A Week of Comings and Goings

Survivors, Warriors, Victors

Graduation Time

While many of my friends were sending their children back to school, we at LIVESTRONG at the YMCA were celebrating our participants return out into the world. For twelve weeks, they laughed together, sweated together, wept together, and worked toward the day when each could look back at the accomplishments and say with pride, "I did that." I love this program. Everyone who has ever had cancer should have the chance to be a part of it. (If you are so moved, I invite you to support out work using the form on the right.)


The Value of Names

For some time, it was a source of embarrassment, and even shame to me that I did not know the names of most of the people in the classes I teach at the Y. I mean, I have seen some of them four or five times a week for almost three years now. It just feels disrespectful to me to see someone so often and have to call them, "Buddy," or "Sister," or "Sugar," (you might not want to use that one north of the Mason-Dixon, by the way.) So this summer, I decided it was  time to make a change. Every class begins and ends with the ritual Remembering of the Names. The participants are amazingly good sports about it. We always share a smile when I get them right, especially when we're outside the pool. ("I hardly recognize you with your clothes on!") An unexpected side benefit is that they are learning each others' names, too. It's a little thing, and it isn't the same as actually knowing a person, but it's a start.

Wellllll... Yes, and no...

Love and Hope


Someone who has been a faithful friend to me for a long time, and has had a stormy voyage on the seas of love has finally found safe harbor. Seeing their happiness gives me joy and hope for my own future. Love is always possible. And it is never too late.


On the Other Hand...

You know that book where Colonel Brandon just hangs around for years, being a great guy until Marianne realizes that he is her soul-mate? Turns out that just showing up in a real woman's life every few months makes her feel really uncomfortable and creepy. And so ends the career of an unintentional, well-meaning stalker. Sometimes it's just better to smile, say thank you, and move along. (different lady, by the way. I'm not that creepy.)

Should have studied harder...

Good News and Bad News

Experienced the double edged sword of negative test results from my sleep study last week. Turns out that I'm actually quite good at sleeping. I move a little more than usual, but am well withing normal ranges as far as breathing, snoring, alpha waves, and REM sleep. So while I was glad to learn that I won't have to wear a CPAP machine for the rest of my life, I got to hear the unsettling news from the doc: "I have no explanation for your excessive fatigue." Sometimes, even bad news is better than no news. So it's back to the drawing board.

Over Fifty Singles

Birds of a Ruffled Feather

I am part of several special communities: show folks; cancer folks; depressed and bipolar folks. Our common struggle helps us find our own strength. Well, I find I am part of yet another tribe: divorced folks. Being over fifty and single can feel like you've been dropped onto another planet where the inhabitants are all strange creatures who are at once suspicious and fearful of one another. Nothing works the way it did when you were dating in your twenties. I am finding friends and even, Lord, help me, a "singles group," where we aren't on the make, just hanging out together, learning how to be whole people again. When I was first alone, I thought life would never feel real again until I'd found someone to hug and kiss and share breakfast with. But I'm starting to think that there it might be a good thing to spend some time becoming a person I can love instead. Sounds profound? Trust me, it's a work in progress.

Just Keep Learning

The first half of my year was dedicated to professional development. I read, traveled, took classes, and earned certifications that have made me a better qualified, (and better paid,) teacher and fitness trainer. For the rest of 2015, I am investing in my artistic life. When I was 10 years old I started singing in church, "impressing the grown-ups." Unfortunately, the ego boost turned into a kind of neurotic arrogance that refused to accept any criticism of my voice. I had several teachers who tried to help me, but I always balked, terrified that this one thing I did really well might not be perfect. But life is the best teacher of all. If you can get to your fifty-fifth birthday without learning humility, you have wasted your life. So, I have found a vocal teacher. After all those years, I am finally learning to sing. I don't know how this will turn out. Maybe I'll never be good enough to impress anyone but the people in the pew in front of me at church. But who knows? If I can become a marathoner and an aerobics teacher, there's no telling what other surprises I might have inside me.

Lessons from Coach Dad

Yesterday, I was asked to help a group of personal trainers at the West Side Y in New York City to  prepare themselves for leadership in the LIVESTRONG^® at the YMCA program. I doubt that anyone who has ever been a teacher will be surprised to hear that I learned a lot.

I told them my cancer story via a speaker phone . I've told it so many times that it has grown a little stale to me: the discovery; the preparation for treatment; the faithful, tireless support from my wife and my mom and my friends. How I didn't die. Started walking, running, fighting for my life. How finding the Y and the program gave me a source of focus and encouragement to achieve things I never thought possible.

Blah, blah, blah.

But I am not only a survivor, I am also a coach. I had something else to tell them. I told them that they were not ready.

They were not prepared for the tears they would shed as a room full of men and women told their stories of suffering and courage. How no PowerPoint presentation could get them ready for the miracles they would witness as victims became survivors and warriors and victors. And nothing on earth could prepare them for the funerals; for saying good bye to a heroic warrior whose battle had come to an end.

What advice could I offer them, these deeply compassionate, well-trained caregivers who were about to have their hearts broken with joy and sorrow on a daily basis? I told them to take care of themselves. To maintain professional boundaries. To never forget that their job, no matter how consuming or holy it might be, must never become their whole life. I told them to get their own workouts in. To stay in contact with friends. Read. Go to the movies. Go on dates. To have a life that mattered OUTSIDE the Y and the program.

It was good advice from a veteran of the cancer wars who had learned it the hard way. It is advice I need to take more seriously myself.

This Fathers Day one of the things I remember about the great man who was my Dad is that he did not take that advice either. He worked. He volunteered. He sacrificed. And he never did a damn thing to refresh himself or his own life's energy. He would have considered it selfish. He was 58 when he died. He maintained his automobiles with his own skilled, powerful hands, but drove his own tired body until the wheels fell off.

I guess my Dad taught me as much about being a Coach as my YMCA mentors did. Be a good steward of the God's gifts to you: your body, your mind, and your soul. Courage is a great virtue, but it only if you have the Strength to carry it out. Don't just do your best; BE your best.

So thank you Coach Melissa, for inviting me to help welcome the next generation of trainers into the program. Thank you to the five new trainers whose faces I never saw, but whose hearts and minds I did my best to reach through the wires. And thank you, Dad. In life, you taught me how important it is to serve. And in your death, you taught me the price of losing yourself, no matter how holy the work you are doing.

I'm going to imitate the best parts of you, and learn from the rest. It's the only way I can make sense of the way you lived, and the way you died. I think you'd be proud to know that you are helping cancer survivors learn to fight for life on the streets of Manhattan.

Because I sure am proud to have had you for my teacher. Thanks, Dad. Live Strong.

#471: Thank you, Thank you, Thank you!

I just mailed a letter to 50 of the most inspiring people I know. Each of them contributed to a fundraiser I held this spring in conjunction with my attempt to complete the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati.  When I think of the song "Wind Beneath My Wings," these are the people I remember. Their encouragement and support help to keep this Fat Man Running.

July 13, 2013

Dear Friends,

Thank You, Thank You, Thank You! 

It has been three months now since the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, and the conclusion of the fundraiser you helped to put over the top: Living Strong at the Y 2013. Our goal this year was an ambitious one: $7000. Thanks to your generosity, we smashed through that wall and raised $7551. That is beyond anything we expected or hoped for. You taught me a lesson. No goal is too high when we reach for it together.

Thank You for Supporting Our Survivors

Your dollars are already at work in the LIVESTRONG® at the YMCA program at the North Lexington Family YMCA, and every penny is going toward helping cancer survivors and their families to enjoy the benefits of fitness, healthy eating, and new friendships, many of which will last a lifetime. I am so grateful to you for making all that happen. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Thank You for Running with Me

My very ambitious personal goal was to beat my 06:21:53 time in the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon by an hour. I didn't quite do that, but I was able to finish in 5:42:35... almost 40 minutes faster. I was proud of that effort, and the special "Buck a Minute" pledges that it raised. I know that 5:21:53 target is still out there waiting for me. Your support and kind thoughts will help me to get there before much longer.

Thank You for Sticking with Us

I'm already planning and dreaming for next year. After consulting with the folks at the LIVESTRONG foundation down in Austin, I've decided to change the name of our project from Living Strong at the Y to Run Bob, Run. I checked with them because I was concerned that the original name of our project was too similar to the trademark “LIVESTRONG,” and might be confusing to people. Together, we came up with a title that reflects the focus and personal nature of our work. If you would like to visit the new online site, the address is http://www.crowdrise.com/runbobrun2014/fundraiser/pennsy

I haven't settled on next year's event, but be sure it will be a fun one. I'm thrilled with the things we have accomplished together, and can't wait to see where the next few months will lead us.

On behalf of the YMCA, the LIVESTRONG foundation, and the survivors and families who will benefit from your gifts, thank you. LIVESTRONG at the YMCA is alive and growing thanks to you. I hope you have a safe and joyful remainder of your summer.

Peace,

Bob

#459: Losing Weight, Licking Cancer, Living Strong

As I've mentioned before, tomorrow I am giving a presentation that will test whether or not I am mentally able to function as a public representative of the YMCA. It's a crucial step in my rehabilitation and I consider it a make or break event for me. I'm not looking to hit any singles... not this time. I just finished a 2 hour walk where I finished composing my thoughts. Here's a sneak peak at the words and feelings that I hope will win be my job back in just a few hours. ~ Pennsy

They've asked me to make a speech today. The trouble is, I don't really know much of anything, so I'm not very good at making speeches or delivering lectures or preaching sermons or anything like that. Mostly, I'm just a story teller. They want me to talk to you about losing weight, licking cancer, and living strong, and it just so happens I know a couple of stories about those things. I tell you three, then maybe I'll shut up and you can tell me some of yours.

My sister Beth and Me

I was a fat boy. And I grew up to be a fat man. A fat boy. A fat, sad, angry, resentful, lonesome boy. I guess you could say I was really a frightened boy, because that's how I grew up. When I was young, I used to think I was sad because I was fat. Much later in my life, I learned that I had things exactly backwards. I was fat because I was so very sad. Like so many men, I lived for years before I learned that I had a mental illness called Bipolar Mood Disorder. Most of the time, you'd never know there was anything different about me. I might seem especially energetic some days, or particularly down on others, but you'd probably just think, "That's just Bob. He's an emotional guy." But every now and then I have more than just a bad day. Every now and then, every few years or so, I have a week or a month or a season where my emotions and thoughts seem to be totally out of my control. I can have enough energy to conquer the world at breakfast, and by lunch time be in such a dark lonely shadow that I can barely even think of getting out of bed without bursting into tears. Those of us who have this disease find many ways to manage it. Some of us get help from friends or doctors. Some of us try to help ourselves with smoke or drink or some other addiction. My addiction was food.

Eating was something I could control. I couldn't do anything about the grief and the rage that battered me like a hurricane, but I could control what went into my mouth. The more I ate, the more in control I felt. Being sad made me eat. Eating made me fatter. Getting fatter made me sad. And that's how addiction fuels itself.

60 inch jeans, XXXL shirt. 

Eventually, I found the people who could help me to tame the Bipolar monster... at least most of the time. They taught me new ways to think. They helped me find the right combination of medicine and activity to keep my emotions on a more even keel. But you know what? Life is sad sometimes. That's just life. And in my life, I had one way to manage sadness. I would eat. Every time. Until Friday, April 16, 2010 when I stepped on a scale at St Joseph's hospital. I was 49 years old. I was 6'-4" tall. I had a 60" waist and weighed 397 pounds. And that is the story of how a sad, fat boy grew up to be a depressed, morbidly obese man.

Now, here's my second story.

So, that's what cancer looks like...

You may be wondering how I can be so sure about the day and date of that step onto the scale at St Joe's. Well the truth is, I wasn't really in the hospital to get weighed. A few weeks earlier, I found a lump about the size of a raisin under the right side of my neck. Within a week, it was the size of a ping-pong ball, and I was on my way to the doctor. By the time I had had my third and fourth doctor visits, a CT scan and a PET scan, it was the size of my fist. It stretched from the base of my ear to my larynx and threatened to crush my carotid artery. "I can't tell you if it's cancer or not," the doctor said, "But if we don't get that thing out of there this Friday, you may not live till Monday.

Well, it turned out that it was cancer. Squamous Cell Carcinoma, a very particular kind of skin cancer that affects the inner linings of your body. It had started under my tonsil and grown into a 6 centimeter tumor. It had metastasized into the surrounding muscle and the lymph nodes in my neck. They removed 9 nodes, a portion of my neck muscle, my jugular vein, and several nerves; but they never found clean margins. The surgeon cut out everything he could find, but he was sure he hadn't found it all. I was going to need radiation. I was going to need chemo. It was going to be really, really bad. And then the surgeon told me these words that changed me forever.

"I've been treating people with cancer for almost 20 years. Some of they live, too many of them die. They have good attitudes and bad ones. They get angry or spiritual or serene or generous. They travel the world or they go home and call people on the phone to tell them they love them. No matter what their attitude, some live and some die. But the ones who give up... they all die."

"Your cancer has a 50% survival rate. You only have one chance, and that is to fight for your life."

But wait. I was the fat boy, remember? The unhappy kid? The depressed man? My life was miserable. Why would I want to pass up a chance for it to finally be over? It should have been the easiest question in the world, but it took me days to answer it. "Why do I want to live?"

The Hill in my dream

Then, one night, I had a dream. I am standing at the top of a grassy hill, near my grandmother's house in northern Pennsylvania. I can see blue skies and thick, soft grass as I begin to walk, then run down the hill. I look down at my feet, and I realize that I'm only touching the ground with every second or third stride. I am gliding along the top of the grass. Then I rise up. I am flying... no... not flying... I am running through the air, high above the trees and the telephone wires. I look down on herds of cows and fields of corn. It is the most beautiful day and in the dream I know that if I ever beat the heads you live/tails you die odds that the doctors have given me, if I can beat this cancer, then I am going to run. THAT's why I want to live. Because I want to run.

It came slowly. There were days when I couldn't make it from my bed to the bathroom. On my 50th birthday, my mom had to help me to the toilet so I could wretch with all my might, as if I could somehow choke up the cancer along with the sick that the chemo was forcing out of me. There were days when the burns on my neck looked like charcoal, and the blisters in my throat felt like glass shards when I tried to sip water. I spent my mornings bolted to a table while they shot me through with radiation or strapped to a chair while they filled my veins with chemicals so toxic that the nurses had to wear haz mat suits to handle them. But through the Percocet induced haze, when I closed my eyes, I could look down and see those country roads as I flew past. I was going to beat this thing. I was going to run.

The first time I tried to climb the steps, I had to sit down on the third one and call for my wife to come help me back to bed. But I remembered what the doctor had said. The ones who quit, they all die. I refused to quit. I walked to the door and back. Next day, to the porch and back. Then the sidewalk. The corner. Around the corner. Around the block. Weeks went by and finally I was strong enough to try to jog a few steps. Jog two strides, then walk a minute. Jog 10 seconds, and walk two minutes. Never give up. Never quit. The day I jogged a mile for the first time, I felt as if I had just won the Boston Marathon.

I knew that day that I was no longer just a survivor.

I was a victor.

I hadn't just beaten cancer. I had kicked its ass. And I had become a runner.

My third story is about Living Strong. 

Now during the six months from the day of my diagnosis until my first clean scan, I lost about 90 pounds, most of it muscle. I could walk. I could jog a mile, but I was still weak as a kitten. I was determined to keep losing weight. I called it "cancer's silver lining." I kept walking. I ate more and more whole foods, fewer and fewer baked goods. I stopped eating french fries and burgers. No more chips and cookies. I found that my treatment had changed the way a lot of things tasted to me. Cake was like chewing rags. Tomatoes, a food I had never really liked before, suddenly tasted like an explosion of summer air. I learned to love foods that looked like food, not just shapes in a bag or a box. I kept walking. I lifted weights. The pounds kept falling, but I wasn't really getting stronger. I needed more, but I didn't know what.

When I learned about a program called LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, I jumped at the opportunity. It was a three month, free membership. I could use the pool, the weight room, the cardio equipment. I thought it sounded like a sweet deal. I had no idea how sweet.

The original Eight and our coaches

LIVESTRONG is about wellness, not just fitness. It's about training your mind and your spirit as well as your body. It's about nutrition. Learning how to eat so we can help ourselves to heal and prevent the relapse that is always hiding out there in the darkest corner of our imaginations. It's about exercise: Zumba, Pilates, yoga, aquatic fitness, weight training, walking, running, biking... everything that the Y has to offer. But mostly, LIVESTRONG is about us, the survivors. The things we know that nobody should have to learn... that nobody could ever learn unless they have walked the road we have walked. It's about surviving, and about how survival just isn't enough. I didn't want to be a survivor. I wanted to be a warrior. I wanted cancer to be as scared of me as I had been of it.

And three amazing women: Carrie, Chelsea, and Melissa, our trainers helped to turn us into warriors. When they looked at me, they didn't see a fat, sad boy. they didn't see an obese, depressed man. They saw - of all the crazy things in the world - they looked at me and saw a Marathoner. The first time they said it, I thought they were nuts. I thought so when they made me run twice as much as my classmates. I thought so when I was lifting weights and jumping and lunging across the basketball court. I thought they were nuts right up until the May morning in 2012 when I finished the Pittsburgh Marathon in 6:21. And I raised $3600 for the LIVESTRONG at the YCMA program. This May, I finished the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati, cutting my time by almost 40 minutes. And I raised $7411 to help our program to thrive. And I did it because of my brothers and sisters in LIVESTRONG.

For Becky: in a nursing home this morning, her doctors are waiting for her to get sick enough to die, but she hasn't got the time. She's laughing, visiting with friends, joking, remembering fun days together. When Death comes for Becky, he isn't going to find her waiting. He's going to have to go catch her.

For Raynee: a young mother and wife whose life is being threatened by the cruelest cancer of all. The doctors removed an enormous mass from her brain. She knows that there is no such thing as  a guarantee of tomorrow. So every few weeks, she goes out and gets a new, beautiful tattoo. Her most recent? A gray brain cancer ribbon, wrapped around a pair of brass knuckles. Raynee isn't giving in to cancer without a fight.

For all of them. For John and Mary who supported one another through each of their cancers. For Emma whose greatest fear used to be stepping off of a curb. For Pam who beat stage 4 lung cancer and for Frank who never quit until he could finally bench press a 10 pound bar.

They will never quit. They are not "survivors." They are champions.

They know what we all know.

The cancer can always come back. The cancer can always kill us... but it can never defeat us. Not if we live strong.

And those are my stories.

Never give up.

You probably have some of your own. But let me leave you with this word. Don't wait. Don't wait until you are too fat to walk. Don't wait until you are ready to kill yourself to make the sadness go away. Don't wait until you get cancer to know how beautiful and full of possibility your life is.

The ones who give up all die.

Never give up.

Never stop fighting for your life.

Never stop living strong.

Peace,
Pennsy

#457: Put Me In, Coach

I don't have a lot of experience in the athletic world, but this spring has taught me about one thing... there are few frustrations in life like being sidelined by an injury. Last summer it was a groin pull that kept me from running for a couple of endless months. This spring, it's a very different kind of injury, and a very different kind of game.

When I pulled my groin, I was trying to press for more speed. I tried to go faster than my body was ready to travel, and wound up with a nagging pain inside my thighs that seemed like it would never go away. When it did give me a little relief, and I would test my strength, it kept coming back, sometimes as a twinge, sometimes as a pain strong enough to double me over. It took most of the summer and fall for it to mend completely. I'm a lot more vigilant about those muscles these days. I knew that if I pressed them when they were damaged, I would make things worse. I also know now that a re-injury is more likely, and could be much harder to rehab.

Now that I am past my April of discontent, I have finally decided to bring that same mentality to healing my injured mind. It's been a hard lesson, but the people at the Y have been gently trying to convince me of its wisdom. Like a pulled muscle, an injured mind keeps you from performing. It can strike with a twinge, or with crippling agony. Rushing back into action too quickly can re-aggravate it, and make things worse than they were before.

An athlete hates the sidelines. There is a special kind of shame that comes from sitting on the bench, watching your team mates struggle without you. You want to pull on your helmet, get on the field, and hit somebody. Four days after tearfully begging my boss for time off, I was standing in his office announcing that I was ready to get back to work. I believed it, too. I knew in my heart that the worst had passed: I had had a rough couple of days, but the Kid Was Back. Put me in, Coach. Cancer Boy is ready to tear up the turf.

My heart was wrong.

What I thought was the bottom was barely the beginning. What I thought was the worst loss of my life was just the tip of the iceberg. There would be many more days to come. Many more tears. Many more pain-filled blogs about shadow and despair. And through it all, my only wish would be to get back to work. I threw myself into my training, my fundraising, anything to take my mind off the fact that LIVESTRONG at the YMCA would be starting three new classes without me. I was suffering. But I was healing, too.

Three more times I returned to my boss's office. "Put me in, Coach. I'm ready." Like a careful training staff, they would ask me questions and listen to my answers. Whatever they heard told them that I needed more time. I never tried to bluff them. I'm not sure that I could have, even if all my acting skills had been sharp. I'm not sure I wanted to. But I was becoming more aware, more mindful. Now when they told me that I should take another week, my heart knew they were right. I was still hurt. And I knew that a re-injury would be much worse than the first one.

Last week, they heard something new. I was ready to start testing myself. Not with sprints, and not by jumping right back into the game, but by stepping onto the field to see how the grass felt under my feet. I would make a speaking appearance, one I had booked many weeks ago. A director would come with me to observe and evaluate my performance. I wasn't going to be side-by-side with my team mates, not yet. But I would be out on the empty field, learning and showing just what I could do.

And so the first test was in place. I began to prepare. I didn't know that God had already scheduled my first workouts.

Out of the blue, I got the call. Coach Carrie rarely calls me on the phone. I looked at the screen and saw her name. Was she calling me back to work? Just checking in? No, she was calling with a shocker. My last remaining Coach at the Y, the last of the three amazing women who had coached my class of Eight had gotten a new job. Coach Carrie was calling to tell me she was leaving. I felt my heart catch, and my eyes start to moisten, but then my weary brain pulled itself up and did something it hadn't done in a long time... it had a rational thought. "I'm disappointed, Coach, But I'm so happy for you. It sounds like a great chance for you and your family. You have meant so much to me. And I hope you have a great time in your new gig."

There is a training technique, one Carrie never used with me, by the way, where you put an athlete into a plank position, tell them to brace their core, and then whack them with your hands or feet, as if to knock them down. The challenge is to hold your stability, even though you don't see the blows coming, and don't know how hard they are going to be. I felt God putting a foot in my side as Carrie told me about her new job, and I felt my soul brace and straighten itself back up after the blow. I was getting stronger.

Later, there was another blow. A man I respect and admire, a warrior who had never been in LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, but who had fought the Damned Thing for 12 years finished his battle this week. He had never given up his love of life. He kept acting and directing. He loved the young people who came to him for guidance and inspiration, and he gave it to them with a sweet and generous spirit. And cancer had killed him. Another loss. Another death. A few loving tears. But no collapse. I loved him, and was able to love his life more than my own pain.

Finally there came news of a young boy whom I don't remember ever meeting. He was an actor. He had lots of friends. He cared about politics and justice and freedom. And a few days ago, he chose to end his own life. Such a cruel reminder of how easy it is for someone to slip out of the safe harbor of love and into the dark waters of depression. The grieving friends and family who are left behind may be filled with confusion and anger and even guilt, but the truth is that the tide was just too strong. The lonely swimmer was pulled out to sea. My prayer is that he now knows the peace and comfort that he could not find here. The church has always called suicide a mortal, unforgivable sin. Some of us know better. I do not accept that God will punish us for falling to a fatal disease. I believe that this sad, wounded boy is resting in Jesus' arms today. Finally resting.

The Y is going to test me on Wednesday with a speech and a Q&A session in front of a room full of strangers. But God has tested me already. Not so God can learn if I am strong again, but to show me that I am. It may not have been game speed or full contact, but I have taken hits and gotten back up on my feet for the next play. I can't say that I never went down, but I promise you that I never stayed down. The Y will test me. God has already shown me that I'm ready for the test.

There are going to be other tests. Other losses. For all I know, the worst is yet to come. But I know two things. I will not face them alone. My Creator will never abandon me, and will always send loving people to help me to mend, no matter what the injury. And I also know that there is nothing that can make me give up. The ones who give up... they all die. And I am in no mood to die. I am in the mood to play.

I'm almost ready. God has sent trainers with wisdom and experience to judge my progress. It wont be much longer now. Soon, I'll be back in the dust, mixing it up. Not wanting to come back off the field.

Soon, coach. Soon.

Peace,
Pennsy

#426: Reflections on Auld Lang Syne

I usually write a New Year's post. Scanning them over the years, I have to say I really like the way my life has changed.

Tuesday, January 1, 2008

What's in a Name? - The Holy Name of Jesus

On January 1, the eighth day after Christmas, we remember the day Joseph & Mary's child was circumcised and named.

The name that we translate into Jesus was Yeshua in Hebrew. It is actually a familiar version of the name Yehoshua. It means "Lord (or Jehovah) who is salvation)." 

In English, we might call a child Faith or Godfrey or Regis if we wanted to give them a name that sounded particularly pious or royal. So it is with the name of Jesus. It was not a rare name in Hebrew culture, but it was a special one.

In time, he came to be known as Jesus Christ, but Christ is not a name, rather it is a title, from the Greek christos which is the translation of the Hebrew messias meaning "anointed one." In the gospels, the evangelists refer to Jesus the Christ. After the resurrection, the early Christians transformed Jesus Christ or Christ Jesus into a single proper name, not unlike Julius Caesar.

So what's in Jesus' name? Not a magic spell that grants us wishes when we pray "in Jesus' name." Instead, his name honors both his heavenly father, and the world whose salvation he came to effect. Just as Jesus was both God and human, so also his name spans two dimensions - Jesus the man and Jesus the name are both links between the creator and creation. The name Jesus testifies to the radical love God has for the world.

==============

Friday, January 1, 2010

#162 Not Another "I Hated '09" Post

So '09 sucked for you. Grow up. The year was hard in Pennsyltucky too. Some life lessons come hard.

Don't sell your love to the highest bidder.
Just because someone cares about the things you can do for them, that doesn't mean they care about you.

The other shoe always drops.
When you see the headlight at the other end of the tunnel, for God's sake, get off the tracks.

Genuine loyalty can come from surprising people.
There are people out there who will stick with you through thick and thin - but they may not be the ones you expected.

Blood really is thicker than water.
When times are the hardest - when worse actally does come to worst - you find out that your family cares the most.

A drowning sage does not second guess the lifeboat.
It ain't the boat that got you here, and it ain't the boat you would choose, but sometimes you just have to climb in and start rowing.

Never argue with someone who buys their own bullshit.
 Let life teach them what they need to know.

You have no idea how much people care for you.
There are people who think better of you than you think of yourself. Love these people with all your heart. They are your friends.

==============

Friday, December 31, 2010

#293: My Friend, the Beautiful Lunatic

My friend Alan ended his fight with cancer today. As much as I want to be sad, I can't help smiling every time I think of him.

He was the doctor on duty when our first cat, "Uh-Huh" collapsed on the examination table. He held her in his hands and gave her CPR for several minutes until it became clear that he would not be able to revive her. He was there again when little "Mo," the eternal kitten, arrived at the back door of the hospital, gasping for breath and turning blue. This time, Alan was able to bring our cat back from death. 

Alan would come and go in our home like one of the family. He would show up with a six-pack of beer and a goofy grin We laughed ourselves silly as Alan lifted Mo up in his bony hands and gently tap tap tapped his little kitty head to the ceiling of our living room, over and over again. Mo has forgiven, but never forgotten this . He still refers to our friend as "Bloody Alan." 

Then there was the night in our living room when he taught Mrs P's boss' nine year old son to roll up his pants, raise his knees, tuck his hands under them, and make farting noises by kicking his feet up and down. 

One night, on the feast of St Francis, Alan came to St. Martha's to participate in the blessing of the animals. Though he was not a member of our parish, or even an Episcopalian that I can remember, he moved reverently among dogs, birds, cats, and one very puzzled pony. He laid his hands on each head, just as the priest did, and blessed them as brothers and sisters. After the service and the obligatory pot luck supper, (always an adventure when the parish hall is full of animals,) Alan spoke about what it meant to minister to the suffering of animals and the people who loved them. 

I hate that he died fighting cancer. God forgive me, but there are a lot of other people I would rather see dead. Cancer doesn't choose us any more than we choose cancer. We just sort of bump into one another and our crazy story plays itself out. I don't try to make sense of his death. I grieve for the laughter I will never be able to share with him again.

But then I look into Mo's kittenish eyes, now 15 years old and usually tired, but still afire with the life he once came so close to losing.  I glance at the spot on the ceiling where a pair of pointy ears once tap tap tapped until we were all weeping with laughter, (all of us except the cat, of course.) I know I should be sad. But whenever I think of my friend, the beautiful lunatic, I can't help smiling.

God bless you, Alan. You loved all creatures, great and small. I can only imagine the scene when you arrive at heaven's gate and all those cats start rubbing your legs at the same time. I can't wait to see you again myself. I'll bring the Rolling Rock in green long-necks. We can lean against the wall and flick caps at the back of St Peter's head while you teach me that leg-farting thing.

Till then, my brother...

==============

Saturday, December 31, 2011

#381: Peeking Around the Bend

What's around the bend in Pennsyltucky?

In a way, it's a pity that we celebrate New Year's Eve by getting drunk. This is such a great day to be awake.

In some ways, 2011 was a hard year, but even through the pain, we were blessed. We lost a lot of people we love, particularly our beloved brother Doug who fought cancer with such courage and faithfulness. Near the end of his battle, he spoke the words that just may go on my tombstone. He was lying in the hospital when he was told of a friend who had given his heart to Jesus in church that morning, Doug wept and whispered, "It's all going to be worth it." And so it is.

We lost our house, after a long game of chicken with Wells Fargo. The experience was sometimes painful, more often, it was just a pain, but we were blessed to have the support of our friend Donna, a realtor and a saint, (yes, it is possible.) There was Judge Scorsone who stood between us and the bank's lawyers long enough for us to complete the short sale of the property. And most important of all, our brothers and sisters, Bob, Bobbie, and Paul, who helped us to find a new "place for our stuff." We lost a house, but thanks to them, we were able to keep our home intact.

Me and my little licensed head-shrinker.

After delaying her studies for almost a year, while she was busy keeping me alive, Mrs. P finally got the chance to prepare for her LCSW, She is at last a licensed clinical social worker. She lost weekends and nights of sleep with her head in the books. We even took DVDs with us on road trips so she could study in the car. All that study had to be crammed into the few cracks remaining in her regular schedule. And when the moment of truth came, she aced her exam.

We traveled to Pennsylvania twice. It was my first time home since I got sick, and I didn't realize how much I missed the forests and hills of Western PA. My 30th college reunion was full of joy and tears with old friends Jeff, Joellen, Marcia, and Erin. So was my first, live Steeler game for which I am ever grateful to my old high school classmate, Skip. He gave me a day I will never forget, and can never repay. I got to taste Mum's cooking again, to sleep in Gramma's house, to hold my sisters in my arms, and to run the dirt roads we used to walk when I was a child.

2011 was the year the doc told me I didn't have cancer any more. I resolved to live the life we had all fought so hard to save. 

I returned to my beloved Actors' Guild in Glengarry Glen Ross, and End Days. And I got to play in the park again, with a turn as William, Lord Hastings in Richard III.

Jake and the Fat Man.

The Fat Man is running the Pittsburgh Marathon on May 6. The reality of it hasn't quite set in, yet. I'm not sure it will until somewhere around mile 18 of the race. This time last year, I walked a mile and felt like I had won a gold medal. I ran a 3K in March, a couple of 5Ks in the Spring, then my first 10K on July 4. I got it into my head that I could finish a half-marathon, and in October, Mrs P cheered as I crossed the finish line. While I trained for that race, people contributed over $3500 to One for the Five, a project to honor fallen cancer fighters, and to raise money for the Markey Cancer Foundation. Soon, I'll be launching two more projects, one to help Actors' Guild, and one to help fund LIVESTRONG at the YMCA.

When I heard about a program at the YMCA to help cancer survivors improve their fitness, I jumped at it. I was expecting a free gym membership for three months. I got much more. The Y gave me what it has given so many people over the years: a place to exercise; a chance to meet friends; a way to discover a sense of purpose and value. I fell in love with my coaches, Melissa and Carrie and Chelsea; and the Eight: mighty women who taught me how much fun kicking cancer's ass can be. Loved them so much that when my program was over, I went to the boss and asked for a job. This year, I'm going to start studying to become a trainer at the Y.

With some of the LS@theY team for the Reindeer Ramble.

So, in all sobriety I can say I'm the happiest Pennsy I've ever been. I love my wife more than ever. I have work that excites me. I have passion that makes me look forward to ten miles of asphalt on a chilly Bluegrass morning. I can't stop thanking God for giving me this second (or third? or fourth? or umpteenth?) chance to live.

2011? It was a very good year. 2012? Gonna be even better. Let's love it together, huh?

Peace,

Pennsy

#421: Race Report: 2013 Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon

After your first time on the course for the Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon, it's easy to pick your favorite mile: it's mile 8. Those long, gentle rollers are as close as you get to flat and straight, and the last quarter is a lovely downhill coast that finishes at the mile 9 post and the most hellish climb on the course: a 100 foot, quarter mile climb that John's Striders just call the S-curve. Knowing it's out there makes you savor that beautiful preface even more.

Yesterday, as the 2:30 pace group and I rounded the corner that starts that lovely mile, we were greeted by a foal and his mother. They were running along the fence, following the runners as we gasped out on the road. The thoroughbreds would mirror our progress all the way to the corner of their pasture, then turn and gallop back to escort another lucky group of brightly dressed humans. They reminded us of two things. First: RTB's billing as one of the prettiest half marathons in America is an understatement. Second: there are creatures who love to run even more than we do. What a beautiful reminder that a race track is a pale parody of the free, generous spirits of these glorious animals.

The morning started before dawn, like all race days. My clothes were laid out on the bathroom sink, waiting for me to shower and apply all the necessary lubes and tapes that protect my skin on a long run. Carrying my race shoes and socks, I padded carefully to the kitchen to make coffee without waking Mrs P. My pre-race rituals are part of the fun for me, and that includes the paranoid fear that I'm going to step on a sharp dog chewy in the dark and ruin my foot. The week before my marathon, I put my shoes on before I got out of bed. This time, I chose to live a little more recklessly.

My pre-run breakfast hasn't changed in a long time. One cup of coffee and two pieces of toast with jelly. Sugar and carbs for fuel. Caffeine to open my eyes. Again, I chose to try a new strategy. I super-charged with a second cup of coffee, and two gooey apple fritters. I knew it would mean extra bathroom trips before the start, but I also knew how long those hills were. I didn't want to run out of gas before the end.

It was around 39° as I started the Honda, its windows covered with condensed fog. As I drove the back roads to Keeneland, I passed hollows and creeks filled with gray mist that turned the bluegrass fields into a dream. An hour before the race, the parking lots were nearly full, and the roads were packed with carloads of runners waiting patiently. None of us were in too much of a hurry to get out onto that frosty grass. I parked in the field and made my way up the hill to the Keene Barn where the expo had been. This morning, it was full of drowsy athletes, stretching, hopping, and occasionally napping, seated straight legged on the floor, their backs against the wall, even in sleep they were stretching the hamstrings. I made a quick stop in the men's room, determined to beat the rush, and then walked out to the starting line for a little jogging to ease my jitters.

The air was simply magical. To the west, the fog cleared for a moment to allow the nearly full moon to peek through the blue morning skies above. To the east, diffused through the thick fog, the sun glowed, it's outlines indiscernible:  not a rising disk, but a slowly warming glow above the horizon. There are runners who like to sit quietly before the gun. There are others, more nervous types like me who just want to keep moving. A big old diesel takes a little longer to rev up than a zippy little coupe. I joined another senior runner just past the starting line. We nodded greetings and jogged along quietly together for the first half mile of the course. We did a couple of hill repeats and I studied my Garmin as I went, reminding my legs of the 12:00 per mile pace I had planned. The road ran us directly into the rising sun, and I followed the silhouette of my partner as he trotted toward the sky, then turned and coasted easily back down to the base again. After three or four times up and down, I felt myself starting to get warm, and headed back toward the car where I would put on my race shirt, the numbered bib pinned on since last night.

By the time I reached the car, I knew I was in trouble. 25 minutes till start time, and I really needed to pee. I looked around the parking lot. Everywhere I turned there were engines running, trunks popped open, people dressing. I stood behind the Honda with the back window up and the tailgate open. Screw it. We were all runners here. We were used to training early in the morning and jumping up into the cedars for a quick one when necessary. Just as I was hooking my thumbs into my waist band, a man walked out from between two cars. "Bob, right?" "Yeah, hi." "I recognize you from the Y. Good to see you here. Gonna be a cold one, huh?" We chatted briefly. I was wearing the logo on my shirt, and was particularly glad that he hadn't caught me with little Pennsy at work in the dawn's early light. Once the coast was clear. I quickly did what needed to be done in the shelter of the open tailgate, carefully avoiding both the back bumper and my shoes.

Uncle Ernie Peel:
Godfather of Strider Nation

The start was simply epic. A stream of 4000 registered runners from all over the country stretched colorfully in the fog as far as I could see in either direction. We started in waves, each corral leaving the gate two minutes after the one before. The course is narrow and traffic was thick, even with the careful logistics. As usual, I found myself swept along in the early wave of runners, much faster than my intended pace. My friend Chris pulled along beside me around Mile 1 and I noted that I was going much too hard. She is a more experienced runner than I, and smiled in recognition of  my early blunder. I switched my interval timer on and started the 2:00 run/1:00 walk plan I had made during the week. The early hills rolled gently by, water stations, mile markers, Canada geese, horses, dogs and chickens. It's all part of the beauty of this course. I felt warm and strong, my brown jersey gloves the only concession to the chilly morning air. Otherwise, I was dressed for spring in my shorts and tank top. I decided to ignore my time for the first 10 miles of the race. The only thing I thought about was moving smoothly, keeping my core strong, and reserving some of that sugar I had eaten for fuel once I hit the S-curve. Around mile 6 I found myself running with Ernie and the 2:30 pace group. That was about 10 minutes faster than I planned to go, but I was still feeling strong, and the walk breaks let me keep with them without straining. I would trot past them on my run intervals, then they would pass me on when I walked. Rather than try to pull away, I decided to stick with them for a while to see if I could keep up. They just might have saved my race for me.

Pennsy loving mile 8.

Coming down the hill toward mile 9, I pulled along side Shayla, a Zumba instructor from the Y. "Ever run this course before?" I asked. She said she hadn't. "This is the toughest hill on the course coming up. Take your time." She thanked me for the heads up and I eased gently ahead of her. As I passed the mile 9 marker, I took a quick inventory. Feet? Pain free and comfy in my new lime green NikeFrees. Legs. No cramps, no chafes no heaviness. Core? Strong and tight. Breath? Smooth and even. Teeth? The adhesive I put in had given up the ghost around mile 6, so I had adjusted to their flopping by this point. I decided it was time for a test. I knew from experience that walk breaks on a steep hill are tough and slow. I had a great rhythm going and didn't want to break it out of fear of the long climb. I remembered the Lance Armstrong quote I had put away in my heart for this very moment. "Pain is temporary, Quitting is forever." If I was to finish strong, I would have to start right now. I shifted into low gear and began jogging slowly up the hill, ignoring my interval timer. I was going to run the whole hill, or send for the paramedics. Runners passed me on both sides, breathing hard. We could all see the top of the hill, and I'm sure most of them thought I was over-reacting. What they didn't know was that the S-curve isn't a hill, it's three hills. You hit the hard right bend at the top feeling like a conqueror, only to see the second climb ahead of you. As we started this part of the curve, I started passing gasping runners. Many more were walking, now. Their eyes were either gazing at the asphalt ahead, or else glued to the hard left turn that promised the crest and at last a chance to catch their breath. I plodded on, my mind alternating between Coach Carrie's exhortations to keep my abs tight and my thoughts of my friends who had passed or were fighting relapse. The pain in my legs was nothing compared to Becky's chemo or Jan's terrible surgeries. They had never quit. Neither would I. As I reached the second turn I heard the familiar words I had once spoken myself. "Oh, my God." All around me, runners were realizing that there was still more hill to climb. This is the part that can break your heart, and I heard hearts breaking all around me as they watched a fat old man in bright green shoes plod past them to the crest of the hill. I won't say nobody caught up with me after that, but I never saw most of those runners again. At 10 miles, I glanced at my watch. I wasn't just on plan, I was on my best Half Marathon pace ever, with less than a 5K left to run. I started cheating on the walk breaks. Using every down hill to run, cutting the rest intervals to 45, 30, 15 seconds. I felt my cadence quicken. With each run interval, I would pass someone and choose a new person to pull me along. I knew these hills. At mile 12 I checked my watch one last time. I   guessed that I had around 17 minutes to hit a time of 2:30, much faster than I expected. Then I checked my lap time for the last mile. 10:47. I wasn't going to break 2:30. I was going to PR. My fastest Half was 2:24 and change. If I could hold pace, I was going to come very close to that. No more walk breaks now. Pain is temporary. For Becky. For Jan and Doug. For the Five. For the Eight. For my coaches. For my trainees. For all the people who had told me that I inspired them. For Kim, who started running on the other side of the world after reading my blog. For James and Raynee and Jaspal and Marian and more names than I can list. I saw their faces. I heard their voices. I picked up my tempo and passed the last runners in my group. I was going to finish ahead of the crowd, and I would finish strong. Friends called my name as I came through the gauntlet of spectators. I crossed the finish line and clicked my watch. Couldn't read it. No bifocals. I took some chocolate milk from a volunteer and walked away in the sort of numb funk that comes with the endorphin rush at the end of a long race. When I finally got to the car and my glasses, I didn't want to trust my Garmin. It was too close, and I had fumbled with the buttons at the start. It wasn't until I got home and saw the official times that I knew for sure.

Last year's time: 02:43:26. Cut it by almost 10 minutes.

Official time: 2:23:45. 10:55 per mile. 38 seconds faster than I had run on the much flatter, much faster Iron Horse last fall. A new Personal Record.

I'm not sure what the implications of all this are for my Marathon in May. I learned that I'm faster than I thought. I finally made a race plan and followed it. There's a world of difference between 13.1 and 26.2 miles, and I have a little more than a month to bridge that gap.There's one thing I know for sure, though...

I woke up this morning a better runner than I have ever been in my life.

The cancer warriors in my heart are my inspiration. They are the reason I run. Thanks to them, I will never let pain make me quit. Thanks to them, I will never run alone.

Because "Surviving" just isn't enough...

Peace,
Pennsy

#418 Living Strong at the Y 2013

March 8, 2013

Last year, thanks to the love and support of family, friends, and neighbors from all over the country, you and I came together to raise $3685 to support LIVESTRONG at the YMCA: a 12-week program that helps cancer survivors to become cancer victors through exercise, nutritional education, and fellowship with one another. The program includes a three-month family membership to the Y at no charge to the participants. To put it in practical terms: our contributions payed for 10 participants and their families to experience the same program that helped me make the journey from cancer patient to finisher at the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon last May.

I’m asking for your help again, and this time we have a much bigger plan in mind.

Instead of targeting just one event, we’re assembling a team of cancer survivors who will be running all spring long, starting tomorrow at the Railrunner 10 Miler in Nicholasville KY, and finishing in May at the Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati. We are runners who have all known what it means to hear the words, “You have cancer,” and chosen to fight for our lives. I am proud to be training and running right beside them.

Thanks to the grace of God, the love of my friends and family, and the skill of my doctors, I have been able to survive my fight with cancer. I have dedicated my life to helping other survivors to fight their own battles. As a trainer at the North Lexington Family YMCA, I see their courage and will every single day. Since I was a participant in Central Kentucky’s pilot program of LIVESTRONG at the YMCA back in 2011, I have worked with over 100 survivors. There are many more who will need our help in the coming years.

Please join me with a contribution so that tomorrow’s cancer fighters can know what so many of us have learned the hard way: Cancer can kill us, but it can never defeat us if we choose to Live Strong.

Peace,

Bob Johnson
859 420-9327

Please click this link to donate to Living Strong at the YMCA, or mail your tax deductible contribution to:

Robert Parks Johnson
Living Strong at the Y 2013
North Lexington Family YMCA
381 West Loudon Ave
Lexington KY 40508