Cancer-Free for Christmas

Okay, okay...I've received more e-mails and phone calls than I can count asking for an update, so here it is!

After discharge from the hospital, Pooh and I tried to occupy ourselves in Los Angeles, doing our best to "sight-see" in LA and Beverly Hills on a budget...which is actually quite a challenge. We ended up spending most of our time sitting in bookstores reading and relaxing -- I still fatigue quite easily, and can only go for about an hour before I need to rest or nap for an hour or two. I was even awakened by a security guard in the Thousand Oaks Galleria, who politely informed me that "sleeping wasn't permitted in the mall." I was tempted to take off my skull cap and throw out the brain cancer card, but decided against it...poor guy was just doing his job. Still, it would have been fun. ;-)

One of the great things that helped speed my recovery was a visit from my longtime friend and newly-minted marathoner JD, who flew down from Seattle just to spend some time together. We've been friends for 27 years, and this guy can make time fly. All of a sudden, a week from major brain surgery, I'm singing with the band at a piano bar in Universal Studios:
Strolling the Santa Monica Pier:
Even having our picture taken with Santa:
As a side note, this is particularly bizarre for me, since I never believed in Santa -- as far back as I can remember, I've known that it was mom and dad, and I don't think I've EVER had my picture taken with Santa before. So now, thanks to JD, at the age of 36 I've finally had my picture taken with Santa...and a real Santa at that!

So, after a few days with JD, Monday arrived and we checked back in with the neurosurgeon. He did another exam, looked at the incision to see how things were healing, and gave the approval for the staples to be removed. He also brought in the neuro-oncologist to talk through additional treatment options. The short version of the story is that we've tried surgery alone, and the tumors returned. We then tried surgery followed by 22 rounds of chemo, and the tumors returned again. So, the best alternative at this point is surgery followed by radiation. These alternatives were presented to the Cedars-Sinai Tumor Board, and the votes were about split...some in favor of radiation, some in favor of waiting. The problem is, radiation is normally a "silver bullet," and at my age it's very early to burn that card...given how well I respond to surgery, doing radiation at this point may eliminate an option we'd like to use later on. However, at the same time, radiation makes a lot of sense, since we've now removed the bulk of the cancer, and have a unique opportunity to kill whatever cancerous portions we didn't get with surgery and knock this thing out once and for all. Both the neurosurgeon and the neuro-oncologist, and both Pooh and I, are leaning in favor of radiation. We'll meet with our docs and NIH and get a second opinion, but I suspect we'll follow this surgery with radiation. After those discussions, the staples came out -- ready for the nasty pics? Okay, you've been warned...here they are...before:
During:
After:
The procedure was far less painful than last time, and pretty easy overall. Now, we're safely back in Virginia, reunited with little Monkey (who is now walking, by the way), and happily on the road to recovery.  I still struggle with some pretty significant headaches, and some of the medications cause a bit of nausea and stomach problems, but I really can't complain after all I've been through.  

On the training front, I have to wait about six weeks before I can run again, but that should still leave me enough time to train for the Rock-N-Roll Seattle Marathon in June.  I'm still aiming for that 3:45 that eluded me a few weeks ago!  In other news, it appears that Santa was good to me this year, and a treadmill may be under the tree.  I'm not a fan, but the weather here just isn't as conducive to running as it was in Monterey.  We're very happy -- we're home for Christmas, little Monkey remembered us, I'm unaffected by surgery, and just dealing with a few headaches and minor problems.  The prayers and support of all the bloggers, friends, and family members have been instrumental over the past few weeks -- thank you all so much, and Merry Christmas!

Surgery Report -- From Mike!

I'm back! Yes, I'm out of the hospital and back "on the blog."

First and foremost, THANK YOU to everyone who has thought, prayed, blogged, and communicated with us over the past week or two. The outpouring of support from friends, family, and bloggers has just overwhelmed us, and we never expected to have such an incredible support structure here. Thank you!

I'm back at the hotel, and out of the hospital. As you know from Pooh's blogs, I was discharged from the hospital a day early (yesterday), and I'm doing just fine. So, now you get to hear the story first-hand -- from the guy who actually went through this whole ordeal:

Wednesday, 10 December, 8:00pm. The whole surgery process actually begins the night before, when you're placed on a restricted diet. So, basically nothing to eat or drink after midnight the night before surgery -- not a simple feat for someone who normally eats 4,000+ calories per day. Anyway, I complied...and only complained a few times. In addition to the restricted diet, I have to wash my hair with a wonderful solution called, "Endure 400 Scrub-Stat 4," a 4% solution of "Chlorahexidine Gluconate" used for "surgical hand scrubbing." So, it's not Garnier Fructis, but I've never been very picky anyway, and honestly don't have enough hair for it to matter too much. So, after having one last meal and taking one last shower (does this sound at all like "The Green Mile?"), I headed to bed. Sleeping the night before surgery is always an adventure...I usually don't do much of it, and spend most of the night tossing, thinking, praying, and occasionally nodding off. With a 4:30am wakeup, it's not like I'm sleeping in anyway.

Thursday, 11 December, 5:00am: Check-in time! With a 7:15 surgery time, check-in is two hours prior. We check in at the Cedars-Sinai Medical Center South Tower, and are escorted up to the surgery floor (the 8th) by an orderly. Once checked in on the surgery floor, it's really just a couple hours of waiting...along with about eight other patients, all scheduled for surgery that morning. I was the only brain surgery patient, but there was also one there for back surgery, another for neck surgery, one for intestinal surgery, and a few others. About 6:45am, I'm called back by an attendant, and say my somewhat tearful good-byes to my parents and my wife, all of whom had accompanied me to the OR floor. This is often the toughest part of the whole procedure for me -- what I call "The Walk" (again, reminiscent of The Green Mile"). The walk from the waiting room back to the prep room is actually quite a long one, down a sterile, narrow hallway. The urge to look back over your shoulder is tremendous, and just about everyone around you is crying and walking backwards, catching final glimpses of loved ones. I usually refrain, but this time I did give a brief "thumbs up" to my wife. Thankfully, my buddy LDO (a co-worker and good friend) gave me a coin engraved with the "Put on the full armor of God" verses from Ephesians, which was the only thing I actually took with me on the walk...even my wedding ring stayed with my wife. Back in the prep room, I make a bathroom stop, then strip naked and put on one of the beautiful, multicolored, "fully ventilated" gowns, and get on my gurney. A lengthy interview by the pre-op nurse follows (medical history, allergies, etc), then the anesthesiologist arrives. The anesthesiologist hooks up a regular IV, and starts with a saline flush, then some of the same questions. The anesthesiologist, Dr. Xiang, told me she'd be adding some "good stuff" to the IV now, and I would soon "care a lot less" about what they were doing. Well, that's pretty much the last thing I remember.

Thursday, 11 December, 1230pm: Recovery! After that, the next thing I remember is waking up in the recovery room. This is not a pleasant experience. The complete rush of sensations is totally overwhelming -- from completely comatose to completely aware in a matter of minutes is a big shock to the system. As they slowly bring you back to consciousness, especially after a procedure like mine, I was in a complete rush of seeing if I could feel my feet, move my hands, speak, see, understand, remember, all those things. Still, you're not entirely capable of any of those things, largely due to medications, and anesthesia, but I can't tell...I can't see a thing, but don't know if that's because I don't have my contacts in or because I've lost my vision. I can't move entirely, but I'm also strapped onto the gurney. I can't remember the last eight hours, but I was under general anesthesia...you get the idea. The mental games that go on during this hour or so are pretty bizarre. Slowly, I get possession of my senses, they remove the straps or whatever, I get my glasses, my thoughts clear, and then -- after what seems like forever -- my wife pulls the curtain back. That moment is the one we've both been waiting for for weeks now. I made it -- I'm alive, I'm healthy, I can see/speak/hear/move/remember, and the cancer is gone. At that point, I relax quite a bit, and it becomes a day of alternating between frenzied activity and endless waiting/boredom.
I'll be honest -- Recovery is a miserable place. Two of the other patients in the room with me got sick from the general anesthesia, and were vomiting regularly...an unpleasant experience even when you're feeling your best. I've got two IVs in -- a regular up by my elbow, and an arterial in my wrist. I've also got a Foley catheter, which is tremendously uncomfortable. My head is wrapped tightly in a pressure bandage to keep swelling down, and I've got 50+ staples along the incision in my scalp from ear to ear. I also have those cursed leg compressors on, which inflate every minute or two, and a blood pressure cuff on one arm that takes my blood pressure every five minutes, along with a blood-oxygen monitor on one finger, and EKG leads taped to my chest at about ten different locations. This point, and the next 12 hours, are the hardest parts of the entire ordeal for me. I actually felt surprisingly good -- the headache was worse that I remembered it being, but other than that, I felt fine.

Thursday, 11 December 6:00pm: ICU! The move from Recovery to ICU is a big step for one reason only -- privacy. The Recovery bay is shared with seven other patients, and Cedars' brand-new ICU tower has individual patient rooms. Other than that, it's not too different -- the move to ICU doesn't mean they can remove any leads, monitors, IVs, or anything else, but I've got a room to myself. Visitors still can't stay for more than a few minutes, but it's still a big step up, and it's the first big step to getting classified as a "floor patient" -- one in a regular patient room! I remember the move from Recovery to ICU, across a glass skybridge over Santa Monica Boulevard, looking out over Hollywood Hills and Beverly Hills. It was my first glimpse of the outside world since surgery (there are no windows in Recovery), and it was beautiful.
In all but the most exceptional cases, brain surgery patients must spend at least one night in ICU. This is the part I had been dreading since knowing I'd be going back into surgery -- while the surgery itself is certainly the longest and most miserable part for my family, the one night in ICU is the longest and most miserable part of the entire process for me, the patient. It is impossible to get comfortable -- you have tubes and leads stuck to every part of your body (including some VERY sensitive ones), and the nurses are required to check in on you every hours for a full neuro exam. Checking pupil response, sensory perception, memory, and cognition every hour -- basically, they wake you up, tickle your feet, shine a flashlight in your eyes, make you wave your arms and legs, then take your temperature and blood pressure, then tell you to go back to sleep...and just when you start to nod off...they're back again. Within a few hours, the Foley catheter starts to burn and itch pretty badly -- I'm not sure if that happens to everyone, but when I mentioned it to the nurses, they said it was "completely normal," so I can't be the only one to suffer. Last time, an orderly tripped over it, which was decidedly uncomfortable, so this time, they taped it to my leg...and I'm not sure if that was much better. Fur and tape don't seem to get along well. My headache hadn't subsided much, so I took three Tylenol which brought it down to a comfortable level. Shortly before bed, I took two more just to take the edge off so I could sleep, and tried to get a few minutes of rest in between interruptions. After a long, miserable night, morning arrived, with check-ins from my neurosurgeron and internist, and (thank God) approval to remove the arterial IV, the catheter, and the leg compressors. I still had the blood pressure cuff, regular IV, and EKG leads, but freedom was that much closer!

Friday, 12 December, 7:00pm: A "floor patient!" Okay, Cedars does this right. I don't know if I scored the "frequent customer" card here or what, but somehow I ended up in one of two VIP suites on the patient floor. This room had basically a luxury bed and bathroom, with a whole separate area for friends and family -- dinner table, sofa, and extra bed for anyone who would like to stay. After Recovery and ICU, this was heaven! A "floor patient" is also spared the hourly interruptions, which means sleep is an actual reality...which, by this time, is all I wanted to do anyway. By Friday evening, I was off all pain meds, and only taking those that were required -- a lengthy list of anti-everything, from anti-inflammatories and anti-convulsants to anti-biotics and anti-nausea meds. My diet was still restricted to fluids and clear liquids, although I got a regular lunch of chicken and mashed potatoes shortly after moving to the regular room. By the way, the hospital food at Cedars is quite good...and they also have both a Tully's and a Starbucks, so coffee was abundant -- as soon as it was approved! The whole family joined me in the patient room for the evening, and we had a great time just chatting, breathing a collective sigh of relief that we all may have actually made it through this thing completely unscathed.

Saturday, 13 December, 1200pm: Discharge! Originally scheduled for discharge on Sunday, Dr. Chu mentioned on Friday night that if I had a good night and my vitals were still strong on Saturday morning, there was no reason I couldn't go home on Saturday. This would make me "three-for-three" on early discharges -- all three brain surgeries at Cedars have been followed by discharge a day early. Guess I'm an "old pro" at this stuff! Anyway, Dr. Chu came by with a few of his residents in the morning, removed the wraps and steri-strips, and exposed my beautiful scar...50+ staples, but only some minor swelling over the primary resection site (the right frontal area) and a good shiner to show off. One last neuro exam, and I had the green light! My family showed up shortly thereafter, and we signed official discharge papers an hour or so later.

So, that's pretty much the whole story. Now, Sunday evening, I'm basically back to my old self -- I took another Tylenol last night to help me sleep, but other than that, I haven't needed any pain meds of any kind. They had morphine, vicodin, and codeine all available, but all I took was Tylenol, and I feel just fine. I'm a little unsteady on my feet, and can't turn too quickly, but I'm otherwise completely normal. We have to stick around town for another week or so to get through the "danger zone" of potential bleeding or swelling in the brain or stroke, but once we're through those woods, I'll get the staples out on Monday (the 22nd) and we have flights home scheduled for the 23rd. We should be back with Monkey and home for Christmas!

Again, thanks to everyone for all the prayers and support...and for those who have been wondering, YES, I still plan to come back to full strength in time to run Rock-and-Roll Seattle in June. See you there!

Surgery Update #4

Well, it appears I'm back at the hotel without Mike again, but there is good news on the horizon-actually there has been nothing but good news-Praise God!

Mike was finally transferred from ICU about 7 pm tonight, just as his long awaited dinner arrived. No, he wasn't excited about that. He's been SO hungry since his surgery and, finally, he was able to eat real food, only to have it postponed until after the "move"-how rude! He was also up and walking around this morning (much to my surprise). He had already been able to convince the staff to remove his catheter and part of his IVs. The walking also meant no more leg compressor things. This evening we got him out of the awful hospital gown and into some Duke clothes...that should make him all better!

This evening, after the "move" and dinner, we did laps down the hallway and he is, surprisingly, strong. I think he is even stronger than he was in the first two surgeries. He is begging for coffee, but that's not on the menu yet, hopefully tomorrow. I left him some books and magazines for entertainment. Mike even convinced me to leave his iphone there. I know he's bored silly, so I couldn't resist.

The doctor read the MRI and it appears there is no tumor visible. Also, he said he'd talk to us in the morning about discharging him since he is doing so well. Much to Mike's delight! Mike is quite proud of the fact that Dr. Chu called him his "poster child for brain surgery". He said "all surgeries should go like this." That made Mike feel good. The plan was to discharge him on Sunday, so, this will be the third time he was released a day early (assuming they go ahead and let him go tomorrow). The final pathology won't be done until next week, but they are optimistic about that too.

Mike has absolutely no deficits...sorry for not mentioning that earlier-lack of sleep I think. He is 100% Mike Moyles and we couldn't be more delighted! I truly believe he is acting better after this surgery than the previous 2-could it be that you get "good" at surgery? Hmm..let's not go there! :)

Well, good night to all and thanks once again for your continued support and prayers. Praise God and the next time you get an update it will be from Mike! YAY!

Surgery Update #3

Well, I'm back at the hotel now. Unfortunately, without Mike, but he is still doing quite well.

We finally got him into ICU and I was able to spend some "quality" time with him. I'm not sure if there is such a thing as "quality time" when your loved one is in the hospital, but hey, we'll take it! For those of you who know Mike, let's just say he's back...for those of you who don't, I'll explain! He is joking, trying to entertain anyone who steps into his room, smiling and hating his catheter and IV. Although, he did persuade the RN to take the leg compressor things off for at least an hour, so that made him happy. He's asking about his blog, wanting to make sure I've updated it, making sure I've called everyone that I should have (even naming them by name--good sign!), asking for his phone...not a chance in .... he's getting that yet! I know him TOO well for that trick! He said, "it's just incase I need you for something"... ya, right! :)

His vital signs were good, there is a small concern that his respirations aren't staying stable, but the resident on call said that it was because he was a marathoner and since he didn't need to take as deep a breath as most folks the machine was "confused". Okay, for all you medical folks, I know that's not exactly what the MD said, or the correct medical terms, but I think you get the idea. Once, again he's in TOO good of health for the machines. He's had this problem in the past! He is running a slight temp of about 100, but this too is normal for only less than 24hrs after surgery. He is able to bend his legs some to exercise them...he says he's a bit sore and stiff-can you imagine? His main complaint, other than the catheter and IV, is the headache! Oh, I can't imagine how that feels, but the meds are helping, finally, and hopefully he'll be able to rest some tonight.

I think that's about it for now. I'm sure he'll be "itching" to get on the computer tomorrow, so I'll bet you get a post from him soon. (He made me take a picture of him in ICU to post so that everyone would know he REALLY IS OKAY, but I can't figure it out, so it'll have to wait-sorry!)

Thanks again for all your support!

PS...And moments later, I figured it out...here he is!

Surgery Update #2

Good news! The MD just came out. Mike did well and is stable and in recovery. He will be moved to the ICU in about 2 hours. The tumor appears to still be low grade, but final pathology won't be done until next week. We won't know about deficits until later today. They didn't have to remove all of the right frontal lobe, and we're still able to get clear margins around each tumor (there were two). We should be able to see him in the next few hours, so stay tuned for an update after I see him!

Surgery Update #1

To everyone that we promised updates too...here is the first!

Mike went into surgery at 7:15 and we just, moments ago, got word from the OR that things are going great. I assume that means they are about 1/2 way through, so stay tuned to more updates!

Thanks to everyone for your prayers and concerns...we couldn't do it without you!

Brain Scan, Surgery Thoughts, and Thanks

Greetings from sunny Los Angeles, California! I just returned from my brain scan, which went without incident. A brain scan, for those who don't know, is really just an MRI of the brain, often done with a break between sessions for an injection of Gadolinium, a radioactive agent that highlights malignancies or other cell anomalies in the brain. These are things I have several times every year, and have had for about ten years...so I pretty much sleep through them, although they're quite loud and quite uncomfortable. However, pre-operative brain scans are a bit different -- they are accompanied by things called fiducials, which are small markers placed on the face and skull. These markers make for a curious appearance:

These little facial markers actually show up on the MRI, and make it possible for the neurosurgeon to establish the relationship between the inside and the outside of the skull. A bit intimidating, but oh well...
I realized, after posting yesterday, that my post was pretty clinical and descriptive, but didn't talk a lot about how I think about this whole thing. It's really quite strange...the things I'm most concerned about aren't the things you'd expect. I really don't worry much about the surgery itself, and the removal of most of the right frontal lobe. I'm pretty sure it's dormant, and I think the two prior surgeries have confirmed that. The things I'm concerned with seem almost petty:

I don't want a catheter. It's uncomfortable, and somewhat degrading and embarrasing.
I don't want an IV for three days. It's inconvenient, occasionally painful, and very restrictive.
I don't want leg compressors -- for those who haven't had surgery recently, these compressors are wonderful "attachments" reminiscent of medieval torture...they look like big knee-high socks, but they pneumatically compress every few minutes to force teh blood out of your legs and into your torso, preventing blood clots from developing. It sounds great in theory, but it's really pretty nasty in practice. Not painful, but it's very hard to get comfortable, and absolutely impossible to sleep.
I don't want to deal with the medications -- anti-seizure meds, pain killers, stool softeners, steroids, the works. For those who don't know me well, I don't do medications -- AT ALL. Not even Motrin or Advil. To the chagrin of my wife and doctor, I don't even take vitamins. Nothing. To go from that to getting pills pushed on me every hour on the hour is quite an adjustment.
So, as you can see, my concerns aren't over those things you'd expect. Of course, fear plays a part. The chance of neurological deficit -- likely speech or vision -- is always there, and weighs on the mind a bit...but the chances are small enough that they're easy (perhaps too easy) to dismiss. At this point, with less than 12 hours to go, I just want to get it over with. The anxiety and anticipation are at their worst right now...if they would do surgery NOW, I'd sign up!

Finally, Stronger, Momo, and a number of other outstanding Bloggers in Bloggers Against Cancer sent me the most wonderful care package, which arrived this evening, the night before my surgery. Treats, a monkey, and some great running gear...I can't tell you how much it means to me. I owe the entire community a huge debt of gratitude for their caring, their thoughts, their prayers, and their kind gifts. Thank you SO MUCH -- and you'll hear from me soon!

We've Arrived! (Plus Status Update)

Well, the last few days have certainly been busy, but we’ve made it so far! Early Sunday morning, Pooh and I said a tearful goodbye to Monkey (who is staying in DC with grandma and grandpa) and headed for the airport. After arriving in Los Angeles, we went straight to the hotel and “set up camp” for the next 16 days. The hotel is just perfect for us, and we wish we’d found this place for the last two surgeries – the rooms are larger and nicer, unfortunately, no microwaves…and believe me, living/eating in Beverly Hills can get a little expensive if you’re going to restaurants all the time. Let’s just say that in this area, there’s not necessarily a Taco Bell on every corner. Problem solved by a quick trip to Wal-Mart…against hotel regulations? Probably. Is that my primary concern at this point? Probably not. ;-)
Okay, so we arrived at the Maxine Dunitz Neurosurgical Institute:

Yesterday started with what’s called a “pre-operative teaching” at 11:00am. An OR nurse walks you through the entire process, and tries to answer all of your questions. Everything was pretty standard, and although it’s been three years since my last surgery, I remember pretty well how things go. She gave me my “special shampoo” that I have to use before my pre-op brain scan (which disinfects the scalp and hair), and a whole stack of paperwork – consent forms, referrals, and so forth. From there, on to pre-admissions, where I go through the entire admissions process – contact info, next-of-kin, insurance, medical history, the works. After admissions, on to the lab, where they do standard bloodwork – the phlebotomist even told me I have “juicy veins!” I took it as a compliment. After a quick lunch break, Pooh and I headed up to the internist, who does the entire physical. Urinalysis, exam, interview, then the EKG and chest X-Ray. Everything went just fine, except the EKG…which they couldn’t get to stick, so they had to shave parts of my chest. Now, this could easily turn into a separate blog that would almost certainly have TMI, but I’ll summarize by saying that my Air Force callsign (nickname) is “Chewie” – yes, as in “Chewbacca.” So, I look rather amusing at the moment, with two significant shaved areas in the middle of my chest…oh, well. It will grow back.
The last appointment of the day was the actual consultation with the neurosurgeon. We had a great talk – I’m always amazed and how the surgeons here can really put you at ease, even with regard to a procedure this major. He explained the procedure and all the associated risks…they’re essentially the same as last time. Brain surgery always has a risk of stroke, coma, or even death, but they’re actually very small risks…the removal of this portion of the brain (the right frontal lobe) can introduce some memory or personality differences, but the doc reassured us that in right-handed males, language is in the left frontal lobe, so he doesn’t anticipate any language of speech difficulties. They’ll do a biopsy during surgery to determine the pathology and grade of the tumor, and make other decisions at that time – if the tumor has upgraded to WHO Grade III/IV, they’ll likely insert chemotherapy wafers (called Gliadel) into the brain before closing me up. Radiation is also an option after surgery, but one we’ll likely save for the future – and, hopefully, never need! He couldn’t promise a quick recovery, but I’ll likely be discharged over the weekend. If there’s anyone in the LA area who wants to visit after that, I’d love to see you!
At the end of the day, what this all means is that I’m medically cleared for surgery. At this point, there’s pretty much no stopping this train…unless I get seriously ill in the next 48 hours, we’re going to do this thing. I have one more appointment – my brain scan tomorrow at 1:00pm – but other than that, I’m pretty much done until I check in for surgery at 5:15am on Thursday. My wife may blog while I’m still in the hospital, but other than that, the next time you hear from me, I’ll be tumor-free!

Race Report -- Seattle Marathon

We're back! Pooh, Monkey and I flew in from Seattle late last night, and I'm slowly managing to do stairs again. ;-) For those who haven't looked up the results already, I completed the Seattle Marathon -- but missed my goal time by a good 20 minutes or so, finishing in 4:08. The full story:

THE RACE

The morning dawned cool and foggy, with light rain...typical Seattle November. The rain had mostly stopped by race time, but thick fog and mist remained, especially along the lake. JD (in the middle with our training partner AA):

The night before, I was notified that King 5 (the local NBC affiliate) was going to use my story as a personal-interest piece on the evening news, and I spent the last 15 minutes prior to race start interviewing with NBC for the spot.

You can see it here. My friend JD was there with me (you can read about him in my previous blog), and we had a great time laughing and joking before the start.

Just prior to the start, I switched from long sleeves to short, remembering the mantra to always "dress for the finish." The course was a lot of out-and-back -- from the Seattle Center (basically the Space Needle) across the floating bridge to Mercer Island, then back across the bridge again to Lake Washington, down Lake Washington Boulevard to Seward Park, and back up Lake Washington Boulevard to finish in Memorial Stadium at the Seattle Center.

THE PLAN

In every previous marathon, I've carried all my hydration and gels with me, but this was my "hometown" marathon (where all my family lives), and this seemed like a good course for them to come and meet me on the course. So, I arranged for my wife and father to meet me at the 10-mile point, which is also the 15-mile point -- a perfect place for two passes where I could high-five and replenish fluids/gels. Mom, dad, and Pooh (with Monkey in tow) would then move ahead to the 20-mile point, and finally meet me with the rest of the family (all 20+ of them) at the finish. They even got T-Shirts made!

THE RESULT

As most of you know, my goal was 3:45. I trained at 8-minute miles (a 3:30 marathon), knowing that I'd need to make a pit stop or two, and that I usually spend the first mile or two just getting up to pace. That plan worked perfectly for about the first eight miles...at which point my quads really began to burn, which I attribute to lactic acid buildup...entirely unexpected that early in the race. I was barely breaking a sweat or breathing hard, and already my legs were going? By mile 9, my quads were cramping considerably, and I did something I never thought I'd do.

I gave up.

I called Pooh, and told her to have the car at the 10-mile point, and I was done. With quad cramps at mile 10, there was no way I could do another 16+. Well, as fate would have it, she couldn't get through the barricades to the 10-mile point. She called back shortly thereafter, in tears, and explained that she couldn't get to me. Two problems here -- first, she had my gels. If I was going to continue, I needed carbs. Second, I didn't plan to continue. If she wasn't there, I'd have to keep going...and keep going I did. I took a brief detour, running about a quarter-mile back to the last water station, one of only two on the course with gels. Fortunately, they had Vanilla Bean Gu -- my favorite! It added a half-mile to my race, but so be it...without Pooh to pick me up, I had to keep going, and I needed carbs. I passed the half-marathon mark at 1:51, right on pace for my 3:45. At the 15-mile point, Pooh was finally able to get through the crowds and barricades with gels and fluids (my arrival at Mile 15 below).

She and my father were a welcome sight, but my cramps were still pretty severe...I told them to go ahead to 20, and if I could make it that far, I could at least walk the last 6. By 20 miles, I was executing what I not-so-affectionately call my "550 plan," which is running 500 paces, then walking 50. That's how the last six miles went...almost two and a half hours' worth. Miserable quad cramps...one of those things I'll always question. I never had that problem in any other marathon, and never in any training run -- was it fatigue? Nutrition? Hydration? Cold weather? Who knows...anyone ever experience anything similar?

THE FINISH

Of course, I had saved up enough energy to run the last half-mile, up a small hill to Memorial Stadium, into the stadium, and across the finish line. As I approached the stadium, I saw my wife and baby girl standing outside -- I made my way over to the crowd, picked up my baby girl, and my wife hopped the barricade...and we crossed the finish line together!

My brother-in-law even managed to get it on video:

My time, about 4:08, was very disappointing...but it was tough to think about that when I looked around and saw all the family around me, and saw my baby girl in my arms and my wife beside me. I collapsed shortly thereafter, but had quite a crowd to keep my spirits up...

They even all had their "Running With Cancer" shirts on, and Monkey had her own made that said "Run Daddy Run" on the back! SO cute...and of course, she had to check to make sure the finisher's medal was real gold...

JD

My buddy JD did an amazing job. After losing over a hundred pounds, he completed his first marathon. We've now been friends for 27 years, and it was an amazing experience to motivate each other during training, inspire each other during the race, and congratulate each other at the finish line. He crossed in just over four and a half hours, and is now an addicted runner. He may even join me (and many of you) at Rock-N-Roll Seattle in June!

Well, that's all for now...I'll blog again before surgery next Thursday, but it's odd to consider that running a marathon is the smaller of the two hurdles I have to clear this week...onward and upward!

Hell Week

Just a short post today -- "Hell Week" is over!  For the uninitiated, "Hell Week" is the training week that usually falls 2 - 3 weeks prior to race day, where you're at maximum mileage, usually without any rest days...well, Hell Week culminated yesterday with a 20-something mile run, and ended today with my first rest day in what feels like forever.  

Despite my tendonitis fears, everything went perfectly.  I got started late, so ended up running half of it in the dark (which isn't good for me), but I felt great for the entire run.  My pace was a bit off -- 20.12 miles in 2:46.09 (about 8:14/mile), rather than the sub-8 pace I like to keep -- but I felt great the entire race, and even managed a 7:32 mile at mile 19, and 7:46 mile at mile 20.  Even at 8:14, that's still about a 3:35 marathon in Seattle...we're on track, and now...the three words many marathoners (or marathoners-in-training) live for...

IT'S TAPER TIME!

The Forbidden Question

Okay, let's talk running first.  It's going very well -- I've been totally motivated, and have turned in some wicked runs (for me) in the past few weeks.  I did my 18-miler at Burke Lake Park in Virginia, and it was absolutely beautiful...fall colors everywhere.  

I felt great -- it was a bit slow, averaging 8:12, but still on track for about 3:45 at Seattle.  The colors were so great that Pooh and I went back the next day with Monkey...she loved it!

I followed the 18-miler with a good 50-mile week, even turning in a 12-mile run at 7:32 pace...a PR for me!  All ready for the 20+ mile run this weekend -- I'll probably try to hit 22, just to make sure I'm ready for 26.2 in a few weeks.  So, I've been putting in a lot of miles...and am now battling what appears to be some pretty nasty tendonitis in my left Achilles.  I've never had that before, and I'm a little worried that it may put a kink in the Seattle Marathon plans.  Now welcome advice from BlogLand...

So, that's the news from the training side...on the side of the cancer battle, it's been a bit tough lately.  In general, there is a question that is off limits for most cancer patients -- the unmentionable "WHY?"  I stay away from it...it does no good to ponder the question, and the likelihood that you'll ever know the answer is basically zero.  Well, let's just say I've been thinking about it a lot lately -- perhaps due to Monkey, perhaps due to the pending surgery, probably both.  As a man of faith, it's been a subject of frequent prayer...and, for a number of years now, I've thought I know the answer.  What I've been through, what I'm going through, gives me a tremendously powerful testimony that can be used to inspire and motivate people.  It inspires and motivates some to run -- I can count about a dozen people who have run marathons (and more) after hearing my story.  There is at least another dozen people who have been inspired to run or get in shape, though probably not marathons.  More importantly, I think my testimony could perhaps even strengthen the faith of others.  

In all honesty, that's where I've focused most of my testimony...but I'm having trouble reconciling it this time.  Isn't there a "point of diminishing returns" on the power of this kind of testimony?  In other words, is the testimony of someone who has had three brain surgeries really that much more powerful than the testimony of someone who has had only two?  In Biblical terms, thinking of 1 Corinthians 11:23 - 27, would Paul's testimony have been any less powerful if he had been beaten with rods only twice?  Would his testimony have been that much more powerful if he had been stoned twice instead of only once?  I don't think so.  I guess I'm just frustrated because I think my story is inspirational enough with only two surgeries...why go through a third?  What's the point?  If I'm correct, and the reason -- the why -- I'm going through this is to have a powerful testimony to inspire and motivate others, is a third surgery and recovery really necessary to achieve that end?  

Well, enough lamenting...I have to keep my head on straight (yeah, I know...easy joke...).  Now is not the time to get depressed or upset.  Paul also suffered an affliction of some kind, and prayed for it to be removed.  God's answer was simply, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in your weakness."  Roger, Boss -- my suffering will somehow glorify You -- and I may not ever know how or why.  It's just...that can be a tough pill to swallow sometimes.  

Central Park and Surgery

One of the joys of being a runner is that you can do it just about anywhere.  Last week, I was a guest speaker at a conference in New York City...and, of course, I brought my running shoes.  We were staying only a few blocks from Central Park, which has some great running routes...so I gave one a try!  The view from the Onassis Reservoir is amazing:

And, from the runner's perspective:

It was a great run -- planned about 6.5, but ended up running 7.2.  It turns out that Central Park is easy to find and easy to run in, but almost impossible to get out of.  I missed my exit no less than three times.  Still, a great run!  I also got my first real long run out of the way last weekend, and did 17.2 miles -- felt outstanding from start to finish, a great sign.  I did the run in 2:17.28, right on 7:58 per mile.  3:45 in Seattle is still looking good!

Unfortunately, it's not all sunny skies and open roads -- from the prior blog you know that I'm on the road to my third surgery.  I'm happy to report that I've successfully fought (for a third time) with the insurance company, and they will cover the full cost of the surgery and the travel.  This is great news -- it means I can go back to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles, to the same surgeon who has done my last two surgeries.  He was recently profiled in a Newsweek article -- pretty fascinating!  It's only a page and definitely worth reading, but feel free to disregard the statistics...I've already beaten all of them ;-).  After getting the insurance approvals, I went ahead and scheduled surgery -- get your calendars out -- I'm going back for brain surgery #3 on December 11th.  Pre-op labs and scans on the 8th, neuro consult on the 10th, and surgery on the 11th.  According to the surgeon, I should be home in time for Christmas!  

In all, we're very happy with the timing, and with the approval to return to the surgeon we know and trust.  Of course, little Monkey had a great time in New York (here at the giant Toys-R-Us Times Square)...
So, we're all set for a third surgery.  I'm running a marathon the week before I go into surgery, and already have another scheduled for six months after surgery...crazy?  Sure...but what do you expect from someone who's had two -- soon three -- lobotomies?  

Here we go again...

Wow!  Where do I start?  Good news and bad news across the board.  First the good news -- no more chemo!  Now, on to the bad news...

As I mentioned in a previous blog, I was accepted into a research program at the National Institutes of Health's National Cancer Institute.  After a few initial interviews, I had my formal in-processing and medical review on Friday.  Here's where I spent much of my time:  

The doctors there are stellar.  Very thorough, very intelligent, and they have a massive wealth of experience and resources.  They spent almost five hours with me, and the bottom line is this -- chemo isn't working.  Starting this Tuesday, I'm back at NIH for another MRI, and on the road to my third craniotomy, where they'll probably remove the entire right frontal lobe.  Surgery hasn't worked, chemo isn't working, so this third surgery will be followed by six weeks of radiation -- the only option we have left.  Pending lots of legwork and insurance paperwork, I'll have surgery at Harvard Medical Center's Dana Farber Cancer Center, with Dr. Peter Black -- one of the most brilliant surgeons on the planet.  Radiation will be here at NIH/NCI.

Now, those of you who know me are acutely aware that this is a serious blow, but it won't slow me down much.  My "therapy" was a good ten-miler today, and I averaged 7:56...not blazing, but fast enough for me.  I'm still on track to run the Seattle Marathon in November, and training is going quite well.  My 14-miler last weekend felt great, and today's ten-miler was a walk (okay, run) in the park.  JD (see my previous post about him) is also doing well, and he and I were both featured in a nice two-page article in Racecenter Northwest Magazine this month -- if you're in the USATF Northwest region, pick up a copy and turn to page 50!  

So, how do I feel about it?  It's strange how many people ask me that question, and I'm never sure how to answer.  Yeah, it sucks.  No, it's not what I want to do.  No, it's not the news I was hoping for.  Yes, I fear for my life and for my family.  What do they expect me to say?  But, you can't dwell on those thoughts.  You have to keep living.  You have to press on.  In the words of Paul, embroidered into the shoes in which I ran my first marathon, we must "run with perseverance the race marked out before us."  I've been here before.  I've come through two prior brain surgeries.  I'll come through again, have no fear.  I'd love to power through in time to run the inaugural Rock-n-Roll Seattle Marathon in June.  Here's a challenge to all the bloggers out there -- if I make it, care to join me?  

The Youngest Runner...

Okay, I couldn't resist.  I had gotten back from a run and taken off my fuel belt while stretching on the floor next to Monkey.  Fascinated by my fuel belt, she just had to investigate...

I'm afraid I just couldn't resist taking off my hat and putting it on her head...

Welcome Little Monkey, the newest member of the running community!

Feeling Fragile

I'm tempted to start with another apology for it being so long since my last post, but I have a feeling that's getting old...so I won't bother.

Wow, it's been a tough month!  The last two rounds of chemotherapy  have really hit me hard, and made me quite sick...so, going into this last round (#9), I wasn't really looking forward to it (am I ever, really?).  To make matters worse, I picked up a stomach virus two days before starting chemo, so I entered the chemo treatment barely recovered from a nasty bug...what I'm saying is that I wimped out.  I only completed four of the five rounds of chemotherapy.  It's the first time, in 21 rounds of chemotherapy over two years, that I've ever failed to complete a round.  I had been physically sick off and on for two months, and seriously ill for four or five days before and during chemo...and well, I just...ran out.  Ran out of everything.  Stamina, the will and desire to fight it, physical strength...but it was mostly mental.  I looked at my last dose of chemotherapy on Thursday night, having been sick for days, knowing the last dose would make me even more sick, and just couldn't do it.  I tried a new anti-nausea med (phenergan), and it knocked me out like nothing has ever done...literally, I took one about 9:30am when I was feeling sick, and woke up eleven hours later.  Somehow, Pooh tells me we went to the mall and had a burger, but I don't remember much of it.  Crazy...but I didn't get sick, so I suppose it did it's job.   

I'm always amazed by how many people tell me how "strong" they think I am.  But in this blog -- more venting than anything else -- I sure don't feel it.  On the contrary, I feel extremely fragile.  More fragile than I think I've ever felt in this whole process.  I feel weak, sick, tired, and run down.  There are interesting ironies here, by the way -- isn't it ironic that a runner "ran out" of strength and feels "run down"?  That might be worth a blog sometime...how our language has developed metaphors for fatigue focused on running...hmmm...

But I digress.  As I'm learning to expect, the blogger community stepped up BIG...during three weeks of blog silence, I got messages on voicemail, e-mail, Facebook, even comments through this blog, all checking in to make sure I was doing okay.  To answer everyone who so kindly thought of me -- I'm okay.  But that's about it.  Seattle Marathon training is going well, and believe it or not I've only missed two cross-training days (and no runs) in the last two months of off-and-on illness.  10-mile run planned for this weekend, and I feel up to it.  Pooh, Monkey, and running remain my solace.  Today, for the first time in a long time, I feel good -- healthy.  Tempo run tomorrow, which is my favorite...and thanks to many of you, I'm ready.  Next blog will be more positive, I promise!  

Symptoms, Side-Effects, Surgeries, and Seattle

Well, it's been quite a month.  Yes, I know it's not even half over...anyway, a few things to share this time around:

SYMPTOMS and SIDE EFFECTS.  Man, chemo has been brutal lately!  Thanks to all my blogger buddies who checked in on me over the last two rounds -- I've completed eight, with four to go!  That's 2/3 of the way through.  Yeah!  Unfortunately, I've gotten sick on the last two rounds...once on Sunday morning, then again this last round on Friday night.  In both cases, I probably should have taken additional anti-emetic medications, but decided not to...and I'm learning that is a BAD decision.  At the same time, it really doesn't make me look forward to the next four rounds.  Which got me thinking...

With everything I've been through fighting this bug called Cancer, I've never had a single symptom.  Not one.  Oh, don't misunderstand -- I've had headaches, nausea, vomiting, constipation, diarrhea, memory loss, blurred and double vision, vertigo, weakness, and fatigue -- but every one of those were caused by either brain surgery or chemotherapy.  Approaching my tenth year battling cancer, I still have not had a single symptom from the cancer.  This must be the difference between a symptom and side-effect.  I've had side-effects -- just no symptoms. 

So in my case, the "cure" (though it's not one yet) is worse than the disease.  It is extremely difficult to convince myself that chemo and surgeries are necessary, when I don't feel sick.  Now, before you start drafting that e-mail, rest assured that I've tried homeopathic and naturopathic doctors, The Cancer Diet, MangoSteen, Xantha, Acai Berry, Antioxidants, and probably every other "cancer cure" you've read about in the National Enquirer or gotten forwarded to you in a spam e-mail...and without going down a lengthy rabbit hole, let's just say I've settled on conventional medicine.  But that doesn't make it any easier.  Round #9 starts on August 24th...bring it on.

SURGERIES.  Okay, some of you know I had my six-month MRI and follow-up with neuro-oncology and neurosurgery.  Having left California, I'm now being seen at Bethesda Medical Center and/or Walter Reed Medical Center in Maryland.  Both are military hospitals, so that's not ideal...but I have good news:

They're referring me to the National Institutes of Health (NIH) one of the leading research centers in the world.  Specifically, the National Cancer Institute -- that is SO awesome!  I'm so blessed to be able to be seen by some of the greatest physicians on the planet.  Second, more good news -- the cancer showed NO progression!  That's the awesome news we were hoping for.  The chemo appears to be working.  However, it's not all wine and roses...the neurosurgeons here are far more concerned about my condition than the surgeons at Cedars-Sinai, where I've been going for the past nine years.  They were amazed that I had decided to leave a tumor in my brain, and "hope" that it doesn't progress, metastasize, or upgrade.  Dr. Rosen (has anyone seen "Fletch"?) at Bethesda recommended going immediately on a path to another surgery, and removing the tumor.  We talked about it for almost two hours, and he eventually left the decision up to me -- and (see above) with no symptoms from the tumor, no and signs of growth or progression, I have no incentive to go back into surgery.  Is that the right decision?  Who knows.  What do you think?  Surgery has been far more harmful and traumatic to me than the cancer ever has been...so as long as the cancer is contained and I'm asymptomatic, what justification is there for surgery?  Thoughts?  It's a tough one, isn't it?

SEATTLE.  On a lighter note, training for Seattle has begun!  Two weeks ago I started my marathon training for the Seattle Marathon in November.  I'm using the same training plan I used for Big Sur, which worked very well...based loosely on The Penguin's book "Marathoning for Mortals."  If you haven't read it, it's outstanding...even if you don't like the training plans, the commentary and advice is wonderful.  Finally, the Garmin ForeRunner 405 is amazing.  I love it.  Thanks for the advice, Momo -- you were right!  I'm at about 30 - 35 miles per week, averaging about 7:43 per mile...I think 3:45 at Seattle is realistic.  By the way, if you're following the story, I saw JD in Seattle a few weeks ago, and he looks great!  The first time I've seen him since his dramatic weight loss, and he's a completely different person.  And he's already running 10 - 11 miles on his long runs!  He's an inspiration to many, especially ME.  Running in DC is a joy...different from running along the ocean every day, but it's always fun to explore a new town (one of the reasons I never run the same marathon twice).  Isn't that part of the fun?  

Well, that's it for now -- thanks again for all your prayers and support.  For those who asked, Pooh and The Monkey are doing just fine...and as cute as ever...here's proof:

Worth running for?  You bet.  Worth fighting for?  ABSOLUTELY.

Yes, I'm Still Alive...

Has it really been almost a month since my last blog?  Wow, time flies...

Well, no doubt I've been remiss -- both in my blogging and my running.  Moving and starting a new job with a wife and baby is pretty time-consuming!  

In short, all is well.  Pooh and Monkey are both doing wonderfully, and so far we love the VA/DC area -- we've almost completely moved in (only a few boxes to go), and I started work again last week.  Going to be some long hours on this one...they don't mess around in The Big House.  Regardless, we've found a bit of time to do some "touristy" (is that a word?) things:

Better yet, we found a great sandwich shop (called Firehouse Subs), with great sandwiches and brownies...little Monkey was a BIG fan:

Unfortunately, my running has really declined...simply no time...but as we're getting settled, I've gotten the chance to run from work a few times.  It will be outstanding -- excellent running here in DC, and I can't wait to explore a bit more.  Monday starts my training for the Seattle Marathon, so I'll have to increase the mileage in a BIG way.

Last bit of news -- a writer for RaceCenter Northwest magazine actually read my blog, and contacted me about it...they've now written a 2-page article about my running the Seattle Marathon with my buddy JD, and it will appear in next month's issue -- I'll post a link if it's in the online version.  I saw a read-ahead copy of the article yesterday, and I think it turned out pretty good!  Finally, I start chemotherapy round #8 tomorrow, so your thoughts and prayers would be greatly appreciated, as usual...I'll keep you posted!  

I'm Back!

Greeting! Thank you so much to all of my blogger buddies who checked in on me during the move -- you're so thoughtful! Being relatively new to the blogosphere, I somehow thought then when you don't blog for a while, folks just sorta stop reading your blog or forget about you...on the contrary, I found that I got as many comments when I wasn't blogging as when I was. So many people asked about the move and everything else...this blogger community is truly that, a community.

The move is nearly complete. After 3,128 miles of driving, most of it with a wife, baby, and 21-pound cat, we arrived in Alexandria, Virginia on 28 June. I checked in to work shortly thereafter, and the movers showed up with 12,200 pounds of furniture and books (mostly books) on July 2nd. Now, I'm living in a sea of boxes -- it's quite an adventure! I must say, this is my 13th move in 35 years, and it doesn't get any more pleasant or any easier. I'm not sure how many more of these I can handle! Fortunately, we really enjoy our new place, and love the area. If any of you are ever in DC or Alexandria/Springfield, please let me know!

In other news...I started my seventh round of chemo a few days after we arrived, and finished last night. Yesterday was a rough one, and I spent most of the time curled up on the sofa feeling pretty miserable. Or neighbor is also a runner and triathlete, so we've already had a few discussions on the topic -- he invited me for a quick 4-miler (he runs sub-7, so I'm not sure how much running we'll be doing together), but I just wasn't feeling up to it. I feel a bit better today, and actually made some progress opening boxes! I also finally got my new Garmin ForeRunner 405, and I love it so far. There is still a learning curve and I haven't figured everything out yet, but I think I'm going to love it. Thanks Momo for the good advice on the ForeRunners!

Between 12-hour days of driving and chemo, I haven't gotten many runs in...one in Cheyenne, on in central Illinois, and one here in VA...but I'll start putting more miles in as I prepare for the Seattle Marathon in November. I'll post more later...with ForeRunner screenshots! Yeah! Thanks again to JK, Streak, Jen, Alili, Stronger, and everyone else who checked in on me during the move...we made it! You all are awesome! More soon...

The New Normal

Two quick things to start:

First, thanks to all of you who were so encouraging with regard to my swim times and my "Iron Dreams."  Thanks to you, they're still alive!  

Second, I apologize for dropping off the map for a week or two...if you are or have been in the military, or if you're a dependent like Momo and JK, you know that every few summers is PCS (Permanent Change of Station) season!  Yep, that's me.  I'm headed to the Pentagon in about three weeks, and I just got back from taking Pooh and Monkey over.  I'm back just to pack up the house, graduate, grab the cat and the car, and head out behind them.  I've been repeating to myself, "Don't forget the cat, don't forget the cat, don't forget the cat..." for several weeks now.  I flew back on Monday, and sat in the empty house for a while just thinking...what did I used to DO when I was single?  How did I use up all this time?  MAN, it's quiet in here...there was a baby three or four rows back who cried for almost the entire flight from Denver, and it was strangely comforting...who would have thought I'd find comfort in a crying baby?

So it's been a bit hectic around here lately.  Not to mention that I started chemotherapy (again) this week.  Round number six...four days in, and I feel absolutely miserable.  I wish I had a better report, but that's the truth.  Woke up about 4:45am this morning with terrible nausea and cramping, and fought it for about six hours -- only started feeling better just a few minutes ago.  Doesn't help to be going through it solo, with my support structure (Pooh) and my beautiful baby girl absent.  Fortunately, we have a tremendous support structure through the church and through friends, who have done everything from shopping to making meals and watching the cat while we were gone.  Thank God for friends!

So, the trip to Los Angeles last month has brought with it a realization.  As long as my wife and I have been fighting this cancer battle, our hope has been that we would beat it and go back to our normal life.  This disease is an obstacle, like the wall at 20 miles, that we just need to push through so we can win.  Once we "fix this," we can go back to normal.  Well, we've recently had to rethink our approach.  Coming up on 10 years of fighting, including two brain surgeries and 18 (so far) rounds of chemotherapy, with many more to come, we both realize...there is no "going back" to our other life.  This does not appear to be a situation where we "beat it" and go back to normal.  On the contrary, this is the new normal.  Cancer will be a part of our lives now and in the future.  Even if we beat it (a third time), it will still be there, hovering overhead, lurking in the back of our minds at every annual checkup.  Once you face a foe this formidable, you can never go back to what you thought was your "normal" life.  You find that "normal" just changes.  

I'll make it through this round, and the next one.  And the next.  The neuro-oncologist mentioned records of folks staying on chemotherapy for as long as five years -- and if that's what's in store, so be it.  Bring it on.  Faith, family, and friends -- including the "extended family" of bloggers -- will carry me through.  Thanks for all your support...and welcome to The New Normal.  Anyone up for a run?

Iron Dreams

We all have ambitions, and most of us have ambitions within marathoning, ultras, or multisport.  Perhaps it's qualifying for Boston, perhaps it's becoming IRON, maybe you're as crazy as Donald and want to complete the Western States -- maybe even get a belt buckle!  

Well, after a few marathons, a few years ago I set a goal of competing in triathlons, eventually working my way toward becoming an IronMan.  I've always been a biker, and a fairly good one -- and with a few marathons under my belt, my confidence in my running ability has increased significantly.  All that was left was the swimming!

Now, I'd never been much of a swimmer.  In fact, I'd never swum a lap.  Not one.  Pools were for Marco Polo and relaxation.  I literally hadn't been in a pool in over 20 years -- I could probably dog-paddle to the deep end if I had to, and if shipwrecked I could probably make my way to the nearest lifeboat...but that's about it.  So, I was literally starting from scratch here.  I read a few books, watched a few Total Immersion videos, and started making thrice-weekly trips to the local pool with my training partner.  Six months of hard work, and I still sank like a rock.  What to do?  Hire a coach, of course!  Fortunately, I knew a guy who wasn't just a swimmer, he was a two-time All-American and Division I coach who still holds several records at the University of Florida.  Perfect!  So, back to the pool...three times per week...but once with the coach, and twice with my training partner.  And...

After six months with the coach, my 1500m time had miraculously dropped below 30 minutes to about 26 minutes -- a major success, right?  Well, many of you probably know that a 26-minute 1500m is almost, but not quite, fast enough to make most junior high school swim teams.  So, after a year of swimming and six months of work with a top-notch coach, I was just fast enough to get lapped by most decent 14-year-olds.  Humbling?  Yes, to say the least.

I'm not much of a quitter, and a quick browse of my blog will reveal a fair amount of determination and drive.  But, apparently, I'm also not much of a swimmer.  I'm also enough of a realist to know when it's time to move on.  It's in this spirit that I ask you...is it time?  Focus on marathons, duathlons, perhaps ultras?  Is it time to give up my Iron dreams?  

The Moments We Remember

Fair warning: Today's post isn't much about marathoning or multisport.

Many of you know that on March 8th, at the age of 35, I became a father. I mentioned our daughter briefly in one previous post, and she's now just over two months old. As any parent can tell you, the first few months can be pretty tough, and sleep becomes a luxury -- but there are other luxuries that aren't mentioned nearly as often, but are even more important. One of those luxuries is simply time with my beautiful daughter.

To give my wife a few extra hours' sleep, I usually take the early morning feeding (about 0600 or 0630), and feed her from a bottle. I gently pick up our little Monkey from her crib, and hold her while I warm the milk and get things ready. She usually barely stirs at this point, and settles into my arms and chest in a way that only a baby can -- it's amazing how they just fit. The house is completely quiet, and it's usually still dark outside, and it's just me and my little girl. I couldn't manipulate my regular camera with her in my arms this morning, but was able to reach my phone -- but this is what I see as I look down:

Now, somehow, I'm supposed to wake her up and feed her -- but I often end up just staring at her for a long time, marveling at our miracle child. To make matters worse, shortly after picking her up, as she relaxes, her arms move to her sides -- and about nine times out of ten, she actually holds my finger:

Trust me, as a new father, this is enough to melt your heart and bring a tear to your eye. Running, races, training, and cancer fade into the background, and only my daughter and I exist for those moments. And it occurs to me that as I hold that same hand to walk her down the aisle 20 or 30 years from now, I know -- this is a moment I will always remember.

Reasons for Running

If you've been following my blog for long (it's only been around a few weeks), you'll see in my sidebar that my next big race is the Seattle Marathon in November.  Now, this should generate one obvious question -- who would schedule a marathon in Seattle in November, one of the most dismal, dreary, and miserable months of the year?  In general, most normal runners don't like running in conditions like uphill, into the wind, in the wet, and/or in the cold -- basically, Big Sur -- but Seattle is a close second.  So, why run Seattle?  

I want to tell you about my friend JD.  Now, I have known JD since the fourth grade, when his father and mine were stationed together at a small outpost called Camp Walker in South Korea (eating ice cream after playing soccer -- JD is standing, I'm the one with the wristbands. Trust me, they were cool then):

We were next-door neighbors, and did almost everything together -- played soccer, played Dungeons and Dragons, had sleepovers, the works.  Through the years, our friendship has changed and grown, but we're still as close as we were in the fourth grade -- and in 2000, JD was the Best Man in my wedding.  

JD was never a small guy.  At least, he was always bigger than me -- taller, stronger, and so forth.  The problem was, as he got older and started working harder and caring for his family, he just kept getting...well...bigger:

Being a senior executive at Microsoft and a workaholic didn't help, neither did genetics.  Last Thanksgiving, JD decided to try losing some weight...then, this past New Year's Eve, JD -- at 36 -- nearly had a heart attack, resulting in an ambulance ride to the emergency room, and a diagnosis of atrial fibrulation, a condition often caused by obesity.  The condition continued, happening sometimes multiple times in a day, resulting in three cardiology visits in six weeks.  Doctors then discovered a mitral valve prolapse, and a left ventricular hypertrophy -- combined, the conditions paint a scary picture of heart condition.  So, JD made a commitment that many of us have made -- get in shape, and lose weight.  A LOT of weight.

By March, JD had lost 72 pounds, at which point he and I had a long talk.  He talked about his wife and two beautiful children, and how the New Year's Eve episode had scared him more than he had been able to express -- especially with regard to his children.  In the photo above, he tipped the scales at 320+ pounds -- and his goal was to 100 pounds by summer, which would take him back to size he was when I knew him in high school.  You've done the math by now -- radical change in diet, exercise, and lifestyle -- and dropping 100+ pounds in about six months.  It seemed impossible, but with dedication and the watchful eye of a physician and nutritionist, he thought he could do it -- but was concerned that he wouldn't be able to keep it off.  So, I told him -- if he met his goal of losing 100 pounds, I'd come out to Seattle and run the marathon in his honor, raising money for his favorite charity -- but he had to run it with me. It would give him a goal to work toward, and help keep the weight off -- and we'd get to spend 26 miles telling great stories about the pranks we pulled on each other 25 years ago.  

By April, he had lost 95 pounds.  About a week ago, JD called to tell me that he had accepted my challenge -- to run a marathon -- and that he had met his goal, and sent this pic:

Yep, that's the same guy -- 100 pounds lighter.  So, the game is on -- and I'm heading to Seattle to reconnect with an old friend, honor his accomplishment, and toast his success.  

We all run for different reasons.  Some run to get in shape, some run for fun, some are social runners, some run for competition, some run just to get outside.  I run to beat cancer, and to inspire people.  So, what inspires someone who runs just to inspire others?  JD does.  Way to go, JD.  See you in November.

Kicking Cancer's Butt

So, here is the scan I had last week:Compare it to the one in the post below -- see any change? Well, neither did the specialists at Cedars-Sinai! Bottom line, the news is mostly good. The cancer has not progressed, so the chemo is working.  Officially:

If you can't read it, the important part starts on line four:  "...the region does not show any evidence of enhancement or other signs of active disease.  It is unchanged from the study 11/20/07.  There are no new pathologic findings in the rest of the brain and specifically, no evidence of additional mass."  Yeah!  That's the good news, but that's also the bad news -- since the chemo appears to be working, we're going to continue on chemotherapy as long as it proves to be effective. That means finishing the next seven rounds of chemo in this cycle, then perhaps starting over for another year...or two...or five...however long it takes. Make no mistake, chemo is miserable -- but I'll manage. At least we've found something that can stop the progression...so, I'm back to kicking cancer's butt, one round at time.

So, how do you celebrate a pretty good diagnosis and prognosis? A run in the Mojave Desert, of course! After the medical appointments, Pooh and I spent a day doing photography in the Antelope Valley Poppy Reserve near Lancaster, CA. After hiking a bit in the reserve, I was pressed for time, so only got 6 miles in...but it was in the high desert. I've never really run in the desert before -- I've spent most of my time in the Midwest and Northwest -- WOW!  It was hot, dry, and a few thousand feet above sea-level Monterey, so 6 miles felt like about 10. But, isn't running in new places and trying new routes part of the fun? Isn't some of the joy of running found in trying new roads, exploration, and getting personal with terrain that just flies by in a car? I'm always amazed when I run a road that I've driven many times...the things I notice that I never would have seen, even completely insignificant, like litter or glass. Running roads will actually change the way you drive. And isn't is odd how driving on a road you've run a hundred times feels almost personal? Don't believe me? Try driving Big Sur after running the Big Sur Marathon. Trust me -- it will never be the same again.

So, the Mojave run kicked my butt (could you imagine Badwater?). But I'm kicking cancer's butt, again. As butt-kicking goes, I think I've got the edge.  The cancer is still there, but hasn't grown in the last six months.  Is that a victory?  Sure.  Remember, to win a race, you don't need your opponent to drop out -- you just need to be one step ahead when you cross the finish line.