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.

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.

I am the gatekeeper to my own destiny

I have a friend. Surprising? I know. But this friend has MS. And while it is not cancer, we have dealt with many of the same issues including infusion room treatments, fatigue, aches and pains. Earlier she posted that it took her a number of years to attend a conference about MS, "because I couldn't look others in the eye who also have MS."

To borrow some words from Hank, it hit me like a 50's Packard driving through my chest. I have felt that. I think I have said on here before that I felt like my cancer was a social disease. Like others might treat me like I must have done something to deserve it. I was ashamed of my cancer and did not want to talk to others about it.

From Fight Club, the book, I found a new level of meaning in this quote from Tyler/Jack, "My fear is that people will see my [cancer] and I'll start to die in their minds. The cancer I don't have is everywhere now." Of course, I too feared that I would be a symbol of death and decay in people's eyes. But then beyond that, I realized that paralyzing fear was as bad as my cancer. It chancred me, spread rampant throughout and threatened to consume me. It was my non-existant cancer. The one I created and set loose within to destroy me.

I do not know how to help people understand that other than by example. Hopefully, in seeing that someone else has "self infected," as it were, they can see it and be liberated from the same folly. I hope so. I hope I can help others understand that they don't have to live in the mental state of anguish just because of some stupid physical malady. We can learn a lot from the wisdom of other brilliant men.

“Each morning when I open my eyes I say to myself: I, not events, have the power to make me happy or unhappy today. I can choose which it shall be. Yesterday is dead, tomorrow hasn’t arrived yet. I have just one day, today, and I’m going to be happy in it.” (Groucho Marx)

Maybe we eat it tomorrow. But maybe not. Most likely not. So today, "I am the gatekeeper to my own destiny and I will have my glory day in the hot sun." (Nacho Libre)

...Wow. That's a weird bunch of people to string together. My friend "M", Henry Rollins, Chuck Palahniuk, Groucho Marx, and Nacho. I should go to bed before this gets worse. I will have to re-read this tomorrow and probably make drastic edits. And so, thus ends the late night ramblings of one who should be drawing instead of stringing improbable people together.

Good night, and good luck. (...dang it!)

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

My Final Plea

Alright everyone, this is my LAST PUSH to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society this season. Right now through Friday, you can fight cancer. If you wanted to donate earlier but forgot, or if you just feel you need to donate again, NOW IS THE TIME! Every dollar counts and is greatly appreciated.

I leave Friday morning to run the race for which I have been training and raising money. The LLS raises money for all types of cancer research and treatment, because no one should ever have to go through heart ache of losing a loved on to cancer. And even closer to my heart, no one should ever have to go through the torment of treatment. I promise you, it is horrible.

I look forward to finally being done with chemo this fall, but mine is a cancer that will come back. I hope, through your generous support and donations, that doctors find a cure for me before that time comes.

If you can, even $5 makes a huge difference. Please, I am begging, please go to my donation page www.ryanfightscancer.com, or click on the donation widget on this page and donate what you can. Ask your friends (real or online friends) to do the same. Just because they may not know me does not mean they have not been affected by cancer.

With all my heart, I thank you for your support.

-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."

Blood Doping and Ogden Nash

This was an email to my siblings, August 10th, 2012:

i figure Mom/Dad have let you know the basics from your "eat steak" comment [Stephanie].

the run down is this. i am either not producing blood like a normal person or i am hemorrhaging like a vampire's dream. 3 weeks ago i had my last maintenance dose and blood levels all looked really good [for me anyway]. but i have been so tired and feeling fatigued, which is different than tired, and really dizzy weird. so i called oncology and they had me come in for blood tests. in the last 3 weeks, i have averaged losing a pint a week. not good.

a blood cells life span is 2 or 3 months. your body produces as much as dies off to keep your blood levels fairly even. so like i said, either i stopped producing, or i am bleeding out like crazy. now since i have not had any blood spills like a crude oil company, the blood could be deteriorating at a rate much faster than the production can keep up with. [bad grammar, i know] but that is less likely.

so the immediate fix is get a transfusion to top me off, then check what might be the cause of the problem. yesterday i went into the hospital to have them do a blood draw so they can match it with a donor. since the transfusion part takes 5+ hours and the matching process 2-3 hours, they like to split them up to different days. my part was pretty quick. give them a sample, answer a few questions then be on my merry way while they get to work.

i could do the transfusion today, but the hospital was already pushing maximum capacity for today and i need to work, so i go in tomorrow to get blood. i will practically be a Tour de France rider after my blood doping experiment. [:)] i told them to give me something with super powers. i don't think it's going to work though. i should feel a lot better after the transfusion. energy levels up, oxygenation and everything good... i will try a mellow stationary bike ride tomorrow evening to see how i am doing.

then Monday, "...So good to me, Monday morning, It was all I hoped it would be," i start tests again. i will have a CT followed by a bone marrow sample. that is no bueno. i have only had one done before, when i was first diagnosed. it messes you up for the rest of the day and i still have a bb sized lump in my butt from it. results will follow in the few days after those tests. the worry is that lymphoma has spread to the marrow and is causing the lack of production. which would mean harder heavier treatment than i have previously had. ...merde! to borrow a good frenchy word.

oh well. we don't know what is up and the rest is speculation. and Ogden Nash says "God in his wisdom made the fly, And then forgot to tell us why."

-R

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.

My name is... TEAM!

"Hello. My name is Ryan. I am a cancer survivor. Well, I think... Hm. I am a cancer... mitigator? Delayer of cancer? I am a cancer ...temporary reprieve-er."

When the doctor told me of my remission, his actual words were that test results "show no sign of the disease." What does that mean?! I still have to go in for treatment. It's a very light dose once every two months. It's still no treat. This process has shown to significantly delay the eventual return of cancer. Yes, eventual. It will return. So am I a survivor?

As a matter of semantics, I do not think I qualify. How about, "Hello. My name is Ryan. I am a survivor of multiple rounds of chemo therapy and am in temporary reprieve from, be that however long, the eventual return of cancer."

That just sounds so lame. I am a survivor of two half marathons while going through three rounds of chemo. I am member of Team In Training.

"Hello. My name is Ryan. ...I'm a freakin' Superhero!"

You are members of an elite TEAM. We are the champions of fundraising. Of sweat. Of aches and pains and chaffing in places we dare not name. We are the ones hosting parties to auction off our friends but not in a Sin City sort of way. We bake chocolate chip zucchini muffins and offer them up to anyone within our friend's friend's Facebook circles hoping they trust us to not put arsenic in the special ingredients. Or trusting to not put any "special ingredients" in to begin with.

We crawl out of bed, sometimes falling more than anything, to step into running shoes and clothes that might still stink of the previous run but have dried so we put them back on because we hate doing laundry more than we deem necessary. So yes, sometimes our odor doth offend.

I am okay with that. Just don't expect any post race spooning from me, Mike Hilliard.

We gather. We cheer. We run. We stop and talk for WAY too long while getting water. We run some more. We cheer each other on when we see each other going the other way. We might be a little lost. We wish our legs and lungs would just freaking do what our coaches and captains are telling us to do. And could they please do it with less burning? We finish sweaty. We devour gummy bears at alarming rates. We rub sticks on our sweaty parts then offer the stick to the next in line. We take that stick and perform the same ritual.

We take really stupid pictures of each other. 4 or 500 of them. We post them on Facebook so our non-runner non-cancer friends can be annoyed that their lazy bits are still looking at Facebook instead of doing something.

We annoy everyone we meet to raise just one more dollar to fight cancer. We do that while wearing purple. We cheer some more. We are a part of Team In Training.

We are all, Superheros.