What now?

Maybe I have tried to let go of cancer. As if distancing myself could lessing the fears and anxieties that crash upon the shoreline of my waking daily trudgery. Maybe… That imagery may be appropriate as the ocean smooths jagged rock, with undetected force lets the passing of time change the very shape of our world. Perhaps it just takes time to let go.

I've not posted anything in almost a year. It's been weird. Cancer becomes such an encompassing majority of your everyday. Even when I am remission and it seems to fade in my mind, I cannot get away from it. My mother recently gave us all a scare. Thrown into that wonder of uncertainty again, this time I wondered if it was her time. With it comes not knowing how to react. What to do or not do. How to feel. Or should I try to burry it all and not feel.

If these are to be her final hours, can I put aside my own ego and focus on her? Before too long she could go, leaving my father. My father. A man from whom I learn emotion is the opposite of weakness. As much as I feel the need to put aside my own insecurities for my mother, I need to do the same for my father. A man who may be lost without my mother.

I love them both. Neither should have to suffer, either in death or in struggling to live afterwards.

I have never said this enough. I love you. And if I could take a few more years of that hell called chemo dripped into our veins, just to take it from you, to give you a few more years, years without that same hell, a few more healthy years with Dad, with my kids as they grow, with me, …I would.

But it doesn't work that way. I can't make it work that way. And I am sorry.

My mother once asked me, as she felt she was doing well while her friend was losing her battle, how to treat that friend. How do I sit there [in chemo] and look at her knowing she will not make it and I will? How do I treat her? My answer is vastly different now. Though I feel my advice was sound, I lack my conviction and fortitude of only a couple years ago. Because now it is my mother who may not reach the finish for which we all hope.

Mom, what do I say when I look you in the face, knowing I made it and you will not?



…I don't know.

Postcards and Posters

At the urging of a teammate, I am making this available for purchase. This was a "self portrait" I did for the first time I was an Honored Teammate for Team In Training. The original was poster board sized (18x24-ish) which is not economical to print.



What I am offering is two products.

1. A single poster print, 11x17 sized, for $40 dollars.
2. A set of 10 postcards, 5.5x8 -ish, whatever the standard large postcard size is, for $20.

The back of the postcards have this printed small on the bottom,

"W. Ryan Hatch was diagnosed with Stage 3, Marginal Zone Non Hodgkins Lymphoma in 2010.He started running with Team In Training to help fight cancer while going through treatment. Three and a half years later, he reached remission. Now he runs with Team In Training to fight cancer for everyone. GO TEAM!!"

You may order as many of each as you like though be aware of the logistics of printing. I pre-ordered a limited number of postcards and can re-order if they sell out and there is still enough demand. The posters will be ordered when I get enough orders to print at the same time.

If you would like to order, do the math for how many you want and donate to my Team In Training site using the donation tool on the right. For example, 3 posters (=$120) + 2 sets of postcards (=$40) would equal $160. Click on the donation tool, enter the total dollar amount and enter the number of posters and postcards in the memo. Make sure you add you email address in the donation process so I can contact you for the address to which you want them mailed.

So your memo might say "3 posters, 2 postcards. And you rock!" I will laugh at your comment, then send 3 posters and 20 postcards to the address after we email. Simple!

As always, I sincerely thank you all for your support in my fight, and helping me fight cancer for others as well.

...And you ROCK!

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.

National Cancer Survivor Day

My mom posted this yesterday on Facebook. It was very nice of her. And not to be overlooked, she has fought her own fight against cancer. It has not been an easy road for her and she is doing well. It always astounds me how many of us have been affected by cancer, even if that is by relation. Please take a moment, use the widget on the right for Team In Training (TNT) and make a donation to the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society to help fight cancer. Or you can go to my actual TNT donation page and donate there. Your donation goes to help fund research and patient support. Thank you.

Today is 'National Cancer Survivor' day. I want to give a tribute to our son Ryan, who is in remission after battling lymphoma for 3 1/2 years. During that time, he took up running to raise money and run in marathons for the Portland chapter of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS). Even when he had pneumonia and was going through chemo, he ran the 1/2 marathons as part of the group 'Team in Training'. He has become a motivational speaker for LLS. His philosophy is that no one goes through cancer alone, and he is there to lift them up and give them a hand when they need it. He is such an example to everyone who faces severe challenges in life. He truly is an amazing 'Cancer Survivor'!

Training Time Again!!

When the doctor tells you you have cancer, it does not seem real. I was shocked and in disbelief, not knowing what to think or how to feel. You look in the mirror. You force yourself to say the words, as if repetition makes it tangible, “...I have cancer.” …None of it makes any sense.

My name is Ryan. I am a cancer survivor! I run for Team In Training.



I was diagnosed in April of 2010. Marginal zone, stage three, Non Hodgkins Lymphoma. Cancer. What I have come to understand is that my cancer was too widespread throughout my body to cut out, and with treatment I could one day hope to reach remission. But I will not be cured. Cancer is something I will have to live with forever. Mine is one that will come back. I will always worry about blood counts. I will always worry about other people being sick around me.

I do not like to dwell on my cancer. Not publicly anyway. Not socially. Cancer is a downer. I try to make people laugh. I like to help people feel empowered. To others it may seem I pretend my cancer does not exist. Good. I try. Maybe I do because others might think their problems are more manageable if they see me doing well. Maybe it's just because I do not like to acknowledge my mortality. ...I don't know why.

If I could do any one thing in this life, I would like to hold people's hands, lift them when they have fallen, encourage them, remind them of the things in this world worth living for. That is the essence of what Team In Training is. For me it is anyway. It champions taking action to end cancer. Team In Training raises money to fund research for cures and supports patients in treatment. More than just cancer though, it is about helping others as it has helped me. Team In Training helped me get through three and a half years of chemo. For that alone, I am forever grateful to TNT. Team In Training became my support group while going through chemo.

As of Sept 26th, my oncologist said I am cancer free! I can get my port taken out! After three and a half years, that is an awesome and humbling thing to hear. During that time, I ran a number of half marathons to raise money for TNT and I am going to run another for all those that need help to fight cancer. And everyone needs help.



I am asking that you please do all you can to support and help the fight against cancer. Any amount is great, every dollar counts.

I thank you with all my heart,

-Ryan

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.

A Letter to a Friend

"First, let me say how sorry I am for your diagnosis. To be told you have cancer of any kind is never something you want to hear. When I was told, it took a while for that to actually register. Then even longer before it seemed real. That was three and a half years ago, and I still feel like it is a foreign concept. And now to be told I am done is almost equally as strange. I wanted to be able to reach out to you and tell you many things. As insensitive as it may seem to do this over email, it is a conscious choice to allow you your privacy. My privacy was one of the things I wanted most. I want to extend to you the courtesy of letting you digest this in private, without the world looking at you. There are few things I wish I could have known or told myself as I started the last three and a half years. If I may be so bold, please let me tell you.

When you posted the announcement on FB, the diagnosis was not yet complete. It may still not be. When the doctor told me, it sent me into a series of tests and biopsies with periods of anxious waiting and tormented uncertainty. Unfortunately, that does not end with the results of your diagnosis. This may be the single biggest unspoken thing. Through all of it, doctors and nurses will tell you what to expect in reaction to your treatment. But they are physical reactions. What no one told me was how I would be turned into a neurotic hypochondriac. There is a "wait and see" period for everyone and it is terrible.

Typically, people go through a round of treatment which consists of several doses of chemo or radiation or whatever. My chemo schedule was once a month for six months, then nothing for six months. That's the wait and see. At the end of that you go back in for more tests, blood work, and anything the doctor feels is needed. That period between your last dose for the round, and results from the tests is emotionally exhausting. Yes, the rest from the physical reactions is a very welcome relief. But the emotional drag of not knowing can be brutal.

No one ever told me. Not that knowing would have made me less anxious or emotional but maybe I would have had a little easier time knowing that was normal.

Next, I alluded to this already but privacy is big and also very emotional. You are now going through a very personal and emotional thing. It is not easy. There will be days when you are fine and feel okay. There will be days when you are not. You will feel sick. You will feel tired. You will want to retreat to your comfort zone(s) and tell the world to go to Hell. I realized that one day when I put on a hat not to hide my baldness, but to hide me. I just wanted to be a non entity for a while. Nobody talk to me, nobody look at me, just leave me alone. When people asked me how I was feeling or how I was doing, if there was any hint of intonation beyond a standard less sincere American greeting, I wanted to claw their faces off. I wanted to fight as if they were the representation of all my misery. As if fighting them would deliver the beat down I so desperately wanted to administer but of which was undoubtedly incapable. I hope that such emotion was not what came across. I hope my response was just as shallow as the question, "I'm fine. Thank you."

You may even feel that tendency to retreat from your close friends and family. Fight that. Curb that as they are there and just want to hold your hand. To help you feel better, to encourage you and keep you going. Let them. I have the bad habit of unintentionally feeling like my suffering is mine alone and it is stupid for anyone else to have "sympathy pains." But like it or not, it happens. Let it. It is perfectly acceptable to have your withdrawal time and days, especially as the physical traits of treatment become more pronounced, but shut out the out world. Not your family.

You will find that the world will not stop and wait for you. Bills are still due, children still need a bath, husbands still need to be told they're smart and important . And that is another important lesson learned. One of my favorite movie quotes of all time is from The Shawshank Redemption. Morgan Freeman's character said, "Get busy liven', or get busy dyin'." The principle of this is that we cannot choose what happens to us. But we can certainly choose how we react. With a diagnosis of cancer in any stage, the world gives you permission stop living. And you can if you choose. Or you can pick your self up, shake it off, and move on. That is not to say you will not fall down again. We all fall down. When that inevitably happens, if you look, you will see those around you that clamor to offer the hand to pick you back up. When this happens, sooner or later I always another favorite movie quote. This time Michael Cain as Aflred, to Bruce Wayne, "Get up. Yes you can."

I do not know the extent of your cancer. I do not know how the treatment will affect you. I do not understand the fear and loss you might feel at the prospect of a mastectomy. I will not sugar coat it and say everything will be fine. No one knows that. And I am sorry. But you can decide to keep trying. Decide before it happens, when you fall down, to get up and carry on. So what if the kids go an extra day without a bath. So what if you just have a pizza delivered because you are both too tired to make anything. None of that matters. Don't let such trivial things become the obstacles that trip you up.

Cancer became my way of life. I got used to it. I knew with earned precision when I would start feeling sick or tired after a treatment. I knew when that would pass. I knew when chemo brain was thick in my head. None of that is pleasant. But you can get through it. Sometimes, you may need to just hold one of your children to help you through the day. It's okay. At times you will live day to day with the relentless swelling of emotional tides. Find what helps you get through it. I have held my children. I started running. I have wept into the arms of my wife. I have over caffeinated to get through a day (or two). Whatever. Whatever works for you, use that as a tool to get on with your life.

Rely heavily on the gospel. I wish I could have done that. I learned in retrospect that I had gained a far deeper appreciation for the Atonement than I ever though possible. It should not be surprising. What you will go through is emotional suffering that will become a lens through which you can see so many others' plights in a more sincere manor. I do not know what it is like to lose a child like the Zohars. But I know what is like to suffer and to hurt. That compassion, I feel, must be the minutest part of the love our Heavenly Father and Christ must feel for us. Just as God had to withdraw while Jesus hung on the cross, they knew this suffering would be terrible for us and for them. But they have a far greater understanding of the eternal implications that we cannot see. Many times I have been on my knees weeping and wailing. Crying out in my anger and in my frustration, "why me? Why me!" Though I do not think we get answers that we can understand to all our questions, I have rarely had an answer as clear to me as was my answer to that question. And I lack the ability to fully explain it. Well, not without writing a War and Peace length dissertation. I will summarize only by saying that such suffering is ultimately for our benefit. And I apologize for the inadequacies of that statement.

Perhaps that is the most important of all to keep in mind. This life, with all it's ups and downs, is ultimately for our benefit. It may take a lifetime to understand that. It may take longer. I have learned enough to make my peace with it, whether I fully comprehend the answers or not.

Lastly, and a complete change of topic, I wish to address the physical aspect of treatment. Perhaps more for Travis to understand what you will likely go through and feel, so he may relate. But maybe it will help endure it as well. Chemo brain is real. It is like a thick fog of confusion presses in on your brain. You cannot swat it away like flies. It is like a clamp that squeezes in on your head. It doesn't hurt like a migraine. But it disallows you to think and focus clearly on life. It comes and goes and there is nothing you can do about it.

Also, you will have fatigue. This is different than being tire. Fatigue will make you feel heavy. When you go to the dentist and they put the lead ascot on you before taking X-rays, and you feel 30 lbs. heavier all over, that is what fatigue feels like. It is all over. I felt it most in my shoulders and arms. They felt like they dragged me down until I could not walk upright for their weight. When you sit down, you will often nod off like narcolepsy. Though sleeping will not take the tire away. You wake from a nap, intentional or not, feeling just as heavy and worn out. As long as you are not driving or cooking or something, don't fight it. Just roll with it. You will be out for a bit then wake up later and try to get on with life.

Nausea will hit as well. Though from what I hear, it is not as different that pregnancy nausea. You feel horrible and just want to throw up to feel better. Just like napping does not stop fatigue, puking will not stop the nausea. Sorry. I tried any number of things to help. Ginger candies as ginger is a natural stomach aid, crackers, prescription medication, soda water, whatever I could think of and all in combination with each other. Some things helped. My mother loves Diet Dr. Pepper but the though of it while in treatment makes her want to puke. Your tastes may change. Your doctors and nurses will keep an eye on your weight. You do not want to loose too much weight because it starts to compromise your body's ability to fight and recover. Make sure you find something you can keep down when you don't want to. Protein diet shakes like Ensure or Boost or even the Costco/Slimfast things are not bad for this. You get proteins and needed vitamins and minerals and you can do it quickly without having to chew anything. Again, find what works for you.

Having gone through it, and not really sure I believe the doctor's merciful words of remission, I understand what suffering is. I will tell you, when you start losing hair, I will shave my head again so you know you are not the only person to have to go through that. :)

If you guys have any questions or need anything including dinners, babysitting, a game night or even just need to hang out with people that have been through it, please do not hesitate to ask. We will be there.

This will be a difficult journey for you. Use your friends to help you as much as you can. "Get up. Yes you can."

Most sincerely,

-Ryan"

Am I Done???

I didn't say anything about this after my last dose of chemo. I didn't say anything because I didn't want to get my hopes up by saying it out loud, or even typing it. Where I thought I had one more dose of chemo before I could hope to be done, I was informed that this last one was in fact, my LAST one. ...no way.

Pending test results of the CT which I had this morning, and the result came back the same as the last one, "Shows no signs of lymphoma," I am done. I am done.

I can't say it enough for it to sink in. I am done.

It's been three and a half years of chemo. It has become the way life is. I have no choice but to take another hit and let the fog roll in. Am I really done? In six months are they going to say they made a mistake? Am I going to get my port taken out of my chest only to need it put back in?

AM I REALLY DONE???

...oh please let it be so. Please just let me be done.

The doctor said I am done. We can take the port out.

I am done.



If you know this picture, you know exactly how I feel. I make no apologies for the language. I feel like I "crawled through a river of shit and came out clean on the other side."

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.

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

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

A Cancer Mitigator

First let me say thank you to everyone that participated in the art auction, both purchasing or donating. I would like to address that more fully, but something else is on my mind right now.

A friend of mine just posted that a friend of hers just died of cancer today. I have been doing this for just about three years now. Any time I hear or read something like this, I am at a loss for what to say. And I can say a lot. But sometimes words just fail me.

I want to do something. Anything. Rally the troops... I just want to give people a hug.

Working with a local company for a charity fundraiser in the last few weeks, I was asked to write up a short introduction about who I am and my experience with Team In Training. This is what I sent them.

When the doctor tells you you have cancer, it does not seem real. I was shocked and in disbelief, not knowing what to think or how to feel. You look in the mirror. You force yourself to say the words, as if repetition makes it tangible, “...I have cancer.” …None of it makes any sense.

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.

I was diagnosed in April of 2010. Marginal zone, stage three, Non Hodgkins Lymphoma. Cancer. Too wide spread throughout my body to be cut out. In November of that same year, and just as I was starting another round of chemo, I attended my first Team In Training meeting. Team In Training, or TEAM or TNT, is the fundraising arm of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (LLS). They do endurance events like marathons, half marathons, triathlons, etc. all to raise money for cancer research and treatment. The meeting was an informational recruiting meeting. It was in a pub and there was a good amount of people there. They spoke a little about the nuts and bolts of TNT and LLS. They had a participant and cancer survivor talk as well. I had a hard time keeping the tears from falling, and the fear and doubt from showing. After the meeting I called my wife and 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, 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. He would not approve a full marathon. I promised. During training for my first half marathon, I was going through rounds 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 became my support group. 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.

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." I had finished another round of chemo by about a month, and literally one week before the race I was hospitalized with pneumonia. By the time I got to the starting line of the Seattle Rock and Roll Marathon (2011), I just wanted to cross the finish line on my own feet, without dying.

That weekend changed my life.

One of my teammates ran with me the whole way. I don't remember exactly where, but about mile 7 or 8, I happened to look down at the back of her race shirt. 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. 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. I still get 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 later several of my teammates that weekend had done the same. I had no idea.

I went through two years of chemo therapy. While going through treatment, I got sick. I lost my hair. I lost liters of blood. I had trips to the ER. Emotionally and physically, I was worn out. I was a wreck. I am now considered to be in remission. My tests 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 proved to significantly delay the eventual return of cancer. Yes, eventual. It will return. So am I a survivor?

I am a survivor of multiple half marathons while going through rounds and rounds of chemo. I am member of Team In Training. I do it because I hope that someday cancer is forgotten. That modern medicine renders cancer not only completely treatable, but preventable. Cancer should become a shadow of our past.

Team In Training and the LLS are not just about running to me. They are about 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. But the LLS strives to help people overcome those times. "Why do we fall sir? So we might learn to pick ourselves up." Sometimes we need help. Sometimes it may be as simple as Alfred's reminder to Bruce. Get up. Yes you can.

You can learn about the advances that the LLS has funded. Drugs that have been developed using the money the LLS raises. Cancers that are treated because of those efforts. Maybe more important than that, to me anyway, is the lesson the LLS gives us all. It is about getting up when we fall down. It is about helping others to do the same. It is about how we can overcome the emotional tides that affects us all.

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, remind them of the brilliant person they are.

My teammates got me through it all. They still do. I know I can never repay them for what they have done to keep me going. I just hope I can pay it forward. Cancer has changed me. I am a part of Team In Training. I am a part of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I will be forever.

I thank you with all my heart.

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."

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