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.

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.

January 20, 2010

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

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

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

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

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

January 24, 2010

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

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

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

Ongoing

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

February 10, 2010

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

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

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

The next entry is here.

September 12 – The Ride Begins

If my diagnosis on April 4 was a life-changing day, then September 12^th was ‘wake-up and smell the coffee day’. I’m competing in a local race, and even though I feel out of shape, I’m excited at the prospect of gauging my fitness and posting a good time.  The gun sounds and I’m out good in the 1^st mile, but I absolutely struggle after that. Running through the course, I can barely lift my legs, breathing is tough and I struggle to cross the finish line ahead of some of the walkers. What the hell?

Fortunately I have a routine visit with my primary care doctor, Dr. Alok Sharma, scheduled the next day.  I mention being tired and exhausted, tell him about the race.  He is concerned and does a blood test in his office.  He calls me that night, says he is worried and may send me to the hospital for a transfusion, as my hemoglobin (red blood cells that carry oxygen) counts are below 9.  A healthy man my age should be at 14 – 18.  No wonder I can’t breathe.

Instead of a hospital visit, Dr. Sharma has me come in the next day for a review.  He tells me, in his delightful, East-Indian accent, “I am very impressed Tim, you have been running with such low blood levels.  Your tolerance for pain must be very high?”  I secretly like this.  Runners do have a high tolerance for pain and his comments make me feel good, but I’m pissed because I’m competitive – I want to have high blood levels, better than anyone else.  He suspects I’m losing blood internally, perhaps a slow bleed or tear somewhere?  He recommends a colonoscopy the following week.  Man, I am becoming the king of colonoscopies.  My old friend, Dr. Sanner confirms those fears, noting the large lymph node in my abdomen is causing ulcers on my lower GI tract, leading to a slow bleed. Now I understand what Dr. Persky was “watching for” while we were “waiting”.

October 2009

It’s early October and Dr. Persky tells I can no longer delay treatment for my Lymphoma.  I have several options, but considering the severity of my cancer, I opt into a clinical trial he has developed, combining three of the most aggressive and effective therapies.    It includes a series of six chemotherapy treatments, followed by radio-isotopes delivering targeted radiation and then Rituxin ‘maintenance’ for a few years.  Most people with Lymphoma receive just one or two of these. I’m confident it’s the right move and sign up on the spot.  I select October 26^th as my start date, again delaying this thing as long as possible. October is a busy month for me, including a Mexico vacation and an event I’ve been planning for months.  I can’t get bogged down with treatment, right?

I hustle through the same tests to ‘re-stage’ my Lymphoma (CAT Scan, bone marrow, etc.) as before, because we have a weeklong trip to Cancun planned in just a few days.  An all-inclusive stay at Moon Palace paid for by my wife’s company – Arbonne.  We proceed to eat, drink, swim and relax.  It’s a nice break, but always the 26^th looms over my head, the day I start treatment.

It’s Saturday, October 24, and I’m at The Great Pumpkin Race, an event I’ve been planning for months. Past editions of this race had only 50 – 65 runners, and I’m not sure what to expect. But on this day, more than 500 runners show up, clearly a victory for all involved.  But I’m overwhelmed, exhausted and nervous. I’ve been able to keep myself distracted this month with everything, but it hits me on the drive home – I start chemo on Monday.  I start to cry.  I cry writing emails thanking my friends for their help, I cry like you do at those g-damn Christmas commercials when you’re home by yourself.  I’m sobbing.  I don’t know, is crying good for me?

 October 26 – Get on the Bus

Monday arrives and we head early to the Cancer Center, and instead of a shared treatment room, I am assigned a private infusion room at the Arizona Cancer Center.  Wow, this is too cool – the private room has cable, wi-fi and snacks. Nice.

Sara is my nurse all day; she has 22-years experience and a calm demeanor.  She tells me I have nice veins, making me laugh. For some odd reason, I’m always proud of this. She explains the process, easing my fears and making me feel better.  It gets even better when she gives me a big shot of Benadryl (for anticipated histamine reactions), kind of like a double margarita at 10:30 a.m.  This is going to be OK.

I started the steroid, Prednisone this week to offset any expected side-effects and I feel great. I’m flying through the regimen and I’m excited because I’m not having any of the nausea or side-effects Sara asked me to track on.  We jump right to Rituxin – a drug specifically meant to fight Lymphoma. I have an initial chest tightness, but I don’t tell her as it goes away in a few minutes.  It feels similar to an asthma attack.   But half-way through, another chest tightness that I can’t shake, even with all my tricks of controlling my breathing and slowing my heart rate I learned as a competitive runner.  Nurses are called, doctors, etc.  I’m pissed because they mention keeping me overnight.  I want this to be done TODAY.  Thankfully, some additional Benadryl kicks in 30-minutes later, making everything good. 

I think about my local running club – The Workout Group.  I’ve made good friends there and have found a ‘core’ bunch that matches my speed and fitness level.  At the end of a hard I workout,  I always like to talk a little smack.  “Hey, want to race to the finish? Wanna bet?” I’ll ask, adding, “how much money do you have in your pocket?? – let’s go!” as I speed off ahead. Cash is very rarely exchanged, but it’s a fun way to end the night.

I find myself doing the same thing with my cancer nurse.  It’s coming to the end of a LONG day and it’s a guessing game about what time I’ll be done.  I do the math in my head and say 6:35 (the nurses guess 7:00) and “will be heading out at 6:36”.  I ask her how much money she has in her pocket, “wanna bet?” The last bit of Rituxin drops into my vein at 6:35, but since there is only one nurse on call at the time, she doesn’t get to my room until 6:38.  I count it as a ‘win’ anyway.  Anything to make this day a victory.

Walking out of the Center, I’m foggy and feeling like I’ve been drinking beers since 10 a.m., stopped at 4 p.m. and here it is 3-hours later with no sleep and I’m feeling wide-awake, hung-over.  Yes, it’s scary I know what this feels like.  Tuesday I wake up feeling like shit, head thick, mouth dry and voice crackly deep, like I smoked a pack of cigarettes along with the beers.  Surprisingly, it is like a hangover, my throbbing head and fogginess get better throughout the morning.  This may be OK.

Think again.

April 2009

Dr. Sanner’s words keep me in a state of shock for days.  I keep thinking that maybe I heard him wrong, or that the CAT Scan could have been mis-read.  Anything but this. 

For good or bad, I’m an information junky.  My background is in broadcast journalism, and I religiously follow the newspaper, entertainment industry, and other news outlets. Let’s just say I have a need to know what’s going on.  My online research leads to wildly different expectations about Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma survival and treatment.  34-months average life expectancy, although remission is highly possible, some treatments work better than others and even a possible vaccine.  I’m confused.  Is this treatable or not? How long do people live with this crap? 

Dr. Sanner refers me to the Arizona Cancer Center, one of the top rated Lymphoma research/treatment facilities in the country.  On my first day I’m met by a concierge (no kidding), and given a tour of the facility. I’m apprehensive, scared and overwhelmed having to be here, but this really helps. I feel lucky to get referred to Dr. Daniel Persky, a smart, young and cocky doc from Russia who is just 34-years-old.  I like him.  He answers all of my questions, allowing me to entertain different ‘what-if’ scenarios, but always focusing on treatment.  He estimates that I am likely at Stage 3-4, but to be sure, he orders another CAT Scan, blood work, a bone marrow test and a biopsy a few weeks later.  My surgeon at the University Medical Center is even cockier – like my pilot friends in the Air Force – I want my surgeon to be cocky, have confidence.  Instead of opening my abdomen to get a sample, he goes through my belly button, leaving no visible scars.  Wow.

May – June 2009

I go through all of my tests with flying colors.  Although to fully ‘stage’ the disease they conduct a bone marrow test to see if the Lymphoma is present. This one is the hardest.  Throughout this process I keep getting comments about my low heart rate – in the 50s, my veins –“awesome”, and my bone density.  This secretly pleases me as I am competitive and proud to be in good shape.  Sandy Curtin does my bone marrow test – basically they stick a corkscrew through the hip bone and pull out a core sample.  She is visibly sweating and breathing heavy after the procedure because my bones are dense.  She comments that she may have to start doing arm exercises if I come back.  It doesn’t hurt to stick the corkscrew into my bone marrow, Lidocaine takes care of that.  It hurts when they suck the bone marrow out – hurts like hitting your funny bone while getting an electric shock at the same time.  I yell a little bit, and keep the joy that she had to work so hard to get it, to myself.

Early June at my appointment for official staging and I’m nervous, hopeful, scared; you name it and I’m feeling it today.  Dr. Persky gives it to me straight. Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, Type B (10% involvement in the bone marrow), Follicular Lymphoma, Stage 4.  Basically a slow growing cancer that I’ve probably had for the past 3-4 years. Crap! Unfortunately I’ve learned a lot about cancer with family and friends suffering from different types of cancer in the past few years.  All I can think is that Stage 4 with most cancers is BAD.  But Dr. Persky assures me that Lymphoma is different, that staging has everything to do with size, bone marrow involvement and other factors.  My node is approx. 11 cm by 5 cm.   Normal size averages 1 cm X 1 cm.

Although it has shrunk by tenths, Persky reminds me that lymph nodes will “wax and wane”.  I have no other symptoms other than being tired – but I’m always tired.  Dr. Persky recommends treatment. “What will happen if I don’t?” I ask.  “We will watch and wait”, he says.  “Wait for what?”, I say.  “For something to happen”, he says ominously, pointing his index finger at my stomach.

It is a difficult decision, but I elect to forgo treatment for the time being.  I realize that I am apprehensive and looking for a way to postpone it.  During this process I’m introduced to Low Dose Naltrexone.  An experimental drug for auto-immune disease, its traditional use in the regular dose is for severe alcoholics. Taken at night, at 1/10 its regular dose, it is thought to interfere with production of certain cells that indicate Lymphoma, MS, HIV, etc. I am excited at the prospect and it makes it easier to rationalize my decision.

Summer 2009

I’ve only told a handful of friends and family about my diagnosis, preferring to keep the news to myself.  I guess I don’t want to deal with explaining the process, the diagnosis and the disease.  I prefer not to think about it.  Perhaps it will go away.

All summer I’m feeling great, enjoying getting back to running to take my mind off the past few months.  In July, I take 3^rd in my age group at the City of Tucson Cross Country Meets Grand Prix and run a 6:20 mile and 2:48 half-mile with hardly any training.  By August I am running great, getting lots of comments that I am doing secret training on the side.  I’m not, just running twice a week.  I’m excited at the prospect of the upcoming racing season.

September 2009

A run in Prescott leaves me exhausted and tired, but I credit it to the mile-high altitude.  However, I notice that I am just tired and dying at the end of all my workouts.  My quads are heavy, my breathing is hard to regulate and I don’t have the pep I used to.  I write it off to being in bad shape.  But I’m mad because my expectations are high.  I was an all-region, all-state runner back in the day.  I was lucky enough to compete in college.  I’m still competitive, but can’t understand why I’m not running faster.  I always, always attribute it to being out of shape.  That assumption is about to change.

You can read the next installment here.

Tucson runner Jolene Jones overcame life threatening illness to run her personal best and win her age group at the Saguaro National Park Race.

A beautiful run through the pines of Prescott, Arizona and Jolene Jones was sure her shortness of breath was due to running in the much thinner air of this mile high city.  The sharp pain preventing her from sleeping the next day led her to believe it could be more serious. Jolene didn’t know what was wrong, she couldn’t breathe, her doctors prescribed anti-inflammatory medication and she worried that she may have a broken rib or a strained muscle. However, a CAT Scan would point to something much more serious – Pulmonary Embolism – or blood clots in her lungs, not only affecting her breathing, but her body’s ability to transport life giving oxygen.
In just three short days after her Prescott run, she would be on oxygen and blood thinners fighting off blood clots that had invaded her lungs due to prescribed medications.  Jolene would spend the next three weeks almost in a daze, very lethargic, with daily trips to the doctor followed by oxygen and almost constant sleeping.

So begins Jolene’s New Year 2009, a scary episode in the life of this vibrant, active and determined young Tucson woman.  Leaving her to think what no 27-year-old should ever have to consider, “I don’t want to die, it’s not supposed to be like this.”

Surrounded by friends and family, Jolene could see the look of concern on their faces.  She tries to avoid it, but it seems everywhere she turns, there is another story of someone like her, someone that didn’t make it.  But Jolene has a unique outlook on life, much older than her 28 years.  She does not shy away from letting you know she has faced many challenges in her life, but is proud that this does not define her in any way.  “It gives me a good perspective and I wouldn’t change any of it” she says.   

Slowly the oxygen and blood thinners begin to work.  She begins to walk with friends, but is still concerned that a blood clot may find its way to her heart or brain.  Six weeks after Prescott, she returns to work full time.  A clear CAT scan in April gives her hope, but does not erase the fear of running, of taking those first tentative steps.  Encouraged by her running partners in The Workout Group, Jolene does take that first step.  Later that month, she decides to run in her first race.  She runs the whole way and finishes.  Paced by her Workout Group friends, two more races follow in May, each faster and stronger than the last.  As her health improves, Jolene begins to think “what if…?” 

Jolene began running several years ago to stay in shape, running fast was never the plan, “never on the radar” she says.  By June she is feeling as strong as ever.  The thought comes back, “what if…?”  She decides to go for it, tweaking her diet, adding miles to her weekly total.  By July she is running 40 miles a week, slim and feeling stronger than ever. Many of us didn’t see much of Jolene in the summer, but rumors were flying as reports of Jolene getting stronger and faster filtered in.  “Jolene is running 60 miles a week!”, “I ran with Jolene and she wasn’t even breathing hard”, “Jolene ran a 6:20 mile at the track meet”.  Each report always accompanied by a sense of awe and admiration.

Jolene set her sights on the 40^th Annual Saguaro National Park Race this past Labor Day.  She wants to run fast, but is unsure as the weight of her own expectations and those she perceives from her friends and family overwhelm her. “I’ve never been so nervous before,” she says.  To add to her jitters, Jolene has been selected as the recipient of the Southern Arizona Roadrunners’ Rob Bell Award.  Given to a local runner that embodies the spirit and the passion for running, the award memorializes local runner Rob Bell who passed away in 1999.  The jitters come because the recipient is announced at the Saguaro race to the crowd of 800 runners at the starting line.

Jolene’s race day goes by in a daze; she finishes the race in just over 61:00, on the hilly, eight-mile, gut wrenching course, far and away a personal best.  Then she’s on to the official presentation of the Rob Bell award from Rob’s family and past recipients.  Plaques, gifts, crowd recognition, all seem to go by in a blur. She reflects on her journey a few days later, “This has been the best year ever.  As crappy as some things have been, I have a real appreciation for what I’ve accomplished.”

So do we Jolene, so do we.

Oh yeah – Jolene took first in her competitive 25-29 age group…by nearly a minute.  But in reality, she has already accomplished much, much more than that.  She has her dreams back.