Hi again,
There is a tee-shirt that I see at some of the marathons, and it says “If you think a marathon is hard, try chemotherapy!” Well, I’ve been fortunate enough to experience both chemotherapy and marathons, and I guarantee you that this is a true statement. Trust me on this one.
OK, I can sense what you are thinking: “Fortunate to experience chemotherapy??? Is he nuts?” Well maybe, but let me explain. I did my marathons 3 and 4 years after starting chemo. So since I got lymphoma by the luck of the draw, I am fortunate that there was a way to treat it, and I am fortunate that I survived, got healthy again, and got strong enough to do two marathons. Lots of people are not nearly as lucky as I am.
Thanks again to the 68 people / couples who donated to LLS through me, putting me at about 23% of my goal. You can get detailed information about what I am doing and make a donation if you so choose by going to my TNT web page:
http://www.active.com/donate/tntva/tntvaARitter2007
I’ve done two marathons, and will do my third this coming January. I’ve done chemotherapy once, for six months, and would just as soon never have to repeat the experience. From notes and emails, I’d like to compare the two “endurance events” next to each other. Judge for yourself which one sounds tougher. Here are some notes from different points along the Mayor's Midnight Sun Marathon in Anchorage in 2005, each note followed by a fragment from an email from either Mary or me to family in friends in 2002 when I was undergoing chemo:
Milepost 4 – Feeling good, striding along. Mountains are so pretty. Rain has slackened. How cool to be doing my first marathon in Alaska of all places – I feel so grateful.
June 7, 2002 (Art): Yesterday afternoon I had the radio on and Beethoven's 7th symphony was playing. Part way through I got a sudden urge to kneel on the floor and pay homage to the porcelain god and rushed into the bathroom, wrapping my arms around his cool being. In case you non-classical music fans are wondering, the sudden urge to puke was not initiated by the music but by my 4 toxic buddies.Milepost 11 – Solid rain, forget about pictures. The trail climbs and is narrower now, very slick and muddy. We spray mud with each stride over ourselves and each others. Will this rain ever stop? Where is this midnight sun we keep hearing so much about?
August 8, 2002 (Art): I am feeling sick today and also so tired, but it goes with the territory. Better days ahead.
Milepost 24 – Oh, my God! I know I will finish now. I do two miles all of the time. I will be a marathoner today. The blisters will heal, the cold and wet fade, the sore muscles recover, but I will always be a marathoner. I feel a huge smile.
August 29, 2002 (Mary): Art is still in the hospital. Of course, he is hoping to be released soon, but his doctor has given no indication when that will be. The blood cultures are negative so far, so the fever is FUO - fever of unknown origin. (note – it turned out later that the fever was from lung damage caused by one of the chemo drugs).
Milepost 25 – A mile to go is nothing. Rain coming in sideways. At 25.75 Coach Bob meets me with his moose head hat. I start talking, then babbling. I tell him about my friend Allan and his birthday today, how he just died of cancer. I tell him about some of the other names on my shirt. I start talking about how I swore I would do something like this when I had cancer, and now I was doing it. I realize that I am close to tears and have to shut up for a while.
October 3, 2002 (Art): Today marks the 4 month anniversary of the first chemo, which at the time seemed like a very long period ahead to face. I remember going in that first day feeling somewhat scared about starting it, now it just seems routine and I go in smiling figuring it is one step closer to completion. It is nice to be on the downward side of this thing from all indications to date.
Milepost 26 – My God, thanks for this. I am nearly a marathoner! I feel strong. Everything hurts, feet, legs, but the feeling is great. My smile feels a mile wide as I cross the finish line at 26.2. Three years, two weeks, and one day after starting ABVD chemotherapy and feeling so scared that day, I am a marathoner!
November 11, 2002 (Mary): Well, we have come to the end of the first week of the last 28 day chemo cycle! Art seems to have had a hard time of it this week. He is more tired, more hoarse, and in more of a "chemo fog" than he has been in several months.
Crossing the finish line in Anchorage was an incredible and uplifting feeling, maybe the proudest day of my life. In a totally different way, crossing that last chemotherapy “finish line” and knowing that my days in the chemo room were finished felt just great! It was a tough, but life saving, process. Every second of every day, there are incredible numbers of people going through everything that I went through with cancer, and experiencing much, much worse things.
The primary mission of the LLS is to cure blood cancers. I am trying to be part of that, to make that lofty goal possible. Those of you who have made a donation, or will make a donation, are part of that as well. Wouldn’t it be great if in five, 10, or 15 years, there were tee-shirts that read “If you think that chemotherapy is hard, try running a marathon?” Help me to help make it so!
Best wishes, and thanks.
Art
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