#435: The Last Long One Part 1: In Theory

How the Last Long One Feels

Every run has a purpose, especially when you are training for a long race. Sometimes you're teaching your legs to find the right tempo. Sometimes you're attacking hills to build strength or running intervals of speed and recovery to teach your feet to turn-over faster. There are lots of different kinds of running workouts, but the granddaddy of them all is the one that gets runners out of bed on Saturday mornings in all kinds of weather to hit the roads in pairs, in packs, and all alone. The Long One.

The Long One is about endurance. It's about building the conditioning and the wind and the will to keep going mile after mile. In the off season, the Long One might be 5 or 10 miles, depending on how you feel. When you're chasing 26.2, the Long One is your most important workout of the week, and my favorite of them all is the Last Long One. The biggest mileage you put up before a race.

Conventional wisdom has most runners going for 20 miles three weeks before a marathon. I have two problems with that. First, I found that three weeks of rest actually knocked a little of the edge off of my conditioning. In spite of putting in all the miles before Pittsburgh, I felt under-prepared. I decided last year that my "taper," - the time you spend easing up on the gas before an event - would not be as long this year.

Second, I know from consistent experience that it is very hard for me to add more than 2 miles every two weeks to my previous long run. A 20 miler would have me hitting "the wall," - and yes, the wall is very real - around 22 miles, making those last 4.2 an even more horrific experience than they are designed to be.

So today, I ran my last long one before the Flying Pig Marathon two weeks and a day before the start. and I ran just under 28.4 miles.

Now, if you're a runner, you know that is just insane, but bear with me. I've thought it out. I just have to wait until May 5 to test whether I was right. If I'm wrong, I'm going to have a looong ride on the bus of shame at the back of the pack.

Two weeks is my standard interval for increasing my long runs during training. I run long, then back off a little the next weekend to recover, then add two miles the next Saturday. That's just the way I've learned I respond to training best. If my body holds to form, I should be ready for a 30 mile run on May 5. The marathon  is a lot shorter than that.

But those miles. What's the point? Well, for me, there is only one point to the Last Long One and that is to put your shoulder into the wall and push the sucker back. Doesn't matter if I hit it at 17 miles, at 20, or at 25.5. I have to know that it isn't going to stop me, no matter what. The wall isn't a myth, it's physiology. At 20 miles, your body has used up just about all the resources it has to make you go. If you aren't well conditioned. If your training hasn't prepared you. If you haven't been taking water and nutrition for the first 20 miles. If you don't have the fuel and the guts and the will to endure the pain, your tank will empty and you will seize up like a jeep with a cracked oil pan. The wall hurts, and once you hit it, you only have two choices: give up, or push it back. My run today wasn't about 28 miles, It was about mile 28. I needed to know that I could run the whole marathon and then some before beginning my taper. I didn't run all out. I took long walk breaks. Stopped for water and a pee a couple of times, and once I even sat down and enjoyed a banana in the warm April sunshine for a few minutes. But at the end of the workout, after more or less 7 hours in motion, I had run farther than my legs have ever taken me before. And I pushed the wall out past the point where I will ever have to face it in this race.

I'm not going win any awards in Cincinnati. But I'm going to PR. I won't hit my dream goal of running an hour faster than I did in Pittsburgh, but I'm going to run strong. And I'm going to hit that finish line knowing that if I had to, I could knock out another four miles, just to show off.

Tomorrow, as you might imagine, is a rest day on my training schedule. Mrs P has some chores for me, and I might try to get to the pool for a little water jogging. But I also want to write about the run itself. I don't think I've ever had one quite like it. The combination of depression and distance can make for an interesting morning's work...

Peace,
Pennsy

#434: The Nothing

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour
Paralysed force, gesture without motion
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to deaths other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
~ T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

I woke up this morning in the land beyond tears, beyond pain. This is depression's more fearful realm: The Nothing.

I haven't been here for a long, long time. But I remember my last visit. It is burned in my memory. When I tell people I've been to the gates of Hell, this is the day I'm talking about.

It began with tears, like so many before it had done. Mrs P trying to start her day, me weeping in the bed, unable to move, unable to quiet my raving inner monologue, or to keep it in. Hate. Anger. Please, help me...

You have to go to the hospital. I'm calling the hospital. She dials and makes the arrangements. She knows the drill. She's taken plenty of sick children there.

And then the sudden quiet. I'm going to the nut house. I am being committed.

Welcome to the nothing.

In the shower, you barely feel the water as it runs down your body. You can't smell the soap. You don't hear the curtain rings as the slide away and the towel barely touches you as you dry yourself off. Clean underwear, of course. Won't need your phone. Won't need your keys. Why have you stopped crying?

It is raining as she drives you across town. How many times have you driven past the place? Wondered what went on there? Who are the poor souls who have to live inside? She slips the car into a parking spot, and you are walking. Opening the door. Reading signs. Payment at time of treatment. Visitors must check in. No phones, electronics, weapons. You sit, and she whispers to the woman at the desk. The TV blinks overhead.  Magazine unopened in your lap. Stare at the plant, your back to the windows.

A buzzer sounds, a door opens, a kind woman steps into the room and calls your name. Martha takes your hand, and you walk together into the hallway. It is empty. Clean. Soft light. Like a hotel. The doors swing silently and the magnetic lock latches behind you. You are not going back through that door. Not for a long time.

You sit together. The three of you. The kind lady takes your medical history. What has brought you here today? You answer with a voice you don't recognize, in tones you can barely hear. The furniture was once pretty, but has seen better days. Chips. Scratches. Little things that more loving hands might have mended. Wallpaper. Upholstery. The room smells of tears. She thinks it would be best to admit you. You agree and she goes to prepare the paperwork. Martha is crying. She is so sorry. "It's OK," someone says from inside your mouth. Why can't you feel your feet? Your face? Your chair? You are disappearing.

A pretty young lady comes in with a clipboard to talk about money. Insurance. Financial arrangements to be made. Her pretty lips move and her pretty face is sympathetic and gentle. Martha talks with her and their conversation seems to be taking place underwater. Now, the kind lady returns with a paper bag. I will need to remove my watch. My wallet. My jewelry. My belt. My shoelaces. They don't want me to hang myself.

One last kiss. Words. Follow me, please. Doors. So many doors. Each one with a buzzer, a metalic 'klunk". Silently opening... closing behind..."klunk." Turn into an exam room. more like a long, narrow closet with a curtain dividing the space in half. Please step behind the curtain and remove your clothes There is a second person here now. Another nurse with another clipboard. I step out. You need to remove your boxers, too. I slip them to the floor without comment, without feeling. Two strange women inspect my body. Noting every bruise. Every scratch. Turn around, please. You may dress now.

More buzzers. More doors. More kind faces. I am in a room with two beds. The mattress is plastic. The wooden shelves are bolted down. There are no rods, no hooks no hangers. The mirror over the sink is a metal plate, bolted to the wall. There are no sharp corners. No secure protrusions. No handle to unlatch the little window. You lie down on the air mattress and stare at the ceiling. Unblinking. Waiting.

And you feel nothing. You don't realize it, because you've never been here before, but you have entered depression's darkest room. You walked in the moment you agreed to come here. You are in The Nothing. It's a merciful place, in a way, because there is no pain here. No tears. No regrets. No shame. Nothing at all. You are invisible here. Unseeing and unseen, you sit alone, eyes wide open, jaw loose. muscles relaxed. This is the There But Not There. The Nothing.

And that's where I woke up today. For the first time all week, I am not crying as I type. I am not feeling anything at all. Twenty minutes ago I looked down and realized I wasn't wearing a shirt. I must be cold. I should finish dressing. Love doesn't hurt today. I'm not sure what could hurt me here.

It doesn't last forever, I remind myself. I am not alone. I am loved. I am a child of God. I am in the darkness, but the darkness is not me. I will not disappear. My light will not go out completely.

The words give me no comfort, though I know they are true. There is an ember of hope inside. An observer with a clipboard would see emotionless stillness. But there is a war raging inside. A war for my soul. Cancer has hardened me. Depression doesn't know who it's messing with. Tomorrow I will run. Today, I will wait here. In depression's darkest room. I do not feel afraid. I do not feel anything at all. The disease cannot touch me. Nothing can touch me here. Tomorrow I will run. For my life.

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

#431: Depression: It's The Shame

It's not the sadness that gets you. It's the shame.

It's knowing that when the going gets tough, you will cave.

The People who counted on you, who relied on you to be there? They're going to find out they were wrong.

I cannot remember a day when I felt more ashamed than I do today. I have just walked away from the best job and the best people I have ever known. I sat weeping like a baby in the Director's office, trying to explain how the Miraculous Cancer Boy Who Didnt Die could be beaten by his own broken heart. He was very kind.

"Leave of Absence." Sounds as if I am taking a semester to study in Oxford.

I wrote about every step of my cancer journey on these pages. I. Don't see how I can do that about my depression. There are people who know this pain from the inside. Who might find comfort from my story, the way some have from that other battle. But this isn't about a sick body. My mind is sick. People I love are part of the confused blur in my imagination. I can't trust anything I think or say. I am afraid of things that I can't explain.

It's the sobs that are always stuck in your throat.

The tears that take you by surprise when you're driving your car.

When I wrote about cancer, I felt like a warrior. Now, I just feel like a pathetic exhibitionist. I'm gonna have to stop writing for a while, I think.

This disease is never going away. It has no cure. It wont always be this bad, but it will always be a part of my life. It will not kill me. It has come close in the past. Closer than any carcinoma ever did. But it will not break my soul the way it has broken my mind. As long as I can run, I can live. Mrs P loves me with a power that no chemical brain storm can overcome. I have good docs. good friends. A god who loves me and has brought me here for a reason. I'm not going to die from a broken heart.

But sweet Jesus, it hurts.

And I am so very ashamed.

And I am so very sorry.

Peace,
Pennsy

#430: Happy Birthday, Pennsy

Fat Man Sitting

Well, young man, you made it.Three years ago today the doc told you that the lump in your neck was cancer. He said he'd gotten everything he could find. Remember? You thought to yourself, "Wow, that was easy. Cancer isn't such a big deal after all."

April 15, 2010

You've lost a lot since that day. In many ways, you're the same guy you always were. Still pretty selfish. Still love the sound of your own voice a bit too much. Still get depressed sometimes. Death passed you by, but that dark, Presbyterian soul of yours still gravitates toward the shadows rather than the bright sunlight. The temper is still there, lurking. The ego, too. Still want to be the smartest guy in the room. The radiation killed the cancer, but it couldn't kill your pride.

Fat Man Shrinking

But you've gained a lot.. You have a new body. Slimmer. Stronger. Yes, your neck looks a little weird, and there's a hole where the doc cut away a lot of muscle tissue, but from the neck down, you're a new man.  Your face has changed, too. There are cheekbones and a chin where big, round pillows of fat used to hang. The mouth looks a little smaller over your false teeth. The beard is a lot whiter, and there are a couple of places under the jaw where it doesn't really grow any more.

After the Pittsburgh Marathon

You have a new heart, too. You've been looking all your life for a way to help people; a way to change the world. You have that now. They come to you, looking for help. Sometimes they need someone to push them. Other times, they just need someone to listen. You used to wait for payday to tell you why you went to work. Now, you get paid every day. You know why you're alive. You have a purpose. You are a warrior.

You've done things you never even dreamed of. Before, if anyone had told you you could run a marathon, you would have thought it was a cruel joke. You love people for who they are. You still judge sometimes, but more often than not, you see the light under their brokenness. You're a better man, a better son, a better friend, a better husband than you ever were before cancer came into your life.


There are some tough things, too. The teeth are a hassle. You get tired a lot faster. People are always telling you what an inspiration you are, how your story gives them hope and strength. That's a lot to carry on one good shoulder. You worry about what would happen if you ever fall under the weight of all that love.

During your treatment, you once asked a friend, "What if I live through all this, and come out the same asshole I always was?" She smiled. "Don't worry about that. This will change you." And she was right. You have something that you never knew before.

You have joy.

Fat Man Running

Some burdens will always be with you. There will be hard times and losses and disappointments. People will keep getting sick, and some of them will die. Friends will come and go and you will grieve loosing them. The shadows will always be there.

But so will the light.

That doesn't come from you. You know that, now. The light is a gift from God. It is a reflection of the love that people shine on you every day. Mrs P. Coach. Mum. Christy, Steve. Sandy. LaDonna. It would take hours to list them all. You glow in their light and your joy is their mirror. If you are different, it is because you have finally learned how to let their light shine from you. You can't do it on your own. But they can do it for you. And they do.

Happy birthday, Fat Man. You were saved from death for a reason, and that reason reveals itself to you every day. Keep serving it. Keep loving. Keep living. God has more work for you to do. Keep working.

Your race is a long way from being finished, son.

Run on, Fat Man. Run on.

Peace,
Pennsy

#429: What's Past is Prologue

What's past is prologue; what to come, In yours and my discharge ~ The Tempest Act 2, scene 1.

As I conclude this look back at some of the highlights of my cancer journey, I realize just how good a teacher cancer has been to me. So many lessons...

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

#163 What we might be...

Since I became ill, I have experienced mercy, compassion, and generosity in the most remarkable way. People have poured out their hearts, their hours, and their pocketbooks to Mrs P and me in a demonstration of gratuitous love that leaves me awestruck. It occurred to me last night that this is who me might be.

If we choose, we might be a people who share one another's burdens.

Who build one another up and encourage one another to succeed.

We might be a people who treasure and shelter one another from life's unfairness and cruelty.

Had we the will, we might be companions who make one another feel stronger, more capable, more known.

We might create places where our neighbors could bring their fears and find solace and comfort. Maybe not always understanding, but always acceptance.

The world might be such a place. Or the church. Or our heart.

Cancer is teaching me what beautiful, holy people we might be... what a world we might share...

Thursday, May 20, 2010

#166: Don't Tell Mama

She is stronger than I will ever be, and I spent three weeks "protecting" her from the truth. Maybe I wanted to be in control of at least a small part of my situation. Or maybe I was protecting both of us from having to face the possibility. "It isn't real if you don't say it out loud." What actually happened was that I gave her all that time to worry. Helplessly. I realize now how cruel my kindness had been. I gave her no opportunity to help, so all she could do was fear and pray. The people who love us deserve better than that.

Don't tell Mama, but I'd be lost without her. On second thought, go on and tell her. Mum always knows anyway.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

#168: This is Happening to Us

The days between the PET scan and our next meeting with Dr. Colin were distracted. The nights were filled with unblinking stares at the blackness above our bed. Long fearful silences. "Denial" is as good a word as any.

Kammy was the first to notice at work. She is a young woman (nearly everyone is young at work) who pretends to be a silly girl to hide her intuitive compassion.

"You aren't as cheerful as usual today," she observed in that musical Congolese dialect of hers. "What's wrong?"

My candor took me by surprise. "I've been having some tests. The Doctor thinks I might have Cancer." It was the first time I'd said it out loud. Her response was honest and startling.

"I hope you don't. I don't want you to die."

And there it was, out in the air. Together, we had given my silent fear a voice. It was the first of many times I would realize how much I share my condition with the people who know and love me.

The day the Doctor gave us his opinion, Mrs P took it harder than I.

"I can't say for certain that it's Cancer, but if it walks like a duck... There is no time to lose with this. If you delay..."

I finished his thought, bad habit. "It will just keep growing."

The Doc corrected me sternly, "It will take your life." This was not a joke.

It was a lot to take in. We rode the elevator down to the lobby and left. In the car, Mrs P started to cry. I was angry about the insurance. She was frightened about the diagnosis.

"I just don't understand why God is letting all this happen to you.."

I would deal with God later. "This isn't happening to me. This is happening to us."

What Kammy had taught me, what I wanted Mrs P to know was that I knew this was a burden we would share. I would not have the luxury of playing the victim. This was going to hurt everyone who cared about me, starting with her.

Saturday, June 12, 2010

#182: What Cancer Can't Kill

"How are you today, Miss April?"

"Honey, any day I get up out of bed is a good day."

There may come days when getting up is not an option for me. But still, morning will feel like a victory.

I think I'm finding out who Pennsy is. He walks. He walks like an old man, hobbling around the block. Maybe a 10th of a mile, once or twice a day. But by God, the Fat Man is Walking. Morning is best. The night can feel like a coffin, sometimes. Walking feels like life.

I know there may come a time when Cancer takes that, too. It's not something I would welcome. I have yet to come to terms with my own mortality, I promise you. Mrs P's Mamma once told me, "They all say I should stay home like a sick old lady. Well, I'm not gonna do it. When death comes for me, he's not gonna find me lying in my bed, he's gonna have to come looking for me running the roads in my old car."

Well when he comes looking for Pennsy, he's gonna find this Fat Man Running.

Saturday, July 31, 2010

#240: I Know You...

I know you... It's an unspoken nod of recognition. We members of the cancer fraternity can spot one another in the halls, in the waiting rooms. In the parking lot while one of us is waiting for a ride, the other will smile. I know you... Today, waiting for the elevator, the door opened and our eyes met. He was emaciated and was wearing the mask that the hardcore chemo people wear. He avoided touching the buttons or the door has he tried to hold it open for Mum and me. We smiled. "I know you. I know your struggle. Keep fighting."

No words are exchanged.  They are unnecessary between us, and meaningless to others. No matter how devoted our caregivers, they can never know us the way we know one another. A silent nod. Nothing more need be said.

Wednesday, September 8, 2010

#259: What the Old Timers Know

The head and neck cancer support group was much less scary yesterday. They reminded me how really badly I was doing just four weeks ago. I was making progress without even realizing it.

Last month I was scared by the stories of people whose sense of taste took two or three years to get back to normal. Some people never get all the way back. Yesterday those same stories gave me hope. You can recognize the long time survivors because they are so positive and encouraging. Those of us closer to treatment are more worried, but the folks who actually make it for years are the ones who keep hoping for the best. I talked a little about my anxiety, and they just kept telling me, "You're gonna be fine." And I will be fine. Whatever the outcome of today's scan, I'll be fine. I'll still have great doctors and people who love me. I'll still have God, no matter how frustratingly silent God seems to be. And I'll still have this blog to share my story with people who need to hear it.

It's gonna be fine.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

#268: Saying "Yes" to Now

There is something sort of funny about this spiritual awakening of mine. I've spent most of the year angry and doubting God. Just at the time when I would have expected to lean on Jesus the most, I felt the most alone. Now that the danger has past, I've started to realize just how present God has been. God may not have felt close, but the people God sent sure were. They answered "Yes" when God told them to call or send an email or make a casserole. God was present in the faithful people who cared about me.

Maybe that's as good a definition of faith as any. Faith is saying "Yes," to life. "Yes," to love. "Yes," to now.

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

#407: 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon

Mrs P and my sister, Beth had managed to sneak into the VIP grandstands. It wasn't too hard, since the winners had finished over 4 hours earlier. I saw them cheering and snapping pictures just as I passed and their smiles gave me the last boost I needed to run across the finish line. A lady handed me my medal. Two young girls doused me with water. I staggered to a photo area where a man snapped my picture and handed me a business card. I guzzled Gatorade and water and grabbed a banana before wandering to a bench at the entrance of Point Park and prayed that the girls would somehow stumble across me. We embraced. "We did it," I said to Mrs P. "YOU did it," she corrected me. "WE did it," I insisted. "We kicked cancer's ass." My sister looked at the two of us and said, "You sure did." "We did it," I repeated. "F**k cancer." "Yeh," my little sister affirmed, "F**k cancer."

Nobody loves you like your little sister

My God, what a great day for a run.

Friday, April 13, 2012

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peace,

Pennsy

#427: Reflections on the Birth of the Fat Man

Near the end of 2007, I found myself in the hospital with phlebitis in my right leg. It scared the hell out of me. That Christmas, I decided that it was time to stop paying lip service to getting fit. Blood clots had killed my father, and put my mother in the hospital for days. I was on the express train to the same fate. I stopped writing sermons on "Pennsyltuckian" and created a new blog: one that was to be more honest, and more spiritual than all my self conscious preaching could have ever been. "Fat Man Running" made its debut early in 2008. Pennsy's fight for life had begun.

Sunday, January 13, 2008

Fat Man Running - the adventure begins

Today I am beginning a new blog project I'm calling Fat Man Running. I have avoided posts about myself because ... oh, I don't know. Maybe I just want to feel important and smart. It's easier to be cosmic than to be real.

Anyway, I've decided to break that policy in order to journal an adventure that I hope will last for the rest of my life. Mrs Pennsy and I joined a gym yesterday.

Let me put this into perspective - I am 47 years old, 6'-4" tall and weigh 374 lbs. That's a body mass index of 45.5. That number is not an accident. It is a consequence of a lifetime of choices - some good, mostly bad. A lot of destructive habits produced this body, and I sort of hope I can change the results by changing my behavior.


I will still bloviate about God, the Universe and All That in this space. My relationship with my Creator is one of the primary reasons I have started off on this adventure. I'd sort of like to be able to tell God that I did something with the healthy, strong body I was blessed with besides filling it with chocolate and potato chips.

Actually, there are several things I'd like to be able to do. I'd like to live long enough to retire, for example.

So off I go. Maybe my story will inspire someone else, as I have been inspired. I certainly hope that by putting myself "out there" I can develop a sense of accountability to someone - even if no one else reads. I really want to succeed this time.

Peace,
Pennsy

1/13/08, Rainy & Cold
374 lbs
Treadmill walk
1.25 mi
0:25 min
180 Max HR