#409: Help That Helps

There are so many reasons to ask for help. Two of my favorites are because I don't know how to get where I want to be, and because I can't get there by myself. I was once afraid to ask for help. I didn't want to bother people. I guess I was afraid they would say "No." I also wanted to be the kind of special, self-reliant soul who knew how to take care of himself: a guy who gets things done on his own. My cancer battle beat that pride right out of me. Cancer humbles you. When you have to ask someone to come feed you four times a day, or mop your vomit up off the floor, you come to terms with needing help. When your goal is staying alive, your image becomes a lot less important.

Hill work with Jake and Clare

I still love my solitude. That is one of the things I love about endurance sports. Yeah, you can meet up with a group in the parking lot, and go out for breakfast together after a run or a race, but when you're pumping up the millionth hill of the morning, just trying to keep your feet moving, no one can do that work for you. You're on your own. Asking for help as a runner usually happens when you're not running. I've found help in some wonderful people.

A proud Mom doesn't care how sweaty the post-race hugs are.

If you follow FMR, you already know that Mum and Mrs P are my biggest fans and my strongest supporters. Mum is always proud when I have a new breakthrough, and she lets me know it. She is a woman who doesn't give up, and she teaches me how to be that way through her words and her example. Mrs P endures the early morning alarm clocks, the mountains of sweaty laundry, the expenses of race registrations and $11 socks because she believes in me. The last few yards of my marathon, my feet never touched the ground, because I could see her at the finish line, weeping.

John's Striders pose in the middle of a training run in front of
the Run the Bluegrass "Chicken House."

There's a community of runners in Lexington called John's Striders. We're associated with John's Run/Walk Shop. There are a couple of good running stores in the Bluegrass, but John's is the runners' Mecca in these parts. The Striders meet up several times a week, all over town, and we also have our own page on Facebook. We celebrate one another's achievements, support one another's struggles, and learn the art and science of running from people who have been on the road for decades. I can't imagine why any runner would not benefit from being a part of a group like the Striders.

Coaches Melissa, Carrie, and Chelsea, front and center

Then there's Coach Carrie. When I started at LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, I met some amazing trainers, my "Coaches," each with their special level of expertise. All of them knew their business, all of them could motivate me to walk through fire or run through walls, and all of them agreed on one thing: Carrie is something special. Coach has been training and teaching for a long time. She runs three or four group exercise classes every day. She doesn't have one of those willowy, long legged, slim hipped bodies that one associates with group exercise instructors. Her muscles are thick and strong as steel cables. Trying to keep up with her in a Pilates or TRX class can leave me gasping on the floor in a pond of my own sweat. Coach has something in common with my Dad. She doesn't give away her smiles lightly. When you get one from her, you really feel like you've earned it. And as of last week, Coach Carrie is my personal trainer.

I have several goals for this summer. The LexRunLadies, another running group in town, have declared 2012 to be the "Summer of Speed," and getting faster is a biggie for me. That's going to require two things: building a house of strength on top of the foundation of endurance I've spent the last year and a half laying down, and losing more weight to lighten the load those new stronger muscles have to move down the road. Coach is helping me do that. She has designed a program of high intensity interval training (HITT) that involves a circuit of strength and power exercises that are already showing me results. I set a new PR in a 5 mile race this weekend, and I'm already losing weight. Something tells me Coach is gonna rock my world.

Another of my goals is to earn a Personal Trainer certification from the American College of Sports Medicine, (ACSM.) Coach is helping me there, too. She doesn't just bark orders and chirp "Good Job," when you finish a set, she teaches. "This is what this exercise is designed to do." "Here is a way to put a program together for a client." "When you're training someone, this is what you need to be paying attention to." She isn't just a trainer, she's a mentor. Coach isn't just a trainer, she's a mentor.

There are a lot of places to ask for help, even for a lonely, long-distance athlete. The asking takes humility and the good judgement to know if you're tapping into a reliable source. Thanks to these men and women, these helpers, I may still have to run my own race, but I will never have to run it alone. That's what I mean by "Help that helps." That's the kind of helper I want to be.

Peace,
Pennsy

#408: One for Homer

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


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


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


. 

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

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


"Yep."


"How far?"


"Six miles."


"Wish I could run."


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


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


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


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


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


"That one was for you, Homer."


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


Peace,
Pennsy 

#407: 2012 Pittsburgh Marathon

A friend asked me, "How long does it take to train for a marathon?" I didn't hesitate. "51 years." This race report could be a novel, but I'll try to spare you that. Still, there's a lot to say.


ANTICI..... PATION


The 7 days before the marathon were verrrry long. Once the calender said "7 days," my obsession kicked into high gear. I wore shoes all the time so I wouldn't stub my toes. I questioned every bite of food. I saw myself running every time I closed my eyes. I promoted my fundraiser relentlessly. Monday night, I ran with the Run This Town kids from the Y and we did speed work: exactly what I should not have been doing the week before a marathon. That night, I lay in bed fretting over my sore quads. Had I hurt myself? Had I burned up too much energy? Would I recover in time for the race? 

By Wednesday, I was stone crazy. After a couple of hours of checking the clock, I got up at 4:30 and wrote out my agenda for the race weekend. Travel time. Sightseeing with Mrs P. Time at the race expo. Rest days. Race day. Then I wrote my packing list. Race clothes. Spare clothes. Street clothes.By the time I went to work, I was packed and ready to go. I ran 4 easy miles on the Legacy Trail to work off some nerves, then did my shift at the desk at the Y. Our LIVESTRONG at the YMCA class was particularly sweet that night. We had a good workout, then during stretch and reflect time, everyone wished me good luck. Rehearsal that night was long, but productive. Our directrix, the Mad Russian told me to win my marathon, and I assured her that I intended to do so.


Thursday was travel day. Mrs P packed and told me when she was finished so I could load the bags into the car. On the way out of town, I stopped to say goodbye to the gang at the Y, and to add my brother PP to our membership. He had driven up from Florida to watch the dogs, and wanted a place to exercise while he was in town. The lunchroom gang all wished me well, and I insisted on a big hug from Coach Melissa. Then we were off. The drive was lovely. Not even the great flat plains of central Ohio could dampen my spirits. We arrived at Mum's house just after dark, only to discover that I had packed everything except our suitcase. I had all my race clothes and spare gear. Nothing else. We added trips to Walmart and Goodwill to our itinerary...

Which way to the wharf?

Ran a marathon and all I got...

Friday morning, Mrs P and I drove the 2 hours to Pittsburgh in about 1:30. I got completely lost trying to find the entrance to the Monongahela parking wharf, and we wound up on the North Side, two rivers away, in the shadow of Heinz Field. A friendly waitress at a street cafe (something unheard of during the sooty days of my childhood in Pittsburgh) gave us directions, and we parked by the river. We explored the streets where my starting corral would be, and traced the route to the starting line. Hiked to the convention center to pick up my bib (number 4952), my race shirt, and my swag bag. The expo was a big trade show with booths representing gear manufacturers, retailers, charities associated with the race, and runner services. I spent as little money as possible, and we headed back home, stopping on Liberty avenue for a slice of the best pizza either of us had tasted since we moved from Brooklyn. That night, we bought some clothes at Goodwill in New Bethlehem, and underwear at the Walmart in Clarion. 

That's a runner's leg?

Love all up and down my arms

The girls over my heart

The Strong Eight

 Saturday, we relaxed on Mum's porch. Mrs P got out the Sharpies and wrote the names of all my sponsors on my arms, legs, and chest. My sister B came down to the house with a $20 bill and said she wanted to write her own name. "I want to write it on your butt," she joked. I was too tired to resist, and dropped trou right there on the porch. "Now I'll be riding your ass the whole way." Then it was time to go to bed. I did my final gear check, then turned out the lights, only to wake up every hour until 3:30 when the alarm sounded. 

One more for the 5

What I won't do for 20 bucks

 

Race day started with a toasted bagel and strawberry jelly. I didn't think my stomach would tolerate coffee, so I drank a couple of bottles of water. Checked the numbers on the fundraiser. Took in the love from my friends on Facebook. Rubbed on Mum's poodle, Cujo for a while. Then it was time to wake Mrs P, collect B, and hit the road. They slept while I drove the dark country roads under a gigantic full moon. It was so bright, it looked like the sun was about to come up. We twisted and turned through the night and I did my best to think about anything but the race. Fat chance. In the city, I took the wrong ramp off the Veterans Bridge, and we somehow wound up on top of Mt Washington, across the river from town and our parking spot. B managed to get me back, and we finally parked on the wharf. We walked along the river for a while, then climbed the old, concrete steps to Stanwix street.


MARATHON

Anybody got a light?

What's it like to line up with 25,000 runners? It isn't like anything at all. We walked up to Gateway Center, where the crowd curved around the bend toward the starting line. B wondered if there had ever been this many non-smokers downtown before. I could tell she was jonesing for one, but suspected she might have been beaten to death if she had tried to light up. Back at corral "E" where I would be starting, we found my pace group. I was shooting for 11:30/mile. I turned back and realized that there were about 40 runners behind me. I didn't bother doing the math. I was at the back of the biggest pack I had ever seen. Mrs P put her hand on my chest and confirmed what I felt: my heart was pounding. Just before the gun, we hugged and kissed and they left me to hop and stretch in the street. At 7:30 there was a great cheer, and the throng started shuffling toward the starting line. The race had begun.

Only 24,960 runners to beat

I had occasional running partners, curious about the names scrawled all over me, or the "Survivor" tag the folks at the LIVESTRONG booth had given me to wear. There were the people encouraging us through every neighborhood with water, fruit slices, and cowbells. We crossed the Allegheny three times, then went down the North Side to the West End Bridge over the Ohio. I was feeling great as we started up Carson Street, the main drag through the South Side: my family's first home when Gramma Johnson's parents brought her here from Ukraine in 1904. As we approached the Birmingham bridge and the 11 mile mark, I felt strong and confident. I had trained hard and was ready to begin the 5 mile climb to the Frick mansion in Shadyside. 


Wrong.

Uhhh... Keeneland's hills look nothing like this

I thought there were hills in the Bluegrass. I really did. They felt like hills to me. They were not hills. THIS was a hill. My form broke down quickly. My head dipped, my shoulders fell forward, and my upper back started to ache. Walk breaks became longer and more frequent. People on the side of the road would clap and encourage me, then ask if I was OK. Starting around mile 15, every step I took involved a cramp in my upper calves. Over and over I wanted to stop. Over and over I told myself aloud "Just keep moving." I stretched my neck up, trying to run tall. The angle of the climb was torture on my calves and hamstrings. The dreaded sweep bus pulled up beside me the first of many times and a ghoulish Samaritan stuck his head out the front window. "You want a ride?" I would rather have finished on bloody stumps than to get on that bus. I smiled, clenched my fists, and waved him on again and again. My heart and lungs were strong, but my muscles were failing me. I couldn't believe a person could hurt so much in so many places at once. Again and again, I looked down at the sweat smeared names written on my legs and arms. Donors. Lost loved ones. Fellow cancer fighters. They were the ones who got me through. There was no way I could have stayed off that bus on my own.

The dreaded "Sweep Bus"

Marathon: Robert Parks Johnson - FINISH in 6:21:53. Pace: 14:34. At 14:14:03.

In the shadow of the Pittsburgh Post Gazette,
 where my father, uncle and grandfather worked

Mrs P and B 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."

WE did it

Polly, Marmaduke, and Mrs P

Riding back to Mum's was agony. My legs were seized with little cramps from my ankles to my hips. My seat was tipped all the way back and I slept most of the way, waking up from time to time as one spasm or another stabbed me. Mrs P sat in the back seat petting my head. B drove, singing along to country music on the radio. "When did my sister turn into a redneck?" I wondered sleepily. At Mums, the family greeted us. Hugs and congratulations all around. We ate something, I don't remember what. We opened a case of Iron City Beer and I drank three or four while kids and dogs played in the yard. I had stretched and used my foam roller as soon as we got home, and now I sat on the chaise lounge, my legs punishing me every time I tried to move them. My medal was still hanging around my neck. I looked around and thought to myself, "This just might be the happiest day of my life."

Mrs P and me before the race

My niece and a buddy

Nobody loves you like your little sister

The next morning, I checked my fundraiser page. $3490. I still have a few pledges coming in, so we'll be rounding that up a little. 


WHAT HAVE WE LEARNED?

Survivor? Damn right, I am

• The Pittsburgh was a very reckless choice for a first marathon.
• I need to spend a lot more time building up my core and leg strength.
• I want to be several pounds lighter before I take on my next 26.2.
• A four week taper might be just a little too long.
• I missed a lot of early walk breaks, and need a louder alarm so I can hear it in heavy traffic.
• I need a lot more speed and hill work if I'm going to enjoy my next big race.
• I have the best, most supportive, loving friends and family in the universe.
• God is great.
• Cancer is a wussy.
• There really is no place like home.
• I am a by-God marathoner.

My God, what a great day for a run.


Peace,
Pennsy


Oh by the way, Living Strong at the Y will be accepting donations until Sunday, May 13. You know, just in case you were waiting to see if I would actually do it! 

#406: Living Strong at the Y Update

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

So many friends and family have contributed to Living Strong at the Y,and I want to update you on how things are going.

The race is in 8 days, and we’ve raised $2400. I am so grateful, and so is everyone at the North Lexington Family YMCA. The participants in the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program have heard of your generosity, and are so appreciative, not only because you are helping them, but also because of the help you are providing to the survivors who will come after them. Your dollars are making a real difference!

The program is expanding in the Bluegrass. We are rolling out LIVESTRONG at the YMCA groups at all three Lexington locations this spring, and Georgetown College will be sponsoring a new group in the summer. Your dollars will make it possible for cancer survivors to be a part of this program regardless of their ability to pay.

There is still time to give.


I am very excited about the Marathon, but also about the things we might achieve together between now and then. If you have not yet joined Living Strong at the Y, I hope you will do it today. You have a chance to make a real difference in somebody’s life.

Please give at http://www.crowdrise.com/pennsyyckyor by mailing a check made out to YMCA to

Robert Parks Johnson

North Lexington Family YMCA

381 West Loudon Ave

Lexington KY 40508

Write “Living Strong” in the memo line, and I’ll make sure your contribution gets to the people who need it.

Peace,

Pennsy

As a special bonus, you’ll be able to run the marathon with me! Mrs P will be writing the names of everyone who contributes on my body so I can carry you along every one of the 26.2 miles! How can you pass up a chance to sleep in and STILL finish a marathon?

They're running with Pennsy...
How about you?

#405: Begging and Running, Shrinking and Thinking

OH, THIS CONSTANT BEGGING FOR MONEY...

Will He Ever Stop?

Mrs P says, "You can't expect people to give money every time you run a race." She's right, of course. I expect I'll be focusing my fundraising efforts and limiting the times I come begging. I worry that the constant appeals for money to support LIVESTRONG AT THE YMCA are off-putting and that people might be mentally "changing the channel," when I post or send a letter or button-hole them personally. It concerns me that I might be working in a way that actually discourages people from helping. But then I remember those people in the gym, sweating out reps, walking out miles, straining to perform abdominal crunches, or to pick themselves up off the yoga mat. If you know a better way to raise money, I'm all ears. In the meantime, I'm using the same dogged determination that I see them use. Please don't let my lame skills as a fundraiser keep you from joining a project that will help people personally and directly. 


RUN THIS TOWN

Running the Way Kids Run

Two of my favorite things about my hometown are the YMCA, and John's Run/Walk Shop. They';re combining their resources to create a program called "Run This Town." Three times a week, about 20 kids, tweens and teens meet at Castlewood park on the north end of town and run together. There are almost that many adults running with them. We're training together to run a 10k race in May. The Y pays for their registration, and Johns gives each of them a pair of new running shoes. It's a way to help kids fall in love with running.


They come on foot, in old mini-vans, and in luxury sedans. Some of them are wearing expensive gear, some of them are in hand-me downs. It doesn't matter. We run together. On Saturday, I ran 3.5 miles with three young athletes. Since I don't wear my glasses when I run, I can't read the card the program director gives us with the directions on it, so I picked the fastest member of the team to be our navigator. We couldn't keep up with her, but she stopped at every turn to make sure we saw which direction to go before she disappeared out of sight. When the two younger runners and I started slowing down, I decided to introduce them to Fartlek: the speed-play with the funny name. They took turns picking a landmark in the distance. "We'll run to the red car." Then we would walk while the other runner chose our next goal. This is usually a training technique for advanced runners, but it also mimics the way kids actually run. They love to go like the wind, then stop and walk for a while. I was really delighted with how well it worked, and we finished strong, sprinting together to the finish. 


LOOKING BACK AND RUNNING FORWARD

Fat Man Shrinking

I wanted to do about 11 miles on Sunday, so I decided to run the roads I last saw on Christmas morning. My goal was to take it easy, and run the second half faster than the first: negative splits they call it. I had to laugh as I set out. I was going to do a nice short 11 miles. I remembered this post from back in December of 2010.

Tomorrow is going to be a pretty big test for me. Will I get off my duff and go to the gym, or will I give up completely? After all, I can't lift the weight I used to. I can't run the way I used to. It's embarassing to be passed on the track by old ladies or to take all the plates off a machine before I use it. I wonder what all the young dudes who are doing 200 lb shoulder shrugs think about a fat old man who can't lift a 25 lb dumbbell over his head. I wonder if I'll ever be able to lift more than my own weight again.

I had lost just over 100 pounds, and I was dreaming of being able to run a 3k again someday. No one could have ever convinced me that I'd be running a marathon in a year and a half. 

Danny the Newton Man

As I ran yesterday, I focused on tempo and form. At the expo for the Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon, I met a man named Danny Abshire. His company makes Newton Shoes, and he's written a book called Natural Running: The Simple Path to Stronger, Healthier Running. I haven't read his book yet, but a lot of what he said to me about form made sense. Keep your stride short. Land under your hips, not out in front of your center of gravity. Strike on your mid-foot to preserve your forward momentum, not back on your heel, which is like applying the brakes with every step. Use the natural flex of your ankles, knees, and hips to absorb the shock in your muscles, not your bones and joints. I tried to apply what he showed me, and it felt pretty good. I'm not introducing any radical changes in running form three weeks before a marathon, but these are pretty small, and they seem to help me stay strong and even a little quicker on my feet. I finished the 11 miles right on schedule, just a little faster than I'd planned, and I'd learned some more about pacing. Oh, and yes, I ran the second half about 4 minutes faster than the first.


SO YEAH, THERE'S A LOT GOING ON


I also have my non-running life to look after. Hugging my wife. Doing the taxes, (extension filed on the 14th.) The return of lawn care season. Slowly preparing for the Great Garage Sale. It's a busy time for Mrs P and  me. We're behind schedule on a lot of things, but we keep moving forward. All things considered, times are pretty good in Pennsyltucky. 


Here's hoping things are just as good in your neighborhood.


Peace,
Pennsy

#404: Please Give to Living Strong at the Y

This is the text of a letter I'm sending to friends and family, asking them to help a fundraising effort that I care deeply about. I hope you will add your contribution to theirs and be a part of the team.

LIVESTRONG at the YMCA is turning cancer patients into cancer victors every day. Every one of them has their own story. They might not look it, but they’re the toughest people I’ve ever met.

When they told him he had prostate cancer, he wondered if he would live; if he would ever make love again; if he could ever be a man; if he could be a father to his little girl. Now he’s teaching her to swim.

Sometimes, her breasts hurt so badly when she tried to exercise that she wanted to cry - until the day they asked her to name an achievement she was proud of: “I didn’t let the pain stop me today.”

She’s had cancer three times. She can’t afford the insurance that they offer her. She gets depressed sometimes when she thinks about what will happen if it comes back again. So she’s taking classes to become a personal trainer, so she can help other cancer survivors.

She could barely run 100 yards when they asked her what her dream was and she answered, “I’m almost embarrassed to say it out loud; I want to run a half marathon.” Seven months later, she did it: all 13.1 miles of it. On the back of her shirt she had written, “I run for those who can’t.”

The only thing harder than finding out he had cancer was finding out that his wife had it too. They fought it together. They beat it together. They come to the gym where he complains about every rep and never skips a single one, while she grinds out miles on the bike like a bulldog. Everyone who sees them knows that they are survivors, fighters, and victors.

Thanks to LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, they are learning to fight for their lives. They lift weights and run and swim and practice yoga, Pilates, and Zumba. They learn about nutrition. They meet and come to love others who are fighting the same battle. I know, because I’m one of them.

On April 16, 2010, the doctors found a three inch tumor in my neck. It had spread to my lymph nodes and left me with a 50% chance of survival. I had to choose whether to die or to fight. I decided to fight. I wanted to grow old with my wife. I wanted to act on stage again. And I wanted to run.

                                                         

This May 6^th, I’m returning to the city where I was born and I’m running the Pittsburgh Marathon. You only get one chance to run your first marathon, and I’m doing mine for them. I’m raising money to support LIVESTRONG at the YMCA: the program that taught me to fight. We need to raise about $13,000 to run that program at my YMCA this year. You and I can make that happen.

Please join me. Go to www.pennsyrunning.blogspot.com to learn more about my battle. Click the link to “Living Strong at the Y”. Or use the enclosed envelope to mail a check made out to the YMCA to:

Robert Parks Johnson

North Lexington Family YMCA

381 West Loudon Avenue

Lexington KY, 40508

Attention: Living Strong

Give for the fighters; for the victors; for the ones who know they are going to die, and the ones who don’t even know they have cancer yet.

Because cancer can kill us, but it can never beat us: not if we LIVESTRONG.

Peace,

Robert Parks Johnson

Cancer Fighter

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

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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


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


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

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


Peace,


Pennsy


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