Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?

April 16, 2010

"Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?"

I'm standing in the St. Augustine Catholic High School chapel, in front of the student body and a kid asks me this. It's my first day at a new job and I'm nervous about the way I look and the way I sound. I can see their faces, 120 of them looking at me expectantly.

The school principal introduces me to the students and assembled faculty and asks me to tell them a little bit about myself. My mind races - where to begin, what to say? "Don't mind the hat kids, I had cancer, that's why I look funny." I don't know what to say. The only teenager I'd ever really talked to was my nephew and he just thought I was a funny dancer.

I don't know how they knew I ran. Maybe I talked about it during my interview and it made its way to the track coach, I'm not sure.  But here is this skinny kid with an endearing grin and tousled black hair, standing up in the middle of chapel asking, "Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?"

I pause for what seems like an eternity, thoughts racing through my head. What do I say? Images barrel through my head. My lymphoma, personal struggles, anxiety as I come to grips with my level of running now, all fighting to be the one excuse allowing me to bow out and say, 'no'.

"Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?" 

I stand there, positive they can see the see the emotions ripple across my face. What does that mean - are you a runner? Is it running everyday? Five miles a week? More, less? Does it mean you run races? Does it mean owning a pair of running shoes, or shirts? Yes, some of those. Or none. 

I struggle, trying to come up with a simple answer to such a complicated question. Am I a runner? I latch on to something, something I've come to realize on this journey. Maybe simply put, running is a way of thinking about ourselves. The values that we hold dear and the story we tell ourselves to help us find our way in an uncertain world. To find the people like us.

I look again at this group of kids, this kid named Nico asking me if I'm a runner and I see them struggling with the same questions. What defines them? What values will they find dear and hold close as they navigate this journey to adulthood? I took those same tentative steps when I was a scared, nervous ninth grader. I asked those same questions too, seeking out people who were like me and held the same values. I remember it was then that I became a runner.

"Mr. Bentley, are you a runner?"

Little did I know that by answering this question, running would save my life. Again.

"Yes." I replied. "I'm a runner."

Nico grins, and the kids cheer. Mr. Bentley is a runner.

This is a snippet from Tim's upcoming book about cancer and life, and the tools running gives us to be great at both.

To read the middle part of this journey, follow the link here.

Because Goats Rule. Obviously.

This is our running team in Tucson – The Slow Old Goats, a subsidiary of The Workout Group. Many have tried, but it’s not easy to qualify for the Goat squad. There are three criteria:

• You must be SLOW
• You must be OLD (over 40)
• You must be a GOAT

We will consider 2 out of 3, because we do have some on our team that are obviously not Slow, but they are Old Goats. We even bumped a guy up from the JV team (he’s 39), because he almost forgot his anniversary to go running, thereby proving that he is a Goat and well on his way to being Old.

We’re thinking of branching out too. The women’s team will now be known as The Nanny Goats, while those that do not meet the OLD criteria will be relegated to The Billy Goats (because they’re just kids anyway…).

You must also have a sense of humor, obviously.

Go to any local race and you’re sure to see The Grinders, The Workout Group (WOGGERS), Blue Pants Racing, and a host of other racing teams toeing the line. Why the uniforms, why the team names when we’re not really racing for a team prize? Maybe they’re like me, being on a team or part of a group makes running easier – having teammates that understand the effort it takes to stay motivated and train goes a long way. Maybe being on a team or group is fun because, even deep down, it appeals to our desire to be a part of something bigger, even in this individual of all sports.

The Slow Old Goats (aka The Soggy Woggers) is our team.

Our slogan - We may be OLD, but we’re SLOW…

Remembering Not to Forget

A Remembrance Run was held January 10, 2011 at the weekly Meet Me At Maynards.

Like you, I’m in shock.  The tragic events of Saturday, January 8, 2011 swept over me in wave after wave of anger, disbelief, horror, sadness and grief.  How could something like this happen?

By now, everyone knows that Arizona Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords was shot at a community event this past weekend.  Six people lost their lives.  A young girl, a federal judge, a church volunteer.  Gone. People we knew, friends, or friends of friends had their lives changed forever in just twenty seconds.

It was surreal watching the news that day.  It was national news, covered by every major news network.  These were events unfolding in our backyard, but here it is on MSNBC, FOX and CNN.  We’ve all been to that Safeway, driven through that intersection and complained about the traffic.  We’ve just never seen it from that angle, from a helicopter, on national TV.

Facebook, twitter, email and text were exploding with updates.  I suppose I was like everyone else skipping between channels, checking the internet, following Facebook and other online sites.  I too did the mental check down – “where are my loved ones today?”  I cried when they announced Gabby had died.  Cried again when they announced she wasn’t.  I grew angry at the conflicting reports.  With a journalism background, I was frustrated with the urge of the outlets to to be first with breaking news, even if first meant you were wrong.

Gabby is a friend of mine. I’ve known her from before her political career and am proud to call her a friend.  During this process it has been both staggering and awesome to count the number of people she has touched in our community.  The number of friends she has is inspiring.

Gabe Zimmerman, Gabby’s Director of Community Outreach, lost his life that day as well.  This hit closer to home in my circle of friends.  You see, Gabe was a runner.  He recently completed the Mount Lemmon Half Marathon and his dad was the leader of the Tucson Trail Runners.  He came from a family of runners and was well known in our running family.  We are in shock and utter sadness.

I’m angry.  My sense that day was to do something, to help.  As a board member of the Southern Arizona Roadrunners, we have a simple mission to promote running and healthy lifestyles in our community.  We put on races and sponsor running and walking events. My friend and running mentor, Randy Accetta struck on a simple idea: We can turn our mission to a good use.  We can promote healing in our community and continue to share the positive attributes that make our community great.  We’ve seen it, people coming together to promote healthy lifestyles, to make themselves and their city better.

We will promote that healing process tonight at the weekly Meet Me At Maynard’s.  A Remembrance Run in memory of those that lost their lives, honoring those that are still fighting and celebrating what is good in Tucson. Tonight we will remember so that we never forget.

Running For My Life - Follow The Path

Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I’ve been writing for about a month about my experience dealing with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. Your feedback has been encouraging, uplifting and has often made me laugh.  But it’s time to get back to writing about running, why it’s cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona. Even though I have to do a few things to keep my Lymphoma in remission, I'm moving and looking forward. So this will be my last entry about my ‘race’. You can start at the beginning here .

March 17, 2010

I always looked forward to this time after treatment – 30 days after my last chemo, when the drug would truly be out of my body.  I didn’t know what the results would be, but I’ve been excited to get back to running.  Running to me is about being outside, experiencing the environment with friends as much as enjoying the run.  Spending time on the treadmill 1-2 times a month just hasn’t cut it, plus I’ve been much more tired and drained than I thought.  The stories about people maintaining a normal training regimen during chemotherapy seem overwhelming to me. Lance Armstrong, you are my hero.

Mike Greene, who talked me into running high school cross country 25 years ago, and I have kept in touch every few months for the past few years.  We talk about running together but never have since high school.  Mike has a busy family and injured his foot a few years ago.  I called him after my good news and suggested we go for a run, ‘for real’ this time.  I tell him I need to jog-walk for a while, but would be happy to at least start with him.  He is in the same position as me, excited to get back into running but has been looking for a slow training partner, so we fit perfectly.

March 24, 2010

I lace up my running shoes in anticipation of getting back to what I love and take note that I still can’t move my left big toe. I smile, remembering the odyssey this numb toe started me on, the questions it made me ask.  I was concerned then, but today I don’t worry so much about it, because my future has changed.  I don’t know what the it will bring, but if I can get through this crap, I can do just about anything. I’ve met some amazing people during this journey and I’ve learned from them that your life is now defined by a ‘new-normal’, the state that your life is forever in post treatment.

From the Tucson Racquet Club, we decide to follow the Rillito River Path which allows us to set an easy pace on a flat path.  A popular and busy thoroughfare for runners, bikers and walkers, the path is a perfect place for us to start our journey.  While warming up and stretching, we laugh about our decision to join the cross country team in the fall of 1981, oh so many years ago.

I’m excited to get started and we start our walk/jog on the path, with good conversation, acknowledging those coming the other way.  A pleasant looking man and his wife are walking toward us, and as we say hello, I realize that it is John Brooks, our cross country coach at Sabino High School with his wife Carol.  What sort of universal cosmic karma has placed the three of us together at this point nearly 30 years later?  John Brooks, or Mr. Brooks as he is forever known, is the sort of teacher and mentor that you remember for the rest of your life.  Everybody has those 1 – 2 teachers in their lives.  He is mine.

We exchange pleasantries, talking about running and the beautiful weather.  I tell him in a few short minutes about my recent battle and he encourages me to keep up the good fight.  A two-minute conversation at best, with the man that has influenced my life immensely, and we’re off to run and walk.

Mike and I exchange emails a few days later, amazed at the wonderful coincidence of this meeting. But as I reflect on this, I realize there are powerful forces at work in the universe. While Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma may have put me on a year-long journey, I realize I have really completed a 30-year journey.  That moment of panic from a scared and nervous 14-year-old, deciding to join the high school cross country team, has given me the tools to complete the most important race of my life as a 43-year-old man.

That decision – to become a runner – has come to define me.  Being a runner provided me with the skills, fortitude and competitiveness to win this race against Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and chemotherapy.  The fact that I started both of my running careers, in 1981 and 2010, with the same people has to mean something, right?  Mike Greene and Mr. Brooks set me on this path. I was lucky enough to begin one journey with a good friend and mentor, but a second time?  Running with the life-long friend that cajoled me into going out for the team in the first place, and then ‘randomly’ meeting the man that started me on the path nearly 30 years ago? It’s not random and I realize there is a plan, a path to follow.

I am forever changed, but I will always be a runner.

Tim Bentley, Mr. Brooks, Dr. Toby Freebourn, Michael Greene, and Ross Martin.
12-2 in 1984 and still in love with running in 2011.

Running For My Life - The Verdict

Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I’d been writing for months about running, why it’s cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona.  That is until my life took a hard left turn with a diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in 2009. I've appreciated your encouragement of my sometimes hard, sometimes funny journey, and how I used running and the lessons it taught me to make sense of it all. You can start at the beginning here.

February 10

My last treatment day has arrived and as usual I’m in early for blood work – but there is an uneasy feeling in the air today.  The doctor is unusually late and I’m nervous about missing my start time in the chair.  Again, my blood levels are perilously close to not allowing me to move on to chemo, but the combination of several factors puts me just over the limit.

I’ve been envisioning this day for months.  In fact, it has been the benchmark of my treatment – ‘If I can just get to treatment six, everything will be okay,’ I tell myself. I want this day to be great, to be excited about the last ‘lap’ of my ‘race’ against chemo.  However, there is a new nurse on the floor, someone I’ve not seen before and she is in TRAINING.  No offense but I don’t want to be a practice patient for anyone, especially at the end of all this crap.  She has a hard time finding a vein and can’t get the blood to draw back into the needle like it’s supposed to. She tries twice before I demand an experienced nurse to find the vein. I’m upset and angry because this is supposed to be a good day. But unfortunately the tone has been set for the rest of the day…

Ongoing

I’m not sure what I expected on this last treatment.  I feel so far away from the optimistic patient from October.  I’m angry, pissed and yet excited to be here.  I didn’t really believe that just because I had my last treatment that things would miraculously improve.  However, I did delude myself into thinking that once my 6th treatment was done, things would take a turn for the better. But I’m exhausted, run down and generally in poor spirits the entire three weeks after treatment.  My hair is still gone, eyebrows and eyelashes non-existent and a sunken face in the mirror to remind me I’m a chemo patient. I try not to go anywhere I don’t need to. I realize that the true ‘red letter’ day would be March 4, the day after a non-existent 7th treatment.  But chemo isn't done with me, wants to show that it will not leave me as easily as I'd hoped.

Two weeks after treatment I suffer through some of the worst side effects I’ve ever experienced, wishing that someone would, please, please, put me out of my misery.  I’m in my last lap against chemo and he is as tough as I was back in the day.  I suffer through two rounds of the horrible cramping I’ve had before, with debilitating cramps every 90 seconds and fitful sleeping in 10-20 minute increments.  I’m not sure, but I may be the only man that knows what it’s like to go through child birth.  I feel like I’ve done 200 sit-ups an hour for three days in a row.

Early March

Uncle Timmy with Nephew Patrick Bentley

My 8-year-old nephew is scheduled to visit Tucson during spring break for 10 days.  I know I look different and I’m worried that he will feel awkward around me because of the way I look.  I call him and say “I’ve been sick and the medicine I had to take made my hair fall out.  I’m not contagious, and I’m excited to see
you, but just know that I look different.”  He makes my day by saying, “Uncle Timmy, I love you no matter what!”  He proceeds to wear a hat just like mine his entire visit, looking much cooler than me, just a burst of joy during this horrible time.

A few days after my nephew arrives I stagger into the Arizona Cancer Center hoping for any good news at this point. The doctor obliges and tells me that my blood levels are ‘awesome’, hemoglobin and white blood cells are high, and everything else is normal. They cannot feel the lymph node at all and they are confident that any residual NHL in my marrow is gone (it started at 10%).  I’m worried about the cramping, and while they think the worst is over, they prescribe some meds just in case. I happily feel like crap with this good news.

March 10

It’s been a month since my last treatment and I’m in for a CT Scan to get a look at the lymph node in my abdomen.  When I arrive there is a young girl probably 14 – 15 in the lobby.  She has no hair and obviously had some sort of brain surgery based on a large scar across the side of her head.  She has just thrown-up as I walk in and is crying, begging to go to her appointment. Her young mother tries to calm her down with no success. But the staff tells her that it will be a while for the machine to open.  My journey is nothing compared to hers and I gladly offer my slot and she is able to get in right away.

March 15

I’m nervous today because I will learn the results of the CAT Scan – plus, there will be another bone marrow test.  However, I’m excited to be here because I’ve been feeling good, especially now that I’m out of the Chemo phase.  My hair is growing back, I need to shave almost every day and my appetite has been good.

I don’t let the medical staff do any tests until the results of my CT Scan are revealed. I’m told the lymph node has shrunk nearly 90%, and along with my blood work, I should be 'very, very, very, very happy' (I know, I counted the number of ‘verys’).  There is not a typical marker for NHL, but all of my levels indicate that my bone marrow is producing the right kind of cells for my body.  My hemoglobin level is at 14.1 (men should be 14 - 16).  You'll remember in September 2009 they were in the 8.0 range because I was bleeding internally.  My lymph node is 2.8 cm (typically about 1 cm), but mine should continue to shrink with the Bexxar (radiation) treatment in two weeks.

I’m optimistic and apprehensive about the results, but am anxious to get back into running and being fit.  Oddly, I’ve put on weight during this process, and while not a bad thing, it is not ‘good’ weight.  I wonder if I had the level of fitness I had before – with Stage 4 Lymphoma rampant in my body – how will I feel now?

I’m asked if I’m excited by the news.  I don’t know – the prognosis is now much better than before, but it hasn't sunk in yet, but the treatment really did seem to work.  I also know the prayers, energy and well wishes of my family, friends and supporters played a part too.  The way I look at it, I'm half way through, but this first half was probably 95% of the battle.

March 17, 2010

Almost a year from my diagnosis and I receive a call from the Arizona Cancer Center.  Test results show no involvement in the bone marrow – a big fat 0%!  This is great news, although I’m apprehensive as to what it actually means.  I ask with all the recent test results, when might we be able to talk about remission?  I’m thinking it may be three months, I’m not really sure.  “You can say it right now” they say.  “Really?” I ask. “Yeah, go ahead,” they say.  I say it out loud, “I’m in remission…I’m in remission, baby!”  I’m through the roof, relieved, excited, and in shock, crying.  But for the first time in a long time when I cry, I cry in overwhelming relief.

I think, chemo, I kicked your ass.

But I wonder – can I run again?

The last entry is here.

Running For My Life - A Punch to the Face

Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I’d been writing for months about running, why it’s cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona.  That is until my life took a hard left turn with a diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in 2009. I've appreciated your encouragement of my sometimes hard, sometimes funny journey, and how I used running and the lessons it taught me to make sense of it all. You can start at the beginning here.

January 20, 2010

I’m apprehensive going to treatment today because of the delay due to my blood levels two days ago.  I’m visited by the same pre-nausea and anxiety as last time and dread this 5th treatment.  I’m really getting tired of this.

Throughout this process I’m always impressed with the timeliness and efficiency of the Cancer Center staff, nurses and doctors.  Patients receive a pager at each visit, kind of like those at The Outback or Applebee’s, you know the circular round ones that vibrate and light up when your table is ready.  At the Cancer Center they have a digital screen directing you where to go, and always end with ‘have a great day!’  Really? Thanks…

After my blood draw the pager directs me to the infusion center with no visit to the doctor.  My blood levels must have passed inspection so it’s off to the chair. As usual I have a different nurse, a nice lady that introduces herself as a recent transplant from Ohio.  We comment on the snow and laugh that the weather is warmer back east than in Tucson.  She comments that my blood levels have risen dramatically since Monday, re-enforcing my thought that I am a 22-23 day recovery guy.

I’m always starving after my treatments due to the Prednisone steroids and purposefully empty stomach during a treatment.  I learned in the first two visits that anything I eat before a chemo session is automatically added to the ‘foods I will hate forever’ list.  In addition to the many side effects of chemotherapy (hair loss, tingly fingers, etc.), some patients also lose their sense of taste.  Oddly I’ve lost my ability to taste salt or hot spicy seasonings in all food.  I’m sadly reminded of this at the movies when I couldn’t enjoy one of my favorites – movie popcorn.  I guess on the flip side I could probably win a salsa eating contest if I was up for it....

My friend Randy Accetta called me to say hello and check in.  He mentions that my Workout Group friends have asked when I might be coming back.  I tell him that I’m waiting until after my treatments end, but I know the real reason is I’m concerned about the way I look and the reactions I might get. He mentions that many of my friends plan to run The Sun Run in a few days and would love to see me.  I reluctantly agree to go.

January 24, 2010

I do venture out early Sunday morning for the Sun Run.  I’ve been hesitant and nervous for a few days since deciding to go.  In fact, I’ve talked myself into and out of going many times.  But I’m up early on this cold morning and ready to go – I’ve even planned my wardrobe several days in advance with running clothes and a skull cap laid out well in advance.  I think I’m more nervous about the way I look, bald and somewhat gaunt, than seeing my friends.  On top of these worries, my voice continues to be hoarse from the steroids and chemo.  I sound like a teenager going through puberty.  It’s frustrating because I normally have a good speaking voice, able to talk to large groups and be heard.

I arrive at the race and immediately see some of my Workout Group friends.  I get lots of hugs and praise for seeing me and think this could actually be OK.  I’m there to take pictures for the Southern Arizona Roadrunners Facebook Page that I manage, so I get right to it.  I see more of my friends and am having fun as the race starts.  I find myself running from point to point taking pictures and cheering on the runners.  Being at a race always gets my competitive fire up and I especially love to cheer those in the back of the pack, 9 times out of 10 they smile or say thanks.

Towards the end of the race day they want to take a group picture.  I’m nervous about this and want to stay away from any photo ops – don’t want to get ‘tagged’ on Facebook. My friends keep saying that I can’t leave, pushing me to the front of the group   I realize why as Randy calls me up and presents me with an over-sized card with pictures and signed messages by the entire group.  It is very, very touching.  As they are assembled around me, I feel that a little speech is in order, my worst fear because of my voice and my tendency to cry at any moment.  I tell them that I’m glad I came to the race and that I didn’t realize how much I missed them.  I update them on my treatments and positive progress.  I can see many of them with tears and smiles and I almost lose it at that point.  Thankfully I didn’t, but I did cry on the way home.

Ongoing

This most recent treatment has kicked my butt.  I have been able to rally and shake it in 2-3 days during prior treatments, but I am wiped out.  A call to the Cancer Center isn’t encouraging either.  I’m reminded that chemo side-effects are cumulative and my symptoms are normal.  There is not much I can do except monitor my symptoms and take the meds they’ve prescribed.  So I continue to feel ‘thick’, sleeping a lot and hunkering down, waiting to kick it in on the last lap.                           

February 10, 2010

Tomorrow will be my last treatment.  People ask if I’m excited for this as if it’s Christmas or my birthday.  I describe the treatment process this way.  Imagine that someone is going to punch you as hard as they can in the face, in fact they tell you they are going to do it six times, once every three weeks.  Along the way, they congratulate you and tell you that things are going great and you’re really good at getting punched in the face.

So yeah, tomorrow is my last treatment, but it’s still getting punched in the face. Either way it sucks.

FYI - (I tell a different version of this story to my guy friends; it involves getting kicked in a certain place.  They wince, but they get it.)

The next entry is here.

Running For My Life - Happy Holidays....Not.

Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma is a crappy thing, even crappier when it happens to you.  I'd been writing for months about running, why it's cool and the people that make it great here in southern Arizona.  That is until my life took a hard left turn with a diagnosis of Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma in 2009. So if you'll allow me 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. You can read from the beginning here: Part One, 

December 2009

These next few treatments are the middle ‘laps’ of my race against chemo.  This is where I was best back in the day, putting the hammer down, throwing in a few tough laps, making it hard for my competitors to hang on.  Get ready Mr. Chemo, it’s time for a few tough laps.  I may not be running anymore, but…

But it’s hard to get motivated and I’m really down about it.  It’s easy enough to be energetic and get up for one round of this crap, perhaps two, but the effects are cumulative and I’m tired.  I feel sick, look sick and am really dreading the upcoming holidays.  It will be hard to be festive about anything at this point.

Cancer patients talk about the phenomenon of ‘pre-nausea’ prior to treatment.  I know what treatment will do to me the next day and my body gets sick thinking about it.  I’m poked and prodded as usual, but Dr. Persky says he cannot feel the ‘tumor’ at all.  He can’t verify if it’s deeper inside, but it is definitely shrinking.  I am both elated and bummed, dreading the thought of 3 more months of treatment.

At the AZ Cancer Center I have a different nurse each time I go to treatment.  I’ve learned from others receiving treatments elsewhere that this is somewhat odd.  But it doesn’t bother me because I like to meet them and get their perspective on the process. I’ve mentioned my pride in my ‘great’ veins, but they are starting to get pissed at me, hiding out, making it harder for the nurses to find them. I’m becoming a pro at this procedure, this process of chemotherapy. The beeping of the machines, the other patients in my room, covered in blankets reading or sleeping seem normal to me. Other than a missed vein on the initial try, it’s a relatively uneventful day, but I’m not nearly as enthusiastic as the past two.  I focus on my computer watching TV shows and movies from iTunes…not talking anyone.

Mid – December 2009

I am now completely bald – over my entire body. Losing the hair on your head isn’t as bad as I anticipated; a hat covers that up no problem.  It’s the loss of your eyebrows and eyelashes that is the most disconcerting because they define your face.  Because of this, I find myself going to fewer and fewer places, not making eye contact or being the outgoing person that I’m known for. I feel really sick from the chemo, physically and emotionally a wreck. I basically check out, not seeing anybody unless it’s necessary.

I’m three days past the half-way point of my treatment and I think I might just be able to do this. I’m ‘racing’ chemo and think that I have the edge.  I pulled ahead in lap two, with a fairly easy treatment and have the lead and the crowd is cheering. But chemo is competitive too, and throws in a tough lap of its own.  I wake up one morning with slight cramping in my abdomen, but am not worried – it’s the cancer getting its butt kicked, right? Well I think the cancer was pissed because these are some of the worst stomach cramps of my life.  Every 90 seconds or so, pain so excruciating that I think it would be better to be knocked unconscious, followed by 90 seconds of relief. It’s just enough time to think they’ve subsided, until I’m cruelly reminded again that they haven’t. The cramps last for 24 hours. I manage to sleep about 6 hours that day – in 20 minute increments.  I’m exhausted.

I’m getting more emails from friends as the news of my Lymphoma makes its way around.  I feel bad that I didn’t tell everyone, but I didn’t want to be the ‘cancer guy’, didn’t want to talk about it.  The emails are from random people I know and have been both encouraging and supportive. My personal favorite is from Craig Dabler a local jeweler and a good friend from The Workout Group.

Tim-

I thought you may get kind of a kick out of hearing this. While running with (XXXX) last night, she made this statement, "Tim's wife is very lucky because Tim is both a nerd and real hot, which is an amazing combination!"

Just keep that to yourself.

Craig

I laugh out loud and feel great the rest of the day. I am a nerd, although ‘hot’ is a subjective term…

Christmas 2009

Christmas is fast approaching and I’m dreading the season already.  We have a family trip planned to Kansas and I loathe being the center of attention, getting the entire family’s sympathy for a week.  While they know what’s going on, I haven’t really talked to them. I email my family asking them to respect my decision to not talk so much about Lymphoma and rather enjoy a great holiday.  “Let’s focus on the new babies and joy” I tell them.

My treatment schedule follows a precise schedule, every 21 days I’m in the chair, hooked to the machine. I’m nervous because my 4^th treatment is two days after I return from Atwood, a small town in northwest Kansas.  I’m even more nervous because the forecast calls for snow, followed by more snow.  My fears are realized as the storm proceeds to shut down large portions of the interstate, preventing me from catching my Saturday flight.  On top of everything else, several family members are starting to get sick – a horrible fear of mine, as I have been ultra careful not to get sick.  If I show any sign of illness, I’m not allowed into chemo.  I wind up spending the majority of the time by myself in a small room at the It’ll Do Motel.  Fortunately the storm clears Sunday morning and I’m able to make it home for treatment.  Oh joy.

December 28, 2009

Because of skewed travel arrangements, our friend Artie gives me a ride to the Cancer Center.  Artie is a good friend, a former professional dancer and instructor. He gave us dance lessons prior to our wedding 10 years ago, as we wanted to do more than ‘circle dance’.  Artie is a great instructor and actually gets me through a dance in front of 250 wedding guests. I’ve accomplished a lot in my life, but this dance ranks right up there. Top 3 probably.  It was more nerve racking than any major race I’ve ever run.  The funny thing is in order to learn the steps; I occasionally have to ‘dance’ with Artie. To this day, I tell anyone who will listen that Artie is the smoothest partner I’ve ever danced with…

I’m encouraged that the doctors can no longer feel the lymph node in my abdomen.  It is continuing to shrink, although my white blood cells are having a tough time rebounding from treatment.  If they are too low, the doctors may postpone chemotherapy.  I’m on the bubble today, but green-lighted for the chair.

Treatment 4 is fairly routine, however they want to administer the Rituxin at the beginning, a change from prior treatments. I question this and they check my protocol. “Why yes, Rituxin should always be delivered at the beginning”.  Crap!  I’m told this is not a problem, but I look at both nurses and say “well that’s fine, but I’m not coming back to redo the 1^st three treatments…”  I wink at one of the nurses, while the other nurse squirms.  They realize I’m teasing and we continue on our way.

Chemotherapy side effects are cumulative, and I continue to be more and more run-down.  It’s harder to rally, both physically and mentally. I find myself answering the question “How are you?” with a mild “I’m OK”, a big departure from normal upbeat self.

January 18

The last three weeks have been spent in a fog, ‘feeling thick’ with lots of sleeping.  I have a rough Sunday night, probably nervous for my 5^th treatment the next day.  Although my vitals are good, Dr. Persky is concerned with my white blood cells.  As he assigns me to a chair, he pauses to take one more look.  He says something is not quite right, and he “can’t make the total add-up, so no chemo for you today”.  Crap!  All this anxiety, the pre-nausea and stress for nothing.  I have to come back in two days.

But even that treatment is in doubt.

The next entry is here.