Today marks seven weeks that I have been sans thyroid. I had every intention of updating after my surgery, but I felt . . . weird . . . about it.
The surgery went beautifully; my hospital experience was superb; the aftermath has been a breeze; my scar is healing well; the support and love from family and friends is the stuff of dreams. I take a tiny pill every morning, and my day unfolds much like it did before.
Still, I feel weird about it. Why?
I didn't respect the blip.
When my doctor called with my diagnosis, he immediately followed it with, "If you're going to get cancer, thyroid cancer is the one to get. This will be nothing but a blip on your radar a year from now." And I ran with that. A "blip" sounds perfect. I am young and healthy, so getting through this will be easy. This is a speed bump on the road of life, and I am an excellent driver. This will be something to survive and push me forward. I can do this.
Talking with a good friend on the phone, he told me that, while en route to his house for Christmas, his sister-in-law--married with a 6-year-old--received the news that she had breast cancer. She would have to undergo a full mastectomy, chemo, and radiation. There was no time to waste; it had to happen, like, yesterday. They immediately returned home to begin treatment. Evidently, cancer doesn't wait for Christmas. My friend did not intend this story to be a comparison to my experience, but a testament to how quickly (almost absurdly so!) life can change, and how quickly we adapt. When I hung up the phone, I was grateful that all I had was a "blip". Some people, and their 6-year-old, don't have that luxury.
I listened to, read, and recollected my own heartbreaking and heartbolstering stories. Stories of loss and survival in the face of cancer and other incurable, unexplainable, and destructive diseases. Some I would recount here if it were not for the fact that they are not my stories to tell; I could never do them justice. The cycle of loss, grief, and triumph of the human spirit is as personal and intricate as a fingerprint. I filed them away, and whenever my chest tightened and my nose tingled with tears of "what if . . .?", I would pop one into the forefront of my brain and let the gratitude work on me like a cold glass of milk after too much peanut butter. I even came up with a clever response whenever anyone asked me about it. "I have the paper-cut of cancers."
The days leading up to surgery were a hurricane of emotion. But on the day of, I was great. Bases were covered, my mom was here, and D.R. and I had decided he would come back home while I was in surgery to walk Alice B. He would be back with plenty of time to greet me in recovery. Take that, hurricane!
A lovely orderly named Jose picked me up from the waiting room, and I swapped my street clothes for the latest in hospital couture. I crawled into the bed and snuggled with toasty blankets fresh from the warmer. Nurses came by to check on me, check my chart, check my bracelet.
"Do you have any allergies, Samantha?"
"Not unless you plan on bringing a cat into the O.R."
"Your neck has a bit of rash on it. Are you sure you're not allergic to anything?"
"I'm positive. It happens whenever I'm nervous."
"Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything?"
"How about a shot of tequila? No? Then a willing surgeon will suffice."
The anesthesiologist with eyes like Paul Newman hooked up my IV and explained the administering of the happy juice. It may have been the eyes, but I was supremely confident in his abilities. My O.R. nurse came in with the chief resident and asked me to state my full name. I did. Date of birth? Certainly.
"Samantha, what procedure are you having done today?"
"Thyroidectomy."
"Do you understand why?" I get that this line of questioning was a security and liability measure to be sure we were all on the same page, which is why my reaction was a little surprising.
"I have can--" I choked on the word, and the tears answered for me. I laid my cold hand on my chest in an effort to soothe the heat rising up my neck and onto my cheeks, turning them red once again with nerves.
The chief resident took my other hand, and in a manner both matter-of-fact and gentle, said, "Samantha, this will never not be a scary thing. It's OK" For her comforting delivery of truth bombs, I will always be grateful to Dr. Cavanaugh.
I took a deep breathe and made my second approach. "I have cancer."
It occurs to me that, while writing this, the very same nervous rash is crawling up my neck and cheeks.
I remember waking up in recovery and seeing D.R. Like a good little Type-A, the first thing I said was, "Is the dog alright?" My mom came in but I don't remember what we talked about. The next thing I remember is coming out of the bathroom to see my surgeon, Dr. Margulies. He had changed out of his scrubs into this beautiful olive green shirt and matching tie with gold and pink speckles. I really wanted to tell him how much I loved the look, but in my drug haze I was paranoid that decorum prevented me paying my surgeon a compliment. He grinned and told me everything went as planned. He took out twenty lymph nodes along with my thyroid. A bit more than he expected, but he was happy with the result. "From a surgical standpoint, you are cancer-free."
I recovered well. So well, in fact, my mom went back home two days earlier than planned. At my post-op appointment, Dr. Margulies was pleased that I was energetic and happy. He commented that my voice didn't sound gravelly or strained. I confirmed that I had returned to perfect pitch almost immediately. The pathology showed that eight of the twenty lymph nodes removed were cancerous including the "complex cystic structure" that started the whole thing. He apologized for it not being caught sooner. I told him I was just grateful that "the aliens" were removed before they became more of a nuisance. He told me to follow-up with my endocrinologist and schedule radiation 6-8 weeks after surgery. Just to insure we were all using the same medical lingo, I asked, "Do you think this time next year, this will be but a blip on my radar?"
"Absolutely." Decorum be damned, I threw my arms around Dr. Margulies's neck and thanked him for his fine scalpel skills.
Feeling like the hard part was over, the relief washed over me. Family and friends asked how I was, and I didn't lie. "I feel great; the surgery was a breeze." The best part was I was back to running 11 days after surgery. I felt powerful and fulfilled during my runs. I felt my body actively healing itself one mile at a time.
I met with my endocrinologist a few weeks after surgery. He was pleased with my progress and response to the medication. He explained that my upcoming radiation treatment was really more of a clean-up mission. It would wipe out any remaining thyroid cells as well as any, uhhh "hangers on", if you will. He went on to say that if I have "clean" scans for the next year I will be considered "cured". Yes, he did the air quotes, and no, I did not like them.
That night, sitting on the couch, D.R. observed that I seemed quiet. I told him that I wasn't sure why, but the use of the air quotes in the doctor's office really bugged me. The doctor hadn't changed the plan, we were still steady as she goes. Everything he said was good news or something I had known before. Yet there was . . . something.
Kathy, from Nuclear Medicine, scheduled my radiation for Monday, March 14th. She explained that I would be given a large dose of radioactive iodine, which would get rid of . . . what needed to be gotten rid of. The catch is that I have to stay in a stainless steel room in the hospital for two days with no visitors, as I will be radioactive. I will have a TV and phone in my room, but all reading material must be left at the hospital to avoid contamination. They will provide all the hospital gowns I can handle, but any clothing worn against my body must be left at the hospital and properly disposed of. Nurses will be available if I need them, but interaction is minimal to avoid contamination. A medical physicist will scan me periodically to measure radiation and make sure it's dropped to a safe level before I am sent home. But the fun does not stop there. D.R. and Alice B. cannot stay in the apartment with me for three days. I have to eat off disposable plates and utensils, and whatever linens I use and clothing I wear has to be washed separately in very hot water. I am not allowed around small children and pregnant women for a week after I arrive home. Oh, and if there were plans to get pregnant (which there are not!), put that on hold for a year. Let me explain something here: I don't like to sleep with the door closed; I don't like it when drapes are completely shut; and you might as well give me a padded room if I can't have the windows open. It started to feel institutional before I hung up the phone, and the fact that my own body would be a danger to other humans and creatures . . . .
Somewhere between nuclear medicine and nuclear meltdown, I figured it out.
This was not supposed to happen, goddammit!! My father died 6 years ago of a heart attack. I was ready for doctors to tell me I had high blood pressure, circulatory problems, etc. I was ready for them to tell me I was at risk for diabetes if I don't keep my weight in check. I was even ready for thyroid issues. But cancer?! No! That was not on my list! I'm a runner. I've never taken drugs. I don't down a bottle of Jack every night. Barring my addiction to cake and pastries, I am a healthy, vibrant woman. Why does this happen?! What. The. Fuck?!?!
D.R. got the business end of my spewing rage. I left a weeping, rambling, hiccuping message on my sister's phone. I Skyped with my stepmother, Sonjah, for an hour and a half. I cried on the phone to my mother in the parking lot of Whole Foods. I didn't edit myself with stories of loss and survival greater than mine. I didn't pull myself up by my bootstraps. I didn't let the gratitude wash over me. I didn't use my favorite euphemisms to soften the sharp point of words like "cancer", "recurrence", and "survival rate". And as the pounding anger quieted in my ears, I heard a very soft, rhythmic noise . . .
Blip -- blip -- blip -- blip -- blip.
Ah ha, be careful what you wish for.
I realized that when I choked on the word "cancer" in pre-op, I was choking on the truth that I wasn't fully embracing.
The truth that I didn't feel I deserve to be counted with The Real Survivors because my treatment has been pretty easy and straightforward.
The truth that CANCER will forever be on my medical record no matter how healthy I am from here on out.
The truth that I will never function at 100% without the help of modern medicine.
The truth that, while thyroid cancer patients' survival rate is 90%, my endocrinologist's air quotes were a reminder that I must make peace with that 10% of uncertainty.
The truth that life, for us all, is really a series of blips. And if all we are doing is waiting for this unpleasant, or that unfortunate blip to pass over, we are missing a whole lotta life that surrounds it.
Respect the blip, kids. It just might be the thing that changes your life.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Does This Sword Match My Hospital Gown?
D.R. and I don't fight much. Sure, we get frustrated with each other--eyes are rolled, fingers are pointed, fists find their way to hips (that's my signature move), and there are exceedingly long drawn out breaths of frustration. But our time together has been pleasantly devoid of the ol' Knock Down Drag Out. Make no mistake, this is not from my lack of trying.
I come from a family of fighters. Not so much on my mom's side (although, she perfected the silent treatment and wielded that weapon well when I was young), but my dad's side--whoo boy! There was yelling, stomping, screaming, swearing, slamming doors, and, my personal favorite, the strategic exit of a moving vehicle.
My father and stepmother, Sonjah, were fighting in the car on the way home from dinner one night. Amanda and I listened from the backseat, our foreheads creased with worry. I don't remember what they were fighting about, but Sonjah reached her threshold at the bottom of the biggest hill in our neighborhood. A hill that high school cross country coaches used to train and punish even their most seasoned runners. It's a big ass hill. At the top of her lungs, Sonjah shouted, "Matthew, stop this car right now! I am walking home!" We all tried to convince her that it wasn't necessary to get out of the car five minutes from home.
"I don't care! Stop the car!"
"Fine!" my father shouted. In one quick moment he pulled over to the side of the road, unlocked the car door, and stared straight ahead as his seething wife got out. She slammed her door and my father hit the gas. Amanda and I stared out the back window at Sonjah, astonished at how angry she was; scared she might not make it up the big ass hill and through the suburban wilds of Billings, MT; and, absolutely terrified of our father for letting her do it.
That's how you fight in the Dunn family: guns blazing, don't back down, and always wear comfortable walking shoes.
I employed this rampaging tactic with D.R. exactly one time. Again, don't remember what we were fighting about, but I literally threw down! . . . a pair of his dirty jeans that had not made it into the hamper, but had been living happily crumpled on our COFFEE TABLE for three days. I said something snarky as I slammed the denim on the floor. The gauntlet was thrown! D.R.'s eyes got wide, he braced himself against the couch while I growled and gnashed at him (I turn feral when angry). Then, his eyes went to the ground, his face expressionless, and I knew I had lost him. The defensive wall went up, and whatever I said fell on deaf ears. Progress made: none.
Since then, I've had to refine my tactical approach to conflict. I keep my crazy in check (for as long as I can) and D.R. has learned when it's necessary to rise up and tell me I'm being crazy (illogical, dramatic, unfair, selfish, etc.) . We have our issues just like any couple, but I am learning that it's not necessary to burn down the whole forest just because there's a twig in my shoe. And, I am happy to report, neither of us has ever had to exit a moving vehicle. Progress made: some.
Fortunately, this passion for conflict is the cousin of fierce strength and abiding love for family and friends. Both my mom and dad's families spring into action at the first sign of sadness or pain. If we can't be in the immediate proximity, we are shooting emails, making phone calls, and sending hand written cards. We link up over the time-zones--no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other or spoken--and wage war on whomever or whatever has dared stand against us. In this family you are loved . . . militantly.
When I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in November, I handled the news as any normal person would: I cried.
D.R. was leaning on our kitchen counter as I wrapped up The Phone Call. His jaw was tight, his eyes were angry, and his arms were crossed over his puffed out chest. He wanted someone to blame just like I did. He hugged me and waited for me to speak. Since there wasn't much to say, he was content to let me use his t-shirt as Kleenex. Boys are so good at that.
When the crying was over, I took the next logical step that any normal person would: I started a mental draft of my will.
Regardless that every medical professional told me I would be fine. Regardless that I felt great and completely healthy. Regardless that I wasn't even on the surgeon's schedule yet because I wasn't considered "a ticking time bomb", I started leading D.R. around our apartment telling him who gets what in the event that I bite it. He rolled his eyes only a couple of times and reminded me that I was being a bit premature, and possibly--just possibly--a little dramatic. "Nevermind that! Who gets my vast collection of aprons?"
Confident that my worldly goods were in capable hands, I took the next logical step that any normal person would: I Googled "thyroid cancer".
My doctor warned me not to do it. D.R. tried to stop me. Hell, I tried to stop myself! But, as I mentioned, the first sign of pain or sadness, and we go to war. I was at war against an unknown and unwelcome thing. I figured the more knowledge, the better. I won't say that I was WRONG about that, per se, but I will admit that there are things I wish I could un-see. All those horrible accounts of mangled throats, spliced vocal chords, and uncontrollable weight gain kept scrolling across the page. When I brought the computer to bed, D.R. turned over with a disapproving sigh. I stayed awake until 3am, reading and panicking.
The next morning, the questions started. "What if the surgeon gets the wrong chart, and I end up minus one breast or something?"
"I will leave you immediately because I've made it very clear from day one that your breasts are the only reason I'm with you."
"What if they can't regulate the hormones and I turn into some horrible troll of a woman?"
"I will dress you up, charge people admission, and make lots of money off of you."
That, my friends, is someone you want by your side when you go into battle.
I had to go through the joyous process of finding a new doctor and surgeon, which meant surgery was postponed until January. I was ready for pumping anesthesia, flying scalpels, and now I had to wait?! Nothing puts a damper on a war like an enemy not willing to engage.
But, December actually turned out pretty awesome. I saw friends and family, even reconnected with people I hadn't talked to in years. D.R. talked me down from a number of irrational cliffs with the very calm observation, "I wouldn't know what to worry about first, so I'm just not going to start until I have to."
And so, with time, space, and pre-op testing, comes clarity. I am scheduled for surgery on January 20th, and what began as a war to be waged, now feels like a strongly-worded letter to be written.
Dear thyroid cancer:
Get the fuck out!
Sincerely, Samantha
The thing is, I know I'm a good fighter. I know I can make it up that big ass hill if I have to. Having D.R. by my side makes that possibility a lot less daunting.
But, if shit gets crazy, enjoy my real estate holdings and off-shore accounts. You know who you are.
I come from a family of fighters. Not so much on my mom's side (although, she perfected the silent treatment and wielded that weapon well when I was young), but my dad's side--whoo boy! There was yelling, stomping, screaming, swearing, slamming doors, and, my personal favorite, the strategic exit of a moving vehicle.
My father and stepmother, Sonjah, were fighting in the car on the way home from dinner one night. Amanda and I listened from the backseat, our foreheads creased with worry. I don't remember what they were fighting about, but Sonjah reached her threshold at the bottom of the biggest hill in our neighborhood. A hill that high school cross country coaches used to train and punish even their most seasoned runners. It's a big ass hill. At the top of her lungs, Sonjah shouted, "Matthew, stop this car right now! I am walking home!" We all tried to convince her that it wasn't necessary to get out of the car five minutes from home.
"I don't care! Stop the car!"
"Fine!" my father shouted. In one quick moment he pulled over to the side of the road, unlocked the car door, and stared straight ahead as his seething wife got out. She slammed her door and my father hit the gas. Amanda and I stared out the back window at Sonjah, astonished at how angry she was; scared she might not make it up the big ass hill and through the suburban wilds of Billings, MT; and, absolutely terrified of our father for letting her do it.
That's how you fight in the Dunn family: guns blazing, don't back down, and always wear comfortable walking shoes.
I employed this rampaging tactic with D.R. exactly one time. Again, don't remember what we were fighting about, but I literally threw down! . . . a pair of his dirty jeans that had not made it into the hamper, but had been living happily crumpled on our COFFEE TABLE for three days. I said something snarky as I slammed the denim on the floor. The gauntlet was thrown! D.R.'s eyes got wide, he braced himself against the couch while I growled and gnashed at him (I turn feral when angry). Then, his eyes went to the ground, his face expressionless, and I knew I had lost him. The defensive wall went up, and whatever I said fell on deaf ears. Progress made: none.
Since then, I've had to refine my tactical approach to conflict. I keep my crazy in check (for as long as I can) and D.R. has learned when it's necessary to rise up and tell me I'm being crazy (illogical, dramatic, unfair, selfish, etc.) . We have our issues just like any couple, but I am learning that it's not necessary to burn down the whole forest just because there's a twig in my shoe. And, I am happy to report, neither of us has ever had to exit a moving vehicle. Progress made: some.
Fortunately, this passion for conflict is the cousin of fierce strength and abiding love for family and friends. Both my mom and dad's families spring into action at the first sign of sadness or pain. If we can't be in the immediate proximity, we are shooting emails, making phone calls, and sending hand written cards. We link up over the time-zones--no matter how long it's been since we've seen each other or spoken--and wage war on whomever or whatever has dared stand against us. In this family you are loved . . . militantly.
When I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer in November, I handled the news as any normal person would: I cried.
D.R. was leaning on our kitchen counter as I wrapped up The Phone Call. His jaw was tight, his eyes were angry, and his arms were crossed over his puffed out chest. He wanted someone to blame just like I did. He hugged me and waited for me to speak. Since there wasn't much to say, he was content to let me use his t-shirt as Kleenex. Boys are so good at that.
When the crying was over, I took the next logical step that any normal person would: I started a mental draft of my will.
Regardless that every medical professional told me I would be fine. Regardless that I felt great and completely healthy. Regardless that I wasn't even on the surgeon's schedule yet because I wasn't considered "a ticking time bomb", I started leading D.R. around our apartment telling him who gets what in the event that I bite it. He rolled his eyes only a couple of times and reminded me that I was being a bit premature, and possibly--just possibly--a little dramatic. "Nevermind that! Who gets my vast collection of aprons?"
Confident that my worldly goods were in capable hands, I took the next logical step that any normal person would: I Googled "thyroid cancer".
My doctor warned me not to do it. D.R. tried to stop me. Hell, I tried to stop myself! But, as I mentioned, the first sign of pain or sadness, and we go to war. I was at war against an unknown and unwelcome thing. I figured the more knowledge, the better. I won't say that I was WRONG about that, per se, but I will admit that there are things I wish I could un-see. All those horrible accounts of mangled throats, spliced vocal chords, and uncontrollable weight gain kept scrolling across the page. When I brought the computer to bed, D.R. turned over with a disapproving sigh. I stayed awake until 3am, reading and panicking.
The next morning, the questions started. "What if the surgeon gets the wrong chart, and I end up minus one breast or something?"
"I will leave you immediately because I've made it very clear from day one that your breasts are the only reason I'm with you."
"What if they can't regulate the hormones and I turn into some horrible troll of a woman?"
"I will dress you up, charge people admission, and make lots of money off of you."
That, my friends, is someone you want by your side when you go into battle.
I had to go through the joyous process of finding a new doctor and surgeon, which meant surgery was postponed until January. I was ready for pumping anesthesia, flying scalpels, and now I had to wait?! Nothing puts a damper on a war like an enemy not willing to engage.
But, December actually turned out pretty awesome. I saw friends and family, even reconnected with people I hadn't talked to in years. D.R. talked me down from a number of irrational cliffs with the very calm observation, "I wouldn't know what to worry about first, so I'm just not going to start until I have to."
And so, with time, space, and pre-op testing, comes clarity. I am scheduled for surgery on January 20th, and what began as a war to be waged, now feels like a strongly-worded letter to be written.
Dear thyroid cancer:
Get the fuck out!
Sincerely, Samantha
The thing is, I know I'm a good fighter. I know I can make it up that big ass hill if I have to. Having D.R. by my side makes that possibility a lot less daunting.
But, if shit gets crazy, enjoy my real estate holdings and off-shore accounts. You know who you are.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
A Hulking Greatness
I completed the half-marathon and the victory has settled into my bones. Considering those bones are nicely insulated with Christmas cookies, wine, butter almond crunch, ridiculous amounts of cheese, peanut butter balls, and the fading hum of "Auld Lang Syne", the victory is well preserved.
It was a truly great day.
I ran with my seasoned running guru, Wendy, and my newest running hero, Erin. Both awesome women.
Wendy has been a runner for a while, but I became supremely impressed with her when she started training for her first half-marathon about 6 weeks post-C-section. I have been known to bitch and moan about running when it interferes with my stringent Barefoot Contessa viewing schedule--not Wendy. The half-marathon training went so well, she just went right on ahead and did the whole marathon. All the while, tending to two small boys, a husband, and life. Wendy runs with purpose, and allows very little room for bullshit. When she's ready, it's best to just git out the way, take a mental picture of her, and file it under "Ass, Bad".
She flew out to Los Angeles to run my first race with me, a 5K. She could run 3 miles in her sleep by that point, but I think she knew how important my first race was more than I did. I said to her, "You go ahead, I'm going to take it kinda slow."
"Nope, I am here to run this race with you."
She ran a 5K the day before on the beach--sand running, hard on the body--and it didn't even faze her as we ran on the hard asphalt in downtown Los Angeles. The last bit of the race found me dry-heaving just behind her left shoulder and praying my lungs would remain operational. "Samantha, you've got this . . . last tenth of a mile . . . let's go." I cried and hugged her as she handed me a banana and a cup of water at the finish line. She gave me a knowing look of welcome--a new member of the Runners' Fold. She is brave and bold in her running and her life. Hers is one of the voices on my mental motivation playlist. Stop thinking about it, Samantha, and just do it!
I met Erin in 2004 when she was one of my students at a community theater. I saw her perform with a youth Improv group and said to a friend, "Who is that amazing and hilarious creature?" Then, one day, I was waiting outside of the voice lessons room, listening to the strong, resonant, amazing voice of the singer that was finishing up inside. When the door opened and Erin walked out, I immediately developed a talent crush on her. I kinda wanted to follow her around making requests that she would sing on the spot. When I discovered she was one of the students in my voice class, I made up games that required her to sing as much as possible. The amount of talent this woman possesses is oodle-esque.
Wielding her guru abilities, Wendy convinced Erin--a woman who, much like me, despised running and said she would never do it--to start running. Not only did Erin start running, she decided to train for a half marathon--our half-marathon. It took me five years to build the gumption to train; Erin did it in less than a year. That is Erin's greatness: she's unassumingly plucky. She doesn't announce her best qualities and all the reasons you're going to love her. She doesn't shout for attention and clamor for accolades. She pulls you in with her genuineness and humor, and before you know it, you find yourself thinking I might be a little bit in love with you.
5am on race day found us pinning numbers on our shirts and passing around a box of Triscuits. We left D.R. and Wendy's husband, John, in the hotel room and headed to the start line in front of Mandalay Bay. Because there were so many runners, they did a wave start based on our predicted finish times. Erin and I dropped Wendy off and headed back to our corrals. When the gun went off, I was ready, man! . . . 20 minutes later I still hadn't crossed the START LINE, so I took the liberty of one final bathroom stop . . . 25 minutes after that, I officially started My Race.
The course was pretty sweet. It's hard to beat running on the Las Vegas Strip. As I was approaching mile 3, the winner of the half-marathon was sprinting in the opposite direction towards the finish line. Intimidating? Umm yeah, you betcha! I kept my pace and enjoyed the passing scenery, including the "Run-in Wedding Ceremony" in front of The Venetian. There actually were people running into it. Cheers to the happy couple!
I sacrificed 10 minutes waiting in line at a porta-potty at mile 5, and had to make the hard sell to get my body back in the run. Miles 6 and 7 meandered between the Strip and Freemont Street. There were barely any spectators, and I encountered one befuddled gentleman asking, "What are you guys doing?"
I was happy to see the Strip approaching around mile 8, and I kept my eyes on The Mirage's sign. Perhaps I am reading too much into it, but it felt like I covered the next mile and a half without the damn thing ever getting closer!
Then, a new thing happened--a strange thing. I got raging mad.
You know that scene in Old School when Will Ferrell shoots himself in the neck with an animal tranquilizer? That was me, in running tights. I wanted to shove all of the runners that were using up my air. But, instead of a polite, "Excuse me, would you remove yourself from my path, please?", all I could muster was, "Brawwrfurrrwheeeclopyawroooolrsnark!" My legs felt like two linebackers were hitching a ride around my ankles. My hat was soaked to capacity, sweat droplets falling in front of my face. My form was drooping, and I felt the anger rising. Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again . . .
Figuring the anger was a result of depletion, I took my last gels a little after mile 9, and waited for the serenity to return. Each mile was marked on the course and I was relieved to see a giant "10" in the distance. My longest run before the race was 11 miles, so I had the comfort of knowing I could complete at least one more mile. Then, the smell of garlic wafted towards me somewhere around Caesar's Palace and I felt nauseous, along with my--clearly not subsiding!--urge to bludgeon the offending chef.
But, I kept running.
I craned my neck, looking for "11", but couldn't see it. Regardless of their encouraging intentions, the noisy spectators shouting on the sidewalks were pissing me off (how's that for gratitude?). I regretted my decision to run without my iPod, and I really regretted the invention of the cowbell. I still couldn't see "11" and I was doubting I would make it to the finish line.
My chin was down and I was employing the *Inhale*--1--2--3, *Exhale*--1--2--3 trick. I looked up praying for "11" and was surprised to see "12". One would think I would be elated and filled with power to blaze through my last mile. Nope. Instead, Where the hell is the goddamn 11?! I didn't pay a hefty entrance fee to run a mis-marked course! This is unacceptable! I assure you the course was marked perfectly, but logic had not been invited to this particular party. Only rage.
A spectator on my right shouted, "Don't worry, guys, just 3 more miles to go!" I realize he was going for sarcasm, but I wanted to forgo finishing the race, hunt the man down, and punch him in the neck.
I believe this is what the experts call "hitting the wall".
I knew in that moment I needed help, or the rage would win. I needed an encouraging and familiar voice to tell me everything was OK and I would finish. I listened for the encouraging voices I had catalogued for this precise moment--Dad? Amanda? Wendy? Erin? Hell, I'll even take Oprah? This is when I really need someone else on my side!
Not a single voice piped up in my head . . . and I felt lonely.
There is a slogan I see quite frequently: "Running: cheaper than therapy." Looking back at how I felt on that course, somewhere between mile 12 and 13, I understood. My wall had stripped me of all my good qualities and left me with the juicy center of my worst--my temper, impatience, and inclination to give up when things aren't going my way (to name a few). I was confronted with--well, myself, and it wasn't pretty. Being so depleted physically, the only thing I could do was let the rage roll on. I wanted to feel fast, powerful, and untouchable. Instead, I was a pair of cut-offs away from Hulking out.
But, I kept running.
And I made a decision: this finish is not going to be pretty, but I will finish. I accepted every emotion--good and bad. I accepted every thought--light and dark. I acknowledged that my internal voice, my muscles, my heart beat, my lungs, were all working to accomplish my goal. I let all of that fill me up like a balloon reaching capacity. And when I crossed the finish line, I felt whole.
It took a bit for the emotional overload to wear off as I walked around the finish area. The race organizers decided it would be a good idea to have the finishers get their picture taken with a Vegas showgirl. A fun idea certainly, but not when all I wanted was an effin' banana and a cup of water! You won't like me when I'm dehydrated! I did not participate.
I finally found D.R., who waited for me to finish even though there was a Bronco game in progress. Those of you that know D.R. know how much of a sacrifice that was on his part. His face is one of the best in the world, and I was grateful it was the first I saw. Plus, few things sound as good as the person you love saying, "I'm so proud of you! . . . and I have to go because the Broncos just scored."
Wendy, Erin, and I walked back to the hotel room with medals around our necks and salt on our faces. We chose the Fat Tuesday mango slushie as our "recovery meal". Later that evening, the three of us got tattoos commemorating the event. We got dressed up. We took ourselves out for a delicious, gourmet dinner. More than once, each of us turned to the group and said, "This is truly a great day."
It truly was.
I hope my running gets faster and my half-marathons easier.
I hope my running shoes continue to be a place where I find myself when life makes me want to Hulk out.
I hope for more great moments . . . days . . . races . . . friendships. Greatness is the complex carbohydrate of life--it fuels you more, and sustains you longer. I shall consume as much as I can.
It was a truly great day.
I ran with my seasoned running guru, Wendy, and my newest running hero, Erin. Both awesome women.
Wendy has been a runner for a while, but I became supremely impressed with her when she started training for her first half-marathon about 6 weeks post-C-section. I have been known to bitch and moan about running when it interferes with my stringent Barefoot Contessa viewing schedule--not Wendy. The half-marathon training went so well, she just went right on ahead and did the whole marathon. All the while, tending to two small boys, a husband, and life. Wendy runs with purpose, and allows very little room for bullshit. When she's ready, it's best to just git out the way, take a mental picture of her, and file it under "Ass, Bad".
She flew out to Los Angeles to run my first race with me, a 5K. She could run 3 miles in her sleep by that point, but I think she knew how important my first race was more than I did. I said to her, "You go ahead, I'm going to take it kinda slow."
"Nope, I am here to run this race with you."
She ran a 5K the day before on the beach--sand running, hard on the body--and it didn't even faze her as we ran on the hard asphalt in downtown Los Angeles. The last bit of the race found me dry-heaving just behind her left shoulder and praying my lungs would remain operational. "Samantha, you've got this . . . last tenth of a mile . . . let's go." I cried and hugged her as she handed me a banana and a cup of water at the finish line. She gave me a knowing look of welcome--a new member of the Runners' Fold. She is brave and bold in her running and her life. Hers is one of the voices on my mental motivation playlist. Stop thinking about it, Samantha, and just do it!
I met Erin in 2004 when she was one of my students at a community theater. I saw her perform with a youth Improv group and said to a friend, "Who is that amazing and hilarious creature?" Then, one day, I was waiting outside of the voice lessons room, listening to the strong, resonant, amazing voice of the singer that was finishing up inside. When the door opened and Erin walked out, I immediately developed a talent crush on her. I kinda wanted to follow her around making requests that she would sing on the spot. When I discovered she was one of the students in my voice class, I made up games that required her to sing as much as possible. The amount of talent this woman possesses is oodle-esque.
Wielding her guru abilities, Wendy convinced Erin--a woman who, much like me, despised running and said she would never do it--to start running. Not only did Erin start running, she decided to train for a half marathon--our half-marathon. It took me five years to build the gumption to train; Erin did it in less than a year. That is Erin's greatness: she's unassumingly plucky. She doesn't announce her best qualities and all the reasons you're going to love her. She doesn't shout for attention and clamor for accolades. She pulls you in with her genuineness and humor, and before you know it, you find yourself thinking I might be a little bit in love with you.
5am on race day found us pinning numbers on our shirts and passing around a box of Triscuits. We left D.R. and Wendy's husband, John, in the hotel room and headed to the start line in front of Mandalay Bay. Because there were so many runners, they did a wave start based on our predicted finish times. Erin and I dropped Wendy off and headed back to our corrals. When the gun went off, I was ready, man! . . . 20 minutes later I still hadn't crossed the START LINE, so I took the liberty of one final bathroom stop . . . 25 minutes after that, I officially started My Race.
The course was pretty sweet. It's hard to beat running on the Las Vegas Strip. As I was approaching mile 3, the winner of the half-marathon was sprinting in the opposite direction towards the finish line. Intimidating? Umm yeah, you betcha! I kept my pace and enjoyed the passing scenery, including the "Run-in Wedding Ceremony" in front of The Venetian. There actually were people running into it. Cheers to the happy couple!
I sacrificed 10 minutes waiting in line at a porta-potty at mile 5, and had to make the hard sell to get my body back in the run. Miles 6 and 7 meandered between the Strip and Freemont Street. There were barely any spectators, and I encountered one befuddled gentleman asking, "What are you guys doing?"
I was happy to see the Strip approaching around mile 8, and I kept my eyes on The Mirage's sign. Perhaps I am reading too much into it, but it felt like I covered the next mile and a half without the damn thing ever getting closer!
Then, a new thing happened--a strange thing. I got raging mad.
You know that scene in Old School when Will Ferrell shoots himself in the neck with an animal tranquilizer? That was me, in running tights. I wanted to shove all of the runners that were using up my air. But, instead of a polite, "Excuse me, would you remove yourself from my path, please?", all I could muster was, "Brawwrfurrrwheeeclopyawroooolrsnark!" My legs felt like two linebackers were hitching a ride around my ankles. My hat was soaked to capacity, sweat droplets falling in front of my face. My form was drooping, and I felt the anger rising. Hello darkness, my old friend. I've come to talk with you again . . .
Figuring the anger was a result of depletion, I took my last gels a little after mile 9, and waited for the serenity to return. Each mile was marked on the course and I was relieved to see a giant "10" in the distance. My longest run before the race was 11 miles, so I had the comfort of knowing I could complete at least one more mile. Then, the smell of garlic wafted towards me somewhere around Caesar's Palace and I felt nauseous, along with my--clearly not subsiding!--urge to bludgeon the offending chef.
But, I kept running.
I craned my neck, looking for "11", but couldn't see it. Regardless of their encouraging intentions, the noisy spectators shouting on the sidewalks were pissing me off (how's that for gratitude?). I regretted my decision to run without my iPod, and I really regretted the invention of the cowbell. I still couldn't see "11" and I was doubting I would make it to the finish line.
My chin was down and I was employing the *Inhale*--1--2--3, *Exhale*--1--2--3 trick. I looked up praying for "11" and was surprised to see "12". One would think I would be elated and filled with power to blaze through my last mile. Nope. Instead, Where the hell is the goddamn 11?! I didn't pay a hefty entrance fee to run a mis-marked course! This is unacceptable! I assure you the course was marked perfectly, but logic had not been invited to this particular party. Only rage.
A spectator on my right shouted, "Don't worry, guys, just 3 more miles to go!" I realize he was going for sarcasm, but I wanted to forgo finishing the race, hunt the man down, and punch him in the neck.
I believe this is what the experts call "hitting the wall".
I knew in that moment I needed help, or the rage would win. I needed an encouraging and familiar voice to tell me everything was OK and I would finish. I listened for the encouraging voices I had catalogued for this precise moment--Dad? Amanda? Wendy? Erin? Hell, I'll even take Oprah? This is when I really need someone else on my side!
Not a single voice piped up in my head . . . and I felt lonely.
There is a slogan I see quite frequently: "Running: cheaper than therapy." Looking back at how I felt on that course, somewhere between mile 12 and 13, I understood. My wall had stripped me of all my good qualities and left me with the juicy center of my worst--my temper, impatience, and inclination to give up when things aren't going my way (to name a few). I was confronted with--well, myself, and it wasn't pretty. Being so depleted physically, the only thing I could do was let the rage roll on. I wanted to feel fast, powerful, and untouchable. Instead, I was a pair of cut-offs away from Hulking out.
But, I kept running.
And I made a decision: this finish is not going to be pretty, but I will finish. I accepted every emotion--good and bad. I accepted every thought--light and dark. I acknowledged that my internal voice, my muscles, my heart beat, my lungs, were all working to accomplish my goal. I let all of that fill me up like a balloon reaching capacity. And when I crossed the finish line, I felt whole.
It took a bit for the emotional overload to wear off as I walked around the finish area. The race organizers decided it would be a good idea to have the finishers get their picture taken with a Vegas showgirl. A fun idea certainly, but not when all I wanted was an effin' banana and a cup of water! You won't like me when I'm dehydrated! I did not participate.
I finally found D.R., who waited for me to finish even though there was a Bronco game in progress. Those of you that know D.R. know how much of a sacrifice that was on his part. His face is one of the best in the world, and I was grateful it was the first I saw. Plus, few things sound as good as the person you love saying, "I'm so proud of you! . . . and I have to go because the Broncos just scored."
Wendy, Erin, and I walked back to the hotel room with medals around our necks and salt on our faces. We chose the Fat Tuesday mango slushie as our "recovery meal". Later that evening, the three of us got tattoos commemorating the event. We got dressed up. We took ourselves out for a delicious, gourmet dinner. More than once, each of us turned to the group and said, "This is truly a great day."
It truly was.
I hope my running gets faster and my half-marathons easier.
I hope my running shoes continue to be a place where I find myself when life makes me want to Hulk out.
I hope for more great moments . . . days . . . races . . . friendships. Greatness is the complex carbohydrate of life--it fuels you more, and sustains you longer. I shall consume as much as I can.
 |
| Erin |
 |
| Wendy |
 | |
| Me |
Monday, November 29, 2010
Passing Inspection
Two years ago I found a little lump on the front right side of my neck. I had it checked out, and was told it was a "complex cystic structure". My doctor did not seem too concerned, and I left his office with some relief that the weird little knob was just there to hang out--cool, I can be hospitable and accommodating. I kept my eye on it, making sure it didn't get out of line, or take advantage of the cells I was so graciously supplying.
Finally, in October, for no other reason than I was tired of having some strange thing on the side of my neck that didn't seem to serve any purpose, I requested my doctor take the little freeloader out. He wasn't too keen on slicing open my neck to remove a lump that hadn't shifted, morphed, or proven itself a Gremlin. He explained that many women have these nodules near and/or on the thyroid. He asked me if I had experienced any other symptoms. Nope. Without other symptoms, he reiterated, he was definitely not going to get scalpel-happy on my neck. However, just to be safe, he sent me in for an ultrasound. I made the appointment for Friday, November 5th.
Feeling relief that I would soon get the "we have confirmation that you have nothing to worry about" phone call, I went to work on Monday morning . . . and was promptly laid off. Awesome.
My level of panic over losing my job can be gauged by the fact that I drank only a bottle of wine, and not a bottle of tequila. I made appointments with all my doctors before my insurance ran out (good girl!), signed up for unemployment, dusted off my resume, and started asking myself if the quest for the perfect piece of chocolate cake was really going to be my only contribution to society? What do I want to be when I grow up?
I went in for my ultrasound on Friday and was reassured that I had nothing to worry about from my lovely ultrasound tech, Olga (I'm going with Hungarian. The story is more fun if she's Hungarian). "I see these all the time with women your age. Start worrying when there is only one lump. You have numerous." I know she was shooting for comforting, but how comforting is the thought of "numerous" nodules running rampant all over my throat and thyroid?
My doctor called that afternoon.
I was informed that the nodule on the right side of my thyroid was about 3 centimeters long--cause for concern. The next step was a Fine Needle Aspiration biopsy. Fine needle or not, I was not jazzed about, essentially, being stabbed in the neck. The fact that it would give a conclusive answer was a comfort. As my doctor went on describing the short procedure, I realized this was the first time the word "cancer" had graced us with its presence. No more talk of "complex cystic structures" and "nodules". Whatever was lounging in my neck either was, or it wasn't. I guess I was grateful we had narrowed down the outcome.
So, I got stabbed in the neck. It felt weird, but George, from Honduras, sweetly stood beside me and kept asking if I was alright. We talked about his 11-year-old daughter and his experience running marathons. Like Olga, George assured me they had done a number of these procedures on women and it turns out to be nothing. Gotta love those optimistic foreigners.
Two days went by . . . three . . . four . . . the weekend. This Monday, while D.R. and I were in the throes of cleaning for Thanksgiving company, my doctor called with the results. Let's just say the dusting and vacuuming came to a halt.
Papillary thyroid carcinoma. It is the first stage of the most manageable type of cancer one can get. It requires surgery to remove the tumors and the possibility of radiation to zap any lingering cells. My thyroid will come out along with all of the offending lumps, and I will be on hormones for the rest of my life.
Once I got over the horrible imagery that followed the connection of my own life to the word "cancer", I realized I've got it pretty good. My grandfather had thyroid cancer and the same operation I will have. That was in 1968. He died just last November after a long and healthy life. My mom and her sisters have all dealt with some sort of thyroid issue and they are still bossing family members around with grace and finesse. I come from good stock, people.
My doctor assured me I was not "a ticking time bomb". He told me to schedule the surgery for some time after Thanksgiving.
It is amazing how certain news makes all those little planets orbiting around our heads at any given time--bills, the holidays, family, desk organization, laundry--line up for inspection. And, if they don't pass inspection, they are let go. Life makes perfect sense in those moments. As all those little planets left my orbit and wandered to a galaxy that I will revisit some time in 2011, I said, "Doc. I am scheduled to run a half-marathon on December 5th. Can we schedule the surgery after that?"
"Absolutely. I think it would be good for you to do that."
You have no idea how right your are, Doc. No idea at all.
Finally, in October, for no other reason than I was tired of having some strange thing on the side of my neck that didn't seem to serve any purpose, I requested my doctor take the little freeloader out. He wasn't too keen on slicing open my neck to remove a lump that hadn't shifted, morphed, or proven itself a Gremlin. He explained that many women have these nodules near and/or on the thyroid. He asked me if I had experienced any other symptoms. Nope. Without other symptoms, he reiterated, he was definitely not going to get scalpel-happy on my neck. However, just to be safe, he sent me in for an ultrasound. I made the appointment for Friday, November 5th.
Feeling relief that I would soon get the "we have confirmation that you have nothing to worry about" phone call, I went to work on Monday morning . . . and was promptly laid off. Awesome.
My level of panic over losing my job can be gauged by the fact that I drank only a bottle of wine, and not a bottle of tequila. I made appointments with all my doctors before my insurance ran out (good girl!), signed up for unemployment, dusted off my resume, and started asking myself if the quest for the perfect piece of chocolate cake was really going to be my only contribution to society? What do I want to be when I grow up?
I went in for my ultrasound on Friday and was reassured that I had nothing to worry about from my lovely ultrasound tech, Olga (I'm going with Hungarian. The story is more fun if she's Hungarian). "I see these all the time with women your age. Start worrying when there is only one lump. You have numerous." I know she was shooting for comforting, but how comforting is the thought of "numerous" nodules running rampant all over my throat and thyroid?
My doctor called that afternoon.
I was informed that the nodule on the right side of my thyroid was about 3 centimeters long--cause for concern. The next step was a Fine Needle Aspiration biopsy. Fine needle or not, I was not jazzed about, essentially, being stabbed in the neck. The fact that it would give a conclusive answer was a comfort. As my doctor went on describing the short procedure, I realized this was the first time the word "cancer" had graced us with its presence. No more talk of "complex cystic structures" and "nodules". Whatever was lounging in my neck either was, or it wasn't. I guess I was grateful we had narrowed down the outcome.
So, I got stabbed in the neck. It felt weird, but George, from Honduras, sweetly stood beside me and kept asking if I was alright. We talked about his 11-year-old daughter and his experience running marathons. Like Olga, George assured me they had done a number of these procedures on women and it turns out to be nothing. Gotta love those optimistic foreigners.
Two days went by . . . three . . . four . . . the weekend. This Monday, while D.R. and I were in the throes of cleaning for Thanksgiving company, my doctor called with the results. Let's just say the dusting and vacuuming came to a halt.
Papillary thyroid carcinoma. It is the first stage of the most manageable type of cancer one can get. It requires surgery to remove the tumors and the possibility of radiation to zap any lingering cells. My thyroid will come out along with all of the offending lumps, and I will be on hormones for the rest of my life.
Once I got over the horrible imagery that followed the connection of my own life to the word "cancer", I realized I've got it pretty good. My grandfather had thyroid cancer and the same operation I will have. That was in 1968. He died just last November after a long and healthy life. My mom and her sisters have all dealt with some sort of thyroid issue and they are still bossing family members around with grace and finesse. I come from good stock, people.
My doctor assured me I was not "a ticking time bomb". He told me to schedule the surgery for some time after Thanksgiving.
It is amazing how certain news makes all those little planets orbiting around our heads at any given time--bills, the holidays, family, desk organization, laundry--line up for inspection. And, if they don't pass inspection, they are let go. Life makes perfect sense in those moments. As all those little planets left my orbit and wandered to a galaxy that I will revisit some time in 2011, I said, "Doc. I am scheduled to run a half-marathon on December 5th. Can we schedule the surgery after that?"
"Absolutely. I think it would be good for you to do that."
You have no idea how right your are, Doc. No idea at all.
Thursday, November 4, 2010
Onwards, Upwards, and Nauseous
Distance Run: 4.5 miles @ 9pm
Time: 55:39
Route: East on Los Feliz and back.
I won't bury the lead with attempts at insight. I got laid off from my job and the past three days have been less than stellar as I "transitioned" everything to my replacement. It's over now.
I viewed tonight's run as a purging of the anxiety, anger, and uncertainty that has dominated my brain since Monday morning. With those emotions as my base, I'm not surprised the run didn't go as well as I hoped.
Along with battling some unseasonably warm weather (90 frakkin' degrees in November?), my lungs are still struggling with the remnants of the Wretchedness. My legs felt heavy and my feet were dragging. I've had a wonky stomach since this morning and the jostling didn't help at all--Pepto Bismol for dinner. Funnily enough, my hip feels much stronger.
This run will not go down as an example of powerful athleticism, but I am so grateful for it. Life isn't what I want it to be right now, but running is exactly what I need.
Time: 55:39
Route: East on Los Feliz and back.
I won't bury the lead with attempts at insight. I got laid off from my job and the past three days have been less than stellar as I "transitioned" everything to my replacement. It's over now.
I viewed tonight's run as a purging of the anxiety, anger, and uncertainty that has dominated my brain since Monday morning. With those emotions as my base, I'm not surprised the run didn't go as well as I hoped.
Along with battling some unseasonably warm weather (90 frakkin' degrees in November?), my lungs are still struggling with the remnants of the Wretchedness. My legs felt heavy and my feet were dragging. I've had a wonky stomach since this morning and the jostling didn't help at all--Pepto Bismol for dinner. Funnily enough, my hip feels much stronger.
This run will not go down as an example of powerful athleticism, but I am so grateful for it. Life isn't what I want it to be right now, but running is exactly what I need.
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