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

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

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

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

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

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

Gabe Zimmerman, Gabby’s Director of Community Outreach, lost his life that day as well.  This hit closer to home in my circle of friends.  You see, Gabe was a runner.  He recently completed the Mount

Gabe Zimmerman finishes the Mount Lemmon Half-Marathon in October 2010.

 Lemmon Half Marathon and his dad was the leader of the Tucson Trail Runners.  He came from a family of runners and was well known in our running family.  We are in shock and utter sadness.

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

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

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

March 17, 2010

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

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

March 24, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

February 10

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

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

Ongoing

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

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

Early March

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

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

March 10

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

March 15

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

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

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

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

March 17, 2010

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

I think, chemo, I kicked your ass. 

But I wonder – can I run again?

The last entry is here.