Bear Chase 50 mile race report

Yesterday I ran the Bear Chase trail race 50 mile race. I have run this ultra twice before. In 2012, I ran the 50 mile in 8:39, finishing as third female overall. Last year, I ran the new 100k and was first female. This year, as I went through my cancer treatments, I kept it as a goal of mine to be back this year for one of the distances. I was not sure what I would be able to run, but I hoped to run one of the ultras (there are 10k, half marathon, 50k, 50 mile and 100k distances offered at this race). A couple of months ago I decided to go for it and sign up for the 50 mile. My husband, Stephen, and my friend, Vanessa also signed up for the 50k.

I will skip over the my less than stellar prep, other than to say I did the best I could given the circumstances. I have written about it previously, and those interested can scan over my previous blog posts. In the week leading up to the race, I thought about how I felt like I was brand new to ultras. I felt like I still had the same brain, but after my pancreatic cancer surgery and my 18 rounds of chemo, my body was different and there was a big question mark in my brain as to how my body would respond when I really demanded something difficult.

Steve and I picked up Vanessa at 4:20 am and headed up to Morrison, CO. The forecast was a little scary. After some unseasonably cold weather, we were in a heatwave, with temperatures predicted to be in the mid 80s and sunny. It was 66 degrees at 5:15 when we arrived in Morrison. We put our drop bags down in the staging area, took care of last minute business and those of us running the 50 mile and 100k lined up for the 6:30 am start.

Last minute "good byes and good lucks" with Vanessa...

And with my husband, Stephen.

A group of us in front of the porta potties, because that's just what runners do.

From left: Ali, me, Jeff, Christoph and Dan.

At 6:30 am, we were off. The fifty mile race consists of four 12.5 mile loops. When I ran the race two years ago, I finished my first loops in just over two hours each. I knew it was going to be hot, so I wanted to get the first loop done as quickly as I could. I normally go out fairly slowly, but I wanted to bank some time for the inevitable slow down. I saw Heather just as we were starting off, so we chatted and ran the first couple of miles together before eventually splitting up to run our own races.

I felt pretty good on that first loop, running pretty much every step. I got back to the start area in 2:02. I thought, either I am going to hang on and have an amazing finish or I am going to blow up.  I had to spend several minutes at the start area, refilling my supplies before heading back out. On the second loop, runners started spreading out a bit, however, this is when the 50k racers, who started at 7:30 on a different loop, begin to join the people who are running the longer races. Many of these runners are running faster and look a little fresher. This is where my competitive spirit kicks in and I want to chase people down, but I had to remind myself not to be an idiot and just to run my own race.

I felt ok on the second loop. I was running a little more slowly, but more in line with a pace that made sense to my body. I was not pushing myself as hard but had settled into a rhythm. The sun was now up, and even though there was a breeze, I was starting to get a sense of how hot it was going to end up being. I finished my second loop in about 4:15. Slowing a bit, but still thinking I might be able to run a sub 9 hour if things went well. 

I went out on my third loop. This was where I would be getting into unknown territory. My longest run had been a flat 24 miler about two months before the race. While the Bear Chase course is not mountainous, it does roll, notably going up Mount Carbon four times, followed by a long downhill. I lacked hill training and I knew it. It was also getting very hot as we headed into the late morning. I now walked up all of Carbon to save myself for the rolling, exposed nature of the last half of the course. I was running strong on the downhill after Carbon somewhere around mile 30. A gentleman stepped off the trail to let me pass. Something seized up in my hamstring. I thought it popped, but couldn't be sure. I could not run at this point. In fact, I was walking with a significant limp. I thought my race was over and didn't even think I would be able to finish the third loop. I walked, limped, massaged my leg, and tried to dunk it in the creek, but could not bend. I walked up to the next aid station, only to find Stephen there waiting for me. We each grabbed a drink of Coke and moved on walking together. I told him I really did not want to drop, but I did not know if I would physically be able to finish or not. It was at this point that Stephen threw up the Coke he had just drank. My poor husband has been plagued by stomach issues in ultras. We talked about our races and what had gone wrong so far. We alternated between small bits of jogging and longer stretches of walking.

Finally, I was able to run slowly for a consistent stretch and thought perhaps I could get the last loop in and salvage a finish after all. Stephen and I ended up splitting up again, as he told me to go ahead. I got through the start/finish area again somewhere around 7 hrs. My slowest loop by far, but considering how much I had walked, it was not too much of a disaster. I was greeted by Vanessa's husband Andy in the start/finish area. Andy graciously helped refill my water bottle and helped me get my head straight while I tried to face the last loop on my own. Stephen came in while I was still at the staging area, finishing his 50k in 5:58:14. He told me that he had thrown up two more times after we parted ways. I am so proud of my husband for finishing so strong despite the stomach issues that continue to plague him!

I finally got off on my way to the last 12.5 miles. Maybe a third of a mile into my loop, I happened to cross paths with Dimitar, who was running his first 50 mile race. We decided to run together and ended up sharing 6ish miles together until the top of Mount Carbon. I had run on my own for much of the race, and had not been looking to a very long and slow final loop on my own. Finding someone who I could share miles and conversation with made it so much more pleasant to keep going in the face of pain. While we parted ways for the final miles of the race, we ended up leapfrogging and finished within a minute of each other.

Here is a photo of us from the finish.

The final six miles were hard. Every step hurt. I kept pounding salt down my throat, trying to stave off the cramps that now plagued both legs, my arms, my neck, and my back. While you can hide your weaknesses in shorter races, ultras will always expose them. I know the last year has taken a toll on my muscle tone and strength and this is something I really need to work on if I want racing to be remotely pleasant. I wanted to walk desperately, but I really wanted to finish quickly and just be done with it. So, I kept pushing as hard as I could. I briefly thought I could break 9:30, but then I realized it was not going to happen. I knew I could break 10 hours, and did so in 9:34:15. 

I have never been so grateful, thankful and relieved to finish a race. When I finished the Vermont 100 last July, I was ecstatic. Everything hurt, but it was a different kind of pain. I was well trained and had a great race. This time, it was painful and difficult most of the way through. About two miles prior to the finish, I finally let myself think I was going to complete the race, and tears welled up in my eyes. I would not let myself cry until the finish line. As soon as I crossed the finish, and saw Race Director Ben Reeves coming towards me with my medal, I started to cry. 

I finished as fifth female, and second in my Age Group. Here I am with RD, Ben, who gave me my award.

So many emotions welled up at once. I thought about everything I had been through this past year since last year's 100k, and how much it all meant to me. I thought about everyone who had supported me. I thought about the list of cancer survivors I brought along so I could remember them and run in their honor. I thought about how I almost dropped, but did not and fought through to the end. I thought, I may not be 100%, but I have not allowed cancer to beat me nor to define me.

While everything did not go anywhere near perfectly this time around, I had an amazing experience. As I have discussed with other runners, it is not the races that go perfectly that show how tough we are. It is the races that go south, whether we ultimately finish or not, that really show our inner strength. How we handle circumstances when things do not go as planned really reveals so much about ourselves, and also teaches us so much about ourselves. I am still processing things, but one thing I learned while out there yesterday is that while I love competing, I really had a lot of fun when I spent time running with Heather, my husband and with Dimitar. Sometimes pushing the pace all on my own is really fun for me. Yesterday, I had the most fun when I spent time chatting and working with other runners. There is a place for both intense competition and for fun and joyful companionship in running. Neither are wrong and both can be fun, depending upon the goal for the race.

A lot went wrong yesterday. I think I got behind on nutrition, fluid and electrolytes early in the race. I pushed the pace too hard too early. I was not trained to run fast and I could not maintain the pace. The heat was monstrous and small mistakes are magnified when the weather does not cooperate. I should have taken it conservatively from the start. Really, what it boils down to is that I am out of practice and not in the shape I was in before. These are mistakes that can be fixed, but I had to go into damage control late in a long race. That is not fun and is quite demoralizing. I kept pushing the electrolytes and was able to turn things around enough to continue and even run, albeit slowly.

I am so appreciative of everyone who has sent words of support and encouragement as I have endeavored to return to running ultramarathons.  Knowing I had people following me and cheering me on kept me going. I want to send a special thanks to my running partners who have shared many miles with me. Thank you to all of my friends, both long term and new friends. I love you all and am so fortunate to have so many amazingly supportive people in my life. Thank you to my family. My parents, kids and husband all think I am insane but they have supported me unconditionally. They may not always understand why I want to run crazy distances, but they know it is something that makes me feel happy, whole and alive. I am forever indebted to my husband. I am amazed that we ran into each other at a mutually crappy moment yesterday, but we both encouraged and pushed each other. What a wonderful and supportive partnership we enjoy.

Today there is not an inch of my body that does not hurt. I will be spending the day sitting on an ice pack. My hamstring is tight and painful, but hopefully it is just a minor injury that will heal with rest, recovery and some rehab exercises. As for what is next, I will be focusing on making myself stronger physically for the next few months. I still have a long way to go.  

Finally, the finish with Vanessa, who did awesome in her first 50k.

With Stephen. Words cannot adequately explain how much he means to me.

Race day morning

I am up though not quite ready to go. Today is race day. We will be out the door soon. I am a little nervous. I feel like when I had surgery months ago, I went to sleep as Tonia, in brain and body, but woke up with someone else's body that I have been trying to live in ever since. I will be running 50 miles today with that different body. Whereas I usually had a good sense of how my body would react to certain stresses, I am not sure how this new body will handle today's race. I am not sure how my body will respond to all of the stressors it will face today. My digestive tract is not the same as it once was and running ultras can be a real challenge with digestion is not functioning properly.  It is going to be very hot and I do not handle heat as well as I used to. Nevertheless, I am going to get out on the trail and give it my best shot. I hope my best is good enough for finishing 50 miles while having fun along the way. Will post an update on the other side.

Unicorns and 50 milers

"Our doubts are traitors, and make us lose the good we oft might win, by fearing to attempt"- William Shakespeare 

Our doubts are traitors. Traitors. Our self doubt sabotages our ability to take chances in life. We all have self doubt. We all have moments of wondering if we are up for a task. Can I pass that class? Can I succeed in that job? Can I climb that mountain? Can I finish that race? More often than not, the answer is yes. I truly believe that we are often our own worst enemies. We allow our doubts about ourselves and what is possible to fill our heads so that we do not even attempt things that we want to try. Soon, we find there is no time left and we wonder why we had not attempted those things we wanted to do. It sounds cliche but failure really is not the worst thing. Not trying is so much worse than never attempting something in the first place. We end up with a life of unfulfilled goals mainly because we merely doubted ourselves so much we were too afraid to even try.

Anyone who runs long distances knows the phrases "taper nutty" or "taper psychosis". I began tapering last weekend and started loosing my mind just a little bit. As I cut back on running, my idle mind has too much energy and it goes to unhelpful places. Running is absolutely essential to my mental and physical well being. It keeps me feeling calm and healthy and well. I know tapering is a key component to a good race, but that cut back in mileage leaves me feeling antsy and amped up. That is actually part of the point. On race day, you want to be antsy, amped up and ready to go so you run faster. However, knowing I am not particularly well trained, and knowing I am not fit, and knowing I have an injured hamstring is not helping my frame of mind. I was lying awake in the middle of the night two nights ago, my muscle literally waking me up with its throbbing, thinking, "Maybe I should be a DNS (did not start)?" 

The race is in six days. A theme over and over in my pre race build up has been my own mind doubting my ability to do this, or my own wondering why I have signed up to do this at all. Privately I have told my friends that I do not know if I will run any more ultramarathons after this 50 mile race. I know it is common to have those thoughts while at the peak of training. But I really have never pondered quitting ultramarathons before. I have said, "maybe not another 100, but I love 50 milers!" I truly do love the fifty mile distance! But I am so tired now that 50 seems really daunting. My enthusiasm has waned. Whereas I used to love nothing more than spending all day out on the trails with people I love, now long runs leave me completely drained rather than energized.

This week, I was finally fully able to fully recognize why it had been so important to me to sign up for this race. It all boils down to wanting running an ultra to be a choice. I wanted to choose running ultras, versus my CANCER making that choice for me. I am the decision maker, not my illness. 

I remember how truly scared I was going into surgery that I would never be able to run long again. Going into chemotherapy, I did not know what the long term effects would be on my body. I realize that it was important for me to run an ultra NOW as opposed to waiting until next year because no matter how ugly it is, I had to get that first post cancer ultra under my belt. I will not put stuff off that I want to do because I do not know what the future holds. If I never run another ultra again, I am hopeful that it will be because I made the decision that I no longer wanted to run ultras and not because CANCER made that decision for me. In six days, I will be running 50 miles because I still have that choice. 

I am one of the lucky ones because not everyone in my position has a choice. I do. So I choose to run 50 miles for now simply because I can. With a disease that often offers grim statistics, I want to be the person that gives someone a reason to be hopeful. I am such a very rare patient. My doctor said he would likely never see another patient like me. I jokingly call myself a unicorn because I am almost a mythical creature in terms of PC. Because I am lucky enough to be a unicorn, and I have a good shot at survival, I feel that I have an obligation to continue to get the word out about pancreatic cancer. I will continue for as long as I am healthy, well and able to do what I can to bring hope for others who have been given this diagnosis, and to raise awareness for this very deadly form of cancer. I have been given a mission and a purpose. 

Photos from my week. Running with fellow Cancer warrior Tori!

 

Running with one of my favorite people on the planet, Tracey. My poor long suffering husband was there, too. He took the picture.

Running with Peyton, who runs sixth grade cross country.

And a photo from her meet. I am such a proud mom because she raised the bar for herself, worked her butt off, reached her goal, and got positive feedback from her coach. Hard work always pays off.

Six more days until my race. Now I have to banish my doubts because they are indeed traitors. I will be the less than graceful unicorn running on behalf of every other person with pancreatic cancer. I am betting on not only finishing but also on winning the "half a pancreas, spleenless, running with a chemo port" division. I am pretty sure that's a thing! I am working on my list of cancer patients/survivors that I will bring with me to the race for inspiration. If there is someone you would like me to include, please contact me! 

Dedicated to R, who made a difference in my life

This year, on the day of the Boston Marathon, I went in for chemotherapy. On that day, I was wearing my own Boston marathon shirt in solidarity with the people who were running the race the year after the bombing at the finish line. My shirt happened to spark a conversation with another gentleman who was in for chemotherapy also. I had really not talked with any other patients up to this point, but as fate would have it, I met R on this day. Our conversation turned from the marathon to our cancers. I asked what kind of cancer he had and he said, "pancreatic". I couldn't believe it. I had never met anyone with pancreatic cancer to this point before. I told him, "me, too!" This was the beginning of a brief friendship, but a friendship based upon the understanding that we were united by the same diagnosis. Our lives were very different. We were very different people, and yet just by virtue of having been diagnosed with the same form of cancer, we understood certain things about each other. Because there is no support group locally for pancreatic cancer, we became our own support group of two.

We talked that day and exchanged emails and phone numbers. I knew from the start that R was very sick. His cancer had spread already. He was not eligible for potentially curative surgery. I represented best possible case scenario for a patient with pancreatic adenocarcinoma. I also knew that his illness would eventually kill him. We did not say that directly to each other, but we both knew what our diagnoses meant.

We exchanged email messages, and spoke on the phone several times. We sat together a couple of times at treatment so we could talk. His chemotherapy combination was much more toxic than mine. He had very significant issues with side effects. He was in a wheelchair. I continued to run and live my life. I wanted to talk to him and listen to him and to connect with him. He was the only other PC patient I had had the privilege of meeting up to that point. While there was so much that was different about our cases, I felt comfort in talking with R, and in knowing that we both had an understanding of what it feels like to be told you have pancreatic cancer.

I know very little about R's life prior to his diagnosis. I do know that we had many conversations about how getting diagnosed made us love and appreciate everything about our lives so much more. Every moment seemed sweeter. Every day we got to live was a good day. Every experience meant something to us. Time and again, while going through chemotherapy, I have been reminded how people who have been diagnosed with a potentially fatal illness seem grateful for whatever time they have. R, despite the devastating diagnosis and side effects he was experiencing, never once said he was angry or that his circumstances were not fair. He and I only talked about how much we loved our lives.

We spoke not too long ago and I knew it was only a matter or time. I learned yesterday that R passed away. It felt like a punch to the gut, even though I knew it would happen. While his tumors had initially responded to chemotherapy, the regimen had been so tough on his body, he was unable to continue treatments. He took a couple of breaks while I knew him, and I knew this last time he would not be restarting treatment. I had hoped and prayed for a miracle, but I knew he was suffering. I am so sorry there was no miracle to be had for R.

I am so glad I got to meet R and have our brief but meaningful friendship. There have been many days where I felt miserable, but I went out for a walk or a run and thought of him, prayed for him and dedicated my run to him because I knew his journey was much harder than my own. His love of life, and our conversations have stayed with me as a reminder to always love my own. 

I am experiencing survivor's guilt. Why was my cancer found early? Why am I one of the very few "lucky" ones? Why do I get a chance at living a long life when most people with pancreatic cancer do not? I am no more worthy than anyone else who got my diagnosis. With a five year survival rate of 6% for all stages, there are few of us left standing. Why me and not the others? There is no reason, of course, other than luck. I only hope that I can use whatever time I have left to make a difference in some small way. There has to be a reason going forward why I am still here and so many others are not. I will never forget R. He and the countless other PC patients who have not been so fortunate as I have will be a constant reminder to me that I am here for a reason and my time must serve a purpose.

I am scheduled to run 50 miles in two weeks. Every mile of that race will be dedicated to another cancer patient. I am making my list of dedications this weekend. Their struggles are my struggles and I will draw my strength from our shared journey in life. 

Why am I doing this?

I had some good news this week. First, my chemo port is officially scheduled to come out October 7th. I am looking forward to getting this foreign object removed from my chest. I am grateful that I had it, because it saved my veins, but it really is time for it to go. I also discovered that my hair is starting to fill back in where it had thinned out during treatment. My receding hairline will hopefully blend in with the rest of my hair in a few months.

Life is pretty full and I am enjoying getting back to my regularly scheduled activities. Last weekend, I spent a good portion of my time volunteering with my family for the American Discovery Trail marathon. This was our second year volunteering for this race.  Chatting with other athletes about our mutual passion for the sport brings me joy. The energy and enthusiasm found at races is infectious and I love interacting with runners, whether they are out to win, they are first time participants or they fall somewhere in between.

I worked packet pick up all day Sunday with my daughters, and some other fabulous volunteers, which made it extra fun.

Then the next day, my family and friend Tracey ran aid station #4 at Baptist Rd. 

I had to be out every night this week. I had a board meeting on Tuesday, followed by meetings at both girls' schools Wednesday and Thursday evenings. I put in a few hours volunteering at school. I also supported the youngest runner in our family at her first cross country meet.

These are all things that I both needed and wanted to do. But as my energy level fell off a cliff this week, and I thought about this race that I had signed up for, I wondered why I had not signed up for a race of a shorter distance. My doubts took the form of a question, "What the hell was I thinking signing up for a 50 mile race that takes place three months after the end of my cancer treatments?" My training has not at all gone according to plan. I am getting miles in, but I haven't been able to follow any sort of program. My long runs are not as long nor as hilly as I would like. I hurt my hamstring in NY and the injury continues to inhibit my ability to attempt any sort of speed workouts. My long runs have left my feet and legs throbbing and I have felt completely drained after finishing them. As the doubts crept in this week, I wondered can I really do this? Why do I want to do this?

Then I thought back over everything I have been through, from the surgery and recovey to the chemotherapy. I remember wondering when I went in for surgery if I would ever be able to run long again. Through chemotherapy, it was always my goal to come back and train for an ultra. I thought about it every single week during treatment. I wanted to come back to as close to my former self as possible, and that is exactly why I signed up for an ultra. I have nothing to prove to anyone but I have a lot I still want to prove to myself. Maybe I bit off more than I could chew at this point in time. But for now, I am glad I signed up for another ultra. I am glad I tackled something that was a goal through my cancer treatments, because I know I would have been disappointed in myself if I had not at least made the attempt. So while nothing has gone optimally, and I have still been so very tired, and I am nowhere near as fit as I once was, I have not let my doubts or fears dictate whether I at least attempt to reach my goals.  Maybe I will be successful. Maybe this time around I will fail. Either way, I learn something new about myself through the process of training and daring to toe the line despite my fears. 

Living With Intention

Here is what I learned this week: I am much better able to handle being the patient than the worried wife. We had a scare with my husband this week that forced him to take only his second sick day in the 12+ years we have been together. I do not want to go into details because that is his personal business, but we ended up spending most of Thursday at the doctor's office and then waiting for testing. Early in the day, I was concerned by the sudden onset of his symptoms. I jumped into action, making phone calls and coming up with a plan of action. Throw a problem at me and I want to take charge and fix it. While I was almost certain the symptoms were brought about by something fairly benign, as I raced around to pick up kids and attend sports meetings, I thought, "well, what if it is something serious? What then?" That fear was so much worse than anything I have felt for myself over the last year. I can handle anything that happens to me, but I cannot bear the thought of my husband or children being sick or suffering. We do not have clear answers yet as to what happened. There will be follow up with a specialist, but is symptoms have improved over the last few days. 

I remember early on in the process of my diagnosis, Stephen saying that he would rather go through my surgery and treatment in my place. I had an instantaneous almost angry reaction of, "NO WAY! Don't even say that!" Not that we had any choice in the matter, of course, but when you love someone deeply, you really would take pain on their behalf. On Thursday, I found myself in that same exact spot, but with our roles reversed. I found myself engaging in silent prayer and bargaining, "Please do not let anything be wrong with him. I could not face the world without him." It is true, I would rather it be me. I can handle anything, except the thought of seeing him or the kids suffer or losing them. I am pretty confident he is fine and is going to be ok, but this was frightening and emotionally draining. Seeing my husband or children sick or hurt is my kryptonite.

On Friday, while still exhausted from the emotional upheaval of the previous day, I got up and ran long. I have a race I am training for after all. I also had an appointment with my oncologist in the afternoon and I needed to get out of my own head for a while. So I hit the trail for a therapeutic long run of 23+ miles. I would have liked to have run farther, but I ran out of time. I shared some miles with my husband, and ran some alone. Along the way, we saw this mama and her babies, who still had their spots. We had to stop and snap a picture. 

I squeezed in the most mileage I could before running home to shower and change. Without going into too many details, the appointment went well and I currently have "no evidence of disease". Obviously, this is exactly what you want. It is really good news. But Stephen and I left the appointment still feeling a bit uneasy and not entirely reassured. I have been referring to what I feel as "cautiously optimistic". I am not jumping up and down nor am I celebrating...yet. The doctor said it is completely normal to have emotional distress related to testing and follow up appointments, and that I may never feel completely confident again. He also said that with every hiccup I may fear the cancer has returned. I know so far, this has not been the case for me. Whenever I have a GI issue, I just assume it is my new body still trying to figure things out. I truly do not interpret every little twinge as something bad. I do wonder, though, is anything lurking in there that will not cause symptoms until it is too late? There is nothing I can do about that unease except go to my follow up appointments and hope for the best. I will not live in fear but I also will not take my health for granted.

I wish I felt like screaming from the rooftops that I am cancer free, but I just do not feel ready to do that. All I know is that for today, the radiologist did not see any signs of cancer. And so I will do the things I want to and am able to for today. I do not know at what point I will feel confident. In a year? Or two? Or five?  While on a run, I started thinking about what I would do if I knew I had one year to live. How would I spend my time? Who would I choose to be with? I do not think these things because I believe I only have a year, but because I used to assume my time was nearly infinite. Now I make no assumptions of that sort. Maybe if we all knew we only had a year left to live, our lives would look and feel exactly like they do now. Or maybe they would be entirely different. 

I am trying to make very conscious decisions about what I take on. I like to help and do things for others. But I read something recently that reminded me that every time we agree to take one thing on we will have to say no to something else. No matter what, our time is not infinite. Now I am trying to ask myself before I say "yes" to things, is this really how I want to spend my time? If I were going to die in a year, would I be happy that I chose to do this or would I be angry about having wasted my time? This is a constant exercise in learning not to be a people pleaser but in learning to do what is really important for me and my family. It is a daily challenge to make each decision very consciously, but I think it is really important for my own mental well being.

So I continue to run and train and spend time with people I love. This week, I ran with Jenny, Debby, Tracey and my husband. They are all people who I love dearly and I am grateful for every opportunity that I get to be with them. 

This is Tracey and I at Spruce Mountain Open space.

I ran back to back long runs Friday and Saturday. Friday was a 23 mile run and on Saturday, Stephen and I ran 18.5.

We have a couple more weeks of long runs and then we have to taper for our races. Spending time running together is our quiet way of celebrating the good news we received this week. Running has taken on the feeling of a sacred ritual that binds us together as we struggle against obstacles and challenges, both in life and on the trails. Every run is both ritual and celebration. This is how we choose to spend our time together, and I have never regretted a single run we have shared. 

How do I make us whole again?

My week was marked by two big occasions. First, the kids started back to school. I now have a Junior and a sixth grader. Honestly, I was not ready for my kids to go back to school because I felt like I missed out on half of the summer while recovering from my final treatments. By the time I felt good and ready to really enjoy time off with the kids, we only had half of the summer left. So I was a little sad that it was time for school to commence. 

The beginning of the school year is often met with a mixture of excitement, anticipation and some anxiety not only for the students but also for the parents. The start to this year was no different in our house. My older daughter is facing the increased demands in homework as she starts her IB Diploma program. My younger daughter was moving to a different middle school than most of her friends from elementary school. My daughters are both bright and highly capable, but there is a part of me that holds my breath a little that first day, until I know everything has gone well. Their first days were fine, of course. This year will be challenging for both of them, but I know that their intelligence and work ethic will serve them well.

The other major event of the week was my return for my first series of post treatment testing. I had CT scans on Wednesday and blood tests on Friday. Leading up to my tests, I told people that I expected them to be fine. In fact, I said I would fall over dead from a heart attack if the tests showed anything was wrong because I just expected all would be well. Still, as I thought back to the various tests I had in September and October prior to my surgery, I remembered feeling very confident then that there was nothing wrong with me. In fact, I almost blew off a recommended MRI because I really was completely unconcerned.

Thinking back to how I felt so sure I was perfectly fine, and how I turned out to be wrong, how could I be so sure everything was fine now? My confidence wavered a bit leading up to the tests. For the three days prior to my testing, I went back and forth thinking, "I am perfectly healthy" to "if they find something else, I am screwed!" As soon as the scans were over on Wednesday, that fear immediately dissipated. I think that the fact that I have been very busy with travel and back to school stuff really helped keep my mind focused elsewhere. For occasions like these, distraction is my coping mechanism and it honestly is very effective.

So the organized chaos associated with the beginning of the school year has been helpful. Also, signing up for a 50 mile race has given me motivation to get out and run a lot. I have just under five weeks left until my race. My husband is now officially signed up for the accompanying 50k. He suffers from stomach issues on long distance races and has gotten sick in three of his last four ultras. He throws up. In fact, he throws up a lot. Since I really love longer races, and I really enjoy running with my husband, I am hoping we can figure out how to prevent him from getting nauseous going forward. My husband is pretty amazing because he quits ultras almost every time he runs them but then keeps coming back for more. 

In order to train for longer distances, it is common to do back to back long runs. On Friday, I set out early while he took the kids to school. Then he joined me for the remainder of my long run. I finished 24 miles and he ran 20. It was a mercifully overcast and cool day for August. With heat not being an issue for either of us, we finished and felt tired but otherwise good.

On Saturday, we met up with Vanessa who is also training for a 50k. Steve ran 12 miles with us, and Vanessa and I finished 15. On Sunday, I met up with Vanessa and Jaclyn at the Garden of the Gods. We ran just under 9 miles. It was my first time running with Jaclyn. The conversation flowed easily and made the time pass quickly. Vanessa took this picture of the three of us, and as I looked at it, I thought about how running has brought me the opportunity to meet so many interesting, intelligent and strong women. Our experiences as women, wives, mothers, daughters and athletes allow us to bridge the differences that results from our varying  ages and stages of our lives. 

I am now ten weeks out from my final chemotherapy treatment. I feel pretty good. I am getting physically stronger and have more endurance each week. I still get tired, but I am able to keep a schedule that I could not keep previously. I feel like the mental fog is lifting. I am wanting to put the cancer experience behind me and move on with life. 

I am reminded often that this experience is not just mine. My whole family has suffered and struggled. Whereas I want to move on, and act like everything is fine, I know my children are still processing things. Over the last year, I have been a witness to depression, panic attacks, fear, isolation and anger. My children have paid a heavy price for my illness. I have done everything in my power to keep their lives as normal as possible through everything, but then something happens and I am reminded that my kids are harboring fear in their hearts or anger at an illness that changed their normal "super mom" temporarily into someone else. I am wracked by guilt over the damage to their psyches and confidence and I wonder how to mitigate it and make our family whole again. One minute, everyone seems fine, and then the next, something happens that reminds me that I am responsible for bringing pain and fear into their lives. It breaks my heart to hear my child saying, "I don't think my friends understand what I am going through." All I can say is, "No, they don't understand because they haven't lived it themselves. It isn't anyone's fault. They just have not shared your experience." That feeling of no one understanding is entirely valid, but not being able to protect my kids from feelings of isolation or alienation makes me feel like someone has ripped my heart out of my chest. 

Part of me harbors guilt over my illness. I have missed some activities over the last ten months. I was constantly exhausted. I tried so hard to not have anyone else's life disrupted logistically. But in all honesty, our lives were tossed into turmoil on an emotional level that I think I am just beginning to understand.

Part of me wants to shout, "I did this for you all, not for me! I put myself through everything so I could be here for you!" But, truthfully I did it for all of us, to maximize my chances of being around to see them grow up and to grow old with my husband. I am sorry that they feel fear, anger, sadness, isolation or loneliness. Even though I want to move on, when I see those emotions coming from my children, I experience them deeply, acutely and painfully, too. I do not yet know how to help them fully heal. I know I am doing my best to help them feel secure and strong and confident. I feel that in many ways, my experience with cancer has made me a better version of who I was before. I hope they can learn and grow from our experiences and become better and stronger versions of themselves, too.