake River. Every time we saw the Snake, Mom would tell us that it always made her feeling like she was going home. None of us minded that we heard it every year. She always said it with a little child like glee that she never tried hide.
This time is different. This time Dad and I are driving a sarcophagus on wheels with my mother in her casket in the back. This time, when I see the Snake run alongside the highway, I have mixed emotion. I smile with the thought of my mother, always so excited to see her parents. It was contagious. Now even with the fond and happy memories of my mother's excitement, there is pain. At times overwhelming. Mom's passing has brought every one of us to tears.
A few weeks before my mom passed, my family had the opportunity to spend a day playing at the beach in California. I spent hours in the shore break. As I stood chest deep in the water facing the ocean, I felt hope. I knew my mom did not have long. She was deteriorating too quickly. But I found solace in the rise and fall of the waves. I knew she would die. Like the ocean, I would feel sorrow crashing down on me. But we would rally together to be buoyed up. We would feel the powerful influence my mother had on our lives, and we would come together to lift each other from what at times feels like we are drowning. That is what my mom would try to do. She always tried to help people when she saw the need. When she saw hurt or heartache, she tried to help.
She often told me of a lesson she had at church one Sunday in Relief Society. In a group of women, the one leading the class passed out note paper. Every woman was to write something on the paper that they were struggling with. Anything. The things that came back were powerful. One woman was suffering with the loss of a child. Another a spouse. Others with abusive relationships. The trials went on. My mom was astounded at the lesson that everyone struggles with something. No matter the face we put on for others to see, we struggle. She made it a point to remind me that we are not alone in our suffering. And we need not shut ourselves off from the hands that are outstretched, begging to help us in our times of need.
When I was a kid, I decided I needed to run away. With the forethought of a child, my backpack contained maybe a change of clothes, a few toys and no food or water. Feeling unwanted, I told my mother I was leaving. She said go. I walked out of our split level house in Seattle, turned and hid under the upstairs overhang. I wept. I could not run away. I was heart broken that my mother called my bluff. After a while, I collected myself and went back inside. Mom was waiting with open arms. She had been watching from the windows above, waiting for me. She wrapped me up in a hug and I sobbed into her shoulder. I have thought about this a lot over my life, wondering what that experience taught me. What should I have learned? I see this over and over in my life as a pattern my mother would let me learn for myself. She loved me enough to let me learn the hard way.
While she lay in her hospital bed at home, I told her, “Mom I want you to stay. But it's okay for you to go.” It was a moment that helped me understand that lesson she taught me when I tried to run away. At some point, you have to be willing to love someone enough to let them go. This is how we learn. And I have to let her go now. She can't stay anymore. For whatever reason, she needs to go, and learn. And I can't do it for her.
My dad said this was/is harder that he thought it would be.
I know.
You can tell yourself all you want, it will be okay, I will get through it. But when it comes time to have her go, it is much harder than you thought it would be to say goodbye.
You weep so completely that every muscle in your body tries to choke the life out of you. Constricting until you gasp for breath, erupting from one wave of sorrow only to be thrown asunder again. An eternal struggle, life versus death, crushing sorrow with life strung from each desperate breath to the next. With time, the waves of sorrow come less frequently. I hope they are easier to bare. This is not to say I wish them to go. I want to always think about my Mom and remember how much I love her. Some of that only comes with the outpouring of tears.
Regardless of personal or religious beliefs, the passing of a loved one from this life to whatever comes next leaves those of us here gripped in sorrow. And that is okay. To grieve, to mourn, to feel the we have been shattered into a million pieces is part of what makes us human. I would not diminish it. I would not tell anyone to ignore that. It is a reminder that we are capable of such profound love that it cannot be contained by the bonds of mortality.
Maybe it sounds mean, but I always loved to tease her. I loved to make her grossed out. It was fun for us to talk about anything medical. A broken bone, intestines, weird anomalies, whatever. Especially at the dinner table. The dinner table seemed to be almost a sacred place, a tradition handed down from her father. Which of course made it that much more fun for me as a punk kid to choose that as the place to discuss the human heart that had been passed around the room in my biology class that day. In high school, I would often sneak down the stairs if she was in the kitchen. I would wait until her back was toward me then I would creep in and scream while I grabbed her arms. I loved to see her jump, then turn to see the exasperated look on her face, sometimes turning into a grin as she would take a halfhearted kick towards me.
Mom would make a cookie sheet of brownies and cut a square out of the middle. Her half heart-ed excuse was that she needed to check to make sure they were done. I liked to beat her to it. From the other room, I would hear her yell, “Hey! Who took my brownie??”
Teasing Mom was my way of playing. It was my way of telling her I loved her. Now, as I write these memories, I go through such a torrent of emotion. I still laugh at those childish teasings. Then I break down sobbing that she is gone. No longer do I get to jump out and scare her. I think if she chooses now as her time to get even, she would have the last laugh.
Children are a source of both limitless love and infinite frustration. Often at the same time. I will admit to having caused more than my fair share of frustration. I can only hope that during her lifetime, I earned even a portion of love she freely gave me.
A little over a month before she died, my parents asked me to come out their house to give a blessing to both my mom and dad. It was one of the hardest things I have ever done. I did not give her the blessing I wanted to give. I wanted to tell her to be healed. Instead, I told her there were angels around her, watching over her, waiting for her. They were so excited to see her again. I did not tell her that while there were many around, I distinctly saw my grandmother, with her big smile, twinkling eyes and pinky raised as she always did, just waiting, waiting, ready and eager to wrap my mom in a hug and tell her she loves her. Standing just behind Grandma, as stoic as ever I knew him, my grandfather stood waiting for his daughter, letting Grandma gush over with emotion.
I do not have all the answers or to know everything. But I cannot shake that experience. My mother passed surrounded by her family, both in this world and the next. It was time for her to go. Minutes before she passed. I hugged her, pressed my face to the side of her head, I whispered while crying into her shoulder again, "I love you Mom. Please go. Be free of this. I love you."
I have struggled a lot. We all have. I missed her instantly. One of the many ways of coping for me is a song I have listened to on repeat. It is called Move Pen Move, by Shayne Koyczan. Edited down a little, it says:
“Stay.
That's what mothers say when their sons and daughters go away, they say stay. My mother said go...
...So we just sat there. Our heads bent towards each other like flowers in the small hours of the morning, while light wandered in like a warning that time is passing and you right along with it, Bit by bit every day.
And all I could say is if I could I would write you some way out of this, but my gift is useless. And you said no. Write me a poem to make me happy. So I write. Move pen move,
Write me a bedroom where cures make love to our cancers... But my mother just motions to a bottle full of answers and says "help me go".
And now I know something of how a piano must feel when it looks at the fireplace to see sheet music being used for kindling, Smoke signalling the end of some song that I thought it would take too long to learn. Now I just sit here watching you burn away all those notes I never had a chance to play, to hear the music of what you had to say.
I count out the pills just to see if I can do it. I can't even get halfway through it before I turn back into your son and say Stay.
I could hook up my heart to your ears, and let my tears be your morphine drip because maybe it's easier to let you slip away than it is to say goodbye. So I hold my breath.
Because in the count down to death the question of "why" melts into "when". How much time do we have left, because if I knew what I know now then... Move pen move, write me a mountain. Because headstones are not big enough. My mother says stop it,
Write me a poem to make me happy. So I write this.
“Stay.”
She smiles and says, "gotta go".
I know.
Goodbye.”
I love you Mom. Please go. Be free of this. I love you.
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.
I am a cancer survivor. Well, I think... Hmm. I am a cancer... mitigator? Delayer of cancer? I am a cancer ...temporary reprieve-er.
I was diagnosed in April of 2010. Marginal zone, stage three, Non Hodgkins Lymphoma. Cancer. Too wide spread throughout my body to be cut out. After three and a half years of chemotherapy, my oncologist told me I am now in remission. Though 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. So am I really "cured?" I do not have a good answer to that.
I do not like to dwell on my cancer. Not publicly anyway. Cancer is a downer. There is the nagging fear that I become a symbol of death and decay in people's eyes. 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.
Shortly after I finished my first round of treatment I found the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. With my wife and family by my side, the LLS became my support group. They helped me through it all. It is not an easy thing to do, either. Just the emotional side of any diagnosis is brutal. The physical effects left me lying on the floor, unable to summon the energy to move, unable to even care. Sometimes even sobbing at the unknown and uncontrollable. That is EXACTLY what I want to spare others from. I hope that someday, this never happens. That cancer is forgotten. That modern medicine renders cancer not only completely treatable, but preventable. Cancer should be forgotten, a shadow of our past.
I have said before that if I could do any one thing in this life, I would like to hold people's hands to 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 the LLS is for me. It champions taking action to end cancer. More than just cancer though, it is about helping others as it has helped me.
The Light The Night event is a night when literally thousands of people get together to do that. To rally together in support of all those ever touched by cancer. It is a night that helps us see that we are part of something great. A rising tide of human accomplishment fighting to end cancer. One of my personal heroes, Gordon Hinckley said, “I believe in the principle that I can make a difference in this world. It may be ever so small, but it will count for the greater good.”
I ask you to join with me. Help me fight cancer. Please make a donation to help fund the fight against cancer. Your support helps to fund groundbreaking research, patient support programs, education and awareness programs and more. Please give whatever you can to fight cancer. Use the tool on the right to make a donation. Or, because that donation tool does not show up on a mobilized version of this blog, you can go to my Light The Night page as well.
I thank you with all my heart.
Maybe I have tried to let go of cancer. As if distancing myself could lessing the fears and anxieties that crash upon the shoreline of my waking daily trudgery. Maybe… That imagery may be appropriate as the ocean smooths jagged rock, with undetected force lets the passing of time change the very shape of our world. Perhaps it just takes time to let go.
I've not posted anything in almost a year. It's been weird. Cancer becomes such an encompassing majority of your everyday. Even when I am remission and it seems to fade in my mind, I cannot get away from it. My mother recently gave us all a scare. Thrown into that wonder of uncertainty again, this time I wondered if it was her time. With it comes not knowing how to react. What to do or not do. How to feel. Or should I try to burry it all and not feel.
If these are to be her final hours, can I put aside my own ego and focus on her? Before too long she could go, leaving my father. My father. A man from whom I learn emotion is the opposite of weakness. As much as I feel the need to put aside my own insecurities for my mother, I need to do the same for my father. A man who may be lost without my mother.
I love them both. Neither should have to suffer, either in death or in struggling to live afterwards.
I have never said this enough. I love you. And if I could take a few more years of that hell called chemo dripped into our veins, just to take it from you, to give you a few more years, years without that same hell, a few more healthy years with Dad, with my kids as they grow, with me, …I would.
But it doesn't work that way. I can't make it work that way. And I am sorry.
My mother once asked me, as she felt she was doing well while her friend was losing her battle, how to treat that friend. How do I sit there [in chemo] and look at her knowing she will not make it and I will? How do I treat her? My answer is vastly different now. Though I feel my advice was sound, I lack my conviction and fortitude of only a couple years ago. Because now it is my mother who may not reach the finish for which we all hope.
Mom, what do I say when I look you in the face, knowing I made it and you will not?
…I don't know.
At the urging of a teammate, I am making this available for purchase. This was a "self portrait" I did for the first time I was an Honored Teammate for Team In Training. The original was poster board sized (18x24-ish) which is not economical to print.
What I am offering is two products.
- A single poster print, 11x17 sized, for $40 dollars.
- A set of 10 postcards, 5.5x8 -ish, whatever the standard large postcard size is, for $20.
The back of the postcards have this printed small on the bottom,
"W. Ryan Hatch was diagnosed with Stage 3, Marginal Zone Non Hodgkins
Lymphoma in 2010.He started running with Team In Training to help fight
cancer while going through treatment. Three and a half years later, he reached
remission. Now he runs with Team In Training to fight cancer for everyone.
GO TEAM!!"
You may order as many of each as you like though be aware of the logistics of printing. I pre-ordered a limited number of postcards and can re-order if they sell out and there is still enough demand. The posters will be ordered when I get enough orders to print at the same time.
If you would like to order, do the math for how many you want and donate to my Team In Training site using the donation tool on the right. For example, 3 posters (=$120) + 2 sets of postcards (=$40) would equal $160. Click on the donation tool, enter the total dollar amount and enter the number of posters and postcards in the memo. Make sure you add you email address in the donation process so I can contact you for the address to which you want them mailed.
So your memo might say "3 posters, 2 postcards. And you rock!" I will laugh at your comment, then send 3 posters and 20 postcards to the address after we email. Simple!
As always, I sincerely thank you all for your support in my fight, and helping me fight cancer for others as well.
...And you ROCK!
"How do you deal with the horrible guilt of knowing you are going to make it and someone else isn't?" was a question posed to me in the last few months. To be honest, there are very few people with whom I have been close that have gone through chemo. Well not that I know of. The closest of those I do know is my mother, who began her chemotherapy as I was ending mine. Only my Team In Training (TNT) teammate Lisa did not make it. As I thought about my answer, I thought of Lisa. I advised the person asking to find a common interest shared between the two and do that for the friend that will not make it. For Lisa, my teammate, I ran. In frustration I ran because that is what we shared. Both participants and fundraisers for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS) while going through treatment, we connected through running and our TNT friends.
Now, six months after Lisa passed, I reconsider my response. April 21st 2014, I got my port removed. It was a very emotional day. At times I was elated. So happy that I could be done with that part of my life. Worried that it was all a delusion. That I would wake up still six months from being told I was in remission, and still not knowing if that day would ever come. Time seems to become an irregularity rather than a constant while going through chemo. Some days are blurry and you are not sure they really happen. Some days are fine.
The reality of time has set in and my port is out. I keep feeling my collarbone where I used to be able to feel the tube running from the port to the vein. A slight and squishable bump under the skin but on top of my left collarbone. My chest is still too tender for me to poke and prod though the place where the prongs from my port used to stick up is now only a yellowing bruise around the healing incision line. I kind of feel that part of me is missing like a soldiers amputated limb. Obviously different as I do not want it back; I do not miss it. Still, a part of me seems missing.
Monday, while very emotional, was a very happy day. The next day, April 22nd, my mother started another round of chemo. This one should not be as hard for her as her last round. Even though it is going to be more manageable this time, I still feel for her. And I wondered about that guilt. Worse, that same day my wife and I found out another friend of ours who has been struggling with her own fight, had gotten much worse. She just found out that her cancer had spread to her brain, liver, and a number of other organs. The following day, the 23rd, she passed. Once the cancer spreads, especially to major organs, there is little chance to make it.
I have been racked with guilt since. That I am better, even if my oncologist told me it will come back, and she did not make it. What right do I have to be better? She was married and had children too. She leaves behind a tormented spouse. She was a wonderful person.
How is that fair?
...Knowing full well what it would feel like, I would gladly take a few more years of treatment and suffering if it could let her live.
And I know it wouldn't work. But if- if.
So what can I do, because I cannot allow myself to do nothing. I run. I raise money to fund the research to end cancer. I want to go one step further than curing the disease. I want to prevent it. Team In Training and all the other programs that are a part of the LLS are trying to do the same. But I found solace in TNT. My teammates lift me and inspire me when I am weak or when I want to give up. My shoes are worn out. It hurts to run. I cannot afford to buy new ones right now but I still put on my shoes and run.
I think it is the only way I feel I am paying penance for getting better. I am trying to help pay for my making it when others have not.
I would dearly love for you to help as well. Please take a minute and donate to the LLS to help end cancer. I try to make it as easy as possible for you to do so. There is a donation tool on the side of my page. Just click and donate.
Thank you.
Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears;
I come to bury Cancer, not to praise it.
The evil that men do lives after them;
The good is oft interred with their bones;
So let it be with Cancer...
It is time to take up arms against cancer once more. I am not asking for crazy amounts of donations, though I won't turn them away ;), I am only asking that all that read this donate a minimal $10 to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Team In Training. All you need to do is click on the donation thingy on the right, and donate $10.
It's that simple!!
If you donate only $10, I will surpass my goal for this season in raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS). Money raised by the LLS funds research on groundbreaking new treatments for ALL cancers, it supports patients that need help paying bills, it funds outreach programs... It fights cancer! Please take a moment, donate $10, and feel GREAT because you are helping to fight cancer!
That what Team In Training is all about. Fighting cancer! Well, fighting cancer and being awesome! Those are the two things TNT is all about. Okay, fighting cancer, being awesome, and sweating like crazy as we run and run and run. Those are the three thing TNT is all about. ...but nothing else.
Thank you for all your support.
I want to tell a little story about Cheryl, one of the Pac Crest Tri teammates this season (Summer 2014) with Team In Training. In my last season with TNT, I was still going through chemo, and trying to run as best as I could. Some days were great and some days you just can't make yourself do it very well.
As a team, we were running around University of Portland and I was beat. I do not remember how far we had to run that day, maybe 9 miles or something, but I was giving up. I was walking along the route as Cheryl caught up to me. I turned to try cheering her on when without saying anything she grabbed me hand and held on as she kept running. She literally started dragging me along with her. I groaned. I laughed a half laugh half cry, and started running again. I finished the miles that day, thanks to Cheryl. I would have let myself give in, walking back to the aid station then stopping. Because my teammates kept me going, I found the strength and determination to continue.
You may not know it, but there is such strength in you. Both individually and as a team, Team In Training or not. Do not ever doubt your efforts' efficacy. By your presence alone, you give such strength to others. You lift those that are fallen, you strengthen each other, and you drag us along to victory. I cannot thank you enough for all that you do.
Go Team!
Alright party people, and that means you, it’s time to FIGHT CANCER!!
“How?” you might ask. Easy enough. As I begin training to run another half marathon (13.1 miles), I am putting in the sweat and aches and pains and miles… All I ask of you is your sponsorship.
Tomorrow starts what I am calling “$10 Tuesdays!!” For the remaining Tuesdays in February, I ask that all my Facebook friends donate a measly $10 to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society through my fundraising page
http://pages.teamintraining.org/oswim/anchor14/wryanhatch.
IT’S THAT SIMPLE!! If all of my friends will do this, I will pass my goal for this season. But I promise not to stop there. I have other fundraising ideas and projects because I have been in the chemo chair and I have seen those in the chairs around me. I feel more than lucky to have come out the other side and have made a life goal to help others do the same.
The money raised goes toward finding more cures, more effective medicine, and letting loved ones live another day with their family and friend.
If your heart is so full and you have the means, please feel free to donate more than the $10 I am asking for at this time. If everyone donated just $20, I would double my goal. If your heart is full and you do not have the means, please do what you can even if that is just passing this invite and my fundraising page or my blog along.
With all my heart, I thank you for your support.
-Ryan
My mom posted this yesterday on Facebook. It was very nice of her. And not to be overlooked, she has fought her own fight against cancer. It has not been an easy road for her and she is doing well. It always astounds me how many of us have been affected by cancer, even if that is by relation. Please take a moment, use the widget on the right for Team In Training (TNT) and make a donation to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society to help fight cancer. Or you can go to my actual TNT donation page and donate there. Your donation goes to help fund research and patient support. Thank you.
Today is 'National Cancer Survivor' day. I want to give a tribute to our son Ryan, who is in remission after battling lymphoma for 3 1/2 years. During that time, he took up running to raise money and run in marathons for the Portland chapter of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS). Even when he had pneumonia and was going through chemo, he ran the 1/2 marathons as part of the group 'Team in Training'. He has become a motivational speaker for LLS. His philosophy is that no one goes through cancer alone, and he is there to lift them up and give them a hand when they need it. He is such an example to everyone who faces severe challenges in life. He truly is an amazing 'Cancer Survivor'!
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.
I thank you with all my heart,
-Ryan
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.
My name is Ryan.
I do not have cancer.
"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."
Most sincerely,
-Ryan"
"The Crickets Have Arthritis"
Shane Koyczan
It doesn't matter why I was there, where the air is sterile and the sheets sting. It doesn't matter that I was hooked up to this thing that buzzed and beeped every time my heart leaped like a man who's faith tells him God's hands are big enough to catch an airplane, or a world. It doesn't matter that I was curled up like a fist protesting death, or that every breath was either hard labour or hard time, or that I'm either always too hot or too cold. Doesn't matter because my hospital roommate wears star wars pajamas, and he's 9 years old. His name is Louis, and I don't have to ask what he's got. The bald head with the skin and bones frame speaks volumes. The gameboy and the feather pillow booms like they're trying to make him feel at home because he's going to be here awhile.
I manage a smile the first time I see him and it feels like the biggest lie I have ever told, so I hold my breath cos I'm thinking any minute now he's going to call me on it. I hold my breath because I'm scared of a 57 pound boy hooked up to a machine because he's been watching me and maybe I've got him pegged all wrong, like maybe he's bionic or some shit. So I look away like just I made eye contact with a gang member who's got a rap sheet the length of a lecture on dumb mistakes politicians have made. I look away like he's going to give me my life back the moment I've got something to trade. I damn near pull out my pack and say, "Cigarette?"
But my fear subsides in the moment I realize Louis is all show and tell. He's got everything from a shotgun shell to a crow's foot and he can put them all in context. Like, "See, this is from a shooting range", and "See, this is from a weird girl". I watch his hands curl around a cuff-link and a tie-tack and realize that every nick-nack is a treasure and every treasure has a story, and every time I think I can't handle more he hits me with another story. He says, "See, this is from my father" "See, this is from my brother" "See, this is from that weird girl" "See, this is from my mother". Took me about two days to figure out that weird girl is his sister, it took him about two hours today after she left for him to figure out he missed her. And they visit every day, and stay well past visiting hours because for them that term doesn't apply. But when they do leave, Louis and I are left alone. And he says, "The worst part about being sick is that you get all the free ice cream you ask for." And he says, "The worst part about that is realizing there is nothing more they can do for you." He says, "Ice cream can't make everything okay."
And there is no easy way of asking, and I know what he's going to say but maybe he just needs to say it, so I ask him anyway. "Are you scared?" Louis doesn't even lower his voice when he says, "Fuck yeah." I listen to a 9 year old boy say the word fuck like he was a 30 year old man with a nose-bleed being lowered into a shark tank, he's got a right to it. And if it takes this kid a curse word to help him get through it, then I want to teach him to swear like the devil's sitting there taking notes with a pen and a pad. But before I can forget that Louis is 9 years old he says, "Please don't tell my dad."
He asks me if I believe in angels. And before I realize I don't have the heart to tell him, I tell him, "Not lately." and I just lay there waiting for him to hate me. But he doesn't know how to, so he never does. Louis loves like a man who lived in a time before God gave religion to men and left it to them to figure out what hate was. He never greets me with silence, only smiles and a patience I've never seen in someone who knows they're dying. And I'm trying so hard not to remind him I'll be out of here in a couple days, smoking cigarettes and taking my life for granted. And he'll still be planted in this bed like a flower that refuses to grow. I've been with him for 5 days and all I really know is that Louis loves to pull feathers out of his pillow, and watch them float to the ground. Almost as if he's the philosopher inside of the scientist ready to say, "It's gravity that's been getting us down."
The truth is: there's not enough miracles to go around, kid. And there's too many people petitioning God for the winning lotto ticket. And for every answered prayer, there's a cricket with arthritis. And the only reason we can't find answers is because the search party didn't invite us, and Louis, right now the crickets have arthritis. So there is no music, no symphony of nature swelling to crescendos, as if ripping halos into melodies that can keep a rhythm with the way our hearts beat. So we must meet silence with the same level of noise that the parents of dying 9 year old boys make when they take liberties in talking with heaven. We must shout until we shatter in our own vibrations, then let our lives echo and grow, echo and grow, grow distant. Grow distant enough to know that as far as our efforts go, we don't always get a reply.
But I swear to whatever God I can find in the time I have left, I'm going to remember you kid. I'm going to tell your story as often as every story you told me. And every time I tell it I'll say, "See, there's bravery in this world. There's 6.5 billion people curled up like fists protesting death, but every breath we breathe has to be given back. A 9 year old boy taught me that." So hold your breath, the same way you'd hold a pen when writing Thank You letters on your skin to every tree that gave you that breath to hold. And then let it go, as if you understand something about getting old and having to give back. Let it go like a laugh attack in the middle of really good sex, the black eye will be worth it. Because what is your night worth without a story to tell? And why wield a word like worth if you've got nothing to sell?
People drop pennies down a wishing well, so the cost of a desire is equal to that of a thought. But if you've got expectations, expect others have bought your exact same dream for the price of a 'hard work, hang in, hold on' mentality. Like, I accept any challenge so challenge me. Like, I brought a knife to this gun fight, but the other night I mugged a mountain so bring that shit, I've had practise. Louis and I cracked this world wide open and found that the prize inside is we never lied to ourselves. Never told ourselves that we'd be easy or undemanding. So we sing in our own vibration, and dare angels to eavesdrop and stop midflight to pluck feathers from their wings and write demands that God's hands take the time to catch you. So, even if God doesn't, it wasn't because we didn't try.
I don't often believe in angels, but on the day I left Louis pulled a feather from his pillow and said, "This is for you." I half expected him to say, "See, this is the first one I grew."
Tuesday evening, I found out a friend of mine died. It was rather unexpected. It was very upsetting.
It’s not like we were very close. I had really only known her for a short while. Lisa is a part of my Team In Training (TNT) friends and teammates. She died Tuesday morning, October 29, 2013, and it is assumed it was her cancer that killed her. We all knew she had cancer. That was how she and I became friends. We emailed support, motivation, and questions about running while going through chemo. I promise you, it is one of the most physically difficult things I have ever done. The fatigue is too often literally overwhelming, making you trail off the instant you sit down.
Some days, standing in the living room and feeling the weight of fatigue coming on, knowing there is nothing I can do to fight it, I just gave in. I would lie down right there on the floor and be out for an hour before I could pull myself back to reality. I could have walked upstairs to my bed. I could have walked over to the couch. I didn't care. That kind of exhaustion makes it really difficult to go run. Difficult to feel like you are alive instead of in a half reality, stuck between worlds. Between the living and the dead. Neither completely taking you, neither giving in to the other. Maybe the exhaustion is what finally got Lisa. I don’t know or need to know the actual cause of death. I don’t care. It was cancer.
In the last two weeks of her life, amidst her normal motherly obligations and life, Lisa continued to fight cancer. In her own battle she had visits to the doctor or hospital. In a more public facing effort, she continued with Team In Training. She had been raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society by preparing to run the San Francisco Nike Women [Half] Marathon with at least one of her daughters.
As she flew to California for the race weekend fun, she doubted herself. Not sure if she could perform well. I reminded her that a finish time was not important. The amount of time she spent in training, the efforts she made to raise money to fight cancer, that she can cross the finish line, these were the victories. She only had 13.1 miles to run or walk until someone gave her a medal to celebrate her accomplishments over such insurmountable obstacles. I told her of all the many people I knew there, some have become my favorite people, I was cheering her on more than any of them. I told her I was thinking about her. I cheered her on because I know what it is like to finish a race while going through chemo. And she did it. She is a hero. That is not diminished by her passing.
How many people can say with their last two weeks of mortality, emotionally wiped and struggling through incredulous physical pain, they ran a half marathon and raised money to fight cancer? To fight the very thing killing her? When I ran the Vancouver BC BMO Marathon earlier this year, in a room or 300+ people, there were four of us that stood when they asked for those currently fighting cancer to stand. Four that were enduring chemo and still going to run the next day. Lisa was that kind of person.
With her sudden passing, many of us were and are grief struck. She seemed to be doing well. She smiled her fantastic, enveloping smile and those around could not help but do the same. As TNT folks, the thing we know best in dealing with frustration and confusion towards cancer is running together. It is, after all, how we all came together to begin with. We gather unshowered in the early morning, share an emotional message, I try to make people laugh because I think that's the best way, we get in real close to each other, put one hand in for a team cheer of "goooOOO TEAM!!" and we run.
Tuesday night, after the kids were down and I was lost in emotion, I put on my purple TEAM shirts. I kept choking back tears as I put on my shoes. I kissed my wife. And I ran. It's the only thing I think we know to do. It's the only tribute that means anything to us.
The purple shirts are our race shirts. On which we write or screen or pin the names of those for whom we run. Some in honor of, some in memory of. They are the uniform of our efforts, motivation, drive, and loved ones.
Lisa, before you ran the Nike Women's, I shared with you a most appropriate quote. “A hero is an ordinary individual who finds the strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.” (Christopher Reeves). I echo that again with the sorrow of your passing. Maybe unintentionally, you have held your light high for all to see and follow. You have endured so much, with pain, with agony, and to those of us that knew your struggles, you did so with such admirable strength. You are and always will be a hero.
Tuesday night, I put on my purple shirt. I cried while running. I ran for Lisa.
Well I certainly HOPE so. Brooks has a number of charity organizations with who they have worked in the past, donating either a percentage of sales or products and things. I have reached out to them in an effort to strike up a similar partnership for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.
The real nitty gritty of the proposal is that they make a limited edition purple shoe of one of their lines of shoes, and donate a portion of the sales to Team In Training. What would be the coolest ever is if they did one whole month of purple products, shoes, shirts, hats and jacket, and donate from that month's sales. That way customers could buy whatever model shoe they run in (the Ghost for me), or a jacket or something if they prefer a different shoe for running. Everyone can show their TEAM spirit that way.
Well the idea has been officially proposed and I should hear back by mid January. I will post an update about it then.
...Fingers crossed!
I didn't say anything about this after my last dose of chemo. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to get my hopes up by saying it out loud, or even typing it. Where I thought I had one more dose of chemo before I could hope to be done, I was informed that this last one was in fact, my LAST one. ...no way.
Pending test results of the CT which I had this morning, and the result came back the same as the last one, "Shows no signs of lymphoma," I am done. I am done.
I can't say it enough for it to sink in. I am done.
It's been three and a half years of chemo. It has become the way life is. I have no choice but to take another hit and let the fog roll in. Am I really done? In six months are they going to say they made a mistake? Am I going to get my port taken out of my chest only to need it put back in?
AM I REALLY DONE???
...oh please let it be so. Please just let me be done.
The doctor said I am done. We can take the port out.
I am done.
If you know this picture, you know exactly how I feel. I make no apologies for the language. I feel like I "crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side."
A week ago tomorrow, I sat down for what I thought would be the second to last dose of chemo ...ever! Well, not forever. I know that there is no complete cure for Lymphoma yet so at best I could hope for a maintenance drug like Gleevec to come out before the eventual return of my cancer. But Dr. Oncologist told me this was my last dose!! HOW COOL IS THAT?!?! I thought I had one more dose coming in November. The blood work showed all signs were "normal," which is as normal as my blood gets for now. I am still a bit anemic and have low white blood counts though not low enough to worry about neutropenia or anything. Instead of coming back in for another dose of poison in two months, I will go in for a blood test is all. Yes, there will be a complete CT scan between now and then to measure and analyze everything. Pending those results and if everything is still good, I am done!
To be brutally honest, that scares the bejeebers out of me. It means another wait-and-see period. This one is supposed to be final and last for at least a few years. But so far, all wait-and-see periods have ended with going into heavier rounds of chemo, more nausea, hair loss, unbelievable fatigue, and all the emotional distress. While I have been on this maintenance dose of chemo for the last who knows how many months (10? 11?), I was not quite as worried because I knew I was at least getting something to keep cancer at bay. Now...? I am left to the strengths of my own immune system to fight it's epic saga.
I don't know. Which is to say, I do not know what to do, say or think, so I shrug my shoulders and sluff off the burden of unquieted anxieties. ...I don't know.
I ran last night. It was the first time since that dose a week ago. It usually takes a week to a week and a half to start feeling the fatigue subside. I wanted to start the week off strong. Running or doing Insanity on Monday but knew I was not yet up to it. If I held still, I felt well enough. If I moved around, like walking to the bathroom at work, I felt all sorts of weird. My head was dizzy, my legs unsure. Walking home from the train after work I did not trust my legs for a run unless it was at home on the treadmill because if needed, I could stop and just walk inside. If I were out running, I would have had to cover the distance to get back home. I have done that once before and do not want to repeat it. I decided to wait at least another day. Yesterday, the mental anguish was too much. I needed to run to clear my head more than anything but knew my legs would benefit as well. I ran six miles and felt really good. My head was not too dizzy. My legs kept me going. My lungs burned enough but not too much. I was not trying for any speed records, just go.
That is the beauty of running for me. I can do hard workouts, speed workouts like Yazzos or Fartleks, hills, whatever, pushing myself to make me stronger and faster. But I find the best workouts are when I let go of time and pace as much as I can and just go run. I think of the mileage I want to hit and a route that roughly gets the distance. Then I go. By the time I am back, all the intellectual backwash is cleared. Concerns are lessened, patience restored and I feel better. That is what I needed last night. I intended to run five miles last night to be a little easier on my body for the first post chemo run. I usually try to take it a little easier after a dose. I didn't realize I turned for the extra mile until I was halfway through that extra loop. Too late to turn back and have it make any difference, my legs held up and my mind was grateful for the extra mile.
Now we wait. We wait for the scheduling at Imaging to call and set up the CT. Maybe next week I will get results. Maybe another week. It depends on when I can get in for the scan. ...Wait and see. My least favorite time.
That sucks.
I don't know. I'll go run again tomorrow, building up more miles again.
Today is one of those days that hurts to get out of bed in the morning. I set my alarm for early enough to go run before work. That did not happen. I almost cried getting out of bed in time to make it to work.
Truth be told, I have been so tired for a while now. It is not just tired like I need a nap during the day, but it is the kind of tired that comes with chemo and fatigue. Chemo tired is not pacified by taking a nap. You wake just as tired as before. It is heavy. My arms feel like they are pulling me down.
Yesterday after making dinner for my family, a cheese and chicken ravioli (store bought) in a pesto olive oil sauce I made with garlic bread and sweet potatoes with caramelized onion and crumbled bacon, I just had to sit down. I did not know I was asleep until all of a sudden I realized my wife was finishing up reading to our children and I had no idea how long they had read. Sure, I mention the food because I think the meal itself had a little to do with it as a card/starch filled meal could have had a little help towards a food coma, but the heavy tired has been going on for a while. ...And because I wanted to brag a little about how the food was good. That is was fatigue does. It makes staying awake, especially if you sit down, a near impossibility.
In addition to the heavy tired that has plagued me for too long, I ache. Both in the bones and joints, as well as in the muscles. The aches and pains that commonly come with running and keeping up with replacing your shoes when mileage dictates the need, those aches I accept. Those aches I earn. Ankles and shins and hips, they voice their dislike for my pushing myself. Aside from those which are the acceptable payment for the emotional sanctity of physical exertion, when your bones hurt, when your muscles feel bruised, the hypochondriac in me raises his ugly mottled head.
Am I relapsing? Is it spreading? Is it mutating? Why does my bicep hurt like I curled too much weight? Why do my radius and ulna ache?
...Grumble, grumble. My next appointment is in a couple weeks. I don't know if I am just being paranoid or if these are legitimate issues.
I have been thinking about that appointment for a few days. The nurses always ask if I am in any pain. Usually I have earned any pain by running or something. But not this time. I do not understand it. I do not know how to answer their next question, either. "On a scale of 1-10, how bad is it?" Well that's just stupid. Pain is relative. Is this pain more painful than... a root canal with not enough novocain? No. Is this pain more painful than stubbing your toe? Yes. Is this pain painful enough to take pain blockers? Everyday, and it still hurts. Then I ask myself if this pain is worse for me than the cause of the anguished look on the old lady's face in the chair next to me in the infusion room. With a sigh comes my answer, I would be the biggest sissy if that were the case. I ache. I am very tired of the ache. But I should be able to endure this pain far more than those around me. So what do I tell the nurses? I would really like the pain to go away, but if there is not much more advice than can be given than take some Tylenol, then "Thank you, Sir. May I have another?" And I will be on my way.
"Tell me where is Fancy bred,
Or in the heart or in the head?"
The Merchant of Venice, Act III, Scene 2
I don't know.
...Who is John Gault?
Maybe two weeks ago, I had another dose of chemo. This was another maintenance dose and a checked off round, edging ever closer to the end of it all. ...I hope.
In my head I keep singing Another One Bites the Dust. But I am a bit concerned. I ran a couple times this last week, not as many runs as I would have liked but all things considered, I did pretty well. One of my runs was just over six miles and I kept an average 10:23 pace per mile. Not my best but not bad for an old man. The problem is, and why I have been concerned is that I do not feel like I am recovering. Recovery has many parts to it. The first part is energy level, how quickly you regain a "normal" level of energy after your run. On longer runs, sometimes a nap after you shower and stuff is needed. After the energy level comes the muscle soreness. That's what more people think of when thinking about recovery. Are you sore the next day? Can you walk? Can you go back out and run again? I can go out and run up to ten miles without having to really even think about soreness. But this time, I cannot recover the energy level.
This goes beyond the immediate need for a nap. For me, it has been maybe four days and I am still exhausted. It goes beyond that too. I have been super tired for a few weeks now. The last time I felt like this was a year ago when I was training for Hood To Coast, a relay race running in legs from Mt Hood to Seaside in Oregon. In training for that, I had one run where I did 13.1 miles and thought I was going to die. Not as in a whiny sort of way where you are just not fit enough to complete a run without really sucking wind, but I was afraid I might not make it home. I was literally hallucinating on that run. When I could not recover, I called my oncologist who ran some blood test to find out that I was almost two liters low on red blood. Understandably, that was my worst run ever.
Feeling the same or similar now, I called oncology today. When I went in a couple weeks ago, I mentioned how tired I have been lately. The CBC (Complete Blood Count) showed everything as fairly normal for my levels, though. So I went ahead with the chemo dose as that gets me one step closer to being done with everything. Doctor Oncologist told me to keep an eye on it though and see if we need to look at something else as to the cause of the fatigue. So I called. Usually, it takes me about a week to overcome the normal fatigue from a round of treatment. The last round was unusually difficult on me, and this round is not seeming to be any easier.
I do not know what it could be, but it has me a bit worried. What if- You know?
With the call to oncology, I am waiting for the call back to see what the doctor wants to do. I want to run tests and try to rule everything out or find something so it can be addressed and fixed. Maybe that is part of the problem. Insurance got cancelled, and we cannot pay for more tests or treatment. It worries me.
I keep saying I am just old. Is that it? Is this what being old is like? Because this sucks.
The Helvetia Half is one of the largest in Oregon. This year there was over 17,000 people (I think) that ran or walked the event. I was one of them. Remember back to Vancouver BC? Scroll down to see the summaries I did for that run, but it did not go well. I wasn't to worried. Yes, you are always disappointed if you feel you did not run well. But I knew I was going to run the Helvetia a month later and I have run enough to know one bad race does not define me.
Maybe a week or so after I got back from Canada (eh), I had another round of chemo. For whatever reason, this round was particularly hard on me. I was wiped out from this round. Usually, lately anyway, I have recovered and been fine after about a week. This time the fatigue was almost overwhelming and lasted way longer than normal. That part is always frustrating. This directly affected my running this time. I just could not pull it together enough to go for a run.
Finally, after too long and knowing I needed to get a few runs in before Helvetia, I went out for a good run. I think I may have done 10 miles that day. I planned on getting a few more shorter runs in still but I got sick. When someone gets sick, they can often modify their workout and still keep going. I am doing that now. But I was so sick then I could not do anything. Race day was fast approaching and I was underprepared even if just mentally.
With race day at the Helvetia Half upon me, and knowing there are some good hills on this course, I had some mental prep to do. I had one of my good friends Jeff and my sister in law Amy joining me for their first halfs ever. Part of me was just trying to play it cool for them and tell them the basic things, relax, take it easy, don't worry about your finish time, make sure you drink, try to stay more in the middle of the road to stay as level as you can, don't worry about the "fast" runners because anyone that matters has already finished... You know, first timer stuff. At the same time I was trying to tell myself similar things. You are sick. Don't worry about finish time this time. Just relax and have fun. It's fine to pull over and cough a lung out when you have to... Which I only did twice. Good thing too since we only have two lungs.
I actually did really well. As I came into the last mile stretch, I was relaxed and smiling. I saw my wife, children and one our BFFs waiting for me just before the finish chute. They cheered me on and I felt great. As I past, they asked where Amy was to cheer her on too. She was not far behind. For me, I had a decent finish time though it was not my best. And I am fine with that. I ran better than in my last race and really that is all I ever hope to accomplish with each race. Jeff ran like a rock star and finished ahead of me with his family there to cheer him on. He then waited for me to finish as well.
Post race, I had to take another week off to try and stop being sick. For as little running prep as I did the month prior to the race, I was not very sore at all. My hips were a little tight where I had been having some troubles in preparing for Canada (eh), but really, I felt good in the muscles. Helvetia was June 8th this year. It's been however many days since (12?) and I am running again. I cannot get rid of the muck in my chest but it is not really slowing me down. I am running 6 miles or so every couple days and holding a 10 minute mile average. I am happy with that for now.
I am happy to still be running. Not sure when my next dose of chemo is but I will still be running then too. I just hope I don't have to take as much time off for recovery from that this time.
"If you can't run then walk, if you can't walk then crawl, but whatever you do you have to keep moving forward."
-MLK Jr.
