Tomorrow is a big day!

Chemotherapy round #5 is complete!  Five down, seven to go.  I even got my long run in on Sunday -- cut a 10-miler down to 7.7 just due to dehydration and fatigue from the chemo, but it was great to get out on the road again.  I bought a new pair of Asics Gel Kayano 14s at the Big Sur Marathon Expo, and so far they're outstanding.  I've been wearing Kayanos since the 10s almost five years ago, and they just keep getting better.

One brief question -- it's time to replace my old Nike Triax Elite, and I'm looking at the Garmin ForeRunner 405...any feedback?  Does anyone out there have or use one?  Heard anything?  RW Reviews only go up to the 305.  Momo, you use a Garmin, don't you?

Anyway, on to more important news.  Every six months, I have a brain scan, then travel down to the Maxine Dunitz Neurosurgical Institute at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center in Los Angeles for consultations with a neuro-radiologist, neurosurgeon, and neuro-oncologist.

I had my brain scan on Wednesday -- I haven't seen the results yet, but here's what my last one looked like:

You're looking from the bottom up, so the sides are reversed, but you can see an obvious hole (a good friend likes to call it a "divot") where the right frontal lobe has been basically removed -- the result of my two brain surgeries in 2001 and 2005.  Well, toward the back of the cavity left by the surgeries is a lump of bright, white tissue...that's what they're concerned about.  It's only about 0.5cm, whereas both of my tumors were close to 3cm, so it's not big enough for surgery -- but if it gets any bigger, we'll have a problem.  

So, your thoughts and prayers will be very welcome over the next day or two.  Tomorrow will culminate the last six months of chemo treatments, and I really hope it hasn't been for naught. If so, we'll take the next step -- and I know you'll all be running alongside me, whatever the result is.  

Chemotherapy 101

First, a confession -- I skipped my run today. I'm really in "maintenance mode," down around 30 - 35 miles per week, until training picks up for the Seattle Marathon in July/August. So, only running 3 or 4 time per week means missing a run can be significant -- but I had a good reason, I promise:

When people hear that I have cancer, one of the questions I get most frequently is "How do you run while on chemotherapy?" Well, the answer for today is, I didn't. I started chemotherapy round #5 on Sunday, so today is day five...and I've felt absolutely miserable. In honor of completing another round (I'll finish this round with my last dose tonight), I'll give you a (relatively) brief answer to another frequent question: "What is it like being on chemotherapy?"

Well, chemo sucks. And that's not an opinion -- I'm pretty sure it's an objectively verifiable fact. There are many different kinds of chemotherapy, but for me, a single regimen consists of twelve rounds -- one each month for twelve months -- a full YEAR of chemo. Each round lasts five days, with a significant dose of chemo each day. In short:

Sunday night, I start with Zofran (anti-emetic, keeps me from vomiting).

30 minutes later, I take 400mg (four pills) of Temozolomide (Temodar), the chemo. I'm usually nauseous instantly, so I have to take two pills at a time to break it up a bit.

As soon as the chemo is down, I head to bed. To goal here is to sleep through the worst of the nausea, but it doesn't always work that way (especially with a brand-new baby). So, I often wake in the middle of the night with horrible nausea. The challenge here is that I take the chemotherapy orally, so I must keep it down. If I get sick, then I have to go in and do the whole IV thing, which is terrible. So, most of the night is spent fighting the urge to get sick, which makes for a few long nights.

Starting the first day after chemo (usually Monday), the stomach troubles begin...pretty much running the gamut. The Zofran does a good job or preventing me from vomiting, but it also prevents me from doing...well...anything else. So, I also have to take Colase (a mild laxative) to help keep things moving (running helps too). To make matters worse, the toxicity of the drugs causes some acid reflux, so I also take Zantac to combat the heartburn. So, for at least the five days I'm on chemo (and usually one or two days after, as it gets out of my system), I'm a walking Pepto Bismol commercial -- nausea, heartburn, indigestion, upset stomach, diarrhea...I know you're singing the song in your head right now. It's okay, I do too -- I just add "constipation" to the list!

In 2005, I went through a complete regimen (12 rounds), and kept everything down 9 of the 12 times. Two times it was probably my fault -- once I ran a half-marathon on the fifth day of treatment -- and once I decided to fly while on chemo. I called the oncology nurse after the half-marathon to ask what to do and see if I needed to schedule an IV...when I asked what to do, she simply said "That was stupid. Don't do that again." Gotcha. Point taken. But we're runners, right? And runners run. I ran my first marathon two months later, in between my eighth and ninth rounds of chemo. My wife will be the first to tell you that I'm not very good at following the doctor's advice anyway...

See, the chemo treatments are cumulative -- toxicity builds up in your system. I usually feel okay on day one...a bit worse by day two...starting day three (Wednesday), I really start to feel miserable, and Thursday and Friday are usually spent curled up in a ball on the bed or in my chair, not wanting to eat, move, or -- like today -- run. I ran eight on Tuesday, but just couldn't get out there today. So, I'm blogging instead. Hope you'll forgive me.

Five down, seven to go!

Happy Anniversary

Today is my anniversary. Actually, my "multiversary"...

Eight years ago today, I wed the only love of my life, Pooh.

We dated for almost four years before getting married, mostly because she kept turning me down (maybe I'll blog on those events sometime). For now, it's sufficient to say that the last eight years have been the greatest years of my life, thanks entirely to this wonderful woman. She is my stability, my rock, my comfort, my confidant, my true love. Happy anniversary, Pooh!

We haven't always been able to truly "celebrate" our anniversaries. Just a few weeks after proposing, after a freak accident on the basketball court, doctors discovered my brain cancer. We went through with the marriage, quite uncertain about what the future may hold. It wasn't long before we knew...and on April 29th, 2001, I spent our first wedding anniversary in pre-op, getting ready for my first brain surgery.

The surgery was done at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center's Maxine Dunitz Neurosurgical Institute, by a genius named Dr. Keith Black. It was successful -- and really, how many newlywed couples with our income get to spend their anniversary in Beverly Hills? The accommodations weren't impressive and I had just a little headache, but the company was perfect...and, I was cancer-free.

For a while, anyway. April 29th, 2005 -- four years later, almost to the day -- we were back in Beverly Hills, but we weren't on vacation. My cancer had returned with a vengeance, larger and more aggressive, and I had my second major brain surgery (by the way, is there such a thing as "minor" brain surgery? Anyway...) on April 28th, 2005, the day before my fifth wedding anniversary. Like my turban?

54 Staples and feeling fine!

Six months later, I ran my first marathon...and Pooh ran the second half with me. Nothing impressive -- 4:47 -- but not bad, just six months after a lobotomy!

Here we are, April 29th, 2008. Through eight anniversaries, I've spent half of them either in surgery or on chemotherapy. It's been eight years since marrying the love of my life. Seven years since my first brain surgery. Three years since my second brain surgery. The cancer is back, and I'm going through another twelve rounds of chemotherapy. Pooh is still by my side, and we have a new reason to run -- our little Monkey:

Like my Pooh, she's just gorgeous. Happy Anniversary, Pooh...you are my love and my life. Thank you for the last eight years. Thank you for modeling truly unconditional love to me. Thank you for our little Monkey. And thank you for running with me -- we have many miles yet to go, side by side.

Running WITH Cancer

I am the son of a linguist.  

I know that sounds like an expletive or an insult, but it's true.  My mother married my father while she was finishing her Ph.D. in Romance Languages at the University of Washington, and to this day she speaks six or seven languages fluently.  She even still writes to me in French sometimes...good thing I held on to my Petite Larousse...but I digress.

So, on my long run today (only 8.5 miles), I thought about my blog title, "Running With Cancer."  The little preposition "with" can be interpreted two different ways -- first, it can mean you're running with something that is a part of you, your body -- like running with a headache, or running with a cold.  Second, it can mean you're running with something outside of yourself -- like running with a friend, or running with your dog, or running with your local club.  So, when I say "Running With Cancer," which is it?

If you talk to many cancer patients or survivors, you'll start to notice a fascinating trend.  Most refer to their disease in the third person -- not something that is a part of their body or a part of them, but something that is independent of them.  "The cancer is back," spoken of almost like an unwelcome relative.  "Doctors are treating the cancer with radiation."  "The cancer isn't responding well to chemotherapy."  In almost ten years of fighting this disease, raising funds for cancer awareness and research, speaking publicly, and sharing with various support groups and fellow fighters and survivors, I very rarely hear any of them speak of their disease as something inside them...it is a foe, a hostile intruder, an unwelcome relative.  

So there it is.  I'm Running With Cancer -- but doing so in the sense that it is running alongside me.  It does not define me.  It is not me.  This is a race like any other -- and I will win.  I've sprinted ahead twice, and it has caught up both times...but I'm watching Cancer's pace, saving my energy, biding my time, and I'm making my move...leaving Cancer behind, this time for good.  

Welcome!

Greeting, and welcome to the first post in Running With Cancer.

Runners know that long road miles have a way of making your mind wander.  It's truly bizarre the things you think of to keep your mind occupied after two or three hours, just you and the road.  For a runner who has survived two bouts with cancer and is fighting round three, the thoughts can be even more sobering -- or liberating.  This blog is simply a catalog of those thoughts.  They may cover everything from how chemotherapy feels to the experiences of a first-time father.  Again, welcome to the blog -- I'm glad you've decided to run alongside me, for one mile or for 20.