Be positive, ignore the critic, follow your heart, invest in your passions, believe in your dreams and get busy making them reality.
~Josh Cox, U.S. 50K record holder
I ran over 30 miles the week I was diagnosed with throat cancer, and eight miles before sunrise the morning I met with the doctor.
“There’s no easy way to say this. You have base of tongue carcinoma. The good news is we can fix it, but you’ll probably need a feeding tube. Most people lose 10 to 15 percent of their body weight during treatment. You only weigh 145 pounds. It’s dangerous if you drop below 130 pounds during treatment.”
“What’s a feeding tube?”
“Nothing to worry about. We make a small incision in your abdomen and insert a plastic tube into your stomach. You pour liquid nourishment into the tube.”
I said, “You can’t imagine how much I’ll hate that. I’ll make myself eat.”
The doctor replied, “That’s what everyone says. But when you have second-degree radiation burns inside your esophagus and are constantly nauseated, you won’t be able to make yourself eat. How old are you, 64? Your blood pressure’s 82/60, and your heart rate is 52. Those numbers are great for any age.”
His assistant, Jana, said, “I bet you run. How long have you been running?”
“All my life, but I took three years off when I approached the big 5-0. Life was pretty good. I stopped running and celebrated by trying to drink all the beer and wine in New Mexico. I put on 103 pounds.”
“You aren’t overweight.”
“No, I carried my hard-earned Pillsbury Doughboy physique to my annual physical. I asked my doctor if she would still see me after I registered for Medicare. She said, ‘You aren’t asking the right question. Your waist is over 44 inches, your cholesterol is pushing 300, and your triglycerides are through the roof.’
“ ‘Sounds like I hit the trifecta,’ I joked.
“ ‘The question you need to ask is whether or not I’ll attend your funeral. I’m going to prescribe some medication to help you.’
“ ‘Give me six months. I did this to myself. I’ll fix it.’
“ ‘I’ll give you three months. If you aren’t dead, we’ll re-check your vitals.’
“When she weighed me in three months, I was 30 pounds lighter. She said, ‘No one does this. Everyone lies to me. They try for about two days and then eat a quart of ice cream. What did you do?’
“ ‘I eat 2,000 calories a day, and I run 30 miles a week. I keep logbooks.’
“ ‘No offense, but you’re still too fat to run that much.’
“ ‘I didn’t say I was fast.’
“ ‘Your blood work’s better, but it’s not okay. See you in three months.’
“It took 18 months and five appointments, but I ran off the 100 pounds, and my vitals were back in line. I didn’t go on TV or post it on Facebook. I didn’t write a diet and exercise book. I wasn’t proud of it. Actually, I was ashamed I needed to lose the weight. I haven’t told anyone before today.”
Jana asked, “Do you race?”
“I ran the Duke City Marathon two weeks after my 50th birthday. I ran it again the next year and the year after that. Work got in the way of racing, but I still ran five or six days a week. I remember those years as the years I ran in the dark. Rain or snow, hot or cold, I ran. I ran when it hurt and when it didn’t. When you’re over 60, it always hurts somewhere.”
I remembered mornings in subzero weather and blisters. I remembered getting up after tripping and running three more miles with two broken toes. I finished my first marathon with blood streaming from my nipples.
That brought me back to my cancer doctor’s warning about a feeding tube. “I’ll make myself eat. How bad can it be? I can stand anything for five minutes.”
“Your call, but if your weight drops below 135 pounds, we’ll revisit the feeding tube. Two more things… First, eat everything you can for the next two weeks. You need to put on a few pounds. Second, stop running until the treatment is over. I don’t want you to burn calories you need to survive.”
I thought I was lying when I agreed. Three weeks later, I could barely walk. I missed running, but the combination of chemo and radiation sapped my strength, and I was terrified of falling. A case of road rash might be deadly to my drug-ravaged immune system.
Two months later, the doctor said. “Your treatment went really well. It was easy for you because you’re a runner. You started treatment in great condition, and you have a decent level of pain tolerance.”
I spit up pink slime from my burnt throat. “If this was easy, I’d hate to see hard.”
Jana checked my weight after the last treatment. I stared enviously at her running shoes. She said, “138 pounds. You’ll lose a couple more pounds before your throat heals, but you made it through this with flying colors. I remember you run. Good for you. This treatment is harder on most people. Almost half don’t survive.”
I rasped, “Nice shoes. I’m going to treat myself to new shoes and start running again. I can run, can’t I?”
“Whenever you’re ready.”
“How long will that be?”
She smiled. “That’s not for me to say. You’ll know. Trust me. You’ll know.”
I promised myself I’d be running in two months, but it didn’t work out the way I wanted. I walked my first mile a month after the last treatment and added a 10th of a mile every day after that. On my two-month treatment anniversary, I walked the blocks and ran across the streets. A week later, I walked across the streets and ran the blocks. Three months after treatment, I ran three miles without stopping. At mile 2, I realized I was going to finish and started to cry. I could run again. It was a dusty New Mexico day, and the grit stuck to my face. I walked in the house. My wife took one look at me and screamed, “Are you okay? I’ll call an ambulance. Sit down. Sit down.”
I could barely speak because I was so choked up. “I’m fine. I’ve never been better. I ran the whole three miles. I never thought I’d be able to do that again.”
She cried with me.
I’m over 70 now. I ran 30 miles the week I wrote this, and unless I cripple myself, I’ll probably run 30 miles the week you read it.
Whatever challenges life after 70 has in store for me, I’ll face them with double-knotted running shoes, a water belt, sunglasses, and a sweat-stained baseball hat. I’ll break troubles down into bite-sized pieces, put on my headlamp, and chase them back into the darkness. After all, I can stand anything for five minutes.
— Robert Allen Lupton —