Guilt

"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.

Dragging Me Along

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!

Team In Training Honored Patient

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.

For Lisa

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.

Last Chemo Round???

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.

The Hurt and Worries

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?

Another One Gone, Another One Gone...

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 Marathon

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.

Push a Little Longer

A letter to a TNT teammate, Lisa. She asked me how to keep energy up to run after chemo and radiation. I responded:

Lisa,

I am actually glad you asked me about this, though I think it is a difficult thing to compare. I am struggling to respond. Sometimes I think we all understand another's unfortunate plight. Other times I think my struggles were unique to me and I am grateful I did not have to endure all that I have seen another go through without really knowing what it would have been like. Maybe it is easier for you to relate to me, than me to you, as I did not have radiation. But maybe there is just a lot of made up pretense, imagined in my mind. Hmm… Sorry, this is how my brain works. Sometimes over analytic and without reason or justification.

As you are aware, I am sure, I began training for my first half while in treatment. I continued the trend for my second half. And for this last season I was still on "maintenance chemo." I still am. I go in again on Thursday for another dose. With this, I do not get nausea like before but I still feel some fatigue. It is not as strong or lasting, but it is still there. And I still get chemo brain from it.

I do not think there is any "good" advice to give on how to keep up energy levels. Time, effort and patience are the only real answers though they are not what you want to hear. At least not what I want to hear. I had to learn that the first four miles are the hardest. They are for everyone, not just cancer patients. It takes me a couple miles to start feeling warmed up and after four is usually when I feel like I can actually do the distance. As I run, I have found myself chanting a number of different things along the way. Often in the beginning of a longer run I say, "The first four are the hardest. The first four are the hardest. The first four…" On longer sections or up hills, I have said "I am stronger than cancer. I am stronger than cancer." Sometimes I change that to say stronger than chemo.

People ask me how I keep going through it all. Family (I have four kids), work, school, chemo, and still get a run in a few times a week. Borrowing a line from the Grateful Dead, I often say I live on "Vitamin C and Cocaine." Though I have never done drugs, sometimes I feel like a crack junky for caffeine. My dependency on it drives me crazy. It used to be a lot worse. I could not get through a day without multiple energy drinks like Rockstar or Red Bull. If I sat down, I would pass out within minutes. The problem was I knew that even if I let myself take a nap, I would not wake feeling any more rested or with any more energy. I was just awake. In limbo. Like a zombie. Neither dead nor living, incapable of understanding which I was supposed to be.

I do not recommend that path. The Rockstar path is not good for you. But I figure if God saw fit to saddle me with cancer, he must put up with my figuring out how to make it through the day. Rockstars became my crutch. There are multiple problems with that and running, though I don't want to get off on a biology/physiology tangent.

Perhaps the best advice I can give is mental. Push a little longer. Run when you can, walk when you have to, and keep putting one foot forward when you think you can't.

As a very competitive person, and having a trace of my former rugby player ego, I hated seeing my performance as failure. It took me a long time to learn and accept that the race is not about time. It is about crossing the finish line. It is still difficult but I know it is doable.

Accept that races will be hard. That they will be slower than you want. Accept that your training runs may be better than your race run. Learn to enjoy each run for it's own unique day. During this last season, a month before event weekend for me, I had a trial run. I did my 13+ miles starting from OMSI out to Sellwood and back. I averaged about a 9:47 mile. That is the fastest I have ever been. I LOVED it! My race weekend was very different. Were it not for Coach Kevin walking with me for a couple miles, I would not have likely finished. I had to grab onto him to keep from falling. I was not good and I have not recovered. We will see what oncology says in a couple days.

While I am bummed about my race performance, I am okay with it. I accept each run is it's own beast. Post chemo and worse, post radiation, our bodies may ever more piss us off never finding consistency. Never finding predictability except the unpredictability. It's frustrating, but it's better than not running. And I think that becomes the metaphor for life. Run when you can, walk when you have to. Put one foot forward. Push just a little longer.

…And maybe have a little caffeine to help you get started. ;)

-Ryan

Ode to Coach Karl, BMO 2013

I wrote a more serious and emotional summary of this weekend's trip to Vancouver which you can read, but I think a Coach Karl style summary is more needed right now. At least for me it is. So I shall do my best to live up to such a lofty goal.

Friday morning, it's still dark when the alarm goes off. Ah crap, what did I agree to? Oh well. Grab my stuff, get in the car, pick up Christine, get to PDX on time. Hey there's Erin! Cool.

Self check in, boarding pass in hand we begin the wait to get through security. Why is there only one lane open? Poorly managed? Okay, time to strip down and go the the metal detector with my bagels that Matt tried to get me to worry about. "They won't let you through with those…" Thanks, Matt.

Through security, clothes back on, bags ready and… wait for Julie to finish her full body cavity search. It's cool, she tipped the TSA for "services rendered." Oh hey, there's Coach Mike! He wasn't at the Starbucks like he promised. It's okay, he's still awesome.

Wander down to the gate. A few others are there too. Time for breakfast. Michelle took pictures. Cap'n Mike is too good for us and does not sit with us until pressured into it. Then he had a big bean breakfast burrito. Glad the Mike's have their own room tonight. "Alaska Airlines Flight 28somethingsomething paging passengers Hatch, Wall, 'Wee-dick' Broshar to the counter for passport verification." Hey where are Skye and Joe anyway? What about Becky and Kevin? Oh Kevin had to work. He might not make it. Whaaaaaaat?! What about Kayla? Oh she is working too but will drive up tonight.

Hey there's Becky. She has shirts. Cool! They stink but man they're pretty. Thank you Becky for getting that together, Michelle for the shirts, Renee for the rush print job and whoever the designer was for some kick ass design work.

"Alaska Airlines Flight 28somethingsomething still paging passengers 'Wee-dick' to the counter for passport verification." Ha, ha! Coach Mike isn't the only one to screw up their name in a sophmorish way. Awesome.

Oh hey, Skye and Joe are here. So is Andy, the Flex Coach. He turned out alright.

"Alaska Airlines Flight 28somethingsomething, now boarding for Vancouver BC."

Wow, this is a small plane. Oh no, Amy has to sit next to me. Poor, poor Amy. Huh, look at that. Erin is all the way in the front of the plane, just about as far away from Coach Mike and I as she could get. Me thinks that was planned. Fasten your seat belts people, we'll make this a bumpy ride. Okay I meant the whole trip but the pilot thought I meant he should make for a bumpy landing. That's alright, we made it. Michelle took pictures. Breathe that fresh Canadian air.

Shuffle, shuffle, bags, shuffle, shuffle, limo. What? You mean you didn't take a limo to your hotel? I just thought that was parr for the course. Sorry Eugene. All loaded up. Who let Skye control the radio? Joe was not happy with her choice of Canadian pop star radio, which none of us knew. Matt loved his limo driver. The guy was super chatty and full of useless info.

Oh nice! The Sheraton! Wow it's pretty. Michelle took pictures. And the weather is cool and clear. So pretty. …Sorry Eugene. Check in, aaaand I got upgraded to a sweet suite. 27th floor. Leather couch. Separate bedroom. Multiple tv's. Fruit plate. Special thank you note from LLS for being a top fundraiser. Freaking amazing view! …Sorry Eugene.

Everyone checks in excluding those arriving later. And Coach Kevin will fly up in the morning. Good! We all really want him there with us.

Group walk to Italian food, my pizza margherita was so good. Hey Matt, how was that $10+ Guinness? He was not the only to get started for the weekend. Pretty sure Michelle took pictures. Okay, now on to the expo. Walking down through Vancouver. It really is a pretty town.

Japadog. Many celebrity in Japadog.

The expo was at the "Canada Place," on Coal Harbor. Michelle took pictures. Sign the medical waiver provided by the country of Canada and some Joe Schmoe Doctor. Bib's, bags, shirts, souvenir shirts/hats/jackets to prove we were there. Normal expo stuff.

Whew. Done with that. Waiting outside for everyone. Apparently, they were waiting inside for us. Regrouped and walk back to the hotel. Stop along the way at the IGA for copious amounts of coconut water and whatever else people needed. Loaf of bread and PBJ for me, thanks.

Back to the hotel, to my 27th floor suite. Got everything put away and fell asleep on the couch until Matt called and offered my a massage. It was time to meet up for dinner anyway. Regrouped in the lobby waited for Michelle who forgot something in her room, then made off with our tour guide Coach Mike. He was pretty awesome about setting up reservations at Yaletown. It was good food. Hockey game. More drinking for people, and Michelle took pictures. From there we went to a gelateria. Hockey game in every window along the way.

Matt found a free newspaper for Mike, either one, Michelle did NOT take pictures. Coach Mike gave it to Becky to give to Kevin. But then he left it for the kiddies in the ice cream shop. Silly Mike. Walking back, hey look! $0.25 peep shows! One of the mannequins just about poked Erin's eye out. Sheesh!

Some may have gone back out after the group got home. They must have because somehow Mike and Mike ended up sharing a bed. All I know is there was snoring, then punching, then no snoring and Kayla was there. Oh hey! Kayla and entourage are here! So is Kevin! Nice. Now time for breakfast. Wait, is Michelle here yet? Okay, here she comes. Tour Guide Mike? If you would please. Thank you.

The Elbow Room. What the-! "Big Ass Pancake" may have actually fallen short in describing what was served. I ate half and wish I had stopped earlier. Behold, the new sport of "Extreme Carb Loading." Michelle took pictures. Time to break up the band. Coaches and Staff have their meeting so we plan on meeting in the lobby about 5:15. I did a little shopping on Robison, then slept for 2 hours.

Time for the Inspiration Dinner. Put on the OSWIM BMO shirts. We look gooood!! Enter the building and follow the noise. Kayla didn't know that was for us. Oh yes. Yes it is. And it will be awesome. Down the escalator to reveal Coach Mike holding, oh wait, ooooooohh nnoooooo. Erin was right. I should never have sent her that picture of me when I was bald with Photoshoped pig tails. It was creepy. I will get you Erin. I don't know how or when, but I will. And it will be awe- wait for it -some!

Dinner was good. According to Matt, worlds better than the TEAM dinner in Paris. …That freaking picture of me just will not go away. It's a big group of TNTers, and now speakers. Presentation of the top fundraisers. They gave us these little glass statues of Inuksuk, the logo used for the Olympic games there. Matt too pictures of me as a keynote speaker. Now to the real speaker. Man, no matter how many times I have done this, I still get teary.

Dinner is done. Inspirational words from coaches and mentors. You have to expect that Michelle is taking pictures. And 20 cameras and phones later, we head outside …for MORE photos. This time in front of the fountain dyed purplish for us. Sure it was. Uh-huh. Photobombers went all Egyption on us. Then I paid it forward on the Coaches photo op. :)

Okay, everyone go back to your room and go straight to bed to be well rested for tomorrow. That or head to an Irish pub down the street. A different kind of carb loading ensued. And I had more Diet Coke. But don't worry, Michelle took pictures. Because it was awesome.

Now for real, go home and go to sleep. Someone went a little Buddy the Elf on the elevator buttons. Not sayin' who, but I had to apologize to the two guys that were not with our group. Make sure everything is ready for tomorrow then crawl in bed. JUMP out of bed when the alarm went off. Gather in the lobby. Now in race attire, photo op. Wait, is Michelle down yet? More photo's. On to the train. off the train and walk like a pilgrim across the plains to the start area. Holy freaking bathroom lines Batman!

Sing Oh Canada, then run. Downhill, more downhill, Erin! OW! Her staff friend cut me! There's Michelle! She took pictures! Cross a bridge, run around, enter Chinatown, see a strung out hooker on the sideline, leave Chinatown, running kind of slow but still ok, there's Kevin! Run past Yaletown, start to hit the coastline, hey there's Coach Mike! Half way (for the half), into Stanley Park, over the river and through the woods, Captain Mike caught me, we didn't talk much, Captain Mike left me, it's cool, sea wall in Coal Harbor, holy sh-- I don't think I can run anymore, hey there's Kevin! He's looking at me funny. I don't feel very good. He walked with me to the final chute. I couldn't feel my legs, I grabbed onto Kevin more than once, I made it across the finish line! Bag check, sit down and recover.

Christine and a few others checked on me then headed back out for course support.

...recover ...more.

...

...okay, I think I can stand now. Check out at the TNT tent, start walking back. Hey there's Michelle! We walk a bit then see Christine running with Kayla. Hooray for Kayla! She rocked it. Christine and Michelle switch, Michelle with Kayla and Christine with me. We go back to the 20k/41k marker. Cheer on everyone, especially all TNT peeps and the Japanese because they were awesome! There's Skye! YEAH!! She looked awesome! Matt had been running with people. He stayed to cheer. Superman passed us, really not looking very super. Barney the dinosaur passed us. We stayed for Megan. Our last OSWIM teammate. She was awesome! We all walked up with her into the chute. She ran the last bit. It was truly amazing to see her surrounded by so many coaches and teammates in support approaching the finish. A beautiful reminder of just how tight and supportive this team was. I loved it.

Coaches went back to do the same for the last of the other TNT peeps. …Because they are awesome.

Clean up fast and head out to Doolin's to celebrate. It did not take long. Kevin was so glad to see me. He told me I scared the sh-- out of him on the course. There was more hockey, a kick ass burger (for me), dancing girls -not that kind Cap'n Mike. Sheesh. Jill got pressured into Nike Women's, she gave the high five of committal, Coach Mike told me he did not want me on the team, he said I am just too much awesome to have another season this year with me. Maybe he fears his head exploding. More drinks, more Diet Coke for me. Michelle took pictures. Sara and Alfredo made for good company, even though he is not really an attorney. Cap'n Mike tells us the ins and outs of cross state border high speed chases. And exit in search of margaritas since it was Cinco de Mayo.

There was promise of ice cream. Bait and switch I say. Waffles and ice cream, just an easy 5k walk away. Only to be denied. …awesome. I crashed. 9 hours of solid sleep. Beautiful. Shower real fast then meet up for breakfast of crepes. Wait for Michelle to grab whatever she forgot in her room. We applauded upon her arrival. Back to Robison to Cafe Crepe. Thank you for indulging me. Go our separate ways before check out.

Check out and our limo driver drove like he could not get us out of the car fast enough. But yeah, it was still a limo. Sorry Eug--

With a couple hours to kill at the airport, time for lunch and last minute duty free shopping that cost an arm. They said our legs were useless and refused them as payment. Check in, board sit down and sleep. It's a short flight. The landing was far better. Holy crap it is hot in Portland! Kevin met us at PDX. We said our goodbyes. Many of this team is doing Nike so they will see each other in a couple weeks anyway. Kind of wish I was going to do that too.

But I'm not worried. Michelle will take pictures.

It will be …awesome.

Vive La... TEAM!!

As I continue to be a part of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Team In Training program, or TNT, some of my teammates this season trained for the Paris marathon. Just before they left, as a way to cheer them on, I put this together. The images were all found online. I Photoshoped them (color, size, blur, paint, etc.) together to make it work.

Yes You Can

A Letter to the Paris TNTer's

My dear Parisians,

I would like to take a moment and thank you for all you do. For all you have done. And for all we have yet to do together. Many of you were around a couple years ago when I signed up with Team In Training for my first event. I don't think I can adequately describe how important you have been in my life. Nor can I thank you enough for all that you have done for me.

When I attended my first recruitment meeting, I just about to start another series of chemo treatments, and I was a mess. I did not know what was going to happen to me. I did not know what to do. That feeling of living on an emotional precipice was torture. I had a hard time holding back the tears at that meeting. At the end of that, I knew if nothing else, I needed to sign up and do everything I could to make it across the finish line. Somehow, that was the figurative manifestation of being able to make it through the trial of my treatment and recovery. It was Cap'n Lindsey Niemeyer that handed me my paperwork. When she saw I put myself down as the connection to cancer, she asked me if I was a Survivor. I said, “Well, not yet.” At the Kickoff, I did not fair so well. I had to excuse myself and walked out into the hall. I could not keep from breaking down sobbing.

My first training day, we were moving in a circle and introducing ourselves. “Hello. My name is _____. I am doing TNT because _____.” I hated that. Actually, I never got comfortable with that. I was ashamed of my cancer. I felt like others would treat me different if they knew. Like I was undeserving of their casual acquaintance. Or treat me as if I were a social disease. When people asked me how I was connected to cancer, or why I was doing TNT, I wanted to fight them. I hope that did not come out. At the end of that season, race weekend, my life was changed.

I ran the Seattle RnR half. One month before the race, I finished that round of chemo. One week before, I was in the ER with pneumonia. When I started that race, I just wanted to cross the finish line on my own feet. No one carrying me. No dieing. About mile eight, I happened to see the back on my TNT teammate's shirt. My name was there. Surely that must have been another Ryan. I asked. Is that my name? Yes.

I was carried the next five miles. She lifted my hand as I crossed the finish line. Many of my Seattle teammates had put my name on their shirt's. I had no idea. You guys have lifted me ever since.

Through chemo, fatigue, emotional anguish, and just being a sissy, you guys still lift me up when I want to quit. Even this season, so many miles later, some of you have literally pulled me along, not letting go of my hand as you pass me and forcing me to start running again.

I would love to go to Paris and cheer you all on. There is nothing better than seeing you guys when I am out running. When you are there and running and tired, think of me and push a little longer. When you want to walk, think of me and keep going. When you hit that mental wall and want to fight with or scream at someone, well then you should think of Coach Mike. :)

I have told some of you that one of the few things I wish I could do with my life is to hold people's hands when they fall. To lift them up when they are weak or they fail themselves. I wish to encourage all, and instill in them the magnitude of their self worth. I believe we are meant to be great. And you my friends and teammates, have done that countless times for me. It has been my great honor and privilege to know you, run with you and call you friends.

You are all amazing! Thank you for all you have done and for all you have yet to do.

Good luck in Paris. Go Team.

-Ryan

Running and running and running some more...

Alright, I am running and running some more. I think this is the year [2013] that I really become a runner. There is a very big difference between "I am running a half marathon in a few months," versus looking and your shoes and thinking, "Is it time? Can I go run yet? do I have time for 7 or 8 miles or can I only squeeze in a 5k? Well if it's only a 5k, I can try to push my pace harder to make it count more..." And those thoughts go on. I can tell I am leaning more and more to that side, and I like that. So this is the year I think the "runner" in me really goes through gestation to blossom into full womanhood... or something like that.

While I am training for the Vancouver BC half marathon in early May, I have been on a much more advanced training program. Most of my teammates that will be running that half with me have worked up to a 5 mile run on the long day. I have been running 11 or 12 miles instead. It was not a sudden jump, I had been doing more already so I just rolled with it.

These longer runs are dual purpose. The obvious is for the running and training. But the other is a litmus test on how I am doing with my health. Previous posts here tell about the blood loss when training for H2C 2012. As is the case with any time I have any weird health issue now, I get more paranoid about that issue.

This last Saturday's run was supposed to be a 12 mile run, I did only 11 because I made a wrong turn somewhere. Oh well. I was not worried about the extra mile. The first half of my run was great. I ran a very comfortable 10:30 per mile pace which has been my normal pace lately without trying to push myself to get faster. So I was happy with that. The latter half of my run though was almost two minutes per mile slower and it was brutal. I was starting to get dizzy by the end and feeling more like the terrible training run for H2C when I was two liters low on my blood.

Sunday, I took a two hour nap because I could not function. Today, Monday, I am worse off. I am dizzy and spacey and just feel horrible. I have called oncology and asked to go in to do a blood draw to see if I am low or if I am just getting sick. Not that I ever thought I wish for sickness, but I do now. I hope I am just fighting a cold.

Here, I am posting a picture of myself just a year ago. This is me, in treatment, well in my house but while going through a round of treatment. This blood loss or sickness thing, I am hoping it does not spin me back into another hairless round of treatment.

You know, while on the topic of hairlessness... I thought it would be totally fine because I liked to cut my hair super short anyway. But when it comes down to it, when your hair pulls out without pain, as do your eyebrows, it is hard. Emotionally. For those women that must go this, I do truly empathize. I am sorry.

...Anyway, I'm done with this post for now.

Blood Tests

One week ago today, so Thursday December 20th, 2012, I had another port flush scheduled. While doing that, my nurse took a blood sample to test. Good. I was really hoping she would. I have been really tired lately and had raised my proverbial eyebrow.

A little backstory on why I worry about blood levels. You would think it normal for a cancer patient either in treatment or recovery or even remission to worry about their blood counts, but this goes a little beyond "normal." My last heavy round of chemo ended mid March, which made for almost exactly two years since I started this mess. I was happy to hear the test results then, "shows no sign of the disease." I had been training for my second half marathon in June and was looking forward to having a couple months to get the chemo and fatigue more out of my system. I did not push myself that race. I took it really slow, just relaxed, and enjoyed myself, not wanting to try and push hard because of the recent round of treatment.

Two and a half months after that race, I ran the Hood to Coast relay for the first time. In training for it, I had been following a generic schedule set up by an OHSU group. OHSU is one of the biggest medical universities and hospitals on the West Coast. On my last long run before I switched entirely to shorter runs multiple times during the day (which is like the relay), the schedule said something like 11 or 12 miles. If I am going to run that, I might as well run the 13.1 to make a half. Right? Very wrong. It was, unequivocally, the worst run I have ever had. By mile 11-ish, I thought I was going to black out. Not like, "Oh man this is hard! Why am I doing this?" but I was actually blacking out. My sight was blurring and spotty. If I tipped over like to rest my hands on my knees, I would have fallen over completely. Black out. I was not sure I could make it home. I stopped running. I walked the last couple miles home and was just happy to make it.

The next few days were very telling. I could not recover. I felt like I was in the midst of heavy fatigue again, and sever chemo brain. It was worrying me. I finally called my oncologist who had me come in the same day for a blood test. Surprisingly, the white blood cells were fine (for me) but I was two liters low on red blood. They just about ran me over to the hospital right then. Instead, they scheduled an infusion for the next day. We started running all kinds of tests to try to determine the cause of the red cell depletion. There are a few common causes, but none of them seemed to be the catalyst for me. Actually that's a good thing. Some of the common things were like the cancer spread to the bone marrow, or the blood produced by the marrow had mutated and the body was rejecting it. While getting a bone marrow sample done is less than pleasant, it is a necessity.

With the blood doping, I was given permission to still run H2C the next week. Mandy was not thrilled. But I did really well. Blood doping totally works. :)

It's been four months or so since then. Every time I have been tested, my blood has been holding, which is great. Seems it was a weird fluke, for the most part. But anytime I cannot shake being really tired, I get worried now. Recently, I cut out energy drinks. No more Rockstar, no more Amp. Let's be realistic though, there is still a lot of Diet Coke. One step at a time. But the last while I have been super tired and I have blamed it on the lack of Rockstar. But the results of the blood test show both red and white cells (and related things like neutrophils, etc.) were down again. They were lower than one month ago though higher than the two months prior. So the results were not bad enough to warrant additional tests, but still pay attention and do another CBC next month.

My worry comes in here. I have three more weeks before I go in, and on Christmas day I took a two and a half ish hour nap and still went to bed by 9:00pm. I slept for nine hours and was unhappy the alarm was going off. I could have slept more. Last night, Dec 26th, doing one of the shorter Insanity workouts I noticed I was pretty spacey. I am not liking the direction this may be heading. My running is stronger now than it has ever been. Not trying to push time, I did 10 miles and averaged 10 min 19 sec per mile. That is so much faster than I have been able to run that I am very excited to start working on speed. But the Spidey Sense is tingling about the tired. With three weeks before the next blood test, and maintenance dose of chemo, I guess I just keep an eye on it. Keep running. Keep doing Insanity.

...Wait and see.

And in the words of a Spaniard, "I hate waiting."

My American Life

I listen to a podcast called This American Life, with Ira Glass. One particular episode was a collection of favorite stories by long time contributor David Rakoff, who is Canadian, by the way. David recently passed away from cancer. I do not mean to imply that there was some sort of departure from cancer as my grammar and sentence structure might indicate. We all wish it were that easy. No, Mr. Rakoff was killed by his cancer. A post radiation sarcoma. As if my own history with cancer was not enough to put me on edge as I listened, which it did, but he really cut me to the quick, as it were.

I find now, after two years of chemo and enough scares and bone marrow samples since, anytime someone mentions cancer as an anecdotal story it sets me on edge. The hair on the back of my neck stands up. Like there are trigger words that might awaken the sleeping beast within me. My own Balrog or Lou Forigno, for the real geeks. With almost baited breathe I listened to David speak, Ira narrate, and I was glad I had hair on my neck again to be able to stand.

While they did not awaken the creatures of the deep, David said something I could not shake. It spurned me to write this. A reflection of my thoughts, of my emotions, woes and fears. The latter of which still seeks me out, …and in the darkness binds me. Ok, that should be the last LOTR reference. Maybe. Anyway, David said he regarded his cancer as if it never happened. I do the same.

Perhaps that is normal. Perhaps that is how we as humans try to cope with emotions and situations we feel are too great for us to handle. Denial of our various realities seems pretty normal to me. Though I do not know that such action is healthy, nor do I know how to act any other way. I like to ignore cancer as much as possible. I like to make jokes about it. While bald during my last round of chemo, I started introducing myself as Lex Luthor. I even found a picture of Gene Hackman in the role to use as my avatar on one of my social media sites. I am pretty sure I chose laughter in the face of calamity in hopes of fooling myself more than others. But you can never completely shake the underpinnings of terror.

Because of Mr. Rakoff, I feel I need to address this. Not for anyone else, but for myself. This is your pain. This is your burning hand. It's right here. Look at it. What? That's not LOTR.

It has been almost six months since I was told my CT results showed no signs of cancer. Since then I have run two half marathons, Hood To Coast, a 5k obstacle race, had a few "maintenance" doses of light weight chemo, a blood transfusion, bone marrow sample, and more anxieties than I care to admit. My cancer, Non Hodgkin's Lymphoma, is one that will come back. There is no known cure, and no guaranteed timeline.

One of my favorite movie quotes come from the Shawshank Redemption. Morgan Freeman's character Red said, "Get busy livin', or get busy dyin'." I have tried to apply the principle of this to much of my life. It is not a new concept either. Shakespeare through Hamlet asked if it was better to "suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take arms against the sea of troubles, and by opposing end them". It's not much different. Do we act or let ourselves be acted upon? I chose to get busy livin'.

Maybe that is why I act loud and crack silly jokes at inappropriate times. Maybe it's because I choose to not wallow in the despair of my mortality. Maybe that is how I feel I am living. Do not misunderstand me. I acknowledge the need for every person to have their moments, when they are unavoidably overwhelmed by tidal waves of emotion. That is part of our human condition. Though for too many I see that as the reality in which they choose to dwell. Why? I cannot say. What does that serve? I do not know.

In light of such cancerous lives, the potential finality of it all rearing its ugly mottled snout, perhaps I have found some clarity in it all. With fatality looming over my head, I feel we should use it as the reminder to be passionate about our lives. What do we love? What is fantastic to us? What moves us? What carries us through those long days in our proverbial treatment rooms.

My poor mother started her first round of treatment, the same time I was getting my last dose of chemo. It may have been on the same day even. She has since finished a very difficult five months and was just told the results of her CT show cancerous cells still in her system. She will meet with the next oncologist and begin a heavy regiment of radiation treatment. This was the news I got today while beginning my day at work.

...SHIT!!

How am I supposed to get over that, compartmentalize and get on with my day? I find myself teetering between an uncontrollable outburst of tears, and aching to go all Tyler Durden on someone. Needless to say, I am not so well balanced or passive as I was a week ago.

When my mother was diagnosed, I was closing in on two years of treatment. One day, my father called me to tell me something she said. She had always told herself that if she got cancer or something horrible, she would not fight it. She would just roll over and die. But seeing all that I have gone through in the last few years, she had changed her mind, was willing to get chemo and fight.

That shook me up. That I could have had such an impact on another. While this was not the first I had impacted others, never had it been to this magnitude. At least not in my eyes. I will get to that in a minute. But while emailing back and forth today, my mother asked, "Ryan, why do some of us have to fight so hard to stay alive?" I responded with this picture. This is Mandy [my wife] and Lucy [our daughter] this summer at the beach for the 4th of July, 2012. Lucy had just turned two the month before.

I told my mother, "This is why. Other wise it would not matter."

Ok, now I think a little back story is necessary. I was diagnosed when I was 34. It was April 26th, 2010, a Monday. Non Hodgkins Lymphoma. I began the first round of treatment shortly after that. My wife was not with me on the day I was told about my cancer. She was on bedrest with Lucy. It is something she still feels great sorrow for missing. Really, that does not bother me in any way. I told her not to worry about it. That it was probably nothing and I was going to work after my doctor appointment anyway.

Lucy was born premature and spent weeks in the NICU. I was going to school and finishing finals while working and getting treatment. I would stop at the hospital on my way home for the day so I could see Lucy and hold her until I could not stay awake anymore, head home to start all over again the next day. The NICU nurses were nice to me. They offered to give me a delivery room across the hall for me to sleep in.

I finished finals, finished treatment, and checked in for surgery the same day they released Lucy. When it rains it pours. The surgery was completely unrelated to the cancer but I had put it off until after I finished the first round of chemo. Not wanting to get into that part of the medical mystery of me, I mention it only because it was another thing to deal with. It took a few months for me to be able to walk well after that surgery. That fall, I think in November, I attended my first Team In Training meeting.

Team In Training, TEAM or TNT, is the fundraising arm of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. They do endurance events like marathons, half marathons, triathlons, etc. to raise money for cancer. This meeting was an informational recruiting meeting. It was in a pub and there was a good amount of people there. They had one of the staff people talk a little about the nuts and bolts of TNT. They had a participant and cancer survivor talk about the impact of TNT. I knew we did not have the money to sign up, but after the meeting, I called my wife and choked out "I have to do this." Without hesitation, she said ok. So I signed up having never liked distance running, having never even run a 5K, and not knowing if my doctors would let me.

My oncologist conditionally gave approval for my running a half marathon, 13.1 miles, only if I was willing to walk when needed. I promised. He would not approve a full marathon. During training for that half, I was going through another round of treatment. I had my long day on Thursdays (5+ hours), then a short day on Friday, then we had our group run on Saturdays. The Saturday group runs are where we pushed ourselves farther each time. We met as a group, went over any announcements, did a team cheer, then got to running. As is to be expected, especially with a group specifically dedicated to raising funds for cancer, people ask. "How did you get involved..." "Why are you running..." etc. I hated that.

I hated that I didn't have a good answer without betraying all that I wanted left in the shadows. I hated sharing that I had cancer. Like I had done something to warrant getting cancer and that nobody would understand me. That people would ...I don't know. Revile me? Treat me as contagious? Treat me like a cancerous growth. It was one of the few times in my life where my ego was not the loudest voice. I knew then, I was not immortal. This could kill me.

I was ashamed of my cancer.

I wanted to withdraw from life. Not die, just not see anyone. If I felt there was anything more to the casual greeting "How you doin'?" I wanted to punch them. I wanted to scream obscenities to anyone whose gaze fell a little too long on me, to emotional passers bye, to the heavens. I would rather have been able to get in a fight, feeling the immediate physical pain, inflicting pain on those whom I fought, and not this emotional torment and unseen agressor. This was hell. This left monsters hidden in the shadows of my soul. And I didn't know what to do with that.

When people asked why I was doing TEAM, I hope I just looked socially awkward and said something like a close family member was battling Lymphoma. If any of that other stuff came out, I apologize to any undeserving recipient.

As we began our training in January, there were days when I knew I could not run. It was too cold outside for someone with such a compromised immune system such as I had. I would still go and try to be there to cheer on my teammates. To be honest, I was there as much for my support as my teammates. 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.

There was only one day I started that I could not finish. It was a Saturday directly after two consecutive days of chemo. I had done a little over three miles, and thought I was going to black out. Coach Karl and Coach Jen ran with me that day. We got to the water station that was set up, and I quit. I got a ride back with the person that was manning that station after everyone had gone through. It was rough.

I had no idea the impact that I was having on my teammates. I actually did not know until my race weekend. I had finished that round of chemo by about a month, and literally one week before the race I was hospitalized with pneumonia. I hesitated to ask my oncologist, almost pleading, "Can I still run?" He consented saying it would not hurt my lymphoma, but I would be tired. Remember to walk when I needed.

Seattle Rock N Roll Marathon 2011.

One of my teammates had her maternal instincts kick in. Rene refused to leave my side the whole race because she was too worried about me. When I began the season, I thought with my former rugby player ego, "Shoot! I can run a full marathon. Cancer won't stop me." By the time I got to the starting line, I just wanted to cross the finish line on my own feet, without dying. I was glad to have Rene run with me. It was comforting. I don't remember exactly where along the course, but about mile 7 or 8, I happened to look down at the back of Rene's race shirt. As is the same for many charity groups, there is a place on the back of all TEAM shirts to write in the names of those for whom you run, those that keep you going, those you remember. Well I saw my name there. My name on her shirt. Surely that must have been someone else. So I asked. "Is that, is that MY name?" Yes. Maybe my emotions are extra close to the surface today, but I am still getting choked up over that. That I could have such an impact on another in a positive way. It is a powerful thing. I found out that several of my teammates that weekend had done the same. I had no idea.

Thank you Rene. Thank you Christine.

Another teammate told me after the race, that early in our training on one of those days when I could not run because of the cold weather, as he came around the last corner I yelled out to him, cheering him on. He said he knew at that moment, he would finish that race because of me.

That weekend changed my life. I knew I could not repay to my teammates what they had done for me. I knew I would always be a part of Team In Training.

A few months ago, when my father told me of my mother's decision to undergo treatment because of the struggles she had seen me endure, I had another of those moments. When my wife asked me if I thought our daughter Lucy had helped me get through my struggles with cancer, I knew before she asked. Yes. We have four children, and I love each of them immensely, but there is no question the grand design of the universe had that one timed out for a reason.

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. I go to art school because I like to make cool stuff. To others it may seem I, like David Rakoff, pretend my cancer does not exist. Good. I try. Maybe I do because others may 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.

Whatever my reasons, there are times when I cannot keep from sliding into despair. It happens to everyone. It is for those that need the help to get up and keep going that I try to do all that I can.

"Why do we fall sir? So we might learn to pick ourselves up." Sometimes I think we need help. Sometimes it may be as simple as Alfred's reminder to Bruce. Get up. Yes you can.

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. But 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. On a daily basis, I try pretend my cancer is not there and never was. I try to ignore it. But I can see how I will never escape its effects. Cancer has changed me.

I think I have dwelt on this topic long enough. It's time to get busy living again.

...Get up.

Yes you can.

Running with Kara Goucher

No, I have never run with or even met Kara Goucher. I fanned her on FaceBook though. And that almost makes us BFF's, right? Well, maybe not. Anyway, there is a quote of hers that describes how I feel about running. It helps me continue running when I am tired or it's cold outside.

"That's the thing about running: your greatest runs are rarely measured by racing success. They are moments in time when running allows you to see how wonderful your life is." -Kara Goucher

Thank you Ms. Goucher.