Sneaky, Nasty Thing!

Cancer is a sneaky, nasty thing.  It lurks in the shadows, building strength, biding its time.  You can think you are all in the clear and then, bam, it strikes.  This happened last week to Donna, who came out to cheer for me at the Komen 3-Day nearly two years ago now.

Donna had breast cancer five years ago, and was in remission.  To anyone with cancer, five years is the magical mark of survivorship.  When you reach five years, you start thinking "Maybe, just maybe, I've beat this thing.  Maybe I will continue living."  Realistically, as you learn more, you know that there is truly not a magical milepost.  So five years is as good as any.

Donna was feeling some terrible back pain.  When she checked it out, she found that metastasized breast cancer had taken up residence in her spine.  Some cells had survived her chemo of five years ago, taken a trip in her blood stream, and stopped at her spine.  Now, they are hard at work replacing strong bone tissue with useless breast cancer tissue.  Not a good trade off.  This was five years and two months for Donna.  Now, she once again is in a fight for her life, this time against stage 4 breast cancer - the most dangerous and hardest to fight stage.  She is starting radiation, which will hopefully be effective for a while, to attack the spinal tumors.  But stage 4 breast cancer is almost never really ever defeated, so there could be many more tough times ahead for her.  She is in my thoughts and prayers.  In my mind, I am now the one holding the sign for Donna.  It says: "Donna - You're the Best!  Fight Hard, and Beat This Sneaky, Nasty Thing!"

The Other "Big C"

When I was a kid, the "Big C" was the nickname given sometimes to an indiscriminate killer, cancer.  In those days, if you got cancer, more often than not, you would die after a lot of painful and awful futile attempts to treat it.  A cancer diagnosis, while still pretty awful and all-too-often lethal today, would have been a near death sentence in those days.  So calling it the "Big C" removed some its power, I guess, in the same way that the Harry Potter clan called Lord Voltemort "He Who Shall Not be Named."

There is another "Big C" out there, I suppose, judging how people are all too often reluctant to partake - the colonoscopy.  Most people seem more desirous to jam their face in a hornet nest than have a colonoscopy.  But think about it - the human alimentary canal, starting at the mouth and terminating 20 or 30 feet later at the anus, is a true marvel, but most of it is out of sight.  (Just as well, 'eh?)  A doctor can examine the first few inches of a person's digestive tract easily enough by looking in one's mouth, but the checking out the rest of it is quite invasive.  And although we may not want someone checking out places where the sun doesn't shine, we live in an age where things that were medically impossible not long ago are now possible.  And we should take advantage of that.  Are colonoscopies fun?  Not in my view of the world.  Can they save your live or spare you a whole lot of misery?  Definitely!

So the other day, I prepared for the second colonoscopy that I ever have had.  The previous one was just over eight years ago, and everything was good.  The doctor said to come back in "7 or 8 years," which I interpreted as "eight years."  I did everything right the day before the test, not eating after a very early breakfast consisting of a piece of toast, other than some lemon jello during the day.  I drank the very vile fluid - a pint of it - at 5PM, with extremely predictable and unpleasant results.  I woke up at 2:15AM (and stayed up, believe me) to drink the second pint of this nasty tasting stuff.  It works really well.  Anytime I decided I could leave the bathroom for a few minutes, I invariably was back in there within 60 seconds - if not sooner.  It is a moving experience!

The test itself is not bad, because they sedate you.  Yeah, you get to wear one of those sexy little "backless gowns" that everyone looks so good in and enjoys so much.  But they sedate you, and you are not really aware of what is going on, or if anyone is cracking jokes at your expense or not.  I doubt anyone on your medical team will see anything they haven't already seen.  I know that I felt some pain or discomfort during the procedure.  I must have been moaning, or maybe crying like a little boy, because they gave me a shot of benadryl which put me down for the count.  Even after I woke up later and they were telling me about the exam and results, it felt more like a dream.  That stuff makes one's brain so foggy!

So the bottom line, so to speak, was I have to come back in five years because I had a polyp.  It is almost certainly benign, but the laboratory will determine that one way or another.  But what if I had waited a few more years to go back?  Would the polyp have turned malignant by then?  Would it have still been benign but so large that I would have had to have a chunk of intestine cut out?  Or would it have just stayed small and benign?  There is no way to know, but I am glad that I had this procedure done now.  I know that having another one in five years is not going to be pleasant, but compared to colon cancer?  A piece of cake!

Colon cancer is almost 100% curable if it is caught early (or better yet, before it becomes cancerous).  But let it grow and metastasize, and it is anything but curable.  Stage 3 or 4 colon cancer is not the news anyone wants to get.  So if you are over 50 - or maybe even younger but with a family history, or having some kind of problems - get one: soon!

It is easy to ignore and forget about the inner workings of our bodies.  We shove that piece of chocolate cake in our mouth, and the only part of the digestive process we are really aware of is how good it tastes.  Then, it slips down our gullet and it is time to stuff in the next bite.  But - sight unseen - there is a lot going on without any thought from us to process that cake into energy (perhaps stored energy if you are not exercising enough) and waste products.  And sight unseen, there can be potentially very bad things going on that you want to nip in the bud before they become bad.  So, if you are due or overdue for a colonoscopy, get it done!

Although they may seem painful, inconvenient, embarrassing, and uncomfortable, colonoscopies are really not these things in life's general of scheme of things.  But no matter how you look at it, colon cancer is all of those things - plus potentially lethal.  Trust me, if you need this procedure, don't delay too long.  It just may save your life - and that is a life worth saving, isn't it?

One More Fallen Cancer Warrior

When I first signed up for Team in Training, exactly eight years ago, each event team was assigned its own patient honoree.  Our team's (Midnight Sun Marathon Team) honored patient was a young man named Ed Stone.  He had survived leukemia at age 19 with a bone marrow transplant from his sister.  At one point, things looked bad enough that they had a moment of silence for him at his old high school football stadium.  But he pulled through, and survived another bout with some kind of other cancer a dozen years later.  Shortly after our training started early in 2005, we learned that Ed had melanoma - his third cancer, and he wasn't even 40 yet!  But the melanoma was cut out and Ed resumed triathlon training for his own spring event with Team in Training.  Within a few years, he was the first participant in Virginia to earn the coveted "TNT Triple Crown:" at least one marathon or half marathon, a triathlon of any distance, and a "Century" bike ride.  I think that he did about 10 to 15 TNT events over the years.

Then, in July or August of 2009, while getting ready for the Rock 'N Roll Half Marathon as a family team with his wife, sister, and nephew, Ed discovered melanoma in the ball of his left foot.  He went ahead and did the race, and later had a big chunk of his foot removed.  And periodically, he had more increasingly awful surgeries and chemotherapy treatments.  One of these ruined his entire left leg.  This former athlete, who did marathons, a half iron man, and 100 mile bike rides, continued to try to recover.  He was recently back in the pool, and even trying to ride a stationary bike.  He always had a smile, and was not a complainer, although he had more to justify complaining than did most people.  He was a true cancer warrior, and he was an incrEDible inspiration to so many people.  Just a few months ago, Ed walked about 2.5 miles in Light the Night.  It was difficult, but he did it.

I learned today that Ed lost his long fight early this morning.  He was 43.  He leaves behind a young widow, grieving parents, and many friends.  He inspired us all, and touched so many lives.  He did everything he could, with courage and grit, to keep on living, but it was not to be.

Rest well in peace, Ed - you will be missed by so many, my friend!  You gave it your all.  You were an amazing human being.

Read my tribute to Ed here.

The Silent Killer

With the Olympics just past, I am still thrilled by the performances that I watched on television.  It is hard to imagine all of the things that these amazing athletes are able to achieve.  Most of us probably think that the toughest thing they will ever face is the world-class competition as they strive for a medal - gold, silver, or bronze.  And for many, that may be so - but not for all.

Witness the case of Shannon Miller, a member of the USA's "Magnificent Seven" in 1996, the women's gymnastics team that was indeed magnificent.  Early last year, Shannon faced a new competition, one where first place is a gold medal, and any other place is the grave.  She battled ovarian cancer, the "Silent Killer."  Read her story here.

Cancer Survivor's Day

Today marks 10 years since my very first chemotherapy treatment for Hodgkin's lymphoma.  I can still remember the emotions of that day fairly well.  I marked my 10 year anniversary - which happens to be National Cancer Survivors' Day - in two ways.

First, I laced up my running shoes at 6:30 AM and went for a run - my first real running since the Monument Avenue 10K on March 31.  The knee pain is a lot better, and it was time to try some running.  I did more walking than running.  For my five mile workout, I ran about 1.7 miles of it in intervals of three minutes walking and one minute running.  That seemed like enough for me, but it felt good.  Why five miles?  Well, I was thinking of how the holy grail of cancer survivorship is five years, and neither my sister Ann nor my friend Faith made it to five years.  So since I dedicated my TNT Silent Mile yesterday to the two of them, I decided to dedicate five more silent miles to them today.  When you run or walk by yourself, being silent comes kind of naturally.

Second, Mary and I joined our friend Bill at an event for cancer survivors put on by a local hospital.  Bill found out last fall that he had stage 4 colon cancer.  It was a pretty good event - food, music, educational talks on various subjects, and clinics on massage and meditation.  It was another chance to reflect on my amazing fortune of surviving cancer, because so many people don't.

Toasting Ten Years!

The expression “Time Flies” is used a lot. It sounds trite. But in what feels like the blink of an eye, 10 years have gone by since I found out I had a very big medical problem, which turned out to be Hodgkin’s lymphoma. And it makes me realize that time does indeed fly. Where does it go?

Exactly ten years ago, feeling perfectly healthy except for an odd pain in my side, I stood in a dark room as my doctor examined my thoracic X-ray. “You have a large mass in the middle of your chest, something that should not be there,” he said. I felt as if time, and I, were frozen in place. It was like a bolt from the blue! I wondered what it was, knowing somehow it was going to be terrible, and I wondered how long I would live.

I still don’t know the answer to that last question, but I do have a partial answer: at least 10 years. 10 more years now experiencing the joys, along with a few sorrows, of life. 10 more years to create good memories and to grow as a person. 3,653 more days (a few leap days were in the mix) to attempt to seize the day. I believe that I've tried to make good use of those days, most of them anyway. I am very grateful to still be here. And not just to be alive, but to be strong and healthy as well.

During those 10 years, I held my granddaughter on the day of her birth, and have watched her grow to become a happy five year old. I’ve seen places I’d never seen before, including Alaska, Yellowstone, and Glacier National Park. I've hiked in the mountains and at the shore, and seen amazing wildlife - including wolves pursuing Dall sheep. I've enjoyed great books and music.  I've experienced great get-togethers with family and friends. I comforted my sister during her final months. I walked 60 miles in three days last fall in her memory, with tears in my eyes a few times.  And I became a marathoner and a half-marathoner six times over, five of them with Team in Training! The sixth time was in March in the Shamrock, to celebrate my 10 year mark a month or so early.

During my 10 years of surviving, over 525,000 Americans have died from a blood cancer. I easily could have been in that group instead of in the group of survivors. What made me different from those 525,000 people, a few of which I have personally known? Luck? Good medical care? Divine intervention? Determination and grit? Winning scientific research? Family support? All of the above? I don’t know, but I am grateful.

No cancer is easy to endure or survive. Even the supposedly “curable” cancers often are not. If you are out there raising money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, or one of the other organizations fighting for a cure, this survivor thanks you. You, and people like you in the past, helped to give me 10 years that I would not necessarily have had otherwise.

You know what? I think I am going to go for 10 more now!

Cancer Claims Another

I wrote a week or so about my friend Faith, and how her two year remission from Hodgkin's Lymphoma had ended. 90% of people getting Hodgkin's survive at least five years. With great sadness, I learned today that Faith will not be among them. Less than three years from her diagnosis, Faith passed away this weekend. Her sister Leigh has been with her this week as Faith's health declined. Having lost my own sister last May from breast cancer, I have at least some sense of what she is feeling.

I really hate cancer. In 13 months, it has claimed my friend Judy, my sister Ann, and now my friend Faith. I think back of first meeting Faith in the fall of 2009. She and I had met online and had exchanged emails for some months about dealing with cancer and Hodgkin's in particular. I finally met her in person at the Light the Night walk, joining her team "Faith's Hope". We walked again the next year, and she also joined me and several others in 2010 to cheer for the Shamrock Team. Now, here I am, preparing for Shamrock, and Faith is gone. She was a wonderful person, and will be missed very much by so many. I will honor Faith's memory in three weeks by wearing her photo during my run.

In two months, I will be a 10 year Hodgkin's survivor. Why couldn't Faith have had more time? If when you hear about Hodgkin's lymphoma, you think "Oh, that's a curable cancer," please remember that it is not always so. There is plenty more to do.

Dear Faith, rest well in peace. I shall miss you, and so much wish things had been different.

Faith and her beloved pal Henry In 2009, hoping for remission, Faith visited the Caicos with a friend to get some enjoyment after a tough fight with stage 4 Hodgkin's. It was great to see this photo of her enjoying life!

Faith in a Cure

(Note: please see my post of February 26 about the sad news of Faith losing her battle)

I've written before how Hodgkin's lymphoma is one of the more curable cancers, and is sometimes called the "good cancer." Well, if you are like me, a nearly 10 year survivor from this disease and living strong, I suppose you could call it a good cancer, although even that is a bit of a reach. For others, though, it is not a good cancer by any stretch of the imagination.

One of these folks is my friend Faith. She had stage 4 Hodgkin's lymphoma starting almost exactly three years ago. It was in her spleen, bones, and lungs. She went through many hellish treatments, raised an outrageous amount of money for Light the Night in 2009 with her Team "Faith's Hope," and went into remission near the end of the year.

But think about how difficult it is to kill cancer. You have maybe a billion cancer cells in your body if you have detectable cancer. If you are stage 4 like Faith was, maybe you have several billion malignant cells. During treatment, every single one of these cells must die. Let me emphasize that again - every single one must die! If even one such cell, lurking somewhere in your body, survives, it will begin to divide. And divide again. And again. Repeat that process enough, and suddenly you have a tumor - probably undetectable. Some cells split off and travel through the lymph or bloodstream, lodging in some hospitable spot deep in your body. Another tumor starts up. Then another. Before you know it, you are not feeling so well and get it checked out. And suddenly, you realize your days of being cancer free are over, at least for now. And the worst of it is, these tumors are probably dominated by cancer cells that are resistant to chemotherapy, since they came from cells that survived these harsh and miserable chemicals.

That is what Faith learned recently that she is facing again - stage 4 Hodgkin's lymphoma. And this time, her treatment will consist of a stem cell transplant after ruthless chemotherapy to destroy the cancer and her marrow. Right now, Faith is just trying to get through each day and night - the fear of the treatment, the misery of feeling so sick, the horrible migraines that she is experiencing. Her days are dominated by long and difficult medical appointments. I feel so badly that she has to go through this once more. It is very unfair, because once should have been more than enough.

I ran tonight, going four miles, trying to prepare for the Shamrock Half Marathon in just over a month. Ironically, just two years ago, Faith was there at this race with me and some other friends cheering for the runners. Running rarely feels easy for me. I struggle with it at times. But as I ran along tonight, I kept thinking of Faith and how difficult things are for her right now. Facing what she is facing makes any reasonable run easy by comparison. I wrote the other day how running by itself doesn't cure cancer. How I wish it could, because I would be willing to run a lot of miles if it would cure Faith and some other pals I have going through this nasty crap right now. But life doesn't work that way.

Even so, I have faith there will be a cure for Faith. She is determined to have her life back once again. It won't be easy - far from it. It will actually be hellish. One day at a time, Faith. One hour, one minute, one second at a time if need be. Stay strong, stay positive, stay brave, believe you will get through this, believe in yourself and in your doctors. I have faith in you.

As you go through difficult times in your life - unpleasantness at work, problems with kids, relationship angst, money issues - or even a tough run on a day you don't feel much like running - think of people like Faith and what their day is like. For most of us, our problems pale in comparison to someone facing stage 4 cancer. And if you are so inclined, pause for a second and say a little prayer for Faith - that her doctors will be wise, that she will stay strong and brave, that a cure will be hers someday soon, and that she will have her life back for many decades to come.

A Hike Down Memory Lane

Nine and a half years ago, I was preparing to start chemotherapy. The day before starting, I took a little hike to the Black Rocks in Shenandoah National Park. I knew that this would be my last hike for a long time, and even worried a bit about whether it would be my last one ever. A couple of weeks ago, while backpacking in the mountains, I returned to Black Rocks for the first time since that hike. While there, I reflected on that time so many years ago. You can read about that here.

And Yet Another Cancer Comrade

Man, is there something in the water? I talked about Amy and breast cancer last time. This past week, I got a punch in the gut when I learned that my friend Bill not only has colon cancer, but that it has metastasized to his liver. And he was doing everything he should, including regular colonoscopies - in fact, he got his latest one, the one that showed he had a problem and needed surgery, a year early!

Early stage colon cancer - cancer that has not left the intestinal wall - is highly curable. Late stage colon cancer - in the liver or lungs for example - has a really bad prognosis, like as low as a 5% or 10% five year survival rate. I know that Bill is in shock right now, especially since his wife (and our friend) Judy died from multiple myeloma not even 11 months ago. He is weak from the surgery to remove the 10 inches of his colon, confused by all the tests, and scared about what the future holds for him. He really hadn't even finished grieving for his deceased wife yet, and now he has to face this. We all really feel for him. And we are worried about what the future holds for him. As he said the other day to me, "I was just getting to the point where I hoped I could have a few years to relax and rebuild my life."

I sent Bill this photo I had taken in June 2006 at the Cancer Survivors' Park in San Diego, California. I was there to walk the San Diego Marathon with Team in Training, just a couple of days after my four year anniversary of starting chemotherapy. So it meant a lot to me to visit this park, funded by a cancer survivor and dedicated to cancer survivors everywhere. The words on the plaque are words of wisdom for anyone diagnosed with cancer.We just finished Thanksgiving, a reminder to count our blessings. All of us whine and complain about silly things now and then, some more than others. But I tell you, if you are healthy or even relatively so, there is no greater gift than you can ask for. If I could have five million dollars, but have to face what Bill is going to have to go through, I'd tell you to keep your money. It is a terrible thing.

In less than a year, I've lost a friend and my sister to cancer. My sister's death this past year hit me really hard, even though I could see it coming. My friend's death was totally unexpected - she was diagnosed with myeloma in December and was dead four weeks later. Then I heard Amy's news, but was relieved about a great prognosis for her. Now, Bill's news - with a much more uncertain prognosis. Three friends diagnosed with cancer in less than a year. One of the dead. My sister dead. What's next? Amy, Bill, ... I hope we are not going to start working our way through the alphabet. Man, I hate cancer, I really do. We've made so much progress, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

Requiem in Pacem, Ann

On Monday, May 30, I got the news while on vacation that my beloved sister Ann had died that afternoon, after courageously battling breast cancer for 51 months. I knew that she didn't have a lot of time left - just five days before, the oncologist suspended treatment and told her she had a few weeks left. But I never thought that she would die just a week after I last saw her, and when I said goodbye to her that morning, I never suspected that it was the last time I would ever see her.

I wrote this the next afternoon, scribbling it out on paper on the cruise ship and deciding not to edit it, since it reflected my emotions at the time without any assistance from rhyme searching software. I know I will miss Ann the rest of my life.

"For Ann"

Today, Ann, is the first day since the day I was born
That you're not here upon this earth, and I feel so forlorn
Perhaps some time there'll come a day when of grief I am shorn
But if so, that is not today, as from your death I mourn.

Remember times when we were kids, and we would laugh and play?
Not once did it occur to me that you'd be gone someday.
Though sunny where I got the news, inside 'twas dark and grey
You're at eternal rest now, but from us you've gone away.

For months now, I have struggled to not break down and weep
I'd watch your face with sadness as exhausted you would sleep
Your grit and spunk inspired me as you climbed a hill so steep
And every step along the way, your courage did you keep.

That evil cancer hit you hard in this, your final, year
I came as often as I could, though you lived nowhere near
I feared that someday in the spring, I'd lose my sister dear
'Twas on the thirtieth of May the sad news did I hear.

Now death has come and taken you so very far from me
But as long as I can draw a breath, then in my heart you'll be
Oh, God and Blessed Mary, I beseech you, hear my plea:
Grant my beloved sister joy and peace eternally!

Art Ritter
May 31, 2011

The Bolt From the Blue

“The Bolt From the Blue”

The Twenty-sixth of April, Two Thousand and Two:
Life seemed so good on that day in the spring
But then late that morning, like a bolt from the blue,
Tidings arrived that would change everything

The doctor proclaimed, as he studied the X-ray,
“In your chest there’s a mass that is foreign and large”
For ten seconds or longer, I had nothing to say,
Becoming mute as a corpse while terror took charge

My brain, in that time, was frozen in fear
I wondered how events would transpire in my life
Would my time all expire by the end of this year?
Oh God, how to break this dark news to my wife?

I struggled in vain to find serenity and peace
All my focus was on just one word: “Lymphoma?”
Scrawled on the X-ray with a pencil of grease
I knew the import despite no doctor’s diploma

As some months before, a single stealthy lymph cell
Had decided to conduct guerilla warfare with zest
And it relentlessly grew, once it chose to rebel,
Into cancerous masses in my belly and chest

I began to recover from my initial shock
I knew that my courage I must somehow revive
And so, in my thoughts, I began to take stock
Of the actions I’d take to make sure I’d survive

I didn’t yet know all the tough trials I would face
But I knew that a warrior I would now have to be
For to live was the trophy for winning this race
Second place was a grave; that I plainly could see

Nine years have passed by, living healthy and strong,
Discovering things of myself that I never knew,
Meeting wonderful folks as the years rolled along,
Learning much about life from that bolt from the blue!

Art Ritter

April 26,2011

Two On My Mind

There are two people with cancer particularly on my mind right now as I start preparing to race for a cure once more.

One is my sister, Ann, who is battling late stage breast cancer, and who is my prime honoree for my upcoming 60 mile walk. She had surgery last week: pleurodesis, which adheres the pleura to remove the pleural space around the lungs and prevent the buildup of fluid around the lungs. The operation was a failure, and she was back in the hospital a week later to have two liters of fluid removed and a drain put in. The damage to her lungs from the metastasized tumors appears to be accelerating, because she was getting a liter of fluid removed every few weeks and now it is two liters in a week. She has fought so hard, and it is heartbreaking to know that the end could be coming. When I walk the Komen 3-Day in September, she will be with me every step of the 60 miles. I’d walk 6,000 miles if it would give her one month of good health to just enjoy a normal life. Does God make deals like that?

The other is my friend Ed, who is a Team in Training buddy and a 20+ year leukemia survivor. He is also a six year melanoma survivor, but it has come back with a vengeance. Ed has been battling active melanoma for the past year and a half, and has gone through hell in the last few months with his left leg. It remains swollen and immobile, with lots of awful lesions. He can finally walk slowly upstairs and at least get a shower, and is grateful for that. But now, tests are showing suspicious areas in his lungs, and he is going to need a biopsy. Melanoma spreading to the lungs, if that is what it is, would be a terrible thing. He is always brave and upbeat, but I know it is not easy to always put on a brave face.

I wonder about cancer. Why do so many of us, me included, survive it with relatively little hardship, and others like Ann and Ed go through such hellish experiences? All the billions of dollars and millions of person years spent fighting these diseases, and yet, here we are!

The Evil Beast

Cancer is an evil, evil beast! I started my 2011 honoree list just over five weeks ago, and already, two of my special 2011 honorees have died. The first was my good friend Judy, who passed away a month and a day ago just weeks after being diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Then, I learned earlier this week that another person on my list, Lanie, passed away January 26 at only age forty from glioblastoma multiforma, an incurable brain cancer. She leaves behind a grieving family: her husband and two young children. It is just not right!

Then yesterday, I visited my friend – and an amazing inspiration – Ed, who just got back from a couple of weeks down at Duke. He was there getting 16 lymph nodes in his leg removed, and receiving a simply wonderful procedure known as isolated limb perfusion. Essentially, the leg is tied off at the groin with a tourniquet, and heated chemo is pumped into the leg and circulated through a machine to keep oxygen going into that leg’s blood. He is still bed bound, and can get up and walk very slowly and painfully with a walker. This is his fourth bout with melanoma, and the third time in just over a year that he has had to have a major and painful procedure for his melanoma, including losing about one-fourth of his left foot just over a year ago. And that doesn’t count his two previous battles with cancer, the first of which was leukemia at age 19 that nearly killed him. It all makes my recent foot surgery seem as troubling and significant as a mosquito bite. His left leg is all red and still looks nearly twice the size of his right leg – and that is after the swelling had decreased a lot.

Ed and I talked about our Team in Training teammate, Paul, who is getting very rigorous and nasty chemotherapy for chronic lymphocytic leukemia right now, three out of every four weeks. And realistically, the best that awful treatment will do is beat it back for a while. That is why we have to keep looking for more cures, and raising the money needed to do so!

Finally, I talked to my sister earlier today as she was headed out the door to see her doctor about fluid in her chest cavity, a potentially very serious side-effect from either her stage 4 breast cancer, or from having been immobile and bed-bound from her illness for so long recently.

Yeah, no Christmas card for cancer - that evil, evil beast - from me this year!

Can Having Cancer be Worth It?

I spent a good bit of time with my sister, Ann, over a six day period last week, and we had a chance to catch up on things. Of course, the biggest single thing in her life right now is trying to survive metastatic breast cancer. Stage four breast cancer is not considered curable in general, and in her specific case from day one four years ago, her cancer seems particularly chemo resistant. It is looking kind of grim right now, but she has not given up hope, and she starts a brand new chemo on Monday. It is called Haloven and it has been on the market for just a couple of months. Hopefully it will buy her some time until the next big thing comes along.

During one conversation we had, she talked about hearing from time to time about people who claim having had cancer ended up being a good experience. She and a fellow cancer warrior had talked about this, and Ann said they both agreed that such a sentiment is pretty much crazy. As Ann put it, she can’t think of a single thing she got from cancer that was good, or at least was worth the price of admission.

I’m was a little more hesitant. I said something to her like I had not enjoyed having had cancer, but I did end up learning some valuable things as a result. And I have had some amazing experiences that I might not have had otherwise – Team in Training for one, because wanting to make a difference as a cancer survivor is what got me started with TNT. Ann’s counter was that there was nothing she has learned from cancer that she couldn’t have learned some other way. But also, I survived the whole thing and have been 8 years removed from the misery of it. Maybe I have some things that were worth the misery. Ann, on the other hand, has been dealing with it for four years now: illness and exhaustion from chemo, internal and external third degree burns from radiation, pain from a mastectomy, and all kinds of secondary infections. And none of it has worked. I can’t think of a single thing I could have learned that would have been worth that much suffering.

I guess at the risk of being misunderstood – and hear me now, I am not saying having cancer was fun or a good experience – being a cancer survivor is part of who I am. By the luck of the draw, I got a survivable type, and I was able to parlay some of that experience into becoming a better, tougher, and stronger person. Because I survived it, because it was six months of misery and not six years, because I didn’t lose any body parts: I don’t think I would change who I am today if it meant erasing all that. But for Ann, for my friend Ed dealing with the horrors of melanoma treatment for the fourth time, for my teammate Robin who had most of her right leg amputated this summer, for my friend Judy who died two weeks ago from multiple myeloma: I doubt anything they gained was even remotely worth the horrible price paid.

Requiem in Pacem, Judy

Our dear friend Judy died Sunday from multiple myeloma and plasma cell leukemia, and I have written this in her memory.

“To Judy”

Your time with us on earth was altogether much too brief
As was my time to be your friend these seven fleeting years
Your family and your friends miss you so much in our grief
As we struggle through this time of sorrow with our bitter tears

I seek solace in my memories of times spent well with you
And so wish there could be more, although I know that cannot be
You were a friend to me, and Mary, and one so loyal and true
But you’ve slipped the bonds of earth, and of suffering are now free

Perhaps in some unknown way you can sense these words of mourning
Even though your time here with us has reached heartbreaking end
You have left us all behind with such very little warning
But we remember you with love, so rest well in peace, my friend

There may be a future time that our pain and grief is muted
From the loss we sense today, and our feeling so bereft
But I tell you one thing now that cannot be disputed:
We’ll ne’er forget you, Judy, ‘nor the memories that you’ve left

Art Ritter
January 11, 2011

A Really Tough Day

Today, I had to say goodbye to a great friend as she lay, unresponsive and on a ventilator, in her hospital bed in the ICU. She was diagnosed with multiple myeloma just four weeks ago, and also now has plasma cell leukemia. Since her diagnosis, her condition has rapidly declined, and she has been too ill to even get treatment. As recently as two weeks ago, the doctors were saying that she should be in remission after two months of chemo – a chemo that would never happen. Over the last 10 days, she has had one horrific medical problem after another, the latest few being bleeding in the brain, pneumonia, and large amounts of fluid in her chest cavity.

Then last night, her husband called to tell us that she has bleeding in her lungs, with no hope of reversing it. He told us if we wanted to say goodbye, we had to do it today. Family is coming in from all over to see her before they remove the respirator. We went to the hospital today with two friends to see her one last time. It was a horrible and helpless feeling, the saddest thing I have had to do in a very long time. And it is going to take a long time to get over it. I held her hand and told her how much we would miss her, how we would look after her husband, and how I will wear a picture of her during my next Team in Training race. I tried, with limited success, not to cry while talking to her.

She and her husband were to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary this spring. That won’t happen. She spent her last birthday and New Year’s in the hospital, and her last Christmas in a hospital bed at home at a time we all prayed she could start treatment and beat this thing. We talked with her about celebrating her birthday later, and we talked with her husband about celebrating New Year’s later with the two of them. That won’t happen. My wife and I talked about taking them out to a fancy restaurant in a few months to celebrate her successful treatment. That won’t happen either. Right now, it feels like a nightmare and that it can’t be true, but we know that it is. And as bad as her friends feel, we know for her family it is much, much worse.

She is one more blood cancer victim. I pray we will have a cure soon, but it is too late for our friend. Apparently, she has had the myeloma for a very long time, and it got diagnosed much too late. It, and the leukemia, just took over her body starting about 5 weeks ago. It shows how important earlier detection is with cancer.

I don’t think I can write much more, other than to say it has been a pretty bad week, and a really awful last 24 hours. My usual upbeat personality has taken a beating lately.

Cancer Sucks! It Really, Really Sucks!

A friend asked us to come over last Saturday night, because she wanted to share some news. We knew that she had had a medical appointment to examine a large mass in her tibia the day before, but all her husband said when we asked about it was “Not good. We’ll tell you tonight.” Well, the news was “Probable multiple myeloma,” a tough-as-a-nut blood cancer of the plasma cells in the bone marrow.

She had surgery Wednesday to implant a titanium rod in her tibia, because the bone was in danger of breaking without it. And that diagnosis was confirmed: multiple myeloma. It is looking pretty advanced, maybe even stage 3, which is the most advanced stage. She has had a ton of weird illnesses over the past year, and now it seems apparent that many or even most of these were caused by the myeloma as it remorselessly grew in her body.

Cancer just sucks! One more person, one more family, turned inside out and upside down, worrying about their future in fear. Every four minutes, an American is diagnosed with a blood cancer, and Wednesday morning, it was our friend Judy’s turn. She is facing the same difficult future that all newly diagnosed cancer patients do. Plus she is in a lot of pain and very sick from the side effects of the surgery. Her husband and daughter have been spending nights at the hospital. I’ve been trying to research things for them, and yesterday, I shoveled their driveway from our fresh 2-3 inch snowfall. It wasn’t much, but it made me feel better that I could do one tiny thing that might help them when she comes home from the hospital and won’t have to face getting through an icy driveway.

One more name for my next Team in Training race shirt. One more person dealing with the almost unbelievable misery of radiation and chemo, worrying how long they will live, trying to stay positive. One more spouse worrying if he and his wife will grow old together, how to get her the best treatment, feeling scared and overwhelmed. I added it up yesterday: I now know ten people personally who are currently dealing with cancer, and in more cases than not, they are very difficult cancers that are proving to be relentless, and very evil. And that number does not include the many survivors I know, nor those that have not made it.

Last February, when I wrote “The Limits of Cancer,” I was trying express how the human spirit is stronger than the evil powers of cancer. I still feel that way, but I also know that our friend is in for a very difficult time of it. Just how difficult will be made clear in the coming months. I feel really bad about her situation, and have that initial feeling of helplessness that everyone gets when a close friend or family member gets this diagnosis. Cancer sucks! It really, really sucks!

The “Good” Cancer

Hodgkin Lymphoma, what I was wrapping up treatment for exactly eight years ago, is sometimes called the “good” cancer. If you get it, and can get medical treatment for it, you have about an 86% chance of living five years. Compared to most other forms of cancer, these are pretty good odds, and if you are in the 86% group, as I was, then it does seem like the cancer to have. It is one of the few cancers that doctors use the word “cured,” I think, if indeed you do survive it and go into lengthy remission. Although I know anything can still happen, after eight years of being in remission, I would be considered in the cured group.

Every year, about 8,000 Americans will be diagnosed with Hodgkin’s, and every year, over 1,000 Americans will die from it. If you are one of those 1,000 plus people, then it is decided not a good cancer. It is horrible, painful, and life-ending, and devastating to the family and friends. Yesterday, I learned of one such person.

Jennifer Willey of Kennebunkport, Maine was just 31 – so young - when she died last week from Hodgkin Lymphoma. She was diagnosed on May 26, 2005, which was nearly exactly three years after my diagnosis and just weeks before my first marathon for Team in Training. I am sure that when she was diagnosed, she was told that she had the “good” cancer and had the same high hopes that I had to continue living. After all, she had an 86% chance of surviving. She finished treatment in November that year, but unlike my last chemo in November 2002, it was not to be her last treatment. She relapsed, got more chemo, two stem cell transplants, and fought the horrific effects of graft vs. host disease as a result. Her lungs were ravaged and she spent her last days in a wheel chair on oxygen. Technically, she was a five year survivor since she made it past last May, but that is a pretty hollow victory. From all accounts, she was a remarkable young woman, and I cannot imagine how devastating her death is for her family and friends.

I wish I could have known of her while she lived so I could have sent her some encouragement, and also told her that her name will be on my race shirt for my next Team in Training event. She had a website where she collected information about Hodgkin’s and also stories of others she had met virtually along the way who had battled this terrible disease.

Jennifer’s story, and her ultimate fate, is a sad reminder of how much work there remains to be done even with a “good” cancer like Hodgkin Lymphoma. The dirty little secret is there is no good cancer. Yes, with this cancer, medical researchers have figured out if you inject four very toxic substances (Adriamycin, Bleomycin, Vinblastine, Dacarbazine) into the blood stream every two weeks for several months, more people will live than will die. But many will still die, and all will suffer considerable misery. We really haven't figured out even a cancer like Hodgkin Lymphoma, despite the high survival rate. What makes it tick? Why do some people live, and others die? How can you really defeat it, without nearly killing the patient in the process?

So much more work remains in the war on cancers. It is staggering and overwhelming at times, especially when you consider how many people are suffering from various cancers at this exact moment in time. It is a disease that never rests, never tires, never takes a coffee break, never goes into recession. It is remorseless, pitiless, and relentless, and some times – as in Jennifer’s case – the best available medical technology, courage, and grit are not going to be enough. Even “curable” cancers are not really curable right now. If you are out there doing Team in Training, or taking some other action to raise funding for cancer research, and you happen to come across what I wrote here, thank you for helping to get us one step closer to a true cure.

“The Limits of Cancer”

“Do you give up? Do you submit to my will?”
Snarled the malevolent specter called Cancer
“For months I’ve attempted your spirit to kill.
Speak, woman, and give me your answer!”

“You’ve taken my breasts and caused me great pain,
And the loss sometimes will cause me to weep
And you’ve brought about misery, that much is plain.
But you can’t crush my spirit - no, that’s mine to keep!”

So Cancer skulked off to a man in his bed
And it whispered with menacing tone
“I know I have managed to fill you with dread
And it appears like you suffer alone.”

“I’ve lost some of my parts to the surgeon’s sharp knife
But you have not severed my strong will to live
And you cannot corrode the love of my wife,
Or of family and friends – no, that’s theirs to give!”

So like a wraith in the night, it next preyed on a child
Her head, from the poisons, was bare
The Beast licked its lips and roared as it smiled
“Have you had quite enough of this scare?”

“There are times that I quake and I tremble with fear,”
And most days I feel desperately ill
And at times I must wonder if the end is too near
But you can’t steal my courage – no, that’s with me still!”

It can riddle our body, it can gnaw on our bones,
Turn our red blood all frothy and white
It can make us so fearful to face our unknowns
As we smear on our war paint and fight!

But fight it we must, though it means a hard time
For Cancer has limits, despite evil powers.
It can’t rob of us peace or of memories sublime
Or of faith, love, or hope – no, those are all ours!

Art Ritter
February, 2010