Running For My Life - Get On The Bus

I started blogging about running in southern Arizona last year, but when my life took a hard left turn with a diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in April 2009, I started a journal of my experiences, chronicling the good, the bad.....and the ugly. So, over the next few weeks, I hope you’ll let me share my story of a sometimes hard, sometimes funny journey, and how I used running and the lessons it taught me to make sense of it all.  Follow the links to read the 1^st installment.

September 12 - The Ride Begins

If my diagnosis on April 4 was a life-changing day, then September 12^th was ‘wake-up and smell the coffee day’. I’m competing in a local race, and even though I feel out of shape, I'm excited at the prospect of gauging my fitness and posting a good time.  The gun sounds and I’m out good in the 1^st mile, but I absolutely struggle after that. Running through the course, I can barely lift my legs, breathing is tough and I struggle to cross the finish line ahead of some of the walkers. What the hell?

Fortunately I have a routine visit with my primary care doctor, Dr. Alok Sharma, scheduled the next day.  I mention being tired and exhausted, tell him about the race.  He is concerned and does a blood test in his office.  He calls me that night, says he is worried and may send me to the hospital for a transfusion, as my hemoglobin (red blood cells that carry oxygen) counts are below 9.  A healthy man my age should be at 14 – 18.  No wonder I can’t breathe.

Instead of a hospital visit, Dr. Sharma has me come in the next day for a review.  He tells me, in his delightful, East-Indian accent, “I am very impressed Tim, you have been running with such low blood levels.  Your tolerance for pain must be very high?”  I secretly like this.  Runners do have a high tolerance for pain and his comments make me feel good, but I’m pissed because I’m competitive – I want to have high blood levels, better than anyone else.  He suspects I’m losing blood internally, perhaps a slow bleed or tear somewhere?  He recommends a colonoscopy the following week.  Man, I am becoming the king of colonoscopies.  My old friend, Dr. Sanner confirms those fears, noting the large lymph node in my abdomen is causing ulcers on my lower GI tract, leading to a slow bleed. Now I understand what Dr. Persky was “watching for” while we were “waiting”.

October 2009

It’s early October and Dr. Persky tells I can no longer delay treatment for my Lymphoma.  I have several options, but considering the severity of my cancer, I opt into a clinical trial he has developed, combining three of the most aggressive and effective therapies.    It includes a series of six chemotherapy treatments, followed by radio-isotopes delivering targeted radiation and then Rituxin ‘maintenance’ for a few years.  Most people with Lymphoma receive just one or two of these. I’m confident it’s the right move and sign up on the spot.  I select October 26^th as my start date, again delaying this thing as long as possible. October is a busy month for me, including a Mexico vacation and an event I’ve been planning for months.  I can’t get bogged down with treatment, right?

I hustle through the same tests to 're-stage' my Lymphoma (CAT Scan, bone marrow, etc.) as before, because we have a weeklong trip to Cancun planned in just a few days.  An all-inclusive stay at Moon Palace paid for by my wife’s company – Arbonne.  We proceed to eat, drink, swim and relax.  It’s a nice break, but always the 26^th looms over my head, the day I start treatment.

It’s Saturday, October 24, and I’m at The Great Pumpkin Race, an event I’ve been planning for months. Past editions of this race had only 50 - 65 runners, and I’m not sure what to expect. But on this day, more than 500 runners show up, clearly a victory for all involved.  But I’m overwhelmed, exhausted and nervous. I’ve been able to keep myself distracted this month with everything, but it hits me on the drive home - I start chemo on Monday.  I start to cry.  I cry writing emails thanking my friends for their help, I cry like you do at those g-damn Christmas commercials when you’re home by yourself.  I’m sobbing.  I don’t know, is crying good for me?

 October 26 – Get on the Bus

Monday arrives and we head early to the Cancer Center, and instead of a shared treatment room, I am assigned a private infusion room at the Arizona Cancer Center.  Wow, this is too cool – the private room has cable, wi-fi and snacks. Nice.

Sara is my nurse all day; she has 22-years experience and a calm demeanor.  She tells me I have nice veins, making me laugh. For some odd reason, I’m always proud of this. She explains the process, easing my fears and making me feel better.  It gets even better when she gives me a big shot of Benadryl (for anticipated histamine reactions), kind of like a double margarita at 10:30 a.m.  This is going to be OK.

I started the steroid, Prednisone this week to offset any expected side-effects and I feel great. I’m flying through the regimen and I’m excited because I’m not having any of the nausea or side-effects Sara asked me to track on.  We jump right to Rituxin – a drug specifically meant to fight Lymphoma. I have an initial chest tightness, but I don’t tell her as it goes away in a few minutes.  It feels similar to an asthma attack.   But half-way through, another chest tightness that I can’t shake, even with all my tricks of controlling my breathing and slowing my heart rate I learned as a competitive runner.  Nurses are called, doctors, etc.  I’m pissed because they mention keeping me overnight.  I want this to be done TODAY.  Thankfully, some additional Benadryl kicks in 30-minutes later, making everything good.

I think about my local running club – The Workout Group.  I’ve made good friends there and have found a ‘core’ bunch that matches my speed and fitness level.  At the end of a hard I workout,  I always like to talk a little smack.  “Hey, want to race to the finish? Wanna bet?” I’ll ask, adding, “how much money do you have in your pocket?? – let’s go!” as I speed off ahead. Cash is very rarely exchanged, but it's a fun way to end the night.

I find myself doing the same thing with my cancer nurse.  It’s coming to the end of a LONG day and it’s a guessing game about what time I’ll be done.  I do the math in my head and say 6:35 (the nurses guess 7:00) and “will be heading out at 6:36”.  I ask her how much money she has in her pocket, “wanna bet?” The last bit of Rituxin drops into my vein at 6:35, but since there is only one nurse on call at the time, she doesn’t get to my room until 6:38.  I count it as a ‘win’ anyway.  Anything to make this day a victory.

Walking out of the Center, I’m foggy and feeling like I've been drinking beers since 10 a.m., stopped at 4 p.m. and here it is 3-hours later with no sleep and I’m feeling wide-awake, hung-over.  Yes, it’s scary I know what this feels like.  Tuesday I wake up feeling like shit, head thick, mouth dry and voice crackly deep, like I smoked a pack of cigarettes along with the beers.  Surprisingly, it is like a hangover, my throbbing head and fogginess get better throughout the morning.  This may be OK.

Think again.