More and more, I’m finding that living with chemotherapy is really an elaborate form of endurance.
I’ve never been a runner, and I’ve never entered a race, but I’m going to use a running analogy here – so forgive me if you’re a runner and I get some of the details wrong…
Last fall, when I had six weeks of daily radiation, a weekly infusion of one type of chemo, and daily pills of another chemo, I eventually became extremely ill from the treatment load. But I managed to cope with it (mostly) by reminding myself from moment-to-moment that it was temporary. In a few short weeks I’d be through it. I now think of those days like running a fairly short race – maybe a 5K – when you haven’t prepared for it and you’re kind of out of shape, but you run it anyway. It probably won’t kill you, but if you’re not very fit, it will FEEL like it’s going to kill you! And, if you make it the distance, when it’s over you’ll collapse on the ground for a while before regaining enough energy to get up and have a beer to celebrate.
Since the beginning of this year, when I went back on Xeloda (an oral chemo I take daily for two weeks, then break for a week before going back on, with the goal of doing that for six months…), I’ve felt this round of treatment is more like running a full-scale 26.2 mile marathon after only half-heartedly preparing. Again, it probably won’t kill you. And you can always slow down and walk the parts where you don’t have the energy to run. But – damn – it’s a long way. And some folks will have the experience of “hitting the wall” and not finish.
At the beginning of the race, there are tons of well-wishers around and lots of hugs and you-can-do-it’s. Even a few miles in, there will be people along the way to offer nourishment and encouragement. But inevitably there are those stretches where you’re alone – just you and your labored breathing and your wild mind trying to decide if you should continue on or stop…
Maybe that’s not how it is at all when you really do run a marathon. But that’s a pretty close description of what it’s starting to feel like as I approach mile 13 in this marathon of treatment.
That’s not to say I’ve been without support and encouragement and love and prayers. I surely have had all that and more. I think of the many “angels” who have been with me on this journey, who have whispered in my ear just when I was faltering, who’s wings beating around me have created enough wind to move me forward another few steps. The angels I know are often flesh and blood, occasionally made of wood and rusty bits, and sometimes merely ethereal.
I’ve tried to honor the angels in my life by creating my “artful” assemblage angels. Today, I’ve also created my own little Treasury gallery on Etsy called “Winging It” – to show off the work of other artists who appreciate angels and birds and other winged beings. (You can take a look until Friday at noon when the treasury expires: http://www.etsy.com/treasury_list.php?room_id=126124)
They are surrounding me now, moving the air around me, guiding me forward through the next few miles of this marathon called “cancer.”
A Different Wholeness 
Beautiful…….what a beautiful writer you are. And the finish line is in sight, my friend!
Well, my girl, let me tell you about my experience with “hitting the wall”.
When I ran the NY Marathon the second time, I ran it alone. My initial attempt had been compromised by my refusal to leave my running partner, who had a bad reaction to the heat that day (in the 70s). We walked the last 7 miles.
So I trained diligently for #2. Ran countless hours under brutal sun and in pouring rain. Ran through shin splints and sore knees. I was ready.
I vowed to run MY Marathon to honor my parents, particularly my father who had his own Marathon with illness (including his colostomy). I wore a t-shirt emblazoned “For Mom and Dad” when I hit the starting line in Staten Island.
I felt great–there were plenty of folks to cheer in Brooklyn, and in Queens and a major rush when I crossed over the bridge into Manhattan.
But then, at the 19 mile mark, I found myself alone in the Bronx. Not exactly inspiring scenery. The crowd of runners from the starting gun had thinned to a trickle and, with the elite runners long passed, there were few spectators at the curb. I was beyond exhausted and literally had to will myself to put one foot in front of the other.
I seriously considered giving up, shuffling off to one of the check points and waiting for the sweep van.
But then I heard a faint voice from the sidelines. Couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. Repeating a mantra. An odd phrase…
“Go Daughter!”
I looked around me. I was the only female runner in the immediate area. Go Daughter?
Then it hit me. Some stranger was delivering a message from Spirit. Someone who had no vested interest in whether or not I reached Central Park under my own power.
Yeah–an act of simple human kindness. A recognition that we are all, mysteriously, related.
And I knew then that I would finish; for Mom and Dad, for that anonymous cheerleader in the Bronx, for the glory of Spirit and, most of all, for myself.
Now I have a vested interest in whether or not you cross the finish line, so perhaps I can’t claim to speak in Spirit’s voice. But I’m just enough of a coyote to try.
And so I say, on behalf of Spirit and all who love you:
Go Sister. Go Daughter.
I love you.
k
Kate, my friend, you’ve made me smile & weep all at once (again). Sending a big smoosh of love to you for who you are and all you do. Gracias.
HI Miss Karen…I love the way you write. I still check your blog frequently to see if you have new posts. WE have not forgotten you!! And I plan to hug you in person some time this year. I really want to make that happen.
I am also very touched by Kate’s comment above. Wow!!! We are each other’s sisters and daughters and sometime mothers and friends. Our invisible threads will keep us tied to each other.
Loving you,
Karenda
Dear Karen and Kate:
Feel so blessed to know you both – We’re all here for you Karen – at your side, now and always. Love you, Ali