#452: 2013 Flying Pig Marathon, Addendum

Sometimes when I run, a phrase or word will come to me and will repeat over and over in my mind's ear, like a mantra or a koan. "Just keep going." "Light and quick." "F*ck cancer." All these have latched on at one time or another, in training or in a race. Yesterday I had one come that I'd never heard before. It shocked me then. It still does.

If you can't run, then walk. If you can't walk, then crawl. If you can't crawl, then die.

I don't know where these words came from, but I think I know what they mean. Just because you can't finish according to plan, just because you don't have the strength or the stamina to fulfill your dream right now... that's no excuse to give up. If you are willing to give up on your dreams just because you can't have them the way you want them, they you have stopped dreaming, and you might as well be dead.

I might never run a full marathon in under 5 hours or qualify for Boston. I might never run a 20 minute 5K or weight 200 pounds. I might never be able to afford a beautiful house or a beautiful vacation for Mrs P. But if I let the maybes limit me, if I let the worst possibilities define me and not my best hopes and dreams, then I'm dead already.

I will not surrender to the dread of what might be.

I am a warrior. I am a victor.

I will heal. I will be well again.

I may have to crawl to get back to my life at the Y. But I will never give up on that dream. I will not let it, or myself die of fear.

Peace,
Pennsy

#451: 2013 Flying Pig Marathon, Part 2

When we last saw Pennsy, he had just kissed Mrs P goodbye and was heading down the stairs of the parking structure, toward what he remembered to be the starting area of the Flying Pig Marathon. He was travelling without his hydration pack because the weather and his physical condition could both be described as 'sloshy." But what our hero had forgotten was that in addition to 2 liters of sports drink, his pack also contained

• Drivers license, Debit card, and insurance card
• Cell phone in case of emergency
• Interval timer to chirp out when to walk and when to run

The first was not missed. There was no need to pay EMT's or Emergency room doctors, or to prove my identity to any of the ubiquitous and heavily armed security personnel. On the other hand, I did have to borrow a phone to find Mrs P after the race, and not having my interval timer just may have cost me a couple hundred dollars in Buck-a-Minute donations. I decided I would just insert a walk break at every mile marker, but by mile 16, it was clear that that hadn't been enough. But we'll cross that bridge a few miles don the road. 

I made my way around Paul Brown Stadium. You might have to be a Steeler fan to appreciate the humor, but there was an enormous logo for Heinz on the flashing billboard outside. I passed the starting gate, and began jogging the long walk back toward "Pigpen H," the last corral for people who estimated their finishing time to be over 6 hours. I was somewhere around Pigpen C when they had a moment of silence, then a piper played to honor the wounded and dead of Boston. Somewhere near Pigpen F, an accapella group from the University of Kentucky, of all places, sang a really lovely rendition of the national anthem. I had just reached the big flag that said "G" when the horn sounded to start the race. We were on a sort of side spur road, so I knew that the slow pokes would have to wait a long time while the quicker runners passed. I made it all the way to the end of the line, and decided to use the traffic to control my speed for the first few miles. Then the wait started. We smiled at one another. Chatted. Stretched. Then I noticed someone pointing up in the sky. They had search lights ballyhooing around the starting line like a Hollywood opening. I figured that's what people were seeing. When I looked up, I saw a miracle instead. At 6:40 in the morning, with the sky steely blue with cloud cover, reaching from Kentucky to Ohio, hung an enormous rainbow. I've never seen anything like it in my life. I stood with my jaw slack, amazed at this wonderful sign from heaven. It felt like God was blessing our run. It was a good thing. I was going to need it. 

I hit the starting line at 6:51, 21 minutes after the gun. I had prepared a very clear pacing plan with the goal of bettering my previous Marathon time by an hour. 10 miles at 13:00/mile, 12 at 12:00/mile, then the last 4 miles somewhere between 11:00/mile and "go like hell."  I had calculated my run/walk pace based on 60 second intervals. had to throw that out the window when I discovered I didn't have my timer. My first 10 miles were actually pretty good: Between 13:32 (the first and most traffic laden) and 12:22 (an ego pace because I knew that the Striders would be cheering during that stretch, and didn't want to get caught walking.) One big surprise in the early part of the race was mile 9. I was expecting "the Climb." it pokes up out of the elevation chart like the Matterhorn. It's a 300+ foot climb, most of which occurs during miles 7 and 8. I took it nice and smoothly, comforted with the knowledge that once this one was done, the rest of the course was a long, gradual down hill roll. Mile 9 disabused me of that belief. The hills along the rest of the course are only small in comparison to "the Climb." On their own merit, they are little assasins, one and all. Not enough to kill you, but enough to just make you want to throw up your hands and cry out, "Dear God. ANOTHER one?" I held my pace through 16 miles, but after that, the 1 miles splits start to slow back down into the 13:00/mile range again. By mile 18, I knew two things. I was not going to hit the wall, I felt almost no pain or cramping in my legs. but I also knew that I was fading. I would not be dropping an hour from last year's time.

One other thing about "the Climb" When you get to the top, you run around a really dramatic overlook called Eden Park. The valley spreads out around you and it feels as if you are looking down from the clouds. It reminds me a little of Mount Washington in Pittsburgh. I would like to go back there someday when I have a little more time to stop and look around.

Mile 21 was the first and only time I went over 14:00/mile all day. It was also right around the time that my 1 minute per mile walk breaks fell apart. I tried several solutions, and finally settled on counting. 10 strides running, 10 strides walking. My mind was turning to mush at this point, too. I would count out loud, and laugh at the idea of runing a marathon 10 steps at a time. I cursed at the devil. I called out to lost friends and LIVESTRONG warriors. I tried to avoid thinking of the things and people who made me cry. It was easy. When some unwanted thought would rise up from the deep, I would just point my consciousness back toward the sound of my feet and my breath. At Mile 23, with just 5K left to run, I started going hard. No more walk breaks. I was going to go for broke. All I could think of was the Buck-a-Minute team. If I could knock an extra minute or two off my time, another kid could take swimming lessons or a trainer could spend an extra hour with a survivor who wanted to learn how to swing a kettlebell or perform a deadlift. I wasn't going to hit my personal goal, but I wasn't going to let those people down, either. 

One by one, I started to pass the walkers. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't blazing by any means, but I refused to let up. I thought about Becky in her nursing home bed, waiting to get sick enough that they would take her back to the hospital. I remembered all of them, then. I heard Carrie saying "Don't quit on me, Bob." I heard Mrs P, "I believe in you, Bobbo." Hardest of all was Coach Melissa. "Remember who you are. You are that same Bob Johnson that I saw that first day at the Y." I ran, partly to honor them, and partly to escape the tears that I felt threatening to choke me. When the finish line finally came into view, about a quarter mile down Main Street, I hauled up onto my toes and sprinted for all I was worth. I sprinted the way I do when Carrie has me run hill sprints. My arms pumped. My breath rushed in and out with each stride. I gritted my teeth. My eyes flashed. I was running angry. I was racing cancer. Mine. Becky's, Everybody's. When I hit the finish line, I threw up my hands and praised God, just as my nephew the preacher had asked me to do. I don't know how many people saw me. There aren't many spectators left after 5 hours of a Marathon. But God saw me. I knew who had given me the tools to do what I had done. I was humbled, but also proud. I was the one who had to choose what to do with those tools. God had let me choose, and I had chosen to try to be my best self. 

I was spent. A worried little volunteer took my arm and walked me, first to the mylar blankets, then to the water bottles. I realized that I had no way of reaching Mrs P, so asked a volunteer to let me use her phone. Security was  much too tight for us to meet at the finish line, so we decided to meet back at the parking garage. I made my way through the gauntlet of bananas and fruit cups and water bottles until I left the post race area, I looked down and realized that at some point, someone had hung a finisher's medal around my neck. I had just run my second marathon. I checked my Garmin. 39 minutes. I beat my old time by 39 minutes. Pretty impressive, if not the miracle I was hoping for. About 40 bucks per pledge. Not a bad day's work.

It started to rain, and as I tried to climb the stairs from the river to the walk way around the stadium, I felt the first crippling cramps of the day. Here at last was the wall. I had pushed it back to 27 miles. But there was still a long way to go to the car and my legs hurt so badly that I cried out each time I climbed another step. Limping, bellowing, and soon soaking and shivering, I walked up into the city. Mrs P had given me an intersection to find. I could not remember what she had said, nor could I have remembered how to find it if I did remember. I was far from the handful of blocks we had seen on Saturday. Nothing looked familiar because everything looked the same. A panhandler with a cardboard sign considered me carefully as I wandered by in a daze. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had offered me a buck. 

Finally, I met another pair of runners who looked as lost and stupid as I was. "We just went all the way around in a circle. We can't remember where we parked." "Did you see the Millennium Hotel on your walk?" "Yes," she shouted, as if she had finally gotten an answer right on Jeopardy. "It's a block that way!" We parted, and I assumed we would probably see one another again as we spent the rest of our lives wandering like Flying Dutch Pigs around the canyons of Cincinnati. Instead, as I approached the hotel, a woman with a plastic bag full of clothes approached me, smiling. No crying, No, it was not a stranger. It was Mrs P. "How in the hell did you find me?" I asked, amazed and squinting through my bifocal-less eyes. "I told you to meet me here. I've been standing on the corner watching people limp."

She led me to the car where I put on a dry shirt and some warm pants. We rode back to Kentucky, and stopped somewhere for lasagna and a bowl of minestrone. Then I went to sleep and woke up a few minutes from our house. 

It should have been a great day. Dropped 10% from my Marathon time. Doubled my fundraiser total. Finished 26 miles at a full gallop. But bipolar disorder can blunt even great days. By the time I got back to Lexington and opened up the race website to confirm my official time, it was as if it had all happened to someone else... as if I had watched a Marathon, instead of running one. The tears I had been hoping for... the cathartic bursting of the dam at the finish line that would let all the pain and grief out once and for all... they did not come. Instead, there was just exhausted numbness. At night, in our bed, I sobbed while Mrs P held me. No longer crying for my lost friend, but for the fear of losing the Y itself. 

I am terrified. As frightened as I have ever been of anything. If I can't get well, if this thing doesn't go away, then I will never be able to go back to work at the Y... back to the best job I have ever had, and the only one I have ever really loved... 

Yes, I am humbled by the generosity of my God and my friends. Yes, I am proud of the things we have achieved together. I am proud that there will be so much more money in the purse of LIVESTRONG at the YMCA. But I am so afraid that I won't be able to be there to see the good it will do. God, help me. God, heal me. Please. I am so very very afraid.

Peace,

Pennsy

#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

#449: Thanks, Coach

I got an important reminder this morning. A friend carried a message to me from my Coach. Here are a few excerpts.

Bob keep holding on to God. God has the answers and we have to seek them and as we get closer to him the more he will help us God saved you for a reason that means you have a special reason to be alive. but satan knows your weakness and how to use them against you...
Think about how hard satan is working to destroy you that means he knows how much good you can do for the Lord... God has a mighty work for you . 
Dont forget to praise God i know the y and people there have helped you a lot but God sent them to you... He knew what you needed...  People will come and go, but God said he will never leave or forsake us ...
God brought you through cancer; this too he can help you through. I just know God has a great work for you for satan to work so hard to destroy you. Dont let him win. Fight him with all your might...
Remember Paul and Silas while in jail they praised God..I  know its hard to praise him we wonder where he is. I've even blamed God and i started going down hill fast, but we have to realise sometime Gods answer is no... thats why we must trust him and have faith ...
You wrote "unworthy as i am." If God saved you you are worthy...
As you run the marathon tomorrow i know you are running to fight against cancer and help cancer victims, but do me a favor tomorrow while running do me a favor praise God sing his praises give him all the glory some people may look at you funny talk about you but there might be one there that needs to here you sing and praise God. Where else can you be a witness to that many people..? 
God said go out in the hedges and highways and compel the lost to come in. I believe God can heal you. You dont have to live with this. Don't let Satan win. Go run for God and cancer...
I'm very proud of you. After the race, you still have to keep running the race for God.

Many people find that kind of talk to be old fashioned or superstitious. Other people, people I respect and love, would even call it fanatical and weak-minded. Well, if bipolar disorder teaches you anything, it is that your mind is much weaker than you think. If believing in God is weak, then I am grateful for my weakness.

My friend is right. The physicians fought my cancer, but God was the one who healed me. My coaches worked tirelessly to turn me into a runner, but God was the one who taught me to run. God was the one who sent these people to me. What I call my mission or my ministry or my purpose, my friend calls "a mighty work," and God is the one who will give me whatever I need to get that work done.

I do believe in God. I don't believe many of the things that my friend might, and I don't believe in the same way as I did when I was younger, but I know that the only reason I am alive is that God loves me, and has a purpose for my life.

I don't know what Satan is. I don't know if he's a fallen angel or just my own fear and shame. Maybe Satan is cancer. Whatever he is, I know that he will keep me from doing the work God has given me to do. And I don't intend to let that happen.

My friend is old-fashioned. He loves that Old Time Religion and makes no apologies for it. Some people think that's silly or worse. For me, it is an inspiration. I don't know if I will ever return to that way of thinking, but I know that no matter how hard my head gets pulled around, I have to turn it back toward God.

Today I will run. I will race against myself, the clock, the course, and the pain that will scream at me to stop doing something so very, very foolish.

But I will not stop. Not as long as I can still run or walk or crawl. Because I'm not just running for myself.

I am running for the people God has sent. The people who believe in me. The people who need to see that nothing, not cancer, not mental illness, not fear, not even the Devil can keep you from becoming the person you were created to be if you rely on God's help.

I am running for love. For life. For light. And I am running to praise the source of those things.

This is not a sermon. And I don't think it is an insane rave.

It is my testimony. My beautiful friend has reminded me of something I have forgotten.

I am not in this world to be anybody's hero or inspiration. I am here to be their servant. Jesus didn't want praise. He wanted to wash feet. He wanted to feed hungry people. He wanted to comfort suffering people.

That's my job.

Thank you, brother. You had the love and the courage to remind me of that.

Today, I'm praising God for the chance to run. I'm humbled by the generosity of my friends and neighbors. I may weep again today. But I will weep for joy. I will weep for gratitude. I will weep because Amazing Grace saved a wretch like me, and will continue to save me every time I drift off course.

God is my Coach.

And my God, it's a great day for a run.

Peace,
Pennsy

#448: Citizens of Bipolar Nation

I'll be honest. There's a little more on my mind than I would prefer the day before a marathon.

I have been misunderstood... and understood too well. Which is ironic, because I don't understand a damn thing.

I don't understand why the word "love" has been spread so thin that it doesn't mean anything. We love our sweethearts. We love our friends. We love God. We love ice cream. We love humanity. We love Citizen Kane. When the same word can mean so many things, I don't understand how it can mean anything. 

I don't understand how things can be so mixed up. How the best intentions can become the most disastrous actions. The perfect solution, can turn out to be the worst thing you could possibly have done.

I don't understand how people who love me can believe the worst without knowing the truth. Or how people who know the truth can love me at all.

I don't understand this disease. This disorder. My moods are cycling hard now. In spite of the meds and the head shrinking. Life is still more than I can take in stride. It is like learning to ride a unicycle. There is only up and down. Good and bad. No middle. No gray. I'm surrounded by saints and devils. I love and I hate. It is confusing to the people who care about me. Unfair to the people who depend on me. Brutal to myself.

This is the danger zone. This is when the disease gets deadly.

I'm in a hole. I started writing about my mental illness for the first time because I thought it would help. Help people to understand what it is like to go through it. Help people who share the diagnosis and the stigma of bipolar disorder to know that they are not alone. That we don't have to fight it alone. I don't know if it has done that. I don't know what's true and what's my disease lying to me. I know that it has frightened people. Some are frightened for me. Too many are frightened of me. 

And I'm frightened, too. People know, now. I'm not just "eccentric." I'm not just "emotional." I live  my life out on the thin ice, and when it breaks, I'm not just sad, I'm scared to death. Because no matter how many times you tell yourself it will get better, there's a part of you that can never believe it. Especially when it keeps getting worse. 

So, what to do now? Stop writing about it? Stop thinking about it? Stop fighting? No. I started digging this hole, and it's too deep to climb out. There's nothing left to do but give up or keep digging. "The ones who give up... they all die." I'm not ready to give up. I will never give up.

You want to see what's down here? OK, have a look. 

Imagine a world of flickering shadows where everything seems dangerous and sad. Imagine feeling so strong, so smart, so ready to take on the world that your every move feels brilliant and inspired by God himself.

Imagine a Victorian room where warm soft light reveals deep, rich colors and textures so beautiful it makes you cry for the love of it. And the next minute, the room goes dark and every step you take stubs a toe, cracks a shin, knocks over a crystal goblet that shatters around your bare feet on the stone floor. And then, the lights are on again in the same beautiful room you remember, except your legs are bruised and torn, leaving bloody footprints on the silk rug wherever you step.

Imagine the eyes. The prying eyes of the curious. The fearful eyes of your mother. The wounded eyes of your wife. Imagine the rolling eyes that have had too much of you. The judging eyes that blame you. The unblinking eyes of the ones who doubt you. And always there are your own eyes. You see only extremes. You see only perfection or danger. Yours are the eyes whose every message has to be checked and rechecked because they have lied to you so many times that you can't believe your own thoughts.

Do you see it yet? Do you see what it means to know you can't be trusted because you can't trust yourself? Can you feel what it's like to have your own mind betray you, just when you need it most? Can you hear the tears of your beloved as she is confronted  by outsiders with the questions that you couldn't even answer yourself?

Then see this. See your own funeral. See the closed coffin and the confused weeping. See the anger, the blaming whispers. Hear the careful, evasively worded eulogy. Hear the silence of that dark box, and feel it's seductive peace. Can you do that, down here in this hole that I've dug? Can you imagine feeling like death, even eternity in hell would be better than living like a wounded bull in a china shop, thrashing your broken horns, goring everything that is lovely or loving in your world? Can you imagine longing for that release?

If not, then you have no idea what bipolar disorder means. 

I'm going to keep writing. It's going to hurt me. It has hurt me already. Cancer makes you a hero. Mental illness makes you a freak. That's the way it feels. And often, that's the way it is. And the only thing I can do to help change that is to keep telling the truth. 

Because here's the most important thing you need to know about us, the citizens, the prisoners of Bipolar Nation - if we are not dead, it's because we are fighting to hold on to life every second. 

I want you to understand. We are not criminals. But we are in great pain, and we are in great danger. We understand that you need to protect yourself from the consequences of our disease. You can't trust us when we are sick any more than we can trust ourselves. But we desperately need your compassion. We need someone to counter the lies that the lows tells us. We need a patient hand when the highs make us think we can take on the world. We know how much it hurts to be around us. And we understand if you can't do it all the time.

But oh dear God, we so need someone to keep telling us it's going to be ok.

Peace,

Pennsy

#447: Game Face

Gazing into my own reflected eyes
While Ivanica shears me like a Spartan,
I see something new;

72 hours to go
A hundred hearts
A million tears
A woman in the dark
Mother without breasts
Praying that the surgeon found it all

There in the mirror,
Got my game face on.





Ran.
For fun
Love
Joy
But never before,
To Win.

To crush the Damned Thing
Choke the life out of it
Drag it in a sack to the river
Pound it under my shoes

Angry at the cells
Tumors
Scars
Burns
The fingers that can't feel
The eyes that can't see and the tongues that can't taste.

Murderer.

Wish I could make it chase me over the hills until its evil heart bursts with the effort.
Run right into the grave and pull them all back to life again.
Throw a rope around its neck and drag the Damned Thing through the streets until there's nothing left but an empty, bloody loop.

But I can't do any of those things.
All my hate and anger can't make a dent.

Only love
Laughter.
The unspeakable joy of the pain that burns
The muscles that seize,
The cramps that threaten to tear you down to the ground...
The will to run on.

To the edge of the darkness,
And through into the light on the other side.

Alive

Running hard and strong until I can't run anymore,
Carrying them all with me.

Grampa
Uncle Bud
Alan
Catherine
Doug
Elvin
Jan
Doug
Andrea
Angela
Barbara
Jaspal
Carmen
Cherie
Jennifer
Darlene
Darrell
Denise
Derrick
Alice
Art
Ersula
Francis
Frank
Gwen
Helen
Bobbie
Jeannie
Debbie
Renee
Raylee
Brenda
Ginny
John
Emma
Joyce
Judy
Katy
LaDonna
Terri
Pam
Dee Dee
Ruthie
Shelia
Lynne
Leslie
Mina
Mary
Becky
Peggy
Robin
Jillian
Shevawn
Marian
Byron
Gary
Grace
Dave

Climb aboard, you warriors You champions;
Ever victors, Never victims;
Come with me,
Get on my shoulders,
Come into to my heart.

Wrap your strength around my legs.
Fill my lungs with your courage.
Raise your arms in victory with mine.

Climb aboard, my friends.
My darling ones.

Be my eyes as we run along the river.
Be my ears as they cheer from the side of the streets.

You are my strength.
You are my inspiration.
You taught me to fight.
You taught me to run.
To live.

My brothers and sisters.
My comrades.
My heroes.
My beloved.
I'm taking you for a ride.
We're going to run a By-God-Marathon together.

This time,
Life wins.

Peace,
Pennsy

#446: Friends, Family, and Warriors

Coach Rita, Renee, Marian, and Becky

Some friends play at friendship, but a true friend sticks closer than one's nearest kin. ~ Proverbs 18:24 NRSV

THE DAMNED THING

My friend is pretty sick these days. Not so very long ago, she kicked breast cancer's ass and sent it packing. Then, last winter, she started feeling tired. Head aches. Irritability. She started missing exercise classes. For most people that means you've got a bug coming on, or you need to get more sleep, or you're not eating right. For a cancer fighter, it can be more sinister. It calls for the kinds of tests that you are inclined to put off until after the holidays.

So as winter settled in over the Bluegrass, Becky went to the doc and began the long detective work; searching for what was wrong. There were a lot of false leads. Some docs will tend to look for everything else first. It's not necessarily the best medicine, but it's just human nature. When you're treating  a cancer survivor, you don't want to deliver the worst news first.

Becky's bad news came after a lumbar puncture. It was there. In her spinal fluid. The Damned Thing was going after her nervous system. She came to work for a few more days. Let us know what was happening. There would be chemo. Again. No telling what other treatment it would take. But she would do it. From the very first, she was scared, but not cowed. Becky is a warrior. She will fight.

Closer Than Kin

FRIENDS

It is difficult to think of Becky without thinking of Marian. I realized as I was preparing this post that I don't have any pictures of Becky without Marian close by. At work. In class. Shopping. At lunch. Marian and Becky were classmates when they went through LIVESTRONG at the YCMA together. They are closer than sisters.

While I was having my recent mental breakdown, Marian and Coach decided that I should not be told about Becky. I'm glad they spared me then. I'm not sure my mind could have held up under the news. Three nights ago, I asked Marian how our friend was doing. She could keep the facts from me for a while, but could never tell me a lie. So she took a chance that I was as strong as I said I was: she told me the truth. They've stopped Becky's chemo. It wasn't helping. She spent some time in the hospital. Now she's in a nursing home, waiting until she's sick enough to go back. They've contacted Hospice. Her daughter has been a Guardian Angel for her mother, protecting her, sitting with her, nursing her, loving her. They've decided to tell Becky only what she needs to know. Her mind is fragile, and she has days when she doesn't recognize visitors. Gets confused about where she is. I listened, my eyes moist with compassion and anger. Compassion for my friend's pain. Anger at the Damned Thing that had chosen such a beautiful and vulnerable target. Well, the Bastard was in for the fight of his life.

THE WARRIOR

This is no eulogy. My friend is very much alive and very much in battle mode. Marian and I visited her the day after she shared the news with me. Marian warned me that it would not be easy. There was no telling who would be there in the bed to greet us when we arrived. She was sleeping when we came in. Pale. and a little bloated from the chemo, but she'd kept her hair which was a balm to her vanity, I'm sure. Becky loved to get her hair done, and there was no telling what color it might be when you walked into the gym in the morning. It's a lovely chestnut brown right now. At least it was on Tuesday. She slept peacefully, deeply. I took her hand and gently greeted her the way I always have. "Hey, Miss Becky." She didn't stir. The whir of the air conditioner and the drone of the television wrapped her in a blanket of white noise that my voice could not cut through. Marian, standing on Becky's right, tapped her hand gently. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty. Look what I've brought you."

Slowly, Becky's hands squeezed ours and her face started to awaken. Half a smile came to her lips as she saw Marian's giant smile. "I brought Bob Johnson with me." Becky turned her face toward me, peering through the one, beautiful blue eye that the cancer has left her. I wasn't sure what she was seeing. "Do you recognize me, Becky?" "Yes, Bob," she answered as if it was the stupidest question she had ever heard. Marian and I laughed and Becky smiled softly. Contraband was exchanged. Becky chewed happily on the Mounds bar Marian had snuck in, the dark chocolate melting on her fingers. She sipped water to help wash the coconut down. We talked about the Y. I told her that the whole morning crew sent their love. Dave and Gary, Dora, Bonnie and Bob, Ernesto and Beth and Teri and Meagan and Derick. I didn't mention Coach leaving. Becky's carrying more than enough on her shoulders right now. I told her about my recent troubles, and that I was going to be running a marathon on Sunday.

I would be running for her.

2012 LIVESTRONG at the
YMCA racing team

Would she like to come along? I was sure I could sling her over my shoulder and carry her for most of the way. She turned her head to Marian and rolled her eye. "Idiot," she seemed to say. We laughed again, remembering how proud we all were the night back in August when she finished her first 5K, the Midsummer Night's Run. I had pushed ahead, trying to break my first 30 minute 5K. I missed it by 3 seconds. Coach had stayed back with Becky, walking along. Struggling, sweating, and gasping. We pounded fists and celebrated with water and bananas when she crossed the finish line on that muggy night. She would not be walking in Cincinnati on Sunday. But she will be with me. One way or another, I'm carrying my friend across the finish line.

We sat together for an hour or so. Becky drifting in and out of reality. She was firmly grounded when we talked about the Y or Mrs P's work (Becky was a social worker before she retired.) Other times, she confused by the TV. There was a cartoon on, and she kept seeing herself and her friends on the screen. Or maybe she was yanking our chains. It was hard to tell. Her sense of humor has no cancer in it. It remains strong and healthy.

After a while, her eyelid started to get heavy. I couldn't coax her out of the TV world with my stories and jokes. Marian offered her another piece of chocolate, but Becky was sure that it didn't belong to her. We reminded her that Marian had brought it for her. Our hands had not stopped touching the whole time I was there, and now I felt her squeeze just a little harder. Goodbye time was coming.

We kissed and told her we loved her. Promised to return soon. I told her I had a book I wanted to read to her. It's called Naked Came the Manatee and it's about a sea cow named Booger. She gave Marian one last eye roll. "Be still my heart," she said with perfect deadpan timing. We hugged one last time, and made our way to the hall.

Marian looked at me once, her eyes rimmed with red. She hadn't shed a tear in the room, but now she was fighting them back with all her might. She is a warrior, too. We walked to the door in silence, then talked about our next visit. We hugged, there in the sunlight. It was a beautiful Bluegrass spring day. I walked to the car and called Mrs P. Time to go home. I made plans to go back Friday to start the Manatee book. I think she'll like it. At least my droning on will help her to sleep.

Metastatic cancer is a son of a bitch. It kicks you down, and then it keeps kicking, spreading, staying one step ahead of the doctors and their poison. I was lucky. Mine got to my lymph nodes, but we killed it before the express train to brain and lungs and liver left the station. Becky is not so lucky. It is spreading and growing now in places where nobody can reach it. Brain cancer is so cruel because it doesn't just attack your body, it assaults your self. Cancer could never break Becky's spirit, so he's trying to just obliterate it.

He will fail.

With all she has suffered, all the pain and fear and confusion, Becky still loves life. She loves her friends. She loves the blue sky that shines through her window. She loves the taste of chocolate and the gooey feel of her sticky, brown fingers when it melts in her hand. She laughs. She teases. She loves.

She lives.

CLOSER THAN KIN

I don't know what's down the road for my friend. Nobody does. Chances are that her travelling is going to get a lot harder. But I know one thing. She won't be travelling alone.

The last time I really cried, I was in the arms of my friend Terri. We were members of the first LIVESTRONG at the YMCA group in Lexington. She is more than my friend. She is my sister. "It's going to be ok," she whispered. "We will always have each other." There are a lot of people who love us, but there is a place where only survivors can go. There is a bond that only we can feel. Once it is formed, nothing can break it. We will always have each other. We will never give up. And we will never fight alone.

Becky would do this for me. We are closer than kin. We are survivors, fighters, victors. She would be there for me or Marian, just as eagerly as we are there for her. It's not just about friendship. It's about family.

Cancer warriors don't leave their wounded behind.

Peace,
Pennsy