My intestines are screwed up. My right inner ear is permanently blocked by scar tissue. My fingers, toes and heels (?) occasionally go numb. Hospital bills, clinic bills, doctors' bills, insurance woes, prescriptions, probiotics, 6-monthly PET scans, an oncologist who is ignoring my phone calls - yeah, you're all still a part of my life. Frustration, anger, insecurity - yes, you too are all still in my life.
But JOY. Hope, excitement, red blood cells taken for granted once more, oxygen, depth, laugh lines, experience, growth, possibility - you Are my life. Fresh fruits and vegetables, way too much caffeine, oh yeah and Running? Oh yeah, running. I no longer just run to the bathroom because the drugs have decided to empty out my stomach (again). I run miles and miles because I can and it's awesome. New, strong friendships with kindred souls, people who understand what I have gone through and with whom I can share the uncertainties of survival. Survival - not of the fittest in the most physical sense, but of the fittest in the sense that We Want To Live. Cancer, in the words of one Cee-Lo Green, F**K You.
I wrote in my previous post that I am ready to move on with my life. After a few disappointing job rejections, I took a week or two to feel sorry for myself, and then I made a decision. I am moving to Denver. In 7 weeks. I have a roommate and apartment lined up, but no job yet. Whatever. I am beyond excited to get going, and now is the time for me to go. I won't miss Chicago; I certainly won't miss these suburbs. There are too many possibilities ahead, too many opportunities for so many crazy adventures out West. So here I go!
I pray that I won't have too much more to add to this here b-log. I love the b-log. It was truly one of the best things for me and hopefully for others during my whole cancer experience. But it too is part of that world which I am mostly moved beyond. Thank you all so much who have followed my words and progression and growth and pain and everything in between. If I need to, I'll update bits and pieces on here, so don't delete this just yet. But nothing too long, nothing too crazy. If you are interested, I have a bit more of a self-indulgent, somewhat running-related blog going that I may segue into my "new life" blog, so feel free to check it out: http://thoughtlessrunning.blogspot.com. It isn't meant to be serious, so don't take it too seriously.
I love you all, whether I know you or not. Thank you for reading. Good luck with everything you are doing. Good luck with your lives. I hope you can find the motivation to push through whatever hardships you've got. I hope you can realize that, my God, life is amazing. Ugh, there is so much awesome all around us. It is overwhelming and mostly beyond description. I'm off to go live my life as a stronger person for having so much more than merely survived cancer. Now it is your turn. Good luck!
Peace.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Feeding my unseen tumors
Sugar has been scientifically proven to feed cancer cells. Tumors grow; nasty little cancer buggies get all amped up and continue their relentless organ/blood/bone/brain/breast/lymph domination. Yet here I sit, literally pouring Nerds down my throat. So much, then, for that.
But this post isn't about my sugar fixation. This post is about sickness and health. Four years ago, on January 25, 2007, my doctor phoned me at home with the news that I was officially in complete remission. Woah. Four years is the time it takes (generally) a person to start and finish high school. Four years to start and finish their undergraduate college degree. A person will change and grow unimaginably in four years, especially when that person is under 25 and their brains and personalities and priorities are still developing. I am not even close to the same person I was four years ago.
This is also a post about time. One year and 7 months ago, I graduated from Boston University. My life had been barreling up to that point, cancer time-out included. Graduating from college is an idea; it is not a tangible thing. It is an expectation that leaves little room for life's realities. Realities like the class of 2009 graduated in the worst job market for college grads (ever, I think). My personal reality that cancer screwed with my body and my head and left my nascent life-plans in pieces all around me. So I graduated and that was it for me. I had reached an impasse, and, really, all I wanted to do was sit on a rock and watch the sunset. I had no job and no desire to jump into some crazy adult life where my cancer might as well have never happened and welcome to the workforce and the rest of your boring life... Couldn't do it.
I spent 2010 working, yes, but working at Starbucks, living at home. I dated someone for 5 months, my first "boyfriend" since I was a college freshman. I trained for and finished a marathon. I went to two different First Descents camps. I got drunk with my brother in Milwaukee a few times; I didn't go to enough concerts. I did NOT get a cold pretty much the entire year, although my health was tempered by omnipresent gut issues. I made friends with a handful of people who have changed my life for the better, shown me the depth of possibilities for existence. On some levels, near the end of the year, I almost felt that 2010 was a waste of a year: no real job, still living at home. On further reflection though, I realized that I was not ready - not ready to start a job, move on, move my life along its path.
2010 was for growing. All the running; all the sleeping; the guy; working at Starbucks; First Descents: none of it would have been possible had this not been the year it was. Had I not lived at home, I probably wouldn't have run the Chicago Marathon. Had I not had all the FD experiences, I wouldn't have come to the same terms with myself and my cancer. It is all ultimately good, but now it is time to get moving. These past three weeks, I have been battling a cold/sinus infection, my first in really almost a year. It made me realize again just how Grateful I am for my health. Four years later and for whatever reason, I am one of the lucky ones. I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do, but I have a job interview on Monday. I have an 18-mile race to run in two months. I look great; I feel amazing. Last year was hard, but I do believe it was necessary for me to decompress after college, figure out what cancer means in my life.
So, 2011, what are you going to throw at me? What opportunities will I create for myself? Cancer has had a tremendous influence on who I am turning out to be as a person, but now it is mostly just another piece of my puzzle. Just another thing that won't keep me from consuming highly refined sugars... Today I am thankful to be alive, and this year will be a great adventure that I am more than ready for. Peace.
But this post isn't about my sugar fixation. This post is about sickness and health. Four years ago, on January 25, 2007, my doctor phoned me at home with the news that I was officially in complete remission. Woah. Four years is the time it takes (generally) a person to start and finish high school. Four years to start and finish their undergraduate college degree. A person will change and grow unimaginably in four years, especially when that person is under 25 and their brains and personalities and priorities are still developing. I am not even close to the same person I was four years ago.
This is also a post about time. One year and 7 months ago, I graduated from Boston University. My life had been barreling up to that point, cancer time-out included. Graduating from college is an idea; it is not a tangible thing. It is an expectation that leaves little room for life's realities. Realities like the class of 2009 graduated in the worst job market for college grads (ever, I think). My personal reality that cancer screwed with my body and my head and left my nascent life-plans in pieces all around me. So I graduated and that was it for me. I had reached an impasse, and, really, all I wanted to do was sit on a rock and watch the sunset. I had no job and no desire to jump into some crazy adult life where my cancer might as well have never happened and welcome to the workforce and the rest of your boring life... Couldn't do it.
I spent 2010 working, yes, but working at Starbucks, living at home. I dated someone for 5 months, my first "boyfriend" since I was a college freshman. I trained for and finished a marathon. I went to two different First Descents camps. I got drunk with my brother in Milwaukee a few times; I didn't go to enough concerts. I did NOT get a cold pretty much the entire year, although my health was tempered by omnipresent gut issues. I made friends with a handful of people who have changed my life for the better, shown me the depth of possibilities for existence. On some levels, near the end of the year, I almost felt that 2010 was a waste of a year: no real job, still living at home. On further reflection though, I realized that I was not ready - not ready to start a job, move on, move my life along its path.
2010 was for growing. All the running; all the sleeping; the guy; working at Starbucks; First Descents: none of it would have been possible had this not been the year it was. Had I not lived at home, I probably wouldn't have run the Chicago Marathon. Had I not had all the FD experiences, I wouldn't have come to the same terms with myself and my cancer. It is all ultimately good, but now it is time to get moving. These past three weeks, I have been battling a cold/sinus infection, my first in really almost a year. It made me realize again just how Grateful I am for my health. Four years later and for whatever reason, I am one of the lucky ones. I'm still not sure what I'm supposed to do, but I have a job interview on Monday. I have an 18-mile race to run in two months. I look great; I feel amazing. Last year was hard, but I do believe it was necessary for me to decompress after college, figure out what cancer means in my life.
So, 2011, what are you going to throw at me? What opportunities will I create for myself? Cancer has had a tremendous influence on who I am turning out to be as a person, but now it is mostly just another piece of my puzzle. Just another thing that won't keep me from consuming highly refined sugars... Today I am thankful to be alive, and this year will be a great adventure that I am more than ready for. Peace.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Awesome survivors doing cool stuff:
THIS looks absolutely amazing. I love the concept, and I follow this young woman's blog. She is just beyond so cool and so strong, and she is easily another one of the people I admire most - even having never met her or talked to her or anything. Doesn't matter. Power and ferocity are universal.
Holler!
Holler!
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Fair warning: a long and rambling post
What is it about late fall and early winter that heralds this weird despondency into my life? Why, come mid-November, am I suddenly so lethargic and unmotivated, so willing to give in to self-pity and even a little self-disgust? I blame SADness, even while acknowledging that doing so is a bit of a cop-out. True, this time of year means only about 9 hours of sunlight, leaving 15 hours of darkness behind. True, too, the shortened days and way below freezing temps we've been having mean I am much less inclined to run outside, even though running is one of the few fail-safes I have against total Caroline-shut down. But it is more than seasonal depression, and this year especially, for whatever reason, it is more than something a sun-lamp can fix.
The end of November and December are no longer "the holidays" for me. Four years ago, they became the jump-off point for the rest of my life, the time when I was diagnosed with cancer and every thing changed. A beautiful, wonderful woman I met over a year ago posted on her own blog recently, "maybe tomorrow I’ll be one step closer to the place of true acceptance that I’d mistakenly thought I’d already reached." Maybe I've placed her quote a little out of context because she is one of the few people I truly and deeply admire for her total annihilation of cancer, but it illustrates that we all have these days. I've been trying to figure out just why I've been so down lately. I've realized that I am deeply dissatisfied with myself and my life, but I am at a loss as to how to pick up and organize all the pieces that are right in front of me.
For the most part, I have come to terms with having had cancer. I have accepted it. I am happy with who I have become as a person, the insights I have gained and the perspective I have been granted. It's just that around this time of year, when I'm struggling to balance my lack of running with my excess of eating, I can't help but remember four years ago when I could neither run nor eat nor do anything much besides wait for my hair to fall out and watch my legs shrivel up. Hopefully he won't mind, but I've been conversing a bit over e-mail with a close friend of mine recently, and the other day, I had this really disconcerting realization. He had asked me if my cancer diagnosis caused me to reevaluate my life and live it differently, perhaps more fully, than before. Was I granted some existential clarity that most people only glimpse when reading good literature?
My realization (and response) was that I have been fundamentally changed as a person, much more self-aware and deeper, which I didn't know was possible. But nothing became any clearer. I was diagnosed smack in the middle of college, college, its own, strange, insular world where ephemera like college hockey and GPAs and the grade on your post-modern analysis of a neo-classical Irish poem are important. But I got through cancer and managed to quash my doubt that GPAs held any lasting import and I got through college. But that was it. When I was diagnosed, I didn't know what I wanted, and my life certainly wasn't on any sort of path. Four years later, I still don't know what I want, and whatever path I've found myself on is so twisty and disconcerting because I have No Idea where it is taking me. "True acceptance" is hard to come by because I still harbor resentment towards this disease for what it has taken from me, and because of what it has taken from too many other people. I'm pissed. And lost, which helps no one.
I am putting all this out there on the Internets knowing full well that my issues are selfish and a bit petty. But a personal blog is, by its very nature, a self-serving venture. I guess I'm just struggling because I know a number of cancer survivors whose diagnosis caused this seismic shift in their lives, and now they've changed everything and are happy and successful and blah blah blah (we see what we want to see). I feel mired in a sludge of self-doubt and uncertainty and fear heaped on this belief that no one's ever going to actually hire me for a real job because I'm not qualified for anything.... Like I said, I need to be running more.
So many young adults struggle every day with the direction they want their lives to go. Very few of us know what we truly want to do with ourselves. Or maybe that's just me because I spent the past four years healing myself physically and mentally from cancer and only now am I starting to look forward but all I can do is grasp at darkness. Arghhh, I'm sorry; I'm frustrated. But this is life, and believe me when I say that I am so much in love with living. Not that this resolves anything, but I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and it will all work out eventually. Someone will realize I'm pretty cool and want to pay me to do cool things.... Right. In the meantime, for whatever reason, I'm still here. Four years later, and I'm still here against all the odds. And I sucked it up and went for a run earlier today, and I am going skiing in Colorado in less than three weeks. Life is Spectacular if only for those two things. So thank you for bearing with my silly grumblings today. Tomorrow will bring its own new adventure. Peace.
The end of November and December are no longer "the holidays" for me. Four years ago, they became the jump-off point for the rest of my life, the time when I was diagnosed with cancer and every thing changed. A beautiful, wonderful woman I met over a year ago posted on her own blog recently, "maybe tomorrow I’ll be one step closer to the place of true acceptance that I’d mistakenly thought I’d already reached." Maybe I've placed her quote a little out of context because she is one of the few people I truly and deeply admire for her total annihilation of cancer, but it illustrates that we all have these days. I've been trying to figure out just why I've been so down lately. I've realized that I am deeply dissatisfied with myself and my life, but I am at a loss as to how to pick up and organize all the pieces that are right in front of me.
For the most part, I have come to terms with having had cancer. I have accepted it. I am happy with who I have become as a person, the insights I have gained and the perspective I have been granted. It's just that around this time of year, when I'm struggling to balance my lack of running with my excess of eating, I can't help but remember four years ago when I could neither run nor eat nor do anything much besides wait for my hair to fall out and watch my legs shrivel up. Hopefully he won't mind, but I've been conversing a bit over e-mail with a close friend of mine recently, and the other day, I had this really disconcerting realization. He had asked me if my cancer diagnosis caused me to reevaluate my life and live it differently, perhaps more fully, than before. Was I granted some existential clarity that most people only glimpse when reading good literature?
My realization (and response) was that I have been fundamentally changed as a person, much more self-aware and deeper, which I didn't know was possible. But nothing became any clearer. I was diagnosed smack in the middle of college, college, its own, strange, insular world where ephemera like college hockey and GPAs and the grade on your post-modern analysis of a neo-classical Irish poem are important. But I got through cancer and managed to quash my doubt that GPAs held any lasting import and I got through college. But that was it. When I was diagnosed, I didn't know what I wanted, and my life certainly wasn't on any sort of path. Four years later, I still don't know what I want, and whatever path I've found myself on is so twisty and disconcerting because I have No Idea where it is taking me. "True acceptance" is hard to come by because I still harbor resentment towards this disease for what it has taken from me, and because of what it has taken from too many other people. I'm pissed. And lost, which helps no one.
I am putting all this out there on the Internets knowing full well that my issues are selfish and a bit petty. But a personal blog is, by its very nature, a self-serving venture. I guess I'm just struggling because I know a number of cancer survivors whose diagnosis caused this seismic shift in their lives, and now they've changed everything and are happy and successful and blah blah blah (we see what we want to see). I feel mired in a sludge of self-doubt and uncertainty and fear heaped on this belief that no one's ever going to actually hire me for a real job because I'm not qualified for anything.... Like I said, I need to be running more.
So many young adults struggle every day with the direction they want their lives to go. Very few of us know what we truly want to do with ourselves. Or maybe that's just me because I spent the past four years healing myself physically and mentally from cancer and only now am I starting to look forward but all I can do is grasp at darkness. Arghhh, I'm sorry; I'm frustrated. But this is life, and believe me when I say that I am so much in love with living. Not that this resolves anything, but I do believe that everything happens for a reason, and it will all work out eventually. Someone will realize I'm pretty cool and want to pay me to do cool things.... Right. In the meantime, for whatever reason, I'm still here. Four years later, and I'm still here against all the odds. And I sucked it up and went for a run earlier today, and I am going skiing in Colorado in less than three weeks. Life is Spectacular if only for those two things. So thank you for bearing with my silly grumblings today. Tomorrow will bring its own new adventure. Peace.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Pace yourself.
It has been just over two weeks since the Chicago Marathon. I popped my last, most disgusting blister a few nights ago (so epic). I started physical therapy for my bum knee. And yesterday, for the first time in 14 days, I went for a run. A surprisingly speedy run, albeit a considerably shorter one than recent runs. Life goes on. We continue with our everyday motions because they are what we know and what we are comfortable with. We fold up our yesterdays and past excitements and put them on a shelf with mothballs, air them out every once in a while for nostalgia's sake. Sometimes, though, something - some event or idea or person - comes along and jars our complacency all out of whack. Anyway, that's what happened to me.
Two weeks ago, I finished my first marathon. Finishing, however, was absolutely nothing like I expected it to be - hence the out of whackness. I have honestly spent the past two weeks in a weird post-marathon funk/depression, partly because, well, it's over..., but also because I have been beating myself up a bit about the whole thing, wondering where I go from here and how do I improve? Instead of feeling proud of my accomplishment, satisfaction at having completed a goal I have had for almost 10 years, I feel frustrated. I feel somewhat that I let myself down here. And I also feel strangely unsettled.
The race itself was sensory overload: People Everywhere, smells (I swear there was chocolate somewhere right outside of the Loop), screaming spectators and signs ("Your feet hurt because you're kicking butt!"), bystanders with hoses spraying shockingly cold water on runners dehydrating in the 84 degree heat. My story is that I was doing super well. On pace for the entire first half. I hit the 13-mile clock exactly where I wanted to be. Sadly, that is just about also when the pain in my left knee became nearly unbearable. I started walking. And I did not stop walking until about maybe 100 meters from the finish line, when I started jogging again just so I could cross that stupid line "running."
So my frustration stems from the fact that I walked basically the last 10 miles of the marathon. One of my coaches, to whom I will be forever grateful, joined me at mile 16. I'm sure he saw the look of absolute dejection on my sweat-stained face, noticed my slogging limp as I tried to keep moving forward. He stayed with me to the end. I don't think I would have given up if it hadn't been for his help, but who knows... Around mile 18, I sure as hell wanted to stop. A curb on a Gatorade-cup-strewn street in downtown Chicago had never looked more comfortable. Yet I shoved the "oh God; there are still eight more miles to go?!" thought to the back of my brain and focused, instead, on my breathing. Interestingly, deep, concentrated breaths actually diminished the pain in my leg a bit, added just a little bit more range of motion to my hips. That, or it was just helpful to try and shift my focus off my leg.
Some time later, I trotted across the wide FINISH line, stumbled down to where smiling volunteers were putting medals around finishers' necks, grabbed a HeatSheet for posterity (it was already warm enough outside), walked another quarter mile to the gear check, got my stuff, and flopped onto an empty patch of grass to take off my sneakers and call my friends. And that was it. I found my jubilant friends waiting for me by Buckingham Fountain; they were a huge reason I got myself to the finish. We walked back to the Team in Training tent where I did not have a beer but did have a fantastic cinnamon roll an amazing friend thought to bring me. Seriously. Best post-race snack ever.
And here we are: my world has been shifted because I Finished the Chicago Marathon, but I did not do well. I want to do better; I know I can do better. One year ago, when I decided to train for and run this race, it was for so many different reasons. This marathon because this is the city in which I received the most hellacious parts of my cancer treatment. This race because if I could run 26.2 miles through the streets of Chicago, I could literally and figuratively run down my cancer demons. This year because I was back living in Chicago, and I needed something to work towards. Needed a tangible goal to shoot for because otherwise, I would just be right back home in the suburbs with only a vague plan to get out of here as soon as possible. So I did it! Running has, once again in my life, become one of the most important facets of who I am.
My hitherto unspoken expectation that completing this race would be the absolute end of my relationship with Chicago has proven unrealistic. I am definitely still here, still don't have any definite plan to get out of here. And running certainly did not usher cancer out of my life forever. But I want to do better. I want to run far again, and soon. Instead of being a cap, a tidy end to an extremely untidy past four years, I am confronted with a wide-open path or trail or whatever this race has led me to. This is not the end of anything, really. It is the beginning of an overwhelming desire to keep pushing myself, to actually run the whole 26.2 miles of a marathon, although probably not Chicago again any time soon.
No, I am not satisfied with merely finishing a marathon. I get that it is a big deal; I get that a whole lot of people cannot fathom running any distance anyway. But I also feel that I am more than just finishing and putting my medal in a sock drawer of stories to tell. I am stuck, now, with this running thing, but like I said, it is a question of where to go from here. My world was shaken up when my life-expectations were, per usual, trounced. Nothing ever turns out how we expect it to, apparently.
So what's next? Who will employ me somewhere far away from here? What races will next I run? I've started slowly, haven't yet burnt out. There have been setbacks, injuries and whatnot, but I'm working them out and will not give up. Not yet. There is still too much ahead of me to give up. I turned 24 three weeks ago; I have so much to experience! So much I need to do with my life, not the least of which is run long distances. But anyway, that's my marathon story. Good story, right? I have a 15K race in two weeks and a new Photo Project on the internets. And I can't help but get excited about the possibilities approaching, even if I don't know what they are yet. Like I said, I can only get better. Right on long posts!. Peace.
Two weeks ago, I finished my first marathon. Finishing, however, was absolutely nothing like I expected it to be - hence the out of whackness. I have honestly spent the past two weeks in a weird post-marathon funk/depression, partly because, well, it's over..., but also because I have been beating myself up a bit about the whole thing, wondering where I go from here and how do I improve? Instead of feeling proud of my accomplishment, satisfaction at having completed a goal I have had for almost 10 years, I feel frustrated. I feel somewhat that I let myself down here. And I also feel strangely unsettled.
The race itself was sensory overload: People Everywhere, smells (I swear there was chocolate somewhere right outside of the Loop), screaming spectators and signs ("Your feet hurt because you're kicking butt!"), bystanders with hoses spraying shockingly cold water on runners dehydrating in the 84 degree heat. My story is that I was doing super well. On pace for the entire first half. I hit the 13-mile clock exactly where I wanted to be. Sadly, that is just about also when the pain in my left knee became nearly unbearable. I started walking. And I did not stop walking until about maybe 100 meters from the finish line, when I started jogging again just so I could cross that stupid line "running."
So my frustration stems from the fact that I walked basically the last 10 miles of the marathon. One of my coaches, to whom I will be forever grateful, joined me at mile 16. I'm sure he saw the look of absolute dejection on my sweat-stained face, noticed my slogging limp as I tried to keep moving forward. He stayed with me to the end. I don't think I would have given up if it hadn't been for his help, but who knows... Around mile 18, I sure as hell wanted to stop. A curb on a Gatorade-cup-strewn street in downtown Chicago had never looked more comfortable. Yet I shoved the "oh God; there are still eight more miles to go?!" thought to the back of my brain and focused, instead, on my breathing. Interestingly, deep, concentrated breaths actually diminished the pain in my leg a bit, added just a little bit more range of motion to my hips. That, or it was just helpful to try and shift my focus off my leg.
Some time later, I trotted across the wide FINISH line, stumbled down to where smiling volunteers were putting medals around finishers' necks, grabbed a HeatSheet for posterity (it was already warm enough outside), walked another quarter mile to the gear check, got my stuff, and flopped onto an empty patch of grass to take off my sneakers and call my friends. And that was it. I found my jubilant friends waiting for me by Buckingham Fountain; they were a huge reason I got myself to the finish. We walked back to the Team in Training tent where I did not have a beer but did have a fantastic cinnamon roll an amazing friend thought to bring me. Seriously. Best post-race snack ever.
And here we are: my world has been shifted because I Finished the Chicago Marathon, but I did not do well. I want to do better; I know I can do better. One year ago, when I decided to train for and run this race, it was for so many different reasons. This marathon because this is the city in which I received the most hellacious parts of my cancer treatment. This race because if I could run 26.2 miles through the streets of Chicago, I could literally and figuratively run down my cancer demons. This year because I was back living in Chicago, and I needed something to work towards. Needed a tangible goal to shoot for because otherwise, I would just be right back home in the suburbs with only a vague plan to get out of here as soon as possible. So I did it! Running has, once again in my life, become one of the most important facets of who I am.
My hitherto unspoken expectation that completing this race would be the absolute end of my relationship with Chicago has proven unrealistic. I am definitely still here, still don't have any definite plan to get out of here. And running certainly did not usher cancer out of my life forever. But I want to do better. I want to run far again, and soon. Instead of being a cap, a tidy end to an extremely untidy past four years, I am confronted with a wide-open path or trail or whatever this race has led me to. This is not the end of anything, really. It is the beginning of an overwhelming desire to keep pushing myself, to actually run the whole 26.2 miles of a marathon, although probably not Chicago again any time soon.
No, I am not satisfied with merely finishing a marathon. I get that it is a big deal; I get that a whole lot of people cannot fathom running any distance anyway. But I also feel that I am more than just finishing and putting my medal in a sock drawer of stories to tell. I am stuck, now, with this running thing, but like I said, it is a question of where to go from here. My world was shaken up when my life-expectations were, per usual, trounced. Nothing ever turns out how we expect it to, apparently.
So what's next? Who will employ me somewhere far away from here? What races will next I run? I've started slowly, haven't yet burnt out. There have been setbacks, injuries and whatnot, but I'm working them out and will not give up. Not yet. There is still too much ahead of me to give up. I turned 24 three weeks ago; I have so much to experience! So much I need to do with my life, not the least of which is run long distances. But anyway, that's my marathon story. Good story, right? I have a 15K race in two weeks and a new Photo Project on the internets. And I can't help but get excited about the possibilities approaching, even if I don't know what they are yet. Like I said, I can only get better. Right on long posts!. Peace.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Self-perception. Or a lack thereof...
Is it possible to recognize ourselves in the present tense? Can we ever be fully aware of life as it happens to us, cognizant of the changes every single experience forces into our psyches? I don't think so. Awareness is found in retrospect: looking back at major events and being able to acknowledge how we as individuals have changed with respect to the past. Hopefully we can say we have grown and become better people in the ensuing months or years, but it probably does not always happen that way. Sometimes people regress; sometimes people simply stagnate. They become complacent. Or they take where they have come from and stare it down and laugh. They laugh and run and bike and try hard to move on with their beautiful lives.
Five years ago I was a freshman in college with a dopey boyfriend who would break my heart over Christmas break. I was so young, so naive. I suppose we all are, though, as freshmen in college. We are allowed to be innocent and illegally drunk on Friday nights on very, very bad beer and even worse vodka-based questionable cocktails. Five years ago. What were you doing five years ago? Were you such a completely different person that you no longer recognize the shadow you once cast? One year later, finally a sophomore in college, I turned 20 and was ecstatic to officially no longer be a teenager. I celebrated with a couple close friends in my dorm room with a Godiva chocolate cheesecake and a bottle of Southern Comfort. My body was already being overtaken by cancer, but, of course, none of us knew that yet. We were all still cracking jokes about my need for more iron in my diet. That was only four years ago.
And then I was diagnosed with ALL, and I started treatment for it, and, as I wrote in my personal journal, "then they cut my legs off." Hospitals, clinics, drips, pills, catheters. No studying, no drinking, no biking, absolutely no running. No running... I lost weight; I lost my hair; I lost my identity on so many different levels. Medical waiting rooms became their own sort of void: It was a Dali dream world where time melted off the clocks and half-closed ears tried to pick out which bouncing announcement carried their own name so they could float over to a plastic recliner and watch as lines were strung up between their fleshly bodies and sacs of caustic fluids attached to even thinner metal bodies.
It was cancer; these were the treatments. And then it was over, but it wasn't quite over. Just about exactly two years ago, my doctors allowed that the growing pain in my face wasn't actually a sinus infection. The face-tumor! But that was two years ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like it all happened yesterday. That the vice-presidential debates were on my birthday four days ago as opposed to on my birthday two years and four days ago. So time, what, flows? Moves, progresses, doesn't ever stop doing something? "Time" passed, and I quickly grew up and looked back at what I had experienced and decided I was proud of the person I was becoming. I had gone through a hell of sorts and was living a much better, fuller life than I had pre-cancer.
Finally, one year ago, following a bit of an epiphany in Jackson, Wyoming, I started running again seriously. One year ago I promised myself that this next year, this year following my graduation from university, this year that I found myself without options and with little hope and living with my parents again, this year would lead me to the Chicago Marathon. At last - the denouement!
Changes in the present tense. Physically, I hadn't noticed my body morph into that of a semi-athlete's. And yet I look at myself in a mirror and am awed by the muscles I can actually see defined in my body. I have biceps?! What? When did that happen? Emotionally, I haven't really been thinking about this week every single day for the past year. The marathon itself is never far from my mind, but the reality - the actuality that here I am, three days removed from actually running this thing - that was never much a concern. And yet here I am, mentally freaking out, finally, because in three nights I will (ideally) just be getting ready for bed the night before running 26.2 miles. Running a marathon I honestly did not think was possible three, two, almost even one year ago.
Five years after my freshman idealism; four years after cancer; two years after face-tumor; and One Year after promising myself that I will do this. This is happening. My God; I am actually going to do this. Who knows what will happen on race day, on Sunday (will it seriously be 80 degrees...??). Perhaps my knee will decide, as has been its recent wont, to screw me and sideline me and crush me. Or maybe I will reach my physical and emotional breaking points and push through, push through all of the limitations I have allowed to fester over the past four years, the setbacks and letdowns and disappointments that I haven't fully been able to let go of. Run straight through and beyond and away from everything negative the past four years have brought me.
Like I said, who knows what will happen on race day. All I Do know is that I will be standing (or nervously hopping around) squished between 45,000 other runners near the start line when the gun goes off for the Chicago Marathon this Sunday, 10/10/10. I am 24 years old; I am a runner. I am a cancer survivor, and one day soon, I am going to break out of the little stagnant hole I have found myself in, and I am going to summit mountains. I am deliriously happy with who I am today. I love my life and the people in it without reservation, and I am scared out of my mind to run a marathon 84 hours from right now. But this is LIFE. This is me being Alive, and it amazes and frightens and overjoys me every single day, whether I consciously admit it or not; every single day I am beyond thankful to still be alive.
Thank you all so much for being here with me through this. I promise to update post-run. Possibly a few days post... Incidentally, my most recent scans (one month ago) were all clear. Haha. But really, I could not have gotten this far without your support. Thank you. Peace.
Five years ago I was a freshman in college with a dopey boyfriend who would break my heart over Christmas break. I was so young, so naive. I suppose we all are, though, as freshmen in college. We are allowed to be innocent and illegally drunk on Friday nights on very, very bad beer and even worse vodka-based questionable cocktails. Five years ago. What were you doing five years ago? Were you such a completely different person that you no longer recognize the shadow you once cast? One year later, finally a sophomore in college, I turned 20 and was ecstatic to officially no longer be a teenager. I celebrated with a couple close friends in my dorm room with a Godiva chocolate cheesecake and a bottle of Southern Comfort. My body was already being overtaken by cancer, but, of course, none of us knew that yet. We were all still cracking jokes about my need for more iron in my diet. That was only four years ago.
And then I was diagnosed with ALL, and I started treatment for it, and, as I wrote in my personal journal, "then they cut my legs off." Hospitals, clinics, drips, pills, catheters. No studying, no drinking, no biking, absolutely no running. No running... I lost weight; I lost my hair; I lost my identity on so many different levels. Medical waiting rooms became their own sort of void: It was a Dali dream world where time melted off the clocks and half-closed ears tried to pick out which bouncing announcement carried their own name so they could float over to a plastic recliner and watch as lines were strung up between their fleshly bodies and sacs of caustic fluids attached to even thinner metal bodies.
It was cancer; these were the treatments. And then it was over, but it wasn't quite over. Just about exactly two years ago, my doctors allowed that the growing pain in my face wasn't actually a sinus infection. The face-tumor! But that was two years ago. It feels like a lifetime ago. It feels like it all happened yesterday. That the vice-presidential debates were on my birthday four days ago as opposed to on my birthday two years and four days ago. So time, what, flows? Moves, progresses, doesn't ever stop doing something? "Time" passed, and I quickly grew up and looked back at what I had experienced and decided I was proud of the person I was becoming. I had gone through a hell of sorts and was living a much better, fuller life than I had pre-cancer.
Finally, one year ago, following a bit of an epiphany in Jackson, Wyoming, I started running again seriously. One year ago I promised myself that this next year, this year following my graduation from university, this year that I found myself without options and with little hope and living with my parents again, this year would lead me to the Chicago Marathon. At last - the denouement!
Changes in the present tense. Physically, I hadn't noticed my body morph into that of a semi-athlete's. And yet I look at myself in a mirror and am awed by the muscles I can actually see defined in my body. I have biceps?! What? When did that happen? Emotionally, I haven't really been thinking about this week every single day for the past year. The marathon itself is never far from my mind, but the reality - the actuality that here I am, three days removed from actually running this thing - that was never much a concern. And yet here I am, mentally freaking out, finally, because in three nights I will (ideally) just be getting ready for bed the night before running 26.2 miles. Running a marathon I honestly did not think was possible three, two, almost even one year ago.
Five years after my freshman idealism; four years after cancer; two years after face-tumor; and One Year after promising myself that I will do this. This is happening. My God; I am actually going to do this. Who knows what will happen on race day, on Sunday (will it seriously be 80 degrees...??). Perhaps my knee will decide, as has been its recent wont, to screw me and sideline me and crush me. Or maybe I will reach my physical and emotional breaking points and push through, push through all of the limitations I have allowed to fester over the past four years, the setbacks and letdowns and disappointments that I haven't fully been able to let go of. Run straight through and beyond and away from everything negative the past four years have brought me.
Like I said, who knows what will happen on race day. All I Do know is that I will be standing (or nervously hopping around) squished between 45,000 other runners near the start line when the gun goes off for the Chicago Marathon this Sunday, 10/10/10. I am 24 years old; I am a runner. I am a cancer survivor, and one day soon, I am going to break out of the little stagnant hole I have found myself in, and I am going to summit mountains. I am deliriously happy with who I am today. I love my life and the people in it without reservation, and I am scared out of my mind to run a marathon 84 hours from right now. But this is LIFE. This is me being Alive, and it amazes and frightens and overjoys me every single day, whether I consciously admit it or not; every single day I am beyond thankful to still be alive.
Thank you all so much for being here with me through this. I promise to update post-run. Possibly a few days post... Incidentally, my most recent scans (one month ago) were all clear. Haha. But really, I could not have gotten this far without your support. Thank you. Peace.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Seeing the world through Fridge-colored glasses
Unless you are a member of an elite group of amazing people, I don't expect you to understand this post's title. Luckily, I explain! Just over one year ago, I participated in an outdoor adventure camp for young adult cancer survivors. First Descents offers cancer fighters and survivors between the ages of 18-40(ish) the opportunity to spend a week kayaking or climbing in any number of different locations in the western states. So in 2009, I opted to go climbing in Jackson, Wyoming, where I was promptly (and questionably...) nicknamed the Fridge. I am a Chicago Bears fan, after all.
My experiences that first week climbing in the Grand Tetons altered my entire perception of myself as a cancer survivor. I met a group of people whose love and support and unconditional acceptance were unlike any type of friendship I had ever experienced. The connections were immediate and lasting. What is it about having had cancer that we were all able to identify with each other, regardless of our general interests? Perhaps we were all searching for a camaraderie that had been lost with the onset of our illnesses. Whether we accepted it or not, cancer took a part of our lives: it took my college years. It took someone else's senior year of high school. It denied yet another woman of her ability to bear children. We lost our identities, and those are difficult ephemera to quickly redefine. So, Jackson introduced to me the idea that we truly are all in this together. That first camp allowed me to step back and allow another person to be there for me, to pick me up when I was feeling the post-cancer blues. Much more powerful than any pill and more effective than any workout, I was blessed with a beautiful, new family.
My winter brought with it a bit of an emotional backslide, but luckily, I was signed up for another FD camp, this one in Moab, Utah at the end of April. Once again, I laid my heart bare to a group of relative strangers, and once again, I was buoyed by their support and love. Not to mention one woman's insistence that every time I look in a mirror, I wink at myself. Self-confidence: a notoriously elusive force in my life. And yet, somehow, perhaps when I was free-rappelling from a 100-foot sandstone arch, I thought, "All of these people can't be that mistaken. Maybe I can do this whole 'life' thing..."
Flash-forward through an oppressive Chicago summer to this past Friday and me getting a little emotional during the final descent into Midway airport on an uneventful flight from Denver after an exhausting and amazing week as staff photographer for an FD climbing camp in Estes Park, Colorado. After I put my personal photographs from Utah online, someone in the First Descents office thought it would be a swell idea to ask me if I would like to attend one of the camps as the official photographer. Well, for me, a no-brainer, although nerve-wracking.
Last week I had yet another amazing experience with FD, but this time, it was for a different reason. While I still have a few of my own cancer-demons lurking, this week was an opportunity for me to give back a small bit to the organization that has already done so much for my personal healing. It was amazing to be able to observe and try to capture each camper's experience on the rocks. The entire time, my goal was to help each person have as amazing a week as I have had at the previous camps. I desperately wanted to shoot fantastic photographs that they would be so happy and proud to have as reminders of their amazing week climbing in Colorado.
This time around, I was present to help facilitate the "FD experience," and I honestly could not have felt more honored. It is one thing to stare down your fears and face your perceived limitations while hanging from a skinny rope, feeling around for a foothold that extends more than two inches from the rock face... It is a different experience altogether to be able to witness the transformations of 13 individuals and the growth of the group as a whole. To witness friendships being made, to truly see the unconditional support I had previously felt. To watch a camper's face as she placed her implicit trust in the person belaying her and stood up on a toehold that by all accounts should not stick... As a photographer, I could not take enough photographs. Someone staring at a rock or laughing at a joke or releasing everything while standing on the literal top of a mountain, 13,000 feet above sea level.
Like I said, I only hope I was able to adequately capture the struggles and emotions and love of the week. (that whole self-confidence thing creeping in...) I really did not want to leave Colorado this time. But I have to thank First Descents with everything that I have for helping me grow and figure out who I am post-cancer. And I am so grateful they asked me to attend camp as the photographer. I hope I did the week justice in my photos, and I cannot wait to see what the next year will bring. So much awesome, and hopefully a lot more rock climbing! Peace.
My experiences that first week climbing in the Grand Tetons altered my entire perception of myself as a cancer survivor. I met a group of people whose love and support and unconditional acceptance were unlike any type of friendship I had ever experienced. The connections were immediate and lasting. What is it about having had cancer that we were all able to identify with each other, regardless of our general interests? Perhaps we were all searching for a camaraderie that had been lost with the onset of our illnesses. Whether we accepted it or not, cancer took a part of our lives: it took my college years. It took someone else's senior year of high school. It denied yet another woman of her ability to bear children. We lost our identities, and those are difficult ephemera to quickly redefine. So, Jackson introduced to me the idea that we truly are all in this together. That first camp allowed me to step back and allow another person to be there for me, to pick me up when I was feeling the post-cancer blues. Much more powerful than any pill and more effective than any workout, I was blessed with a beautiful, new family.
My winter brought with it a bit of an emotional backslide, but luckily, I was signed up for another FD camp, this one in Moab, Utah at the end of April. Once again, I laid my heart bare to a group of relative strangers, and once again, I was buoyed by their support and love. Not to mention one woman's insistence that every time I look in a mirror, I wink at myself. Self-confidence: a notoriously elusive force in my life. And yet, somehow, perhaps when I was free-rappelling from a 100-foot sandstone arch, I thought, "All of these people can't be that mistaken. Maybe I can do this whole 'life' thing..."
Flash-forward through an oppressive Chicago summer to this past Friday and me getting a little emotional during the final descent into Midway airport on an uneventful flight from Denver after an exhausting and amazing week as staff photographer for an FD climbing camp in Estes Park, Colorado. After I put my personal photographs from Utah online, someone in the First Descents office thought it would be a swell idea to ask me if I would like to attend one of the camps as the official photographer. Well, for me, a no-brainer, although nerve-wracking.
Last week I had yet another amazing experience with FD, but this time, it was for a different reason. While I still have a few of my own cancer-demons lurking, this week was an opportunity for me to give back a small bit to the organization that has already done so much for my personal healing. It was amazing to be able to observe and try to capture each camper's experience on the rocks. The entire time, my goal was to help each person have as amazing a week as I have had at the previous camps. I desperately wanted to shoot fantastic photographs that they would be so happy and proud to have as reminders of their amazing week climbing in Colorado.
This time around, I was present to help facilitate the "FD experience," and I honestly could not have felt more honored. It is one thing to stare down your fears and face your perceived limitations while hanging from a skinny rope, feeling around for a foothold that extends more than two inches from the rock face... It is a different experience altogether to be able to witness the transformations of 13 individuals and the growth of the group as a whole. To witness friendships being made, to truly see the unconditional support I had previously felt. To watch a camper's face as she placed her implicit trust in the person belaying her and stood up on a toehold that by all accounts should not stick... As a photographer, I could not take enough photographs. Someone staring at a rock or laughing at a joke or releasing everything while standing on the literal top of a mountain, 13,000 feet above sea level.
Like I said, I only hope I was able to adequately capture the struggles and emotions and love of the week. (that whole self-confidence thing creeping in...) I really did not want to leave Colorado this time. But I have to thank First Descents with everything that I have for helping me grow and figure out who I am post-cancer. And I am so grateful they asked me to attend camp as the photographer. I hope I did the week justice in my photos, and I cannot wait to see what the next year will bring. So much awesome, and hopefully a lot more rock climbing! Peace.
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