My Silent Mile Message

On Saturday, our local TNT groups will do the Silent Mile once again.  I wish I could be there, but I cannot be.  So I wrote something for Kate to read to the group.  Here it is.  If you, too, are engaged in Team in Training (or some other cure for cancer fund raising) right now, then this is for you as well - so, THANK YOU!


Remission Accomplished! In December 2002, nearly exactly 10 years ago, this was the message I received from my oncologist. For anyone going through treatment for any type of cancer, this is the news they want so badly to hear. Doctors are reluctant to say “cured,” but they will say “remission,” or “NED” (No Evidence of Disease). These were among the sweetest words I have ever heard – sweeter than if I were to learn that I had won the half a billion dollars Power Ball this week (although that would be a close second).

Chemotherapy is tough. In my life to date, it is the hardest thing I have gone through. It was tougher than my three marathons and three half marathons – even the marathon in Alaska in a pouring, cold rain with mosquitos the size of small airplanes. And keep in mind that compared to some other cancer patients that I have heard about, my cancer treatment was like a first-class vacation on a tropical island – complete with one of those drinks with the little umbrella sticking in it.

I am very lucky to have reached 10 years remission from Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and I plan to keep on going. I feel like I have a lot of living yet to do before I see my last sunset and hike my last trail. Yet, I know that there are no guarantees. I know people who say, “If I had to go through chemo again, I would not do it.” I don’t feel that way. I would not want to do it again, of course, but I would. But if I ever have to, I hope that it will be easier the next time around because of people like you – people raising money not just for a cure, but for a cure that doesn’t make you feel so ill that sometimes you don’t focus on getting through the day, but just through the next minute. Where your stomach does flips so spectacular that a Cirque de Soleil performer would turn green with envy. Where your brain is so foggy that the light from an explosion from a Chinese fireworks factory wouldn’t cut through the fog. Where you go into the ER in the middle of the night, and the doctor suggests that dynamite just might be required to get things moving again. (“Give me the paper to sign and light the fuse!” I told him).

From this cancer survivor, and on behalf of the thousands going through cancer therapy every day, thank you for what you do. Thank you for having our backs! Thank you for racing for a cure!

Lighting the Night for Faith and Judy!

After a long silence, I can finally post about something I have done in the Racing for a Cure arena!  This past Saturday night, I walked in Light the Night (LTN) to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, to support cancer survivors, and to remember those that didn't survive.  Two of the latter were my friends Faith and Judy, both gone well before their times because of these awful and ruthless diseases.  Faith died from Hodgkin's lymphoma - the same thing I've now survived 10 years - just before three years after diagnosis.  She was just 43.  Judy died from multiple myeloma, one month to the day from her diagnosis.  She was 65, having reached the so-called golden years, which for her, were not so golden.

In 2009, Faith - while still undergoing chemotherapy - walked in Light the Night.  Her team, Faith's Hope, raised over $10,000.  I met her in person that night, and was a member of that team.  She was so proud of her accomplishments to fight back and to help others.  Now, Faith is gone, but her cause and memory live on.  Her sister Leigh formed a LTN team called "Faith's Hope - 2012," and we walked to honor the memory of her sister, and many others.  I wore a photo of Judy and Faith, and Judy's husband Bill, himself undergoing chemotherapy right now for colon cancer, walked with me and wore his late wife's photo.  Faith's beloved dog Henry, now lovingly cared for by Leigh, walked along with us.

Our team did well, raising more than $6,000 (which includes some checks that have not yet posted).  Here is my LTN page in case you want more information (or even want to make a contribution).

Hurricane Sandy disrupted and destroyed many things, but it held off long enough for us to get our walk in.  I am posting a few photos from the night.  My camera was having problems with its flash sometimes, so I didn't get a lot of these.

Before the walk, we had a remembrance ceremony to remember those who have passed away.  So many have been lost while we race for a cure.  I included my sister Ann in my thoughts.  I wrote a message to her on a paper flower and tied it to the trellis that they had set up.  I miss her every day.  These guys piped a moving rendition of "Amazing Grace."

Bill carries a gold balloon as someone who lost a loved one to a blood cancer.  He and I both carry white balloons as cancer survivors.  Bill had chemo three days before and I was concerned that he would be unable to do the walk, but he hung in there to the end.  He went home very tired.

I posted this so you can see our team banner.  Faith lives on in the love and memories of family and friends.

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.

Did Racing for a Cure Fall off the Earth?

Short answer - no.  But not having posted in five weeks, it does seem like this blog has gone dark.  I've kept my other blog, Oh, To Be Hiking!, fairly active because I've managed to get in a hike every couple of weeks.  But I have neglected this blog.

I guess that is because, for the first time in a long time, I am not engaging in a Team in Training or Susan G. Komen activities this year.  The knee pain I had from running so much this winter and leading up to my half marathon and 10K in March has continued to some degree.  It is not as constant or as severe as it was earlier this year.  But it is still there, especially while walking down stairs or after a tough hike, and especially in that pesky left knee.

Part of me wonders if I will ever be running again.  I accomplished two goals that I had - to run a half marathon as a 10 year cancer survivor and also as a 60 year old - but that might be it for long runs.  I need to continue doing my exercises and see where that leads, and maybe see a knee specialist if the pain continues.  I am walking a little bit, and hope to do more when the weather cools, but even that is hard to fit in with my new work schedule that has me getting up at 5:40 for work.

As far as the cure, that is still needed.  I am reminded of that every week, or every time I look at a picture of my late sister, gone now just over a year.  She should be getting ready to enjoy a well deserved retirement right now.  Instead she only lives on this earth in the memories of all those who loved her.  This week, I had lunch with an ill friend, a 43 year old man dealing with the awful consequences of his fourth bout with cancer.  He told me that his 78 year old aunt just got diagnosed with leukemia, AML, the same type that my friend had when he as 19.  Cancer is an equal opportunity killer - it ignores gender, race, age, economic status, political views.  We need to find a cure.  And at some point, I hope that my blog will be more active again as I get more involved once again towards this goal.

Relay for Life Survivor Walk

Last Saturday, I walked the first survivor laps in the American Cancer Society's Relay for Life.  I went at the request of my friend Bill, who is about 9 months into treatment for metastasized colon cancer, and on his second round of chemo after two surgeries, the second of which was really rough.  It was a very hot afternoon, upper 90's, and I found myself glad that I was not walking laps all night like some of the folks would be.  I didn't raise money for this great cause, but came out for a little bit to walk as a survivor and support Bill.  As things turned out, he was too wiped out to walk more than a partial lap due to the heat and his exhaustion from chemo.  It's 10 years after cancer for me, and I feel very grateful to be able to still be breathing and moving.

The main speaker, an ovarian cancer survivor, lost her sister to leukemia a couple of years ago. I could relate to her experience, as a survivor myself (not ovarian cancer, in case you are wondering) and also having lost my sister a year ago. I wanted to post a few photos from the night, and publicly thank those who walked the walk that night after raising a lot of money for this cause.

Here are Bill and I before the walk.  I like the new purple shirt and the new purple "survivor" wrist band they game me.

 People set up tents and canopies inside the "track."

 "Team Joe" walks along in the 97 degree (in the shade, which they are not) heat.

 I used to work near here and often walked around this lake at lunch.  It is about 1.25 miles as I recall for a single lap.

 One of the speakers told us: "Take a minute and go down to the lake.  Throw in a pebble.  Notice the ripples you create.  In the same way, when you do some positive thing, small or large, it has its own ripple effect."  So I tossed in a pebble and reflected on the ripples it created.  I wonder what ripples I have created with my life?  I wonder what ripples I have still to create in the (hopefully) years ahead?

A Great Honor

I've done a lot of things over the past seven years for LLS and Team in Training: five events as participant, and a sixth season as a mentor.  Speaker at numerous meetings to recruit volunteers and at kick-off.  Cheering at events.  Light the Night three times.  But until Saturday night, when I addressed the "I Love the Tavern Triathon" Team, I had never been the honored speaker at a TNT inspiration dinner.

If you have attended an inspiration dinner for the Team, you know they can be pretty massive and inspirational events.  This one was a lot smaller.  Instead of addressing hundreds of participants, there were 15.  But that was fine.  It was my great honor to speak to such a fine and dedicated group.

So what did I say in my 10 minutes of fame?  I talked about how I found out that I had Hodgkin's lymphoma 10 years ago, and what the treatments were like.  I tried to interject a little humor by recounting my story of the ear hair that wouldn't die.  I spoke of why it is so difficult to cure cancers, and although I was a lucky survivor, there were many more who never make it.  I spoke in particular of three people in my life who have passed away in the last 18 months: my friend Judy from multiple myeloma in January 2011, my sister Ann from breast cancer in May 2011, and my friend Faith from Hodgkin's lymphoma this past February.  So there is plenty more to do before we can consider cancer defeated.  Then I closed with these three thoughts:

1. You never know if and when your life will change radically, as mine did 10 years ago.  So enjoy the good times while you have them, and seize as many days as possible - starting with completing the triathlon the next day.
2. Someday, all cancers will be curable or at least manageable.  When that day comes, each of them can smile, knowing that they all had a part in that.
3. As a 10 year cancer survivor, they had my sincere thanks.  I can't thank the people who figured out 30, 40, or 50 years ago how to get most people to survive Hodgkin's lymphoma, but I can thank them.

I don't know if this fine team was inspired by my talk, but I am sure inspired by their hard work, dedication, and courage to tackle a triathlon while trying to make a difference in the war on cancer.

Running Again!

Well, I am running again - sort of.  After more than two months of not running a bit because of knee pain, I started back last Sunday with a walk-run mix.  It is heavy on the walking, a three minute walk interval and a one minute run interval.  That means I am running about one third of the distance, at an average pace of something like 12:30 to 12:40.

I've done this three time in the last week: five miles Sunday, four miles Thursday morning, and four miles today.  It has felt pretty good to run even a little bit, even though I am a little winded at the end of my minute interval.  I hope to build it up after a couple of weeks of this.

So what I am training for?  Good question.  I had grand plans to celebrate surviving 10 years, starting with the Shamrock Half Marathon and the Monument Avenue 10K.  Those I accomplished.  Anything else is on hold, pending making sure my knee pain is in the past.  Maybe a 10K this fall?  That is a big come-down from early plans, but we must adjust to life's events.  Maybe being alive and healthy 10 years after cancer is celebration enough.

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.

Silent for Ann and Faith

This morning was the Team in Training Silent Mile ceremony.  I am always inspired by this - always!  About eight or nine of us survivors spoke, relaying tales of courage and endurance.  In particular, Robin's tale of fighting back after the loss of her right leg two years ago to cancer and Ed's story of his continuing fight with melanoma (after dealing with leukemia at 19 and two other cancers since) were moving.  As Ed put it, tongue in cheek, "cancer can be the gift that keeps on giving!"  My talk was easy, for 10 years ago today, I was preparing for my first day of chemo the next day.  I tried to prepare mentally that June 2, that beautiful Sunday 10 years ago.  I took a little hike in the mountains, knowing it would be the last time for a while, and wondering just a bit if it might be my last one ever.  There is no certainty or guarantee when dealing with cancer.

We also paid tribute to the Tahoe cycle team and the San Diego Marathon team, in action this weekend on the west coast.  After the talks, we walked, ran, or biked the first mile in silence.  It is a time to reflect on why we do Team in Training, and those who have fought the good fight but are no longer with us.  As I walked, I thought of my sister Ann, dead from cancer one year this past Wednesday.  I listened to the wood thrushes singing in the woods along the road.  She loved this bird's song, as do I, and I felt the connection to her.  I miss her so much!  There are days I feel as if we just haven't talked in a while - after all, we had lived nearly 500 miles apart.  And then the reality hits, and hits hard.  The reality that as much as I wish, I will never see her again, at least not in the flesh.  All because of cancer, something that started with a single cell gone haywire that could not be supressed.  It sucks.

I also thought of my friend, Faith, who died in February.  She was so young, 42 or 43.  She died from Hodgkin's lymphoma, the same thing I had 10 years ago.  She should have survived.  She should still be here.  90% of Americans with Hodgkin's survive 5 years.  I've lived for 10, so far, and hope to keep going.  Faith lived only for three years.  Faith came to one of our Silent Mile celebrations two years ago, and she did a mission moment for me on a bitter winter day's training in 2010.  She was a special person, so gentle and caring, and missed by many.  One more grieving family.  One more too many.  So for the last part of that mile, walking along with a little running for the first time since the 10K two months ago - when I wore Faith's photo on my shirt - I thought of Faith and how badly she wanted to keep living and enjoying life.  It is so unfair.

In the afternoon, Faith's dad and sister came up from North Carolina and had a memorial get-together for Faith's Richmond friends.  While I was there, I learned that they will have a Light the Night team on October 27 in memory of Faith.  Faith was so proud of the awesome job she did with her LTN team "Faith's Hope" in 2009.  I walked with her on that team, and I walked with her the next year with Light the Night.  So I plan on walking on Faith's memorial team this fall.

Good Luck, Lake Tahoe Cycle Team!

To the Tahoe TNT Cycle Team, Coaches, and Mentors:

I had lunch with your Team Virginia Coach, Susan, today, and she was telling me about your upcoming race, er, ride around Lake Tahoe this Sunday, June 3. It got me thinking about what an adventure the group of you is in for – 100 miles around a beautiful lake, all the ups and downs, peaks and valleys, tremendous scenery. You’ve trained so hard for this race, er, ride! You will need all of your training, grit, and determination to complete 100 miles in California on Sunday. It should be a wild ride, eh? All for a great cause – to help those enduring cancers, and to help develop more cures for blood cancers specifically, but for all cancers ultimately.

As Susan talked about your race, er, ride, it got me thinking about another more distant June 3, one that is important to me personally. For exactly 10 years from this Sunday, June 3, 2002, I took my very first step into the chemotherapy room to get my first batch of chemo for Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I had not trained for this. It was a surprise, a bolt from the blue that had arrived just weeks before. I didn’t feel ready for it. I didn’t want to get chemo – in fact, I dreaded it that first day, and that first week. As in your race, er, ride, there were lots of ups and downs, peaks and valleys for the six months I had to get treatment. Not much nice scenery though – leaning over the water in a toilet bowl is not quite a scenic as Lake Tahoe should be. At least I sure hope not, for your sake! But like you, I needed grit and determination – that feeling that I would take it one day, one hour, one minute, or if need be, one second at a time to get through it. That is what cancer patients need to get through such an experience, if they are lucky.

I was one of the very lucky ones. I survived, and am happy and grateful for this. And I am particularly grateful to have lived 10 years now, to the point where the awful experience of chemotherapy is greatly faded. But I also feel sadness when I think of some others who didn’t have my luck: your Coach Susan’s dad several years ago. My good friend, Judy, who died in January 2011 just four weeks after her multiple myeloma diagnosis. My dear sister, Ann, deceased exactly a year ago today after her four-year difficult fight with breast cancer. My friend Faith, dead from Hodgkin’s lymphoma – the “good cancer" – this past February.

You can see that there is still plenty to be done, and you are out there helping to do it. I wanted to be sure to thank you for all you have done and are doing, and to wish you the very best on June 3. I’ll be thinking of you, cheering you from afar, and wishing you all have a great race, er, ride! This 10 year survivor salutes you!

Go Team!
Art