Quality of life

In May of this year, three weeks before my wedding, at the age of twenty-nine, I was diagnosed with advanced Stage-2 Hodgkin's Disease. A tumor 13-centimeters in diameter was found in the center of my chest right around my heart and lungs. At the time I was exercising vigorously daily, putting in the miles training for my first Ironman. I developed a serious cough, which I thought was bronchitis, and which the doctors misdiagnosed as allergies. So the final accurate diagnosis came at a very bad time, and was a terrible shock.

I went through three months of weekly chemotherapy followed by one month of daily radiation treatments. To be sure, it sucked. I went from running an easy ten miles on the weekend to not being able to walk up a flight of stairs. I did manage during this time to drive up to Lake Placid to spectate, and between watching some of my heroes like Cam Widoff and Melissa Spooner come out of transition I would inject myself with drugs designed to raise my white blood cell count.

During the chemotherapy there were days I couldn't get off the couch. My blood pressure would drop suddenly and I passed out a couple of times. Walking was strenuous for me, and my feet and hands went completely numb as a result of the chemotherapy drugs.

The only physical activity I could do was Yoga. I started practicing ten years ago, but only during this period did it really pay off. Using props and benches, my practice consisted of getting into a position and letting the posture itself work on my body. I had no strength to muscle a pose, I had to relax and allow my mind and body to soften. My weakness, which I usually could not tolerate, was insurmountable, and became the starting point for all progress. As I practiced I regained strength and mobility, kept my blood counts at a good level, and was able to stem off nausea and dizziness by relaxing in certain postures I learned patience and stillness, staying longer in postures, allowing myself to just be in the position for a while. I had to learn to try to not try. That's the best way I can describe it.

I still dream of completing the Ironman, hoping one day to cross that finish line in Kona. But I have a new problem. I need to completely start over from scratch. Maybe worse than scratch. Three years of diligently developing endurance, and it is all gone.

Through the experience though, I learned to really respect my body -- let it tell me what to do. The New York City rat-race had ground me down. I was exhausted, but still pushing, pushing all the time. With cancer, when you push, it shoves back, hard. Coming back to life I've already made changes with my job to work less, take more vacations, have flexible hours, and work from home. I used to think I could never have those things, but when you know, know in your bones, you can't go on living the way you have been, everything changes.

I read recently that blood pressure has two components: systolic, the pumping phase, and diastolic, the resting phase. Without both the heart can't function. Western life is all action: faster, better, more, finish, win! Why is everything marketed as extreme, loud, tough? Whatever happened to the virtues of silence, contemplation, and reflection? Life out of balance, man.

I love the effort of sport, striving to be faster, to compete, to have those break through results that keep me striving. For me now to run at all would be a great accomplishment. To swim. To bike. Joy. I'll soon be back on the roads.

Quality of life? For me it's about getting in the hills. It's about getting in the surf. It's finding a time to take a long rest. It's about loving the ability to run one mile.

See ya in Kona.

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