Ed. note: Ironman specialist Melissa Spooner of Canada's struggles in recent years have been well recorded, as have her triumphs: at Lanzarote, at New Zealand, and in Lake Placid. Battling persistent injury and trying to help husband Chris Spooner in his struggle against Crohn's disease, she stepped back from the sport. Now on the comeback trail under the watchful eye of coach JulieAnne White, Spooner has decided to tell the whole story of her family's struggles.

PART ONE

November 29 will always be a day we remember. On November 29, 2002, we spent three hours in the pool doing 100x100’s to raise money for the Crohn’s and Colitis Foundation. Exactly one year earlier, my husband, Chris Spooner, spent six hours on an operating table getting a large portion of his large intestine removed.

In 1995 Chris was diagnosed with Crohn’s disease. It was also the year we were married. Our marriage didn’t really know anything but Chris with Crohn's disease.

We first met at the University of Victoria, where Chris was a varsity rower. He represented Canada at the Pan-American Games in 1991 and won a bronze in the four. During the summers we moved to Nelson, B.C., where Chris fought forest fires. By the summer of 1995 Chris knew that something was not quite right. He was an athlete and was always feeling like he was fighting to stay healthy and in peak form. And he pushed himself harder than anyone else would push him.

We were married on a sunny September Saturday. By Monday it was overcast and we were in a doctor’s office. We had arranged to go see a gastroenterologist, but that would not happen for three months. From September until December I watched Chris’s health slowly deteriorate. We were living in Seattle, where Chris was studying to be a naturopathic doctor and I was working on my nutrition degree.

Chris and I had come from very active background. I remember saying to him, “Maybe if you go for a run you’ll feel better.” I had no idea what he was dealing with. All of his energy was being used to simply get through the day and deal with the pain that he constantly was feeling. Surrounded by medical texts, we were constantly reading and trying to diagnose what Chris had. Our ideas ranged from irritable bowel to cancer to Crohn’s. Definitely a situation where a little bit of knowledge was dangerous. Finally in December, after three months of waiting, 40 pounds of weight loss, anaemic and weak, Chris had his appointment with the gastroenterologist. The diagnosis was that Chris did indeed have Crohn’s disease.

Not much is known about Crohn’s. Its cause isn't known, and there is no cure. Chris was put on some pretty strong drugs, including prednisone and ASA. They managed the pain, but they did not remove the fact that Chris’s intestines were like a big burn and he was not capable of absorbing any of the nutrients that he needed—not only for energy, but to allow his own body to help in the healing process. Knowing that Chris was studying to be a naturopath, it is easy to understand that we were not keen on the fact that he would be dependent on these very strong steroids, which had the potential for some very harsh side effects. So we researched, and we researched and we researched some more.

Chris was open to try any mode of therapy: acupuncture, elimination diets, Chinese medicine, hydrotherapy—any and all. There were times when some of his symptoms would simmer and give him some glimpse of normal life. All he wanted was to be a normal 20-something guy. To go for a run, or a walk, and not constantly search for a toilet.

By 1997 Chris and I had moved to Toronto. The exchange from Canadian dollar to the U.S. dollar was making it very expensive for us to stay living in the States and pay the American tuition. I was done with my degree and Chris had two years to go, so we decided to pack up our Subaru wagon and transfer Chris to the Canadian College of Naturopathic Medicine in Toronto. The thing I remember most about our drive across the country is how shocked we were at how many businesses do not allow you to use their washrooms. When you are travelling and you have Crohn’s, it is not a simple matter of “holding it." We had conversations with many gas attendants along the way, explaining something that shouldn’t need to be explained. It was discouraging at times, but perhaps we taught one or two folks out there about Crohn’s. We did not want to vandalize the restroom, Chris just really, really needed to use it! One hotel wouldn’t let Chris use their reception restroom, so he went into one of the rooms that was being cleaned and used the toilet there!

Our two years in Toronto were for the most part great. Chris was using a lot of Chinese medications to deal with his pain and discomfort. At the same time, my triathlon career was flourishing. Ontario has great races through the summer and I would race on the weekends and get fit. 1998 found me going to California for five weeks of training. The work paid off, as I started my 1998 season with a second place at Wildflower and my first Ironman win at Lanzarote. I was busy training and traveling, and I guess I didn’t have time to see just how sick Chris was getting. Or perhaps I was training and traveling so much because I didn’t know how to deal with how sick Chris was.

It is the toughest thing in the world to watch the one you love suffer and not be able to make the pain go away. There was nothing I could do to make Chris better. He supported me in my career and always wanted me to go and see how far I could go. I finished 1998 with a fourth at Ironman Hawaii and was on top of my game, but Chris’s health was again getting worse. Soon I realized that I could not keep going at the rate that I was. In February 1999 we decided to move back to the West Coast. This time we hired movers and within three weeks of making the decision were living near Chris’s family just outside of Vancouver.

I hit the road again, this time for three weeks to California and then on to IM New Zealand, where I captured my second Ironman win. That race took way too much out of me. My back started acting up, and I felt like I was unable to recover from that race. I longed to be home and be with my husband, but I felt like I had a job to do. The rest of 1999 was very up and down. The joy I had found in my racing and training had disappeared. It was no longer something I wanted to do, but was now something I felt I had to do.

We spent many nights in the emergency room. Chris’s coloring was so off, he was actually grey. Ironically, everyone thought he was really fit because he had lost so much weight. They would say, "Wow, you must be running up a storm!” What they didn’t know was that Chris couldn’t walk up a flight of stairs without getting winded, let alone run down the block! Finally, after one of our emergency trips, the doctors made him stay. He was hospitalized for four days. His red blood cell count was so low they didn’t have a clue how he was even standing, let alone trying to start up a naturopathic clinic. I always told him that by going through all of this he would have more compassion for his patients. Chris is the most compassionate person I have ever met.

In 2000 we made one more move, to Victoria. Now we were back where we first started out in 1991. We both love Victoria. It was a good move for my training, and Chris had many opportunities for his business. It was nice to be home. But Chris was not getting better. I was training full time at the National Training Center and was getting fit. The people I was training with brought out my motivation for the sport, but I was still feeling like it was something I had to be doing. I would leave for my five-plus-hour rides and Chris would be in bed, and when I returned he would be on the couch. He was using every bit of energy to build his practice and stay alive; I don’t even understand how much he was dealing with all those years.

It was killing me, though, to go out and be active when I knew he couldn’t. I just wanted to be there for him. Not only could he not be active, but he could see that I was not enjoying doing what I was doing. I thought myself selfish for not enjoying something that he couldn’t do, and that is how I started to treat my training. I better damn well enjoy this, I found myself thinking, because he doesn’t have a choice. Ironically, by putting that sort of stipulation on my training I felt like I didn’t have a choice either.

In 2000 I somehow managed another Ironman win, this time at Ironman Lake Placid. It is my most memorable victory because it is the only one that Chris has ever seen in person. When we got our pictures back from our trip, I saw a finish line photo of us—a very sick man with a very tired wife.

We went to Hawaii that year. I was fit and ready to take it all. When push came to shove that day, though, I had nothing left to dig deep with. I was exhausted—exhausted from putting up this front that everything was fine. I couldn’t tell anyone at the press conference that when we would get home from our morning swim, Chris slept— not to rest, but because he had to. Not just a 30-minute catnap, but for three to four hours. Then he would eat, and then go lie down again. I couldn’t tell anyone anything, and I was tired of playing this game. It was really quite cruel to bring Chris to this part of the world. Everyone was so fit, and my biggest worry was how this race would go—while his biggest worry was how the hell he was going to get through the day!

It all became pretty clear to me at IM Canada 2001. I had been leading the race for most of the day and I was sitting in third place at mile 4 of the marathon. I knew it was my race to lose, but I just didn’t care. I looked down that road. The lake was glistening on one side, the long road and the mountains to the left, and the sun was warm on my shoulders. It was truly beautiful. I realized I really had a choice, and I chose to stop my day. I knew I could finish the race, but that wasn’t the point. It was more important for me to not finish on that day. At that point I didn’t really know if I would ever do another Ironman.

PART TWO

By 2001 Chris had tried every form of medicine to try to beat this disease. He tried an experimental drug therapy—Remicad—that is more typically used for rheumatoid arthritis. New studies had shown success with it for patients suffering from Crohn's. He was given three treatments to see if there was going to be any effect. There was! Chris was given a glimpse of normal life! He started a run program again and he was feeling like a normal 30-year-old. In fact, it was the cruellest of jokes. Chris developed a resistance to the treatments and the second round of shots had no effect on his symptoms. It was like showing a starving man bread but not allowing him to eat it. We were devastated.

Chris had a very big decision to make. While we were at Ironman Canada in 2001, Chris was going through a very bad stretch with his symptoms and the pain. We set up some tests with the doctors in Vancouver to see what our options were. I was working and Chris had to go over by himself. Thankfully his parents were there to take him to the hospital. He had tests to determine just how localized the infected region within in intestine was. It was decided that Chris was a candidate for surgery. It’s not a surgery that is often done on Crohn’s patients. Chris was getting a permanent colostomy. It was a very hard decision for a 30-year-old to make. Crohn’s is not a glamorous disease, but with the help of others who had had the same or similar surgery, Chris decided that this was the best thing for him. He could not fathom living the rest of his life with the amount of pain that he had been suffering with. (We should’ve bought shares in Tylenol!)

On 7:45 a.m. on November 29, they rolled Chris into emergency. I cried, but not so much because I was scared about the surgery. I trusted Dr. Segal, the surgeon, 100 percent. He had been the surgeon on call the first time I had brought Chris to emergency, so he was well aware of the situation—but I had never wanted something to work so badly in my entire life. All I wanted was for my husband to have his health back again. I didn’t think it was too much to ask for.

It was a crisp, clear day—you could see the North Shore Mountains clearly from the hospital waiting room windows. I got some fresh air but for the most part I waited. They didn’t know how long he would be in the operating room—three to six hours was the estimate. I tried to nap, but I couldn’t. Finally there he was. He was so small in that big hospital bed. There was my husband, whom six years earlier I had married. When we married Chris had weighed around 200 pounds, and now he was barely 140 pounds. I have never felt so much love for someone in my entire life. He was out for most of the day, fading in and out of consciousness. I read to him from "The Lord of the Rings." By the sixth day he was up and sort of about. We would do laps of the ward. I would bring him miso soup, his vitamins, and protein shakes. It was a slow recovery. Chris came home 10 days after his surgery. He had put himself on a solid recovery program of supplements. Every day he was getting stronger. His surgeon couldn’t believe his recovery. For the first time in six years it wasn’t just surviving—it was living.

We had a quiet Christmas. On Boxing Day we stood in line-ups—not to get a good deal, but simply because we could. Chris was not worried about having to find a toilet at any moment. His life was given back to him.

On Nov 29th of 2002, Chris and I swam 100x100’s with five others from our swim club here in Victoria. Not too shabby—10,000 meters one year after his surgery. Pretty awesome if you ask me. Chris bought a new bike last spring, is riding strong and has started a running program. Most importantly, he is living and enjoying living.

It’s almost hard to remember those days—just how much our life was dictated by Chris's illness. We feel like we have gotten a second lease on life, and we are taking advantage of it. This winter Chris will come with me when I train, and he will be there for my next Ironman race. Who knows, maybe I will be watching him in his own Ironman one day soon.

This has not been an easy story for me to tell. It is very personal and has taken quite a while to be able to write it. But as there have been many people there for us, I hope that perhaps this can help one person’s journey and help them feel not so alone.