#408: One for Homer

Yes, I had to move to Kentucky to meet a man named "Homer." But I haven't met many like my friend. I call him "friend," because we knew one another and worked together. We liked each other and  he bucked me up a couple of times when I was having a rough time with a part or a play I was directing. He was a great guy, but we weren't really all that close. We did have a couple things in common. We both loved theatre. We both loved Mrs P, (they went to college together in Bowling Green.) And we both had cancer. His was bad. Much worse than mine. I visited him in the hospital. Tried to call a couple of times to let him know I was thinking of him. I sent him my copy of It's Not About the Bike and some other books that helped me when I was sick. But the truth is, he had much closer friends than I. I stayed where I belonged. on the outer circle, respecting his privacy while trying to get word to him that I was here if he needed me. I hope he knew that.


When he died last weekend, I had the strangest feelings. Sadness at the death of a good man. Guilt that I hadn't been more present for him. Happiness that his painful battle was over and that he had died mercifully in his sleep. Anger at the disease I have come to hate so much that words fail me when I try to express it. There was also a sense of resolve. Fighting cancer isn't a metaphor for me any more. It is a real battle, a full time job, a holy vocation. 


I felt great at the end of this morning's run.


. 

70° 6.01 mi/1:1:25 @ 6:07 AM. John's with Striders. Lime Pegasus. BPM 146 (161 max). Tempo Run. Splits: 11:00, 10:38, 9:53,(31:31) 9:51, 9:50, 10:09.(29:50)

As I walked around the block to cool down, I saw two raggedy looking men sitting on a bench, waiting for a bus, I guess. One of them called out to me. "You been jogging?"


"Yep."


"How far?"


"Six miles."


"Wish I could run."


"You can," I told him with a smile, turning and trotting backwards for a few steps.


"Nah," he grinned sheepishly, holding up his cigarette. I felt something rise up inside me. I was mad. I stopped, and walked toward him, pointing my finger in a manner that could only be described as rude.


"Listen. Two years ago I weighed 400 pounds. They told me I had cancer, and gave me a 50% chance to live. Two weeks ago I ran a marathon. Don't tell me you can't run."


Then I turned and walked back to my car. I wasn't even a little bit ashamed of myself. As I drove home, I remembered Homer. I thought of all the people I love who smoke; who work too many hours; who abuse their bodies. I wish i had told them all what I told that stranger on the street. Maybe losing such a good man to cancer will give me the courage to do that. 


I smiled and thought of his beautiful deep voice and his heart-warming laughter. I remembered how thin and frightened he looked the last time we hugged one another good bye.


"That one was for you, Homer."


And God help me, it won't be the last.


Peace,
Pennsy 

#403: Getting Cancer is the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me

I've only said that out loud a couple of times. Now that I've written it down for the first time, it looks even crazier than it sounds.

My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. (James 1:2-3)

Look, people go through worse than I did every day. I'd rather go through 10 years of chemo than a day of combat in Afghanistan. Every time a single mom comes into the Y, trying to get financial assistance so her kids can go to camp, or a divorced dad comes in to find a way to help the family he can no longer share a home with, I realize how much worse things could be for me. What if it had been Mrs P, and not me? What if Mum hadn't been able to come and stay with us for half a year? What if there had been no hospital that would treat us when my insurance stopped paying? What if there had been no family to help us when the bank finally foreclosed on our house? Believe me, I know how blessed I am.


But that's not what I mean when I say getting cancer is the best thing that ever happened to me. I'm talking about what happened to me because I got cancer.


Just as James' epistle promised, cancer's greatest lesson is patience. Cancer treatment is all about set-backs and changes in plan. I don't think I know anyone whose treatment has gone by the book. To overcome an elusive opponent, you have to be willing to accept the surprises and change your tactics. Cancer teaches you patience, and patience nurtures hope. That's true in the radiation clinic, and it's true in the gym. Healing takes time. You have to trust that truth, and you have to be patient enough for hope to come. Getting cancer taught me that.

There's something else, too. One of my favorite sayings is, "There are an awful lot of things that used to be important to me." 

• How I look
• How little money I make
• The disrespect of strangers
• Dreams that didn't come true

This stuff used to camp out in my head, filling my quiet hours with shame and regret. Now, when I look at my life all I can do is thank God for the chance to open my eyes; to feel the sun; to hear my wife breathing softly beside me in bed; to spend 10 minutes scouting around the yard picking up dog poop in a plastic bag. Every breath I draw is a blessing: a chance to love my life, my wife, my God, my neighbors. Nothing else is really important.

Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. (Book of Common Prayer, Holy Eucharist II)

Jesus prayed for the cup of Calvary to pass from him, and I would have prayed the same words about the cup of cancer. But I could never have imagined the strength and renewal that bitter drink would give me. I know now that there is nothing that I can't live through, no battle that I can't fight to the finish. I have seen that strength in other cancer fighters, and for the first time in my life, I can feel it in myself. It is strength that comes from inside me, but it is also the strength of all the people who love and support me. Their prayers and kindness make me stronger, and together we can endure anything. 

Renewal? Oh, yes. I don't ask, "Why am I here?" any more. I know why I'm here. I've been called to preach. My sermon? Cancer can kill us, but it can never defeat us if we live strong. Every waking moment, that story is my life's work. A day doesn't go by that I don't encounter at least one person who needs to hear it. There are probably a lot more who are sick of me going on and on about it, but there may come a time when they'll need it, and I'm going to make sure I'm here to tell it - to live it.


My prayer for you is that you won't have to get cancer to learn the things it taught me. You are blessed. You are stronger than you can imagine. You are not alone. You were created to do wonderful, amazing things. You can make the world a better place than you found it. I know those things about you, even if you don't know them about yourself yet. And knowing that about you, has changed me in more ways than I can count or recognize. 


Cancer isn't evil. It's just a blob of crazy cells fighting for their lives. Our real opponent isn't disease. Our enemy is death: not just the death that puts you in a box in the ground, but also the death that kills your spirit and leaves you walking around empty and afraid. Getting cancer gave me the antidote to death. The prescription is one part purpose and one part love. Repeat as needed.


Being a cancer fighter means fighting for life. That's why I'm here. That's what getting cancer gave me. I'm not grateful to cancer. And I won't pretend I'm grateful for the days spent puking or the nights spent shivering while I wondered what would become of Mrs P when I was gone. I don't treasure one moment that I spent with the disease in my body. 

But I'm grateful as hell for what it left behind.


Peace,


Pennsy


You can help cancer survivors like me learn to fight for life. Give to Living Strong at the Y. Follow this link to learn how.

#392: One More Hill!

Photo by LaDonna

On the long drive from Pittsburgh to Gramma's house in the country, we would pester Dad. "How much farther?" "Three more hills," he would answer, and we would count them down as we rolled through the Pennsyltucky night. We measured our trip in hills.

I measure my runs like that now, only I'm not asking how many are left, I'm just asking for the next hill. I whisper it like a prayer. "C'mon, God. Give me one more hill. Let me climb another one. Let me see the world from the top of that next hill. Just one more hill."

Used to be, the top was my favorite part of the hill. Once the climb is over, you can slow your cadence a little, lengthen your stride a little, lift your eyes and enjoy the horizon. Today, my favorite part is the bottom. When LaDonna took this picture, we both said, "Oh my God!" Looking at the photo, you probably think the slope of the road is an optical illusion. It isn't. The hills are really that long and steep. And I love them. I love the feeling of bearing down as I start to climb. Checking my posture. Lowering my gaze to the road right in front of me. Scaling mountains one stride at a time. The word "endurance" never means more than it does when you're half-way up a hill. At first, you tell yourself, "I can do this." Then you realize, "Hey! I'm doing this!"

Some hills kind of roll to the top: the slope gradually softening to a plateau. The best ones stay steep all the way up. As you approach the end of the climb, all you can see is sky. It doesn't matter what's on the other side. Could be a long descent. Could be another, bigger hill. Doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're still running, still climbing, and you can't help thinking that if you could only climb fast enough, you could hit the crest of that hill like a springboard and just keep going right on up into the clouds while acres of Bluegrass pasture rolled out below you in all directions.

God, but I love running in Kentucky.

LaDonna and Pennsy before the 2011 Midsummer Night's Run

I ran with my friend LaDonna, today. We met two years ago in our head and neck cancer support group. She was an emotional wreck. I was a month into treatment and closer to death than I've ever been. I was standing at the finish line when she ran her first 5K. I was behind her two months ago, when she finished her first 5 mile run. Today, we did 12.5 side-by-side through the cold, snowy morning. We were taking the course for the Run the Bluegrass Half-Marathon which is at the end of this month. She trusted me to know the way. That was a mistake. I got us so lost that I still don't know for sure where we were. Most people would have been furious with me. LaDonna just shined it on. "I'm just glad to be running!" she said. We both laughed. Two cancer fighters, lost in the hills, running and laughing like idiots.

After we found our bearings, as we approached the barn at Keeneland where we had parked, I told her, "Only one more hill, I promise." When we got to the top, and I saw our cars through the trees, I confess I was a little disappointed.

I wouldn't have minded climbing just one more.

Peace,
Pennsy