I Run for Life

I've been remiss in my physical activities of late.  Partly because I haven't physically felt well, but mostly because I've lacked the general motivation to do anything after work and a commute most days, blah, blah - let me grab a little cheese to go with that whine...

Whatever.  I haven't run in three weeks, I've missed it terribly, I've cursed the day I fell in love with it, I've looked forward to the moment I'd get back out there and do it again.

Tonight - finally!  Change into running clothes, head to the gym, twirl the curly stairs up to the track, and find my friend Patty already bouncing along, sweaty and smiley, like an angel in a sports bra.  <insert chorus of heavenly song here>

Patty is an angel, really.  We met during my first time around, when she volunteered at our infusion center.  Her smile and hugs were as warm as the blankets she's wrap me in, while we'd chat and nibble chocolate chip cookies during my visits.  We ran into each other again at the Y where we both particpate in the Turning Point program for breast cancer survivors.  We'd meet on Wednesday evening for yoga or cross training or running the track - whatever we can do to keep ourselves moving and grooving.

When I was re-diagnosed Patty was one of the first people I told.  The next day she sent me an email with a link to a video and the words to a song I'd probably heard but never noticed.  "It's on my playlist," she said, "and I never run without it.  I need to share it with you so you know.  So you can run."  And so I put in my earbuds and closed my eyes and listened to Melissa Etheridge's gravely, tender and powerful voice belt out these words with force and knowledge borne of experience:

"I run for hope, I run to feel
I run for the truth for all that is real
I run for your mother, your sister, your daughter, your wife
I run for you and me, my friend
I run for life"

The few times I've run since receiving that email, I've replayed that chorus in my mind - a mantra moving me forward with every step.  Tonight was no different.  Three weeks since my last run, and as Patty whizzed by with her quick steps I started walking the first revolution, willing my body to warm up, to remember, to be with me in this moment.  On the second revolution I start my run...ankle stumble, momentary knee lock, am I wearing a fanny pack?  Oh no, that's just my ass jiggling in time with my pace, it's been a little while.  Breathing in quickly, exhaling faster...  let's walk that third revoltion, shake out the knee a little.  Fourth revolution, muscle memory starts to kick in, my thighs tighten as they engage a little more, my pace increases just a tad, stupid stitch in my side...let's walk that next revolution.

And so it goes for the 16 spins around the track, the mile I haven't run in three weeks.  Three months ago I was pacing at 10:30/mile, increasing my distance and planning for that half-marathon.  Tonight was a mile.  One mile.  But it wasn't a mile - it was my marathon, my ultra, my endurance race, my own personal Warrior Dash.  With every step, Melissa in my head, I carried with me the sisters I know and those I don't.  After a few revolutions my pace evened out, my steps became rhythmic, my breath flowing, the mantra I call out quietly under my breath, the names in my head and my heart:  my dearest friend, my new sister, my BCO sisters far and wide, all those I love, all those I miss.  All of them.  Over and over.  As Patty laps me she smiles, thinking I'm singing, and I am - a song of strength and hope and determination and experience and love.

The longest mile I've ever run - and beyond doubt, my best mile ever.

"It's a blur since they told me about it
How the darkness had taken its toll
And they cut into my skin and they cut into my body
But they will never get a peice of my soul

And now I'm still learning the lesson
To awake when I hear the call
And if you ask my why I am still running
I'll tell you I run for us all."

Up, Up and Awake...in my Beautiful Balloon...

My mother calls it her "Arsenic Hour".  It's that time in the middle of the night when you wake up, body buzzing with anxiety, brain overflowing with thoughts and words and run-on sentences that make no sense but you can't stop thinking and the more you think the more awake you become and suddenly there's no way you're going back to sleep because your head is now swimming but you feel like you're really drowning and thethoughtsjustwon'tstop...

So.  Here it is, 2:46 am.  Would you like a cup of Lemon Zinger with a little honey?

Sleep is just not my friend anymore.  Sometimes we hang out for a few hours, other times we simply wave at each other in passing.  Even pharmaceuticals don't help - much.  Instead I find myself awake with a chemical-induced hangover, watching James Corden singing and driving (eyes on the road, dude!) and Parks & Rec marathons.  500 channels and there's very little entertainment in the middle of the night.

Chemo Number Three is next Tuesday - half-way point, on the downward slide towards being done!!  Happy Dance of Joy!!  It's a milestone to be celebrated, for sure.

And yet there's that little part inside me that's dreading next week, knowing What's To Come.  I've been sick non-stop since my first infusion with one thing or another, and I can't help but wonder what's behind Door Number Three.  I've gotten used to the Steroid-High Wednesday, and Crash-and-Burn Thursday, and Holy Mother of God Help Me Friday, and There's a Light at the End of the Tunnel - is it a Train? Saturday...

It's the surprises that I fear the most.

Two weeks after my first chemo came the infection in my sentinal node biopsy incision, caused by the perfect storm of previously-radiated breast tissue jiggled too vigorously during a long run without a properly-supportive sports bra, coupled with a low-point in my immune cycle.  Whammo - fever, swelling, tenderness, redness, open wound, icky stuff.  Sunday-morning call to the surgeon meant fever-watching and preparations for the hospital (luckily, never to happen), 10 days of antibiotics, and missing my mother's birthday party.  Frustration and tears; I missed this exact same event four years ago because of chemo-induced bullshit.  Of course the surgeon recommended pushing back the next chemo for a week to allow my body more time to heal; luckily my oncologist thought I was healed enough by the next round to proceed on schedule.  The thought of pushing everything back a week pissed me off - I've got a schedule to keep, folks, life plans and works plans and I ain't got time for this!

A few days later, my sisters come to visit on Easter Sunday, and we spend the day basking in the glory of the sun and warmth and blue skies.  A long walk up and down the neighborhood hills (the girls firmly supported in their new Iron Bra, no jiggling allowed!), talking and giggling and being Normal.  In that sisterly way we talk non-stop, so it's no surprise to me that my voice starts to crack and waver, and by the end of the evening I sound a little like Peter Brady when it's "Time To Change".  Monday morning, though, I can't speak at all - and now I'm coughing and feeling bus-hit.  I teach yoga that evening with minimal verbal cues (and wiping my nose in Downward Facing Dog lest I drip all over my yoga mat...again...).  By Wednesday I'm in full-blown viral mode:  nasty sinus infection, voice completely gone, body aches, exhaustion.  Can't waste my sick days on this, though!  I'm up and down for the next week, and by yesterday the worst of it's over with.  I'm left with a clogged tear duct from the sinus infection that means my left eye is gently weeping, all red and puffy.

But wait...

Late last week my head started to itch and burn.  I figure it's the Second Leaving of the Hair, as there are still a few little straggling stubbles hanging around.  But nope.  I see little red bumps.  Within a day there are more bumps, and they hurt and itch; putting anything on my head is agony.  At work on Friday I'm itching my head over my hat; I sit in a cube in a high-traffic area and I can't take my hat off because it looks so bad, so I push it back on my head to relieve the pressure and pain.  I really need to just take it off, but by the afternoon my head looks like it's on fire, covered in angry red bumps that are now blistering and - yes - breaking open.  It hurts to lay my head on my pillow so I sleep (or rather, don't really sleep) propped up in the corner of the sofa.  Benadryl finally gives me relief (and a little sleep) for a couple of nights.  Again, as I'm at the lowest point in my immune system, my body rebels, and gives me the gift of folliculitis, which can be a side effect of Taxotere.  A week later and for the most part the pain is gone, the itching remains, and my scalp looks a little less the surface of Mars.

So I'm bald, with one dripping, red eye that's half-swollen shut, a scalp covered in blisters in all states of healing, still carrying around a box of Kleenex to catch the marathon-running nose...

I've never looked more lovely.  Or is that frightening?  I can't even compete with Uncle Fester at this point.

Ken is out of town next week, so Stephanie's going to hang with momma for yoga, treatment, and the traditional post-chemo Bennies.  Spending time with her will make the entire experience - and whatever surprises lurk behind Door Number Three - completely worthwhile.