See Tiger Run

ERCP - 1/24/12

2012-01-25T12:12:00.000-08:00

I'm scheduled to have an ERCP (Endoscopic Retrograde Cholangiopancreatography) on February 7. Until then, I'll be getting a chemo break. My liver is worsening, with the bilirubin continually rising. My oncologist has done about all she can do with the fluid and antibiotic infusions, so she sent me to a gastroenterologist. Since I had to miss my chemo treatments this week because of the poor liver function, she rescheduled me for next week for chemotherapy. Even though my bone and CT scans from Friday were unremarkable (some tumors had shrunk and others had grown), she's declaring me "stable," and I get to remain in the clinical trial. But she can't treat me if the liver continues to fail. I'm sure she'll be disappointed when she finds out that the procedure can't be done before next Tuesday. They did tell me that if there is a cancellation, they will move me up on the schedule. If I have the procedure on February 7, I will have missed a whole three week cycle of chemotherapy. We're in a dilemma.

After my oncologist and the gastroenterologist consulted, looking at scans and liver function, they concluded that a bile duct may be blocked. The ERCP is a procedure that involves inserting a tube through the mouth, down the esophagus, into the duodenum (opening to the intestines), and looking at the liver. A dye will be injected for an x-ray, and a search for any blockage of the bile ducts will be conducted. Since the liver tumors are so extensive, it's a possibility that one of the tumors is causing the blockage. If the gastroenterologist can remove the blockage, a stent will be inserted to keep the duct open. It's a relatively simple procedure if everything goes well. There are risks of bleeding, infections, inflammation to the pancreas, or a perforation to the intestines. The more common side effects after the procedure are a sore throat and stomach pains. It's an out-patient procedure. They will only give me what I call the "happy drug" (for relaxation) and a local anesthesia for the esophagus. If there are no complications, I'll be able to go home on the same day as the procedure.

It's funny how you learn to live with certain things that are going on with your body. I don't even really notice the symptoms of liver failure. My oncologist and I had talked about the dark urine. I thought that I was just dehydrated and continued to drink more water. My skin has been really itchy lately. Until the gastroenterologist asked me about it yesterday, I thought it was just dry skin from the winter weather (although I lotion up regularly). I had a little jaundice when I was admitted to the hospital in December. The whites of my eyes had turned yellow, but they are back to normal now. The nausea, headaches, and dizziness are so common for me, but the gastroenterologist asked me about those symptoms as well because they could indicate liver failure, too. I do have pain on my right side occasionally, but I've become accustomed to having pain. I'm always at a lost for words when my oncologist asks me if I have any new pain, lol.

Well . . . all I can say is that I hope the ERCP gives us some insight on what's been going on with my liver. Let's fix it, and get back to the chemotherapy. We have some tumors to knock out of commission.

My 44th Birthday Celebration - 1/8/12

2012-01-11T12:06:00.000-08:00

Naresh and I with "the cake".

I'm lucky that Naresh did not put 44 candles on the cake, lol.

Channel 4 News in Nashville, TN came out for an interview.

On Saturday, the day before my birthday, I wasn't sure if I would be able to walk 44 miles on my birthday. Running was out of the question, but walking was possible, if I took it easy and slow. Besides, it wasn't a race, and I had no time restraints. I wanted to finish the walk on my birthday, but it was early into the next day that I finished with several friends.

On Saturday, I wasn't feeling well, not breathing well, too tired, and having too much pain. As I laid in the bed most of the day, I was close to scrapping the walk. I had nothing to prove. I've gone beyond 44 miles in a day several times. I had only told a few people that I was considering it, so if I backed out, it wouldn't be a big deal. But something inside kept pulling me. I was too out of shape to go to my beloved Bandera 100K, which is always held on the weekend closest to my birthday, so I felt the need to do something. I'm not a big birthday person and would just prefer to treat the day as a normal day, but when something gets in your head, and your heart, it's hard to let go of the idea. I've had a rough year. Being 43 has not been kind to me, but I am still here. And I guess that's why when my alarm went off at 3:15 a.m. on Sunday, January 8, 2012, I got out of the bed, dressed like an Eskimo, packed even more clothes, extra shoes, fluids, and snacks, and headed out the door.

About a mile from my house is a community center that has an outdoor, paved walking path. Three loops of the path equals a mile. To get in 44 miles, I had to accumulate 132 loops. I had a notepad in the car to mark off every 6 loops (2 miles) to coincide with my break times. I took long breaks, but I wanted to enjoy the day and not suffer through it, so the long breaks were necessary. I had my MP3 player to keep me company and at 4:15 a.m. I started my walk.

There was a full moon, which was a nice touch. It was a cool 42 degrees, as told to me by the marquee at the Walgreen's across the street from the community center. There is also a Krispy Kreme next to the Walgreen's, but I refused to go there. Even with 44 miles, I wouldn't be walking off enough calories to justify those doughnuts, lol. A White Castle is also at the intersection. At some point during the night, I dragged my walking buddies, Diane T. (TN) and Linda (TN), across the street so that I could get an order of 5 cheese sticks. That hit the spot!

Okay. I've gotten a little ahead of myself, thinking about those cheese sticks, lol. The first few miles went well, of course. I even picked out a slightly down hill section of the otherwise flat path to jog a little on each loop. Once the breathing became too difficult to recover on the next lap, I gave up the little jog and just walked. I averaged about 3 miles an hour, which is what I expected and what I had been doing the last couple of months. As morning came, the traffic on the roads picked up, and people started going to White Castle and Shoney's for breakfast. At about 5:30, I could smell the bacon coming from Shoney's. I have not eaten meat in about 16 years, so I don't even know why that smell was tempting me, lol.

At about 7:30 a.m., I received a call from Lois (MI), a fellow 50 States Marathon Club member. We hadn't talked for a while, and so it was nice to hear from her. I think I even lost count of the loops, so I did an extra loop, just to make sure, lol. Hopefully, I wouldn't be doing that all day, lol.

Things got kind of crazy after that first phone call. I remember talking with another running buddy, Winston (GA), several times during the walk, and then I talked with Diane B. (TN). I took a long break, drove home, and had lunch, half of a Kashi veggie pizza. While at home, my niece called to wish me a happy birthday and, in turn, I talked with 3 of my 4 nephews and my 2 young grand-nephews. It was really sweet, and it gave me the motivation to drive back to the community center to continue the walk.

After a few more loops, Naresh (TN) called to say he was on his way to walk with me. At that point, I was almost to the half-way point and a long way off my schedule of finishing in 15-16 hours. I decided to take another break at home before Naresh got there, but he made it to the community center just as I was leaving the house to go back to the community center. He was a sight for sore eyes. I was so happy to have someone to walk and talk with. Part of the joy of running races for me is to socialize. I've missed that over the last two months of not racing.

Linda (TN) came next. She's in the process of training (or "practicing" as she likes to call it) to run her first marathon at the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, TN. I am so proud of her. She "practiced" 13 miles on Saturday and then came out on my birthday and walked 22 miles with me, her longest distance. I feel that she will be more than ready for the marathon in April.

And the local Channel 4 News called me. What?! They wanted to interview me for a possible news story. Diane B had tipped them off. Publicity is not my thing. And who would be interested in some unknown woman having a mid-life crisis, doing something as mundane as walking her age in miles on a small path on NFL play-off Sunday, lol?

Before we knew it, a Channel 4 News van had pulled into the parking lot. We did a short interview, and the interviewer (forgot his name) filmed some footage. At some point we were also joined by three of Diane B's friends (Laura, Cheryl, and Will). Now we had a posse circling this small loop.

The day went on. The conversation and company were uplifting. And slowly, but surely, the miles kept accumulating. Naresh gave me a beautiful and yummy birthday cake, complete with candles, which I successfully blew out while making a wish. Throughout the day and night, we shared cake with everyone who came out to the walk.

Day turned into night. Rashmy (TN) came out to join us. Inspired by Naresh and all of his running adventures, she is also just beginning her running career, and she was a pleasure to meet. Channel 4 News came back out to get some night footage. I was informed that the story would air on the 10:00 p.m. news that night. Unfortunately, I was still circling the small loop and did not see it "live", lol. It wasn't until Monday that I read the short article and watched the video. I looked like a bum with all of my mismatched clothing, and I wasn't prepared to talk about the walk or answer the questions about my metastatic breast cancer. I basically said what came to the top of my head.

Phone calls came throughout the day and night: my running buddy, Phil (AL), my oldest nephew, my sister, my uncle, and I know I'm forgetting others. Gene (IL) was on his way from Maryland. He called to let us know how close he was and to check on my progress. He made it in time to finish up the last 3 or 4 miles, saying that it was kind of scary to drive 75 miles the whole way, lol. Trent (TN), the race director of the famous Flying Monkey Marathon in Nashville, TN and his friend Kristen (?), came out to share some loops. A co-worker, Dustin (TN), whose also planning to run her first marathon at the Country Music Marathon, came out after she saw the news coverage.

Cheryl and Bryan (?), who had turned in for the night, decided to get out of bed after seeing the news coverage and share my last few miles with me on the loop. I hope that I'm not forgetting anyone that I talked with or who came out. It was just an incredible outpouring of love and support from old and new friends. I could not believe it. About 20 minutes after midnight, Linda, Diane T, Gene, Dustin, Cheryl, Bryan, and I finished lap 132, completing 44 miles for my 44th birthday, celebrating life, and giving cancer a kick in the teeth. It was the best birthday that I could have hoped for. I ended the night with loving hugs from everyone.

On Monday morning, I was sore. Parts of my body hurt that you would think would have nothing to do with walking, lol. I can't remember the last time that I've had muscle soreness. I have just always been in shape to cover a marathon or ultramarathon weekend after weekend without muscle soreness the next day. Losing two months of conditioning and fitness does that to you. But, here's the thing. I welcomed and embraced that soreness. I had completed the task at hand with my friends, feeling strong and invincible. Cancer can not take that away from me.

Cancer is an evil, little devil, and it did a check mate on me on Tuesday. I went into the treatment center to have my vitals checked and my bloodwork done. I had Cycle 2 of my current treatment protocol last week. Other than being ill on Saturday, I thought I had handled Cycle 2 much better than Cycle 1. However, my temperature was high, the white and red blood cells had tanked, and my bilirubin was high again. The research nurse and my oncologist discussed the matter. They were sending me to the hospital for a blood transfusion.

Over the last few months, they have been threatening me with a blood transfusion. I'm always anemic, even when I'm on the Aranesp (and one bout with Procrit), which is an injection to boost the red blood cells. I'm also not having much luck with Neulastra, the injection to boost the white blood cells. They were really concerned that my breathing was so labored and that my dizzy spells had been picking up. I even had a couple of dizzy spells during the walk, but I just slowed down and breathed deeply to make it go away or I took a longer break after the next two miles.

It's a long process to get a blood transfusion. The first three hours involve "screening and typing". I found out that my blood type is O-positive, which I should have known a long time ago. In the meantime, we're placed in a small treatment room with about six lounge chairs. We had one bathroom to share. Unlike the lounge chairs in the treatment center, each chair has it's own television screen. I was impressed and alternated between reading and watching non-sensical television, lol. There were four of us there for blood transfusions, and two oncology nurses took very good care of us. After the "screening and typing", the first bag of blood is brought in and runs as an IV for two hours. Once that's done, a second bag is brought in for two more hours. Tylenol and Benadryl in pill form are the only pre-medications given. Afterwards, you are free to leave. It's very rare that allergic reactions occur during blood transfusions, and you don't even know anything is going on unusual unless you look up and see the bag of blood hanging from your IV pole. I was told that I should feel like a new woman on Wednesday. I do feel better today, but I'm also still on my high from my birthday walk, lol.

Liver Woes - 12/22/11

2011-12-27T07:54:00.000-08:00

The two week hold to get into my next clinical trial turned into four weeks. For various reasons, the start date kept getting pushed forward. Finally, on Tuesday, December 13, I started with the trial drug LY2523355. I went into the treatment center on Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday for an hour infusion each day. On Friday, as expected, the white blood cells were dropping, so I was given an injection of Neulastra. I was already getting mouth sores with a slight sore throat. By the weekend, I was ill, spending the entire weekend in bed. The sore throat was the worst that I've ever had. The mouth sores were painful, and my fever was increasing. I had been in this position several times before and knew that I would eventually start to feel better. I just had to hang on until the blood cell counts went back up.

On Monday, I was back at the treatment center. I was given IV infusions of fluids and antibiotics. On Tuesday, I was not feeling any better, and again at the treatment center, I was given fluids and antibiotics. My weight had dropped, and the fever was way too high. I was given a mask to protect me from others. My oncologist came into the treatment room and informed me that I had practically no white blood cells, which would open me up to all kinds of infections. In addition, my liver numbers were indicating the beginning of liver failure. She would have to hospitalize me and get things under control.

After my infusions of fluids and antibiotics, the oncology nurse wheeled me to my room on the isolation floor of the hospital. Everyone that came into my room had to wear a mask and gloves. My immune system was compromised, and no chances were to be taken. I was given infusions of fluids and antibiotics all day and night from Tuesday to Thursday. Slowly, my fever started decreasing, the mouth sores were healing, and that awful sore throat was gone. On Thursday, my oncologist told me that my white blood cells were up to 5,000. That's not great, not even normal, but it was high enough for me to leave the hospital. Before I left, I was given pills for my low potassium, a shot of Procrit in my thigh to boost the red blood cells, and a 7-day prescription for more antibiotics. I felt like a new woman when I left the hospital.

On Tuesday, while I was in the hospital, I was given a chest x-ray and a CT Scan. My cough and shortness of breath are worsening, and the scan showed more progression in the lungs. The biggest problem is the liver, however. The tumors there are extensive and diffuse, and the liver had started failing. My oncologist decided that this was the time to have "the talk". Without a fully functioning liver, in six months or less, it could all be over. I needed to decide how I wanted to die. Would I like the doctors to attempt to resuscitate me if I stopped breathing? Would I like for them to shock my heart if it decided to stop beating? A social worker came to talk to me about my decisions and gave me papers to fill out. I also called my sister, and we have a plan of action, just in case things take a turn for the worst.

There are several things that can be going on with my liver. It could be a tumor flare. It could be that the liver tumors have become resistant to treatment because I've been on so many different treatment protocols. The poor liver function could be preventing the chemotherapy drugs from metabolizing. The dramatic drop in white blood cells could also keep the liver from functioning properly. At this point, we just don't know what happened.

So the plan is to get the blood cell counts up so that I can have a Cycle 2 of this treatment protocol. It's hard to say that after the first treatment cycle that it is not working, so we're going to continue as planned. Hopefully, I won't have to be hospitalized after this next cycle. Cycle 2 starts on Tuesday, January 3. January also marks my four year metastatic breast cancer anniversary. No matter what happens, I've been blessed.

She Died - 11/16/11

2011-11-16T14:13:00.000-08:00

My MBC sister with the same name as mine died on Sunday. I was not prepared to hear that today. My oncology nurse told me that even though it was against policy. She thought that I would want to know. I'm glad that she broke protocol, and it goes to show that with oncology nurses, it's not just a job. They really do care about their patients. She asked that I not say anything to anyone at the treatment center, and I didn't. Of course, it's on my Blog now, but someone would have to be totally beyond Einstein to figure out who told me.

I teared up immediately. She was younger than me. She had two boys that she loved dearly. The last time that I spoke with her, she was going to ask for a break from chemotherapy because of the fluid build-up in her lungs and stomach. She had a drain put in for her stomach, but the lungs were giving her the most problems. She was on supplemental oxygen and in a wheel chair. I thought she would come back around after a break. We both hoped for that. We both prayed for that. What happened? All we know is that she checked into the hospital on Friday, and before they could get her into hospice care, she died on Sunday.

I'm devastated. All I can think about is her beautiful bald head and that smile on her face telling me about her faith. She pulled me in. I used her faith to comfort me selfishly. She died, she died, she died . . . . I kept repeating it to myself, because I didn't want to believe it. Selfishly, again, I felt my own immortality.

Today was supposed to be a short day, but that didn't happen. Stability is present in my bones, but my liver and lungs have several new tumors. One of the liver tumors grew from 9 x 8 millimeters to 11 x 11 millimeters. I also have new tumors, "pulmonary nodules" and "lymphangitic spread of neoplasm" in the right lung, whereas previously, only the left lung was involved. One of the lung tumors grew by 1 millimeter (from 10 x 7 millimeters to 10 x 8 millimeters). Apparently, my shortness of breath, dry cough, fever, headaches, and neck and back pains may have something to do with these inflamed pulmonary nodules in my lungs.

Again, because of progression, I am kicked out of the clinical trial. I offered my research nurse my remaining seven days worth of Xeloda pills so that someone else could benefit from them. She said that she would be glad to take them, especially for a patient who didn't have insurance. The pills are paid for this cycle, and I would only have thrown them away, as I'm sure the drug company will not take them back. They are expensive a$$ pills that I've only been on for less than two months!

I'm on a two week hold to start the next clinical trial. I'll either get the tried and true Ixempra (one IV infusion, once every three weeks) or the trial drug LY2523355, which involves giving myself injections at home. I'm hoping for Ixempra, because it's easier. I don't mind shooting myself in the stomach with a needle, but I'd rather not do that, lol. My research nurse said that I could have someone do it for me. Now is the time to enlist some gullible friends, lol.

Because of my lung function, today I was given an IV infusion of steroids and an antibiotic. I was also given a prescription for a Z-pack of antibiotics (2 pills on day one, and then one pill per day for the next four days). It was also time for my Zometa infusion for my bones, so I had that, too. My oncologist also wants me to start taking over-the-counter Naproxen (i.e., Aleve). We are still having this ongoing debate about me preferring Advil, lol.

My oncology nurse was assessing my port for my drugs today, when she told me about my MBC sister with the same name as mine. How dare it take her away from her boys! How dare it take away her life! The only consolation is that she has no more worry and no more pain. However, I'm angry all over again! This damn cancer has a hell of a fight on it's hands if it thinks I'm going quietly. I'm fighting for my MBC sister, too, even though she is no longer here. Try fighting Tiger. If she goes down, you're going with her. Stupid Ass, cancer! You really screwed up this time!

End of the Rainbow by McKinley Mitchell:

I went running to the end of a rainbow
Looking for a treasure they said I would find
I found nothing but heartaches and troubles
I'm about to lose my mind

On the way, the load got heavy
And the burdens got hard to bear
None of my friends was there to help me
Left me standing in the middle of nowhere

With a heart full of pain, I was lost
So blind I couldn't see a thing
I couldn't even remember my name
They talked loud and clear

Every word, my ears could hear
In my heart was heavy
I couldn't even move
I just stood there like a silly fool

I believe...I'm going...back home
To start all over again
Left my rainbow behind me
Right where I, I began

(Listen)

Going, going, going, going home
I'm going home
(I'm going home...to the end of the rainbow)
I'm going home
(I'm going home...to the end of the rainbow)
Going, going, going, going home
I'm going home...

Rest in peace my dear, sweet MBC sister with the same name as mine.

Scan Anxiety - 11/14/11

2011-11-14T06:45:00.000-08:00

I don't really freak out when it's time for my scans. It's an unavoidable necessity, and that's how I try to look at it. Of course, if I didn't have to have the scans so often or at all, it would be better, but you can't wish for something that you know is not going to happen. I would be lying if I said there wasn't some anxiety associated with having scans. I don't get to the point of refusing to go or getting sick over the thought of it. I go into the machine hoping for stability, if not regression, and no more progression. What bothers me is that I've been hurting a lot lately. Pain has always been a good indicator for me that something is not right. The pain is usually in the neck, head, and shoulder areas and sometimes on the right side of my back, below my rib cage. So, I'm thinking that I won't be given a stability diagnosis this time. The glass is half empty, pessimistic attitude is not a good one to have, but pain makes you irrational at times. For all the side effects that Xeloda is putting me through, I expect it to be working. Pain tells me that it's probably not.

I've stopped drinking the contrast from the oncologist's office and just show up to drink the yummy lemonade contrast an hour early for my CT scan at the imaging office. That has solved one problem. It's hard to get two bottles of the chalky, vanilla flavored (nope) contrast down. Both still give me stomach issues afterwards throughout the day, but at least, the lemonade contrast is tasty and tolerable.

I've also started to allow the technicians at the imaging office to use my port. I'm very leery of just anyone using the port, but the last time when they couldn't use the veins in my one good arm after the technician from the hospital for the bone scan had exhausted them, it wasn't so bad. Coming away with only a slightly bruised and sore arm is a plus.

I've also warned them ahead of time that, when they inject the dye in the vein or the port, they have to do it slowly so that it doesn't burn. Having scans every 3-4 months has taught me a lot about how to make these sessions go more pleasantly.

Laying down in the machines isn't that bad. The CT scan doesn't take too long. The bone scan takes over an hour some times. I'm not claustrophobic, and I usually just rest and relax while I'm in the machines. The top plate of the machine for the bone scan gets pretty close to smashing your face in, but eventually, that fear eases up, too.

I'll have two scans tomorrow. I'll go in for the radioactive dye injection for the bone scan, and then there's a three hour wait until I can be scanned. In the mean time, I'll go and drink the lemonade contrast, have the CT Scan, where they'll inject another dye contrast. Afterwards, I'll go back and have the bone scan. On Wednesday, I'll get the results from my oncologist.

Doesn't sound too bad, does it? So where does the anxiety come in? The interruption of a normal day, waiting for the results, the sticks in the vein and the port, dealing with the stomach issues afterwards, and the question of what my body is doing this month wears me down mentally. If it's progression, it's on to a new treatment regiment, with its unknown side effects. If it's stability or regression, it's a continuation of the current treatment regiment and its known side effects.

It's such a relief to be done with scans at the end of the day. I know that I'm free for another 3-4 months. I hope these new pains are scar tissue, new bone material building up and filling in the holes from the cancer eating through my spine, pelvic, skull, and right clavicle. I hope that my liver and left lung are benefiting from the Xeloda. They were the problem children from the last CT scan. I want a good report. I really do. But I just don't know. I will not know until I see the oncologist on Wednesday. Until the results, it's constantly on my mind every time my oncologist looks at my medical chart and announces "it's time to schedule you for your scans."

No food or fluids are allowed after midnight tonight. No problem. I'm usually out by 9:00 p.m. most nights any way, lol.

Three Miles a Day - 11/3/11

2011-11-03T07:01:00.000-07:00

I can remember when three miles was barely a warm-up. I can remember when I didn't get into a smooth, running groove until six miles or so, and I could hold it if I was fueled properly for 26.2 miles. But for the life of me, I can't remember the beginning of my running career when three miles was a challenge. And, really, I should say one mile is a challenge. I've begun training (again) to get my energy and oxygen deprived body accustomed to walking/running every day. The mileage isn't important right now. That will come in due time. But I have to relearn how to move every day. And I have to relearn that lesson with less oxygen, low blood cell counts, fatigue, and pain.

It's hard. It's frustrating. Nevertheless, I am determined. I keep thinking about what I once could do and not totally focusing on what I can do for now. November 1 was easier than November 2. I'm hoping today will be easier than yesterday. It's just three miles. A lot of people who don't train can go out and walk three miles. A lot of people walk effortless for one mile. I see them every day as they pass me walking from the parking lot to the various State Offices in the downtown area. I can remember when co-workers commented on how fast I walk. Now I sweat and pant desperately for air as I trudge the one mile, trying to keep them in sight. Looking ahead, I'm constantly thinking, four more blocks, three more blocks, two more blocks . . . . Did they move the building, lol?

My partially numb left foot may be an advantage as I rebuild the mileage. The tips of the toes tingle, but the neuropathy has pretty much numbed the foot from mid-foot to the toes. The tingling is irritating, but, so far, it doesn't hamper being on the feet for long periods of time. I physically get tired and want to sit down before my legs and feet specifically give out. That's a good sign that my legs and feet are up for the challenge, but it's a bad sign that my body in general is in poor condition.

Yesterday, I could only walk the three miles. I had a fever and neck and shoulder pains. I was so cold on a bright, sunshiny day, even with a hat and two long-sleeved shirts. I saw runners out in shorts and short-sleeved shirts, and I envied their even pace and smooth strides. Surprisingly, the three mile walk was only about five minutes longer than the three mile run/walk the day before. The major goal is to finish the three miles under an hour. It's not much of a goal, but it's attainable and doesn't stress me out too much. On Tuesday, I finished in 53 minutes, and on Wednesday, I barely made it in 58 minutes, picking up the walking pace in the last mile to my townhouse. I plan to get the three mile course I've mapped out under 45 minutes, and then I'll do a 5K to truly see where I am.

The 5K has always been my least favorite distance. I think it's because I always had problems just going out as fast as I could and holding it for 3.1 miles. According to my spreadsheet, I've only done three 5K races. My PR for 5K is 27:17 in 2004. My last 5K in 2009 was 31:08. I can't touch either one of those times now, but if I can get to 45 minutes, I'll be happy. And then I'll have to tackle four miles, five miles, six miles . . . . But right now, three miles is about all I can handle.

I can run for a block before I get dizzy from lack of oxygen. It takes me two blocks to breathe comfortably and then I can run another block. I'm hoping that as my body becomes accustomed to surviving on less oxygen that I can run two blocks and walk one block for recovery. Ideally, I would love to get to the point where I can run a mile before taking a walk break. I've mapped out a pretty flat route, so that I won't have the added challenge of tackling an uphill climb. That's coming from someone who would use hills as speed work, because she hated running on a track for intervals. Wow! Things have really changed. Now I walk all hills, and I love 12 or 24 hour races on a track, because I'm only 1/4 mile from my drop bag and a camp chair, lol.

The best thing about my three miles a day routine is that I get to be outside. It makes me feel better mentally to be able to still move although I am incredibly slower. It's raining and very cold today, but I don't care. I'm still a runner at heart, so a little wetness and coldness are not going to scare me off. I'll still be outside on a beautiful, rainy, and cold day, dressed like I live in Alaska, lol.

Metavivor - 10/31/11

2011-10-31T08:27:00.000-07:00

On this last day of "pinktober", I came across an article that really touched my heart.

http://www.hometownannapolis.com/news/TOP/2011/10/28-39/Local-woman-starts-nonprofit-for-metastatic-cancer.html

I am warning you that I am probably going to become more vocal about MBC because I am constantly bombarded with too much information that is disturbing about this disease. My MBC sisters are dying on BCMets.org, my main source of information. I get accustomed to reading their posts, then they go into hospice, and then they die. I feel like I am losing a friend or family member each week, and I have not even met any of these people. I am not an active participant on the List, but I've gotten to know them from their posts and from sharing some of their experiences. They have become a part of me, a part of me that I lose every time I hear that one of them has passed.

Did you know that from all of the money that has been raised this year, only 2% will go to research to keep MBC patients alive? I'm guessing that billions of dollars was raised this year. Think about how much pink you've seen in the last 31 days - the walks, the runs, the NFL, the ribbons, the bracelets, and the t-shirts. MBC will take away 40,000 people this year, and out of 31 days, we had one day, October 13, to raise awareness about us. I know there are a lot of diseases and a lot of good causes out there, but please think before you pink next October. Think about www.metavivor.org/ which donates all of its dollars to research for metastatic breast cancer. We are so far past awareness. Who does not know something about breast cancer or someone who has or had breast cancer? It's time to change the focus from awareness to action. I cringe every time I hear that if you catch it early, then you're good to go. That's not always the case. I thought that I was good to go in 2003, and here I am just eight years later with cancer throughout my body. I celebrated my five year anniversary after my initial diagnosis by finding out that the breast cancer had metastasized to my pelvic bone and spine. I'm aware. Now let's donate more of this awareness money to research to find a cure to the breast cancer that kills - Metastatic Breast Cancer, Stage IV Breast Cancer, or whatever you want to call it.

I am so angry! I mean kicking, screaming, balled fists, and ready to fight kind of angry. I have to do something. I'm a part of the problem. I have to make efforts to become a part of the solution. If I ever get my body to cooperate again, I will be planning a short journey run/walk, probably across Tennessee (approximately 455 miles), but preferably along the Natchez Trace Parkway (approximately 444 miles) to raise money for Metavivor. Before that, I have to gather some courage to let the cat out of the bag. I'll explain that in a later post, but once that's done, it's on!

Cycle 2 - 10/19/11

2011-10-19T15:49:00.000-07:00

My MBC sister with the same name as mine is not doing well. She's in a wheel chair now and has traded in her oxygen tank for a more permanent portable oxygen machine that she carries in a leather bag around her waist. She also has a drain in her stomach to collect the fluid that is building up. She's lost another 10 pounds. She wants to ask the oncologist for a chemo break because her lungs are also filling with fluid. But she's hesitant about temporarily stopping chemotherapy because her last scans showed stability. Clearly, the chemotherapy regiment is working, but at what cost is it to her quality of life? I asked again about her drugs, but she still can't remember. However, she says that she is definitely not in a clinical trial. She's not giving up; she just needs a freaking break from this madness. I understand what she's saying.

The lab nurse comes to the waiting room to push her back to start collecting her vitals. I am left in the waiting room, worrying about her and kicking myself for being such a wimp. I thought that I had made up my mind about taking a medical leave of absence from work and giving up racing for a few months because Cycle 1 has left me void of all energy, mental focus, and lots of pain. My rest week still involved nausea, fever, headaches, neck pain, and fatigue. Last night was the first night without the fever, headaches, and neck pain. I think that I even slept through my hot flashes, because I don't remember waking up to kick the covers off my sweating body.

I waited until 8:00 a.m. to start taking my Xeloda pills. I stared at them on my desk at work for about 30 minutes, dreading my next round of side effects, the same side effects that have not dissipated completely from Cycle 1. Cycle 2 increases the Xeloda dosage by 300 mg per day. For Cycle 2, I will take three 500 mg pills plus one 150 mg pill in the morning and at night, every day for 14 days. In the treatment center today, I received IV infusions of Benadryl, a steroid (Decadron), an anti-nausea medication (Aloxi), the bone building medication (Zometa), and Ramucirumab DP (the clinical trial chemotherapy drug). Including the lab work, seeing the oncologist and the research nurse, and getting the infusions, I was there for six hours today.

I could have been out of there in five hours, but I was a little out of it after the Benadryl infusion. I'm so tired these days that the Benadryl knocks me out. My oncology nurse noticed that I was zoning out when she changed out the empty bag of Benadryl for the Decadron. At some point after getting the Aloxi and Zometa, my research nurse came to the treatment room to get two more tubes of blood. They were going to take it out of my port, but it was being fussy today. Infusions went in easily, but the blood return was slow. My oncology nurse did not believe she could fill both tubes from the port, so they sent in the lab nurse to find a vein in my arm to draw from. I had already been stuck twice earlier in the lab for blood draws. In the mean time, they turned the pump off because the research nurse did not want the Ramucirumab DP in my system. Once the lab nurse filled the tubes, my oncology nurse could start my last hour of infusions, but she forgot about me (every chair in the treatment room was filled, so I'm not blaming her) and I fell asleep (that was my fault).

At some point, I realized that the pump was not on. I finally got my oncology nurse's attention and told her I needed to be started up again. When she looked at the paper work, she asked if I knew how long I had been waiting. I had no idea I had been out of it for an hour (sigh). After the chemotherapy drug infusion, I have to wait an hour before leaving to make sure there are no adverse allergic reactions. With this particular chemotherapy drug, if there are going to be serious side effects they will occur during or right after the infusion.

I don't know what to do. Today I gave the papers for the medical leave of absence to my research nurse to be filled out. I was planning to start the leave on November 1. Now, I'm hedging, trying to figure out how I can work through the side effects. The steroid really works for my pain, so I'm thinking clearer this evening than I have over the past few weeks. Has the last three weeks been so bad that I really need to leave my job for three months? Seeing my MBC sister today proves that it all could be much worse. Maybe I should try to stick it out for one more cycle? Maybe I'm giving in to the illness when I should gather my reserves and fight harder? But I am so tired of struggling and fighting. I'm not as strong as I would like to be.

I sent an e-mail to Mike (FL), the race director for the Ancient Oaks 100 Miler, to withdraw my entry. Fortunately, someone on the waiting list will get my spot. Now that I can't run, I'm having dreams about running. I'm moving carefree, fast, and happy in pretty places. They are nice dreams. No one is chasing me. And then I wake up, and I realize it's just another day without running.

One of these days I'm going to write a post that is not so whiny, but lately, my emotions are shot. I am so tired of drugs, injections, scans, hospitals, pain, and the ever spreading cancer. Everything tangible seems to be slipping out of my hands. I can do things, but I can not do what I once could. I'm trying to adjust to the new "normal", but the new "normal" sucks all of the fun right out of my life. This Tiger is different from the Tiger of four years ago. I miss her. I worked on her for years to be the person that I thought I wanted her to be. But she's tired, she's unfocused, she's in pain, and she can't run. She can barely walk. Some days she wants to give up, and that scares me because Tiger is not accustomed to giving up. And she wants to scream. But what good would it do? Tiger wants a freaking break from the madness, just like my MBC sister, but I'm afraid that if we take a break, it may be permanent.

God, help me. I can't seem to get it right. What am I doing wrong?

Day 9 - 10/6/11

2011-10-06T13:21:00.000-07:00

I am mad at Xeloda. Of all the treatments that I have had in the past three years, Xeloda is the one that is beating me down like I stole something. This is Day 9. I can not wait until Day 14. I'll then have a week off of this chemotherapy pill. I take three pills of 500 mg each in the morning and then three more pills at night, every day for 14 days. I am also in Arm A of the clinical trial which means that in week one of the three week cycle, I get an hour infusion of the trial drug, Ramucirumab DP. I was told that the trial drug is similar to Avastin, which I had prior to this chemotherapy regiment. I can blame the bleeding from the nose on the trial drug, but all of my other problems are probably from the Xeloda.

So far, I don't have explosive diarrhea. I have the opposite problem. Constipation is just as bad, but I know the solution to that-Senokot. I'm also not having the hand-foot syndrome as of yet. But these awful headaches are debilitating. They are sharp and intense and tend to last for hours or at least until it's time to take the next dosage. And the fatigue. Oh, my goodness! The fatigue has knocked me on my butt. I've said this before, but there is no comparison between fatigue and tiredness. They should not even be mentioned in the same sentence. Tiredness can be resolved. You run a hard marathon, and you're tired at the end. You eat, you shower, you nap, and then you're good to go. With fatigue, you nap, nap, and nap, and you still feel like you've been hit by a Mack truck. Taking a shower or eating a meal exerts energy that you don't have. We weren't expecting my red blood cells to take a significant dive so soon, but that's exactly what happened. Yesterday, my oncologist said, "you're more anemic than your usual." Rest assured, we'll have to start the Aranesp injections again for that. I'm having difficulty breathing again, and I'm cold all of time. I have a low grade fever, but not high enough to call the treatment center. And the worst is the nausea, all day and every day. Therefore, there is very little eating and no energy. I've dropped two pounds in nine days. I can always use some weight loss, but I would like for it to be on my own terms.

My neuropathy from the Taxol continues. I still have numbness, tingling, or painful sensations in all of my fingers and toes. The good news is that I am growing a new nail on my right thumb, since the other nail died and fell off. It looks like the other nails are growing and pushing the dead nails forward. As the dead nails are pushed forward, I just trim them down to the finger or toe and then repeat the process in a couple of weeks. My hair is coming back beautifully. I don't have to do anything to it but wash and go. I love that.

Back to why I'm mad at Xeloda. I feel bad, all day dreading the next dosage of Xeloda. While it's making me sick, I hope that it is kicking the cancer's butt. It's not fair that the good cells of my body get the brunt of what Xeloda can do. Those bad cells should also pay the price.

On top of all of that, I have chemo brain to the nth degree and can't focus on anything. I've been thinking about taking a leave of absence from work. I'm not doing my job, because I can't think straight when I'm nauseous and hurting with no energy all day. I've been in and out of the office for appointments or sickness so much that I'm barely here long enough to get anything done. The maximum I can take without pay is 12 weeks (60 work days). I won't get my salary, but I get to keep my insurance, which is the most important part. I've been reading the manual for the Family Medical Leave Act to see if I really want to do this. The only thing is that if I'm feeling this bad on Day 9, how will I feel three months from now when the leave of absence is over? Chemotherapy has a cumulative effect. It gets worse, not better.

Speaking of insurance, I can't pick up the Xeloda pills from the hospital or any local pharmacy. I have to have them delivered to my house via Fed Ex from the insurance company. They have to have my credit card on file to collect the $90 co-pay for a 14-day supply of pills (84 pills). I don't mind the co-pay, considering a 14-day supply of 500 mg pills would cost me $3,000 out of pocket. I'm not sure how the drug company justifies $35 per pill, but that's a whole other issue that I can't do anything about. I missed Tuesday night's dose, because the research nurse and I have been haggling with the insurance company for a week. At the end of 14 days, the research nurse and I both have to place an order for the next cycle. It's a crazy process and a waste of time and money if you ask me. "It's a very expensive drug," is the only answer that I received when I questioned the insurance company representative. But you're making it even more expensive by sending it Fed Ex to my home instead of allowing the hospital to give me the pills while I'm there getting the IV chemotherapy drug, risking me a missed dose. This makes sense to the insurance company? In all honesty, the research nurse had to scramble around to get me 84 pills from free samples for my first cycle. If I depended on the insurance company, I would have had to wait another two weeks to start this regiment.

I'm just frustrated. I feel like I'm wimping out and that I should be handling all of this much better than I am. I know the routine. I play by the rules, but someone is changing the game on me. Xeloda and the trial drug are supposedly easy and very tolerable for many patients, so why am I having such a difficult time so early in the regiment? I'm wondering if I'll ever wake up feeling good again. I would love to wake up without a body part hurting, without feeling nauseated and fatigued, and without the headaches. I guess Xeloda is not all bad. My pelvic bone and spine have calmed down again, and I haven't had any more chest and back pains, so I'm off the prescription pain killers for a while. I'm just taking the Advil for the headaches. I have one anti-nausea medication. I'm in another insurance haggle for the second anti-nausea medication, something about it costing almost $7 per pill out of pocket (shaking my head and tossing my hands in the air). I'm still on the high blood pressure pills because the effects of the Avastin are lingering and will probably continue with the trial drug. I am a walking medicine cabinet.

I can't run. I am barely walking. My last race was the Tour d'Esprit 24 Hour in Memphis, TN. The nausea was really bad, so I never ran an entire one mile loop. With the nausea, I couldn't eat, so my energy was down, and I took three much needed "naps" in the car. It was a struggle, but I shuffled around the loop until I accumulated 55 miles. Even though it was tough, I was so angry with the cancer and the Xeloda that I just kept going back out onto the loop. "I can do one more mile," was my mantra. I'd do one or even two miles and then I would have to take a little break. I would see everyone moving smoothly on the loop, racking up mega-mileage, and I would rise from my camp chair and join them for one more mile for 24 hours. When my running buddy, Jameelah (GA), saw me struggling back out onto the loop, she said, "the mind is willing, but the body says no." If she only knew how close my mind came to agreeing with my body.

This past weekend was a planned break from racing. It's a good thing, too, because I was basically in the bed from Friday evening until Monday morning. I am registered for St. Pat's 24-Hour this upcoming weekend in South Bend, IN. It's an expensive race that I think will be a DNS (did not start). I could suffer through to get at least the marathon distance or a 50K, but suffering is no fun. The whole point of running is to have fun and enjoy being outside. Day 14 will be on Wednesday. I'll see how I feel on Friday with a two day break from Xeloda before I make that long drive to South Bend. The way I'm feeling right now, I know that I can't go.

Damn cancer. Damn Xeloda. Who told them it was okay to interrupt my life?

A Visit to the Emergency Room - 9/20/11

2011-09-23T06:25:00.000-07:00

I consider myself a reasonable woman. I seldom go off the deep end. I evaluate the situation, make a rational decision, and hope for the best. So when I started having inexplicable chest pains that radiated into my back on Thursday night as I drove to Cleveland, OH for the North Coast 24-Hour, I pulled into a rest area, took a couple of Advils, and fell asleep for about six hours. I woke up Friday morning refreshed with no chest pains and ready to finish up the drive. Some where between Cincinnati and Columbus, the chest and back pains came back. Again, I pulled into a rest area, took more Advil, and took another nap. For a second time, I woke up with no pain. This was not normal. I was not real sure what was going on.

I finally arrived in Cleveland, got some really good take-out food at a Thai restaurant, and went to the Motel 6. However, I wasn't able to finish the food. The chest and back pains were returning, and now I was just nauseous. So, I took more Advil and went to bed early. At least with all of this sleep, I thought, I should manage to stay awake for the entire 24 hours and get some good mileage. But what if the pain continued?

On Saturday morning, I drove to the race location at Edgewater Park that sat on Lake Erie. It's a beautiful park, and we were having a wonderful day, slightly overcast and just cool enough. I quickly found my running buddies. Fred (OH) had a large yellow tent that was set up on the outskirts of the running path, along with dozens of other tent set-ups. He would share his space with Rosemary (KY), Karen (TX), and me. Nancy (OH) was going to crew for Fred, and his mom was going to spectate and cheer him on. Since it's the USATF 24-hour national championships, he wanted to have a good showing. He ran 93.02 miles for 3rd place in his age group. I'd say that he had a great day. Karen and Rosemary also ran great races, finishing 1st and 2nd, respectively, in their age group.

I managed 45.94 miles, far less than I was planning. The chest and back pains started early, and it was difficult to even walk. I got into the routine of running/walking until the pain occurred, and then taking Advil and relaxing with Nancy and Fred's mom until the pain subsided. I would then get back on the 0.90075 mile asphalt loop for a few more laps. During the night for one of the pain breaks, I decided to take a nap, which, of course, turned into a six-hour sleep. Once the sun was up and it wasn't so cold, I went back out onto the loop for more mileage. The chest and back pains had not subsided during the night, but I could still walk slowly enough until time was called.

The return trip home on Sunday was the same as the drive to Cleveland. I would drive until pain stopped me, pull into a rest area, take the Advil, sleep until I felt better, and then continue driving. At this point, I was thinking that I should just get home and get to the emergency room. But when I got home, I felt better. I took a shower, got into bed, and on Monday morning, I was back at work. But now I had a head cold. I guess that cool breeze coming off Lake Erie during the race may have pushed me over the edge. Chest and back pains were still coming and going. I had a fever, and I couldn't seem to get warm. That night in bed, my entire body hurt, and no amount of pain killers seemed to help. Before I knew it, I had started crying, the covers on the bed engulfing me in a ball. My cell phone rang and, desperate for a distraction, I answered it.

"Are you crying?" he asked. I said "yes" as I burst into another wave of sobs.

"What's wrong?" he asked. "I am so tired of hurting. I am so tired of the pain," I told him.

"It will get better," he said. "Not if it keeps progressing," I whined.

We silently sat on the phone. He listened to me sob, and eventually the tears stopped. We began to talk, and he made sure that I laughed before we got off of the phone. I can't remember if it was something about his dog, his mom, or his son. I just remember laughing a little through the pain before we said good night.

On Tuesday, the pains were worse. After I got enough pain killers in me, I finally made it to work. I only stayed an hour before I finally decided that I was going to the emergency room. On Wednesday, I had to do all of my preliminary scans for the new chemotherapy regiment that I will start at the end of month, and I would have preferred to wait until I saw my oncologist, but now I was thinking that I could be having a heart attack or maybe there were blood clots in my lung. I was hospitalized for five days in 2003 because of blood clots in my left lung. The blood clots had occurred from over exposure to the five weeks of radiation treatment that I was having at the time. I also knew that blood clots could occur during chemotherapy, so it was worth it to get the situation checked out.

When you fill out the paper work in the emergency room and you say that you are having chest pains, you are immediately moved up on the list. They did an EKG that showed that I was not having a heart attack. They then did a CT Scan that showed that I did not have any blood clots in the left lung. The emergency room doctor said that, from the CT Scan, it appeared that I had metastasis on my sternum. I have metastasis in a lot of areas, but the sternum is not one of the locations that my oncologist and I have discussed. I was simply told to go home, take the pain medications, and follow up with my oncologist. Before I left, they gave me liquid potassium for good measure. That stuff really tastes yucky!

On Wednesday, I went in to have the dye injected into my veins for the bone scan that I would have three hours later. In the meantime, I went to have the CT Scan. I drank my two tall cups of yummy lemonade contrast (that would later give me diarrhea for the remainder of the day) before they called me back into the scan area. I told them about the CT Scan of my chest at the emergency room the day before, so they called my oncologist's office to see if that CT Scan was sufficient. She told them that it was fine and to just do the CT Scan of the pelvis and abdomen. After the scan, I went to Subway for brunch, a six-inch veggie sandwich. It was going to be a long day and who knew when I would get a chance to eat.

After brunch, I went back to the hospital for the bone scan. It took over an hour. We had to take a break in the middle because the contrast from the CT Scan was doing a number on my stomach. Afterwards, I headed to the oncologist's office. In addition to weight, temperature, and blood pressure, the lab nurse had 10 tubes ready to collect blood. Since the technicians had exhausted my veins for the bone scan, the CT technicians had to access my port for the radioactive contrast, and they left the tube in for the visit to the oncologist's office. My lab nurse for the day is a good vein finder and sticker. Although I really wished she had used the port, she insisted on finding a vein in my now bruised and swollen arm. She found one she liked, poked the needle right in, and began filling the tubes. At least she got it on the first stick.

A patient and her lab nurse were next to us, and we hear the patient say that she is feeling light-headed and that she feels like she's going to pass out. And she did! Her eyes rolled back into her head. She was sweating and mumbling. Other lab nurses were fanning her, putting cold compresses on her head and neck, and calling her name. And my lab nurse is still drawing blood from my vein, as she scooted her rolling stool closer to me to avoid getting hit in the head by the now flailing patient and the onset of nurses and doctors coming to the rescue. "Don't you pass out on me," she said jokingly. "We have a good vein. I'm not stopping until we fill up all ten tubes." My lab nurse and I were hysterical. We felt bad for the other patient, but what could we do? We had those tubes to fill before that poor vein blew.

Finally, I was handed a urine cup to fill, and then I was taken into a room for my visit with the research nurse and my oncologist. The research nurse hooked me up to the EKG machine while she listened to the story of my life for the past week. When my oncologist came in, I had to retell the story while she examined me. "You know the hospital is now going to think I can't control my patients' pain," she joked. Yeah, but I didn't want people asking, did she die from the cancer? No. Did she die from the treatment? No. She died because she refused to go to the hospital and have a blood clot checked out that broke off from her lung and went into her brain. It wasn't funny, but we all nervously laughed at my reasoning.

My oncologist and I have had the pain management discussion before, but this time, I'm going to really try and play by the rules. I tend to wait until I can't tolerate the pain before I take pain medication, and then I'll take Advil. If I won't take the prescription pain killers, then my oncologist has always wanted me to take Aleve instead. Aleve does not work for me. Hydrocodone does not work. Oxycodone is the break through pain killer that I have been prescribed to go along with the Oxycontin for regular dosing. One of them makes me nauseous, but at least I'm pain free for two hours. "Take the meds," she said, "at least until we get your tumors under control."

It turns out that the emergency room doctor misread my CT Scan. I do not have metastasis on my sternum. I have several new tumors in my left lung. With the tumor flare, my lung became inflamed, pressing against the sternum, which caused the pain in my chest and back. What the emergency room doctor saw on the scan was a bruised sternum. My goodness! In a month, my lung had gone from two stable tumors to several tumors (there's a cluster in the lining of the lung) that had inflamed the lung so much that it had tried to break out of the chest bone. This cancer is trying to kill me.

The research nurse brought in three more tubes. She said that she would ask my oncology nurse to take the blood from my port. They also gave me a 30-minute IV bag of steroids to get rid of the inflammation and to calm down all of the heightened nerves. Wednesday night was the best night of sleep that I've had in two months.

It's hard for me to take pain medication if I'm handling the pain. But it's best to keep some pain medication in my system so that I'm not starting from ground zero. I realize that and hopefully, I won't get in another emergency room situation any time soon. I've been alternating the Oxycodone and the Advil, holding off the Oxycontin. I feel like I'm taking drugs all day long, but I'm really only averaging about every 3-4 hours. Regardless if I'm in pain or not, I take something. I'll get it under control. Next week I'll start Xeloda. I'm already thinking that I may have to invest in some adult diapers for the diarrhea that may come with that chemotherapy regiment.

It's Friday, and I didn't think I would be able to go to the Georgia Jewel 50 Mile in Dalton, GA this weekend. But I'm going. There's a 30 hour cut-off, the head cold is gone, I have pain meds, and the trail shoes are packed. I'm ready!

Xeloda - 9/15/11

2011-09-15T06:30:00.000-07:00

They kicked me out of the clinical trial. That's what happens when you have progression during treatment. My liver and lung tumors are still stable, but my recent PET Scan showed more tumors in my spine and pelvic bone. I had been having increased pain in my right hip for about a month, but I had also been trying to ignore it, which isn't the easiest thing to do. Sometimes the pain is so bad that I become nauseous. Cancer is a tricky and evil, little devil.

I was hoping that I could have radiation on the right hip, just as I had on the left hip last summer. However, there are so many areas of progression on my right hip that my oncologist says that it would be impossible to "spot weld" me. Radiation is very precise. We can't go to the radiologist and say, "radiate the whole right hip."

I'm now on a two-week hold to get into another clinical trial. I'm not at the point that I want to give up, but this morning, I have to say that I understand cancer patients who throw in the towel. It's all mentally and physically too much to handle. Getting ready for work this morning with so much pain in my hip that I thought I'd throw up, I also understand why cancer patients quit their jobs and start collecting disability. It's relatively easy to get disability if you're diagnosed as a Stage 4 cancer patient. I'm not in love with my job, but I do prefer to continue to work. However, today all I wanted to do was to climb back into the bed and cover my head. Even though I've been off the Taxol for a while, the neuropathy in my hands and feet is lingering. The pain's not bad, but the tingling and numbness still make it difficult to get things done. Taking a shower just involves too much rubbing, and the tingling is bad for several hours afterwards, but I can't walk around funky and scaring people either.

Yesterday, I had the PET Scan. I couldn't eat prior to the scan, and I can't take any pain killers on an empty stomach, so I was in pain and could barely walk all day. I could have eaten after the scan, but all I managed to get into my stomach was some ginger ale. The nausea was too bad at this point. After the scan, I had to meet with my oncologist and then have the Zometa infusion only. Since I'm no longer in the clinical trial, there are no more Avastin infusions and I can discontinue taking the daily pills of Everolimus (or placebo). The contrast that I drink before the scan gives me diarrhea and on top of the nausea from the pain, I didn't know if I was coming or going. I've been on Zometa for almost four years, but I still tend to have an allergic reaction every now and then. Of course, yesterday would be that day-chills, fever, and body aches. Some time during the night, the fever broke, and I finally got warm. I was then able to eat a little, take some pain killers, and then sleep soundly for the rest of the night. And when I say soundly, I mean that I only woke up every hour for the hot flashes, which are pretty routine. Consequently, I'm just a little off-base this morning. I have enough pain killers in me now to downgrade the pain to "annoying".

Before each clinical trial, there are always several tests that have to be done. Next week I'll have another CT Scan, even though I just had one last month. I'll also have a bone scan and an EKG. All of the blood work has to be repeated.

The new clinical trial involves Xeloda. Xeloda is a chemotherapy pill, similar to Everolimus. I'll take the pills twice a day, every day, for two weeks, and then I'll have a rest week. That will complete a cycle. The cycles continue until progression or toxicity. Xeloda is supposedly a relatively easy chemotherapy, if you follow the rules. My oncologist told me several times during our discussion to be careful of the diarrhea. If on day 10 there is uncontrollable diarrhea (defined as spending more time on the toilet than off of the toilet) immediately stop taking the Xeloda and call the treatment center. Do not (and she repeated this several times) continue to take the pills up until day 14. She said that cancer patients are so good about staying on their medication that they become stubborn about stopping, thinking that they can tough out the side effects. This will not be the time to be a trooper. She said that it was like having a fire and then throwing gasoline on it. By day 14, she has to admit patients to the hospital because they can not stop the "pooping" at that point. If I call the treatment center, they can adjust the dosage for the next cycle and prescribe something for the diarrhea. This side effect can be fixed, so don't suffer through it.

The other common side effect is redness, swelling, blistering, and peeling skin from the hands and feet, the infamous hand-foot syndrome. Just what I need-some company for my neuropathy. It's important to keep the skin well moisturized (udder cream is recommended), and cold compresses will help some with the redness and swelling. Flip-flops are the shoes of choice.

Other than that, the other possible side effects are typical of all chemotherapy drugs-fatigue, hair loss, vomiting, nausea, fever, infection, bleeding, mouth sores, and dizziness.

There are three "arms" of this clinical trial. We won't know which arm I'll be in until the end of the month. If I'm placed in Arm A, in addition to the Xeloda, I'll have a 60 minute infusion of Ramucirumab DP (the trial drug) once per cycle. If I'm placed in Arm B, I'll have Xeloda and a 60 minute infusion of IMC-18F1 (another trial drug) once per cycle. If I'm placed in Arm C, I'll just have Xeloda. The good thing about being in Arm C is, if I have further progression, I won't get kicked out of the clinical trial right away. I'll then be placed in Arm A or Arm B until I progress again or until the toxicity warrants taking me out of the trial. Not that I have any options, it all sounded good to me, so I signed and dated all 29 pages of the consent form and had my little consultation with the research nurse.

While I was typing this post, I got a call from my oncologist's office. My newest issue is low potassium. I was instructed to drink plenty of orange juice and eat lots of bananas. I love orange juice. I absolutely hate bananas. I can't even stand the smell of them. While I had her on the phone, I asked if I could stop taking the blood pressure medication since I was no longer having Avastin, which has been spiking my blood pressure for the last 10 months. I was told that I have to continue taking the pills for another couple of weeks to see if my blood pressure stabilizes. Now that I think about it, in my delirium, I forgot to take the pill last night, so I'll make sure that I take it tonight.

I'm debating whether I should go to the North Coast 24-Hour in Cleveland, OH this weekend. I've had too much pain to run/walk this week. Long periods of sitting makes the pain in the hip worse, and it's a 9-10 hour drive. Two weeks ago at the Woods Ferry 24-Hour in Chester, SC, I was only able to do 31 miles. I was just too tired and had too much pain to make a serious go at it. I took a six hour nap after my first two loops (7.75 miles per loop), and then I just hung out with the other runners and volunteers after my next two loops. I did a little better this past weekend at the Bartlett Park 50K in Memphis, TN, shaving off about 45 minutes from last year's finishing time. I felt good all day, managing the pain killers well enough that I wasn't in too much pain. So, I'm not sure how North Coast will go.

Fortunately, life goes on. Maybe I should start training in flip-flops. Or maybe now would be a good time to start running barefoot.

Article from the Metastatic Breast Cancer Network - 9/13/11

2011-09-13T14:52:00.000-07:00

13 Facts Everyone Should Know about Metastatic Breast Cancer

1. No one dies from breast cancer that remains in the breast. The lump itself is not what kills. The metastasis of cancerous cells to a vital organ is what kills.

2. Metastasis refers to the spread of cancer to different parts of the body, typically the bones, liver, lungs and brain.

3. An estimated 155,000 Americans are currently living with metastatic breast cancer. Metastatic breast cancer accounts for approximately 40,000 deaths annually in the U.S.

4. Treatment for metastatic breast cancer is lifelong and focuses on control and quality of life vs. curative intent. (“Treatable but unbeatable.”)

5 About 6% to 10% of people are Stage IV from their initial diagnosis.

6. Early detection is not a cure. Metastatic breast cancer can occur ANY time after a person’s original diagnosis, EVEN if the patient was initially Stage 0, I, II or III and DESPITE getting annual checkups and annual mammograms.

7. Between 20% to 30% of people initially diagnosed with regional stage disease WILL develop metastatic breast cancer.

8. Young people DO get metastatic breast cancer.

9. There are many different kinds of metastatic breast cancer.

10. Treatment choices for MBC are guided by hormone (ER/PR) and HER2 receptor status, location and extent of metastasis (visceral vs. nonvisceral), previous treatment and other factors.

11. Metastatic breast cancer isn’t an automatic death sentence. Although most people will ultimately die of their disease, some can live long and productive lives.

12. There are no hard and fast prognostic statistics for metastatic breast cancer. Everyone’s situation is unique, but according to the American Cancer Society, the 5 year survival rate for stage IV is around 20%.

13. October 13 is National Metastatic Breast Cancer Awareness Day. To learn more about it as well as resources specifically for people with metastatic breast cancer see www. mbcnetwork.org. We appreciate your support on October 13 and throughout the year.

300 Marathons/Ultramarathons - 8/31/11

2011-08-31T15:51:00.000-07:00

My 300th marathon/ultramarathon is scheduled for this weekend at the Woods Ferry 24-Hour in Chester, SC. I hope that I have not jinxed myself by counting the chickens before the eggs hatch (or something like that), lol. With my luck, a root could grab my toe and snap my ankle before I get the minimum 26.2 miles for the race to count. Nevertheless, I am so excited. I'm trying to remember if I was this excited when I hit #100 and #200. I remember my 100th finish, but I had to look at my spread sheet to jog (pun intended, lol) my memory of which race was #200. All I remember about #200 is that the target race kept moving because I DNF'd several races in 2008. That year, the bone pain in my hips and back slowed me down immensely, and I missed several cut-offs for races. This year, I have been very careful to schedule races that I was more likely to finish than not to finish, so that the target race wouldn't change too much. My last two races, however, really frazzled my nerves.

The race director for the Marquette Trail 50K in Marquette, MI threatened to cancel the race because enough entrants had not registered. I had already sent in my registration, but more importantly, I had already bought my plane ticket. That was the biggest expense. The goal of hitting #300 was inconsequential, because I could always find another race. So, I sent out a desperate e-mail to all of the runners in my address book asking them to consider running the race and to also forward the e-mail to their running friends. From the replies, no one I knew was going to make it, but a few weeks later the race director sent out another e-mail stating that enough runners had registered to have the race. Whew!

Then, the week of the race, a 9-hour cut-off was posted on the website. I have not run a 50K in under 9 hours in over a year, and it was on a much easier course, the Gator Trail 50K in Lake Waccamaw, NC. I went to the race any way, and to my surprise, my running buddy, Henry (WI), was at the race. Bless his heart! When I told him of the cut-off imposed for the 50K (even though the 50 milers had a 13 hour cut-off), he said that he had not seen the update on the website, and as far as he was concerned, if the course is kept open for the 50 milers for 13 hours, we should not be pulled. Well . . . we missed the cut-off for the aid station at 10 miles by 30 minutes, but the volunteers did not say anything and we surely weren't going to say anything, so we continued. We also missed the cut-off by an hour for the second aid station at 18 miles, but the volunteers were gone, leaving fluids and snacks on a table for us to help ourselves. Henry said that he was going to keep me in his sight and make sure that I finished. I felt so sorry for him because I was so slow and really struggling to keep up with him. I told him several times to go ahead because he would have no trouble making the 9 hour cut-off. He refused. Right before the finish line, after 11 hours (2 hours over the cut-off), he turns to me and says that we have to cross the finish line together. It was almost a week after the race before the results were posted. Both of us were listed with official finishing times, completing #298 for me.

Timmy's Challenge Marathon in Cairo, WV lived up to it's name when I received an e-mail from the race director stating that the early start would not be officially timed because of the chip timing system that he was using. An early start meant a 9-hour cut-off, and the regular start had a 7-hour cut-off. The Blister in the Sun Marathon (#297) was completed in 7:35:15, so I was in a panic. I decided to go to packet pick-up early and talk with the race director. I wanted to make sure that if I took the early start that I would be given an official finishing time and listed in the results, because there was no way that I could finish in 7 hours. He assured me that I would get an official time, but that I couldn't use it to qualify for Boston (hah!), that I would not be eligible for awards (another hah!), and that early starters would be listed after the regular starters, even if an early starter had a faster time (again, hah!). I was fine with the rules and proceeded to the start line with 26 other early starters. In the end, the race director made two separate finishers' lists, one for the regular start and one for the early start. The early starters are not listed on http://www.marathonguide.com/, but both finishers' lists are on the race's website, so the race counts as #299.

For 299 marathons/ultramarathons, I have 299 stories, but I won't even attempt to recall all of them here. The plan is to run eight 7.75 mile loops at the 24-hour this weekend, which will give me 62 miles, but really, anything over 4 loops (31 miles) will be great. After this weekend, I will have run 125 ultramarathons and 175 marathons for a total of 300. This number is minuscule to my running buddies. Henry completed #743 at Marquette. That number is obsolete now, of course, because he's already run one or two more races since then. Larry (TX) has 600+; Jim (CA) has 735+; Eugene (CT) has 400+; and Eugene (IL) has 341+. I really am the "newbie" when it comes to the number of endurance races completed. Because some of my running buddies are not members of the running clubs that are accumulating endurance runner statistics (Marathon Maniacs, 50 States Marathon Club, and 50 States and DC Marathon Group), I don't have access to their published completions. Running buddies, Terri (SC), the race director for the 24-hour that I'll attend for my 300th, Fred (OH), and Rob (TN) are super runners who have been doing this for decades, and there's no telling how many finishes they have. Furthermore, their finishes are primarily ultramarathons. They rarely run marathons. I am not even worthy of being in such a group of elite runners, but like the true running buddies that they are, they tolerate me trying to be like them.

I ran my first marathon in 2001 at the Country Music Marathon in Nashville, TN. Doing the math over 10 years, that would average about 30 endurance races a year. However, that's not the break down at all. In 2001, I only ran one other marathon and that was the Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, AL. I shaved off a whopping 40 minutes from my first marathon and thought that the trend would continue. Needless to say, I was a little naive in the early days about marathons, lol.

In 2002, I ran the Country Music Marathon almost an hour faster than the year before and also added the St. Jude Marathon in Memphis, TN. In 2003, I was diagnosed with breast cancer, and chemotherapy proceeded to slowly kick my butt into inactivity. I missed the Country Music Marathon because I was too sick to participate. I remember lying on my couch and watching the news coverage of the race on television, crying my eyes out. During the spring and early summer, I work a part-time job. Weekends are optional when we get a little behind on projects, but since I couldn't run the race, I got up off the couch and went to work a 7-hour shift and was sick the whole time. I was still upset about missing the race, but at least I was making money to fund future races, so it was all good, lol. Later that fall, after chemotherapy, the mastectomy, and radiation, I managed to complete my only marathon for the year at the Louisville Marathon in Louisville, KY.

In 2004, my ultramarathon career began. I completed 10 ultramarathons, which included my first 50 Miler at the JFK 50 Mile Run in Boonesboro, MD. After 16 miles of the Appalachian Trail and 26 miles of the flat, dirt/gravel canal path, I remember running the last 8 miles of the rolling, country roads. I felt like a winner, and I didn't know how I found a last burst of energy to pass so many people. Then I saw the finish line, and I cried my eyes out. I was so happy to be there and to still be able to run after my trying time with breast cancer the year before. In addition to the ultras, I also ran seven marathons that year. I finally had 10 states completed to join the 50 States Marathon Club and the 50 States and DC Marathon Group. I also signed up for the UltraList. I never post to the UltraList, but I love reading the e-mails every day that I get in digest mode. I have learned a lot about ultrarunners, ultrarunning, gear, nutrition, and races from the UltraList. It's just a great source of information.

In 2005, I ran 47 marathons/ultramarathons in 41 different states. I earned 10 stars (Titanium Level) in Marathon Maniacs, becoming Maniac #245 in 2006. The club has an unbelievable 4000+ members now! Prior to 2004, I did not realize that it was possible to run more than three or four endurance races a year without becoming injured or burnt out. Larry (TX) explained to me that if you are already trained to run a marathon, why not just keeping running marathons instead of taking time off, reducing your mileage, and having to retrain all over again? It made sense to me, but I'm also very gullible. Those in the 50 States Marathon Club and Marathon Maniacs were out there every weekend, and I didn't want to miss all of the running parties. Nothing fatal happened in 2004 with 17 endurance races, so I stepped up my game, put on my big girl panties, and ran with the other megamarathoners.

There was a lot of adventure in 2005. I had my first DNF in December at the HUFF 50K in Huntington, IN. I had finished the race in 2004, but by the end of 2005, my body was just tired. My ITBs flared in both legs and with a foot of snow on the trails, 19 degree temperatures, and a 30 minute late start because I overslept, I was miserable, hurting, and behind the cut-offs after the first loop of the three loop course. Because I could not even complete the 2nd loop before I would have gotten pulled at the next aid station, I was coaxed into dropping from the race. I went to the car and cried. If you noticed, crying is a common emotional response for me, whether happy or sad, lol. I was on a schedule, so when I started having the ITB problems in the weeks prior to HUFF, I continued to run. I finished the Holualoa Tucson Marathon in Arizona (the race director was the elite ultrarunner, Pam Reed, who came and talked with us on the bus that took us from the finish line to the start line) in my slowest marathon time up to that point, 6:08:54. The next weekend was even worse, dragging the left leg for the last 16 miles because I was in so much ITB pain and finishing the Kiawah Island Marathon in South Carolina in 7:13:42. So, when I got to HUFF the following weekend, my body threw in the towel.

That year was also the year that I did 4 doubles, Saturday and Sunday races. The Mad City Marathon in Madison, WI and Lakeshore Marathon in Chicago, IL was the first double. I finished Mad City in 4:38:37 and then Lakeshore in 5:51:17, because the last few miles of the Lakeshore course were not marked well. A first time marathoner and I ran off-course right into downtown Chicago before we found our way back to the course. It turns out that there were also two 25 mile markers on the course. Part of the problem was that the race director had moved the start line the morning of the race and had not compensated for the extra distance on the remainder of the course. There really is no telling how much over the marathon distance we ran that day. Needless to say, there was so much uproar from runners on http://www.marathonguide.com/ in the comments section for this race that the 2005 edition was the last Lakeshore Marathon.

The second double was Marathon to Marathon in Storm Lake, IA and Swan Lake Marathon in Viborg, SD. I was told at the Swan Lake Marathon that I was seen on the news coverage of Marathon to Marathon because I was running in the vicinity of the Governors of Arkansas and Iowa, who were also in the race. I didn't even remember any news cameras on the course, not to mention that I was running the same pace as the Governors, lol. I had missed the news coverage because I had driven to Viborg after the race and probably went straight to bed after dinner and a shower.

The third double was the New Hamsphire Marathon in Bristol, NH and the Maine Marathon in Portland, ME. I finished the New Hampshire Marathon on Saturday in 4:58:51, and the Maine Marathon on Sunday in 5:01:51, my closest finishing times for a double.

The last double of 2005 was the Breakers Marathon in Newport, RI and Mystic Places Marathon in East Lyme, CT. I hated the old Rhode Island course and started the race late because I couldn't find the start line. My finish time with the late start was 5:20:08. In contrast, I absolutely loved the course for the Mystic Places Marathon and had a negative split for the weekend with a 4:34:36 finishing time.

I took a couple of weeks off from running at the end of 2005, hoping that my ITB problems would clear up. On January 8, 2006, I was scheduled to run the OC Marathon in Newport Beach, CA. It was my 38th birthday, and I was to finish the 50 states circuit at that marathon. I really didn't believe that I would be able to run a step, but with the help of my running buddy, Charlie (CA), I was able to finish in 5:17:15 with very little pain. That was my sign to register for more races. I ran 52 marathons/ultramarathons in 2006, the most races that I've run in a year. I did my first 50K double in December of that year: HUFF 50K in Huntington, IN in 8:03:12 and Recover from the Holidays 50K in Huntsville, AL in 8:09:49. I also ran my worse double by time in December: Rocket City Marathon in Huntsville, AL in 4:51:51 and the next day, Otter Creek Trail Marathon in 7:22:51. In August of 2006, I ran my 100th marathon/ultramarathon at the Silver State Marathon in Reno, NV, where I learned that running through sand was hard and no fun at all. I crossed the finish line with my running buddy, Albert (CA), who was also finishing his 100th marathon/ultramarathon. This year would also yield some age group trophies for me. In the France to Germany Marathon in French Lick, IN, I won second place in my age group with a time of 4:46:41 and in the Andrew Jackson Marathon in Jackson, TN, I won third place in my age group with a time of 4:41:24.

Although 2006 was a great year of running, the first half of 2007 was my best running. I completed 48 marathons/ultramarathons that year. I finished my first 100 mile race at Rocky Raccoon 100 Mile in Huntsville, TX in 28:22:08. I had my best Rattlesnake 50K finish time in 8:01:26, a race that I've finished six times. I also ran my marathon PR at the Andrew Jackson Marathon in Jackson, TN in 4:20:02, taking home the second place trophy for my age group. In the second half of 2007, I was hampered with back and hip pain that I thought was from running too much and too often. I went to a chiropractor for three months (and later a physical therapist for a few weeks), decreased my running during the week, and continued running my scheduled races on the weekends. It wasn't until January of 2008, when my hip and back pains increasingly became worse that I found out that the pain was actually my breast cancer returning, but this time the cancer was in my bones.

In 2008, I still ran a lot of races (completing 45 marathons/ultramarathons) but at a much slower pace. With the pain, I just couldn't train like I had become accustomed, and I was gaining weight because of it. It was all I could do to make it to the start line. That year, I ran my first 100K at the Bandera 100K in Bandera, TX, one of the hardest courses that I have run because of the rocks and ascending/descending of mountains. The race director gives you 24 hours to finish, and I finished in 21:21:35. I also returned to the Rocky Raccoon 100 Mile, finishing in 29:28:07, an hour slower than the previous year. This was the year that I began running a lot of timed events, completing my first 24-hour race at 24 Hours Around the Lake in Wakefield, MA with 69.52 miles. The race was on concrete, and the balls of my feet had never been so sore after a race. Also, #200 occurred in 2008 at the 12-Hour Adventure Trail Run in Triangle, VA, completing 39 miles. My second 100k was at the Wild West 100k in Lowell, MI. There were only 3 females in the 100K. My running buddy, Terri (SC), and I stuck together for the whole race. She was 2nd overall female, and I was 3rd overall female. The overall awards were huge gold painted horseshoes with a star in the middle that I absolutely loved. I also managed to finish two more 100 milers that year, Heartland 100 Mile in Cassoday, KS and Mother Road 100 Mile in Elk City, OK.

In 2009, I started this Blog with the intention of having a place to talk about my running adventures. Unfortunately, it has slowly deteriorated into a "How to Live with Metastatic Breast Cancer" chronicle. This post is probably the most I've written about running in months. So, let's get back to that.

I finished 38 marathons/ultramarathons in 2009. I ran the Bandera 100K for a second time in 20:43:43. I also completed the Umstead 100 Mile after taking a 50 mile finish in 2008. My momma travelled with me to Hawaii for the Kona Marathon, her very first flight ever. I ran 80 miles at the Tour d'Esprit 24-Hour Run in Memphis, TN, promptly and literally passing out a few minutes after I sat down for the awards ceremony. I woke up surrounded by paramedics. Someone had removed my glasses, so I couldn't really see. Ice packs were being placed on my head and neck. Someone was lifting and propping up my legs. And a running buddy, Harry (MS), had to accept my award for me because all of these people would not get out of my personal space, lol. I had placed 2nd overall female. After I convinced the paramedics that I was fine and that I didn't need a trip to the hospital, I remember kicking myself later that day because the first place female had also run 80 miles, but she had run it in a faster time. I had time to run at least one more mile, if not two, which would have given me the overall female win. But I had a goal of 80 miles when I started the race, and when I reached it, I stopped with about 40 minutes left on the clock. The lesson learned here is that, in a timed event, you run until the clock stops, lol.

In 2010, I was becoming very discouraged from all of the pain in my back and hips, side effects from the various treatments, the weight gain, running less, racing poorly, and fighting cut-offs. I don't know how many DNFs and DNSs I had, but it was a lot. I managed to finish only 24 marathons/ultramarathons last year. I did complete the Philadelphia 100 Mile and Mother Road 100 Mile, bringing my 100 mile race total to seven. The month of June saw no race completions at all, while I had two weeks of radiation to finally give me a break from the pain. I finished several timed events last year, because they were less stressful for me. There are no cut-offs, and you just run what you can. I saw my first overall female finish ever at the Badgerland FX 24-Hour Run with a 24-hour PR of 80.5 miles. It's not my fault that only one other female was in the 24 hour! A win is a win, and that's coming from someone who isn't competitive at all, lol.

This year, I've already finished 23 marathons/ultramarathons, so I will have more completions this year than last year. As I perused my spread sheet, I remembered something about every single one of those 299 races. It just goes to show you that it truly is about the journey and not so much about the destination. And what a great journey it's been! I've been to places that I never would have seen if not for a race. I've overslept. I've run injured with ITB and achilles problems. I've missed planes. I've been bumped to later flights and left wondering if I'd make it to the start line in time for my race. I've gotten lost getting to races and leaving races. I've gotten lost on some race courses. I've fallen on the trails many times. I've seen bears and snakes, which are not my favorite things to meet on the trails. I've run with some wonderful people who have become great friends. I've done well in races and just as poorly in others. But no matter what, I am always thankful that I'm still out there.

I talk to God a couple of miles before I cross the finish line of my races. I thank Him for allowing me to do what I love to do. I thank Him for the volunteers, the race director, the safe travels, the food that nourished my body over the weekend, and the weather, whether it was cold, hot, rainy, snowy, or whatever. And I thank Him for the beautiful courses that I run on, roads or trails. There's always a pretty sight for my eyes and soul. I thank Him for a job that pays me well enough to do these races and that gives me free weekends to do them. I joke about quitting, but I don't think that I can. I don't know if and when I'll ever get back to being able to train like I should, so that my race times can improve. I get so frustrated from the cancer pain and the side effects from the treatments, but as long as I can run, walk, shuffle, or hobble in the races, with my running buddies, life is good. I love this sport. I really, really do. I hope that God allows me to see #400, #500, #600 . . . .

A list of all of my marathons/ultramarathons is on my Marathon Maniacs page:
http://www.marathonmaniacsdb.com/Maniacs/MyMarathons.asp?ManiacId=245

A list of the Mega Finishers in the 50 States and DC Marathon Group is here:
http://www.50anddcmarathongroupusa.com/megadivision.cfm

A list of the Ultramarathon Finishers in the 50 States and DC Marathon Group is here:
http://www.50anddcmarathongroupusa.com/ultras.cfm

A list of the World Megamarathon Ranking (300+) is here:
http://www1.vecceed.ne.jp/~ageo/fullhyak/%82Q%82O%82P%82OYL%81@%20World%20Mega%20Ranking%20rev2.pdf

We Have the Same Name - 8/3/11

2011-08-03T13:52:00.000-07:00

We have the same name. We both wear prescription eye glasses. We are about the same height and complexion. When I was bald, she was losing her hair. Now that I have hair, she has none. I had a mastectomy. She had a double mastectomy. Cancer was only found in one breast, but she had the other breast removed as a precautionary measure. She has a family history of breast cancer. I do not. I'm only three years older than she is. She has two kids, ages 5 and 13. I have none.

Her oldest child understands that she is sick. He tells her often that he loves her, and she happily returns the sentiment. "He told me that his love for me is as big as the sun," she proudly said.

I laughed. "That's a lot of love," I told her.

"I told him," she continued, "that I loved him as much as I love God." She has a lot of faith. "I believe that it is all going to work out," she said. "I'm not giving up my faith. I pray every day." She made me a believer. I told her that prayer does help, and she nodded enthusiastically.

Her breast cancer was discovered when she was pregnant with her youngest child. She prays for another six years to see her oldest become an adult and her youngest become old enough to understand what is going on with his mother.

She has metastatic breast cancer to the bones, liver, and lung. So do I. We see the same oncologist in a cancer treatment center with several oncologists. We often are in the treatment room together, although we've never had the opportunity to sit next to one another and talk. Since we have the same name, a few months ago, one of the nurses joked about getting us mixed up. I threatened to sit next to my MBC sister and really confuse her. The nurse laughed and agreed that would really throw her off.

Our treatment protocols are different. I ran down my list of treatments since my second diagnosis in 2008. She, on the other hand, could only recall having Tamoxifen, one of the drugs I was also given initially. "I got 2.5 years out of that drug," she said. I barely got a year.

She had radiation to her hip. Her pain is better, but she has been having bowel troubles ever since then. Her stomach is visibly puffy. I also had radiation last year to my left hip. The pain is much better, and I am having no residual side effects. I'm beginning to see that even with the same disease, we are having much different experiences.

"I would feel so much better if we could get my bowel problems under control." I asked if there wasn't something they could prescribe to make it better. "Stool softeners," she said. They are treating the symptom, not the problem, and she is miserable. Although I had bowel problems from the chemotherapy for the primary breast cancer in 2003, I have had no bowel problems since I started treatments for my metastatic diagnosis. I feel sorry for her.

She is hooked up to an oxygen tank. I am so grateful to still be able to huff and puff our pollution-filled natural air. Sure, I complain when I can't get enough air into the lungs, and I get dizzy from lack of oxygen, but I can still breathe on my own. She can not. How in the world would I pull the oxygen tank over some of the hilly, rocky, and rooty trails that I run on? She can't run. I'm guessing that she can barely walk. I would die if I could not run/walk/shuffle along on the trails and roads. Again, my heart is breaking for her. How is she mentally handling all of this?

I am called back to the lab for vitals, blood work, and a urine sample. Both of us had scans this morning, so we'll see the oncologist for the results, and then proceed to the treatment room for chemotherapy.

My oncologist tells me that my scans from this morning look good. The liver and lung tumors are stable. My blood work and urine are good. My oncologist gives me another prescription for antibiotics because the nails are now oozing and smelly. Other than that, we will continue with my treatments. I am blessed to be in a state of stability. I realize that my situation could be a lot worse.

Unfortunately, the treatment room is overcrowded as usual. When my MBC sister comes into the treatment room later, she finds one open seat on the other side of the room. I have so many more questions for her. I guess I'll have to wait to talk with her again. I only get my 30 minutes of Avastin today, but she is there much longer than me. I leave with heavy thoughts about the sister with the same name as mine.

Make her feel better. Solve her bowel problems. Shrink her puffy stomach. Answer her prayers and give her another six years with her kids. While I'm asking, give her another 60 years. Let her see both kids become adults. Let her see the grand babies that will hopefully come sooner rather than later. Take away her cancer. Give her beautiful hair. Take away her oxygen tank and allow her to fill her lungs naturally. Let her walk effortlessly. And if she so desires, let her run on the trails and the roads, exploring the beautiful scenery around her. Let her live.

Green Thumb - 7/6/11

2011-07-06T14:29:00.000-07:00

My oncologist is not happy about my green thumb. She says that she has never seen the nails turn green. Sure, Taxol does a number on the fingers and toes and causes neuropathy, but my situation is so serious that she makes the hard decision to take me off of the Taxol. To be clear, the whole thumb is not green. The nail and the skin closest to the nail are lime green. The thumb is very sensitive to the touch and is swollen. My other nails are undergoing the same fate. They are all in some shade of brown, indicating the nails are dying and starting to separate from the nail bed. All of my fingers and toes are neuropathic - tingling, painful, or numb. I had long ago cut down the nails as close to the skin as possible to lessen the pressure on the nail beds, but it appears that this action has done little good. Because of the chemo, the nails aren't growing as fast as they would normally, which is a blessing.

I have mixed feelings about stopping the Taxol. My last CT scan showed continued regression in one of my liver tumors. It's down to 10 millimeters from 16 millimeters. Initially, it was 19 millimeters, so that sucker is really shrinking. The lung tumors are stable, and there doesn't appear to be any new bone lesions. That means that seven months of chemotherapy is working. I really don't want to stop just because of neuropathy. I've been in so much pain from the mets in my spine and hips in the past four years that the pain in the fingers and toes is minimal in comparison. I do drop things because of the numbness, and I need to go shopping for pants with no buttons. Anything that touches the fingers and toes causes pain, or in the case of the numb digits, a tingling sensation travels through the nerves. And the green thumb is really grotesque. Even with all of that, I would still rather be on the Taxol. What if the tumors start spreading or growing again? Technically, Taxol has not failed me yet, so as soon as the neuropathy is under control, maybe I could go back on it. In the mean time, however, my treatment options are so limited that my oncologist offered no replacement for the Taxol.

I'll still get all of the other drugs: Avastin (chemotherapy drug that enhances the effects of Taxol by cutting off the blood supply to tumors); the clinical trial drug, Everolimus (I still think that I'm getting the placebo); Zometa (helps to build new bone tissue); Lupron (injections to keep the ovaries shut down); and Aranesp (injections to help build up the red blood cells). Without Taxol, I no longer need the IV bags of steroids and Benadryl. Eliminating the steroids should allow me to finally calm down enough to get some quality sleep during the night. Of all of the drugs, Taxol is the most important, and as proven from the neuropathy, the most toxic. Because of the green thumb, I'm back on more antibiotics. My oncologist also wants me to soak the nails in warm water and baking soda several times a day. I'll lose the nail on the thumb, but maybe by stopping the Taxol, starting the antibiotics, and soaking the nails, I'll be able to save the others. The real reason for stopping the Taxol, of course, is to save the nerves. Having permanent nerve damage in the hands and feet would really suck.

Avastin is still spiking my blood pressure. I am now on a double dose of the blood pressure medication. By eliminating Taxol, my blood counts should start coming back up so that I'll be less tired and breathing better, and the eyebrows and eyelashes should finally start to grow back. Avastin is used as maintenance and doesn't really attack the tumors like Taxol. The best we can hope for is stability with no progression. Regression is almost impossible without the Taxol. The best thing about all of this is that I now only have to go to the cancer treatment center twice a month instead of three times a month.

As a side note, I'm down to essentially no running. I just can't get enough oxygen into the lungs to sustain a run. Trying to breathe in too much oxygen too fast only results in dizziness. My stamina is gone. I could literally fall asleep while I'm walking. A power walk is a struggle, but I've been moving my legs every day. I hesitate to say walking because three miles an hour is really pushing it for me. I'm hoping that working this hard has some kind of training effect. Maybe when I'm able to get back to running, it won't be too difficult to get back into shape. Regardless, I do what I can, and I try not to stress about what I can't do. I am still "racing", but it's all for sanity reasons now. I'm sick and tired of being sick and tired, so I need some type of normalcy in life. Racing does that for me. I am so grateful to all of the race directors who put on timed events or who have very, very generous cut-off times for the distance events that allow me to finish.

I've also tried to decrease my calorie intake, losing about five pounds over the last couple of months. I'm not running, so I really should have made adjustments some time ago. Hopefully, I'll be able to shed a few more pounds throughout the summer. I have several cute little sundresses that I would love to squeeze back into. My face had become so bloated from the steroids, so when a good friend of mine recently commented that my face was thinning out some, she really made my day. It's the little things in life that are so special.

You Don't Look Tired - 5/10/11

2011-05-10T15:14:00.000-07:00

"Did you have treatment today?"

"Yes," I responded without going into details. Because I arrived at my office in the late afternoon on a Tuesday, my co-worker should have known the answer to the question before it left her lips. I have had chemotherapy three out of four Tuesdays a month for the past six months. The routine has not changed. She knows this, and she still asked the question. We were about to embark on another one of our cancer discussions.

"So, when do you get tired?"

I almost didn't answer the question, but then I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe she was just curious. Maybe she was concerned. I don't mind answering questions of curiosity or concern. I would rather people ask me about metastatic breast cancer than for them to assume something about the disease that is incorrect. With breast cancer as prevalent as it is, women and men should gather as much information as they can about the disease. I won't force it down anyone's throat. I rarely bring up cancer in daily conversations, unless I'm asked. It's like with running. I won't initiate the topic, but if asked, I'll talk about it until the person's eyes glaze over. However, with this person, I know that it's not about curiosity or concern. I was going to let it slide one more time.

"I'm always tired," I answered. It was short, stated nicely, and to the point.

"You don't look tired," she said simply.

At that moment, I wanted her out of my office. I stared and typed at my computer, hoping she would say what she had to say, get the blunt message that this conversation was over, and then leave my cubicle. I'm sure she didn't mean to be insensitive, but I think she was trying to get a more detailed explanation out of me, and I was not in the mood today.

She's done this to me before. In 2003, the chemotherapy "cocktail" that I was on made me very ill. I was nauseous mostly all day and every day for three months before my mastectomy and then three months following my mastectomy. My stubbornness would not allow me to vomit. I learned early on that slipping in very small meals throughout the day when I wasn't feeling too badly helped me a lot. Those rare moments when I thought my body would not rebel were the best times to sneak in some Sprite, a cracker, or some tomato soup.

In 2003, the conversation went similarly to the one above:

"When do you get sick?"

"I'm always sick."

"You don't look sick."

I mean, how am I suppose to respond to that? Maybe she thinks she's complimenting me in an off-handed manner. Maybe her statement is synonymous with, "but you look good," which is what I normally get from other people. Or maybe I was reading her wrong. Maybe I was being overly sensitive.

She is the type of person who comes to work when she doesn't feel well and proceeds to tell everybody in the office what is wrong with her on that particular day. She's had so many illnesses since she's worked in my office that I'm surprised she hasn't keeled over by now. Don't get me wrong. I don't wish her any ill will. I know that she does it for attention. I even play into her little game. The game gets old, but I won't say to her what she says to me. She really does look sick, hobbling when she's had a foot problem, a back problem, or a shoulder problem. Her eyes look tired and sad when she has a headache or her allergies are bothering her. But just because I don't profess to the office my health condition on a daily basis like she does, doesn't mean that I'm not ill or that I'm not tired. When asked, "how are you," I will not go into a long dissertation about how I'm feeling. I have to be caught off-guard, in a talkative mood, and with a person that I trust before I do that. I will only do that with a true friend or family member who I know really cares and is concerned. Someone who is just asking so that they can compare illnesses will not get the same answer.

I don't want to burden my friends and family every day with what's going on. Metastatic breast cancer is a chronic illness, just like, for example, diabetes. On a daily basis, a diabetic deals with blood sugar levels, what to eat, what not to eat, when to eat, when to take insulin, when to exercise, etc. I'm sure he or she doesn't work diabetes into every conversation and with every person that is encountered every day. There are a couple of diabetics in my office, and although I will ask how they are feeling occasionally, I have never said to them, "wow, you sure don't act like your blood sugar level is through the roof." Wouldn't THAT be inappropriate?

Whether I want to believe it or not, whether I appear sick or not, or whether I look tired or not should not be the determining factor about my situation. I am sick, and I am tired. I accept it, and I go on, but I don't give in to it. I am not going to mope around like I lost my best friend. I'm going to come to work showered and dressed professionally. The thin hairs on my head are going to be brushed neatly. I'll wear cute earrings to try and detract from my bloated face (a side effect of the steroids). And when someone asks me, "how are you," my standard answer is: "I'm good. How are you today?"

In general, I believe that people are decent. They want everything to be well in your world. No one wants to hear about a co-worker, friend, or family member who is having a bad day, a bad month, or, bless their hearts, a bad year, especially if they are not in a position to do anything about it.

So, let's get back to my co-worker. Does she think that I'm lying about my health because I don't look sick to her and I don't seem tired to her? What is she really saying? Does she want me to look as bad on the outside as I feel on the inside? Is that validation and justification for her? Is it a case of her just not really knowing what to say to a cancer patient? Does she really mean, "despite everything that you are going through, you look very well?" I don't get it. It makes me angry, rustles my feathers, and rubs me the wrong way because I don't get good vibrations from her when she says these things.

Maybe the next time she asks the question, I'll go into great details about how I've been feeling for the last six months. I should tell her that the skin hurts to the touch when I lose hairs from my head, eyebrows, legs, arms, arm pits, pubic area, and crack of my ass. I should tell her that the fatigue is really causing some quality of life issues for me now. After I take a shower, I have to sit down on the toilet for a few minutes, to keep from passing out on the floor, because I feel like I've exhausted that last bit of energy from body. I should tell her that getting out of the bed in the morning is a process. I have to sit on the edge of the bed and wait for my body to adjust. I wake up tired. My legs are weak. I'm dizzy. I'm breathless. The mile walk from the parking lot to my office takes me about 20 minutes, and I'm huffing and puffing loudly and quickly the entire time because it's a gradual uphill journey. I have to go slowly, because otherwise, my legs feel like lead from lack of oxygen. I get dizzy from trying to take in too much oxygen at once.

Maybe I should explain to her that it's truly a miracle that I can continue to do my races. I should tell her how I struggle with the pain in my hips and back from the cancer, the nausea, the breathlessness, the dizziness, and the weakness in my legs that inevitably come during the races for hours and hours. I should tell her that I shouldn't be out there and that I have to take special care of myself so as not to burden the race director or other runners with my fatigue and sickness. I should add that, even though I am physically incapable of completing the races in a decent time, I'm mentally feeling really good about myself because, regardless of the setbacks, I'm still out there on a beautiful day (even if it's cold and rainy) and on a beautiful course (with the endless hills, stream crossings that wet my feet, and roots and rocks that hurt my neuropathic toes). I'm having fun with my wonderful running buddies and doing what I love to do. Maybe I should tell her that it empowers me and gives me hope, that I'm trying to be tough, and that I'm showing cancer who's the damn boss. Do you think she'd be interested in hearing those details?

Or maybe she wants to hear about the day after my races. I can finally sleep, because the energy is totally depleted. I can finally eat and drink because my stomach is growling and I am thirsty. I am incapable of doing anything besides sleeping, eating, and drinking, but I finished another race the day before and I'm totally ecstatic about that small accomplishment. I feel like I have a love hangover, and I can't wait until the next weekend to do it all over again. She doesn't run, so she would probably not really understand trashing a dilapidated body and feeling damn good about it afterwards.

Maybe I should tell her that my tongue feels numb, that I have no taste buds, and that the mouth sores are painful. I love spicy foods cooked with peppers, onions, garlic, herbs and spices, but it all irritates the mouth sores. Besides, I can't taste them, but it doesn't prevent the food from setting my mouth sores on fire. We should talk about not being able to get enough food in my body because my stomach feels full all the time, and yet, I can't seem to lose any weight. While we're at it, we should talk about the extra 30 pounds that I have been carrying around over the last four years, from not being able to run as much as I would like, and because I can only do what my back and hips allow me to do. Let's talk about my raw throat and raspy voice that occurs for 3 or 4 days after treatment or when I've been huffing and puffing for too long. How about I tell her it hurts to button my pants, to type on the computer, or to pick up a spoon or fork to put food into my mouth because of the neuropathy in my fingers? How about the toe nail that I lost and the pain I feel when my toes touch the top of my shoes? Hey, here's a good one - my bleeding nostrils. It is really grotesque in the mornings, tapers off during the day, and picks back up during the night. Blowing the blood clots out and then having a runny, bloody nose for the next few hours is really exciting. We could get into the constant coughing and resulting phlegm, but that's just as nasty. I do not dare leave home without tissues.

Let's talk about the debilitating headaches that I'm still having. The neurologist has ruled out cancer involvement, but I'm still having them. Let's talk about the hot flashes that I have every hour, all day long, since 2008. They are a side effect from every treatment that I've been on for the last three and half years. During the day, they're irritating to say the least, but at night, I wake up every hour, tossing the sheet and comforter, grabbing water from my bedside, and fanning myself until it goes away. Then I'm cold and wet, and I pull the covers over my naked body and sleep for another 55 minutes or so until the next hot flash occurs.

Let's talk about the steroids, that keep me wired, even though I'm tired. I can't focus for long periods of time, and even though I want and need quality sleep, I rarely get it. Let's talk about my high blood pressure, a side effect of the Avastin, one of my chemotherapy drugs, and the high blood pressure medication that I have to take that doesn't seem to be working. My low blood counts (red, white, and platelets) are worth a few minutes of discussion, thanks to the Taxol, another one of my chemotherapy drugs. Let's talk about the hip pain that I still have. Some times it's a dull roar and at other times it's screaming murder, but make no mistake about it, it's always there. Let's talk about the tracks in my right arm because my left arm can't be used for blood draws and contrast injections for the scans due to lymph node removals in 2003. Several veins in my right arm and hand have been blown. The veins are swollen, painful to the touch, and slow to heal. My arm is in multiple shades of black and blue.

I really don't want to complain, but since I'm telling her all of this, I may as well tell her about my mental state. It's really hard dealing with all the little problems from the cancer and the treatments. Some days I don't know if I'm coming or going, because so many things are going wrong at the same time. How can I issue a technically sound permit to my facilities if the tips of my fingers are hurting from typing the permit conditions on the computer, while a hot flash is occurring, sitting in a pool of sweat, and then five minutes later, I'm shivering from the cold, and then I unconsciously swallow and the back of my throat throbs from the pain, or my tooth accidentally touches one of the sores on my tongue? When I get up from my desk after working for more than a few minutes to go to the printer to retrieve a document, I have to slowly stand up and stretch the hip a little before I walk away because the pain is begging for attention. But before I walk away from my desk, I feel a stream of blood running from my left nostril, so I grab a tissue to blow, and out comes a couple of blood clots. The once white tissue is now completely soaked with bright red blood.

It's close to lunch time, but my stomach is not growling from hunger pangs. It's still full from the orange juice or green tea that I had for breakfast, even though I know that's not enough to sustain me until dinner. And then what should I have for lunch? It doesn't matter. Nothing I eat has flavor to it, and after a few bites of food, I have to push it aside until my stomach opens up some room for the remainder of the meal or until the mouth sores stop hurting. And I'm tired. I want a nap so badly, I want to cry. But, even if I laid my head on my desk for a few minutes, it will be time for another hot flash, which will wake me up.

I may not look sick and I may not look tired, but there's enough going on in my body that I know that I'm not a well person. I don't want sympathy. Am I suppose to go through the day, disheveled, moping, cursing, placing the back of hand onto my forehead, walking around the office stating, "woe is me," hoping that someone will see me and ask me "what's wrong?" Should I proceed to waste 30 minutes of their day with bad news? That's not me. Sure, I'll tell it to the Blog all day. That's the purpose of the Blog, to listen without judgement. But I'm not going to burden and alienate my co-workers, friends, and family about how I'm feeling on a daily basis. Let's just assume that six months of chemotherapy is cumulatively tough on my body and leave it at that. When I say I'm tired or that I'm sick, regardless of how I look on the outside, my co-worker should not be flippant and say that I don't look sick and that I don't look tired. She has not earned the right to discredit how I feel. I should tell her that. I should ruin about 30 minutes of her day telling her how sick and tired I really am. But, you know what? This person has known about my Blog for years and will periodically ask about how to assess it, but I doubt that she's even read one post. That says to me that she is neither curious or concerned. What in the hell is she expecting from me?

Delano Park 12-Hour - 3/12/11

2011-03-15T14:58:00.000-07:00

Sunshine! I had been waiting on it all week. An office mate and I decided that the reason we felt so "blah" was lack of sunshine. On Thursday, I told her that I was losing my permanent tan, and that this weekend will put me back on track, lol! I came back from Decatur, AL with a slight tan line from my watch being on my left wrist. I'll take it. Bring on Spring!

Last year at the Delano Park 12-Hour, I managed 46 miles. This year, I only did 36 miles. I could have done a little better if not for two naps that totaled about 90 minutes, but I still would not have matched last year's distance even if I had stayed awake the whole time. No biggie. I was just happy to be outside moving in the sunshine. The best part of all was spending the day with my running buddies.

The course is a one mile loop on smooth, crushed gravel throughout the park. Even though there are a couple of risers, I still consider it a flat course. It's a great race to push for a 12-Hour PR. The one aid station at the start/finish area was fully stocked. I couldn't take full advantage of it, however, but I did enjoy two slices of cheese pizza, a couple of mini-powdered donuts, a few chips, and Mountain Dew throughout the day. After the race, we had the awards ceremony and dinner at a local church, and among other things, they served salad and a veggie lentil soup that was delicious.

My running buddies were awesome as usual! There are no words to describe Fred (OH). He finished the Rouge-Orleans 126 miler the weekend before Delano, and he still ran 51 miles on Saturday. He will probably double this distance at the Howard L. Aslinger Memorial 24-Hour Endurance Run this upcoming weekend. I will again have the opportunity to witness a great performance as he laps me over and over again. Fred is training for the Self-Transcendence 10-Day in New York next month. He usually runs about 500 miles in that race. I can't even imagine the physical and mental fortitude that accomplishing that feat will take. Fred is truly an inspiration and a sweetheart of a man to top it off. Check out Fred in action below in the long black tights.

Andy (FL) was there. He wanted to run a 50K and call it quits so that he could have dinner with his family. He finished the day with 33 miles. With upwards of 500 marathons/ultramarathons under his belt, he is a remarkable runner. Since he was on a mission, I did not chat with him as much as I would have liked, but we'll see each other on the trails and/or roads soon. Below, Andy is passing through the aid station and timing area on the right. On the left, several of the relay teams had set up their tents to hang out while waiting for their runners.

I have a new running buddy, Steve. He says we've met before, but neither one of us could remember which race it was. We shared some early laps together getting to know each other. He splits his time between Little Rock, AR and Chicago, IL. He and his wife are trying to sell their home in Chicago so they can be together, but she still works at a job that she loves, while he's decidedly retired. He is such a treat. His goal was "40 miles or 4 o'clock, whichever comes first". He was right on, too. He ran 40 miles in just under 10 hours (the race started at 6:00 a.m.) and then called it a day. I am genuinely impressed!

I spent most of the day with my running buddy, Gene (IL). We have run too many races to count together over the years. I know that if I can keep up with Gene, it's going to be a great day. Again, I had decided that I was going to take some time off from racing this year. But that decision causes me such mental anguish. At Delano, I was like a kid - talking and joking with everybody, running when I felt like it, walking when I couldn't run, and singing (making a "joyful noise" as stated by Fred (OH) as he passed me, lol) and dancing to my MP3 player the few times that I was alone on the loop. I miss racing every weekend. The last few months I have only been racing, on average, two weekends out of the month, but I wanted to be out there more. Gene, who is 75 years old, ran 32 miles at Delano. That's an amazing accomplishment, even for someone half his age. He never complained. He talked and joked with several runners throughout the day. He ran happily. Gene runs mostly ultramarathons now and needs North Dakota to finish his circuit of an ultra in all 50 states. He kicked my sorry a$$ into gear and taught me a valuable lesson on Saturday. I will do what I can and be grateful for it. I will no longer whine about what I can't do, because there's a whole lot that I still can do. So, I will "just do it". Because of Gene, I have registered for four more races that I know I can complete (two 24-Hour races, one 12-Hour, and a 30 Miler that has no cut-off). Thank you, Gene, for helping me to see the light!

I am always a little concerned when running buddies drop from the racing scene. I had been asking around about David (GA) because I had not seen him. He was no longer on Facebook and his Blog had been removed from the Internet. To be honest, I feared the worst. But David was there in full force. He's been running but has not been racing as much so that he could spend more time with his family. He is a noble man and has his priorities straight. We walked several loops together, but when he was running, he was really moving, and he finished with 51 miles. We both were so happy to be at Delano on Saturday. I could tell that he missed the ultrarunning scene, because the feeling was mutual. I'm looking forward to seeing him in some future races, now that I know that he is getting along just fine. Unfortunately, I didn't get a picture of David, but below are the "pear trees" along the course that remind me of David - tall, beautiful, and majestic. I don't think David cared too much for the smell of the bloomed trees, but I took in a deep breath every time I passed the trees. They smelled wonderful to me.

My running buddy, Tammy (MD), ran a very impressive 69 miles to finish second overall female and sixth in the entire field. She was happy, smiling, joking, talking, encouraging, and taking many pictures in the process. She was a running machine in her pink attire. "Wow" is the only word to describe her performance.

Heather (AL) has new purple hair, and she looked great out there, finishing the race with 49 miles and the female master's win. Rosemary (KY) is fantastic in every race she enters, one of my favorite 100 mile queens. She even slowed down to walk a few loops with me. I enjoyed her company, and I'll see her on the roads and/or trails again soon. We've run a lot of races together over the years. Well . . . she's always way ahead of me, lol, but she is a kindred spirit. And she rocked 46 miles at Delano!

John (AL) and Fred (TN) each ran a 50K. John is young and fast, so I think he was just doing an easy training run. He walked a little with Gene and me and told us about his work trip to Australia. Fred broke his leg a couple of years ago at the Chattooga 50K in South Carolina, but he is back at it and looking strong in the process.

In addition to the 12-Hour and relay race, Delano has a 50 mile option (with a 12-hour cut-off, of course). Vikena (GA), who was always encouraging when she passed by, Perry (GA), and Scott (GA) ran excellent times in that race. It must be something in Georgia's water, lol.

Running is a great sport that allows you to compete with the elites. I was in awe as the elites lapped me too many times to count. I enjoyed watching them going for their goals. Jamie (CO), Dink (AL), Robert (AL), Liz (GA), Beth (GA), and Susan (GA) are elites whose running careers I follow on a regular basis. It was a pleasure to run "with" them on Saturday as well. And one of these days, I'll have the courage to go up to them (before or after the race, of course) and talk with them.

As a side note, good vibes from Delano spilled over into my health. I had chemotherapy today, after being off for two weeks again because my blood counts have been too low. My CT scan on Friday showed regression in my liver. A 19-millimeter tumor in my liver is now down to 16 millimeters. The lung tumors are stable. My bones are showing no new lesions but a lot of new scar tissue, which is a good thing and means the Zometa is still working. Stability, regression, and a beautiful day with my running buddies at Delano. Tiger couldn't have asked for more.

Black Warrior 50K - 2/19/11

2011-02-22T14:30:00.000-08:00

I love my legs. They are long for my 5-ft and 3.5-in frame. And thanks to chemotherapy, hardly any hair remains on them. In the past, the thigh muscles bulged in the right places, the hamstrings had long and thick muscular ridges, and the calves were tight as a drum. Long gone are the beautiful muscles that I worked so hard over decades to maintain. They moved fast at the 2007 Black Warrior 50K in 7:32:39. They moved slow this year in 10 hours. They started one hour and 30 minutes sooner than the remainder of the field, and time wise, they will still be listed as the last finisher of the race. I like to say that my legs enjoyed the trails longer than anyone else's legs, lol.

And what a beautiful trail, even with all the roots, rocks, stream crossings, small ups and downs, and horse poop. It's a runnable course, if your legs are in shape. My legs are not. My legs don't lift like they once did. They are like dead weights. They try, but after a while, fatigue sets in. And then they do what I call a shuffle. My feet barely clear the ground, and I pump my arms to propel my body forward. It's wasted energy, I know, but I can't help it. Oxygen doesn't get to the leg muscles to make them work. I feel like I'm running at altitude. I huff and puff trying to get air into the lungs, but the air gets caught some how, and it doesn't make it down to the legs. I have to be careful, because now, the dizzy spells are pretty frequent throughout the day. The fight to breathe makes my throat raw. My high-pitched girlish voice turns into a raspy, male voice. I always wanted more alto in my voice like Gladys Knight, but this sound that comes from my throat is not what I had in mind. I now wish I had that irritating high-pitch back. I can't get air through my noise either, because of the small blood clots that I blow out periodically. I always have a stuffy and runny nose these days. I carried wet wipes with me to take care of this problem during the race. The blood clots are really bad in the morning and then they taper off during the day.

I miss running. I really do. When the field caught up to me, I watched as runners who had taken the regular start, cruised by me as I stepped aside on the single track trail. I did not want to impede their progress. Some spoke as they passed. Some were silent as they concentrated on the task at hand. I truly envied them. Even in my running days, I did not move as effortless as they did, but at least, I was running. Now, I am so embarrassed by my awkward movements that when someone comes along to pass me, I discontinue my shuffle and walk instead. The shuffle is a pitiful sight, but if I'm walking, maybe the other runners will think that I'm taking a little break from the running. The walk and the shuffle are about the same speed at 3 miles an hour, so it really doesn't matter which one I do. When I am breathing comfortably and no one is in sight, I shuffle again. I am so very, very tired and wonder how I will ever make it to the next aid station, not to mention the finish line. And after a few strides down the trail, I am back to huffing and puffing and then I walk for a long way.

I should quit. I know I should. It's not fun any more. It's not fun to struggle at something you love. I've always said that when I stopped having fun at running, I would quit and take up another hobby. But that was before I knew that it would not be an easy thing to do. It's difficult to break an 18-year habit. I'm having a hard time giving up the idea of running. My legs were made to run, but they can't now. No matter how hard I push them, they will not lift. It's the cancer and the treatments for the cancer that are trying to force me to quit. I think if I was quitting for any other reason, it wouldn't be such a difficult choice. I feel like my hands are being forced, and I don't like being pushed in a corner. I always come out fighting. It's the Tiger in me. So I struggle on, shuffling when I can, walking when I can't, and most of the time, huffing and puffing for air. I have to keep going. I just have to. Cancer can not be the reason for quitting.

My right hip has been hurting again, so my shuffle is more of a Quasimodo move. It looks like I'm dragging the right leg behind me. But my most recent CT Scan on Monday was stable. Stable. If stable was on Facebook, I would "like" it. I have been waiting almost four years to hear that word. The little bit of chemotherapy that I've been able to handle (and stay on) has been working. In almost four years, this was the first scan that showed no progression. Stable gives me hope. After stable, maybe regression will follow. After regression, maybe I will get to dance with NED (no evidence of disease). I am assuming that we are on the upswing. I am so grateful. Black Warrior 50K was my reward (and punishment) to my body and mind for doing so well.

Keith, the race director, allowed Andy (FL) and me to start the race early. I kept up with Andy for the first 8 miles, before he found his groove. He has been having back problems, but he says that he does better if he starts off really slow so that his back warms up and then he increases his pace. Other than that, I was alone most of the day. The weather was a little warm. Everyone wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts, while I sported long tights and a long-sleeved shirt. I tied my jacket around my waist and stuffed my gloves into the pockets when it became too warm, but I was pretty comfortable all day. Another runner asked if I was hot in all of my gear. How do you explain without getting into a deep conversation about your health issues? I usually say that I'm just not running as fast as everyone else, so I'm not overheating at all. But for some reason, I wanted her to know that I was cold most of the time because of the chronic anemia. But maybe she didn't understand the symptoms of anemia, and I just confused her. I should have just stuck with the lack of speed answer. It was also the truth.

I didn't eat a lot at the aid stations, although they had plenty of food. My stomach feels so full these days. I eat a lot of small meals throughout the day, but I'm not losing any weight. Nothing tastes good to me. The chemotherapy has killed the taste buds. A potato chip tastes the same as a cookie. I'm just going through the motions of chewing and swallowing. I drank a lot of Mountain Dew to combat some of the fatigue, but it didn't last long. A mile or two outside of an aid station, and I was dragging again.

I am still waiting for the nail on my right big toe to fall off. The nail has partially separated from the toe bed, and it's dark and ugly. It hurts on some of the down hills as it hits against the top of the shoe and feels even worse when I stumble into a root or rock. The tips of my fingers underneath the nails, which are a light purple, are really sore some days, too. Today is no exception. I squeeze my hands into little balls to calm the tingling sensation throughout the day.

Emotionally, I was happy. I was amazed that my legs were working. It was a good feeling. I was out in the forest, enjoying the day, shuffling when I could, encouraging the runners who passed me, joking with the horse people, and giving them the right of way on the trails. They were all very courteous to us runners who were invading their trails for a day. They were impressed that we were running 31 miles that day. Ten hours passed quickly. Despite my struggles, it really was a beautiful day to be out on the trails. I would rather be here than at home on my couch with my feet up watching senseless television.

At the start of the race, we are on a dirt and gravel road for about 2.5 miles before we hit the single track trails. At the end of the race, we run that same road again down to the finish. Towards the end of my races, I always have a little talk with God. While I shuffled and walked the last 2.5 miles to the finish, I thanked him for allowing me to arrive safely, for a beautiful day, wonderful trails, friendly volunteers, Keith for allowing me to take an early start so that I would get an official finish time, and Andy for keeping me company for the first 8 miles. Most of all, I thanked Him for allowing my legs to move 31 miles that day. And then on that lonely dirt road, after 10 hours, after willing my body forward, exhausted from the effort, the tears flowed uncontrollably and I cried. I'm still here, I told God. Thank you, God, I'm still here.

Pat Down - 1/28/11

2011-01-31T10:13:00.001-08:00

I have been flying to marathons and ultramarathons since 2004 on a regular basis, but this weekend was the first time that I have ever been pulled out of the screening line for a "pat down". This is truly an unpleasant experience, and later as I thought about it, it was also unnecessary. And it's not just because I know that I'm not a terrorist. It's because I still don't know what the process accomplished. The reason I was pulled for a "pat down" is because the airport that I fly out of has started using the new x-ray machines for screening. A few weeks ago when I flew to San Antonio, TX for the Bandera 50K, both airports were still using the old metal detectors. I have never set off any alarms when I walked through those machines, but the new x-ray machine picked up shadows in my upper torso.

When I stepped out of the machine, a TSA worker asked for my cap. I took it off, gave it to her, and watched as she ran her gloved hand along the inside band of the cap. She explained that she was making sure that there was nothing hidden in the band. I usually wear a cap when I'm going and coming from a race, and in all of these years, this was the first time I was asked to remove the cap to have it inspected. After she gave me the cap back, she told me to step to the side because they would have to do a "pat down". She asked if I had anything hidden under my clothes, because the machine had detected objects on my upper body. Without going into great detail, I told her that I have a port in the right side of my chest and that I have a prosthesis on the left side of my chest. She said that they would have to check this out. What???

Two other female TSA workers joined us and grabbed my duffle bag and the bin that contained my shoes, purse, and a small plastic baggie of toiletries. They led me into a small room and closed the door. One of them explained the "pat down" process, while the other one stood off to the side as an eye witness. As I stood with my legs spread shoulder width apart and my arms out to the side, parallel to the floor, with the palms facing upward, she moved her gloved hands all over my body, from my neck down to my ankles. I beg to differ with their definition of a "pat down". It's more of a rub down.

She started by running her hands along the inside collar of my shirt and then continued down my back. She examined both arms and then moved to the lower part of my body. She lifted up my shirt and ran her hands along the inside waist band of my pants. She then continued to "pat down" my butt and the back and sides of my thighs and calves. She also examined the inside of the thighs, touching, of course, the crotch. Unintentionally, I flinched just a little. By this point, I was totally shocked at the thoroughness of the "pat down". I'm glad I wasn't concealing a deadly weapon because she would have found it.

She then moved to the front of my body. She started again at the inside collar of my shirt, and then, she finally examined the area that had set the machine off in the first place. I stubbornly did not want them to know that I was bothered by the process, but my body betrayed me. I flinched again when she touched the port and the right side of my chest and then the prosthesis on the left side of my chest. The breast and the prosthesis were individually lifted as she ran her hands across the stomach area, which caused me to flinch a third time. My shirt was again lifted up, so that she could inspect the front waist band of the pants and then she continued to "pat down" the front of my legs. The whole process probably took less than five minutes, but I was just about mentally done when she finished. I felt like I had been molested, and if I wanted to get on the airplane and go to my race, I had better be quiet and let her feel me up. The least she could have done was offer to buy me dinner before hand.

Don't get me wrong. I don't blame the TSA workers at all. They were just doing their jobs, and I'm sure they didn't enjoy this part of their job either. For the most part, they were very professional. In return, I was nice and accommodating. And I'm all for homeland security. Do whatever you have to do to keep us all safe. But there has to be a point where you question the "pat down" policy.

When she had finished, she told me that I could put my shoes on, while she went to retrieve my driver's license and boarding pass. The other TSA worker stayed with me. I told her that I fly often and asked if there was a way to get a letter of some sort from my doctor or, alternatively, from the airport saying that I had been through this process before. I don't want to be subjected to the "pat down" every time I decide to board an airplane. She stated that it was not acceptable and that people with hip and knee replacements have medical cards explaining their condition and they were still pulled from the screening line when the old machines were used. She also stated that the new machines would no longer send up an alert for those with hip and knee replacements. I wish she would have stopped talking right there, because the next statement out of her mouth was just as puzzling as her explanation of why a medical card is unacceptable. She said that when I fly next time, make sure that I don't have anything external to my body that can be detected by the machine, because even tampons and sanitary napkins have set off the new machines. That's just wrong! I plainly stated that I don't have periods any more, so that won't be a problem. I guess I need to remove my prosthesis from my bra and then surgically remove the port from my chest and place them in the bin with my other belongings, so that I won't set off the new machines? There has to be a better way! Using a medical card and/or having something on file at the airport about a person's medical situation would eliminate the necessity of the "pat down".

My next point of contention is that if the machine revealed shadows in the upper torso, why in the world do they have to touch my inner thighs or any other areas that do not set off the machine? Am I being unreasonable? To me, although mentally uncomfortable, they should have checked the upper torso only. Heck, you can see the protrusion from my chest where the port is. You don't even have to touch it to know it's there. And if it's a weapon of some sort, I would have to cut myself open to use it. Furthermore, even if I can't feel it, why does the gloved hand of a stranger have to touch my prosthesis while it's on my body? I have no qualms about removing the prosthesis from my bra in a private room for them to examine.

And this brings me to my last point of contention with the "pat down" policy. If the port and prosthesis were the problems, why didn't they at least examine the prosthesis? How did they know that something wasn't embedded in the material by just touching it? So, why was I given a "pat down"? Touching only proved that there was a small device in the right side of my chest and a bigger device on the left side. The x-ray machine had already given them that information. Touching other parts of the body that did not send up an alarm proved that their x-ray machine was right again. So, why even waste time checking areas that don't show up on the x-ray machine? Do they not trust the x-ray machine?

I need to research the "pat down" policy. I admit I haven't read all of it. I made my flight into Phoenix, AZ for the Desert Classic Marathon. That airport is still using the old metal detectors, so I didn't have a "pat down" before boarding the airplane to return home on Saturday night. At some point in time, all of the airports will be using the new x-ray machines. Will I have to subject myself to the "pat down" every time I decide to board an airplane? That's crazy!

Bald . . . Again - 1/18/11

2011-01-18T14:48:00.000-08:00

I am completely bald again. I really don't mind. Hair is over-rated for me. For over a year, I have sported a short Afro because I was so tired of fooling with my shoulder length hair. It had to be permed every 6-8 weeks, trimmed, and styled. If I wanted curls, I had to roll it every night, and then fuss with it the next morning. Most of the time, I combed it back and pulled it into a ball at the nape of my neck or left it dangling down in a pig tail. Even permed, my hair was never totally straight. After a run, it would almost revert back to it's natural state, lol. It takes up too much time to keep it up, and if I pay a beautician to do my hair for me, it's expensive. So in October of 2009, my sister cut it off for me. No more perms to deal with. Going natural is the way to go. A male friend trimmed my Afro close to my head about once a month to keep it neat. I loved getting up in the mornings, adding a moisturizer, brushing it, and just going.

I had only two chemotherapy treatments in December, but my hair started to shed. With the next two weeks off from chemotherapy, I thought that I would keep my hair this time. During that time, my mouth sores healed, my taste buds were awake again, my nails have not darkened any more, and the tingling sensations and slight pain at the tips of my fingers have ceased. Unfortunately, I'm probably going to lose the big toe nail on my right foot. The nail has turned brown and has started separating from the toe bed. That's okay, too. I've lost toe nails from running, so it's no big deal. The nose bleeds have finally stopped. I'm still pretty anemic (tired, breathing problems, and cold, unless I'm having a hot flash). There is never any relief from the hot flashes - every hour, all day, and every day. The hot flashes are a side effect of every treatment protocol that I've been on over the past three years. They are inconvenient, but they are just a part of my life.

The hair shedding was so gradual at first that it was hardly noticeable, but then it started collecting on my clothes. The bath tub was full of little hairs, as were the bathroom floor and sink, and clean up became a real chore. My scarf that I wrap around my head during the night would also collect hairs by the next morning. But my Afro was so short and thick, that in the mornings, I simply combed out the dead hairs and kept going. There were no visible bald spots. It was coming out pretty evenly. My scalp was a little tender, which is a clear sign that the hair was separating from the follicles, but I still didn't think I would lose much hair. I'm losing hair on other body parts as well: leg hair, nose hair, and pubic hair. My underarm hair has not grown back since I last shaved. I know, TMI! My thick eyebrows and eyelashes are fully intact so far, however. Hair loss during chemotherapy is a very strange (and random) process.

On Saturday, after washing my hair, I noticed that the bath tub had more hair than as of late. When I towel dried my hair, a large patch of hair was missing on the right side of my head, from my temple to about the middle of my head. It was completely smooth. The funny thing is that this was also the first bald spot that I had when I had chemotherapy in 2003. On Monday, I was able to just run my hand across my head and come away with a hand full of hair. It was time to ask my male friend to shave my head. As he cut away the hair, he also noticed several smaller bald spots at the top of my head. The remaining hairs clearly had to go. As the scalp was tender from the hair falling out, he carefully razored off the last of the remaining hair. Good riddance! I no longer have to worry about cleaning up all of the loose hairs all over my town house.

Thankfully, today my blood counts were just high enough to restart my chemotherapy treatments. The platelets are not clotting, and the lab could not run the kidney and liver tests that they needed, but we still proceeded. I've never had blood pressure problems, but the numbers were out the wazoo when they checked. We may have to deal with that at some point in the future. Most importantly, my oncologist decided that I should remain in the clinical trial. Apparently, my bald head has taken command of the situation, lol. We are back on track.

Happy New Year - 1/4/11

2011-01-04T09:01:00.000-08:00

"Your blood counts are too low for treatment today."

I felt like someone had punched me in the stomach. The nurse proceeded to point out numbers highlighted on her papers. None of the numbers meant a thing to me, and I think I must have zoned out while she went through what my numbers should be and what they actually were. She left the treatment room to check with my oncologist and the research nurse to make sure that it was okay for me to leave for today. I was left totally stunned. Even on my worst days of chemotherapy in 2003, I never missed a treatment. My blood counts then were so low that I had to get shots of Aranesp to help my body produce red blood cells. This chemotherapy was considerably easier on me, and yet, it had already started causing problems that I had no control over.

For a brief minute, I went into panic mode. I've only had two chemotherapy treatments. Today would have been my third and then next week is a rest week with no treatment except for the oral chemotherapy pill (Everolimus or a placebo) that I take every day while I'm in the clinical trial. I'm convinced that I'm taking the placebo and not the real thing because I have not had the infamous rash on my face that everyone seems to get while taking Everolimus. However, I'm okay with that. Being a part of the clinical trial still opens up treatment options for me if something doesn't work down the road.

While I waited, I watched as two nurses tended to a patient who was receiving supplemental oxygen. She was so small and fragile. I wondered if she was strong enough to have her treatment today. Here I was looking as strong as an ox, and I wouldn't get my treatment today. I felt like the last kid standing on the playground who didn't get chosen for a team to play kickball with the other kids. I felt like a failure. I felt like I had done something wrong to bring the blood counts down.

The research nurse finally came into the treatment room and sat beside me. The white blood cell counts were her biggest concern. She gave me a prescription for a 7-day antibiotic. She asked how I was feeling. To be honest, I wasn't 100%, but I didn't feel bad enough that I shouldn't have treatment. I told her that I had what I thought was a cold last week, and by Friday, I had lost my voice. Five days later and I still was barely able to make a sound. I had a cough that produced a lot of phlegm. She was really interested in the color of the phlegm and was not happy that it was green/yellow, as that indicated an infection. She asked if there was blood in the phlegm. There wasn't, but blood comes from my nose daily. She asked if I had a fever last week. I'm sure I did when the cold first started, but it had been before I lost my voice that I'd had a fever. My temperature was normal when it was checked this morning. The mouth sores have started, and already, I was unable to taste my food. The mouth sores burned, especially when I ate and drank. But I wasn't nauseous, so I considered myself lucky. I've continued to eat, but unfortunately, my stomach feels full all of the time, so I've been eating smaller meals. The tips of my fingers have started to bother me, too, especially if I accidentally hit them against anything with even slight pressure. The nails are a light purple. Another treatment would more than likely make them a little darker. My hair was shedding, but it was not coming out in clumps. Again, another treatment would probably produce some hair loss. Having chronic anemia for three years now, I was always tired, but I was not at the point of being fatigued from the chemotherapy. There's a big difference. Clearly, the Taxol and Avastin were doing their jobs. I didn't want to interrupt them.

The research nurse said that I should also discontinue the oral chemotherapy pill. When I return in two weeks to see my oncologist, I had to bring in the unused pills. If it was determined that I could continue with the clinical trial, I would be given a new set of pills. I thought that missing this week's treatment was just a break in the action to allow the blood counts to come back up and that, in two weeks, I would be back in the treatment room getting the Taxol and Avastin. It finally hit me that my current treatment protocol was under consideration for termination after only two weeks. I wanted to protest that I felt fine, that I had all of next week to get my blood counts back up, and that, given the chance, I could do this. But the decision to send me away was non-negotiable. It was obvious that my oncologist and the research nurse were not going to let me deteriorate to the point where they couldn't bring me back, even if I was willing and able. They would nip things in the bud as they happened. They were that good. I, on the other hand, was so unhappy. I never wanted my treatment as bad as I wanted it this morning. I needed to stay in the clinical trial as long as I could. I knew they understood that, but I wanted to remind them. I wanted to plead my case. Instead, I promised to call them if my temperature reached 100.5, promised to wash my hands often, and promised to stay away from children and anyone that even looked like they had a cold. I sadly gathered my purse, coat, and new book and magazine that I was looking forward to reading during what would have been my three hour chemotherapy session. The good thing was that I would get to my office earlier today. The bad thing was that all I could think about was that we had just given the cancer cells two free weeks to wreak havoc on my body.

Spinal Tap - 12/15/10

2010-12-15T13:54:00.000-08:00

This week has been busy. By Friday, I was ready to pull out my little Afro, lol.

On Monday and after almost three months of trying to see a neurologist for my headaches, I was called in for an appointment. I had an appointment for the 27th of this month, but I was also on a waiting list to be moved up if there were any cancellations. The neurologist looked at my last MRI and determined that three things could be causing my headaches. It turns out that my oncologist was not so far off when she said that the images from my MRI appeared as if I had had a stroke. The neurologist said that there may be some vascular issues that are causing the headaches. The most unlikely case would be multiple sclerosis. I even ruled that possibility out, and I'm not a doctor. The most likely case is that the cancer is in the spinal fluid. He scheduled me for my first ever spinal tap (i.e., lumbar puncture) on Wednesday to either confirm or rule out this possibility. Next month, I'll have another MRI to see if there are any changes. In the mean time, since I've been rationing out the steroids, the neurologist will authorize my oncologist to prescribe more steroids until we figure out what's causing the headaches. I'm not excited about taking the steroids, but they work. Metastatic breast cancer has taught me that just because I'm strong enough to deal with pain that I really should not if it's not necessary.

On Tuesday, I had another PET Scan. I'm not sure why my oncologist ordered another one so soon since my last one, unless they needed a base line before starting the chemotherapy next week. My poor veins in my one usable arm for injecting the radioactive dye are pretty swollen, bruised, and sore. I wish that they could use my port, but they can't, so there's no use griping about it, I suppose.

On Wednesday, I had the spinal tap. Like I always do, I did a lot of research on the procedure over the last couple of days. I was not comfortable with what I read - horrible back pain, inability to walk afterwards, terrible headaches, lying down flat for hours, and blood patches inserted a few days after the procedure due to complications. I am happy to say that my spinal tap resulted in none of these adverse side effects. There was very little pain, besides the initial prick of the needle for local anesthesia. There was some pressure in my spine when the fluid was being drawn, but even that wasn't too bad. Other than that, I just laid very still on my stomach with the right leg bent up and my face turned towards the wall. It took the radiologist all of 15-20 minutes to finish the procedure. The preparations prior to the procedure (answering questions and having my back scrubbed for sterilization) and the two-hour "recovery" (lying flat on my back with as little movement as possible) after the spinal tap were harder to deal with than the procedure. I'm still waiting for the results of the spinal tap.

On Thursday, I had an echocardiogram. The whole point of the test is to see if my heart is strong enough to handle the rigors of chemotherapy and to have a base line of my heart's function, since the chemotherapy drugs can cause congestive heart failure. Other than seeing snakes or bears on the trail during a run, it's a good thing that I don't scare easily. I'm hoping that my background in running mitigates any heart problems that may arise from the chemotherapy.

After the echocardiagram, I had an appointment with the research nurse for the clinical trial. Honestly, I think she could have told me what she needed to tell me over the telephone, but I know how my oncologist's office is. They like all of those warm and fuzzy, make you feel good interactions. I'm not going to complain. We had a nice chat and ended the conversation with the both of us anxious to get started on the new treatment. She is really optimistic about the chemotherapy getting my liver and lung back on track, so that we can then go back to working on the cancer in the bones.

I'm mentally exhausted. I hate missing time off from work, and I even missed my section's annual Christmas breakfast on Thursday morning at the Loveless Cafe. The biscuits there are wonderful - not that my hips need any biscuits, lol.

Over the last few days, I've been reading disturbing articles about Avastin, one of the chemotherapy drugs that I will be using. It appears that the FDA is revoking its approval of the drug for treatment of metastatic breast cancer because the success rate does not outweigh the side effects of the drug. That's my rough summary, and there are all kinds of details in regards to the revocation. I have a lot of questions for my oncologist before we start this treatment protocol. The articles indicated that those patients using Avastin would not suddenly be taken off the drug, but if the drug has been proven not to help, my question is why stay on it? And in my case, why even start taking it?

Okay. So, Friday finally arrives. My entire Division had its Christmas breakfast at Montgomery Bell State Park. This is a bigger deal than my section's breakfast, so I was glad that I was able to attend. I had biscuits, but they were not as good as the ones I would have had at Loveless Cafe, lol. After the breakfast, I left for my six-hour drive to Huntington, IN for the HUFF 50K. I was so ready to hit the trails and stretch out my legs for a long run. It was going to be cold, with highs in the low 20s. There had been snow all week, so the trails would be covered. But still, I was ready. I would look like the Michelin Man with all of my clothes to stay warm, but all I could think about was running for hours to clear my head.

It's been a couple of years since I've run HUFF. It's a relatively easy 10.5 mile loop (repeated three times), with a few miles of road for easy running to make up for any slow time on the trails. Besides a couple of ups and downs, it's pretty flat with very few roots and rocks. It turned out that the snow was hard-packed, so the footing was better than I thought it would be. I've been on this course when the snow was deeper and powdery, and the trail was a lot harder to run on. My ITBs didn't even scream that much because there was very little sliding. The right ITB hasn't been fully functional since the Equalizer 24-Hour in October, and the left one met the same fate during the Mother Road 100 Miler in November. Once my toes warmed up and since the ITBs were behaving, I was moving well, slowly as usual, but having a good day. So, it was with a heavy heart that I was pulled from the race after the second loop because I was over the cut-off to start the last loop. Well . . . isn't that just how the rest of my week had gone, lol? What was I expecting? Groan and sigh, lol.

Christmas is coming up. I still have presents to buy for the family. Other than trying to catch up on projects at work, that will be the focus for this upcoming week. I'll then spend the long holiday weekend with the family, which is always an enjoyable experience. Even though I start chemotherapy on Tuesday, this upcoming week will be a major improvement over this week. I'm sure of it.

Chemotherapy - 12/2/10

2010-12-02T11:03:00.000-08:00

Nineteen days from now, I will start chemotherapy. Recent scans have revealed numerous tumors in my liver and my left lung. Other than my headaches, which have been temporarily controlled by steroids, I feel pretty good. The steroids have an added benefit of minimizing the pain in my back and hips, which has allowed me to do a lot of walking and running lately. I am so grateful for that. I have an appointment with a neurologist on the 27th of this month, so hopefully, we'll find out what's going on inside my head. I've been rationing out the steroids (one pill every two days, which is usually when the headache gets intolerable and starts radiating down the back of my neck and across my back and chest). There will be no refills after this bottle is complete, unless the neurologist prescribes them. My non-medical background guess is that the tumor on the left side of my skull is causing the problem, even though the MRI showed no metastases to the brain.

I have been on Faslodex for only two months, which is really not enough time to determine if that treatment protocol was working or not. Some times with hormonals, it takes a while before any signs of improvement are noticeable. The good thing is that if there are toxicity problems with the chemotherapy, I can come back to the Faslodex. I may need the extra ammunition in the arsenal in the near future. Faslodex is also one of the reasons that I have to wait to start the chemotherapy. There needs to be a waiting period of at least a month between different treatment protocols.

I am approved for a clinical trial of three chemotherapy drugs: Taxol, Avastin, and Everolimus. Since it's a "blind" trial, I may or may not receive Everolimus. Everolimus is a daily chemotherapy pill. The "trial" is to see if the Everolimus enhances the benefits of the Taxol/Avastin treatment protocol. If I don't receive the Everolimus, I'll get a placebo as a substitute. About half of the patients in the clinical trial receive the Everolimus, and the other half receive the placebo. I've already been told that if I develop a rash (usually first appearing on the face - ugh!) that I'm getting the real drug. Taxol and Avastin will be given once a week for three weeks through my port in the treatment room of the cancer center that I attend. Sessions will take 2-3 hours. The fourth week is a rest week. I'll be scanned every 2 months to monitor the progress of the treatment. If there is stability or regression, we continue until the toxicity of the chemotherapy requires us to stop the treatments. If there is progression, we are back to the drawing board. The bad thing about chemotherapy is that even though it's the most aggressive treatment protocol, because of the toxicity, you can't stay on it forever. My options afterwards are very limited if this treatment protocol doesn't work. However, the rapid progression in the liver and lung worries my oncologist. At this point, I have no physical symptoms that there is anything wrong with my liver or lung. I see this as a good thing. Chemotherapy will most likely do nothing for the cancer in the bones, but it should help the vital organs. I need those, so they have become priority.

The well-known and most common side effects with Taxol include neuropathy (tingling and numbness in the fingers and toes due to nerve damage, with a possible loss of the nails), heart and blood pressure problems, and protein in the urine. Avastin is associated with excessive bleeding (especially through the nose). Other side effects that are typical with most chemotherapy drugs are hair loss, diarrhea or constipation, mouth sores, nausea, vomiting, low blood cell counts, dizziness, fever, chills, infections, and fatigue. I am all too familiar with the side effects of chemotherapy from my initial breast cancer diagnosis in 2003. The only two side effects that I did not experience then was the vomiting and diarrhea. For every side effect, the oncologist will try to prescribe a drug to counteract it, but most of the time, the counteracting drugs make the situation worse, because they also have their own side effects. It was an endless cycle of misery. When I was on chemotherapy before, I had to get injections for the anemia. My blood counts were so low that my oncologist did not understand how I could still function. I was on steroids the night before I went to chemotherapy, the morning of chemotherapy and the evening following chemotherapy to keep the chemotherapy drugs from "attacking" the vital organs (especially the heart). There is a delicate balance between killing off cells and killing a vital organ. Chemotherapy is no joking matter.

My oncologist said that this chemotherapy will not be as bad as the one that I had in 2003. One of the three chemotherapy drugs I was on then was called the Red Devil (Doxorubicin), and it was so toxic that it was injected with a needle by a nurse into the port instead of through an IV into the port. The nurse had to sit with me, injecting it slowly for 30 minutes as she watched me for allergic reactions to it. The Red Devil was the prettiest and brightest red that I have ever seen. It always mesmerized me as it went into the line to my port, disappearing into my body and proceeding to kill every cell it came into contact with. At the time, there were days that I was sure the side effects from the drugs would kill me long before the cancer. But I survived it, and I am prepared to survive this round of chemotherapy as well.

Yesterday, I was quite contemplative. I wasn't sad or angry. My oncologist and I had discussed this probability before, so I knew it was coming. Not only did the scans show progression, but my tumor markers (measured by blood tests) were steadily moving up, with the last test showing 30 points higher than before in less than a month. Because I had been feeling better, I had been making plans for more races in 2011 than I had this year. With more running/walking, I think I can get my marathon times back under 6 hours and my 50K times back under 10 hours. This will open up more races for me. I had necessarily stopped registering for some races this year because I knew I couldn't make the cut-offs. With January and February completely booked with races (registration fees and plane tickets paid), I'm wondering if I'll be able to go to my races. I wasn't able to race at all during the 6 months of chemotherapy in 2003. My training consisted of walking for a mile or two on the days that I felt okay. More mileage than that and I would get dizzy and had to end my workout for that day. On most days, it was a major accomplishment to just get out of bed and to take a shower without becoming totally exhausted. Working all day would leave me little energy for anything else. Because of the nausea and the lack of taste buds, I wasn't able to eat properly. I would have never guessed you could survive on tomato soup, crackers, Sprite, and an occasional ice cold piece of apple pie. Through trial and error, that type of food seemed to settle my stomach. I lost 25 pounds during chemotherapy. It was the best diet I had ever been on.

I do wonder what will happen this time around. My nails turned purple and black last time, but I didn't lose them. And I never had the tingling and numbness in my fingers and toes. I loss all of my body hair. I had mouth sores and bleeding from my gums, but I did not have nose bleeds. The anemia was bad. The dizziness, fatigue, nausea, breathing problems, chills, and fever were rough. Still, the possible side effects from this treatment protocol appear worse than those from 2003. Neuropathy, bleeding from the nose, a rash (if I get the trial drug), high blood pressure, and congestive heart failure? Hair and nails do grow back. Are those other side effects reversible? I've read that some times the neuropathy is permanent. If I have a good response to the chemotherapy, how long will I hold off the toxicity to stay on it? Six months, one year, or two years? Everything is speculation at this point.

After this week of news, I'm looking forward to the Run Like the Wind 24-Hour in Austin, TX this weekend. The plan is to go out and have fun on a 0.6 mile loop. Next weekend is the Bartram Forest 100K or 100 Miler in Milledgeville, GA. I really haven't decided which distance I will attempt. If I don't push it too much this weekend, I may try for the 100 miler at Bartram Forest. There is a 32 hour cut-off, and I've heard that the trail is pretty runnable. The HUFF 50K in Huntington, IN is next. It's been a couple of years since I've done this race, but it's one of my favorites. The weather is unpredictable, but that's part of the fun. And then I'll end the year on New Year's Eve with the Freedom Park 24-Hour in Morganton, NC. I really enjoyed this race last year, even though my sprained ankle was not completely healed at the time. I am looking forward to improving on the 69 miles that I ran last year. It will be my first race after my first two sessions of chemotherapy.

Nineteen days from now, I will start chemotherapy. It's not the beginning or the end. It's just part of my life's journey. I will end 2010 on a good note, and I will begin 2011 on a better note. I have work to do. It's a tough job ahead, and I'm up for the challenge. My mind, body, and spirit are in agreement. I am at peace. I still have my faith. Tiger knows how to run. More importantly, Tiger knows how to fight. ROAR!!!

Faslodex - 10/20/10

2010-10-20T12:13:00.000-07:00

"You are not getting any better." She could have said "you are getting worse," but I guess that's not exactly how an oncologist starts a conversation with her cancer patient. Neither statement softens the blow, although her approach was the kinder of the two. I wasn't surprised by what she said. I knew the circumstances even though I didn't know the details of the situation. I haven't been feeling better, and I mumbled something to that effect in response. She pulled up the rolling stool and sat down to face me. Now what? Today, with this headache, I was unprepared to handle any more bad news about my health.

She wondered why the Imaging Center did not do the CT scan that she had requested. I told her that my insurance company had sent me a letter stating that they would pay for the MRI and PET scans that my oncologist ordered but they would not pay for the CT scan. I will never understand why it's acceptable for an insurance company to make medical decisions. Since I began this ordeal in 2007, this was the first time I had been denied coverage. Realistically, I guess the insurance company isn't saying that you shouldn't have a specific test done. Just understand that they will not pay for it if you do. She said that she would take care of it. She needed the test to decide what to do about my liver, which showed progression on the PET scan. Without the CT scan, she wasn't sure if there were more liver tumors or if the one tumor that we've been watching had increased in size. She also needed that information to decide if I should start chemotherapy. Even though I knew there was a tumor in my liver, I had not been having any problems from it that I knew about. With more progression in the liver, chemotherapy may be inevitable. At the mention of chemotherapy, the pounding in my head seemed to become more intense. Chemotherapy had nearly knocked me out of this world in 2003. I began to wonder if I was strong enough to go through it again. Starting chemotherapy meant that I was running out of treatment options. I wanted to run out of the office. I wanted to hide. I wanted to scream. And I wanted to cry. I felt every ounce of energy drain from my body. My body. It was failing me. I have not been a saint, but I have tried to treat it right. Why was my body turning against me?

The MRI showed no cancer in the brain, but the constant headache that I've been having for four weeks indicated that something was wrong. I have no signs of having brain cancer (dizziness, nausea, and light sensitivity). We knew that there was definite progression on the left side of my skull. Last week when I came in for my monthly treatment of Zometa, my oncologist had given me an IV bag of steroids for the headache, since nothing in my arsenal of pain relievers was helping. She also gave me a step-down six-day pack of steroids in pill form to keep the inflammation under control until I had the MRI on yesterday. The images from the MRI showed that some type of trauma had occurred. There was a lot of inflammation. She said that the images resembled those of a person who has had a stroke. No, I have not fallen. No, I have not been hit on the head. And, forgive my ignorance, but wouldn't I have had signs that I've had a stroke??? She gave me a prescription for a two week supply of a different steroid, and the plan is to send me to a brain specialist for further evaluation.

Progression continues in my pelvic bone, especially on the right side. She asked if I was ready for radiation to that side, since the radiation on the left side that I received in June had been successful in reducing the pain. Since the tumor flare several weeks ago on the right side, I had been having tolerable pain. I wanted to save my radiation option for when I had unbearable pain, so I told her that I wanted to wait until we got to that point.

All this means is that the Aromasin was not working. Tamoxifen had failed. Femara had failed and now the Aromasin had failed. She would forgo trying the last of the aromatase inhibitors (Arimidex). My own research revealed that Faslodex was just as effective as Arimidex, but when it was administered as a fourth line of treatment, it's effectiveness was not very good (less than 20% of patients showed stability) because the body had developed a resistance to hormonals. Instead of taking a daily pill as I've been doing with the other drugs over the last three years, I would have two injections of Faslodex (one in the muscle of each butt cheek) once a month. We would continue the Zometa infusion once a month and the Lupron injection once every four months. So, I still had another treatment option, but I seemed to be going through my options rather quickly.

My oncologist also wanted me to sign a consent form to have samples from my cancer tissues (collected from my mastectomy in 2003 and biopsies in 2003 and 2008) analyzed for possible participation in upcoming clinical trials. She wanted to make sure that she wasn't missing a treatment protocol that would work for me. It will take about two months for the results to come back. I didn't hesitate to sign the 10 page consent form. I'm willing to try anything and everything. But, I have to say that I didn't even realize that they saved the cancer tissues. Upon reading the consent form, apparently, the samples can be saved for up to 15 years.

I'm having a "woe is me" day. I'm frustrated, angry, and sad. I'm trying to stay positive and trying to will my body to good health. I'm trying to keep my head up. But, it is taking a lot of energy to deal with the pain, to deal with the side effects of the medications, to work a full time job, and to just deal with life in general. I want to fight. I haven't given up. But, damn it, I need a freaking break! I'm tired. I want it to just go away. With the headaches, I have not been able to run to relieve the stress and to re-energize myself. Walking or any type of sudden movements makes the pain worse, but I can't just lie down all day. The steroids have me wired, and I can't sleep well, even though I'm exhausted. I have to work, and even my work is suffering because I can't seem to think straight for long periods of time. And I need my job. For whatever hoops the insurance company puts me through, I need the insurance to pay for my treatment. Plain and simple, treating metastatic breast cancer is expensive, and I'm not an independently, wealthy woman.

Lately, I've read a few articles about the expense of treating patients with terminal illnesses. The trend of thinking now is that if a patient has not improved after three different treatment protocols, then the doctor and patient should discuss end of life decisions (no treatment, hospice care, etc.) because it burdens the insurance companies. Also, those families with insufficient health care insurance are forced to spend their life savings to pay for treatment of a person who will die in a relatively very short period of time. Faslodex is my fourth treatment protocol, but I'm not ready to discuss end of life decisions. No thanks! My insurance company had better prepare to be sucked dry, because I will try every treatment protocol out there that I'm eligible for in order to find the solution that will eventually work for me. And when the insurance company kicks me to the curb, I'll sell everything I have to pay for the treatments. I'll be the patient on her death bed with a lap top computer still looking for one more treatment protocol to try.

I need to relax, and I can't seem to do that. If I can relax, maybe I can refocus my energy to manage this disease. I once thought that I would be in that rare group of metastatic breast cancer survivors who gets to experience NED (no evidence of disease), but lately I've been thinking that I may be in the majority group of those dying from this disease. Thoughts like that are not productive. I need to acknowledge the facts and then move on quickly. I seem to be lingering, however. I'm not afraid of dying. I'm just not ready to die. I love my life. And I want another 30 or 40 years to enjoy my life. I hate thinking about death. I hate thinking about cancer. I HATE CANCER!

Tumor Flare, Percocet, & DNS - 9/25/10

2010-09-25T08:01:00.000-07:00

Last Saturday, I was in Wilmington, DE for the Delaware 100 Miler, a race that I had DNF'd last year. But I had so much fun last year and I felt that the course was doable, even for me, that I decided to go back this year. I only ran 40 miles of it last year. This year I made it to 68.5 miles. Given one more year, I probably could finally finish it, lol. But this may be the last year for this race. The race director, Carl, and his family are contemplating moving from Delaware to Tennessee. I teased Carl about starting another 100 miler in Tennessee, so that there was another choice besides the infamous Barkley 100 Miler.

For the most part, I felt good all day. My feet were sore, but I've finished plenty of races with sore feet, so that wasn't really the reason that I dropped out of the race. The real problem was that the last 10 miles took me over four hours to complete. I was so slow that I was on pace to finish in 34 hours, which meant I would have missed my plane on Sunday. Even though Carl said that he would give me an official time no matter when I finished, I didn't want to keep him and his family waiting for me so long after they had been so generous and kind to the runners by opening their home to us. I still had fun with old and new running buddies, and I don't regret the trip at all.

On Sunday, I flew back home, after a four hour delayed layover in Atlanta. The plane was late and then when it arrived, it had mechanical problems. I repositioned myself on my carry-on luggage and went back to sleep, while other passengers griped and moaned about having to wait for the plane to be fixed. Really . . . would you want to get on a plane that was experiencing mechanical problems, lol?

On Monday, I went to work. My feet were back to normal, and I had no muscle soreness whatsoever. This was proof that my training was getting me back to where I was supposed to be endurance-wise. Now all I had to do was to figure out how to get some speed back. I'll need that for the Heartland 100 Miler in a couple of weeks, where the cut-off is a strict 30 hours. I had one more long training run scheduled before then at the Hinson Lake 24-Hour in Rockingham, NC. I had no mileage goal. I just wanted a good long run with my running buddies. From the list of entrants and with almost 200 people registered for this race, it seemed like I knew about half of them. This was going to be a running party! Besides, I wanted to keep that good feeling going from my time spent in Delaware.

On Tuesday, I woke up with, literally, a pain in my butt. It was on the right side, but I figured it was probably some delayed muscle soreness from Delaware. I went to work. All day, the pain was getting progressively worse. And then I became nauseated. With 3 hours left on the clock, I ended my work day and told my manager that I would see her on Wednesday. I took some Advil, went home, and got into bed. I hadn't caught up on my sleep from the weekend, and I figured a little rest would do me some good.

By Wednesday, I could barely move. The pain was throbbing and intense. Each throb sent a shock through the rest of body, and it appeared that I was having spasms. This was not muscle pain. This felt like bone pain. Since radiation in June, I've had very little pain, so this incident was taking me by surprise. I began to dig out bottles of Hydrocodone and Oxycontin to go along with the Advil. I couldn't sit in a chair for more than 10 minutes before I was in horrible pain. Standing and walking seemed to make the pain worse. Previously, movement was the only thing that had eased the bone pain. Finding a comfortable position to lie down in bed was another worthless ordeal. I began to think that maybe one of the weakened bones in my pelvis had finally fractured.

On Thursday, I called my oncologist's office. The pain was intolerable. Other than the spasms, I couldn't move at all. I needed to see a doctor, and I needed to see one right now. Do I go to the oncologist's office? Do I go to my primary care physician? Or do I simply go to the emergency room? The advice from my oncologist's office was to go to the emergency room and to ask for pain relievers that were stronger than the ones I had. If it was the cancer, there wasn't anything that could be done any way. Getting a shower and putting on clothes was almost impossible, but I managed. It's amazing how the simple, every day things that we do and take for granted can become so complicated when pain prevents simple movement. Pulling up my pants and putting on a pair of shoes were comical. A friend of mine went with me to the emergency room. From the pain and the pain killers, I was not only nauseated but weak and dizzy from not being able to eat properly for two days.

In the hospital, I was given Percocet. What a wonderful drug! Within a half-hour, the throbbing had stopped and the pain was at a dull roar. I was so relieved. I answered seemingly inappropriate questions given the circumstances so that paper work could be filled out. No, I hadn't fallen. No, no one had hurt me. No, I hadn't hurt myself. I told the doctor and nurse that I thought it was my bone cancer that was causing the pain, but I wanted to make sure that nothing else was wrong because this is the first time that my pain level was a 10 on a scale of one to ten. They watched me try to move from one room to the next. The doctor poked and prodded and then ordered x-rays. My discharge papers read, "Your xrays show metastatic disease to your right sacrum and iliac bones" and recommended "Percocet-2 tablets every 6 hours as needed for pain". There were no fractures, so I was sent home to deal with the pain. What pain? The Percocet was working!

I had the prescription filled and went home to eat soup. It took forever to get it down since I was still nauseated. I spent the evening watching television and enjoyed having relative pain. Life was wonderful, until the Percocet wore off. Where was that bottle?

After an hour of no relief and the pain had increased to an unprecedented level, I wondered why the Percocet wasn't doing it's job. I looked at the bottle, and the pharmacy had substituted Oxycodone for the Percocet. I let out a stream of expletives that I won't repeat here. I took an Oxycontin, and an hour later I took Hydrocodone. At some point early Friday morning before the sun came up, I was able to finally dull the pain for a couple of hours of sleep.

Friday was another day in excruciating pain-land. I moved around as much as possible and took pain medication when I felt I couldn't handle it any more. The pain medication was all mental, because it did nothing to ease the pain, but at least my brain thought I was attempting to do something. Several times during the day, I just broke down and cried. Crying did not relieve the pain either, but I was so frustrated and hurt so much that the tears flowed before I could stop them. I had now missed several days of work, and I was going to be a DNS (did not start) at Hinson Lake. I was barely walking and in pain the whole time. I couldn't even sit at the computer or lay down on the couch in front of the television for very long. I tried reading in bed, but that lasted only so long before I was struggling to sit up to ease the throbbing pain and then struggling again to drag myself around the house. I was weak and dizzy because the nausea was also preventing me from eating. I was miserable, and there was nothing I could do about it but wait it out.

Saturday was a repeat of Friday. The only difference was that I was now so drug-induced that I could sleep a couple of hours throughout the day. To make matters worse, it was a beautiful day for a run. I hoped that my running buddies at Hinson Lake were having a great day.

Throughout this time, my one and only baby sister (by six years) has been keeping track of me. Bless her heart! She was really worried about me. She offered to come and help me, but I told her that was not necessary. She has to take care of my niece and four nephews. Besides, I felt like I was being a big baby about all of this, and I did not want her to feel sorry for me. Nothing was broken. It was just pain.

The one thing that my sister and I have in common is that we are realists. She asked the hard questions that no one dares to ask. I can appreciate that.

Have I ever been told how much time I have? No, I haven't. It varies for everyone. I have outlived the "average" time (24-36 months) of "expected" survival after metastatic breast cancer diagnosis, so every day is gravy. I know of one woman who has been in treatment for 20 years and is still going strong.

Why don't I quit my job and collect disability? It's not time yet. I want to live a "normal" life for as long as I can.

When it is time, will I come home and let my family take care of me? No, I don't want to be a burden to everyone. I'd rather pay for hospice care, but we'll discuss it if we get to that point. She hates that answer, but she doesn't argue.

Miraculously, on Sunday, the pain was dull but not throbbing. Throughout the day, the nausea went away, and I ate a decent meal. I was able to lay on the couch in front of the television and watch football all day. Since the pain was tolerable, I didn't take any pain medication. I could walk, although at this point it looked like a hobble. I had survived another tumor flare. In three years, this was the longest and harshest of them all. All of a sudden, things were looking up.

On Monday, I am back at work. I can sit for extended periods of time now. I can walk. It's such a simple process that babies can even do it, but I couldn't do it a few days ago. I missed walking. I savored my one mile walk from the parking lot to my office. The pain is dull and not throbbing. I am not taking any pain medication. This is what I am accustomed to dealing with. I was back in my element. Maybe I can go for a short run later this week. I'll definitely walk as far and as fast as I can over the next couple of weeks to get ready for Heartland. It does not look promising, but I'm going to try, darn it! The race and the flight are paid for, so why not? I'll get in some runs to loosen up the legs, and then I'll go to Cassoday, Kansas to do my best. I'll run a few steps with several running buddies before I'm left at the back of the pack, and I'll enjoy my alone time in the open prairie. Whether I finish or not, I'm looking forward to it.

Following the Vol State 500K Road Race - 7/18/10

2010-07-19T06:58:00.001-07:00

As I drove west along Highway 412 (some where between Hohenwald, TN and Columbia, TN), I kept my eyes glued to the right side of the road. I had to be getting close to a Vol Stater. The last update that I had received from the UltraList was that a few of the runners had reached Hohenwald and were heading east to Columbia. It was late in the afternoon, too hot to be out on the open road. Maybe the runners were taking shelter until it cooled down a bit. My plan was to be out on the course early Sunday morning, but this did not work out for several reasons.

I took a day off from work on Friday to drive to Hazelton, WV. It seemed like a life time since I ran a race. Vol State started on Thursday morning. I knew several of the runners that were running from the northwest corner of TN to the Southeast corner of TN, a distance of 314 miles. They had 10 days to complete the race, and they could do it solo (carrying everything they needed and using the stores and restaurants along the course for resupply) or have a crew driving along with them. This race was on my ever growing "to run" list. I debated whether to go out onto the course on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday or go to the Big Bear Lake 12-Hour Trail Race in WV. I decided to compromise. I would do Big Bear Lake on Saturday for my own mental sanity and then come back and go out onto the Vol State course on Sunday.

I need to race. I know that. I've been torturing myself by taking time off from doing just that. I'm more of a mental mess now than I was a few months ago when I made the decision. Time off did not do me any good. My body probably appreciates the change, but my mind has been in dismay. I ran 32.5 miles at Big Bear Lake, which is 5 loops of 6.5 miles. That was my goal, and it matched my mileage from 2008, the last time that I ran this race. Needless to say, I was happy. There is something to be said about muscle memory, because my performance had nothing to do with the "training" that I'd been doing over the last couple of weeks, lol. I really doubted that I would be able to get that much mileage in 12 hours, but there it is!

When I finished the race, I listened to my voice mail. Diane (TN) and Bruce (TN) had decided to drop from Vol State. She had horrible blisters, and Bruce did not want to go on without her. They were stranded in Huntingdon, TN, and if I was out on the course, they really could have used a ride to the finish, where their car was parked. I felt so bad, and I realized how selfish I had been. I thought that I had made the right decision to come to Big Bear Lake, when I could have been more useful out on the Vol State course. I immediately called her back. Luckily, someone came along and rescued them, and they were en route to the finish. I decided then and there that I needed to get back to TN, so that I could get out onto the Vol State course. Maybe I could help one of my other running buddies.

The only problem was that I was tired. It's a 9 hour drive to WV. On Friday while driving to WV, I could not stay awake. I would drive for a little while, pull off into a rest area and sleep for a little while, and then drive some more until I became sleepy again. It took almost 12 hours to get to the last rest area that was the closest to the race start. I took my last nap four hours before the start of the race. On the way back home after the race, I was in even worse shape, and it took over 12 hours to get back to TN. Drive, sleep, repeat. I was miserable.

So here I was, still tired, and looking out for Vol Staters. And then I saw him. He was standing under a large shade tree on the side of the road. He is tall and so very thin. His beautiful, flawless, dark skin showed tiredness from battling heat, hills, and humidity for four days. He had not shaved, probably since he started. His salt and pepper beard was the only thing that gave away his 62 years of being. He was crewless this year and wore a heavy pack with numerous pockets for fluids, food, clothing, lights, cell phone, maps, turn sheets, and anything else that he would need to get him to the finish. He had travelled on foot about 170 miles, over half-way to the finish, and was now in third place. He held first place for a while, until he mistakenly took a 6 mile detour and was passed by two other runners. He had been napping when he stopped to get something to eat but had not slept for any extended time during these four days. He was not eating very well. Being a vegan, he had very few food choices at the fast food places and restaurants along the way. And when I realized it was him, I blew the horn and found a place to turn around in the middle of the two lane highway. I parked in a gravel drive way leading onto expansive farm land. When he saw me, I thought he smiled just a little. Fred (OH), my running buddy for the past three years, was so very tired. Nothing that I had been through in the last three days compared to his last four days.

We hugged each other for a long time. The Delano Park 12-Hour in March was the last race we had run together. He had since completed several races including the Umstead 100 Miler, the Self-Transcendence 10-Day (505 miles), a 48-hour race (137 miles), Pineland Farms 50 Miler, and the Mohican 100 Miler. I will never be in his league, but he tolerates my hero-worship of his running abilities and, more importantly, of the wonderful person that he is.

I told him to sit in the car and get cooled off. But I had forgotten. He does not like the cold air, even in this heat. It cramps him up. So we sat with the doors open. I offered him cold water, Coke, Gatorade, chips, oranges, and oatmeal cream pies, even though I knew he couldn't have the cream pies. He took the water and Gatorade and filled a couple of his bottles. We talked about his experience so far. I tried to follow along, but now that he was sitting, he was falling asleep and not making much sense. Or maybe I was too brain dead to comprehend what he was saying. I told him to take his time, get cooled off, and rest just a little. He insisted that he didn't want to lie down, so he only closed his eyes and maybe napped for 10-15 minutes. I dozed, but I also watched the highway for other Vol Staters. No one was close to him.

He jerked. And then he was on the move. I reparked the car, so that it faced the highway, near some overgrown shrubbery. I locked the doors and grabbed a Gatorade, and we headed back out onto the highway. I would walk the next 10 miles with him. He couldn't run, because he had not had any sleep. If he had been running, I would not have been able to keep up with him. I doubted that I would be able to keep up with his walking. He commented that he had been slowly walking for hours now. That was all that he could do as tired as he was. He wanted to get to Columbia, have some good pasta, and sleep at the restaurant for 2 hours, before continuing on. I was determined to go with him. Since he was in the solo category, there was only so much I could do for him. I knew I couldn't "mule" for him. He had to carry his own supplies. The pack looked like it weighed as much as he did. I wanted to lift him and the pack onto my back and carry him into Columbia. I am built like a tank compared to Fred.

The highway had a narrow strip barely wide enough for us to walk side by side. When cars approached us, I ducked behind Fred, so that he wouldn't have to make any extra movements, using precious energy. This was a busy little highway, with the speed limit set at 55 mph. Everyone seemed to be going faster than that. The considerate drivers moved over and waved to us. Others looked like they were gunning for us and would just enjoy knocking us off the road. The hills rolled, and the sun beamed. A breeze would come along every now and then, and we would comment on how good it felt. There was no shade. There was farm land, houses scattered here and there, and many miles ahead. We talked about various things, and we fell silent more than once. What do you say to a person doing a monumental thing such as this? I was just in awe of the Vol Staters.

After 2-3 miles, we saw the race director, Gary. He and his daughter were driving the course checking on runners. I had not seen him since the Run Under the Stars 10-Hour Race in 2009. He asked if Fred was now being helped. I reassured him that Fred was still going solo. I doubt that he heard me, because a truck came barreling down the highway just at that moment. We stopped and talked a little, but if Fred was on his feet, he needed to be moving, so we continued on.

A little later, Fred started weaving in the strip. His hallucinations had been pretty vivid. A shrub turned into a dead animal with the legs up in the air. Another one looked like a large poodle. We saw a shady spot and crossed the street. We sat for a couple of minutes. I have been wanting to do this race for years as a solo, planning to push a baby jogger with my supplies. Now, seeing Fred and how tired but still determined that he was, I wasn't sure that I had a Vol State in me.

Before I knew it, he was up, and we were on the move again. We were coming into town now. We passed a sign that said 4 miles to downtown Columbia. Flo, Fred's wife, had crewed for him last year. He had dropped from the race once he arrived into Columbia. He had fallen behind on the schedule that he set for himself to finish the race in time to take his mother to a military ceremony honoring his deceased father in Texas. He wouldn't let his mother miss such an important event, so he dropped from the race. But this year, he was determined to finish. Beyond Columbia would be all new territory for him.

We spotted a laundromat. Fred said that he would check out the facilities, wash and dry some clothes, and take a nap. In the mean time, I would go back the five miles to get the car and bring it to the laundromat. It turned out to be the longest five miles of my life. I tried to run some of it and power walk as fast as I could, but I was drained. All I wanted was for someone to offer me a ride back to the car. No one did.

I finally made it to the car. It seemed to have taken longer to get there than it had taken for us to get to the laundromat. I grabbed a Coke, some water, and a bag of chips and drove back to the laundromat. I still saw no other Vol Staters behind Fred.

I was afraid that Fred would be gone by the time I got back, but he was still there. His clothes had just finished drying, and he was talking with a local about the race. He had not taken a nap. I reprimanded him like he was my child. Why didn't he sleep?

I gave him a Coke and a bag of chips. He reorganized his pack, grabbed his cell phone that had been recharging, and he was back onto the road. This time I would drive the car ahead into Columbia and then run back to him, walking with him back into town.

When I drove into Columbia, I saw Juli (IL). I had read the update on the UltraList about her severe sunburn. The description did not do her legs justice. Her legs were as red as a tomato. She now wore a long sleeve white shirt to protect what was left of her skin on her upper body. I immediately pulled off the road, parked, and walked back to her. I gave her a hug. Only afterwards did I think that I must have hurt her because of the sunburn. But she didn't complain. She asked how I was doing. My life is boring compared to hers right now. I wanted to hear about her experience. She rapidly told me that she had just finished a 2 hour nap, she had shared some time with Fred on the course, and that she hadn't been able to blog about the experience as much as she would have liked. "We've been kind of busy," she said. Well . . . yes, Juli, that's an under statement, lol. She said that she was enjoying herself. Severe sunburn, blisters on her feet, hills, heat, humidity, 314 miles of road running from start to finish, and she was enjoying herself. I had never done what she and the other Vol Staters were doing, but as I thought about what she said, I understood exactly what she meant. Maybe I did have it in me to do the Vol State one day.

Juli's husband, Val, has been crewing for her. He came running towards us to check up on her. I gave him a hug and told him to take good care of Juli, even though I already knew that he would. I hugged Juli again, trying to be conscious of the sunburn and not to grab her too tightly. As I drove off, I saw Val directing Juli to make a left turn onto Highway 50. There was a Shoney's at the corner and a hotel across the street from there. Gary had said that a couple of Vol Staters were planning to take a break at the hotel. For whatever reason, I parked the car there and ran/walked back to Fred.

About 3 miles later, I saw Fred. He said that a local had asked him to take a break and have a beer with him. Fred declined and opted to keep moving, lol. Don (TX) was hot on his tail. His crew person (I forgot his name), was just up ahead. When he took our photo, we joked with him that he was holding Fred up, so that Don could pass him, lol. Once we made it to Columbia's town square, Don did catch Fred. We all took another photo and chatted only a few minutes. At this point, however, Fred was not in jeopardy of losing his 3rd place position because Don was taking a break in the SUV with his crew person. Even though the Vol State is a race, runners know that they are not in competition with each other. They are competing against their minds, bodies, spirits, the hills, the miles, the heat, and the fatigue. It's irrelevant to be concerned about what another runner is doing because that runner is fighting the same demons. You just keep moving forward when you have to and stop only when there's a real need. Therefore, Fred and I made our way to Shoney's.

We had dinner at Shoney's, but the pasta that he ordered was not enough to fill him up. He couldn't eat the bread because of the butter, and for some reason, the rice that he had ordered was fixed with a creamy sauce (indicating a milk product), so he couldn't eat that either. Now we had to search for some additional food for him. There was also a Captain D's in the area. He was able to get fried okra and potatoes. He said that he'd been eating a lot of french fries and baked potatoes over the past four days and was growing tired of potatoes. To me, it still wasn't enough food for him, considering how far he had gone today, but he said that it would last him until he could have breakfast the next morning. Looking for more food had cut into his nap time, so he was going to take the food with him and continue on down the road. We had checked at the hotel for room rates, but it was more expensive than he wanted to pay for a few hours of sleep. He would just have to try and find some where else to sleep before the night was out.

I didn't want to leave him. I was in a rental car for my 3-day weekend, and it was due back at 11:00 p.m. It was about an hour's drive home for me, and I still had to go to work on Monday morning. I hugged him again. I told him to try to sleep and to be careful. He had his headlamp and a small handheld flashlight. He also had reflectors around his lower legs and on his pack. He took another bottle of water, and I watched him walk away from me in the night heading east on Highway 50. I was so sad. Had I done enough for my friend? Ten miles with him today was a drop in the bucket. He was now at about 180 miles into the race, and he still had so far to go. Knowing Fred, he would finish. I admire my friend. I want to be just like him when I grow up.

Go Vol Staters! Onward to the finish at Castle Rock, GA!

Four Mile Run - 7/1/10

2010-07-02T05:44:00.000-07:00

Unfortunately, my poor little running Blog has turned into a "how to battle cancer" dissertation. Therefore, today, I'm going to merge the two subject matters (since they are inseparable any way) into one post and see what happens, lol.

On Thursday, 6/24/10, I finished the last of 10 sessions of radiation treatments to my left hip in an effort to ease some of the pain that has been intensifying over the last few months. I'm happy to say I "graduated," as everyone in the radiation office says, with honors. I received several hugs and well wishes, and then I was asked to ring the hand bell (it's a tradition) before I left the office. Everyone who heard the ringing of the bell clapped for me. That was pretty cool!

I have a rather uncomfortable burn in the groin area, which has turned dark. The dead skin has started to peel away. At least my pantie lines no longer rub the area annoyingly raw any more. Also, because the radiation beams penetrate the hip area, my gastrointestinal tract seems to have been effected. Elimination has been difficult, but even that appears to be clearing up and returning to normal. Too much information, I know, lol. Other than that, I'm no worse for the wear. The good news is that the pain has eased up, and the radiologist says that over the next few weeks it will probably get even better. He also told me that, more than likely, I will not have to return to have that area radiated again. Of course, if there are new areas at a later date that start to give me problems, he can radiate those areas as well. Needless to say, I am a satisfied customer.

With the increased pain, I had really been neglecting my running. I had been pulled for time at the Another Dam 50K in Englewood, OH on 6/5/10. This is a race that I had finished easily in the past. Since then I had not run a step. I had been doing some short walks here and there for sanity reasons, but I was not training. I cancelled my trip to the Moonlight Boogie 50 Miler the weekend after AD50K, because I didn't feel like I could make the intermediate cut-off of 40 miles in 10 hours. I have become that slow. My walk is closer to 3 mph than 4 mph, and my running pace, if you want to call it that, is around 3.5-4 mph at my fastest. I have a lot of work to do.

I also withdrew my registration for the Viaduct Trail 100 Miler on 8/7/10. Even with a month of solid training, I would not be in shape to complete a 100 miles. I really wanted to go back and redeem myself from last year, but there is a long wait list to get into this race, so I wanted to withdraw early enough to give another runner a chance to get in and to make travel arrangements. I'm still planning to return to the Heartland 100 Miler in October and the Mother Road 100 Miler in November. Three months is not a lot of training, but I'm hoping that I still have some muscle memory going on in my legs. I'll have to scramble around for some marathons/ultramarathons in August and September to supplement my training, but I think I can pull this off.

It wasn't that I didn't want to run. I did. I truly did. It's just that the pain, the fatigue, the hot flashes, and the breathing issues were sucking out the fun of the run. Even some of my walks were labored, causing me to question why I was even trying. My issues had just been going on for far too long, wearing me down, and I was getting discouraged. But the radiation treatments have given me hope. My mind has been energized, and it is pushing my body to follow. With less pain, I can actually engage my hips on the run. I hadn't been able to do that since June of 2007, when I first noticed that the little aches and pains in my hips and back were getting worse. When I noticed that the radiation treatments were working, I decided that I would restart "running" on July 1, 2010.

My seasonal part-time job for this year ended on 6/29/10. Working two jobs is exhausting, even without the fatigue from the anemia. Needless to say, I've been a zombie for the last 3 months. But with only my regular full-time job now, I can get in the bed at a decent hour and feel a little better on a day-to-day basis. Over the next few weeks, I have committed to working some extra hours to try and complete some lingering projects, but that's still less hours a week than having a part-time job. The good thing is that by the time I leave my office, the temperature is bearable, and the traffic in the downtown area is tolerable.

It has been hot for weeks now, but yesterday was the coolest day of the summer with very little humidity. It was like Mother Nature was calling me back to the run, and I answered that call. I packed my running gear and took my duffel bag to the office with me. Our parking lots are about a mile from my office. Even though we have shuttle service, in the 14 years that I've worked my current job, I have taken the shuttle probably twice. If I drive to work, I always walk to and from the office. You'd be surprised how many people are standing in line for the shuttle, even when the weather is perfect for walking. Some days when I have extra time, I leave my Tiburon at home, and I walk to and from work, which according to Mapquest is only 4.93 miles each way. I'll be incorporating some of those walks into my training over the next several months.

I am woefully out of condition, so yesterday's run was a short four miler to judge how much damage has been done. No matter how slow, I wanted to sustain the run with no walk breaks. My downtown four miler starts with a mile around the Bicentennial Mall, a scenic park-like exhibit of Tennessee history. The Farmer's Market is next to the Mall, and the Capitol is across the street from the Mall. I have run up the many steps to the Capitol (picture me as Rocky, running up the steps of the Art Museum in Philadelphia), but today, I would take it easy and run the gradual hill around the Capitol. Well . . . this gradual hill is not easy when you're out of shape, lol. My heart was beating like it would explode from my chest, but I made it to the top without stopping. A red light held me at a stand still while I caught my breath. I remembered the days when a red light meant I would jog in place until it was my turn to go. Today, I would not push my luck, lol. I stood there and recuperated and then took off running again.

I turned left to climb the easier hill up to the YMCA and then turned right to run across the Church Street Bridge. I always watch the trains lined up on the tracks below the bridge. At the end of the bridge is the building for NES (Nashville Electric Service). A left turn from here heads toward West End Blvd. This is the first street that the Country Music Marathon runs along. I then pass the famous Union Station Hotel and the Bridgestone Arena, home of the Nashville Predators and where many concerts are held. I always enjoy this little stretch because it's basically down hill for almost a mile. I tried to push the pace a little here, but I was struggling with my leg turn-over. I was choppy at best, when I used to be as smooth as butter along this section. I'll get that back. I know I will. My hips were engaged, but just not at 100%, and the bouncing of my upper body was not as bad as it's been. I could tell that my hips were sharing the weight, because I wasn't leaning toward the side of least resistance. Damn, that radiation had done wonders for my hips!

I made a left turn to go pass the Convention Center and head up a long steep hill. It was dusk dark, and happy hour at the downtown bars, restaurants, and clubs was nearly over. It's always fun to see those a little too happy trying to climb this hill. I can't tell you how many times people have asked me how I could run up this hill when they could barely walk it. Today, it was a slow run, but I was definitely running up the hill. I was huffing, puffing, and sweating a little just to prove that I was working. And it felt good. It felt really good. I passed a group surrounding one guy sitting on the curb as they waited for the traffic light to change. I overheard his friends tell him that they were going to take him to the hotel as they pulled him to his feet. Too much happy hour, I thought, lol. Almost to the top and another group was waiting for their companion to catch his breath before going on, but I kept moving. I wanted to stop and catch my breath, too, but I would wait until the next traffic light, lol.

I turned right and ran right by my office building, the L&C Tower. With 31 floors, years ago, this was the tallest building in Nashville, but it has since lost its status and has been replaced by the AT&T (formerly BellSouth) building. Locals affectionately call it the "Bat Building". I am now running a slight one mile down hill back to my car in the parking lot, passing Music City Central, our relatively new dispatch area for the Metro Buses, and the Municipal Auditorium, where I've attended many, many concerts in the past. It has been a good run. I am tired. It has taken a solid hour to run my favorite four miler, but that's okay. I now have an idea of the amount of work that needs to be done. It's unpaid but fun work. And it looks like I'll be starting from scratch almost, but I have to do it. In the past, this four miler was an easy day (i.e., the day after a weekend marathon or ultra), and I've run this four miler in sub-40 minutes for years. That's not fast either, but right now, that's lightning speed for me. I'll get that back, too. It will take some time, but I'll run that easily again.

The Rattlesnake 50K, one of my favorites, is on July 10. I will not be ready for it, and I'm still on the fence about whether to go or not. The 10 climbs will kill me if I'm not prepared. I need to be able to run the down hills to make up time to be able to finish under the 10 hour cut-off. I've never been able to run the up hills in that race, but I have power-hiked those bad boys with a vengeance, something I can't do nine days from now. On July 17 is the Big Bear Lake 12-Hour. I'll definitely go to that race and put in as many miles as I can.

It's Friday, and the day before a long, holiday weekend. It's quiet in the office as a lot of my co-workers are making it a 4-day weekend. I'll work about 10 hours today, and hopefully get a lot of work done on a few projects, and then head out for another run. Maybe I'll do my 6 miler today, lol. That will incorporate the Schermerhorn, home of the Nashville Symphony, and the Walking Bridge to the Tennessee Titans' Stadium. It's another cool summer day today. Mother Nature wants me to join her. I can't wait.

Radiation Treatments - 6/11/10

2010-06-14T06:41:00.000-07:00

It's amazing how much I remembered of the radiation office in the cancer treatment center that I attend. It's been seven years since my last radiation treatment. At the time, I had five weeks of treatment, every day, Monday through Friday, totaling 25 treatments. I came away with badly burned skin that healed over several weeks and a good prognosis that we had killed off any remaining cancer cells in the left side of my chest. I didn't think I would ever have to come back, but here I was again.

The radiation office is in the building behind my oncologist's office and is in the basement. The first thing you notice is that there are no windows. And when I say it's in the basement, it's really buried. Even with lighting, it still seems to be dark and hidden away from the rest of the world. You take the elevator from the main entrance, go down a level, and then you follow the many, many directional signs to the radiation office. It's a maze. Without the signs, one would surely end up in another place and time.

The beautiful, shiny hardwood floor is my first memory. I instantly want that floor in my home, but I imagine that the upkeep would be a nightmare. The place had not changed since I'd been gone, but I'm pretty sure that the receptionist that greeted me was not the same one that was here seven years ago. She asked me several questions and then gave me several forms to fill out. In the mean time, every few minutes, radiation technicians came into the waiting room to get patients for their treatments. My second memory was that the wait was never long. A treatment session lasted less than five minutes. It took longer for a person to take off and put back on their clothes than it did to get the treatment.

It's Thursday and I will talk with my radiologist. We will set up a time to get my markings. Afterwards, I will start my treatments. The radiologist that had done my treatments before had retired and so I am assigned to another one. I am relieved. I don't have warm and fuzzy memories of him.

Four weeks into my radiation treatments for the breast cancer seven years ago, I developed blood clots in my left lung that kept me in the hospital for five days. I had never been hospitalized during the six months of chemotherapy that I had received, and I had only been in the hospital for three days when I had my mastectomy. Needless to say, I was not a happy camper that the least invasive and least toxic procedure had put a stop to everything. When the doctor told me that I had more than likely developed the clots from over-radiation, I was down right angry. When the blood clots were finally dissolved and I was released from the hospital, the first thing I did was go for a very long and very hard run to clear my mind. Next, I went to my office and researched blood clots from over-radiation. It was possible but rarely happened. There was about a 2% incident rate. Unfortunately, I was unlucky and had fallen into that 2%. I printed off papers and was ready to have an intelligent discussion with the radiologist on the following day, when I would resume the radiation treatments. I wanted and needed an explanation of why my radiation treatments had almost killed me.

On that ill-fated day, when the radiologist's assistant called me back to see the radiologist, she asked about my hospitalization. I had missed three treatments that week. While we were talking, the radiologist came into the room. His assistant said that I was the third patient of theirs that week who had developed clots. What??? The previous week the radiation machine had been recalibrated and . . . . She never finished her thoughts, because the radiologist interrupted her with a stern look. She had over-stepped her boundaries and had said too much. A blind person could see that. The doctor who had treated me for the clots had been correct. I had been over-radiated and two other patients had suffered the same consequences as I had.

We didn't discuss what the assistant had just blurted out. He asked me about my hospitalization and I told my story again, relating that the doctor who had treated me for the clots thought that I had been over-radiated. I handed my research papers to him. Instead of even glancing at the papers, he told me that I couldn't trust anything that I had found on the Internet. I protested and showed him citations from the British Medical Journal. He wouldn't even entertain the concept that I had blood clots from over-radiation. He had been doing this for 20 plus years and had never had one incidence of blood clots in his patients. He said that it was from the chemotherapy. But I had completed chemotherapy four weeks ago and prior to starting the radiation. He told me that blood clots were more common in males. I had one breast remaining, but I didn't think that qualified me as a male. He also told me that blood clots were more common in people that were overweight and immobile. Thanks to the successful "diet" of chemotherapy, I weighed 120 pounds at the time, and I was back to running every day. I didn't fall into those categories either. Every explanation that the radiologist threw at me, I rejected, and he was getting angrier with me by the minute. I was expecting an apology for taking away five days of my life, and I wanted a path forward to prevent this from happening again. Had that been too much to ask? He didn't apologize. Instead, I had been reprimanded. His path forward was to end the radiation treatments at five weeks instead of the initial six weeks that had been discussed previously. He jokingly brushed me off by stating that all I needed to do now was to find a left-handed boyfriend. His remark was cruel and insensitive. And it was the assistant's turn to give him a stern look. I couldn't believe that I had just been dismissed like I was a child. The intelligent discussion that I had hoped for had deteriorated to the painful reminder that I had one remaining breast on the right side of body. At the time, I had no rebuttal, and I quickly lost the little confidence I had to question my doctor about what was going on with my body under his care.

I tried to shake off that horrible memory. When the radiologist's assistant called me from the waiting room, she remembered me immediately. I remembered her, too. She had been the only voice of reason in that awkward situation. If it had not been for her honesty, I would not have understood what had happened to me years ago. Whether she remembered that particular incident will remain a question. At this point, we needed to concentrate on what was happening presently.

She asked me a few follow-up questions about the forms that I had just filled out. My old records were stored off-site, so it was like I was a new patient. If needed, they would access them for additional information. After she left, a few minutes later a nurse practitioner entered the room. I did not remember her from the past, and as she shook my hand and studied my face, she plainly stated that she was trying to remember if she'd worked with me before. Seven years is a long time, and we came to the quiet conclusion that this would be a new relationship.

The nurse practitioner gathered information that she needed and wrote me a prescription for more pain relievers. Some times there's a delayed reaction with radiation to the bone. I probably wouldn't feel any relief until after the treatments, and she wanted me to be comfortable in the mean time. She told me to double my dose of OxyContin and to use the Hydrocodone for breakthrough pain. It seems like everyone wanted me off of the Advil, the only thing that seemed to help, even though it was for short periods of time. I'd been on the Hydrocodone, and like OxyContin, it really didn't help. I suppose that taking both drugs together could possibly offer some relief, or alternatively, send me into LaLa Land. I feel like a drug addict.

Next was a visit with my new radiologist. I liked him right away. He had been studying my scans and had a good idea of how to alleviate some of the pain. There was nothing he could do about the tumors in my spine to relieve the back pain, but there were several sites in my pelvic bone that he could radiate to relieve the pain in the hip and possibly the groin. I am willing to try anything at this point. He added that radiation was very successful in relieving bone pain. It would only require two weeks of treatment, every day, Monday through Friday, for a total of 10 treatments. I would come back the next day for my markings.

On Friday, the radiology technician left the room as I pulled down my pants and underwear to the middle of my thighs, laid down on the table, and covered up with the sheet that he had given me. I told him I was ready, and he came back into the room. He positioned me on the table, binding my feet with a flexible and padded oval device. He then handed me another one for my hands so that my arms were stable across my chest. He adjusted the simulator to measure and mark my hips. All I had to do was lie still. Easy enough. He would leave the room, adjust the computer based on my scans, and come back and adjust the simulator. This routine went back and forth until he was satisfied that measurements were precise. When he was done, his assistant came in to actually measure with a ruler certain points on my hip, and they began to make markings ("X" and "L") on my body with a purple pen. I had one X on the right hip (for alignment only) and three X's on my left hip. Two L's were also on the left hip. He then covered the X's with clear, plastic tape. The L's would wash off in the shower, but the X's remained because of the tape. This all took about 45 minutes. He said if I had time to stay, he could check the measurements and program the radiation machine within 30 minutes and I could have my first treatment today. I had plenty of time, and it would save me a trip down the line. He led me back into the waiting room.

As I sat in the waiting room, I picked up a copy of "Why We Walk" about the 3-day walks for breast cancer. The walks totaled 60 miles and took place in several different cities across the country. I instantly wondered if there were participants who ran the event. Twenty miles a day for 3 days wouldn't be that bad. I've run 60 miles or more in one day on several different occasions. As I read some of the stories, I played with the idea of doing it, but raising $2,300 would require a lot of work. And I thought about a recent thread on the Breast Cancer Mets List Serv (http://www.bcmets.org/). Many thought that events such as the 3-day and the Race for the Cure 5K Races were not for us. They were tired of the pink ribbons and the accolades for only those diagnosed with primary breast cancer who had become "survivors". The advances in primary breast cancer have been phenomenal over the past few years, but the research has not been as successful for those with metastasized breast cancer because it's so hard to treat it completely. What works for "Mets" to the liver, doesn't necessarily work for "Mets" to the lungs, which in turn doesn't work for "Mets" to the bones. Those with "Mets" are continuing to die way too soon and are only "surviving". The thread emphasized that no one seemed to care that some of us had no light at the end of the tunnel and would never be "survivors." And those that knew about us condemned us to death while we were still here fighting this disease. We live for years with Mets, trying different treatments and having periods of regression, stabilization, and progression before it finally takes us out for the last count. I didn't agree with all of the points raised in the thread, but I did understand the frustration. When I was told that I had metastasized breast cancer in 2008, I found very little literature for Mets, but all kinds of books exist for primary breast cancer. I have one book geared towards Mets, "Advanced Breast Cancer: Living with Metastatic Disease", and it's been a struggle to get through it. It seems to focus on (I hate to say this) dying with dignity. It's not exactly what I was expecting. I wanted discussions about different treatments, clinical trials, natural solutions, nutritional suggestions, exercise options, and mental imagery. The book is very vague on all of these topics. The Breast Cancer Mets List Serv has been the most helpful informational source that I have found. These are real people dealing with the same things that I am dealing with on a day-to-day basis. There's an archive that is very helpful when investigating specific topics. The depressing thing is to follow one List member's threads over several years of posting only to come to an abrupt end of posts from that person. Usually, the reason why there are no more posts from that person is because that person passed away. I have yet to find out a person no longer posts to the List because that person found a treatment that cured them.

With my reading and thoughts, the half-hour passed quickly, and I was called back to have my first of 10 radiation treatments. Two female radiology technicians would be assisting me today. Each day I would be asked to verify my name, my birth date, and what part of my body will receive treatment on that day. I noticed a scan of my pelvic bone on the computer. How did they know where to aim the radiation beams? I expected to see clear holes were the cancer was eating through the bone or at least different colored spots where the Zometa was helping to rebuild new bone. Instead, it looked like any other pictures of a pelvic bone that I'd seen on the Internet. It looked healthy. It appeared strong and pain free. And yet, if that was the case, I wouldn't be here.

I answered all three questions correctly, and I was then ushered into the radiation room. Again I was asked to lie down, to pull down my pants and underwear, and to cover myself with a sheet that they provided me. The oval bands were placed on my feet and into my hands as before. The technicians went about their business of setting the machine and lining up my markings. They left the room to radiate the front of my hip. A couple of minutes later they came in to rotate the machine (all done with a remote control device) and then they left again. The machine radiated the back of my hip, and a couple of minutes later, the technicians said I was done. I fixed my clothes, wished them a good weekend, and told them I would see them on Monday.

Over the next 2 weeks, I have a regular appointment at 11:00 a.m. Monday through Friday. I can use my lunch break to take the short 10-minute drive to the radiology office, have my radiation in 5 minutes, and then come back to work. The schedule is perfect for me.

I am hopeful. If I can get to a pain free state of being, I think I will be more mentally and physically capable of focusing my energy on the work ahead. I have to catch up with my work in the office. I have to concentrate more on my fitness and get back to running. And, of course, I have to deal with my cancer. I am willing. I am able. I am ready. By a divine grace, I am here.

My Oncologist Never Sits Down - 5/12/10

2010-05-17T05:05:00.000-07:00

She never sits down. Today, she pulled up the rolling, cushioned stool directly in front of me and sat with my rather large, light blue medical file in her lap.

I had been sitting and reading my book. I always have reading materials with me when I know that I'll have to wait for an extended time. The cancer treatment center that I attend is always busy. Waiting is not one of my better virtues. So that I won't feel like I'm wasting my time and getting angry in the process, I have a running magazine or good book to take my mind off of the wait. Today, I was reading "The Good House" by Tananarive Due, one of my favorite authors. I was nearing the climax of the plot, and I was totally focused on the book that I had in my lap. It had to be more exciting than what my oncologist had in her lap.

My first thought as she rolled the stool in front of me was that "she never sits down." She's like a little dynamo, constantly moving, talking, smiling, and touching. I imagine that she has an excellent bed-side manner, but she spends her time in this office, on her feet, reviewing her patients' vitals, scans, and other tests; asking them about any side effects from various treatments; asking them how they are feeling; administering prescriptions; and determining which of the multitude of treatment possibilities would work for each individual case. She is such a petite woman. I'm a good 3 or 4 inches taller than her, even though she always wears high-heeled shoes. How she manages to stay on her feet all day in those heels is a mystery to me. I wear my sneakers most of the time, even when I'm in the office. She probably doesn't weigh 100 pounds soaking wet, so I'm like a giant compared to her. She's sitting, and this is not a good sign.

She was upset because the new computer system was double booking patients, and there was no way for the scheduler to correct this easily. Therefore, she was even more overworked than usual, trying to see twice as many patients as she normally would on a daily basis. She was tired. It was a good idea for her to have a seat, and it was a nice change of pace for both of us.

I had a bone scan on Monday, and PET and CT scans on Tuesday. Today was Wednesday, and I was there for blood work and to get my results from the scans. There are times when you already know the answer before you ask the question. This was one of those times. I had been in so much pain lately that even without the scans, I knew something had changed.

She told me that I have new "spots." There is a tumor on the left side of my skull. There are two tumors in my left lung. I had thought that the chest pains were from my breathing problems induced by the anemia, and my oncologist had originally thought that I may even have some congestion. More than likely, the tumors in my lung were causing the problems. She continued. There is also a nine millimeter tumor in my liver. How can they measure something so small, I wondered. There is also more visible activity in my left hip, with extensive inflammation. My tumor markers have been constantly rising. Clearly, the Femara had stopped working. At what point is not really definable.

She asked, "How's the pain?" Constant. Every day and all day. Last month when I had my Zometa treatment and my quarterly Lupron injection, she had given me a prescription for OxyContin (time-release morphine in a pill form), that was not working. I was told by several pharmacies that they do not stock this medication on a regular basis. As hard as it was to have the prescription for this pain reliever filled, I was still taking Advil and on a more frequent basis. It was the only thing that gave me relief from the inflammation. For all the good the OxyContin did, I should sell it on the streets and get my money back. I've read that this pill is crushed and snorted to get high. Hah! I did not feel high with OxyContin, and the pain I should not have been feeling with OxyContin, was still present. Aleve, which is what my oncologist prefers to Advil, was a complete waste of time and effort. Nothing helped with the pain, but the Advil did allow me to continue to move, to sit, and to sleep for a few hours a night. The pain is really bad when I lay down. Sitting is equally as bad. Surprisingly, standing and walking eases the pressure on the nerves in my back, along my hips, and down my left leg. So, I stand and walk as much as possible during the day. If nothing else, it's time on my feet for training purposes.

"We have to switch out the Femara with something else. And I'll check to see what other treatment protocols we can try." She left the room for free samples of Aromasin. Because my cancer is estrogen-dependent, the treatment protocols vary according to whether a woman goes through menopause naturally or the menopause is medically induced. My menopause has been medically induced by Lupron, but that situation also rules out certain treatment options.

When I started my treatments for the bone cancer, I was told that we would try Tamoxifen and all three of the aromatase inhibitors (AIs) first. Afterwards, there were other treatment protocols to try before chemotherapy and radiation. We would stick with a treatment protocol as long as it worked, and then we would move on to the next treatment protocol. As long as the cancer stayed in the bone, chemotherapy would be the last resort, because it rarely produced successful results for bone cancer. Now that the cancer was spreading outside of the bone, chemotherapy was back on the table as an option.

Tamoxifen lasted for about a year before it stopped working. And now the Femara, the first of the AIs, has stopped after about a year. I will be taking Aromasin next. After Aromasin, there is Arimidex, the last of the AIs. Faslodex will follow. "We're dragging our feet on the chemotherapy," she reminded me. We both knew why. I had read so much about metastatic breast cancer that I knew that at the point that we tried chemotherapy meant that I would be running out of other, less toxic, treatment options. As long as there were pills, injections, radiation, and surgery at my disposal, I should use them. Because of the toxicity, you can only be on chemotherapy for so long before you're taken off of it. Enough time has not gone by to make me forget about the horrible side effects of chemotherapy. I was in no rush to start that process up again. Let's try one more pill. Aromasin, you're up!

Along with the free samples, she gave me a prescription for the Aromasin. Aromasin is $450 for a 30-day supply. With my health insurance, I pay only $75 a month. Femara and Tamoxifen were cheaper at $25 a month with the health insurance. It boggles my mind that a pill that is the size of a Tic Tac can cost so much. A month's supply of Aromasin is a race entry fee. Aromasin had better work!

Next month, I'll have my Zometa treatment. She'll check my tumor markers to see if the Aromasin has had any effect. The next scans will be in four months to also check for any tumor regression, progression, or stabilization. If there's regression, she's hoping that the pain will also subside a little. If not, we'll try radiation. We're at that point now. Palliative treatment is always the goal for metastatic cancers, to make the patient as comfortable as possible. I really wanted us to drag our feet on the radiation, too, but quality of life issues are at stake now. It's hard to concentrate on anything else when all you can think about is the pain. We had the discussion with the neurologist at the onset of my diagnosis about radiating the tumors in my spine. It's a risky procedure, but apparently, radiation can be directed to alleviate some of the pain. I'm all for that.

It's taken me almost a week to digest everything. Even after three years (two and a half of those years on a treatment protocol of some sort), I still can't believe my body is failing me. The results of my recent scans are frustrating and makes me angry all over again. I'm an engineer. Give me a problem, so that I can find a solution. I don't stress about the details, and I don't care how hard I have to work to solve the problem. As long as I have a plan of action, I'm ready, willing, and able. Metastatic cancer is like a maze. You never know when you'll hit a dead-end, before you have to retreat and follow another path. I like puzzles, so we'll figure it out. I also like my oncologist. She worked with me for the breast cancer, and now, she's working on the metastatic cancer. I'm not giving up, and I'm not going to allow her to give up either. I have enough faith for the both of us, and my faith is stronger than any cancer that has or ever will invade my body. There is a solution out there for this problem, and I am confident that we'll find it. I'll practice patience and wait on time.

Tallahassee Marathon - 2/7/10

2010-02-09T11:32:00.001-08:00

On Friday, I was at work, regretting that I was not on a plane to the Rocky Raccoon 100 Mile Race. For 3 years, the first weekend in February has been reserved for that race. My first 2 years were completions and then last year was a DNF. I was in worse shape this year than last year, and I didn't want to chance another disappointment at one of my favorite races. Therefore, I signed up for what I thought would be a sure thing - the Tallahassee Marathon. It was my fastest marathon in 2009, a very slow 5:12:12. I knew that I couldn't get even close to that time this year, but with a very flat course, I thought that I would have no problems beating the 6-hour cut-off.

Cheryl (FL) and I shared a room at a Motel 6 the night before the race. We have run several races together, including the Tallahassee Ultra Distance Classic 50K in December. Since then, I have been affectionately calling that race the Tallahassee Monsoon. If not for her company, I probably would have hated life that day, lol. It rained hard and steady all day. We stuck together for the whole race, finishing cold and sopping wet but happy. Cheryl tells lots of stories, whether she's running or not, and I wanted her companionship again. But Cheryl has also been cheating; she's been training, lol. She goes to the gym for elliptical workouts, treadmill intervals, and weights. Listening to her the night before, I knew I wouldn't be able to keep up her pace. She also was coming off a sub-5:30 at the Ocala Marathon the weekend before and would be gunning for that time this weekend. It appeared that I would be all alone in my struggle for a sub-6:00.

The weather was perfect, probably in the low 40s at the start and in the high 50s towards the finish. There was no precipitation, but it was overcast the entire time. I saw Phil (AL) before the start. Last year, Tallahassee was good to him, and he finished with a sub-4:00. He didn't think he would get a repeat this year, but he still finished very well in 4:22:44. Nice job, Phil!

Art (FL) was also there. I saw him at the Jacksonville Marathon in December. When we see each other at races now, it seems that we always end up talking about how our weight gain has screwed up our times. But we're still out here and doing our best. He finished in a fine time of 5:44:28.

We start with a small double loop through the Florida State University campus before hitting the roads to get to the 11-mile (22 miles total) out-n-back on a bike path. We then finish the race on the track. As we started, I saw my running buddy, Frank (MN), in his signature red shorts and red jacket. I rushed ahead to catch up to him, and I'm glad that I did.

Frank and I talked, laughed, and ran/walked our way through the race. He is always so upbeat, never complains, and seems to thoroughly enjoy every race that he runs. He has dragged me along in several races, but today would be a struggle to keep up. My normal aches and pains were along for the race, too, and they worsened early in the day. Several times I told him to go on ahead without me. He was moving well and effortless, but my strides were choppy at best and favored the side of my body with the least resistance. Right before we reached the half-way point, he took off. I was sad to see him go. But later, I mustered a little pep in my step and caught up with him again. He was talking with another runner and that must have slowed him down. We then continued on together.

Frank was keeping time for the both of us. No one would ever guess that I have a background in engineering, because my math is all fuzzy during a race. He would tell me when we were ahead of pace and when we were slacking off. I dreaded every mile marker when he told me that we had lost another minute. That meant more running and less walking and talking for the next mile. For the last 6-8 miles, I would ask how we were doing as we approached the next mile marker. I'm sure he grew tired of me asking. Heck, I was tired of asking. Every time I looked at my watch and calculated how much time we had, I didn't think we would make the cut-off. Frank kept reassuring me that we would.

At 5:53:51, Frank and I stumbled across the finish line. Cheryl had finished in 5:36:11, very close to her goal. Congratulations to her for placing 2nd in her age group! She waited for us and snapped our picture at the finish line (see above). Just like last year, the pizza was all gone, but I really didn't care. I appreciated my official finisher's time and shiny, new medal more than anything, both of which I owed to Frank. He could have left me out there on my own, but he sacrificed his own race to make sure that I crossed the finish line under the cut-off. Maybe one day, in another race, I'll be able to return the favor.

I missed being at the RR100, but in the end, it was the best decision for me this year. After finishing 26.2 miles, I couldn't imagine tacking on 73.8 more miles on this day. I'm glad that I was at the Tallahassee Marathon instead.

Volunteering at the Mountain Mist 50K - 1/23/10

2010-01-24T05:28:00.000-08:00

I've been looking at the Mountain Mist 50K for years, and I wanted to run it. However, wanting something doesn't necessarily mean that I should have it, lol. The intermediate cut-offs were too tight for me, and the overall cut-off of 8:30 was impossible for me on such a difficult course. The closest I would ever get to the Mist course was to volunteer for it. I could live with that.

After searching for a marathon/ultramarathon for this particular weekend and coming up with nothing that I could get to inexpensively, I decided to send Dink, the race director for the Mist, an e-mail to see if he needed any more volunteers for the race. He responded that they (he and his wife, Suzanne) would be in touch. Sure enough, a few days later, Suzanne sent an e-mail asking if I could work the 24.9 mile aid station. I replied that I would be happy to do that. A few days after that she sent out another e-mail with all of the assignments for volunteers. I was in there!

Early Saturday morning, I drove the two hours to Monte Sano State Park in Huntsville, AL. Over the past few years, I had run several races either on the roads or trails in this park. It was a beautiful park and relatively easy to get to from the downtown area. I wanted to arrive just before the 8:00 a.m. start to see several of my fast running buddies before they took off. The race had been sold out for months, and there were about 350 starters. It had rained all week. But today, it was just cloudy and cool, a perfect day to be out in the woods. I hoped that the trails were dry enough, but looking at the area around the lodge, I figured that it would be a very muddy day for the runners.

I saw Diane (TN) and talked with her for a while. She had been hampered by a stress fracture over the last few months, but she said that it was much better. Diane had successfully completed 8 Mists and was gunning for the 10-year prized Mist jacket. I credit (or blame, lol) Diane for getting me started in ultramarathons. Truth be told, she is such a strong runner and runs the more difficult courses. Her first 50 Miler was Mountain Masochist, and her first 100 miler will be Massanutten this spring. She finished the Masochist easily, and I have no doubt in my mind that she will finish Massanutten in the same manner.

As we headed for the start line in front of the lodge, I also saw Mona (AL). Mona is another strong runner. We met at the first Black Warrior 50K several years ago. She was working an aid station and swept the course for the last nine miles or so. Of course, I was the one that she was sweeping, lol. She kept me going, and we have been buddies ever since. I've yet to really "run" with her because she is so fast, although we've been in the same races several times over the years.

"I don't see why you won't run Mountain Mist," she told me at the start line. I hung my head. I wanted to run it, but I couldn't. It's hard to explain to someone as fast as Mona how difficult it is to battle cut-offs. It's not the course that gets me. It's the clock. I can't beat the clock on a whole lot of races that I would like to do. Embarrassed, I told her that I couldn't make the cut-offs. Being a friend, she smiled and said, "I bet that you could." I wasn't taking that bet.

And they were off!

My aid station wouldn't set up until 10:30 a.m., and we would close at 2:30 p.m. There was a strict cut-off at 2:20 p.m. (6:20 elapsed time for 24.9 miles). Everybody coming into the aid station after that time would be pulled from the race. I thought about that for a long time. I had been pulled from so many races for missing a cut-off that I've lost count. It's a miserable feeling. I hoped that I wouldn't have to pull anybody from the race, especially at the point when they had only a 10K to go to the finish. I had been told that runners would reach my aid station after completing the hardest part of the course, which meant crawling up Waterline on all fours in mud. To do that and still not make the cut-off would be devastating. I had made up my mind that they would all make it under the cut-off, and no one would be pulled at my aid station!

I listened in on a conversation that one of the volunteers that had been checking in runners earlier was having with crew members, explaining exactly where aid stations were set up. He gave me some good directions for my post, Aid Station #5-Monte Sano Blvd Road Crossing. I went back out onto the roads in the park to locate the area. No one was there, of course, so I went back to the lodge. I asked around to see if anyone needed any help, but it appeared that everything was under control. In that short amount of time, volunteers had covered the furniture in the lodge with plastic and covered the hard wood floors with rugs. The runners would be muddy when they finished, and everything in the lodge had to be protected.

I went back to the parking lot and sat in my car. I had plenty of reading materials to keep me occupied until time to set up my aid station. At 10:00 a.m., I drove back out to Monte Sano Blvd. A couple of cars were there, but nothing was being set up. I saw the bright lime green flags marking the trail from the area and decided to head down the trail just to check out the conditions. I didn't go very far. It was muddy, and I didn't have the proper shoes. I headed back to sit in the car to read and wait. It would be an interesting day.

It was now almost 10:30 a.m. and our aid station was still not set up. Several crew members and volunteers were in the area, but no one had seen a van or truck with our supplies. Megan, a volunteer from previous years, stated that someone would have usually dropped off the supplies by now. Another volunteer headed back to the lodge to see what the problem was. I looked at my watch. The elite runners would be coming through soon. We had to hurry. Just as I was beginning to panic, a van drove up onto the opposite side of the road. The two police cars that were conducting traffic had been set up minutes before. The runners would come off the trail, cross the two-lane road, get their aid, and then head down onto the next trail on our side of the road. Megan waved to the volunteer in the van to come across the road. We needed to set up the aid station at the trail head.

We quickly unpacked the van and started our set-up. We had two long tables, several large coolers of Heed and water, liters of Mello Yello and Coke, and a large tub of goodies: cookies, chips, pretzels, pre-made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, bananas, gels, potatoes and salt, and bite-sized chocolate candies. Dink came by to see how we were doing. He gave us our long-sleeve, technical Mist shirts and took our picture. He asked if we had everything we needed and reinforced our instructions. No one was to continue the race if they arrived at our aid station past 2:20 p.m. We should start breaking down our aid station at 2:30 p.m. The park closed at dark, and if anyone continued after 2:20 p.m., they wouldn't finish in time for all of us to be out of the park by dark. He was serious, and all I could think about was the mud that I had seen on the trail when I arrived at our aid station. The mud would slow the runners down. We were going to have to pull some runners. He thanked us for volunteering and moved on to his next job.

We felt we were ready. Cups were filled with fluids and plastic bowls were filled with goodies. We had cut up bananas and unwrapped the chocolates so that the runners could quickly pick them up and go. We filled pitchers with water and Heed so that we could top off bottles easily and quickly. Garbage bags were set up for disposables. A volunteer was positioned across the road to alert us of runners coming up the trail and would shout out bib numbers to the time keeper on our side of the road. She would record their splits, and another volunteer checked off their numbers. We wanted to make sure that no one was left out in the woods.

As we waited, I talked with Jaclyn, a young, professional dancer and very enthusiastic, new runner. She was training for her first half-marathon and was intrigued by this sport. She had been reading "Ultramarathon Man" by Dean Karnazes and decided that's what she wanted to be, an ultramarathoner. I was wearing my jacket from the Wild West 100K, and she asked how far that was. When I told her that it was 62 miles, she was in amazement. When she asked about my longest race and I told her it was 100 miles, I thought that she would jump out of her skin, lol. She exclaimed, "I want to do that!" Jaclyn and I would talk during our lulls in the action about running and racing. I gave her several things to Google when she had the time. She had a lot of energy, and she will become a good ultramarathoner. I just know that I will see her on the roads and trails soon.

Our first runner came through flying, of course, and didn't stop. Someone knew him as David. We watched in amazement as he continued on down the trail. We looked across the street, waiting and anticipating for another runner. It seemed like forever before we saw anyone and then we saw Dewayne (AL). He was smiling and also didn't really need anything from our tables, except someone to slow down David for him, he said. We laughed at his joke as he, too, continued on down the trail.

And then the runners started trickling in. One or two at a time and some times four or five at a time. We scrambled around and found our groove. I was on water detail, filling bottles and offering words of encouragement. I asked how they were doing out there. I received various responses: "okay," "fine," grunts, or smiles. I helped with their camel-backs. I opened packets of gels or other goodies for runners whose hands were stiff, cold, or swollen. I poured magic powders into water bottles from little baggies that the runners had with them. I took care of their trash. They were all in various states of being. Some were covered in mud from taking falls. Some looked good; others looked as if they wouldn't make it. Some were able to talk and joke with us. Some got what they needed and headed to the trail head, seriously contemplating the next section of the race. Others looked lost, as if they had seen a ghost, a demon, or a deity. We learned to ask specific questions. Water? Heed? Coke? Salt and potatoes? Gel? We reached for their bottles to refill instead of waiting for them to thrust them forward. Some knew exactly what they wanted. For some, "water or Heed" was one of the most difficult questions they had to answer in their lives. Some times the answer was a question back at me of "half and half"? Sure. Anything to keep you going. One runner wanted Coke in his bottle. I've done that. It fizzes up too much for me and splatters everywhere when I sipped, but I'm sure he knew that and didn't care. When you need caffeine towards the end of a race, you want it consistently.

Several runners wanted new legs. I offered to screw mine off and give them away, lol. They smiled and grazed at the tables. "I want a tall, Asian, red-haired woman that can cook fried chicken," came one request. Megan was on it. "I'm everything you want except Asian," she responded. She was on Heed detail and kept them going. We had several requests for alcoholic beverages. We jokingly told them that it was at the next aid station, 4.5 miles away, even though we all knew that aid station was a water stop only. Some times we said that the faster runners had consumed it all, lol.

As volunteers, it's important to know how far to the next aid station, how far to the finish, and cut-off times. When we were asked (and it was often), we were always ready.

Our first casualty came early. He had to have been in 14th or 15th place. He announced that he was done. He had all the time in the world. He could walk it in to the finish, but he refused to go on. I offered him water or Heed or some food maybe. He wouldn't take it. He went off to himself and sat down on a rock. When we had a break in action, I walked over to check on him. I knew that I was disturbing him, but I wanted him to finish. He could do it. No broken bones were showing. There was no bleeding. There wasn't anything visibly wrong with him. Yet, he couldn't go on. We didn't know what was going on inside, and he wasn't offering an explanation. He could have been in great pain. He could have been unbelievably tired. He could have been just mentally out of the race. Whatever it was, he knew, and we didn't, that he had to drop from the race. My heart went out to him. Usually when I drop from a race, it's because I can't make a cut-off. I did not understand not going on when there was plenty of time on the clock. I offered to get him anything he needed. He gave me a blank stare, one that cut through my soul. "No," he responded flatly. I left him, feeling stupid, wondering why I had gone to him in the first place. He was indeed done. I felt I had failed as a volunteer because it was my duty to keep him going. Runners were steadily coming in, and I had to stay the course. Water? Can I top your bottle off? How's it going out there for you?

Another runner came in with a tight hamstring. He laid down on the rocky ground and stretched. His face grimaced in pain. His crew came to him to help in any way they could. He would find the strength to go on. We cheered for him as he left our aid station.

Being a volunteer, I had the pleasure of seeing fast runners that, even though we've been in the same races, I never get to see because I'm in the back of the pack. As they came through my aid station, I made an effort to call them by their names when I offered them aid and encouragement. Byron (SC), Rich (GA), Christian (GA), Bruce (TN), Gary (FL), Andrew (GA), and Yikena (GA) are just a few.

Susan (TN) is a fast runner, too, but when she came in, she gave me a hug. She looked good. She is such a strong runner. Rob (TN) was somewhere behind her. She gave me a message for him. "Tell him I'll come back out on the course when I finish, but he needs to hurry up." I laughed and told her that I was on it. She had her bottle filled and ate some potatoes and salt, saying that we were the only aid station that had them. Several more runners told us the same. We were happy that our aid station had something the runners really wanted and needed.

When Rob came through the aid station, he immediately asked about Susan. "Did she fly through here?" I told him that she had, and that she wanted me to kick him out of this aid station quickly. He laughed and had his bottled refilled. I relayed her real message, and he went about his way.

Fast Mike (TN) seemed surprised to see me. But I knew he would be here. I had scanned the entrants' list before coming so that I would look for all of my running buddies. He looked tired, but he was still strong. He stated that he thought he was the last one. I told him that he couldn't be and that I hadn't seen Mona, Graham (AL), and Diane. He nodded, but we were both thinking about the time. We were getting close to the cut-off for our aid station. We had been so busy that the time had just flown by, and I hadn't realized we were approaching the end of our shift. Where were they? They had to make the cut-off. They had to hurry.

Sarah (GA) came in with a full camel-back of an orange fluid. She said that it had started to bother her stomach, that she had been barfing for a long time, and that she needed to dump the liquid. I helped her rinse the bladder and filled it with water. She thanked me and continued on. I met Sarah years ago on the morning of my first ultramarathon. I was much too bubbly, talking and running with whomever I could keep up with and maintain a conversation with. She was very subdued and warned me that I should run my own pace. I knew she was right, but I had waited so long to run my first ultramarathon that I went with my energy and ran the early parts of that race with much faster runners. I eventually slowed down, and she passed me, probably saying to herself "I told you so." I finished the race with badly blistered feet from the heat of the day. It had been a while since I'd seen her. I never saw her in races that we were in together because she was so much faster than me. It shocked me that she even remembered my name. She is tough. With a fussy stomach or not, she would finish.

Mona came through the aid station looking well. She said that she would hug me, but she was too dirty. I hugged her any way, hoping that it would push her to the finish line just a few seconds faster. Bless her heart! Her hands were swollen like Italian sausages. "Too much salt," she said. Experienced as she was, she was in and out in no time.

Several more runners came through. One at a time. The clock was ticking. The timers were looking at their watches and checking the list. There were runners who would not make it. Where's Graham and Diane?

The time was 2:20 p.m. And we saw Graham emerging from the trail on the other side of the road. He was walking. I started yelling for him to get into the aid station. We all did. I looked over at the timer. He's a good runner, I said. He's strong. He'll make it. We have to let him go on. She looked doubtful, but when he made it to our aid tables, she nodded that he would be the last one to leave. I was so happy I couldn't contain myself. You made it, Graham! He looked at me and said matter-of-factly, "No, I didn't."

Water or Heed? We had to get him what he needed and get him out of there. We filled a bottle with water and another one with Heed. He grazed at the food table and then continued on. And now we started the sad part of our day, packing up the aid station and waiting for the runners that hadn't made the cut-off. And when the two sweeps that were behind them came through, our duties would be officially complete.

Diane came in, followed by her friend Heather. As always, Diane was still upbeat. She commented about the mud, but having finished this race 8 years in a row, she had seen worse conditions on this course. She now had to run 2 more years before she could get her 10-year jacket, instead of the planned one year. She would be back. She had been fighting the cut-offs all day, but she still looked good. If we could have let her go, she would have finished the race with no problem. She could have gone the distance, if not for the clock that she had no control over. I offered her food and fluids. That was my job. I wished that I could have offered her more. I'm sorry, Diane.

Heather was crying. How many times had I been pulled from the race, crying, knowing that I could go the distance if not for the clock? She stood stark still. I watched her, wanting to go to her, wanting to hug her, and lie to her that it would be okay. She could come back next year and finish. She had put in a valiant effort and 24.9 miles on this course was nothing to beat herself up over. It was hard today, with the cold and with the mud, not to mention the rocks, covered with leaves, and the steep climbs. None of that would have mattered to her. I knew all too well that nothing a volunteer said mattered at times like this. I watched as another volunteer went to her. Heather commented that when she had fallen, getting a gash in her forehead just above her right eye that had been bandaged at a previous aid station, she had lost so much time. She cried again, just thinking about it. Who knew what other demons she had been fighting out there?

A few others came in, dejected. Volunteers checked them off the list, gave them food and fluids, and then ushered them to cars to be driven back to the lodge. When our two sweepers came in, we packed up the remaining items, dumping any fluid left over, and collecting the trash. The police were gone, and the rescue team that had been hanging around for the last hour or so (just in case) went about other business. It was now just as quiet and deserted as when I first arrived for my volunteer duties. It was so different when it was lively with muddy runners and volunteers helping them out. I drove back to the lodge with a heavy heart.

I wanted to see those last runners finish. I wanted to see what it looked like to be tough and fast enough to beat the clock. I wanted so much to be like them. I wanted so much to will my body to do what my mind knew I could do and what my heart wanted to do if . . . . So many "ifs".

I sat at the finish line at the back of the lodge. The timers were removing the tags from the runners' bibs as they crossed the finish line. A volunteer wrapped them in a mylar blanket to keep them warm. Another volunteer handed them a finisher's card to be filled out to receive their finisher's plaque. I had heard several runners say that at the bottom of the mountain, it had become warm, but once they finished up on top of the mountain, it was windy and cold. I don't believe we ever reached the promised 55 degrees from the weather reports. All of the runners had to remove their shoes and socks before entering the lodge. All I could think about was how their poor feet must have felt walking over the cold concrete that led inside the warm lodge. Hot pizza was waiting for them if they made it in successfully.

I saw Rob finish. He has completed about 600 ultramarathons, and he's only 48 years old. He came through the finish line with another one in the bag. Susan had indeed gone back out onto the course to run with him. She sat beside me just as he crossed the finish line. I asked if she had finished second female. I had heard Dink announce her name for an award when I arrived at the lodge. "No," she said, "It must have been second in my age group." Wow, that was an awesome accomplishment!

Rob gave me his finisher's card, and Susan told me his age and race number. I took the card inside the lodge, filled it out, and picked up his finisher's plaque. When I got back to the finish line, they were ready to go. It didn't take long after finishing that the runners would become cold. I gave Rob his hard earned finisher's plaque, hugged them both, and then sat again on the stone wall waiting for others to finish.

Mike, Mona, and Sarah all finished well. Sarah's stomach was better, but it was hard finishing without being able to keep any food or fluids in her stomach.

I watched the clock. It was getting close to the 8:30 elapsed time, the final cut-off for the race. Graham was still out on the course. If he finished under the cut-off, he will have finished the Fleet Feet Grand Slam (Dizzy Fifties 50K/50M, Huntsville Marathon, Recover from the Holidays 50K, and Mountain Mist 50K). He was going to do it. I just knew it. The crowd was dying down. Everybody was heading home, but I waited. Mona had cleaned up and changed into warm clothes. She came out and waited with me.

And then we saw his signature yellow Marathon Maniacs shirt coming up the last hill through the finish chute. He crossed the finish line in 8:28:40, looking tough, like I aspired to be. We cheered loudly for him, the last finisher. Grand Slam Graham is what Mona called him. Indeed he was! Everyone wanted to take a picture with him. We all gathered around at the top of the mountain in the cold wind, nearing 4:30 p.m. to do just that (see above). It would be getting dark soon, and we had to leave the park. We had to get him inside, get his finisher's plaque, and his Grand Slam finisher's jacket.

I said my good-byes to Mona and Graham. I will see Graham at the Black Warrior 50K next month, but Mona said that she wouldn't be able to make it because she had to work that weekend. I went out to my car to make the 2 hour drive back home.

Tough. That's what best described all of the runners in the Mountain Mist 50K, whether they finished or not. I wanted to be just like them. I wanted to be tough. Now how do I do that?

Volunteering at the Flying Monkey Marathon - 11/22/09

2009-11-22T15:25:00.000-08:00

Since 2004 on the 3rd Saturday in November, I have been running the JFK 50 Miler in Boonsboro, MD. When the Flying Monkey Marathon began in 2006 in Nashville, TN, my heart took a dive. Both races were on the same weekend. Being a Marathon Maniac, the first thought was to run JFK on Saturday and make it back in time to run the Flying Monkey on Sunday. This never happened. Because it always took me 12:30-13:30 to finish JFK, I could never get a late flight out of Baltimore to make it back by Sunday. Every time I saw Trent (the race director for the Monkey) at a race, I would threaten to run or volunteer at his event, but my luck was not that good.

Last year, the JFK increased the entry fee to an amount that I did not want to pay. I run a lot of races during the year, and it takes some serious budgeting to get to all of these races. With the flight, rental car, and 2 nights stay in a hotel the night before the race and the night right after the race, the increase pushed me over the limit for one race out of many. Besides, as much as I love that race, I was not willing to cut out another race or two from my schedule to make ends meet. Therefore, I made a promise to myself. I would run the JFK one more year to give me 5 finishes there, and if the entry fee increased for 2009, I would not run it. For 2009, the entry fee increased again to $145, leaving the 3rd weekend in November free for me to run another race.

For years now, I had been looking at the Dizzy Fifties (50K, 40 Mile, and 50 Mile) Trail Runs in Huntsville, AL. This race is on the same day as JFK. It was cheap to enter ($24), and it was only a 2-hour drive for me, which meant that I could sleep in my own bed. I signed up before it became full. Here was my chance to run Dizzy and then run the Monkey. With a 10 hour cut-off, the only distance I could pull off would be the 50K at Dizzy, so a double looked doable. The only problem was that the Monkey had already reached its 200 runner limit.

I have run a lot of races, but I'm ashamed to say that I have never volunteered. This sport has given me so much, and it was time for me to start giving back to it. I hear from race directors all of the time about how hard it is to find enough volunteers for their events. Here was my chance to be a part of the solution. I sent Trent an e-mail, asking him if I could volunteer. Trent, being the super nice guy that he is, asked me if I wanted to run it instead. I told him that I couldn't run it because it was already full. Again, he gave me the opportunity to run it by jokingly saying that he knew the race director and he could get me in. I loved the fact that he would let me in, but I really wanted to volunteer. I wanted to be on the other side of that start/finish line.

Early Sunday morning, I drove over to Percy Warner Park to check in for my 6:00 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. shift. I had been assigned to packet pick-up. I would be working with Sharon, who would check off each runner's name on the entry list. In turn, I would pull the runner's packet. Diana, the volunteer coordinator, and Trent, were buzzing around getting everything set up and putting the volunteers to work. All of the volunteers had been asked to bring a food item to share for the party afterwards. I had never seen so much food set up for a post-race party. There were three tables full of all kinds of desserts, sandwiches, fruits, vegetables, side dishes, and coffee. My stomach growled as I watched more and more food being dropped off at the tables by the volunteers as they checked in for their shifts.

Several of my running buddies were in town to run the Monkey: Andy (FL), Phil (AL), Graham (AL), Dave (CO), Larry (TX), and Mike (ME). Locals like Diane (TN) and Lisa (TN) were also running today. As they checked in or just came by our table to say hello, I wished them all well and told them to have fun. I promised to come out onto the course to see them after my shift was over.

Check-in started slowly, with 1 or 2 runners every few minutes, and then we got a steady stream for a while before it eased back to 1 or 2 runners every few minutes. Sharon and I worked well together. We only had one problem. A couple checked in. Her packet was available, but there wasn't a packet for her husband. Sharon and I desperately checked and rechecked the boxes, but we never found the runner's packet. We called Trent over. The runner's packet had to have been given out to someone else. We thought we had been thoroughly checking the numbers against the names. Could I have handed out the wrong packet? I didn't want to think that it was possible.

In our defense, a number of packets were picked up on Saturday evening. Another runner came up and told us that she had been given an incorrect packet on Saturday and had to go back and exchange it. Each packet had a bib number, goodie bag, and a race t-shirt with the runner's name on it. Surely, if someone had this particular runner's packet, he would have noticed that his t-shirt had the wrong name on it. The runner and his wife looked concerned. Trent was calm and told the runner that he would still be able to participate. If I was the race director, I would have been a nervous wreck. Our line of runners waiting to check in was growing. Sharon and I had to continue our job. Before the race started, Trent made an announcement to try and recover the missing packet. I didn't hear anyone owning up to having the wrong packet. Bummer!

At 8:00 a.m., we watched as the runners took off and the large digital clock began keeping time. As all of the runners climbed the hill on the cross-country portion of the course, they quickly began to spread out in a neat line. I felt like I had just pushed my kids out into the big world. Will they all make it back home safe and sound?

I love running in Percy Warner Park. There's a 5.8 mile loop and an 11.2 mile loop on the roads. Both were rolling hills the entire loop. I'm in relatively good shape when I can run the 5.8 in less than an hour and the 11.2 in less than 2 hours. It has been years since I was able to do that, but I still come out here every now and then to test myself. The race course pretty much followed the 11.2 mile loop twice with some additional routes to get the full 26.2 miles.

There are also some wonderful trails in the park that I love to run. Like the road loops, the trails are rolling hills with just enough roots and rocks to make it interesting. There are also plenty of deer to keep you company on the trails.

With all of the runners out for their adventure, the volunteers were left to fend for ourselves. A few of us grabbed something from the food table, drank coffee, and stood around talking. I talked with 2 volunteers for the next couple of hours. Andrew (AL) is a young ultramarathoner studying to become a physical therapist. Forrest (TN) had walked 65 miles in August to celebrate his birthday. Andrew and I were so impressed with his story. He had started out at 300 pounds several years ago and began walking and running to lose weight. He had lost his son to diabetes. While reading Pam Reed's book, he became inspired to run his age in miles for his birthday on a 10K loop that he created in Hendersonville, TN. The local news media did a story on him, and a helicopter hovered above him as he walked. Several people came out to walk with him. It took him 18 hours to finish. Wow! I wonder if Forrest knows that he has a 100 miler in him. And yes, we did joke about people saying "run, Forrest, run".

Two and a half hours after the runners started, Peter (the president of the Nashville Striders Running Club) announced that our first place winner would be coming across the cross-country field. Like moths to a flame, we all migrated to the finish line. Family, friends, and volunteers watched and waited. Volunteers lined up at the finish line to give out the Monkey finisher's medal and to tear off the runner's tag from their bibs. Several false alarms came when locals enjoying the park on the cloudy and cool Sunday morning came across the hill. And then we saw him, and he was flying. Was it Josh (TN)? Was it Chuck (OH)? My bet was on either one of them.

The winner looked good when he came through. You would not have thought that he had just run 26.2 miles on a tough course. We were all in amazement. We clapped, shouted, and congratulated him. And then we looked over the hill. No one was chasing him. I instantly felt sorry for him. Wasn't he lonely running all of those miles by himself?

And then we saw another. It had to be Josh or Chuck. They were so fast and had won so many races between the two of them. But it was not. It was another runner that I did not know. The crowd burst into claps, shouts, and hardy congratulations to him. And then we watched the hill. Waiting. Anticipating. I loved this!

I saw him. There were rumblings up ahead amongst the anxious crowd. Someone noticed his stride. His strong legs were pushing forward. He would finish 3rd. It was Josh. I yelled, and I was probably louder than I should have been, because he saw me waiting near the end of the finish chute. He had worked hard on those hills, chasing those two runners in front of him. He had to be tired. He had to be happy to finish and to finish so well. But he stopped, and he gave me a hug. I was surprised. I could feel the crowd watching our exchange. I wanted to jump up and down and tell everybody, "that's MY running buddy". I can't even run half of a marathon these days in the time that it took him to run the entire marathon, but we share the same love for this sport. That's what makes this so special to me.

Volunteers pulled his tag from his bid and gave him a Monkey medal. He went over to congratulate the two runners who finished before him, just as champions do. And the crowd watched the hill. They came one by one.

One runner had run so hard that he laid in the grass at the end of the finish chute. The medics came over to give him oxygen. I have never pushed my body that hard. I don't know what that feels like, but I wanted him to be okay. I wanted him to be able to run another day.

I stayed until the first female came through the finish chute. Friends ran with her, encouraging her, and then pulled off at the last few seconds so that she could have her well-deserved moment in the spotlight. She looked young and strong. I can't even imagine what went through her head, leading all of the women, and gaining on the men in front of her. It must have been a wonderful feeling. It must have been worth it all.

I said good-bye to Forrest and his wife, Judy. Judy had also volunteered this morning and helped organize all of the food that kept coming in for the party afterwards. I was ready to go out onto the course and back track. I wanted to run some of those familiar hills. I wanted to see my other running buddies.

As I ran and walked the course in the opposite direction, I tried to give encouragement to the runners heading to the finish line. I don't know how many times I said, "good job", "nice work", "stay strong", and "keep it going". I received a variety of responses in return: blank stares, grunts, silently hung heads, smiles, and thank you's.

Josh was out on the hills. Was this his cool down? We talked for a minute and then I continued on, greeting runners and looking for familiar faces. I saw Lisa. She wanted to know, "how far"? I had not been paying attention. I did not know. "Less than 2 miles, Lisa. You're doing great." It was a wild guess at best.

I saw Trent next. It is a remarkable feat for any race director to have things so organized that he can relax and run his own race. I admired him for that. As he flew past me on a down hill, giving me a high five, I told him that he had put on a great race. "You need to run this next year," was the last thing that I heard him say before he sped around a bend in the road and out of sight. He is right, of course.

Runner after runner passed. I knew that the next buddy I would see would be either Dave or Phil. They both are fast. It turned out to be Dave. He was walking up a hill. I asked if he wanted me to walk with him, but he said he would be running the next down hill and was on pace to finish in 4:35. I couldn't keep up that kind of pace. I wished him well and continued on. Maybe this was a bad idea.

I saw Phil next. I asked if he would like some company. He said yes. I felt better, and I hoped that he did, too. We talked and ran/walked the rolling hills, but it was short-lived. He was having to slow down to wait on me. I didn't want that to happen. I wanted him to have a good race. I sent him on his way. Going along with Phil, I had become winded. I walked some more, continuing to encourage runners that I came upon and looking for my buddies.

Graham was next. He had finished the Dizzy 50K the day before 2 hours ahead of me, and here he was looking very strong. I asked him the same question that I had asked Phil, and he accepted my offer. We talked and ran/walked the rolling hills. I had not recovered from my time with Phil, so I wasn't much help to Graham. I didn't want to slow him down either. When we got to the aid station, I let him go. He would continue to run strong and to finish well. Some how I thought I would be able to keep up with them at the end of their race, but I was doing a poor pacing job. Would I have to run all of the way back to the start/finish area alone?

There were still buddies on the course. I was now a little over 3 miles from the finish. Mike, Larry, or Andy would be next, but which one would I encounter first. Well . . . I was lucky enough to get all three of them at once. They made me work to keep up with them, but I wanted to stay. It had been a while since I had run with any of them. Larry had also run a marathon the day before, but that's his norm. Every weekend, he runs doubles or triples. He's an incredible man and as humble as he could be. Mike and Andy have run hundreds of marathons and ultramarathons. They all give me so much inspiration, and when I'm with them, I want to soak up their essence, hoping that whatever they have is contagious and that I will get it, too.

We laughed and talked our way along the last 3 miles of the course. Andy took this opportunity to inch his way ahead of us. And when we came over the hill, the crowd was still lively. They clapped and shouted just as vigorously as they had for the lead runners 3 hours ago. I pulled off from the course, and I watched my buddies run through the finish line. They all had wonderful finishes, and I was so happy for them.

Did I miss racing today? No, of course not. Am I glad that I volunteered? Most definitely. It was a great experience.

Surf the Murph 25K - 10/31/09

2009-11-01T08:35:00.000-08:00

Hi. My name is Tiger, but you can call me Stupid. It was stupid of me to even try to run a marathon on trails with a 2 week old sprained ankle. Not only am I stupid, but I'm also stubborn and impatient - not a good combination to have.

The week following the spraining of my ankle, I walked with the air cast for a couple of days, followed by wrapping the ankle with the Ace bandage for the next couple of days. Every day after I arrived home from work, the ankle was elevated and iced. I never used the crutches. The swelling went down after about a week, and with the swelling gone, the pain decreased.

I was having cabin fever, trying to sit most of the day and limiting the amount of time on the ankle. So on Friday night, I went out dancing with some friends. Apparently twisting and turning on the dance floor aggravates a sprained ankle. Who'd've thunk it, lol? So on Saturday morning, of course, the swelling and pain were back. On Saturday afternoon, I did some shopping, and on Sunday, I just sat, switching from the computer to watching football on television. The ankle was elevated and iced most of the day.

With the ankle feeling much better and based on the fact that I could now see the veins in my foot again, I decided to try a little bit of walking. On Tuesday of this week, I walked to work, a mere 4.91 miles, according to Mapquest. The last mile was the most difficult. The ankle screamed in protest. I now had my limit, but I was going to push it any way. At work, I kicked off the shoes and elevated the ankle, while I diligently went about job. It's a good thing that I work in an office (for the most part) in which I'm forced to sit all day in front of my computer.

On Tuesday night, I walked the same 4.91 miles back home, elevating and icing the ankle afterwards. Wednesday and Thursday went similarly. On Friday morning, I decided that I would keep my plane reservation and go to the Surf the Murph Marathon in Savage, MN. My flight wasn't until 7:00 p.m., so I put in a full day of work. Since I needed the car to get to the airport, I drove and only walked the mile to the office from our employee parking lot and then back again after work.

I arrived in Minneapolis about midnight, picked up my rental car, and drove the short 20 minutes to Savage. It was cold and raining, which later turned into a few snowflakes as I drove. The trails would be nasty. How would the ankle handle slipping and sliding in the mud?

Early Saturday morning, I drove to the race site to pick up my packet. The race offered four distances - 25K, marathon, 50K, and 50 Miles. The 50 milers took off an hour early. On one hand, I envied them. I would have loved to do the 50 mile (or 50K), but I could not make the cut-off for either race. The marathon (and 50K) had a 9 hour cut-off. I felt that I had a better chance of finishing the marathon than the 50K in that amount of time, so that's what I registered for. On the other hand, I was glad that I didn't have to put that many miles on the ankle. It was a blessing in disguise.

Other than the walking, I had not run since the Race for the Komen 5K 2 weeks ago. But with a 9 hour cut-off, I was sure that I could walk the entire marathon. I put the air cast on, but it did not fit comfortably in my trail shoe. I then tried wrapping it with the ace bandage, but the shoe then felt too tight. Bump it! I would just let it go as it is. I wasn't planning on running any way.

While waiting inside the little building designated for packet pick-up, Jeff (CA) found me. We had been corresponding by e-mail for about a month, having been introduced by a mutual running buddy, Diane (TN). This is the first time we've seen each other in person. Jeff is trying to run an ultramarathon in each state, so he was running the 50K today. I had an ultramarathon (Trail Mix 50K) already for MN, but I needed another MN marathon (along with VT, ND, NM, and MT) to finish my 2nd time around the states with marathons. I have 18 states to grab for a completion of the states with ultramarathons, and I think Jeff told me that he is about half-way through the states with his quest. He even has someone organizing an ultra in ND, which presently has no ultras. I asked him to keep me informed, because I need that state as well.

It was still dark when the 25Kers, 50Kers, and marathoners lined up at the start. The rental car's thermometer read 35 degrees, but at least the rain/snow had stopped. The wind was howling and with the excitement of the field, I could not hear the instructions from the race director. For the marathon, there was a 1.2 mile out-n-back, a 15.5 mile loop, and a 9.5 mile loop. Hopefully, the ankle would hold up, and I would be able to keep up with at least one other marathoner to finish the course. I had missed the Columbus Marathon and the White Tail Trail Marathon in Ohio over the last two weekends because of the ankle, so I was very ready to get back out there and do what I love to do.

Even in the dark, I could see the orange flags on the wires stuck into the ground on the left side of the trail every few feet. This course was marked extremely well. Even when the course merged with other trails, the flags reinforced which way to go. You did not have to stop and think about it. I was impressed.

After a while, I noticed that runners were coming back towards me. Not knowing what the course was like for the 50 milers, I assumed that those runners were in the 50 mile race. Pay attention. I will come back to this point later.

It did not take long before I was all alone. The trail was beautiful. It was on wide ski trails that went straight up and then straight back down - over and over again. The surface had very few rocks and roots with lots of grass. On such a smooth surface, I decided to run a little. I found out that it didn't hurt any worse than walking so I continued to run the relatively few flat sections and to walk up and down the hills. Going up was faster and felt much better than going down the hills. I had to put too much weight on the ankle to navigate down hill, and it would later take it's toll.

At some point, the trail became less grassy and a little muddy. Fallen leaves from the trees hid rocks and roots, and I stepped on one of them and twisted the injured ankle. Darn it! Another runner saw me stumble and asked if I needed to go back. I assured him that I would be okay and continued on. He was out of sight in no time. I thought that I was the last one, but several more runners came by me. For the second time, reader, pay attention. I will also come back to this point later.

After the ski trail, we entered into open meadows. The sun was peeking through the clouds but never made a full appearance. Without the trees blocking the wind, the open meadows were cold. I was glad that I had worn my knit cap and gloves. Although the faster runners had on shorts and technical short- or long-sleeved shirts, I had on tights and a jacket, in addition to my long-sleeved technical shirt. The open meadows had a little more mud, but it was still not too bad. We continued to go up and down, up and down, and up and down, lol. We seemed to be circling what I assumed to be Murphy Lake. I love courses that have a view of a body of water. I knew it was there, even when I had to look down at the trail for possible tripping obstacles. I was enjoying this course!

After the open meadows section, we ran on a short, single track trail to a horse trail, where you could not distinguish the mud from the horse poop. This section was flatter than the ski trail and meadow section, so I ran a little more. However, it had a lot more roots, rocks, and thick, long sections of mud, so what I was doing would probably not be classified as running. At this point, those runners in the longer distances were beginning to lap me. And I was beginning to hobble without really realizing it. Several runners stopped and asked if I was okay, even though they could visually tell that I wasn't.

After the horse trail, we were back to open meadows, another short, overgrown single track section, and then more ski trails. I really loved the width of the ski trail, and all of the grass made the trail very soft. I wished that I could have taken advantage of the smooth trails. The marathoners were flying by me on their way to finishing. They assumed that I was finishing too, but I had not even finished the 15.5 mile loop. I started watching my watch. I wanted to do the first half in 4.5 hours, but I was not going to make it.

To make matters worse, I was not having fun any more. I've always said that I would stop running when it was no longer fun. The ankle (among other things) was hurting, and all I could think of was the pain. I took two Advils, but they did nothing. I continued to walk and think about what to do. I had to be getting close to the finish of the loop. I would not make the 9 hour cut-off to finish the marathon, but a little piece of me wanted to ask the race director if I could continue on, since some of the 50 milers would still be on the course for several more hours. Maybe I could finish in 10 or 11 hours. I had slowed down that much. Granted, if I stayed to finish the course, I would miss my plane. An 8 hour finish would have gotten me to the airport in plenty of time. A 9 hour finish would have been pushing it, but it was still doable. A 10 hour finish would find me begging the ticket agent to find me another flight without charging me the $100 change fee. I had already DNF'd a MN marathon (Lake Wobegon) earlier this year, and I was on the verge of DNFing this MN marathon. What do I do?

Almost 6 hours after I started the race, I finished the 15.5 mile loop. A race volunteer told me to keep going because there really wasn't a cut-off, except for the 50 milers, which was 14 hours. He told me that I had until 8:00 p.m. and that I could walk the 9.5 mile loop in that amount of time. I was in pain and completely out of it, but I knew that I had only done one of the 3 loops that was required for the marathon. Another volunteer that was listening to our conversation chimed in and asked if I did the 1.2 mile out-n-back at the start of the race. No, I had not. He insisted that there was a turn-around sign when we first started, but I never saw it. The first volunteer asked if I had listened to the race director "yelling" at the beginning of the race for the marathoners to do the 1.2 mile out-n-back first. He looked angry, but I was too dejected to care. No, I told him. With the wind, the other runners talking around me, and being in the back of the pack, I could not hear anything the race director was saying. In the dark, even with my headlamp and 2 handheld flashlights, I had missed the marathon turn-around. The volunteer walked off to talk with the volunteer at the timing table.

I went to the porta potty to think about what to do next. As I sat, I now knew why runners were coming back towards me early in the race and why I was being passed when I thought I was last. The runners were other marathoners that had done the 1.2 mile out-n-back section on the 15.5 mile loop. But for the life of me, I didn't remember a sign or marking for the turn-around point. I could go back out and do the 1.2 mile section. Surely, I would not miss the same marking in the daylight. That was the least of my problems. But how was I going to finish the 9.5 mile loop (a modified version of the 15.5 mile loop) with the ankle hurting like it was? My heart wanted to keep going, but my body and mind were long out of the race. Two against one is horrible odds.

I went back to the start/finish area and sipped coke and ate a few potato chips. A familiar face came up to me. "Do you remember me?"

Of course I remembered Bonnie (MN). I had met her and Don (MN) during the Mother Road 100 Mile last November. They were a nice couple and had run lots and lots of tough ultras. She told me how she and Don volunteered to mark several of the MN ultras, and Surf the Murph was one of them. They even had to be here at 5:00 a.m. to mark the two sections of single track trail that we ran through today. She stated that they had about 800 flags to mark courses. That's why the course was marked so well and so abundantly. She seemed really disappointed that I missed the turn-around. But it wasn't her fault; I didn't blame her and Don at all. Although I loved the course, the loop is tough with all of the ups and downs, and the muddy sections were hard to navigate even on two good ankles. That's what worried me. The ankle was not happy, and therefore, I was not happy. I could handle being hurt and unhappy for a little while, but to do that for several more hours would push me over the edge. Bonnie listened to me agonize over the decision, but she ultimately told me what I already knew. She couldn't tell me what to do. I had to decide for myself.

A third volunteer came over from the timing table. "Are you continuing on with the marathon?" I told her that I was not. She smiled and said, "You still get a medal for finishing the 25K." Nothing against her or the race, but my goal was loftier than that when I arrived this morning. When she came back with my medal, I thanked her.

Bonnie and I talked a little more, and then the standing around in the cold finally got to me. We said our good-byes, and I headed back to Minneapolis. At least I would make my flight. For the third time, I would have to find another MN marathon to run. Maybe by then, the ankle will have healed, and I'll be faster.

Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K - 10/17

2009-10-18T09:51:00.000-07:00

"Your co-pay for emergency care is $75, but if you pay today, it will only be $60." I laughed. I couldn't help myself. Since when did hospitals give patients a discount for paying up front?

"It's a way of encouraging patients to pay their bills on time." I laughed again. I'm not sure why this conversation was tickling my funny bone, but I scrambled in my purse for my credit card. I appreciated the discount. Things were beginning to look up after a scary situation just a few hours ago.

I gathered my belongings and carried the crutches as I hobbled out to my car. The nurse had shown me how to use them, but I felt awkward with them. That's all I needed to do was to fall again and really mess something up. I tried to give the crutches back to her, but she insisted that I keep them. She believed that I might actually need them later. I doubted it, but I took them with me to be on the safe side.

The x-rays showed no broken bones in my right ankle or foot. That was the good news. It was just a bad sprain that was causing me so much pain and causing me to hobble my way through the afternoon. I read the papers that the doctor had given me. Three to six weeks would pass before the sprain would completely heal. In addition to the crutches, I had an air cast to immobilize the ankle. I also had a prescription for pain killers. I was told to elevate and ice the ankle and foot as much as possible. There is little else that can be done for a sprain.

Did this mean that I couldn't run for almost 2 months? What about all of the races that I had registered for over the next couple of months? I was already down in the dumps about missing the Columbus Marathon the next day. However, in this condition, I couldn't run. I could barely walk. How did this happen? Was it bad karma coming back to haunt me? Who did I screw over in my previous life to get to this point in my present life, lol?

The day had started on Saturday morning with a 4:30 a.m. drive to Cookeville, TN for it's inaugural Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K. It was raining, cold, and slow going. I arrived at Tennessee Technological University (TTU) about 6:00 a.m. I checked in, picked up my timing chip and goodie bag, and headed to the Survivors' Tent. I filled my plate with a delicious breakfast of mixed fruit, a muffin, and a bagel and grabbed a cup of orange juice. I sat down with Judy (MI). She told me about her sister who had the same condition as I did - metastasized breast cancer to the bones. Just like me, her sister was also taking Zometa to help rebuild her bone tissue, but her sister's prognosis was not a good one. I wanted to talk with her more and to find out why there was a difference between her sister and me, but I did not have the opportunity.

The survivors had a full schedule before the race. Pictures were being taken as we ate our breakfast. We were then asked to summarize in one word what breast cancer meant to us as survivors. When I viewed the board, I noticed that others had already posted the 2 words that I had come up with: "blessed" and "life-changing". I thought quickly as the volunteer patiently waited for me to come up with a word. "Courage," I told her. She wrote my word, my name, and the year of initial diagnosis (2003) on a piece of construction paper shaped like a butterfly and then pinned it to the board with the others. "That's a good one," she said.

We were then told to pick up our special survivor goodie bag and to sign up for the give-aways. Another volunteer approached me and asked if I would like a massage. She had not had any customers that morning. I was pleased to be her first of many for the day. Outside of a chiropractor's office, I had never had a massage. I didn't even know how to sit properly in the specially made chair. I removed my glasses, and the volunteer placed a sheet of tissue-like paper onto the chair for me to lay my head face down. I also straddled the chair, resting my knees and palms on the cushions below the chair. She proceeded to give my tight neck, back, hips, and arms a gentle but firm massage. It was like she was kneading dough to bake bread. "How's the pressure?" she asked. Wonderful . . . just wonderful, I told her.

I thanked her profusely when she'd finished. I was surprised at how loose I felt after I stood up. She did great work. She then gave me her card. It may come in handy one day.

I then proceeded to my car to drop off the bags of goodies, to use the porta-potty, and to get ready for the parade of survivors. Mark (NJ) is the male face of breast cancer. You can read his story on the New Balance website: http://www.newbalance.com/events/komenpartnership/honorary_teamnb_mgoldstein.php.
He was diagnosed at the age of 55 and ran his first Race for the Cure four years later. He is now 76 years old. This will be his 201st Race for the Cure. He has travelled all over the country, including 5 international Races for the Cure. He and Eileen (TN), the hard-working organizer of Cookeville's event and a breast cancer survivor herself, were instrumental in making me an Honorary New Balance (NB) Team Member. As Mark explained, NB chooses an honorary team member for each Race for the Cure that it sponsors. I benefited with a pair of NB 769s, shirt, shorts, socks, hat, and jacket - all with the signature pink ribbon. What a blessing!

Mark and I chatted during the parade - a short walk around a small area of the parking lot. We ended in front of the stage, while each of our names was called. After each name was announced, everyone shouted and clapped for that particular survivor. There were about 50-60 of us. It was a very emotional moment. Everyone was dressed in something pink - pink hats, pink wigs, pink shoes, pink shirts, pink tutus, pink capes, and pink jackets. Other runners, spectators, and volunteers were taking our pictures, clapping, and smiling. At some point, my friend, Dallas (TN), came up and gave me a hug. He had invited me to participate months before and had recently written an article for Cookeville's Herald-Citizen highlighting the Race for the Cure, http://dallasfallsforward.blogspot.com/. Throughout the day, many of the volunteers, survivors, and other participants would recognize me from that article. That made me feel very special.

After all of the survivors' names were announced, Mark went up onto the stage and gave a very inspirational speech to all of the other participants. I could tell that he was very comfortable talking to us about his life mission. The audience embraced him immediately, and I was proud of my new running buddy. Afterwards, the survivors headed to the steps of the Hooper Eblen Center for more publicity photos. I was honored to be included amongst all of the survivors. I was glad that I had come to Cookeville.

After the photos, it was time to get ready for the 5K. Mark wanted to line up at the front of the pack. I never line up at the front. I'm too afraid of being run over by the faster runners. But Mark insisted that we had to line up there. He had a valid reason for this. As others passed by him, they would see the back of his shirt, which read: "Men Have a Breasted Interest". It was a powerful message that he wanted to spread on so many levels. Dallas, who is accustomed to being at the front, joined us as well.

Josh (TN), who also was featured in Dallas' article, gave me a hug before we started. Josh is fast, but he would be running for fun today, saving his energy for the Louisville Marathon on Sunday. He wore a pink cape that he would use to fly through the crowd of runners.

And then we were off. I wanted to run as hard and as fast as I could for as long as I could. I had a goal of a 30 minute finish. Dallas and I ran together for a while. Like Josh, he was just out to have fun and would not run as fast as he's capable of running. His friend, Amy, was running the 80K (50 miles) at the Nashville Ultra, and he was going to run a few miles at the race with her later in the day. He also wanted to attend his sister's cookout for her turnip greens. I couldn't blame him for that, lol.

After a while, even at a leisurely pace for Dallas, I could not keep up. The 5K loop ran from the TTU campus, through the small downtown area, and back to the campus. There were 2 noticeable hills, but I refused to walk either one. I took short walk breaks at the aid stations at mile 1 and mile 2 while I sipped water, but for the most part, I ran the entire 3.1 miles. I was feeling good, breathing hard, and enjoyed seeing other runners around me accomplishing their goals for the day. Surprisingly, there were very few spectators along the course, but the finish line surely made up for this.

At around the 2.5 mile mark, I saw Josh and his pink cape running towards me. He had finished and was coming back onto the course to run with his wife and mother-in-law. He had seen Dallas, who had also finished by that time.

As I turned the last corner down hill to the finish line, I could see that I was out of the 30 minute range. I would finish in 31 minutes plus a few seconds. But I was still happy. Dallas ran in with me, which meant a lot to me. We decided to go back out onto the course to run in with Mark. When we found him, Mark was flanked by a woman on each side of him. What a stud muffin!

We joked and ran along, and as we neared the finish line, Gabriel, a friend of Dallas, also joined us as we all crossed the finish line with Mark. Everyone was cheering. Little kids were handing out pink roses to those who had a pink survivor race number. What a nice little race!

Mark had worn shorts during the race, so he hurried off to put on warm clothes. Although it had stopped raining before I reached Cookeville, it was still pretty cold. Dallas and I grabbed bottles of water and fruit and sat down on a curb. Josh soon joined us for runner conversation.

At some point, we all decided to take a walk over to the fitness center before the awards ceremony. We were walking along, talking, and laughing, and then I did a full-bodied hit on the ground, feeling my right foot twisting in a manner that it should not have. My heart must have stopped and started before I realized what had happened. I could hardly catch my breath, and then the pain . . . oh, my . . . the pain . . . .

Josh and Dallas helped me to a sitting position onto the curb. I had not been paying attention to where I was walking and stepped off the curb awkwardly. A volunteer who saw me fall rushed over to see if I was okay. She then went back to get a bag of ice. Dallas instructed me to try and move the foot. I painfully did it. Surely, it was not broken.

I have twisted my ankles on the trails so many times that I knew that if I just sat for a while, the ankle would readjust and I would walk just fine. I sat as Dallas applied the ice. After I had gathered my senses about me, Josh and Dallas helped me to stand up. But unlike other times when I had twisted an ankle, this time the ankle was not cooperating. I limped and hobbled, pain radiating on the inside of the ankle and along the top of the foot. What have I done? I'm suppose to drive to Ohio in a couple of hours to run the Columbus Marathon on Sunday. I felt stupid, and I was so embarrassed. I wanted to hide and cry. How could I have done this?

We decided to go inside the Hooper Eblen Center where it was warm, and Dallas continued to apply the ice while my foot was propped up on a chair. Hopefully, the ice and elevation were keeping the swelling down. I was in panic mode at this point. What if the ankle was in bad shape? How would I run? Goodness . . . how was I going to walk? And although I was in a panic, I felt guilty for keeping Josh and Dallas. They had important things to do for the rest of the day. They didn't have time to take care of my foolishness.

Josh and I said our good-byes, as he went off to find his wife and mother-in-law. Dallas and I made our way over to the medical tent. The doctor poked here and there until I let out a breathless, "Owww". He had found the spot. He prodded, twisted, and turned the foot, while I let out several more "owwws". And then he told me what to do. "If I were you, I would go home, elevate, and ice the ankle. If it doesn't feel any better in a couple of days, make an appointment with your regular physician." Defeated, I turned to Dallas, and simply said, almost questioningly, "I'm not going to Columbus today."

Mark had rushed over. After the doctor had left, and we made our way to the stage, he looked me straight in the eyes. "Get it checked out right away. Do not wait. Remember, there is a reason for everything. There is a reason why this happened." Words of wisdom.

Dallas was still with me. I couldn't leave until I at least had gone up on stage with Mark. I had promised him I would do that before we started the race. He would talk a little about New Balance and their support of the Race for the Cure, introduce me as the honorary NB team member for Cookeville's Race for the Cure, and then I would have the privilege of announcing the two winners of NB gear. But first, I had to hobble onto the stage in front of all of those people.

They must have thought I was a fool. Being written up in the newspaper, being an honorary NB team member, having run marathons and ultramarathons across the country, and here I couldn't even walk up to the fitness center without spraining an ankle. I felt lower than low, but I would go up on that stage, accept the love and support from this Race for the Cure family, try not to embarrass Mark, hold my head up high, and do as I had promised. And even though Dallas had several things he wanted to do for the day, he waited in the audience for me to finish. He waited to make sure that I was okay. I could not ask for a better friend. Thank you, Dallas.

I said my good-byes to Mark and then to Dallas. I assured him that I would be okay. Harry, Eileen's husband who's also a doctor, wrapped my ankle with an ace bandage. "It will keep the swelling down so that you can drive back home." A young volunteer, Natasha, helped me to get a chair and to put my foot up so Harry could do his magic. She had someone to take our picture, and she told me about her husband, who was also a cancer survivor. Cancer survivors are a big family. This Race for the Cure has demonstrated that to me.

As I drove home with the foot and ankle throbbing in pain, I thanked my higher power for again allowing me to do what I do. Yes, I will miss the Columbus Marathon, but there is always next year. If I have to take off from running over the next couple of months, then so be it. There are no broken bones in the ankle and foot, and I would like to keep it that way. Thank you Race for the Cure for making this a memorable experience for me. And thank you Mark and Eileen for my 31 minute (and a few seconds) 5K in my pink NB 769s!

Lake City 50K - 9/12/09

2009-09-13T08:11:00.000-07:00

My yahoo map directions led me to a dead end street either in Winona Lake, IN (where I should have been) or Warsaw, IN (the closest town to where I should have been). It was still dark, and I was too tired to figure out how to get to the Lake City 50K. I did not leave my office until 6:00 p.m. on Friday, and I drove through the night, pulling into a couple of rest areas to take short naps totaling 2 hours at the most. At times like these, I always contemplate buying a GPS to do the thinking for me.

I looked at my directions and then glanced around the small town to find a main street. I had given myself an hour of cushion, but that time was fading fast. I saw a red light up ahead and started in that direction. As I drove through the red light, I finally found a street sign that said Park Avenue. That sounded familiar. I looked at my directions. The senior center was the start/finish location for the race and was located on Park Avenue. I did a quick u-turn and headed down that street. On the right in a fairly large parking lot, I saw a female with a familiar runner's cap walking from the lot down the street. I was now in the right place, but as I looked around, I did not see anything that resembled a senior center.

As I was getting myself together, two guys pulled into the parking space next to me. They had their races numbers, and I decided to ask them where they had gotten them. They told me to go about a quarter of a mile up the road. I thanked them and started a fairly fast paced walk to the building. It was cold, and I had forgotten to bring a jacket.

I checked in with a volunteer, who I later found out was the race director's wife, Tracy. She handed me a t-shirt, a nice duffel bag, and a bib number for the marathon. I told her that I was signed up for the 50K. She looked at her list and said that another female had checked in with the opposite problem. She had signed up for the marathon and had been assigned a 50K race number. We needed to exchange bib numbers, but I had to find Angela (TX). I had run several races with her in the past, but it had been a while since I'd seen her. I hoped that I would recognize her.

As I thanked Tracy, I saw my running buddy, Frank (MN). We had not run together since my ill-fated attempt at the Lake Wobegon Marathon. We talked for a minute or two while eating raisin-cinnamon bagels (my favorite) provided for the runners. Jen (IN) also joined us. She was a fellow Marathon Maniac that I met at the HUFF 50K several years ago and that I had not seen in a while.

We had a few minutes before the race briefing, so I made a trip to the ladies room and then walked back to the car to drop off my goodies and to look for Angela. It was still dark, and I still couldn't find her. The two guys parked next to my car were still there doing some stretching. They asked if I knew about the course. I didn't. They proceeded to pull out the map and explain about the different loops (A, B, C, D1, D2, and E) and the cones. I didn't comprehend a thing. How many loops? How many cones? Where were these cones? WTF?

It was time for the briefing, so we headed back to the senior center. I went inside to again look for Angela, and there she was, talking with my infamous running buddy, Larry (TX). Tracy quickly changed our names on the tear-off portion of the bibs, and we proceeded outside for the start. The race director, Mike, was speaking the same language as the two runners in the parking lot. I was already confused, and I hadn't stepped a foot over the start line. He asked if there were any 50Kers here that were not present at the dinner the night before. As far as I could tell, I was the only one to raise my hand. He talked, gestured, and pointed, mentioning cones, loops with letters, and turn-arounds designating the last 5 miles for the 50K. The only thing I understood was that the marathoners and 50Kers ran the same course three times. I would worry about the last 5 miles when I got to that point in the race.

And we were off. Larry, Angela, Jen, Frank, and I started together. We were laughing, talking, and enjoying the cool morning as the sun began to rise. We ran by quaint little shops on one side and the boat dock on the other. We then ran along Lake Winona for a short period. Jen pointed out a little castle among the lake side homes, before we ran across a small bridge, circling back to the park and senior center. We had just completed Loop A.

The course was well marked with arrows painted on the road. Mile marker signs were prominent. Except for little risers here and there, the course was relatively flat and runnable. The aid stations were frequent and adequately stocked with water, Gatorade, power bars, and bananas. In fact, the aid stations were so frequent that I had to skip a few. I had 5 porta potty stops throughout the day, which is a little much for me in a 50K race. The young volunteers that manned the aid stations were enthusiastic and encouraging all day.

Loop B lead us into the first of many neighborhoods. The houses along the lake were small and older but well maintained. Jen, Larry, and Angela pulled away, and Frank and I dropped back. We would see them many times throughout the day on the out-n-back sections and the portions of the loops that crossed each other or ran together.

I allowed Frank to set the pace, and I tried to keep up. He and Larry were going to the Erie Marathon at Presque Isle on Sunday to complete a double for the weekend. It was a 5 hour drive from Winona Lake, so they were not playing around today.

After Loop B, we ran along a bike path for a little over a mile. Throughout the day, we would see locals biking, running, and walking with kids and pets. This path was well shaded and would be a wonderful reprieve later in the day when the temperature began to creep up into the 70s.

At the end of the bike path was another aid station, and then we ran Loops C, D1, D2, and E. I lumped them all together because, even though signs were posted with which loop we were on and painted arrows on the road pointed us in the direction we should travel, as the day went along, I couldn't tell what the course was doing. There were lots of twists and turns. All of the loops were run through nice subdivisions that looked fairly new. People were out doing yard work and otherwise enjoying the day. Several dogs were out, but none of them came out onto the course.

After the loops, we headed back onto the bike path, followed by the short stretch to the start area. The course was about 8.75 miles. I finished each of the 3 laps in 2 hours. I don't think I have ever been so evenly paced. I was just too happy about the perfect pacing. Granted, that's a much too slow six-hour marathon. Ugh!

With one lap down, the marathoners had 2 more to go. Frank was getting into his groove and decided to pull away. I enjoyed his company, but I knew it was inevitable. I was now alone, but not lonely. If I wasn't being passed by the faster runners, I was seeing them on the loops that crossed each other and on the out-n-back portion of the bike path. The volunteers at the aid stations were also constant companions.

Right after I finished Loop B on my 3rd lap, Mike was bringing more water to an aid station, and he asked if I understood what to do to finish the 50K. Not really, I told him. He was about to explain when volunteers came up to him about a potential problem. As the race director, he was being pulled in all sorts of directions, and I knew this. Besides, it was my responsibility to know the course, and I had not allowed time to do this. After a few minutes that seemed like forever for me, it was obvious that he was too busy to hand-hold me through the course, so I continued on. Jen was too far ahead of me to tag along with her. Marathoners were finishing up and the 50Kers were getting in their last 5 miles. I would just have to figure it out myself.

Prior to passing through the start area at the end of my third lap and on my way to Loop A, Mike came running towards me and again asked if I knew what to do. I still had not figured it out, but I had paid special attention to mile marker signs 27, 28, 29, and 30, so I had an idea of what loops I needed to repeat. Another volunteer caught his attention, and he was off again before he could explain to me what to do. Poor Mike. He had so much to do, and he was still concerned about me being able to follow the course.

As I started Loop A, I saw Frank and Larry finish their marathons. Angela had also finished her marathon a little while before them. Jen was still out on the course, wrapping up her 50K. I crossed the finish line for the third time, and now it was time to start the last 5 miles to finish the 50K. I knew I had to at least do Loop B so I ran and walked the loop which was about a mile. The volunteers at the aid stations on this portion were now gone, but the tables were still fully stocked. I then saw mile marker 27, which was right on time.

Tracy was helping out at the aid stations at the end of the bike path, and when I came through on my third lap, she had told me that I would come back to her and turn around at the cone. This eliminated doing Loops C, D1, D2, and E for a 4th time. I asked if I was the last one, and she said that there were 3 others behind me. I had not seen anyone else for a while, so I was glad to know that I wasn't the only one out on the course.

Because of the conversation with Tracy, I knew I had to do an out-n-back on the bike path. But as soon as I hit the bike path, there was mile marker 28. I was missing a mile, and I wasn't sure where I should pick up that mile.

I ran the out-n-back any way. When I came to Tracy and told her what I had done and that I was missing a mile, she and another volunteer said that I had followed the course correctly and that I couldn't have missed a mile. I was loopy from the loops, but I knew better. I thanked them and headed back along the bike path.

On the bike path, I saw the 3 female runners that were behind me. I asked them about Loops A and B and if they had run either one of them twice to pick up the additional mile. Did they notice that when they entered the bike path from Loop B that mile marker 27 and mile marker 28 were within 2-3 minutes of each other? I was probably not making any sense, because I never got the answer that I needed.

Mile 29 was right where it should have been, and when I passed back through the start area, mile marker 30 was where it should have been. I was desperate now. If I followed Loop A back to the finish I would still be a mile short. As much as I was ready to be done, I wanted to run the official course and get an official time. I had to find out how to pick up the additional mile. At this point, there were only 2 choices - Loop A or Loop B. My guess was that I should have run Loop B twice instead of once. I turned into the finish area coming from the wrong direction and surprised the volunteer sitting at the timing table. We pulled out the map and discussed what I had done. "I'm missing a mile." I was hysterical at this point, and it was my own darn fault for not paying more attention and focusing during the race briefing 7 hours ago.

Another volunteer came over and he and the volunteer at the timing table discussed the situation. We all agreed that I should run Loop B one more time before running Loop A back to the finish. I went back out and ran Loop B. I was so frustrated with myself. Jen had finished, and she came out onto the course. I told her what happened, and she focused on my finishing and not the mix-up I had made. Of course, she was right. I redirected my energy and efforts towards finishing.

With Loop B completed, I was now headed back to Loop A to finish. I passed another cone for the 4th time and a light went on in my fuzzy brain. If I had paid more attention to the two runners in the parking lot and to Mike during the briefing, I would have realized that I should have run the short distance from Loop B to the cone at the start and then run Loop B again before heading to the bike path. I essentially did that, but in the wrong sequence during the lap. I even tacked on a few feet running from the start line to the finish line and back to course when I pulled off to talk to the volunteer at the timing table about what to do.

I finally crossed the finish line in the 7:30-7:45 range. Jen handed me my finisher's medal, and the volunteer recorded my time. There were hamburgers and fried chicken in the senior center, I was told, but I headed for the lettuce, tomato, cheese, and buns to fix a veggie sandwich before I hit the road for home. There was even a piece of watermelon left.

As I came out of the senior center, the three females that were behind me had just finished. The last one hugged me, even though we didn't know each other. She was tired and happy to be done. I saw the look in her eyes. I know the feeling, and I was happy for her.

Speed Work - 8/27/09

2009-08-27T12:38:00.000-07:00

I've signed up to run the Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure 5K in Cookeville, TN on October 17, 2009. Yesterday, when I posted the link on Facebook to my personal home page that will be used for fundraising on the Komen website, I received 2 cute comments. My running buddy, Lauri (PA), said that she didn't think I could run anything less than 26.2 miles. Another running buddy, Susan (TX), asked if I had forgotten some miles. It's nice to know that they think so highly of me, lol.

This will be Cookeville's inaugural Race for the Cure, and my running buddy, Dallas (TN), was the one to encourage me to participate. I'm glad that he did. Even he commented on Facebook that I was giving up a weekend to run a marathon or an ultra so that I could run this race. But, honestly, I'm looking forward to it. It's a new challenge and a different adventure. I even signed up for the competitive division, which only means that I'll get a chip for official timing and placement in the results.

Now, I have less than 2 months to incorporate some speed training. I don't do speed work, lol. I turn my nose up at the whole concept. It's not fun. I feel like I'm going to pass out. My VO2 Max must be non-existant. My heart wants to explode from my chest. The last time I did speed work I pulled a hamstring that took months to heal. I have no practice in running all out. Can an old dog be taught new tricks, lol?

My goal is to finish the 5K in under 30 minutes. That means that I can't take any walk breaks. It's been a long time since I've run a race where I didn't walk at all. Ten minute miles is easy and slow for most runners; it's pedestrian pace for the elite. For me, I'll feel like the Road Runner from the old cartoon if I can pull it off.

I signed up for the Race for the Cure in Nashville, TN in 2003. I never even made it to the start line. My friend, Sharon (TN), picked up my race packet for me and brought it to the hospital, where I was laid up from experiencing blood clots in my left lung. I was about 4 weeks into radiation treatments for my breast cancer, and unfortunately, the radiologist "over-radiated" my chest. Thinking I had heartburn that would eventually pass, my running buddy, Joe (TN), and I went to a 10 mile race the day before the Race for the Cure. The minute I started running, shock waves of pain went through my body. An ambulance was called, and I was taken to the hospital. Five days later, with the blood clots dissolved, I was released from the hospital. Through the years, it had not even occurred to me to sign up for another Race for the Cure.

Six years later, here's my chance to redeem myself. The crazy thing is that I was probably in better shape then than I am now. Back then I was slowly rebuilding my mileage, doing the shorter races so that I could get back to running marathons. At that time, running ultramarathons was still a dream of mine.

So, speed work it is. Nothing mind blowing - once or twice a week on the track so that I can judge my progress. Nine to 10 minute miles is the goal. I've done it before, so maybe I can do it again. I just have to sustain that "speed" for 3.1 miles. That's as easy as a piece of chocolate cake, right?

Paul - 8/21/09

2009-08-21T11:20:00.000-07:00

Paul (AZ)

Last night, my running buddy, Charlie (CA), called me and asked me to talk to Paul. He told me that he would not be able to respond, but if I could just say something to him, it would lift his spirits. I was caught off-guard. I had nothing prepared. What would I say?

Without thinking, I said, "yes, of course." He told me to hold on. I called out Paul's name. There was only silence. I spoke words that probably didn't mean much. I can't even recall exactly what I said to him. I do know that I told him that I was praying for him and that I cared about him. I hope it was enough.

Charlie came back on the line. Fearing the worst, I asked, "why can't he talk?" Charlie said that he's too weak. I told Charlie that I was glad that he was able to visit him. We said our good-byes. I hung up the phone, wishing that I could do more and wishing that I was quick-minded enough to offer words of encouragement and comfort.

Last Friday night, before I headed to Michigan for the Fallsburg Marathon, Charlie sent me an e-mail and then called to see if I had opened it. I hadn't. As I was talking with him, I opened and read the e-mail. Oh, no . . . .

Another friend of Paul's had been trying to get in touch with Charlie to tell him that Paul had liver cancer and was in a hospice. We all know the meaning of a hospice. The doctors have given up on him. Our running buddy is dying.

Saturday night, Charlie called to say that he had called the hospice and would go to Arizona to visit Paul. It turns out that our friend has (maybe) six weeks to live. I have to call, but I have to prepare what I'm going to say. Six weeks may come sooner than we expect.

Sunday passed. Monday did the same. On Tuesday I wrote a short letter to Paul and shopped for a card. Hallmark makes cards for every possible occasion; however, I did not see a "my friend is dying" card. I found a "I'm thinking of you" card. It was true that I was thinking of him, but it still did not seem appropriate. But it would have to do.

I never got up the courage to call. I took the coward's way out, placing my letter inside the card and mailing it on Wednesday. I promised myself that I would call him.

Last night, on Thursday, thanks to Charlie, I verbally told my friend that I cared about him. It wasn't enough. It does not matter how I feel. I can't imagine how he feels. Is he in pain? Is he crying? What is he thinking about?

One of Paul's goals was to run 1,000 marathons in his lifetime. I copied the above picture from the Across the Years 72/48/24-Hour website. In 2006, when he ran 183.305 miles in 72 hours, his biography on the website said that he was scheduled to hit 1,000 marathons in 2009. Has he achieved that goal? Does he think about that? Does it matter to him at this point?

I am sad for my running buddy. Below is the short letter that I included in his card. I still don't know what to say to him. But I will run for my friend on Saturday because he can't run for himself. It's not enough, but it will have to do.

Paul:

I don’t think we’ve run any of the same races this year. I was expecting to see you at the Viaduct Trail 100 Miler in Pennsylvania a couple of weeks ago. I called Charlie to let him know that I had again DNF’d another 100 miler, but more so, to tell him that you were not there.

The last time I saw you was at the Mother Road 2. You had given me an extra pair of gloves and a jacket to keep me warm towards the end of the race. I wasn’t moving fast enough to stay warm, but I finished. You had cried at the table where we were all gathered to eat breakfast. Some of us had finished, and some of us had a bad day at the office of our choice. I’ve thought back to that day often and wondered what made you cry on such a wonderful occasion.

Charlie had told me that you had lost a lot of weight. He’s so small, I thought, that he can’t afford to lose even a pound. But I figured you were running doubles and 100 milers with fervor, and that kind of schedule just takes it’s toll on one’s body.

Imagine my anguish when Charlie sent me a forwarded e-mail that he received saying that you were in a hospice with liver cancer. I am speechless. I am so sorry, Paul. I had no idea that you were sick. Having metastasized breast cancer to the bones, we are sister and brother against this unbearable and horrible disease. I realize that your struggle is a lot worse than mine, and my heart goes out to you. I wish that there was something I could do or say to make it all go away.

You are such a great runner. I always wondered what made you so strong, that you could run all of these long races back-to-back. I’ve tried, but I can’t seem to do it as well as you do. So, to me, it doesn’t make sense that someone like you who is physically and mentally strong should ever have cancer. It’s not fair.

There is no answer for the “why” question. God knows best. I know that you are a believer. Continue to be strong and to have faith.

Take care, my friend.

Fallsburg Marathon - 8/15/09

2009-08-20T15:03:00.000-07:00

I love the Fallsburg Marathon in Lowell, MI! It's a long 9 hour drive for me, but it's well worth it. I had to work all day on Friday and didn't hit the road until almost 6:00 p.m. I ran into road construction 2 or 3 different times, which didn't help the situation. I didn't get much sleep in the car before the start of the race. I was about an hour away from Lowell when I decided to stop at a rest area to sleep for 2 hours. When my cell phone's alarm went off, I changed into my running clothes and arrived at the race site in Fallasburg Park about 45 minutes before the start.

Now if you noticed, the name of the race is spelled differently from the name of the park. It is not a typo. I wish I had a story to explain it, but for two years in a row, I've forgotten to ask Dan, the race director, why that is, lol.

In the race packet is a t-shirt and a hooded sweatshirt. The finisher's award is a medal and a huge, thick, hot pink bath towel with the race name embroidered on it. I love the towels that Dan gives the runners. I have 2 brown towels from last year when I ran the marathon and the Wild West 100K, which is held at the same location.

I talked with my running buddies, Eugene (CT) and Cathy (NY), before we started. After the start, I quickly lost track of Eugene. He's been having some back problems lately, and he's been known to go off-course (i.e., get lost) at some races, so I'm not sure which situation kept him out of the results. He successfully finished the Lean Horse 50K the following weekend, so at least I know he's okay.

Cathy and I would spend the day together. Since there was no cut-off, there was no pressure. Cathy runs an evenly paced race, so I was determined to keep up with her. She runs one minute and then walks one minute. On this course with the rolling hills and trails, we would deviate from this routine periodically to walk the uphills and to take advantage of the downhills.

It was hot but not very humid. Most of the course that is on the roads and exposed is run in the early part of the race, while most of the trail sections with the canopy of trees for shade is run in the afternoon when the temperature really starts heating up.

We started on the road and went up a short hill passing through the first of 3 covered bridges. We then follow rolling country roads for a few miles. At some point, we saw 3 deer cross the road right in front of us. Cathy said they represented her daughter and 2 of her friends that have succumbed to cancer. Respectfully, we said hello to the deer, who were now hiding in the woods as we passed by them.

We hit a rolling dirt/gravel road next, and covered bridge #2, followed by some beautiful trails, before emptying back onto the road. After the short road section, we are on the trail leading back to the start/finish area. The relatively flat, rockless, and rootless (are those real words?) trail circles the lake where locals are fishing and swimming. We then cross covered bridge #3 and are back at the start/finish area.

Just as we are leaving to start the 2nd loop, Chuck (OH), a fellow 50 Stater and Marathon Maniac, won the marathon in 3:20:22. Chuck finishes and wins road marathons in the 2:30-2:50 range, so that gives you an indication that the hills on this course are no joke. The fact that Chuck was finished and we still had 13 miles remaining indicates that his speed is also no joke, lol.

Cathy and I headed back out onto the course. The 2nd half is mostly on the North Country Trail. It is my favorite section. As we went back uphill to the 1st covered bridge, I was getting excited. We turned onto the gravel/dirt road which steadily continues uphill for a couple of miles, and then I saw the chalk markings leading us into the woods onto the trail. The North Country Trail runs 4,600 miles through 7 states. It's on my list of things to do when I retire, lol.

Once we hit the trail, I was in heaven. It's single track with just enough roots and rocks to keep it interesting. There were several pine tree sections. Running on the pine needles felt wonderful under my feet. I don't even mind the power line section which has several sandy areas. As I led us through the trail, I could hear Cathy's watch signaling the one minute intervals, but we were ignoring it and running when we could and walking when we couldn't run.

Too soon we were back onto a rolling country road. We passed another runner along this section, who was not carrying a water bottle. He did not look happy, but he was still moving forward, so we went on. We had less than a 10K to the finish, so he would make it.

Once back onto a trail section that we had covered in the first loop, we passed another runner that didn't seem too happy. He, too, was not carrying a water bottle. It's too hot; aid stations are every 3 miles; and we're on a hilly course with trails. I just didn't understand why some runners did not heed Dan's instructions about carrying a water bottle.

We returned to the short road section leading back to the last portion of the trail section around the lake. We were ending a wonderful day, and I was as content as I could be. At some point, Cathy stated in disbelief that I had returned to this race after running it last year. I laughed and told her that I'd be back next year as well. She stated that she probably would be, too, lol.

Cathy won the female grand master's division in 7:15:54. She received even more swag including a polo shirt, jacket, and a bottle of massage oil (for hard working muscles, of course). My finishing time of 7:15:55 was about 40 minutes slower than last year, but last year I ran this race completely alone. Thanks to Cathy, I enjoyed this year's race much more.

Note: A few days later, I received a certificate with my official finish time. Dan also included a nice finish line photo of Cathy and me looking like the trail divas that we are, lol.

Bone, PET, and CT Scans - 8/11/09

2009-08-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

I've been having new pains in my right foot and in the groin (for lack of a better term) of my left leg. I don't know what the area is called on a woman where the upper thigh meets the pubic region, that area that folds in when one sits down. The entire foot hurts from the foot pad to my heel and looks puffy compared to the left foot. The big toe seems to be crammed into the toe box, and my running shoes and loafers feel a little snug. It hurts to stand in one place too long, and walking and running aggravates it. After 6 or 7 hours in a race, the whole foot is one unsettled nerve.

Although the foot pain is bad, the groin pain is worse. I would rather stand for hours than to sit for 15 minutes at a time. When I stand after sitting, I can barely move. The start of a walk is an exercise in patience. I start off limping, placing most of my weight on the sore, right foot, until I work out the kink in my groin. After a few steps, the pain eases off until it is barely noticeable. Laying flat on my stomach or back doesn't cause any problems with the groin, but the foot protests. Pain relievers have done little for the foot or the groin.

I just assumed that the new pains meant that I had new cancer sites. That's how it's been in the past 2 years. And I just knew that my scans would show that the bone cancer was continuing to spread. My oncologist recently switched my scans from every 3 months to every 4 months, so it's been a while since we've discovered any new sites.

On Monday, I had the bone scan. I went to the hospital to have a radioactive substance injected into my arm. For whatever reason, we can never use the port for the radioactive substance, so as usual, this turned out to be an ordeal for the medical technician. She couldn't find a good vein, missed the one that she thought she could get, and then proceeded to move the needle around inside my arm, trying to find it again, before finally giving up. She pulled the needle, found a "child's" needle, and mumbled something about injecting the radioactive substance slowly due to it's smaller size. I'm so accustomed to medical personnel missing my veins that it doesn't bother me at all. The medical technician is more distraught than I'd ever be. I guess they feel that they are the professionals and that they should get it right on the first or second try. I always try to assure them that it's not their lack of skill but the lack of cooperation of my small veins.

She now looks at the back of my hand. When they give up on my arm, they always go to the hand next. In the past, I have even been asked to be prepared to take off a shoe, because that would be the third place to try a needle stick - in the top of my foot. She asks if I've had lymph nodes removed from my left arm. I tell her that I have. She nods and jokingly says that's probably where I'm hiding my good veins. I agree with her, even though prior to lymph node removal, no one could get those veins in that arm to cooperate either. I am never to have needle sticks or a blood pressure cuff applied to my left arm due to the removal of lymph nodes. It has something to do with the inefficient transfer of fluids through the body with fewer available lymph nodes, which could cause swelling and a build up of bacteria in the arm.

She finds a vein in my hand that she likes, sticks the smaller needle in, and misses. She again starts to fish around for the vein. I then feel a slight pinch. I look down and see the blood return. She's found one. Did a look of relief just run across her face? She now injects the substance (slowly, as she stated before), and once the tube is drained, she removes the needle and applies a bandage. She tells me to drink lots of fluids, to urinate as much as possible, and to come back in 3 hours. That means that I can go back to the office and work for a couple of hours.

Bone scans take about an hour. When I return, I am immediately taken back to the nuclear medicine area and asked to empty my bladder one more time. The medical technician then takes me into the room with the scanner, and I lay on my back on the table, resting my head on a pillow. She binds my feet together and places a hard cushion behind my knees so that my legs are elevated and slightly bent. For the first part of the scan, my arms rest along my side, and for the second part, I will raise my arms above my head. The machine is very quiet, unlike an MRI machine, and slowly scans and takes pictures, starting from my lower body and finishing at the top.

On Tuesday, I have the PET and CT scans. I really hate these because of the two bottles of contrast that I have to drink prior to my appointment. I've had all of the different flavors (apple, berry, plain, and vanilla). Banana is the exception. I cannot stand the taste and smell of bananas. No matter the flavor, however, the stuff is still nasty. I often wonder what drinking barium is doing to my body. It's probably causing as much damage as all of the radiation, but I can't argue with a necessity. I sip one bottle while getting dressed and sip the second bottle on the drive to the medical office, finishing up as I park the car. I sit there for a couple of minutes, trying to keep from throwing up 2 bottles of contrast. This is always a struggle.

There are a lot of people in the waiting area, and it's not even 8:00 a.m. I learned years ago to always have something to read while I wait. That way, I don't feel like I'm wasting time. I have stood in long lines for various reasons, and while everyone around me was grumbling about having to wait, I was perfectly content reading a good book. I never get to the level of being anxious, and I can pretty much tune out everything around me while I'm reading.

I'm finally called to the back, so that they can start an IV and inject another radioactive substance. Again, they can't use the port. My arm and hand are bruised from the prior day's attempts, so the medical technician searches for available veins in the forearm. He finds one, but of course, he misses also and thus begins the fishing around for the vein. I feel the familiar pinch, see the blood return, and watch the substance go into the vein. He tapes the needle down so that it can be used again during the scan. I'm asked several questions about surgeries, my breast cancer, my mastectomy, chemotherapy, radiation, blood disorders, and a list of other medical problems, that I'm grateful to not have. It's a new facility that they've sent me to, so it's like starting all over with the medical history. I'm wondering why they just didn't forward over my records from the other PET/CT facility, but I don't ask.

At the other facility, I'm usually left alone to lie quietly with the lights off, while soft music plays in the background. They give me a pillow and blanket, recline the chair, and tell me to relax for 30 minutes. I am not to read, I'm told, when they notice my book. However, this does not happen at this facility. They leave me for about 15 minutes (no pillow, blanket, or music), and I am free to continue to read.

A different medical person comes in and tells me that I need to drink some more contrast, since I've had to wait a little while due to all of the patients they've had this morning. I groan. He apologizes. It's okay, I tell him. He gives me a big cup of what looks like lemonade, none of the thick, chalky white looking substance that I had that morning. And to my surprise, it tastes like lemonade. It's actually pretty yummy. Now why can't they give me 2 bottles of that to drink instead of the other nasty tasting contrast? Do I sound like a 4 year old child, lol?

A few minutes later, a war begins in my tummy. The two different types of contrast are fighting for position. My stomach is essentially empty except for the contrast because I am not to eat or drink anything else for 8 hours prior to my appointment time. This is not good.

A female medical technician comes to take me to the scanning room. Normally, I am taken to a restroom first to empty my bladder because, just like the bone scan, the PET and CT scans take about an hour. She tells me that the scans work better with a full bladder. I am shocked. I've never been told that before. She also tells me that if I could hold it 5 or 10 minutes, we would be done. Again, I am shocked. This is totally different from the PET and CT scans that I've had in the past. I'm all for this - the less time, the better. I try to ignore the sounds coming from my tummy, and I hope that she can't hear them.

I lay on the table, and we start the first scan, from feet to head. I am never sure which scan is which, so I always assume that the first scan is the CT. Once that's done, she injects a die into the needle in my arm. Usually the die burns so bad that tears come from my eyes. The technician would then massage the area until the vein settles down. Today, there is no burning. I still feel the warm, tingly substance entering different portions of my body, but it doesn't hurt today. I am again amazed at the difference between this new facility and the other PET/CT facility. I tell the technician that it doesn't burn and that it normally does. She responds that if it's injected slow enough it shouldn't burn. So the other facility had been rushing this substance through my veins?! Shame on them, lol!

The table again starts to move me through the machine. A couple of minutes later, it's over. She proceeds to remove the needle and to place a bandage over my forearm. That's it? I am so used to being there much longer that I'm actually giddy. I tell her that I want to come back there in 4 months when it's time for the scans because it was much quicker. She said that it should not have been since they use the same procedure that their sister facility uses. I know better and wanted to argue the point with her, but I didn't really want to take the time, and she didn't really have the time, so I kept quiet.

Now I had about a couple of hours before my next appointment. But first, I had to take care of my tummy issues. Once that was over, I ran a few errands until it was time to see the oncologist for my monthly treatment.

By the time I saw my oncologist, she had received and reviewed the results. The bone scan showed that there were no new cancer sites. The good news was that there appeared to be a lot of scar tissue which indicates that the Zometa is still working. The PET and CT scans were also good. So, what were the new pains? I described them, and the oncologist nodded her head. It's the Femara, she said. Unlike with the Tamoxifen, my bone cancer had seemed to be arrested with the Femara. She wanted me to continue to take it as long as I could tolerate it. She would give me another prescription pain reliever that I would take twice a day, every day, if the Aleve was not working. My hydrocodone prescription had run out a long time ago. She really did not encourage Advil. It didn't really matter because neither the Aleve nor the Advil was working on the new pains; they barely helped with my old pains. She wanted me to take the Aleve at the onset of pain and to not wait until I couldn't tolerate the pain any more, which is what I had been doing all along. Pain management is a difficult science, and it's a lot of trial and error. Since I hurt all day, every day, I really don't want to take that much pain reliever. And I really didn't want to be on another prescription pain reliever. I told her I would stick with the Aleve and if the pain became worse (not sure how it could get any worse), I'd come in for the prescription.

The next thing on the list to discuss was the anemia. My port had been assessed, and the nurse had filled up the little tubes with my blood. The good news was that my counts had neither gone up nor down, so I wouldn't have an IV iron infusion today. I was to continue with the iron pills and B and D vitamins. She also wanted me to add some calcium pills, since the Zometa seemed to be pulling the available calcium from my body to repair the bones.

In addition to the Zometa, I would have a booster shot of Lupron today. Lupron prevents my ovaries from producing estrogen. When I first started the Lupron shots, I would get them every month. When the tests came back that my ovaries were completely shut down, I was given a Lupron injection that would last 4 months. The 4 months was up today. I was required to reduce the weight on my hip by lifting my leg behind me and bending over as they pulled my pants down to inject the thick substance into my butt muscle. The injection site remains sore for a couple of days afterwards, and the small lump dissipates over the same time frame.

So another month of treatment was done, and I wouldn't be due for scans for another 4 months. It was a relief that the groin and foot pains were not new cancer sites. I would have loved to hear that the tumors in my back and pelvic bone were completely gone, but all of the reading I've done about bone cancer over the last year and a half says that will never happen. To know that the tumors are stable and not spreading is the next best thing. Now that I knew that the foot and groin pains were a result of the Femara, I could deal with it. I had been dealing with the pain in my back and hips for so long now that they were my friends. I just have new friends to entertain from now on. It would scare me to death to wake up one morning and be able to hop out of the bed pain free, rather than to ease out stiff and sore.

It was time to go back to work and get back to my every day life. But first, I had to take care of my tummy issues again. It had to be the mixing of the different contrasts. I would be in the restroom several more times that day before I finally had some relief, lol.

Viaduct Trail 100 Mile Run - 8/8/09

2009-08-10T16:36:00.000-07:00

Shiran (NY)

Tiger trying to keep up with her new running buddy, Carl (DE)

So . . . I'm sitting in the airport, waiting to board a plane to Philadelphia, when it suddenly occurred to me that I had not packed any socks. I knew I was forgetting something! My list of things to do when I arrived in Lanesboro, PA for the Viaduct Trail 100 Mile Run just went up one item. Wal-Marts are everywhere, so this would not be a big issue, I thought.

What I thought would be a 3 hour drive from Philly to Lanesboro turned into a 4.5 hour drive. Friday evening traffic and road construction will extend any trip. This was not a big issue either. I would still have enough time to do some shopping, to get some dinner, and to get a good night's rest before the race the next morning.

The race directors, Carl and Dave, had told us that it would be okay to camp at the start/finish area, but I ended up staying at a rest area not too far away. Lanesboro is a very, very small town. It may not even be big enough to call it a town, and it definitely did not have a Wal-Mart.

After checking out the start/finish area and Lanesboro, I headed back to the main highway to see if I could find a place to do some shopping. The New York border is about 15 minutes from Lanesboro, so I ended up in Binghamton, NY. I did not find a Wal-Mart there either, but there was a Dick's Sporting Goods. I picked up socks that were relatively cheap and worked out well during the race. I also picked up a sports bra on sale and ended up wearing that as well, since I wasn't all that excited about the one I had brought with me. I know that you should never try new gear during a race, especially a 100 miler, but even the bra was a good fit. There was no rubbing or bouncing at all - the most important factors for a sports bra, lol. I also picked up some gels, and then I was on my way to the next stop.

I now understand why some races charge such high entry fees. Getting my own supplies was not cheap, lol. I found a grocery store called Giant and picked up all kinds of high calorie and salty foods. Not that I was planning to eat all of this stuff (just being prepared), but my shopping basket had: two 64-oz bottles of Gatorade, 1 box of miniature blueberry muffins, 1 pack of trail mix, 1 can of Pringles salt and vinegar potato chips, two 20-oz bottles of Mountain Dew, two 20-oz bottles of Pepsi, 1 pack of miniature 3 Musketeers candy bars, and 1 box of strawberry breakfast bars.

After my Giant shopping spree, I found a Subway to get my signature foot long veggie on wheat bread. I then headed back to the rest area to eat and to pack my drop bags. I split all of my goodies between the 2 drop bags. Saturday night's weather forecast was rain and cool temperatures, so I added rain ponchos, 2 long-sleeve technical shirts, 2 pairs of my new socks, an extra pair of shoes, a pair of tights, 2 hand-held lights, and a head lamp. I felt I was prepared for anything so I settled in for the night.

Carl and Dave were doing this race as a "Fat Ass" event - no fee, no aid, and no wimps. This is my favorite type of race. They would provide water and drop bag service at the start/finish and at the 12.5 mile turn-around point, with a mid-point water stop only. The race was on a rails-to-trails, with four 25 mile out-n-backs, making up the 100 miles. They had capped the race at 30, and at some point had started a wait list. When I asked to be put on the wait list, I was #4 from the top. After a few months, I finally made it off the wait list and onto the official starting roster. Race day came, and only 17 of us started.

It was a beautiful, cool day for running. I actually started out with one of my long-sleeve technical shirts over my short-sleeve technical shirt and shorts. Sleeping in the rental car the night before, I had become cold and draped myself in every piece of clothing I had brought with me. I'd rather have cool weather than blazing hot temperatures, so I wasn't complaining.

We started under the viaduct and immediately hit the trail. The worse part of it for me had to be the old bridge we had to cross. There were gaps between the slats. These gaps revealed a fast flowing river below us. One slip moving from slat to slat and down went your leg. I was too big to fall through the slats into the river, but I didn't want a broken leg or ankle either. All of the other runners ran or walked quickly from slat to slat with ease. I lost the whole field trying to cross this raggedy-a$$ bridge. My whole body just trembled. I had a hard time balancing my big feet on the narrow slats, and it really freaked me out. It would have been easier for me to swim across except I haven't swam since high school, and I doubt that I remembered what to do in a body of water deeper than I was tall.

Once I crossed the bridge, it was all good. I caught up and passed the last 2 guys. The trail was wide with trees, wild flowers, and brush on both sides. Occasionally as we neared a street crossing, we would pass a house. Once we crossed the street, we were back on the trail.

The rails-to-trails was rocky in some areas and smooth in others. It was relatively flat, except for 2 "V"s, where we would run straight down one side and immediately start back up the other side. Since race director Carl had told us to follow the trail by imagining how a train would travel, I was puzzled when I got to the first "V". He had said that a train pulling all of that weight would not make any sudden turns. Therefore, if we followed sharp turns, we would definitely be off-course. So, how could a train travel down a steep descent and then pull back up on the other side? It wasn't until I was running with Carl (DE) that my question was answered. There was a bridge connecting the 2 sides of the "V", and when they built the rails-to-trails, the bridge was removed, probably due to safety issues. I'm not sure why that had not occurred to me before, lol.

But, I'm getting ahead of myself. Somewhere along one of the initial road sections, a runner catches up to me, and we start chatting. Shiran (NY) had driven down to the race that morning but had been stopped by the cops for a tail light that was out, so he had started the race late. He didn't seem to be upset at all and had luckily gotten off with a warning. At one point, we were talking about the railroad spike that we would receive at the finish for our efforts. I had told him that since I had flown and only had carry-on luggage that I couldn't take my spike onto the plane with me. I had planned to ask and pay one of the race directors to mail the spike to me. Shiran immediately offered to mail it for me and he had only known me for a couple of miles. How cool was that!

Way too soon, it was time for Shiran to take off. He would remain cheerful, encouraging, and fast the entire race. Shiran would also steadily move up the field to finish 7th overall in a fine time of 23:44:19. Wow!

A few miles down the trail, one of the runners that I had passed once I crossed that raggedy-a$$ bridge, passed me back. That meant that only one other person was behind me. It's always comforting to know that someone else is attending the back-of-the-pack party besides me.

At the turn-around, both race directors were there. I told them that I loved the course, and they seemed please to hear that. They commented that they were worried that so many runners started out so fast and that I seemed to be on a good pace. They were just being nice, lol.

It was starting to warm up, so I put my long-sleeve shirt in my drop bag and grabbed some chips, a gel, and a breakfast bar to nibble on the way. I also refilled my bottle with Gatorade and headed out. The last guy was close behind me, and right after I finished up the first of the 2 "V"s, he caught up to me. He introduced himself as Carl (DE), and then a little light went on in my head. He was the race director for the Delaware 100 Mile that I was signed up for in September. We started chatting and ran many, many miles together.

Carl was training for the Cascade Crest 100 Mile, a very difficult race in Washington. He had successfully completed sixteen 100 mile races, including Massanutten, another difficult 100 miler in Virginia. Whether he knew it or not, I had decided to hang with him as long as I could. He was such good company and a treat to run with.

We made it back to the raggedy-a$$ bridge, where Carl breezed right over it, and I tip-toed my way across. How in the world would I cross this bridge 6 more times?

Back at the start/finish area, Carl and I refueled at our drop bags. With one out-n-back and 25 miles down, we headed back out. It was very warm now. Since there weren't many of us, it was like a small family. We would all give each other encouraging words as we passed by one another.

I followed Carl's pace. When he walked, I walked. When he ran, I ran. I was determined not to DNF another race for the year.

We made it back to the 12.5 mile turn-around and refueled. I asked the race directors if we would get back to the start/finish area before dark, which would give us 50 miles. They believed that we could do it. I thought about that raggedy-a$$ bridge and grabbed a light from my drop bag just in case. I couldn't imagine crossing that bridge in the dark.

Carl was now on a mission. He wanted to finish 50 miles before dark. Shay (PA), a volunteer, offered to run with us for a couple of miles, and we gladly accepted her offer. Although not an ultrarunner as of yet, she was great company. I'm sure Carl enjoyed hearing someone else's voice besides mine, lol.

Byron (NY) came along and asked for water. I had Gatorade in my bottle, but Carl had water in his camelback and shared with Byron. He chatted for a minute but quickly went on ahead as the second place runner was close behind him. He had taken a nasty fall earlier in the day but refused to drop out. The bruise on his arm was not pretty, but he said that it was his finger that was causing him the most anguish. It turns out that it was broken. He went on to win the race in 18:26:57 before heading off to the hospital. Now that's what I call TOUGH!

The sun was going down, and it was cooling off. Carl began to pick up the pace, and I had started dragging. My right foot had been bothering me all week, and now it had started screaming at me. It actually felt better to run than to walk, but after almost 50 miles, I was walking more than running, and the foot was feeling worse. I popped 2 Advils, which did nothing to numb the pain. It didn't matter. If a sore foot was the extent of any problems, I could finish.

I soon lost sight of Carl. I was now alone, only seeing those who had started their 3rd or 4th out-n-back. When the coast was clear, I ducked off into the brush for a potty break and then started walking towards the start/finish area. By the time I made it back to the raggedy-a$$ bridge, it was dark. Carl had already started his 3rd out-n-back, and all I could think about was my aching foot.

I have only been able to finish 100 milers if I completed the first half in 12-12.5 hours. I arrived at the start/finish area to complete 50 miles in 14.5 hours. I knew that I would not finish under 30 hours. I talked with race director Dave, and he told me that they would wait for me to finish. That was encouraging, but what could I do to make the foot feel better? And I really didn't want them to wait for me if it took me much over 30 hours. But I had to at least try and give it my all. Maybe I could catch Carl, and we could finish this thing together.

I sat in a chair with my Pepsi and changed my socks and shoes. I grabbed trail mix, a gel, miniature muffins, and refilled my bottle with Gatorade. I had been nibbling all day, but I still seemed to be hungry more so than usual. I also grabbed a jacket, tying it around my waist, and a head lamp to go along with my hand-held light. I announced to the volunteer that I was going back out. She asked if she could do anything for me. I told her that I needed someone to carry me across that darn bridge. Bless her heart; she told me she would if she could. We both laughed, and I headed out, cursing the raggedy-a$$ bridge. It turned out to be the last time that I had to cross it.

I arrived at the same road crossing that I had met Shiran earlier in the day and for some reason I headed up a street that ran almost parallel to the trail for a little while. Once I realized that I was on pavement and not on the gravel and dirt trail I turned around, but in the dark I had a hard time finding the trail. I almost cried. Where was the trail? At that point, I should have turned around and went back to the start/finish, but I still had delusions of catching Carl and being able to finish. Calm down and focus! I finally wandered around until I saw a marker. The trail was right where it had been all day. I was getting tired, lol.

Half way through the "out" portion, I stopped at the water only aid station and filled my bottle. A couple of runners who had been together most of the day, just as Carl and I had, were leaving. They had seen Carl and said that it was too bad that I could not hang with him because he was looking good and moving well. I agreed and immediately knew that I would not catch him. I wished them well and trudged on.

Now it had started to rain. I wasn't moving fast enough to stay warm, so I put the jacket on that I had wrapped around my waist. My foot was killing me. Every step on a rock sent a shock through my foot and up my leg. I was also starting to weave across the trail. And a few times I became nauseous. I leaned forward, hands on knees, expecting to hurl, but nothing came up. What in the world was going on? I rarely have tummy issues during a race.

The last six miles to the turn-around were a struggle. One of the lead runners on his last out-n-back asked if I was okay. I told him that I was, but clearly, I wasn't. It was time to drop, but I had to make it to the turn-around point to do so.

I soon saw Carl coming towards me. At this point, he had to be at least 4 miles ahead of me, which meant that I had about 2 miles to go before I could drop. I'm not sure how I had expected to catch him. I wished him luck, and we both continued on our separate ways. Carl would finish his third out-n-back giving him 75 miles in 22:30. That was good training for the Cascade Crest 100 Mile.

All day long I had seen cute deer hopping across the trail and running through the woods. Imagine my surprise when a little while later I smelled skunk. Come on! Wasn't I having enough problems already? I moved my lights across the trail. The last thing I needed was to be sprayed by a skunk. The smell was messing with my tummy, and I again bent over, hands on knees, expecting to vomit. Again, dry heaves was all that I got. I stumbled on, and then I saw the skunk, scurrying into the brush. I was now motivated to run a few steps. Please don't spray me! Please, please, please . . . .

I finally made it to the turn-around (without being skunked). Race director Dave came out onto the trail asking who was there. I told him. He asked how I was doing. "I'm done," I responded. I had just DNF'd at 62.5 miles in 19:47. If this had been a 100K race, it would have been a PR for me. Darn!

I sat down in a chair by a small fire. My foot was so sore. It was throbbing uncontrollably, and I was exhausted. Dave talked with me for a little while, and then he woke up a volunteer to man the aid station while he packed up the drop bags of those that had visited the turn-around for the last time. He then helped me to the truck.

Once back at the start/finish area, I climbed into the rental car, cleaned up, and changed clothes. I then took a nap. When I awoke, it was light out, cloudy, and drizzling. I drove the short distance to the start/finish area and said my good-byes to the race directors. I gave them an unopened bottle of Mountain Dew and Pepsi and the remaining Gatorade since I couldn't take any of it onto the plane. They were planning to run Carl's Delaware 100 Mile so I will see them again next month. I told them I would be back to their race. I enjoyed the course, and I really did have a good time.

Sitting in a chair with his railroad spike was Shiran. I congratulated him. He had remembered that he had told me that he would mail me my railroad spike. I told him that I did not finish. He said he'd send me one any way. I laughed and told him that I wanted to come back next year to finish and earn it. I'm sure he understood.

Make It By Midnight Marathon - 7/25/09

2009-07-28T14:15:00.000-07:00

Finisher's medal, tiara, and pumpkin

I loved the concept of this race, although it was totally wasted on me, lol. The race was limited to a total of 25 runners for the marathon and half-marathon. Runners started at whatever time they wanted as long as they finished by midnight. The final cut-off would be 1:00 a.m. Runners who finished by midnight would be given a tiara, and those that finished after midnight would be given a pumpkin. These goodies were in addition to the finisher's medal. The course was a 4.37 mile loop, starting at the race director's house, which was in a gated community. Six loops on the rolling hills through the neighborhood made up a marathon. The entry fee was $5, plus a donation of food or fluids to the aid station, which was situated in the race director's driveway.

My plan was to start at 5:30 p.m. I'm not the most punctual person, so at 5:50 p.m. I arrived at the race director's home in Macon, GA. I hurriedly got myself together and checked in before starting at exactly 6:00 p.m. with Andrew (the race director), another runner, and my running buddy, Andy (FL).

Andy and I followed Andrew and the other runner up a hill and at some point while we were talking, we lost sight of them. The course was marked well with bright yellow signs at each turn. However, since Andy and I were chatting, we missed a sign. We were cruising down a long hill and then we saw two signs facing away from us, a bad indication that we were off-course already.

We pulled out the course map, found out where we were, and started back-tracking up the hill. We heard Andrew and the other runner coming from a side street and called out to them. Andrew told us that we had indeed missed a turn and pointed us in the right direction. According to Andy's GPS, we had run a 0.5 mile bonus, which really isn't a big deal for ultrarunners, lol.

Now that we were back on course, Andy picked up the pace. It doesn't take long for the steam to run out of my engine, so I watched as Andy steadily pulled away from me. It would be a long night.

The neighborhood was nice. People were out watering their lawns or taking a walk, and kids were riding their bikes or otherwise playing. No one seemed to pay us any special attention, which is what we wanted. We did not have race numbers and that helped. But we did have hand-held water bottles or waist packs, which to me should have drawn some attention, especially running by the guarded entrance to the community. The race went along smoothly and without interruption, however.

The hills were not steep, but they were frequent. The traffic was heavy starting out, but it died down as it got later in the evening. It was hot at the start, but as the sun went down, it became a pleasant night for a run.

At the end of the first loop, I checked in with the race director's wife, refilled my bottle, grabbed a gel, and continued on. I could barely see Andy ahead of me, and Andrew and the other runner were out of sight and well on their way.

Navigationally, the 2nd loop went better, as I paid special attention to where Andy and I had missed the turn. I should add, as a credit to Andrew, that it was clearly marked.

I was trying to maintain an hour per loop, but that didn't happen. I was closer to an hour and 20 minutes per loop. As frustrating as that was, I was not going to let my turtle pace ruin a good night of running and walking. Back at the aid station, I checked in again, grabbed some pretzels, refilled my bottle, and headed out.

On the 3rd loop I ran a little with David (CA), who was also running his 3rd loop. Being faster, he had taken a later start. He remembered running with me a few years ago at the Pacific Crest Marathon in Oregon. He has a good memory. I barely even remember running that marathon, not to mention who I ran with, lol. All of these races tend to merge together mentally after a while, and it's not a reflection on the race or the other runners. After his brief rest, David continued on at a great pace.

During the 3rd loop, it was getting dark. When I saw David with his blinking red light attached to his back, I realized that I had forgotten to pick up my flashlight and reflective gear. It would be dark before I finished this loop. There were glow sticks on the course markers, but without a flashlight, I couldn't see much else. There weren't many street lights, and there weren't any sidewalks. I just hoped that the cars coming through the neighborhood could see me and didn't hit me.

I finished up my 3rd loop, realizing that I wouldn't make it by midnight and that I wouldn't get a tiara. I grabbed a little Debbie oatmeal cream pie and headed to my car to get a flashlight and my reflective vest. One of the volunteers also gave me 2 reflective tubes, one pink and one green, to put around my neck and wrist. Someone would have to be drunk and blind to miss me at this point, lol.

Loop #4 found neighbors sitting out on the porch enjoying the evening. The number of cars passing through had decreased, and the familiar night sounds had begun. I'm not sure if the sounds came from birds, crickets, or frogs, but it was never quiet. It was nice to hear sounds other than my own breathing and the patter of my big feet.

Starting the 5th loop, I took in some Mountain Dew. I had been drinking a lot of Gatorade, but I was sweating profusely. Between the hot flashes and the humidity, I was dripping wet the entire night. And now I was getting very tired. But surprisingly, I was still enjoying the night. I was walking and running and slowly making progress. This was the loop that Andy finally caught up to me and lapped me, but I had been expecting it. He had a very good chance of finishing his 6th loop by midnight.

I was ambulating along when I saw a female runner coming towards me. I knew before she reached me that she had made a wrong turn. I assumed that she was a half-marathoner who had started after dark and did not have the benefit of seeing the course during the day. According to her GPS (was I the only one not carrying one of these things, lol?), she had already covered 6 miles, but I told her that we were only a little over the half-way point in the loop. I pointed her in the right direction, told her about the next couple of turns, and she went about her way.

Towards the end of each loop and after what seems like a long time spent on one particular road, we did a little out-n-back section. Well, again I see the same female runner coming back towards me long before I hit the out-n-back section. The poor girl had to be frustrated, because she had again gone off-course. I straightened her out once again, and she took off, saying that she was not coming out for another loop. With all of the wrong turns she'd made, she was close to a half-marathon and would just finish the remaining distance closer to the race director's house using her GPS. Yes . . . I guess that works just as well, lol.

I started my 6th loop after midnight, and as slow as I was going, I wouldn't finish by 1:00 a.m. either. None of the volunteers attempted to pull me from the race. This was such a laid back race that I really didn't expect Andrew to be strict with the cut-off. However, I still felt guilty delaying the conclusion of the race. I tried to finish the last loop as fast as I could, but it was 1:30 a.m. when I finally made it back to the race director's house.

My last loop was not without incident. A neighbor who was out watering her lawn (at midnight) asked if we were having a walkathon. I laughed and told her it was something like that. I also told her that I was the last one out, so we were just about done. Hopefully, Andrew didn't get into trouble holding the race within the gated community. To be on the safe side and so that he'd be prepared, I told him about the conversation with his neighbor when I finished.

A little later down the road, I saw a possum. They are not the cutest looking animals to me. I shined my flashlight on it, and it looked it me like "And? That's all you got!" He did not budge, and I'm not sure how territorial they are, so I carefully walked around it. When I passed, he went on about his business. I received a totally different response from several cats that I unintentionally scared during the night. They scampered away like I had enough energy to chase them. Hah! The dogs were not any better. Once one dog started to bark, it was like a chain reaction. Every dog in the neighborhood seemed to be barking at some point as I travelled through the streets.

I finally made it back to the finish. Those remaining congratulated me. Andrew placed a tiara on my head and put a finisher's medal around my neck. I commented that I thought I wouldn't receive a tiara since I went past midnight. "Everybody gets a tiara," he told me. "And here's your pumpkin." It was a fuzzy orange pen with a fuzzy little pumpkin on top. How cute!

There were 10 finishers for the marathon and 5 finishers for the half-marathon, making it the smallest race I have ever participated in. I was the last runner out on the course, but time-wise my 7:30 finish positioned me in 9th place for the marathon. I remembered when I could finish trail 50K's in less time, but I wasn't going to let that time bother me. I enjoyed traversing through Andrew's neighborhood, and I appreciated the official finish. Next time, I'll make sure that I start early enough so that I will not turn into a pumpkin at midnight, lol.

Landsford Canal 50K - 7/18/09

2009-07-20T15:06:00.000-07:00

Team Slug t-shirt, beautiful finisher's plaque, and the fake snake

Thanks for keeping the finish line open for me!

Crossing the finish line last means that I get to take home the fake snake! If I had known that before the race, I would have run faster, lol! The fake snake now lays on my coffee table waiting for me to do something with it. My biggest fear when running the trails is encountering a real snake. Snakes and mice . . . I hate them! It makes no logical sense, however. For the most part, I'm bigger than they are, but what scares me is that I can't run fast enough to get away from them, lol. Have you seen these boogers move, lol? Anyway . . . I have to decide what to do with it. One morning, half asleep, I'm liable to come downstairs, forgetting that it's there, and give myself a coronary, lol.

I've learned over the past few years that running multiple loops can be fun. I have to say that the LC50K is one of the best looped course that I have run. The loop is 4.25 miles, with 3 miles on the roads through the Landsford Canal State Park in Catawba, SC, followed by 1.25 miles on the Canal Trail. The Canal Trail was wonderful - relatively flat and wide with very few roots and rocks. The river flows along the entire trail. While running the trail, if you couldn't see the river, you could definitely hear it. There's nothing more soothing than the sound of flowing water. Because the road section became warmer and the hills seemed to grow longer and steeper as the day wore on, it was great motivation to run the road section as quickly as possible so that you could get to the trail section with it's canopy of trees for shade.

We did a 1.25 mile out-n-back along the road and then we ran the 4.25 mile loop 7 times to get in our 31 miles. Mark (NC) was volunteering today, and as we completed the out-n-back, he directed us back out onto the road to start our multiple loops. I had run with him for a little while at the Umstead 100 Mile earlier this year and had seen him a few weeks ago at the Moonlight Boogie 50 Miler. We had also run one of Claude's (the race director) other races, the Big Butt 50K, a few times together over the years. Mark did a great job of volunteering, joking with me, and at the same time, making sure that all the runners had everything they needed.

In that short out-n-back section, I quickly lost sight of my running buddies - Lynn (TN), Andy (FL), Annie (GA), and Andrew (AL). Doug (NC), the race director of the Moonlight Boogie 50 Miler, spoke briefly as he cruised by me. I found out an amazing fact about Doug after running the Boogie. Last year, he successfully ran across the United States! How cool is that!

Before I completed the first loop, the leader lapped me, lol. He was running fast and happy and was encouraging every loop as he passed. He also lapped me on my 2nd and 3rd loops. The only reason he didn't lap me on my 4th loop was because he had finished and won the race, lol. He finished the entire 50K before I had even finished half of the race. Good grief!

At the end of the first loop is when I first saw the fake snake. As I refilled my bottle at the aid station in the start/finish area, I asked Mark if he had placed the fake snake on the trail. He told me that it wasn't a fake snake. I told him that if it wasn't fake, then it was dead, because it wasn't moving, lol.

Over half of the field lapped me at some point during my 2nd loop, but I was okay with that. I was feeling good and enjoying the day. I had finished the first loop in 1 hour, so I was determined to complete the remaining loops in about the same time.

Bill (NC) joined me for a walk break during my 2nd loop. He had been at the Rattlesnake 50K the week before and the Moonlight Boogie 50 Miler in June. He's very fast. He talked with me about the interesting history of the Landsford Canal and told me a few stories about the Rattlesnake 50K. After his rest, he again took off. Well . . . the company was nice while it lasted, lol.

By the end of my 2nd loop, the fake snake had changed location on the trail, lol. Maybe Mark was right, and I was wrong about it being fake or dead. Every time I finished a loop, the fake snake would be in a different location on the Canal Trail.

By the 3rd loop, the remainder of the field lapped me, lol. I was still feeling good, running and walking, and finishing loops in about an hour. Claude had an 11-hour cut-off for the race. That's my kind of race. Even as slow as I am, I can finish an essentially road 50K in less than 11 hours, lol.

Christian (GA) passed by next. I had been following his blog for a while, so I took this opportunity to tell him that I was enjoying it. My new running buddy, Jason (SC), also came along about this time. Jason also has a great blog. We walked and ran along as if we had known each other for years. I wished that I could have kept up with him longer because he was such good company. But he's also a good runner, and once we hit the Canal Trail, he was off like a rocket.

At the start of my 4th loop, I saw Charlie (TN). He was there to pace Lynn on her last 2 loops. I was beginning to wish I had a pacer, lol. Runners were rapidly finishing, and the number of runners lapping me was starting to die down. Still I continued on, trying to cover the now hot-as-Hades road section as quickly as possible, so that I could get back to the Canal Trail. Did I mention that I was loving that Canal Trail?

By the 5th loop, I was starting to have a mental meltdown. I was alternating between eating goldfish crackers and ginger snaps, and I was now also downing a cup of coke each loop in addition to the Gatorade and water. Two more loops . . . nothing to it but to do it, lol. Run, walk, repeat.

During the Canal Trail section, Andy (NC) lapped me but slowed down to chat a while. Yes . . . just what the doctor ordered, another running buddy to pull me out of the spiraling pit of negative emotions that I was encountering on this 5th loop. Andy and Charlie had both run the Grandfather Mountain Marathon the weekend before the LC50K. I've only run that race once, the one time that it didn't conflict with the Rattlesnake 50K. That's my biggest problem - too many wonderful races and too few weekends to run them all. For some reason, Andy thought he had seen me at Grandfather's the previous weekend, but I told him that the last time he'd seen me was at the Moonlight Boogie 50 Miler in June. The light went on for him, and we both laughed. It's nice to know that I'm not the only runner who loses track of what races they run from weekend to weekend.

Andy (NC) took off again as we were nearing the end of the Canal Trail. Mark was walking the trail towards me. Apparently, the fake snake was now missing, and he was out looking for it! Seriously, however, he warned me that he had seen a not-too-happy real snake at the end of the trail section. Now I was ready to be done, lol. Luckily, over the next two loops, I never saw the real snake, but I was freaked out enough not to dilly-dally on the Canal Trail.

And just like that, starting my 6th loop, I was feeling better. I could see the proverbial light that would be at the end of my 7th loop, lol. Climbing the first hill of the loop, I came upon Annie. It's rare that I catch up to anybody in races these days, so I knew something must be wrong. Annie was having tummy troubles, probably from the heat. We were talking and moving fairly well, when she suddenly said she had to sit down. Annie's an experienced runner, so I knew she would be okay, but I felt guilty for leaving her. As I continued on, I kept looking back, but I never saw her. I just knew she would finish. She just needed a little break, I said to myself.

Loop #7 . . . Woo Hoo! I grabbed some more coke, and I was on my way. Run, walk, repeat. There weren't any runners lapping me now. The parking lot was becoming sparse. Jason, who had finished in a blazing time of 6:13:40, yelled out "bell lap" as I passed by. Yes, indeed!

The hot and hilly road section was lonely, but I wouldn't allow myself to contemplate that now. It was time to put this baby to bed. Run, walk, repeat.

I crossed the finish line in 7:49:49! Claude promptly presented me with one of his beautiful hand-made finisher's plaque, a Team Slug t-shirt, and the fake snake, of course. As Claude, his wife, and Mark were busily packing up the aid station, I inquired about Annie. I found out that she had dropped, taking a marathon finish for the day. My heart went out to her. No runner ever wants to hear of another runner having a bad day. Annie's tough, and I'm sure her next race will be great.

Charlie was relaxing under a tree, playing a soft melody on his guitar, and Lynn had accomplished her sub-7 hour goal for the day in a fine time of 6:43:01. She was chilling with Charlie and sipping on her signature beverage, lol. She deserves it!

Andy (FL) was also still hanging around, after finishing a few minutes behind Lynn in 6:48:18. He asked what race I would be going to the upcoming weekend, since he had not found a race to run as of yet. I told him about the Make It By Midnight Marathon in Macon, GA, so hopefully, he'll get to participate.

The LC50K was a wonderful experience. If Claude decides to put on this race again, I would love to come back. I'll have to "win" a female fake snake to keep "Jake the Snake" company, however. Yes, I've named the darn thing. He moved along that trail just as well as the famous NFL quarterback moved around the football field, lol.

Rattlesnake 50K - 7/11/09

2009-07-13T12:57:00.000-07:00

Tiger, Dennis (Race Director), and Graham at the finish

Danny and Dennis at the finish

The Rattlesnake 50K in Charleston, WV is one of my favorites. It kicks my butt every year, but this is the type of punishment that I thrive on, so I continue to go back. It's 10 climbs in one big loop on some of the most beautiful trails I've ever run. Last year, I finished in 9:56:14, just under the 10-hour cut-off. My best finish was in 2007, when I ran 8:01:26, after three straight years of running between 9:01 and 9:16.

It's always nice to run a familiar course. I had been looking forward to it all week. Even though this was my sixth year, I still get excited about coming back to this race. It's hard to explain. Maybe it's because this race was my 2nd 50K in 2004 when I finally decided to start running ultras. Maybe it's because I am miraculously able to finish what I consider a hard course, under the cut-off. Whatever the reason, this race holds a special place in my heart.

My running buddies were there: Rosemary (KY), Danny (KY), Diane (TN), Rob (TN), Susan (TN), Graham (AL), and Larry (TX). Although I was unable to keep up with them, it was nice to talk with them before and after the race.

Because I haven't been running well, I did not know how the day would proceed. I know the year of my fastest finish, I was probably in the best shape of my life. And because of the difficulty of the course, I knew that I needed a lot more training under my feet than I have been doing lately. I felt that I was in worse shape this year than last year, and last year was definitely a struggle.

The first climb was slow and steady. There's not much road to spread out the field before we hit the trail. But it doesn't take long before there are gaps between the single file up the trail. When I noticed that I wasn't following as close to Danny as I would have liked, I pulled off to the side of the trail to allow others to go ahead. I couldn't breathe very well, and it would be a long day. The first climb was not the time to push my limits. Diane came cruising by, softly saying "come on." I continued to hug my tree (a familiar position for me all day, lol), and through deep breaths, I simply responded "coming."

After the final group had passed me, I continued to climb. I thought I was in last place but later learned that a couple was behind me. We would go back and forth for the next few hours before they dropped from the race.

The reoccurring theme of this race is that you climb, you descend, and then there's an aid station. So at the bottom of the climb was the first aid station. One of the volunteers that works this race every year and who had recognized me at the check-in before the start was at this aid station. Every year he calls me "pretty lady" and asks how do I continue to smile along this course. "Delirium" is always my answer, lol.

At this point, I was good on fluids, so he pointed me in the right direction for the next climb. These trails are full of rocks and roots, so even if I could run up the steep climbs, it wouldn't be very fast. I continue to power walk the hills, stopping along the way to hug a tree and to catch my breath every now and then.

It was overcast and humid most of the day. At certain times during the day, I wished for rain, but I've been on this course in the rain, and it's not a pretty sight. The streams fill up fast, the rocks become slick, and the down hills become just as hard as the up hills to navigate. It was probably better to just deal with the humidity.

At the end of this climb, we hit a paved road that goes up to Aid Station #2. Again, my favorite volunteer was there. He was all over the place today, helping out wherever he could. Here I refilled my bottle with Gatorade and grabbed a gel. Climb #3 is one of the more difficult ones, so I prepared myself before heading up.

Up, up, up . . . switchback . . . up, up, up . . . switchback. Hug a tree and catch my breath. Up, up, up . . . . If the trail wasn't so beautiful, I'd be hating life right about now, lol.

And the mushrooms! Every shape, size, and color you could imagine. Not knowing which ones were poisonous, I admired them from afar during my bonding moments with the trees. But all I wanted to do was to reach out and touch them. They hardly resembled the mushrooms that I loved to eat, lol.

Finally, I reach the top of the mountain (for lack of a better term), running along the double track ridge before heading down, down, down on another single track trail to Aid Station #3. This aid station was in the parking lot of the start/finish area. One of the volunteers asked if I had seen any animals. No, I told him, and I haven't seen any rattlesnakes either, lol. He told me that they were out there and that he'd caught one by the swimming pool a few years ago. As I was leaving the aid station, I glanced over at the swimming pool. Nope, there were no rattlesnakes there today, lol.

Time to climb again and then descend via switchback to the next aid station. Aid Station #4 leads to the shooting range area. It amazes me every year that none of the runners get shot. It's loud and scary coming through this area, but as long as the shooters stay in their area and we stay on the trail, I guess no one is in danger. But you have to wonder why there are shell casings on the gravel road leading from the aid station.

The couple behind me had finally caught up. The guy asked if there were any restroom facilities nearby. The volunteer told him that there were plenty of bushes and trees around. Ah . . . they must be newbies to this race, lol.

The climb up the gravel road is long and relentless. Nothing to it but to get through it. Again we reach the ridge for some relatively flat running before heading back down to Aid Station #5. The aid stations are fully stocked and so evenly spaced that it would be almost impossible to run out of water or to get hungry on this course. This aid station is the half way point where drop bags are waiting for the runners. I don't use a drop bag for 50K's, so I grab food, fill my bottle, and go.

I have finally caught up with the couple. The lady appears to be having trouble on the next climb. She rests at a tree as I pass by slowly, and the guy patiently waits until she's ready to go on. I ask if everything is okay. She responds that they are fine. That would be the last time that I see them. At some point along the way, unbeknownst to me, they drop from the race.

Who's at Aid Station #6 but my favorite volunteer! He must have a magic carpet to get to all of these aid stations. I picked up cheese cubes, a gel, and refill my bottle. Following the familiar pattern of this course, it's time for another climb.

At some point I get these grand illusions of finishing in 9 hours. But, of course, I'm not factoring in how long it takes for me to climb. The down hills aren't any faster. My knees are starting to hurt a little, and my legs are very shaky as I run the down hills. After a while, not only am I walking the up hills, but I'm also walking the down hills. But it's so pretty out here! The slower I go, the more I get to enjoy the scenery, lol. Aren't rationalizations wonderful?

I have arrived at the camp grounds for some pavement running. I am approaching my favorite aid station. There are real toilet facilities here, and I always stop for a break. This year is no exception. I then move on to Aid Station #7. I see an ambulance parked near, and the volunteer tells me that someone is down near the top of the next climb. "Don't go up there if you don't feel good. It's a hard climb," the volunteer tells me.

Well, of course, I felt good. I had been having a great day so far. And yes, I knew it was a hard climb, but this one has a lot of switchbacks, which helps greatly. I tell him that I've been here before, and that I'm capable of continuing. He tells me to be careful and to watch for others going up and down the trail to help out the downed runner.

As I start the climb up, others are indeed coming down. They did not have numbers, so I guess they were campers who had made the climb up to help out. For a moment, I wondered if the runner down was any of my running buddies. I hoped not. I also hoped that whoever it was, however, was not in too much trouble. Up, up, up . . . .

I finally see 2 runners, one's standing and one is sitting. I do not know either one of them. I also see Dennis, the race director, sitting and talking with the downed runner, while 2 EMTs are attending to him. I do not know the downed runner, but nevertheless, I am still worried about him. I stop, wondering if there is anything that I can do. Isn't it rude to continue on when someone is down? But what could I do that the other 5 persons there couldn't do? The downed runner says something that I didn't hear, and Dennis laughs. This is a good sign that he's going to be okay, I thought. I say as much to Dennis as I carefully pass by everyone on the narrow trail. I later find out that the runner would indeed be okay. What a relief!

Down, down, down and Aid Station #8 is next. At this point, I know that I won't make 9 hours, but I'm thinking 9.5 hours is doable. I start the climb up and encounter the section with the boulders. Here's where I get to use my limited upper body strength, lol, climbing up and over boulders bigger than me. It's fun in a weird sort of way and makes me feel like an exploring kid.

After the boulders, it's time to go down, down, down to the last aid station. I see a runner coming towards me. This course is a big loop, with no out-n-back sections, so there should never be a runner coming towards you. I recognize Graham, hammering up the big climb. He tells me that he missed Aid Stations #5 and #8, and he now has to make up the distance by running the course backwards for a few miles. Oh, my! He passes me, telling me that he'll catch up in a little while.

As I'm leaving Aid Station #9, three miles from the finish, Graham has indeed caught up to me. He's an excellent down hill runner. He tells me that we have 56 minutes to do the last 3 miles before the 10 hour cut-off. So on the previous section, I've lost a half hour. Ugh! And thus begins my panic climb up the next hill!

I climb and continue to look back to make sure that Graham is following me. Once on top and as we start our descent, Graham is flying again. It's all I can do to keep up with him. He's going to make it under 10 hours, and I'm coming through that finish line right behind him. We are now on the trail along the creek, flat and runnable. Graham has picked up speed, but I'm staying right with him. I am running all out, getting tired, sweating profusely, and breathing audibly. I look at my watch. We're going to make it. Graham's going to get us to the finish in under 10 hours.

We finally pop out of the woods onto the open meadow to the finish line. My head is down, and my legs, still shaky from trying to run the down hills all day, are churning as fast as they can, just a little further. Rob and Susan are cheering us in. I am so happy to see that finish line that I wave frantically to them. There are very few cars left in the parking lot, but Dennis is right there to congratulate us both and to give us our finishers' award. I finish 8 seconds behind Graham with a time of 9:57:14, exactly one minute slower than last year, but still good enough for my sixth finish of the Rattlesnake 50K.

Tiger trumps rattlesnake, lol. Rest, Tiger, rest!

Kona Marathon - 6/28/09

2009-07-01T09:46:00.000-07:00

Momma found a boyfriend in Kona, HI.

Isn't she beautiful?

She did it! She faced one of her greatest fears head on, and she accomplished the goal set before her. I am so proud of her!

My momma, who has never been on a plane, flew to Kona, HI with me. She was nervous, but she persevered. She worked her seek-n-find puzzle book and watched the movies on the longer legs of the trip to get through it. I offered her my window seat on a couple of the legs of the trip but she declined, tentatively watching from the middle seat of our row and admiring the scenery below us.

We had a long day on Friday, changing planes twice with long lay-overs in Dallas, TX and Los Angeles, CA. Saturday morning in Hawaii, we had a good breakfast in an open restaurant called Tante's, enjoyed the cool breeze, and watched the waves coming in off of the Pacific Ocean. We proceeded to do some sight-seeing and shopping. Later, after dinner in another open restaurant, we attended a concert featuring the native Hawaiian, John Cruz. The admission was 2 cans of food for the Hawaiian food bank. My momma thoroughly enjoyed John Cruz and purchased one of his CDs.

Sunday morning, I ran the Kona Marathon. Even though I was many miles from home, I still ran into several of my running buddies: Walt and Kendel (GA), Eugene (CT), Evelyn (IL), Art and Robin (FL), and Les (HI). I acquired 2 new running buddies during the race: first-timer, Steve (CA), and fellow Marathon Maniac, Bob (HI).

The race was uneventful. It was an out-n-back course along Kona's main street, Alii Drive. The course then turned onto the highway and followed up with a short section along the coast behind a small industrial park. It was hot, but a slight breeze was felt from the ocean. There were plenty of wonderful volunteers, plenty of restroom facilities, gel, water, and coke (the alternative to Ultima for me). There was also a long, much appreciated cut-off of 9 hours. The finisher's shirt, medal, and leis were a nice touch to my pedestrian 6:07:05 completion of a good day at my office of choice.

After the race, I hurried back to the hotel to shower, and momma and I checked out of the hotel. My times are so slow now that I don't encourage anyone to attend my races. My momma had wisely decided to rest in the hotel room until I finished. We then had lunch and did some more sight-seeing until we caught the red-eye flight back to the main land.

I think my momma had a good trip. I hope she did. I want this trip to lead to many others for her. There's a whole world outside of TN, and I want her to explore some of it.

Mahalo and Aloha.

Expensive A$$ Training Run #4 - 6/20/09

2009-06-22T10:14:00.001-07:00

Tiger, Charlie, and Lynn before the start

I think I'm getting the hang of DNFing races. At this rate, by the end of the year, I will DNF more races than I finish, lol. I just hope I don't get too comfortable with the DNF. I had to laugh at myself this weekend, however, because the whole experience was nonsensical. I was in over my head and out of my league. I told the sweep that this would be the first DNF that I wouldn't feel too badly about. I was miserable, so I really did not mind being pulled from the race. I timed out at the 10.5 mile aid station of the Highlands Sky 40 Mile about 45 minutes over the cut-off. I wasn't running at all. I could barely walk. I really just did not want to be there. I don't say that very often about runs that I do. This feeling was so unusual for me.

I had been warned several times about the toughness of this race, but I'm hard-headed and stubborn. I wanted to at least try it, because I had also heard that this was a beautiful course. I am all about some beautiful scenery. I have no idea if any of that beauty was in the first 10.5 miles, however, because my head was down, looking for roots and rocks that would trip me unexpectedly. I had also been told that if I could get through the first 20 miles, the second half would be relatively easier. Unfortunately, I have no knowledge of whether that is true or not either, since I wasn't able to complete the first half of the race.

We parked at the finish at the Canaan Valley Lodge near Davis, WV and were bussed to the start near the Dolly Sods Wilderness Area in Laneville, WV. Waiting around for the start, I reconnected with Charlie (TN) and Lynn (TN). The last time I saw them was at the Ghost Town 38.5 Mile in 2007. At the time, they were living in Colorado, but they had recently decided to move back to the southeast. Caroline (VA) was also there. She had offered to share her room with me, but I knew I would arrive late on Friday and didn't want to wake her in the middle of the night. Instead, I slept for a few hours in the car in the parking lot of the lodge.

All four of us started out on the road section together, but my running buddies were soon ahead of me. Before I even hit the trail section, the sweep was right with me, and nobody else was in sight. This is the first sign that I am not having a good race, lol. The sweep, Mike (WV), had run this course in about 9 hours. That's very fast! He would run ahead of me, pull the streamers from the trees that were used to mark the course, and then run back to check up on me. I felt guilty for not being able to keep up with him!

About the time that we hit the trail section, it started to rain. It had stormed during the drive up on Friday, rained during the night, and now the rain was again coming down steadily and heavily. This is the second sign that I am not having a good race, lol. At least it wasn't hot, I thought.

We were in a meadow, which was relatively flat and should have been runnable, if not for the rocks. My glasses were fogging up badly at this point, so I had a difficult time seeing where I was stepping. I just kept walking as fast as I could, following Mike. We crossed a rushing stream before heading up the mountain. This is when I almost fell apart and recognized the final sign of not having a good day. I would trudge a few feet, stop to catch my breath, and trudge some more. I could see Mike running ahead, pulling streamers, and then waiting for me. He would ask if I was okay, let me know what the trail was like ahead, and then he would take off again. Poor Mike must have put in at least 20 miles, running back and forth to check on me. At one point, I apologized to him for being so slow. He was nice about it, saying that he was just doing his job. He even gave me one of his gels, after we had been out longer than expected and before hitting the 10.5 mile aid station.

Once we reached the top of the mountain, it was relatively flat again, but now we had roots in addition to the rocks, and get this, the trail was completely flooded. As many trails as I have run, I had never seen entire sections of trail covered in water like these trails were. It would have been easier to just lie down and swim the trail. I couldn't figure out how to run on or through that much water, lol. It was cold on the ridge, and now my feet were freezing from the water. Most of the time, the water came up to my calves, but there was one section where the water came up to my thighs. Later, after I had been pulled from the race, I was told that some sections were waist high, and a stream crossing was chest high. The race director was trying to figure out how to get a rope out to that particular stream crossing to help runners get across. This was not happening. I can't wait to read race reports of those that were able to finish the course. I want to know how they did it and stayed within the cut-offs.

The cut-off for the 10.5 mile aid station came and went, and Mike and I were still out on the flooded course. We were both so off pace that we couldn't figure out how far we had gone or how much further we had to go. Somehow, we finally made it. I was promptly asked to turn in my bib number.

There was one other girl at the aid station who had also been pulled for time. I later heard that she gave the volunteers a hard time about not being allowed to continue. She protested that she would go on even without aid. Of course, they still would not let her continue. As much as I hate DNFing, I will never argue with a volunteer about being pulled from a race. These volunteers are spending their weekend out there supporting us for hours, unpaid, and in all types of weather conditions, and it's unfair and selfish to be disrespectful when they are doing what they've been told and are trying to help. It's just my pet peeve and not worth two cents in the end, I suppose.

The aid station was pretty much packed up and ready to go. I wished Mike well and thanked him for his help. The last person that had been allowed to continue had left 30 minutes before, so he had some running to do to catch them. He is such a good runner, even through the flooded trails, that I'm sure it was not a problem for him.

I climbed into the truck. We picked up another guy at the next aid station who had dropped out due to back spasms from all of the twisting through the flooded trails. As we were leaving, we also saw four runners pulled for time climbing into the back of another truck. We were all having bad days.

I thanked Lydia and Margaret, the volunteers who drove us back to the lodge. I quickly changed from my wet clothes and dumped the mud from my shoes and socks. It had stopped raining, but the streams were still rising I heard. I'm a wimp, I thought, and a slow one at that. I headed for home much earlier than I thought I would have.