Motivation remains key to the marathon: the motivation to begin; the motivation to continue; the motivation never to quit.
~Hal Higdon
One of the first things I learned after hearing the words “you have cancer” was that my body no longer belonged to me. The following days become a whirlwind of scans, blood work, bone-density tests, poking, prodding, and doing what I was told.
When I was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s follicular lymphoma, I was a 43-year-old, salad-eating, three-mile-a-day running, full-time working, all around healthy woman. I didn’t feel sick. When my doctor called with the news, I told him politely that he was wrong. He assured me he was not. Then the tests began, and I, like so many before me, surrendered my body to the process.
I decided early on that I would never be identified by this disease. Instead, I transformed myself into “The Happy Patient,” always smiling and cracking jokes with the office staff. When the receptionist brought my liquid contrast, which I was to drink before my CT scans, I would quip, “Wow! You brought refreshments! How lovely!” The phlebotomist at my oncologist’s office nicknamed me “Sunshine.” I was fantastic at hiding my fear. Cancer schmancer!
Then my chemo started. The treatment for follicular lymphoma is much milder than other cancers. They said my hair would thin, not completely fall out. (For the record, it all stayed, but my curly locks went straight. Weird!) I wouldn’t suffer the harsh nausea and vomiting side effects, but lesser ones like anemia, fatigue, and neutropenia were likely. I was given a large binder filled with all the information I’d need concerning the drug and its side effects, along with deep detail concerning my plan of treatment. I never read it. I tried a few times, but it scared me, so I put it down. I figured I’d consult it on a “need to know” basis, which seemed much less daunting.
I figured my chemo would last the normal three to six months, give or take a few weeks. At the conclusion of the first month, my husband Alan and I began to plan how we’d celebrate after my last treatment. Take a trip? Throw a party? The possibilities were exciting! Alan suggested the fantastic idea of running the Chicago Marathon. What better way to prove I was back, strong and healthy as ever?
We signed up in February while sitting in the infusion room, my chemo IV delivering its life-saving medicine into my veins. We figured I’d have just another month or two of this, with plenty of time left to train for the race in October.
But the chemo appointments kept coming. And coming. Finally, I broke down and asked the research nurse how much longer it was going to take. She hauled out my big, fat chart and began thumbing through papers. Then she paused, looked up at Alan and me, and murmured quietly, “It says here your treatment will conclude in 30 months.” Thirty months. That’s two-and-a-half years, if you’re attempting the math.
I’m not going to lie; that was a hard day. But we recovered quickly. I said to Alan, “I think we should run it anyway.” Granted, I wasn’t going to break any speed records, but I still felt like I could do it. I had to. We asked my oncologist for permission. I could have kissed him when he said, “Hey, if you feel like you’re up to it, knock yourself out.” What a peach!
Alan downloaded a training program, and we began our schedule in mid-July. We found a park with several shady trails and immediately designated it our spot for long runs. On the days when I wasn’t feeling great, we’d just take it slow and easy. But we always finished. After every run, I’d cross that day off the schedule, another workout in the books, another step closer to race day.
Early on, I started noticing something profound happening. I was taking back control of my body. I wasn’t sitting in a chair, trying to act positive and smile while the poor new girl tried for the twelfth time to hit my vein before asking her superior for help. I was running. I wasn’t sitting in the waiting room at the oncologist’s, staring at the bald heads and skinny bodies, wondering if this was my future. I wasn’t lying on a conveyor belt, dutifully holding my breath while being inserted in and out of a CT scan machine. I wasn’t terrified. I was running. My body was all mine, all to myself, and the fresh air, singing birds, darting chipmunks, and my sweet husband yelling encouragement. Cancer couldn’t have me during those runs; I was taken.
It didn’t stop there. When race day arrived, I realized my task had become something greater. I was running for all of those who couldn’t. I was running for that young, frail, bald man in the chemo chair next to mine and his twenty-something wife sitting quietly next to him, holding his hand and hiding her tears. I was running for all those weary people I sat with in that radiology waiting room, preparing to be scanned, praying for positive results. I was running for everyone who ever heard the words “you have cancer.” I wore a T-shirt that read, “I Have Cancer. I’m on Chemo… SO?” Spectators on the route high-fived me and yelled, “Really? That’s amazing!” I felt like a rock star.
Over five-and-a-half hours later, Alan and I crossed the finish line holding hands, our arms raised above our heads in exhausted victory. Take that, cancer!
The following Tuesday, I showed up for chemo, still sore and achy. But I wore a medal around my neck. I flashed it to everyone — the receptionists, the phlebotomist (“Sunshine! That’s fantastic!”), the nurses (even the one who missed my vein 17 times again), the doctor, and every single patient sitting in those chairs hooked up to a bag of poison. We did it!
My cancer journey is not over. Although my current scans are clear, lymphoma is still in my blood. There is a high chance that the disease will flare up again one day, and chemo will be required once more. When I find myself fretting over these facts, I just remember that race. I run my fingers over my medal and recall that day I laced up my running shoes and stomped on follicular lymphoma for 26.2 miles. Cancer schmancer!
These days, I get calls occasionally from friends or family who have just been diagnosed themselves. They’re shocked, nervous, and terrified. The first thing I say to them is, “You will get through this. If I can, anyone can. Actually, did I ever tell you about the time I ran a marathon?”
— Joan Donnelly-Emery —