Sunday, June 8, was a very good day for me. I was able to start and finish my tenth Dipsea race. While I covered the 7.1 miles from Mill Valley to Stinson Beach more slowly than in any past race, finishing 607th, it was the most meaningful crossing for me. Being able to do it meant that I was alive and relatively healthy, both very good things, six months after my diagnosis. I felt good after doing it, tired, but energized at the same time -- and my cancer seemed so far away. Perhaps the best part of the day was the support I received from so many -- from friends and family at the start of the race, during it (that's George Frazier on my left who ran with me from start to finish, and, on my right, Mike Sweeney and Darrell White who joined us along the way), and at the finish. The presence of my family -- brothers, sisters, in-laws, nephews and nieces -- at Stinson Beach made any aches and pains fade away; especially important to me were Jane, Matt, Jessie and little Violet, who enjoyed her first encounter with ocean wavelets courtesy of her Oompah (that's me). On top of it all, I was awarded the Norman Bright trophy for extraordinary effort in the race, and while quite an honor, I have to admit that I would rather have been in the audience, cancer-free, just another runner, standing and cheering someone else's achievement. I hope I don't sound ungrateful, and I do appreciate the recognition, but I really wish I didn't have to deal with the reality of my cancer.
And, what of that cancer? My latest CT scan shows no changes in the past eight weeks. The cancer has not spread; the tumors in my pancreas and liver have not grown. While I was hoping to be able to use the "shrinkage" word again, this is the next best news. My CA19-9 results from May 28 are also consistent with the scan with the level dropping a bit to 23. Although all good news, I let myself be a bit deflated by it. I think I forgot one of my own rules -- I need to take this journey one step at a time -- and got a bit ahead of myself, hoping for a report that would show the tumors shrinking away and offering a prognosis for a longer and more positive future, and then replacing it with a sense of foreboding. The result was a return of the sadness that has been an off and on companion on this journey since it began six months ago; tears flowed as various "what ifs" pushed aside the positive news that my cancer has been stable, has not grown. Not unexpectedly, I was back on that emotional roller coaster. But, I'm feeling better today, paying attention to my rules about attitude, living in the present, and not believing everything I think. It's a beautiful day outside, and when I finish up with this, I plan to take advantage of it -- to the degree my body will allow, anyway.
I began my seventh cycle of chemotherapy yesterday, and went into it with my now chronically low red-cell counts and low hemoglobin, which will get just a bit lower over the next couple of days. That produces the fatigue that continues to be the one side effect that I could do without. But, what the heck, it's a small price to pay for the opportunity to enjoy warm summer days with family and friends; it doesn't keep me from walking and jogging those now 11-minute miles, and it's not a bad excuse for lazing on the deck in my new hammock. As always, and I can't say this often enough, my thanks for the continuing love, friendship, and support from so many.
Peace,
Don
