The Final Chapter Begins

Two heads with pieces missing

Four years. It doesn't seem real, somehow. Four years ago today, the doctor and Mrs P and I sat in a room and decided that my life was in imminent danger from a fast growing mass that threatened to cut off the flow of blood to my brain, and crush my larynx. Basically, my body was strangling itself.

Two days later, the diagnosis came. The Amazing Cancer Boy was born.

I'm not going to tell the whole damn story again. If you're interested, the links to the right will take you through the entire adventure. It's a story that has taken over my life, defined every waking moment since that morning, for good and for ill.

"How do you feel?" a friend asked today. "You should feel great."

On the phone, Mum agreed. "I think you should, too."

Yeah. I should.

Somebody said to me once, maybe only half-joking, "You know, you were a lot more fun before you became a national treasure."

It was a joke. I know. But life is certainly different.

The Amazing Cancer Boy

Better in a lot of ways. I got to experience an outpouring of love that most people don't get until they are dead. I know what resurrection really means. I've experienced it. Several times. I have a purpose for my life, and a place to fulfill it, thanks to LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. I'm not sure I've ever had that feeling before... knowing that I'm doing something that is making a measurably positive difference in people's lives every day. I have done things physically, athletically even, that I never even dreamed of doing before I was sick. And maybe best of all, I have had the chance to know and love my mother in a way that might never have happened if we had not spent all those hours together laughing, crying, working crosswords, and pumping protein drinks into me through a rubber hose.

But in a lot of ways... well, it's hard to put into words. Resurrection has its price. My teeth are gone. And yeah, I miss them every day. My thyroid is dying, cooked by hours and hours of radiation. I have to take pills by the fist-full, and still I get so tired, so easily now. And so very sad sometimes. It's hard for me to remember things, especially when I try to memorize lines for a play.

Mrs P and Me in "happier"days

And there are other costs. Much more painful ones. I have loved and lost so many brave cancer fighters in the last four years. Been to way too many funerals. I've lost my family. Half of it, anyway. My dogs. My home. My best friend and the love of my life. The woman who fed me and cleaned me and mopped up my puke and kissed away my tears. Who gave me a reason to keep fighting for life. Can I blame cancer for all that? I don't know. Maybe not. But maybe without it, things might have been different. I know that at some point I went over a very important edge. I stepped into a place where even the woman who loved me most could not follow. And I know that cancer had a lot to do with my going there.

So yeah, I guess I'm glad to be alive. Being alive means I have a chance to... what? Make a difference? Heal? Find love again? Be whole, whatever that means? I don't know. All I know is that it's getting to be time to turn the page.

Five years. They throw a pile of numbers at you when you have cancer, but one of the biggest is five years. When we met the radiation oncologist, Mrs P and Mum and I, one of us asked my prognosis. "50%" the doctor answered. "50% of the people with your kind of cancer will live for 5 years." I remember seeing my mother cry at that. Five years. And no reason to think I'm not going to be one of the lucky ones. "Heads. You live." So that's how long he has left. One more year. One more chapter left in the tale of The Amazing Cancer Boy... the real-life boy who didn't die. In twelve months, I can close the book, put him to rest, and get on with whatever the rest of my life is going to be.

I've already registered for a marathon in May to celebrate my new life. I'm going to keep running. Don't really have any plans beyond that. I'm going to keep acting. I'm going to keep writing. .I'd like to be able to make a living again, so I'm not at the mercy of the docs and the shrinks and the Social Security Administration for my income. Maybe I can write and star in one-man shows about running.

I'd like to get on with all that. And in a way, I am. But in another sense... it's hard to explain... it's like I have one more year left to serve... my term?... my sentence?... maybe both. All I know is that I'm not going to really feel free until April 16, 2015.

Of course, there's a downside too. Without cancer, there'll be nobody left to blame but myself. I'll have lost the greatest excuse in the world. I'll be on my own.

And in some ways, that's even scarier that a tumor.

As for Cancer Boy? Well, there are some advantages to being a Minor Local Celebrity... It can be very good for the ego. But to be perfectly honest... I'm getting kind of sick of the son of a bitch.

#450: 2013 Flying Pig Marathon, Part 1

At Mile 8, I knew that the worst of the hills was over. By Mile 9, I knew that I needed to improve my skills in reading an elevation chart.

This little piggy went to Cinci

The Flying Pig Marathon in Cincinnati OH is an urban race. You go through lots of neighborhoods, the canyons downtown, and a truly beautiful city park. You also spend a lot of time looking up hills saying "Oh shit, not another one..." This was my second Marathon, and I profited mightily from my experience running in Pittsburgh last spring, but it was also my second time taking on 26.2 while woefully under-prepared to do the climbing that the course required. That's a mistake I don't want to make again.

My race weekend started on Friday with a few loads of laundry and an early lights out. The 90 minute drive to a 6:30 start was going to knock my sleep rhythm way out of whack, and I wanted to be prepared. I also got the heart-breaking news that my bosses at the Y want me to take May off   to recover from my recent breakdown. I know that they are probably right, but I was feeling very good and really hoped I would be able to get back into the swing of things this week when LIVESTRONG at the YMCA starts its summer session. Instead, I'll spend the month healing, reflecting, and dropping the weight that I gained while fueling up for this race. My weight is still the biggest obstacle to my speed, and I'm determined that by September I'm going to get down to my target of 220. I'm at 266 this morning. The trick is going to be getting my mood stabilized so I'm not medicating myself with emotional eating. If I'm not careful, I could be back over 300 in a matter of weeks.

Saturday, Mrs P and I drove up to the Queen City to pick up my packet and swag, and to cruise the Expo. It was a big one, like the race itself.  I understand there were around 30,000 runners registered for the weekend's events, which makes The Pig about 3/4 the size of the Pittsburgh which was run at the same time, just a few hours up the Ohio River. Cinci is so much like The 'Burgh, in culture, in history, and in geography. Both are river valley towns with heavy industrial roots that have evolved as the information age has developed. It's skyline blends classic American skyscrapers with some post-modern monstrosities that rival the amazingly weird gothic glass edifice of the PPG building back home. The strangest of them appears to be capped by a gigantic football shoved point first, halfway through the roof. Still, there is life and friendly hospitality to be found in these old streets, and in spite of it's proximity to Kentucky, Cincinnati is definitely a Northern City.

I managed to get out of the expo having spent very little money... mostly because I left my wallet in the car. It was lucky for me that we have such a strange, hyphenated last name, because otherwise I don't think that the conscientious volunteer would have given me my bib. Security was very present and very visible throughout the event. Fallout from Boston. I wonder if racing will ever be the same again now that the world feels the need to protect us from the crazies.

Traveling light

Mrs P did all the driving this weekend. My screwed up sleep, my hard-cycling emotions, and my lousy driving combined to make us both more comfortable with her more steady hand at the tiller.

For Becky

Back in Lexington, I finished the laundry, packed up all my gear, and laid out my race clothes. I planned to dress light. I already had enough extra weight on my body. I didn't want to add any with a potentially rain-soaked outfit. I selected my spandex compression shorts, my Y tank, and a pair of toe socks to go inside my amazingly green NikeFrees. A SPI belt full of energy chews would be all I would carry, unless the weather called for my hydration pack. I intended to go for broke on this one. By 8:00, I was showered, in bed, my 2:30 AM alarm was set, and my relaxation app was droning softly from my iPad. Sleep was deep and easy, if interrupted by several trips to the can. I had been drinking gallons of liquids all week to get myself hydrated. While this tactic proved to be very successful on race day, I did wear a path to every lavatory in sight starting around Wednesday afternoon.

Race day morning, I didn't make it to the 2:30 beep. By 2:00 I was lying in the dark, staring at the slowly changing red numbers on the clock. Might as well get up. And now, I have to be honest with you, dearest reader. My memories of race day are always a little foggy. This race came along with my head in such a strange space that I'm not sure what I remember and what I've made up. So enjoy the ride, but I won't be testifying to any of the following time-line under oath.

Breakfast was coffee with fat-free half and half, and an apple fritter. This leaden, sugary treat is probably about the worst thing you could eat before a race, but it was my breakfast on my last long run, the 28 miler, and I didn't want to screw with the routine. I checked my computer and found two deeply moving messages. The first was the news that an old college buddy had donated an amazing amount of money to Living Strong at the Y: enough to carry us all the way to our very ambitious goal. I sent him a thank you as soon as I saw his donation come in. I also received a carefully written and inspiring message from our nephew the preacher. He reminded me of God's role in my life. How my salvation not just from cancer, but from sin came from my creator and redeemer. He reminded me that the people who came and went in my life were gifts from God. He also exhorted me to remember that while people might leave, God's faithfulness would always remain and my first duty must always be to obeying God, not to earning the approval of people. It was just what I needed to hear. I blogged about his words, and carried them along with me through out the race.

It was raining when we left Lexington, about 15 minutes later than I had hoped we would. Mrs P drove through the misty darkness while I drank water, sipped apple, carrot, ginger juice, and napped. We were behind schedule when crossed the Ohio into town, but that was not my biggest problem. Coffee. Half and half. Water. Juice. Guess what I had to do? Guess what there was no sign of anywhere on the traffic packed streets of Cincinnati at 5:45 in the morning? When I could hold it no longer, I had to resort to desperate measures. I was wearing my racing shorts, and couldn't afford a slip and drip. I searched through the trash can in the car. It says on their website that a large McDonalds Mango Pineapple smoothie comes in a 22 oz cup. I shucked down my drawers, surrounded by traffic, suddenly grateful for the pre-dawn darkness. Little Pennsy and I filled that 22 oz cup with ease. I quickly opened my door and dumped the contents out onto the street. Then we made some more. I was not aware that such volume was even possible. Mrs P and I were both a little queasy after the moment had passed. Finally, we found a parking garage and she slipped the Honda into a spot where I could finish dressing. I opened the hatch and changed into my shirt and shoes. Heart rate monitor. Sweat bands. Tape with my pacing plan written on it. Sunglasses for later. I considered the rain, the temperature, and the four cups of water i had just made, and decided to leave the hydration pack in my race bag. I knew it would be empty by about mile 12 anyway, and the thought of carrying an empty, mildly sloshing pack on my back just made me want to pee again. I checked to make sure that the baggie protecting my energy chews was zipped shut and rolled up inside my SPI belt, kissed Mrs P, posed for some pictures in the creepy sodium light, and I was off. She went back in the car to sleep. We would meet up at the finish line.

Peace,
Pennsy

#443: MARATHON WEEK!

Post-time at the 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon
(back of the pack view.)

We interrupt this nervous breakdown for a celebration of life.

You may have heard that there's a big race in Kentucky this week. No, not that one. I prefer a race with a couple thousand runners where nobody ever gets whipped and they don't shoot you if you break your leg. This Sunday, after the horses of Churchill Downs are safely in the barn, Pigs will fly in Cincinnati, and Pennsy will fly with them.

I am counting the 2013 Flying Pig as a Kentucky marathon because there is actually about a mile and a half of the course that  crosses the Ohio River into Covington. The rest is in the friendly confines of Cincinnati, a city that would be Pittsburgh's closest sibling if it weren't for Johnny Bench, Kenny Anderson, and other assorted heroes from the Buckeye state. But for an accident of geography and the whims of an ancient glacier, Cincinnati might also be Kentucky's largest city. So I'm calling this a home away from home race.

I had several friends run in the Kentucky Derby Marathon last Saturday, (the only race that could get me to Louisville during these Bacchanalian weeks.) One knocked an hour off of her first 26.2, which I found really encouraging. I've studied the elevation charts for the Pig, and it's no joke, but not the test that Pittsburgh is either. If I can get to the 10 mile point feeling strong, I have high hopes.

I've spent the last two weeks working in the grief mines, and frankly, I've breathed enough misery dust to last me a lifetime. This week, I'm coming up for air. I'll be doing some light jogging, a little cross training, drinking lots of good liquids, and wearing the slippers Mrs P bought me to keep my tender feet safe from table legs and dog toys. I love talking about myself, but writing about depression depresses me. This week, I'll be writing about the opposite of depression. I'll be writing about love. About hope. About will. About strength.

About life.

The forecast for Sunday is partly cloudy with race-time temps in the 50s.

Gonna be a great day for a run!

Peace,
Pennsy

It's time. Please make your donation to Living Strong at the Y today. It's the reason I get up in the morning, and the reason I'm running on Sunday.

Rather just mail your contribution? Make checks payable to "YMCA" and mail to:

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

#442: Spider On A Thread

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. - Jonathan Edwards "'Have a Nice Day' and Other Sermons for Children (Just kidding. Little Calvinist humor, there. It's actually from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. If you are the sort of demented soul who feels the need, you can read the whole Hallmark card here.)


One of the more insulting pieces of good news I've ever received was on a radiology report: "Analysis of the brain shows nothing remarkable." What they meant was that there was nothing bad in there. My oncologist explained that this is a much better comment than: "Imaging of the brain was negative," which means that they looked, but didn't find anything. So sometimes words can conceal positive results.

In the past 30 hours or so, when I've checked my emotional vital signs, the results have been increasingly positive. Reduced tear production. No evidence of chest convulsions, throat contractions, or sobbing. Heart lightening. Creepy-crawlies subsiding. The subject appears to have turned the corner. We are cautiously optimistic.

But still, I'm wary.

Last night, Mrs P reminded me that depression is only half of my diagnosis. My wife the clinical therapist conjured the full name: Type II Bipolar Disorder with Severe Clinical Depression. No wonder it takes so many pills. No wonder I never speak it's name out loud. That is a disorder for a person who is seriously screwed up.

It's not that I hide it, not really. Readers of FMR know that I hide precious little. Much less than any decent person should.  I wouldn't say I'm a Closeted Crazy. But bipolar disorder is the one gremlin in my life that I would just as soon not name. Ever. I remember the first time I read the words, typed into my file at the mental hospital. "Well, son," I whispered to myself, "Looks like you're the Bull-Goose loony in this nut house now." And until they taught me how I could exercise my way back to the light, I pretty much was.

I stay more-or-less stable when the meds and the therapists and the coaches are all working together. People think of me as a little eccentric; a little emotional; loyal; protective; outgoing; you know, a Leo. When things get out of whack - and the whack often comes from sudden, unexpected grief - I can find myself dangling like a spider on a thread in the wind, blown from giddy with optimism to paralyzed with despair in a single gentle gust. A conversation with a friend can put me on top of the world. Burnt toast can lead me to consider suicide. A phrase in a newspaper article. A lick from the dogs. The song of a mockingbird. A paper cut. I don't know of any more helpless feeling than the one you get when you realize that you have no control over yourself or the size of your emotions. Everything is exaggerated. Bipolar disorder means living in hyperbole.The best you can do is remember that depression and manic states are really a set of lies that you tell yourself - they doesn't last for ever - and your only job is to ride them out without hurting yourself or anybody else.

Mixed results, so far. The folks at work have been supportive, without exception - but they are only human. I expect there will be consequences for my two-week disappearance - I know I'll be imagining what they're thinking about me for a while.

I haven't done myself any harm that I can see - other than shaken confidence and the stubborn stains of shame and embarrassment. I kept up with my training. Ate. Slept when I could. Bathed regularly. No boozing, binging, bruising, or burning of bridges. I said my prayers. Gave thanks for my blessings. Asked help for my trials. Kept writing.

Mrs P got the worst of me. She always does. No rage this time. Just angry confusion for both of us about how a husband can get so damn worked up just because his boss goes away. I think Coach was pretty spooked by the whole thing, too. 250 pounds of nervous breakdown is a lot to handle in a tiny office. I'm not sure either of them felt entirely safe alone with me when I was blubbering to them about What Am I Gonna Do? and Please Don't Go and Oh Dear God It Hurts So Much.

Depression is like cancer in that way. It is cruel to carry inside you, but think it's even more cruel to the people who care for you. I wish I had done a better job protecting them, no matter how sick I was.

But, today I'm riding... Not high. Not low. Just sort of cruising along. Had a nice short run today. Seven miles on the treadmill and the Legacy Trail. Smiles and laughter, all appropriate to the conversation. As I'm typing, I feel more human, more like myself than I have in many, many days. If I can keep it up for a week, I'll be able to write about what it's like to finally get over a depressive episode. Today, I'm erring on the side of caution. There are still a lot of vulnerable people around me. And I'm still a bull in their emotional china shops.

Things are good at the moment. But vigilance is needed here. Things can change so quickly for a spider on a thread.

Peace,
Pennsy

Source note: Creepy spider picture stolen from here.

#436: The Last Long One Part 2: In Practice

Saturday Morning, 4:30 AM
The alarm chirps me awake. Mrs P breathes softly beside me. My clothes are already laid out in the bathroom. All I need is breakfast and a shower. Pad my barefoot way out to the den, trying not to wake the dogs. In the kitchen, I step on one of those damn cow hoofs that Mrs P gives them to chew on. I whisper my first four letter word of the day and start the coffee maker.

4:45
One cup of coffee. Only one. Two apple cinnamon scones. So sue me. I'll burn a couple of extra calories before this day is over. Check the route one last time. All city streets that I know well. I memorize the places along the way where I can find restrooms and Gatorade.

5:00
Check the page for Living Strong at the Y 2013, hoping for a little inspiration. I find a $1000 contribution from an anonymous donor, in honor of her mother whose cancer battle ended almost 8 years ago. I write the thank you note and feel the steel forming in my will. There are more important things than my depression. I see Coach's most recent message to me, posted last night. "I believe in you." I can only remember two people saying those words to me. One is my coach. The other is the love of my life. One is going away. The other will never leave me. My heart swells. No time for tears this morning. I can't afford to lose the water or the salt.

5:15 
Time to shower. Dr Bronner's Magic Peppermint suds finish the work that the coffee started. I step out of the tub awake and ready to go. I pay special attention to drying off my hair. It's 34° outside.

5:30
Dressing. The new spandex bike style shorts I got from John's. Body Glide everywhere. inner thighs, toes, nips, armpits, collarbones. Sunscreen everywhere. Never know how warm this day might get. Hope springs eternal. Lip balm. Heart monitor chest strap. White, LIVESTRONG tank. Black warm up pants. The gray Y half zip pullover that Coach bought me for the Monumental Half. White terrycloth wristbands. Check to make sure my route is programmed into the Garmin. Grab my race shoes and socks and pad back out to the den, flipping the cursed cow hoof under the kick space of the kitchen counter with my offended foot.

5:45
Pull on the socks, fitting each toe into its individual pocket. Slip into my NikeFrees, and tie them securely.Two pairs of gloves. SPI belt with energy chews and my interval timer set to 2:00 / 1:00. Hydration backpack that I bought last night at Meijer, filled with diluted PowerAde. Flashing red light on my pack turned on. iPod loaded with my favorite running mix. Slip on my John's running cap with my sunglasses over top for later.

6:00
That's the great thing about running. All you really need are sneakers and a tee-shirt.

6:15
Kiss Mrs P. "Be so careful," she says, not really awake. "I love you." "And I love you, my darling." I may have a schoolboy crush on my coach. but I love this woman with every cell in my body. I run for my cancer people, but I run for her, too. She is the reason I chose to stay alive.  She is with me every step of every run. And so, we run.

Mile 1
11:56. Too damn fast. This one is always a struggle. I feel great. Of course you feel great, idiot. You haven't even run two miles, yet. I try to imagine what mile 26 will feel like, and run at that speed instead. I run the second mile in 12:09 and start being a little more deliberate about my walk breaks.

Run for Rememberance

Mile 4
I arrive at John's just a few minutes behind schedule. 300 runners have gathered to honor the dead and wounded of Boston. The mayor is speaking about the generous heart of our city. Then Kieth takes the mic. He has been running for probably 50 years. He speaks of family. He speaks of unity. He speaks of courage. His heart catches in his throat as he declares, "We are sending a message to the people who want to frighten and hurt us. We will run. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. In Boston. On Patriot's day. Every day. Every where.We will run." And run we do.

Mile 7
The North Lexington Family YMCA. I've been dreading this stop. Mercifully, I only see one person I recognize. I don't have much contact with the Saturday morning crowd. A quick pee stop, and add water to my pack. I have drunk a surprising amount already. Much more than I would have carried on my hydration belt. Trot out to the pavillion where the kids will gather for our morning run. 4 miles. Elissa greets me, a little concerned. "Has the doctor cleared you to run?" I wonder which doctor she means. I am paired with two boys, notorious loafers, and we start off in the chilly morning. I finally need my sunglasses.

Mile 11
If I wanted affirmation for my decision to take time away from work, this was it. I spent four miles restraining the urge to cuss out a pair of 10 year-olds for their lack of motivation. They hate it out here. Elissa is waiting at the finish when I cross the line, alone. They are walking spitefully over the crest of the last hill. Their own personal drama of defiance. "Send them home." I tell her, as I run past the group and out onto the road. It was a mistake to come out here with them today. Kids need patience. Mine is gone. A pee break at the gas station on North Broadway, and I head for the gentle rolling hills of East Loudon Avenue. I am beginning the climb toward the highest point in my run.

Mile 14
The good news is that my four miles with the kids have slowed my pace considerably. Just over half-way through a marathon, and I'm finally warmed up and at tempo. The bad news is, the little store where I planned my next water break has been sold and turned into a restaurant. My pack still sounds full, sloshing happily, but I have at least three more miles before I get to the next water. I set my cap and run on.

Mile 18
I was sure there was a gas station here. Instead, I wander into Kroger. Glassy eyed. I buy a liter of Gatorade and one banana. The little guy monitoring the self-checkout lanes seems mystified. I'm carying a back pack with wires hanging out of it. I'm wearing an ear piece, dark glasses, a black cap, and am covered with little electronic devices that beep every couple of minutes. Not the best outfit to wear 6 days after a terrorist attack. I squint at the keypad without my bifocals, and make my way out of the store, find a place to sit down, and pour a jug of sports drink into my back pack. At least now they know I'm not carrying a bomb in there... Mrs P has sent me a worried text. "Where are you?" I tell her back, telling her where to find me on the map I left her. The sun feels nice, and I pull of my soaked warm up pants, tucking them under the cargo net on my pack. I have now gone farther than either of my last two runs. I figure I've consumed about 3 liters of fluid so far, with only two low volume pee breaks. No wonder I crashed last week. This big motor uses a lot more water than I realized. I pop an energy chew into my mouth, and I'm back on the road.

Mile 19.5
The first cramps.First hint of the approaching Wall. They start in my quads, way down above the knees, which is unusual for me. I consider it a triumph of Coach Carrie's training techniques that she has strengthened my calves so much. That's where I started cramping in Pittsburgh, right around mile 15. As if on cue, both calf muscles turn to fists. Now I can barely straighten my knees to take a step as I make my way through the rolling hills. As icing on the cake, my hamstrings join the symphony. I have felt more pain than this in my life, but never during a run. I think of Becky, doing chemo again for the second bout of cancer: the cancer they found in her spinal fluid. Becky hurts worse than this. So I run.

Mile 25
A very strange point for a break in a marathon. I arrive at the Beaumont Family YMCA, the flagship of our association. I always marvel at this place. It seems as if our entire branch at North would fit inside their basketball court. I haven't got my key tag, so I ask the woman at the front desk to check me in. I think we have taken some kind of class together, but I don't think either of us really remembers the other. I make my way to the restroom, and am surprised at how little urine I produce. For the first time today, my pack is empty of water. I have drunk a gallon of fluid, and not processed enough urine to fill a specimen jar. I've learned something very important about hydration today. I refill my ugly green backpack: my new training partner for life. I send my second text of the day, letting Mrs P know that I'm 3 miles from home. My phone is full of messages of encouragement and concern, many from other cancer fighters. If I could feel anything, I would feel love. But right now, I'm so stoned on Endorphin that all I can feel is my leg muscles seizing into petrified meat. Time to run.

"Bob? It's Dave."

Mile 25.3
Running downhill is a challenge with healthy legs. It is torture when your legs are made of stone. I arrive at an intersection, and there is a car waiting at the stop sign for me. I wave thanks and step off the curb. The driver's door opens, and a familiar bald pate pops out. "Well this is perfect," he laughs. Yesterday, when I was at my lowest, my phone rang. I recognized the number was from a YMCA, and answered with apprehension  "Bob, it's Dave. How are you doing?" It was the CEO of the Central Kentucky YMCA calling. I burst into grateful tears. Who are these amazing people and how in the world have I managed to fall into their loving hands? I was still crying tears of gratitude when Mrs P called to tell me she was coming home. I'm crying them again now as I type. And I cried them yesterday, just a drop or two, when Dave stepped out of his car in the middle of the street and threw his arms around me. "It's good to see you out running, " he smiled.

Mile 26.2
There is a park near our neighborhood. Its ball fields are usually empty when I run through. But yesterday, as I reached the marathon distance, I was surrounded by happy kids in brightly colored uniforms. Bats cracked out base hits all around me. I thought of the two boys who hate running so much. I hope they find something they love as much as these kids love kicking the dirt in the batter's box and pounding the pockets of their mitts into spring softness. My legs still hurt, but the pain was bearable now. I'm not sure if they were relaxing into submission, or if I was past the point of caring, but I felt myself rise up taller as I watched the mileage on my watch flip over to 26.2. 06:36 total elapsed time. That included all those breaks and the long stop in the Kroger parking lot. My time in the Pittsburgh was 6:21. I was going to beat that in Cincinnati, but the Buck-a-Minute donors were going to get quite a bargain.

Mile 28.37
It is finished. I run to the last corner in my route, and shut off my Garmin as I pass the stop sign. I am proud. I wish the neighbors who wave as I walk past could know what I just did. On the other hand, it feels good to carry such a secret inside. I didn't do it for them. I walk and trot easily, carefully cooling down. My next-door neighbor is mowing his lawn, and he shuts off the engine to greet me. He has been following me on Facebook. He knows I've been having a hard time. I thank him for his kindness and can't help bragging to this handsome, strong young man. He smiles. "You know. Most people don't ever run 26 miles until the race. But now you already know you can do it." Yes. Now I know.

I step inside and The Pack greets me. They love it when I come home from a run tasting of sunscreen and salt. I receive an enthusiastic leg massage as I make my way to the kitchen table and drop my nearly empty backpack. Strip off the sweat bands, the shades, and the hat. Grab a towel to protect my chair. Walk back to the den, and ease gently into my desk chair to read the loving messages that friends have posted during the 7 hours I have been out on the road.

2:00
Mrs P comes in the door. My heart soars. Her voice. Her tender kiss. Her concerned eyes. She checks me for signs of dehydration, and pronounces me cold, but OK. She mixes a jug of PowerAde for me, and brings me glass after glass of the rejuvenating stuff. She puts some chicken tenderloins on the grill, and warms up a can of beans. Protein and Carbs. Recovery food. I finally have a good long pee. My heart is so full of my wife, I can hardly breath. Here is the love of my life. She is the reason I'm alive at all. We laugh together about our day. We listen to each other's stories. My hands may be cold, but I can feel the fire between us. There are places between a husband and a wife that no one else can be or even understand. It has never been easy, loving me. Many times, I've made it harder than it had to be. But she's never given up on me. No matter how much it hurts. After all my sermons and rants and righteous speeches and altruistic sounding pronouncements, Martha is the reason I run. I run for my life, yes. But I run toward her love. Always.

Sunday Morning
When I woke up this morning, the darkness was back again. A little less than before. A few tears. A few. Just a few. Guess I'm having an endorphin hangover. Time with my dogs. Time with my wife. Time to pray and reflect. I don't understand this journey that we're on. I don't understand why people I love suffer. Why I hurt them. Why they hurt themselves. I don't understand why I can't be the man I want to be: the man people see when they look at me through the eyes of love. I don't know how I've managed to live so long, make so many mistakes, and survive so many consequences. I'm 52 years old, and sometimes I don't think I know a damn thing. Except this. God made me. My Creator gave me deep flaws, but also gave me strength. More strength than I could have ever imagined. Strength to endure. Strength to survive. Strength to serve. Strength to love.

May God grant me the strength to run the race set out for me. And may I never stop loving the people God uses to teach me that strength and that love. May I never stop working to deserve their faith and their sacrifice and their trust. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. Every day. Every where.

The Fat Man runs.

Peace,
Pennsy

#434: The In-Between Time

I wish I could explain why Neil Young is stuck in my head these days. In the Bluegrass, we talk about the High Lonesome Sound. Neil is the wild haired Canadian master of that mountain cry. At moments, his strange voice can ache and smile at the same time. His rendition of Long May You Run was one of the highlights of the Calgary Olympics for me. Tonight, he is blessing my tired soul.

I spent the morning calling doctors. Making appointments. Talking with Mum so she wouldn't find out about all this on Facebook. Holding back the tears. "Just keep talking to me," she asked. "I would rather know than worry." I told her things were under control. Mrs P is here. No need to grab the "Bob Bag" and jump in the car just yet. In fact, I might like to spend some time up there, running in the mountains. Reading on the porch. Smelling spring as it wraps itself around the hardwoods. "It's going to take a while for me to get myself together for the drive, though. I don't think I can cry all the way from Lexington to Limestone." Mum's answer caught me by surprise and caught my heart in my throat. "I've done that. It's not much fun." I don't see how there can be anything in the universe as powerful as my mother's love.

Had a nice green salad... left overs from my tearful lunch with Mrs P yesterday. The dogs teased me for croutons, then sprang out the back door woofing at every sound that came in through the open windows. Friends reached out to me with text and email and chat messages. Cyber compassion is as good as the old fashioned kind, I promise you. I wept at the loving words. The tears flow without sense or reason. They wash over me like the spring wind blowing the running shirt hanging on the line.

When I was in the hospital, going to the gym to play volleyball was the first thing that made me feel alive again. I knew that I needed to move. Under the afternoon sun, I started the mower and plowed into the dandelions that filled my front lawn with gold. I hated to see them go, but there's rain in the forecast, and they would soon have gone to seed or grown too heavy with rain to cut. As the engine roared along, I found myself thinking about the Y, the people I had let down. The way I had left... frightened and sobbing. I started to blubber there in broad daylight, hoping that the sound of the mower covered my voice as I pushed on. When I finally finished the yard, I shut off the motor and came inside, unable to muffle my grief.

Mrs P ran in from her office, startled by the sound. "Are you OK? Did something happen?"

"No," I cried. "I just don't want them to remember me that way. Running away."

"That isn't how they remember you. They love you."

She brought me a cold cloth and held it on the back of my neck until my shoulders stopped shaking.

"I didn't cry like this for my father when he died. Not when my high school sweetheart left me or my college lover told me she was seeing someone else. I've never cried like this in my life."

Mrs P said, "Maybe these are tears you should have shed. Maybe your heart has been filling with tears for a long time. For the people you love who have cancer. For the ones who died. For Molly and Buddy and Mo and all the animals we've lost. Maybe your heart has broken open to let all of the tears out."

My God, what a woman I married.

Before dinner, I went out for a run. Oh the sweet mercy of the road. Feet tapping the pavement. Breathing smoothly in time with each step: in-two-three, out-two-three-four. Just two miles of sidewalks, but enough to quiet the grief for a while. I can still run. I am still alive.

Tonight, I type in the den. Neil Young's voice soothes my ears. The dogs soft breathing surrounds me as they stretch out on the couch and the floor around my desk. My eyes are moist, but not flowing. My heart is heavy, but not choking me. This is the in-between time. I don't know why all this is happening, but I am so grateful for the time between fits of sorrow. I am so grateful for the mercy of the friends I've disappointed  and for the understanding of the ones who have traveled this dark road themselves. Can you feel shame and joy at the same time? Humility and humiliation in one gasp?

Part of me wishes I could just go to sleep and wake up and be all better and raring to go. But I know that isn't going to happen. It would be easier for me to wake up and be back to Wednesday morning, before the hurting, before the tears.

I have often said that our hearts break so God can come in. I believe that's true. But Mrs P is also right. Maybe our hearts break so the tears can get out. Maybe that's why my friends' love hurts so much right now. My heart is too full of tears to hold their kindness as well. I pray God will be there to fill it back up again once they have all been wept away.

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.

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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.

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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...

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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

#423: Running Long, Falling Short

"I went to the doctor. I went to the mountains..." My soul has always found healing in the mountains. This Sunday, the Great Physician led me to northern Kentucky where I got a generous dose of just the right medicine.

I had time for two long runs before my Marathon in May. The plan was to do 26 this weekend, take two weeks for recovery, then go longer than 26 one last time before the race. When a friend invited me on a run through the serious hills north of Lexington, I decided that the climbing would more than make up for the lost miles, and plotted a 20 mile course from Millersburg to my friend Sandy's house, deep in the hollers of Nicholas county. Before the day was over, I was to learn just how much I had under-estimated those hills. I would also experience one of the most gratifying failures of my life.

A Mountain Locker Room

We met after church. The weather was lovely. At 72 partly cloudy degrees, the Bluegrass finally felt like spring had arrived. Mrs P dropped me off in Millersburg where I joined my friend Jeri and some fellow runners. It was great to be in shorts and a singlet after the long months of tights and treadmills.

Jeri

Jeri and I started down the road out of town and we were soon climbing. She set a pace that was a little quicker than I would have liked, and chose 5:00 run/1:00 walk intervals. I planned to run the first 5 or 6 miles with her, then she would turn back while I continued on for my long run. I figured I could take the challenge of keeping up with her stronger legs for a little while, but the pace and the hills soon told me otherwise. "I can't keep up with you, Jeri. I'll slow down and you go on ahead." She seemed mystified. "What? I thought I was trying to keep up with YOU." She had interpreted my attempts to follow her as an effort to push her. We switched to shorter run intervals, and the trip became much less of a trial.

Take me to the River

Bridge Over Peaceful Waters

Blood and Sweat, but
No Tears... Yet

We talked about running and grandkids and dogs and our marriages. We puffed up the hills and gasped at the beautiful views from their tops. When my teeth popped out of my mouth (again...) we laughed at the silliness of it, and when a misstep off the edge of the black-top sent me tumbling, we joked about other great falls we had suffered on the roads. When we rounded the bend that led us to the covered bridge at Colville, our time together seemed much too short. Jeri's husband was there waiting with water, and Jeri snapped some pictures of my gory looking leg before I trotted off down the road toward the remainder of my journey. The hills were brutal and beautiful. There were long, steep climbs followed by descents that always seemed too short. Sometimes the roads led me along a ridge where I could see for what seemed like miles. Other times I followed along beside creeks in deep valleys where ancient houses, trailers, and barns lined the road sides. Occasionally I would pass someone feeding horses or just relaxing on their porch. They would stare in puzzled amusement as I jogged along.

I encountered lots of other critters on my way. This isn't thoroughbred country. No million-dollar farms out here. These horses work hard for a living, and it shows. Their pastures and their coats are both a lot rougher than their cousins at Keeneland, but they are no less beautiful. Cattle knelt by roadside fences as if in prayer, and lumbered warily to their feet as I passed. An occasional snort from a muddy pen let me know that next winter's hams were rooting contentedly in the shade. And of course, there were the dogs. Working dogs are like working horses. No carefully bathed sissies out here. There were the big old shepherds patrolling fenced in yards. Shaggy giants roaring from barns. And then there were the Pits.

There is a certain amount of... how to put this?.. home-style chemical manufacturing going on in these woods. Years ago, that might have meant white lightening. Probably still does in some places. But things being how they are in the mountains nowadays, the products are more sinister. Meth labs are scattered among the shacks and abandoned out-buildings in the hills, and they take a terrible toll on our people. Of course, whether you're cooking meth or moonshine, you need a security system, and that often means dogs that are meant to keep strangers far away. A couple of bruisers charged at me as I ran, but I just raised myself up tall, didn't change my pace, and acted for all the world like the biggest dog in the woods. Once they saw that I was not weak or wounded, and had no intention of stopping to sniff around, they always settled down. One even sidled in beside me and trotted down the road quietly for a couple hundred yards. I'm not sure if he was  being a partner or just escorting me off the property, but it was funny having such a fierce looking monster on my heel for a while.

The terrain had been rough all day, but around mile 10, I started wondering if I hadn't bitten off more than I could chew. By mile 13, I was pretty certain that I had. I switched my run/walk intervals to 30 seconds. Soon I was walking 30 and shuffling 30 with an occasional break to sit on a roadside rock where I contemplated the insanity of a 50 year-old-cancer survivor trying to raise money by running marathons. Somewhere during mile 14 I said it out loud: "I'm in trouble here." Cell phone signals are few and far between out in the hills. I had to wait to get to the top of one before I could see any bars on my screen. "I'm about five miles from you, and I'm out of gas," I gasped to Mrs P. "I need you to come and get me." After she had dropped me off in Millersburg, she had gone on to Sandy's house for some R&R. She had a detailed map of my route in case I needed rescuing. The two of them hopped in Sandy's truck and headed toward me.

As Far As I Was Going to Go

Knowing help was on the way gave me heart and I tried jogging a little. I was in a very pretty valley and the road was as flat as I had seen all day, so the going was pretty smooth. I knew from plotting my route online that there was a mile long hill, the steepest of the day, waiting at mile 17. Around 16.8, I came to a pretty little crossroads with a beautiful country church standing silently by. I saw a large concrete pad that I knew must be the sceptic tank, and limped to it. This was as far as I was going to go.

I don't remember what I thought about as I sat there on that cement sewer. I'm not sure I thought of anything at all. I was well past the "stupid zone" where my brain shuts off and my legs take over. Both were exhausted now, and I sat quietly in that contemplative state like a soggy monk, waiting for deliverance.

Just a Little Road Rash

Sandy almost drove right past me. She expected me to be back around mile 15, where I was when I made my SOS call. When she and Mrs P pulled to a stop in the gravel beside the church. I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk to the truck or not. My wife got out to help me, and fret over the blood that was caked down my right calf. My fall with Jeri had left me pretty well scratched up and the blood thinners I take had done their work.

As we turned onto the ironically named "Johnson Road," I finally learned just how badly I had underestimated this run. The mile long climb was as steep a road as I have seen anywhere this side of Colorado. I couldn't have run it. I couldn't have crawled it. As Sandy swung the big crew-cab across the bridge and up the long drive that leads to her house, I knew that they had saved me as surely as if they had rowed up beside me in a lifeboat on a stormy sea.

At Last, a Friendly Dog

No joke: this was the toughest run of my life. Not even my marathon left me as drained and helpless at this trip through the mountains. Along the way, I had questioned everything from my attempts to raise money to my dreams of running another Marathon. I had doubted myself and my own strength. I had doubted my own intelligence! After only 15 miles I had decided to just give up. I sent up a flare. I sat by the side of the road and thought about what it felt like to surrender.

Then I thought about the reason I was running. I thought about Becky, fighting for her life against the chemo that was trying to kill her second bout of cancer. I thought of Raynee and the tumor in her brain that threatened to steal her from her husband and little children. I thought of the scar on James' scalp and the fire in Jaspal's eyes and always, always Coach Carrie's voice. "You can't do this, Bob." And Melissa. "I see you running a Marathon someday." And Mrs P. "I believe in you, Bobbo." I got up off my ass when I didn't have a drop of energy left and no hope in the world of finishing this course, and I by-God ran. I ran two more miles after I was sure I couldn't go another step.

How? Courage? Determination? Stubbornness? Stupidity? God? Yes, I think it was God. God, who created me to be a runner. God, who let the cancer almost kill me so I could discover my own strength. God, who appears in the eyes of every survivor, every caregiver, every doctor and nurse and kind friend I meet in my battle against a disease I hate.

The View from Sandy's Porch

The two great seasons of the church year are Christmas and Easter. Incarnation and Resurrection. God with us, and God redeeming us. The spirit of God is alive in the people I serve. They are my inspiration and my strength. Whatever courage I have, I learned from the warriors I have met in the gym and on the road. That's why I run. That's why I'm always begging for money. And that's why I will run that crazy race in May.

Not because I can't let them down.

But because they won't let me fall.

Peace,
Pennsy