I could barely believe my misty eyes two Sundays ago as Sean crossed the Seattle Marathon finish line WAY faster than he'd ever run 26.2 miles before. Almost half an hour faster than his previous PR (personal record in marathon-ese). His time: 3 hours, 11 minutes and 25 seconds, fourth in his age group, 65th overall, qualifying him for the 2017 Boston Marathon. That's a SUPER big deal in the running world. (Bear with me, Facebook friends, who have already tolerated one round of my bragging already. You'll appreciate the backstory.) You might be wondering what kind of crazy man would dare train for a marathon while working his ass off, being there for his cancer-fighting wife, his kids, and all the other things (there are always other things).
Here's how: He ran to work (seven miles or so) whenever he could, woke up early on weekends to do his long runs (anywhere from 12 to 20 miles), sometimes finishing up at the one of the kids' soccer games, all sweaty, stinky and salty-eyed. Sometimes I got exhausted just thinking about all the energy and discipline and perseverance marathon training required of him while we're slogging through such a stressful time in life. And yet that's precisely why it was so brilliant of Sean to run, run, run. It gave him time to release all that stress — or at least some of it. He's a goal setter, a guy who doesn't let here-and-now obstacles fool him into doubting he can do something ridiculously hard. He makes time for it. And he doesn't fuss about how hard that is to do some days. He just gets it done. Recovers. Then does it again. You see where I'm going here. And you've heard this one before: Cancer is a marathon, not a sprint. "No duh," as I might've said in fifth grade. On those hills during his training runs, or in a race, itself, when the going gets tough, Sean focuses on the pavement beneath his feat. One stride at a time, he affirms that he's going somewhere. That's where I am today: Twelve rounds into a 16-treatment chemo marathon, bracing for six weeks of daily radiation, then years of hormone therapy and reconstructive surgery. I'm on that hill that makes everything seem harder than it is. Some days, when I've battled insomnia all night (common during chemo), I can barely deal. I'm slightly anemic (also common during this stage of chemo), which has started to wipe me out, especially when I exercise. When I don't exercise, I don't get good sleep. When I don't get good sleep, it's a struggle to fake being a nice person. All of these things are little problems compared to the miseries that plague many people battling cancer. I'm lucky. Even today, as I'm slowed down more than I'd like to be and fighting off a mild fever, I'm still fundamentally healthy. I'm eating well, doubling-down on iron-rich foods to fend of anemia, getting back into yoga to calm down my worried mind and start building back some strength, taking meds to help me sleep if/when insomnia strikes. Through it all, I remain amazed by the tremendous support network I have, one that extends far beyond my tight-knit loving family. The Friday after Sean's marathon, my friend Tamara, who edited a book I wrote for Brooks Running Company, spent the afternoon with me during round 11 of chemo then treated me and Sean to a night and morning off mama and papa duty by hosting our kids for a sleepover with her two sweet boys. We relished a reservation-less dinner at one of our favorite restaurants and went out to the movies. You know, those ones they show in a theater with a great big screen? It had been ages. It was awesome. Yesterday, my friend and fundraising colleague Becca kept me company during round 12. Busy lives can make it hard to find time to just visit for a few uninterrupted hours with good friends. So thanks, chemo! You're not much fun, but the company you draw to me sure is! A beautiful thing that Tamara and Becca have in common — aside from being beautiful inside and out — is that I met them both because of big risks I took in my professional life. I met Becca as I took the plunge to start my own communications consulting business (one that led me to my favorite job ever at Moore Ink. PR & Fundraising Communications), and Tamara when Brooks hired me to chronicle the company's first hundred years in business. Every risk I've ever taken — whether I've chosen it or not — has led to something good. Some of the journeys have been hard. But I've always managed to land on my feet somehow. And every now and than, I get this bonus gift of a wonderful new person in my life. It's those risks you take in life, the challenges that dare you to take them on, that shape you into the person who can face the next thing and the next thing with a little more confidence that you can do whatever it is that's in front of you. So here I am, on this confidence-testing hill in my cancer marathon. I may have to shuffle more slowly than I want to, and the finish line may feel far away, but I'm getting there. Step by step. Day by day. Thanks, as always, to each one of you who's cheering me on. Keep ringing those cow bells, will ya? I might need a little more of it every now and then.