The Social Complications of a Speedy Recovery; and the Start of Something New

If you have been following the journey thus far, it doesn't take astute observation to notice that the time between blog posts has greatly increased. This is primarily a function of being in "giddy up and go recovery mode," but it is also due to the fact that we have so much going on right now. Every day has been full of a multitude of things. And there is a lot to wrap up in Seattle before we take the Race Sherpa/Running Rosie show on the road. But more on that in a bit... (if you want to go right to that part, page down to the last section now!)

Back to recovery.

I am so grateful for how well my recovery has been going. My strength has been coming back, and eating and pooping appear to be back to normal. Unfortunately, my breathing has not been so cooperative.

My experience is that the breathing issues that I have right now are the exact same as those that I experienced in 2013/2014. I have mentioned a few times in this blog that I have never been convinced that my breathing issue was related to my cancer issue. Dr. Foster thought that given the amount of mucinous tumor that I had under my diaphragm, it could easily account for the breathing difficulty I was having. And I suppose that now the same could be said for scarring and adhesions in those same areas. So, it is still possible that the two are related.

And yet...

I am just not convinced. I continue to think the bulk of the problem is due to something else.

My intuition keeps whispering two things to me: 1) posture/structure, and b) back/spine. What that means, or how they could play in to it all, I have no idea. What I do know is that the quality of my breathing seems to change, based on my body position. So who knows, really. I just hope that I can get to the bottom of it all, as it not only affects my daily life (unless I am very focused on something else, I am aware of it on almost each and every breath), but it really puts a damper on my fitness/performance life!

On the other hand, it feels a bit petty to complain about it given where I just came from. I have friends who are in the process of dying and/or going through cancer (or other serious illness) right now. I also belong to a Facebook page composed of people who have what I have/had. Every day I read the posts that pop up in my newsfeed. Some of the people who write are still disease free many years after having the same surgery and HIPEC treatment that I had. Many others have had numerous surgeries and/or continue to deal with chemotherapy treatments and complications from the surgery. A number of them have died.

So every day, in addition to taking in the magnificent beauty around me, I have a constant reminder of how close death and disease really are.

When I was walking to the gym the other day, soaking in the beautiful Seattle spring day, I started reflecting on the things that keep people from being able to fully embrace the wonder and beauty around them. I am sure that it is a combination of many reasons, but three came to mind in that moment:

1) We are pre-occupied with other thoughts, and therefore our attention and focus are turned inward.
2) It is the nature of the mind to "ignore" the familiar in order to focus on the unfamiliar and/or potentially threatening.
3) We assume that we will be able to pay attention to it all the next day, or the day after.

It is interesting how quickly (1) and (2) fall to the wayside if you truly understand that (3) isn't necessarily true. Sure, it is probably statistically true that you will survive the night and wake up again the next morning to do it all over again. And that is partly why we make the assumption and go with it. We consciously or unconsciously understand the odds, and ignore them or set them aside in order to immerse our faces back in to the soup bowl of daily life.

It also keeps us from freaking out every single day.

But on the distribution curve, those improbable events aren't just data points on a graph but real people; each one representing a life very much like your own. And when you speak to those people, many of them share the same insight; don't take it for granted. ANY of it. If you can find even just a few moments of your day to snap out of that self-spun trance to take the reality of everything in, you might just find yourself not only looking at the world, and your life, differently; you might find that you want to change course and live your life differently as well.

I feel as if I came to this conclusion way back when I was 25 years old. And yet, it is human nature to get pulled back in, over and over; hopefully to an orbit that is a little further out than the one you were in the time before. The less gravity there is, the smaller the event required to jolt you free again. Sometimes, despite what you have learned (numerous times) before, it takes another big event to rocket you back out in to the open space of context and perspective; where you are able to, once again, focus, re-evaluate, and orient the ship of your life, pointing it in the desired direction.


Interestingly, there is an aspect of recovering well that I did not anticipate. I have called it the "social implications of a speedy recovery." While most people are genuinely happy that I am way in front of the healing curve, I can tell that there is a small subset of that group that are raising their eyebrows, and wondering why I (since I am doing so well) am not " getting back to normal life."

Let me tell you why, if you don't know.

Physical recovery is one thing; psychological recovery is quite another. Not that I have residual psychological or emotional "issues" from everything that has happened, but rather the experience cemented even more firmly the thoughts I had about life before all of this started.

At times I think that "normal life" is part of the problem. At least for me. I can't speak to what is true for you. Nor can I conclusively define what "normal life" is, because it changes based on the decisions that I make. Technically, the next set of fixed patterns and beliefs become "the new normal." Despite all of that, I have my own "working definition" that I am using here.

As things are right now, I don't think I am a "F*ck Cancer" kind of person. I say that because I frequently wonder what part of my disease I could have be responsible for. You don't have to frame it as "blame," but rather "ownership." Could I have been living in a way that played a contribution, however small, in to this diagnosis?

When considered from that viewpoint, suddenly "getting back to normal life" makes one pause, and reflect, and wonder about what changes one wants to make in one's life going forward. So not just gaining the perspective that I described above, and choosing to live with less certainty and more gratitude, but embracing the idea that we are, in some part, responsible for the lives we are creating.

Again, I am speaking for me and my current experience. I am not projecting this on to anyone else. I don't know what is or isn't true for another person. What I do know is what events were true in my life before this all happened.

I imagine if I had a young child who had cancer I might be all "F*ck Cancer," too. A child hasn't had much time, in thoughts or behaviors, to bring such a thing upon themselves. It is a shitty deal. But adults? I don't know. I am sure we could find plenty of examples where we could (seemingly) absolve a person completely for having anything to do with their medical condition. I 100% believe that. But I just don't know that that is true in every single case. And so, putting myself "at cause," even if just a little bit, gives me pause in how I want to move forward.

Sometimes there are financial imperatives or social obligations that require one to "get back to normal life," regardless of what one would LIKE to do. Definitely true. Sometimes you just gotta do what you gotta do. But I have been afforded a small window of opportunity, and I am taking the best advantage of it that I can. I don't want to be one of the stories where I resume my life as it was and then the disease returns. I want to shed all of the crap; to leave behind everything that could have played a part in that situation; and start anew in the best way that I can right now. And if it still comes back, after all of those changes, then I can be more at peace with my part in it all.

Before ending, I need to state one more time: if you have or have had a serious disease or condition, I am not saying that you brought it on yourself. I think that can be a bogus blame-game that can create a lot of harm. I already know that there are some people who will get immediately defensive about what I have written here. All I am suggesting is that, SOMETIMES, and in SOME CASES, our thoughts, our lifestyle habits, our stress compromised immune systems, our decisions about how we spend our time, etc might play a part in it all. In some cases, a CRUCIAL part. And when I consider those thoughts and behaviors in relation to how I was living my own life, it shows me areas where I want to change course.

That's it. Got it??? Good. :)

Now to the the last section...


***** IF YOU PAGED DOWN TO GET TO THE LAST SECTION, START HERE *****

It has been almost a year since I started this blog. I hoped to capture a slice of my life and my perspective as I confronted my cancer diagnosis and the road that was in front of me. Now, that road continues forward, but I travel it with a slightly different mindset.

So, in terms of The Start of Something New, there are a number of things to mention.

First off, Rose and I are preparing for our road trip back to Colorado for the summer. I am looking forward to some more Rocky Mountain time, and I hope to have some on-line training options available for those who are interested (more on that soon). We might have a special announcement to make regarding our trip, but we have to wait for more certainty before doing so. So stay tuned!

Secondly, the tone of this blog and the frequency of posts are about to change. It is time for the "RISES" part of Race Sherpa Rises. Same philosophical tone, but more about living, and hopefully, much more humor. :) Also, shorter but more frequent posts. To complement that, I am going to change my cover photo to represent that attitude shift. The message of my current cover photo remains, but the focus is now different.

Lastly, I will be posting across all social media platforms during our road trip and throughout our adventures during the season. If you are following my personal Facebook, Twitter, and Instagram pages, thank you!! But most of this new content will only be posted on the Race Sherpa Rises pages (I will have some duplication, but not a lot).

Soooooooo....that means if you want to follow the journey, you have to like the RSR pages!!

They are:

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/racesherparises/
Twitter - https://twitter.com/RaceSherpaRises
Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/racesherparises/


I want to thank you all for following, and for providing all of the support that you have along the way.

This is just the beginning of the journey.

Giddy up!

The Eight Week Recap - In Three Parts

I ran across this recently and wanted to share:

"Before I had cancer, I knew I was going to die, I just didn't know when. After I was diagnosed with cancer, I knew I was going to die, I just didn't know when."

Before my diagnosis last June, I was fully acquainted and comfortable with the idea of "we aren't guaranteed any time and we could die any day." After my diagnosis, I realized that my understanding of that was purely conceptual. That is, I knew it, intellectually, but I did not have a visceral understanding of it.

My understanding is deeper now, and all I can say is: in the midst of your normal every day life, the one that hypnotizes and numbs you with its familiarity and struggles, try to find a moment to really FEEL the truth of your vulnerability and impermanence. It might scare you to consider it, but if you can let the fear go, the true sweetness of being alive will be your reward. - Posted on Facebook, 1/24/16


I have mentioned before the trade-off one makes when writing about experiences within, or close to, the moment of their occurrence, versus writing about them later. The upside of writing about them in retrospect is the meaning that one can add to the narrative of the experience, due to further reflection.

But there would appear to be a diminishing return. That is, at some point, many of the interesting insights and nuances that one could provide by writing about an event after thoughtful reflection can also get lost in the continual forward movement of more and more Life.

Eventually, the subtleties get overwhelmed by more events, and more processing, until the language of (or the interest in) the previous insights dissolve in to an faint shadow of their former selves.

I fear that seems to be the case here; that my negligence in waiting this long to write reduces the potential for meaningful insight and instead becomes more of a mechanical recitation of facts.

And yet, I feel it is important to cover at least some small amount of all of the ground traversed in the last two months before moving on to current events.

Thus...

PART ONE

I could list a number of reasons for why it has been eight to nine weeks since I last posted, but if I had to be honest with myself, I believe I could sum it up in one word: restlessness.

The interesting thing about this restlessness is that both surgeons, Dr. Ong in Seattle and Dr. Foster in Omaha, told me that the primary symptom I would experience post-surgery would be fatigue. In reality, it was the opposite.

I was restless. Restless on the verge of anxiousness.

It is possible that if I had been able to do my normal workouts, I might have actually experienced the fatigue they were talking about. But as it was, there were zero moments during the day when I felt like I had to lie down or take a nap. In fact, more often than not, I headed out the door for more walks. And while I did spend large chunks of time on the computer, I couldn't cultivate the mental stillness I needed to write.

It is a shame, really, because there are a number of things worth mentioning that I will distill in to a few words for now but that I would have expounded on in greater detail at the time they happened. But seeing as how there is no way to go back and do it over, I will just proceed forward.


My last appointment with Dr. Foster was on Friday, December 18th. He was pleased with how everything was looking and he removed my last drain tube, even though it was putting out more peritoneal sweat than he would have liked. At some point you just hope the body re-absorbs it, he said, but then went on to describe what I should look out for in case the fluid started to accumulate in my abdomen.

My biggest concern was that this could happen while I was back in Seattle, and while I could obviously seek out doctors there, my medical support system was in Omaha.

The moment I woke up the next morning, I knew something was off. Before I even opened my eyes I noticed that my last few dreamy moments were really negative. Definitely not normal for me. And the instant I sat up I felt an uneasy tension in my breathing.

As the morning went on, it was clear that something was stirring. I was feeling anxious. And emotional.

It was not uncommon for me to walk continuously throughout my parent's house, as that is how I did my daily walking during my recovery. But that morning, I was pacing. And I could tell. I also kept putting food in my mouth even though I wasn't hungry.

All tale-tell signs, of something, but I didn't know what to do about it. I am always sensitive to anything that feels like it restricts my breathing, but there was more going on; more that I could not identify. We were leaving to go back to Seattle that day, and while I was excited to get back, I was not very psyched about what I was experiencing. I was just doing what I could to hold everything together.

But that strategy would not work as well on the plane.

If you know my personality, it would not be difficult to guess that I am not the type to be prone to anxiety, but "anxiety" is the only way I can explain what I felt on the plane ride home. It was bad.

Everything felt restricting. I had to take my binder off, and I was constantly tugging on my clothing anywhere it seemed even the slightest bit tight, which felt like pretty much everywhere. I got so warm that I started sweating.

Every ten or fifteen minutes I would catch my spinning thoughts and think "Dude, c'mon...this is all in your head. You can pull it together." And occasionally, I would succeed. I would start to feel calm, and I would cool off to the point of having to wrap my jacket around myself. And all would be good until the cycle started over again.

Needless to say, it was not a short three hour flight, and I was very happy to get off the plane. Our friends picked us up from the airport, and I felt pretty normal for the rest of the night.

In reflecting back, it is possible that all of these feelings didn't start on the last day in Omaha. I think there was always an underlying "restlessness" that I felt, but I was always able to distract myself and shake it off. For some odd reason, this restlessness feeling seemed to increase right before I ate and right before I went to bed.

Being back in Seattle wasn't easy at first, because Rose flew out of town the very next morning for a photo shoot in Los Angeles. We both agreed that this was the right thing for her to do, but it did leave me at home on my own.

Normally, being the introvert that I am, I love those days of just hanging out by myself. But these were not normal days nor normal circumstances.

So, I walked. A lot. Outside and inside. On the first day that that I hit eight miles walking (according to my iPhone app) I am pretty certain that almost half of those miles came from walking inside the house. I would walk a figure eight pattern between two open rooms or just walk around from room to room.

Walking was the only real activity I was allowed to do, so I did a lot of it.

I also experienced a certain amount of vulnerability when I was walking around outside. It was difficult to explain to people, but when I wrote about it on Facebook a number of women commented that they felt the same way when they were out in public while 8-9 months pregnant, or while walking around with their infant. It is a question of "what am I capable of if something comes up or goes wrong?"

The irony of this feeling, of course, is that even in my current state I was probably stronger and fitter than many of the people who were also out walking around. We evaluate situations based on our own baselines more than how our situation compares to others. It provided me with some interesting insight in to how we perceive our "diminished self," whether it be from injury, medical issue, or age/frailty.

The pre-bed restlessness seemed to increase when I was alone, so I would turn on the TV and watch it until it was much later than my normal bed time. Basically, I would create a situation of exhaustion. Despite this pre-bed restlessness, I never had problems falling asleep once I actually lied down and closed my eyes.

Within a week or two, things started to normalize a bit. I joined a gym that was about a mile and a half away. I walked there every day, did a few light weight exercises, and then did some easy cardio on the treadmill or the stepmill. Eventually, I was able to ramp my cardio up to an intensity that allowed me to sweat and breathe hard. Not only did this do wonders for my soul (sweat salvation), but it helped relieve some of the pent-up restlessness.

I have thought a lot about the origins of that restlessness. I am guessing it was the product of a number of things. While one could say that being able to be physically active again allowed me to "burn off" all of that excess energy, one could also argue that that same physical activity allowed me to cover up and ignore a deeper restlessness. I don't really know for sure which one is more true. I am still processing it all, and I imagine the answer will lie somewhere in the middle.

PART TWO

In all of my years as a "healthy person," I was always very aware of people who were currently dealing with, or had previously dealt with, serious medical issues. My father had a heart valve surgery when he was seventeen years old, and my mother had breast cancer twice, so even in my own immediate family there were plenty of reminders.

I also worked in a level one trauma center for three and a half years. So between my personal experiences, and everything I saw at work, I had more than enough data to be aware of what misfortunes were possible in life, to be compassionate and empathetic towards those dealing with medical or traumatic issues, and to be grateful for my own good health.

But never once did I feel GUILTY about being in good health.

How interesting, then, that it was only after I had this rare cancer, and a seemingly successful surgery and recovery, that I harbored my first feelings of guilt. Similar to when soldiers come home from the war, knowing that some of their buddies didn't make it, or like when people survive accidents when others died, I experienced my first sensation of guilt just weeks after my surgery.

I had friends who were going through very unpleasant cancer surgeries and IV chemo, and I saw people posting not so great things on the Facebook PMP page. It was not lost on me that my surgery had gone well and that my recovery was speeding along. I couldn't help but feel a slight pang of "survivors guilt."

I have been spending some time thinking about this feeling of guilt; wondering what lies at the root of it all. Is there an underlying belief of personal unworthiness? Is it a function of one's world view; ideas about fairness or lack of fairness? Or, might it just be based in fear, confronting what could still be the real possibility that things could still turn in a bad way?

While I am a hypnotherapist, and I love learning about how we create and form beliefs, I haven't spent much time thinking about survivor's guilt, per se. But having now dipped my toe in to the stream, and felt it first-hand, I am fascinated by it. Of equal interest to me is what my own attitude and outlook has played in all of this, if any. In other words, what do we and don't we have the ability to affect? I imagine that this will be high up on my list of things to research this year.

PART THREE

At the end of the day, my recovery is going well. I go to the gym 5 to 7 days a week. I am increasing the intensity and the volume of my cardio workouts and I am slowly starting to increase my strength training. I fear I am only going to be able to do something like two pull-ups (when I finally try), but, it is all a journey, I suppose. :) I have also been able to run, outside, twice. I huge step forward for me.

I have mentioned a number of times throughout this blog that I thought my breathing issue was unrelated to my medical issue. I still believe that to be the case, as I continue to experience the same issue that I experienced prior to my surgery. It is possible that the bulky mass of the mucinous tumors were restricting my diaphragm before, and now it is restricted by swelling or post-surgery adhesions. But intuitively, I keep thinking that somehow, in some way, this restriction I am sensing is related to the position of my spine.

What do I mean by that? I'm not sure, exactly. Only that I think I can find a way to resolve the issue by concentrating on position and posture. I am open to the fact that there could be a psychological/emotional aspect at play as well. I have certainly heard enough stories to not rule anything like that out. But for the time being, the focus is my back.


There are many things that are being left out of this post, but at some point, you have to just cut it off and start anew. That is how I am feeling internally...in how I look at my life, and at life in general...so I am applying it to my blog as well.

Not every experience or lesson needs to be shared. In some ways, having this post hang over my head for the last two months has been holding me back, in the sense that I have been trying to keep the ideas and concepts alive long enough to share. The most important thing is that I have integrated the insights and learning in to my own life along the way. The "me" of today is different than the me of eight weeks ago (or even the me of eight days ago).

My focus now is on what my focus has always been on; moving forward. I have not been one to cling on to the past, and there is certainly no reason to start that now.

Giddy up!

My Tribute to Three Important People

This is the post that is long overdue.

This is the post where I pay tribute to three people who had a profound impact on my current state of affairs. Without these three people, some aspect of where I am, and how I am feeling, right now, would be different.

Of course, many more people deserve to be mentioned. The nurses and my family and my friends have all been instrumental in this surgery and recovery. But there are three who deserve their own personal shout out.


HOLLY

I've written about the story before, both on this blog and on Facebook, but a special shout out goes to my friend Holly Holycross Chandler. Holly is the reason I came to Omaha to have this procedure done at Nebraska Medicine.

The short version is that Holly and I went to high school together (in the 80s) and are Facebook friends. When I received my cancer diagnosis in May and started this blog, Holly wrote to me to tell me that she works on these surgery cases, and she encouraged me to come see Dr. Jason Foster about my case.

At the time, I had already started the process with Dr. Evan Ong at Swedish Medical Center in Seattle. I was happy with my appointments with Dr. Ong, so I just thanked her and moved on.

But she didn't stop...

She kept writing. The next email was a little bit stronger, and talked about all of Dr. Foster's outcome numbers; percent of re-occurrence after five and ten years, percent of complications from surgery, etc... By this time I was living and training in Colorado with Rose, so while I was still happy with my decision to move forward with everything in Seattle, I was less connected to Seattle at the time. In fact, Rose and I had already been weighing the other options regarding having the surgery in Omaha versus Seattle. (Specifically, that I am from Omaha, and my family still lives there, so I have a huge support system available there, AND, my father has been having some medical issues as well, so it would be a lot easier on my family if I had the surgery in Omaha.)

Holly's next email included Dr. Foster's cell phone number. She had spoken to him about my case and he agreed to give her his cell phone number to give to me so that I could call him. She insisted that I at least see him for a second opinion.

As it turned out, I had already been thinking that I really needed to seek out a second opinion on such an aggressive surgery, and suddenly, Dr. Foster stood before me as the perfect option.

It took a few weeks to make the connection, but we finally made it work. I had a great talk with him on the phone, and made an appointment to see him after Rose's championship races were over.

As they say, the rest is history.

Throughout this whole experience, Holly has called me "inspirational" and "a hero." I can't speak to that, although if my words have found their place in to someone's life in some positive way, that is terrific. The truth is, it was Holly's adamant persistence that made all of this possible.

So I send a special shout out to Holly, for both her kindness and her insistence. I am very grateful to her for her part in all of this.

[A local news station did a story on us, you can find it here. They didn't get everything right (the pain, the chemo, etc), but you get the idea. :)]


AMBER

In every story there is usually an unsung hero. A person who is doing a lot of work in the background but not getting a lot of credit.

Amber Burke is that person in this story. Amber is Dr. Foster's nurse. I know what she has done for me, so I can only imagine how involved she is with all of his patients.

Five days (five days!) before my scheduled surgery, there was a discrepancy between what Nebraska Medicine was saying about my insurance coverage and what my insurance company was saying about my insurance coverage. Nebraska Medicine said that Dr. Foster would be considered "in network." LifeWise told me, repeatedly, that Dr. Foster was "out of network." There was no way I could afford to have the surgery in Omaha if he was considered out of network.

Four days before my surgery, and the day before I was scheduled to fly out of Seattle for Omaha, Amber stepped in and started making the calls to LifeWise herself; updating me any time she came up with new information.

The day before my surgery, when I was already admitted in to the hospital, Amber continued to jump through all of the hoops to make it all happen. I don't know how much extra time she spent on it, but I imagine it was quite a bit.

And somehow, almost as if by magic, she pulled it all together.

Holly got me to Omaha, Amber got me to the operating room.

So I send a special shout out to Amber for all of her extra hard work to make the surgery happen. She is also pretty good at removing stitches, for your information.


DR. JASON FOSTER

Perhaps the real hero of the story, and not just my story, but many people's story, is Dr. Foster.

Dr. Foster gave Holly his cell phone number for me to call, and he made the time to speak to me on the phone for 20 minutes. I have worked with many doctors in my life, and Dr. Foster has a unique combination of skills. In addition to his surgical expertise, he is very personable, funny, knowledgeable, confident, and just has a great overall "bedside manner."

It was Dr. Foster's confidence and his communication style that really won me over. That his outcomes seem to be awesome did not hurt the decision. :)

So I send a special shout out to Dr. Foster for being the surgeon and the person that he is.

As kind of a post-script shout out, I want to say that I think it was Dr. Tellman who did the open and close at my surgery. If so, fine work, young man. The incision looks great.


It has been said that no man is an island. And I tend to think that even those who claim to be "self made" might find, on closer inspection, that they had people along the way that gave them the means or the confidence to push onward. If I have written something inspirational, or acted in a way that someone found meaningful, it is a result of the teachers and the supporters I have had in my own life.

And when we look back at the tapestry of our lives, and identify how the strands were woven together in a particular way, the three people listed here will all be noted as some of the most influential people in this event of my life. Another thank you to all of them.

The OCR Community, Peritoneal Perspiration, and Counting Chickens

I have never been quiet about the fact that I have an amazing family and amazing friends.

This has been true for as long as I can remember. Even though I have traveled around and lived in different places, I have always been blessed with a really great group of friends and acquaintances.

But I want to give a well-deserved, and specific, shout out to the OCR/Spartan community. In addition to the GoFundMe account that Matty and Amelia set up, and that so many people contributed to, I heard about the support shown for me and Rose at the LA Spartan Race this weekend; from moustache wearers to people running with Rose and Tim hashtags written on their bodies. There has been so much support from the OCR community, many people whom I don't know or haven't met personally, that it has been a little overwhelming.

Being a healthy and fit person my whole life, I never imagined that my name would be after one of those hashtags. And yet, here I am, recovering from cancer surgery and intraperitoneal chemotherapy, drain tubes still coming out of my abdomen, listening to stories about all of the community support. It is really amazing.

Of course, I know that this benefit is primarily the result of being Rose's significant other. She is the "popular" one. I have been at a lot of races with Rose. I know that whether she finishes 1st or 5th, the same number of people come up to her afterwards, wanting to talk to her or to get a photo with her. By association, much of that love spills over on to me. :)

But that aside, it doesn't change the fact that the OCR community has rallied around us in a way that I have not experienced from such a large group before. It is really remarkable, and I want to thank each and everyone of you for it. You, collectively as individuals, are why the community is what it is.


Ok, so, the drain tubes. They are still in because, apparently, my peritoneal keeps "sweating." I have the ok to have them removed as soon as the output gets below a certain number. But nope, they keep draining.

Of course, first and foremost, I am all for the best long-term recovery outcome. If that means leaving them in for another week, so be it.

But...I confess that I am ready to not be plugged in anymore. I have to wear a binder on my abdomen right now, and it is suppose to be a little snug to provide "support," both to my healing incision and to my (still in shock) abdominal muscles. But the binder also presses down on and rubs against the drain tubes sites, which is a bit uncomfortable. Probably the most discomfort that I have at this point.

And then there is also the logistics of the tubes and bulbs; pinned to my flannel shirt, tucked in to the internal pockets of a fleece vest, in the way of showering and washing, etc...

There have been a couple of times when the output has drastically dropped, and I'm like "sweet!" And then, eight hours later, there will be 50-100ml in them again. Ugh.

It's a mystery. I don't know how to stop my peritoneal from perspiring. :)

My next appointment with Dr. Foster is on Friday, 12/11. It might be my last appointment with him, outside of a CT we will have done the following week to get a "baseline" for future reference. At that point, I imagine the remaining incision stitches and the drain tubes will come out.


When I first received my cancer diagnosis back in late May, and I decided to blog about the experience, I thought long and hard about what to call the blog. I decided not to piggyback it on to my old blog (http://mydharmadays.blogspot.com/), which I started back in 2005.

Instead, I chose the Race Sherpa theme, and went with Race Sherpa Rises for two reasons:

1) Back when I started using Race Sherpa on Facebook (in private, I used it long before Rose got involved in OCR), I began every race travel morning with the line "Race Sherpa rises." Simply meaning, rises from sleep and off to action.

2) I knew that after surgery, there would come a time when I would have to battle back and reclaim my previous health and fitness. In this case, "rising" from the "ashes" of post-surgery/chemo.

I am not one to count my chickens before they hatch. At this point, I am still in full-on recovery mode (even though I am now past the point where most of the complications can arise). BUT, my mind is starting to create the template that I will use to re-create myself.

In many ways, this is a great opportunity. As a personal trainer and strength coach for the last 12 years, I have a lot of resources to draw from, but as sometimes happens when you are self-employed and busy, I had let my own training fall back in to a rut.

In my mind I was still seeking and innovating, but I wasn't spending enough time translating those new ideas to my body. I noticed this at least 2-3 years ago, but I continued to let the daily life stressors keep me from implementing all of the new ideas. I usually just defaulted back to the old tried and true routine.

But now I have the opportunity to start over, and to build from a different base. I am 49 years old, and have been an athlete all of my life. I don't want to just recover my old strength and fitness, I want to re-engineer myself, and embody the broad spectrum of what I think it means to be an athlete.

This doesn't mean I won't eventually find my way back in to the gym to push iron, but that isn't where I am going to start. I am going to lay a different foundation, and I have a lot of resources to draw upon.

First, yoga. I used to be a "yoga freak." I was really fortunate to be immersed in the yoga scene when I was (1998-2005 or so), because so many top teachers used to travel around and give amazing workshops. I had the opportunity to study with some of the best instructors in the world (at least those who visited the US), and I loved how each teacher had their own unique interpretation and expression. Many of these teachers are the primary teachers of people who teach today (or perhaps, by now, we are on the second generation).

At any rate, I took a break from yoga, for reasons that are too numerous to go in to now, and I never really went back. Not in earnest, at any rate. This winter will be a great time to re-immerse myself. My goal is not to become an asana master. Long ago I lost the desire to pursue the perfection of as many asansas as I could. I have some specific goals in mind, and knowing the principles of yoga very well, I will carve out and pursue my own unique practice.

Second, there are so many people out their doing cool work; bodyweight, clubbell/kettlebell, gymnastic/ground based movements, parkour, etc... I already own a lot of material/resources from these people, and I've dabbled it in for years, but I haven't really committed to it. And while there is way too much material here to do everything, and while each and every "system" might be complete in and of itself, I have already started to compose my own personal integration of it all. Mostly because that is just what I do. I am an integrator. I look for themes and principles and try to find the best ways to express them. Find what works and what is useful, and let the rest go.

There is no way I could list all of the people who are doing cool work in these areas, but here are some of my own personal favorites:
Ryan Hurst (Gold Medal Bodies) https://gmb.io/
Chip Conrad (BodyTribe) http://www.bodytribe.com/
Ross Enamait (Ross Training) http://rosstraining.com/blog/
Coach Sommer (Gymnastic Bodies) https://www.gymnasticbodies.com/
Mike Fitch (Global Bodyweight Training) http://www.globalbodyweighttraining.com/
Scott Sonnon (TACFIT/CST) http://www.rmaxinternational.com/om/home.php
Pavel Tsatsouline (StrongFirst) http://www.strongfirst.com/
Erwan Le Corre (MovNat) https://www.movnat.com/
Too many parkour-based resources to list

Of course, there are a lot of people in the traditional strength and conditioning world that I love as well, but because I am going to hold off on that piece until the rest of the foundation is in place, I won't bother listing any of them right now.

Three, climbing. Truth be told, I haven't done much climbing, and I have never excelled at it. As a traditional strength/power athlete, it always seemed so counter-intuitive. And that, along with it's high level of "function," is precisely why I want to do it. Besides, most of the climbers I know are good at so many other things.

Four, OCR. I don't mean the actual races. It will be a while before I am anywhere close to that. But I have always been an advocate for the OCR training paradigm. In fact, I had been conceptualizing that kind of training for quite some time when I went to my first ever Spartan Race (Washougal, 2013). I remember walking in to the festival area, looking around, and thinking "Holy crap, they are already doing all of this stuff, in a race format." It was pretty cool to see.

Of course, much of the stuff that I would clump in to "OCR training paradigm" can be covered in the groups listed above, but there are still the uber functional movements, or primary human movements. The ones you could label "farm/rancher/contractor training," especially heavy and awkward lifts and carries.

Fifth, and finally, running. I have been running for quite a while, so this isn't actually new. But my breathing issue forced me to do all of my runs long instead of fast. I would like to see what times I could drop to with my breathing back and with the correct training. I'd also like to get even better at what I am already decent at; running up mountains.

So those are the resources upon which I am drawing (plus others not listed); the bedrock from which I hope to rebuild my foundation.


Again, baby steps first. Recover, get my drain tubes out, get my stitches out, and ease back in to normal, every day activity. After that, it is game on.

Race Sherpa rises.

Part Two: The NG Tube Blues, Awesome Nurses, the No Good Very Bad Day, and a Rose By Any Other Name

In the tackling of every major challenge, we typically have our share of ups and downs. Battles that we win that propel us forward, and battles that we lose that temporarily set us backward. You can usually sense the overall progress forward, even in the losses, but it is the small wins that build and sustain the fortitude to push onward.

Within this obstacle of cancer and surgery, one of these early battles stands out above the rest...

The NG Tube.


The NG stands for "nasogastric." I also believe it stands for "not good."

Although, to be fair, it is only "not good" from an experiential standpoint. From a functional standpoint it is a very useful and helpful (albeit uncomfortable) medical tool.

Let's let Wiki step in here:

"Nasogastric aspiration (suction) is the process of draining the stomach's contents via the tube. Nasogastric aspiration is mainly used to remove gastric secretions and swallowed air in patients with gastrointestinal obstructions.

If the tube is to be used for continuous drainage, it is usually appended to a collector bag placed below the level of the patient's stomach; gravity empties the stomach's contents. It can also be appended to a suction system, however this method is often restricted to emergency situations, as the constant suction can easily damage the stomach's lining. In non-emergency situations, intermittent suction may be applied giving the benefits of suction without the untoward effects of damage to the stomach lining.

Suction drainage is used for patients who have undergone a pneumonectomy in order to prevent anesthesia-related vomiting and possible aspiration of any stomach contents. Such aspiration would represent a serious risk of complications to patients recovering from this surgery."

So as you can see, it serves a very important function. And, truthfully, not one person misrepresented my need for it, nor the "suckiness" of having it in place.

Way back in June, during my first appointment with Dr. Ong in Seattle, he told me I would need an NG tube and that it would suck. Every person who I talked to since then corroborated that sentiment, including Dr. Foster, when I met with him in October. Although, for the record, I do not believe he actually used the word "suck."

It's worth pointing out that to say that the NG tube "sucks" is true on at least two different levels; a coincidence that hadn't occurred to me prior to having that constant suction sound whirling away twelve inches away from my ear, all day and night.

While uncomfortable, I didn't really dwell too much on my NG tube the first few days after my surgery. It was late Friday night (my surgery was on Tuesday), that it all set in. The nurse that evening did a flush of the tube, and something changed. I don't know if the position changed, or just my sensitivity changed, but it suddenly became very uncomfortable.

I had a number of gag responses that night and the next day, and it hurt to swallow. I knew that it was pretty standard to have it in for four days post-op, and and I knew that I was on day four.

I was determined to try to have it removed that day, and the idea had worked deeply in to my brain. There was no shaking it. I even made a public offer of flowers, donuts, and coffee to the individual who could help me make it happen.

And after I passed all of the requisite tests, it did come off that afternoon. (And the flowers/donuts/coffee offer was paid in full.)

It's one of those things, you know? Those things you don't appreciate until it is taken away from you. Breathing and swallowing and being able to quench your dry mouth and throat. Having the NG tube out made me feel like my recovery had increased by 500%. For hours afterward I just lied there and appreciated the experience of it all.


Each day in the hospital was pretty similar to the others. The surgery team typically came in between 6am and 6:30am to do rounds, my vitals were taken and my meds were given every four hours (with miscellaneous IVs and other asundry things happening in the spaces in between). The pain team came in mid-morning. Dr. Foster made his way in some time during the day, depending on his schedule. And, of course, I had my daily walks, which began with a walker and progressed to just the IV pole.

A highlight of all of those days were the nurses. I can't say enough about the staff at UNMC. Everyone was so great and helpful. If you ever have to have this surgery, I highly recommend you at least consider Dr. Foster and the UNMC team.

And speaking of the UNMC team, Dr. Foster is the Man. His numbers (complication rates, days in hospital, re-occurrence rates of disease, etc) are excellent and his bedside manner is unparalleled. He is loved and admired by so many people and when you meet him, you will understand why.

Again, if you are confronted with having to have this surgery, I highly recommend you go visit Dr. Foster.


But back to me...

On Wednesday, eight days after the surgery, I was discharged. It felt so good to not be confined to a hospital room, but as soon as I got home I was presented with other challenges. Managing three drain tubes and a wound vac is pretty easy when you are lying around all day, but it adds another level of complexity as you try to navigate life at home.

Wednesday night went decently, and on Thursday I was just trying to focus on eating and pooping; both large steps in the recovery process.

On Thursday afternoon I was feeling a little "off," and as the afternoon went on, that "off" feeling turned in to a nauseous feeling.

There are numerous reasons why vomiting is a bad idea for someone in my situation. One, the bowels get sleepy after operations like this, and it is important that you get them to wake up and start moving things downward. So vomiting is kind of a step backwards. Two, when you have a new 8 inch incision in your abdomen, the abdominal muscle contraction of vomiting can be no bueno.

But vomit I did. Over and over and over. The No Good Very Bad Day.

We finally made the call to go back to the hospital. I sat in the back seat of my parent's Jeep and continued to vomit pretty much the entire way back.

At the hospital they tried a few things via IV but nothing was working the greatest to stop the nausea. I kept wondering how it was possible that I could vomit 20-30 times. It didn't seem possible that I had that much of anything inside of me.

Eventually, the resident came in and said that Dr. Foster had told him that if I continued to vomit, they were going to have to put an NG tube back in.

Excuse me?

My will became resolute. I was not going to vomit one more time. And thankfully, I think I had pretty much emptied myself by then. Finally, they administered Compazine, and that seemed to be the ticket. Relief. I think I fell asleep not long after that.

The next day Dr. Foster explained that this is a common occurrence. It can happen when the bowels are still a bit frozen, and everything just starts to back up. It can also be a side effect of the chemo treatment that was used during surgery.

At any rate, after a couple of bowel movements I was back on track and ready to go back home by Friday afternoon.


I've mentioned the drain tubs and the wound vac a few times. See the three photos below:

The first photo is the incision itself, with Steri-strips over top of it. You can also see two of the three drain tubes coming out of my torso.

In the second photo the wound vac is applied over the top the incision. The tube that is attached leads to a small portable vacuum type box that applies constant suction to the area. The medical adhesives that are used to apply the wound vac gave me the opportunity to experience an abdominal and upper pubic waxing two times every week. You might think that this free manscaping would be a nice little perk, but another wound vac is just applied over top, so one doesn't really gain the "aesthetic benefits" from having it done.

The third picture is just for reference. That was on my 48th birthday, in October of 2014. I was probably about 163 lbs in that photo. Right now I am in the 148-150 lbs range. This would seemingly put me in the Matt "Bear" Novakovich boxing weight class, but seeing as how I am not allowed to lift more than 10 lbs, I imagine punching, and getting punched, are out of the question.

As for the drains, they are called JP drains, and they are used to collect bodily fluids from surgical sites. The suction of the little grenade-shaped bulb at the other end is what helps pull the fluid out. Dr. Foster has, on a number of occasions, referred to this fluid as "peritoneal sweat," but frankly, I have no idea what that is. I will just trust him on that one.


I have been home now for ten days, and like in the hospital, those days are all very similar to one another. I watch sports, I read a little, I get on my laptop now and then, and I take lots of walks around the house. The weather in Omaha has been cold and off and on snowy, so outside hasn't been a really great option.

One of the (many) reasons I decided to have this surgery in Omaha was because my father has also been going through some medical issues, and it was going to be a lot easier on my family for me to have the surgery here. But a result of that is that there are numerous times throughout the day when both myself and my 74 year old father, dressed in sweat pants and long sleeve flannel shirts, are shuffling around the house with tubes coming out of our bodies. It paints a whole new perspective of the phrase "Oh god, I am becoming my father." :)

As of today, 12/1/15, I am down to two drain tubes. Yesterday, Dr. Foster decided that the incision was healing really well and took the wound vac off. It is great to not have to carry around that little satchel containing the vac system anymore, but for the first 12 hours I definitely felt more "vulnerable." As today goes on it feels better. It is likely that within a week both drain tubes will come out, and at that point I will be "tube free."

There has been one very important aspect of this whole experience that I haven't written about yet, and that is how Rose has risen up to the occasion. She is basically in a cold, flat, state, away from her friends and family, living at her in-laws house. I will give you a moment to let that sink in.

Rose stayed with me at the hospital every single night, and for a good part of the day. She read Facebook comments to me at 2:30am during "The Dark Night," and was basically there to volunteer to help out with anything that I needed. Since we've been home she has been just as helpful, while trying to fit in make-shift workouts whenever she can.

I am both grateful for her, and proud of her. She has been the champion that most of you already know her to be from Spartan Races. It has been a trying time, perhaps for her more than me, and she has held up extremely well.

Thank you, babe. You are awesome.


And a special P.S. shout out to Amelia Boone and Matty Gregg who took the time to set up a GoFundMe account to help me and Rose cover our medical expenses. https://www.gofundme.com/timandrose

Their kindness is of no surprise to those who know them. They are extremely special people, and we owe them, and all of you who have contributed, the largest thank you. We have the most amazing friends and supporters. We are truly blessed.

Part One: Dr. Foster's Shake 'n Bake: Surgery and the Dark Night

A number of years I was going through a particularly crazy time and I wrote a blog post. While I was writing, it occurred to me how different a post can be when written from "within the storm" versus being written some time afterward.

Writing from within the storm is raw and uncensored, and can provide a rare and unique peek in to an experience. But it can also lack cohesion; the scribblings of a lunatic inside the asylum wall.

Writing back on something, even if that something is only hours or days behind us, is where we assign meaning. The narrative that we build around the events of our lives typically happens on recollection, not in the moment of the experience. The downside of this process is that everything has the potential of becoming part fabrication; a composition of the real experience plus the meaning and value we assign to it based on the beliefs and biases that we hold at the time.

And yet, sometimes that pause between the experience and narrative allows for a fine-tuning; a way of eliminating the static enough to hear just the line of music that you want to express.

I have considered writing this post for some time. Of course, I didn't have my laptop in the hospital, so the earliest I could have written it would have been the day after my discharge.

But in reality, my brain wasn't ready. For much of anything, actually.

Yesterday afternoon marks the one week mark of being out of the hospital. And my continued recovery, along with my increasing level of boredom, seems to have created the spark needed to finally write.

That said, I am not going to drone on and on about every little detail. There are lots of little things that happened that were interesting or entertaining at the time that are just not going to be so now, no matter how compelling I am at retelling it. So I will spare you those details.


I was admitted to the hospital mid-day on Monday (November 9th). The day consisted mostly of hanging out with Rose and eating broth and jello. Oh, and discovering a newfound love for popsicles. I also had some x-rays, took some pills, and was marked for a potential ostomy. To be honest, I don't know what else we did that day. Once you are connected to an IV pole it seems as if life slows to a crawl, as everything becomes more cumbersome and requires more effort.

Tuesday morning, bright and early, the surgery team came in for a last assessment and pep talk. I showered up and got wheeled down to pre-op. I remember nothing about the epidural. I think all anesthesia drugs work extra well on me.

I do have one vague memory, almost as if recalling an old dream. I remember someone saying something like "Tim, you have to keep you hands down. Keep them away from your face." I don't remember how many days after surgery I finally remembered this, but I am wondering, if the memory is true, if it was when they were putting the NG tube in place, because it would make sense that I was trying to pull that shit back out. :)


Obviously, I have no memory of the surgery. I actually have only faint memories of the night after surgery.

But it's worth writing a quick recap of the surgery, because I feel very fortunate with how it went.

The spleen I became so attached to about a month ago did get taken out. The amount of disease on and around it was too much to try to cut away. As I mentioned in a previous post, the risk of bleeding from the spleen was too high (and not something you want to add on to an already long and complicated surgery.) The distal portion of my pancreas was also removed. A neighbor of the spleen, it had just gotten to be a bad neighborhood all around, no thanks to the crack house of my disease that moved on to the block.

The area of disease on the floor of my pelvis near my rectum, fortunately, came out pretty easily. This was tremendous news. Along with that, no area of my colon needed to be resected. This all meant that I would not need an ostomy, permanent or temporary. And if I had to make a list of wins, this one would be at the top.

I also got to keep my gall bladder, which is nice. I am all about keeping the organs that you can, you know? Plus, fatty foods. Win.

There were some pretty heavy areas of disease up around the right side of my diaphragm. Dr. Foster thinks that there was definitely enough to cause some diaphragm restriction, so perhaps all of my breathing issues were directly related to this after all.

From what I have been told, the surgery part of the procedure went well and relatively quickly. I believe Dr. Foster checked in with my family and gave them an expected time of completion. While he was out of the operating room, the heated chemotherapy treatment (HIPEC) was being administered.

Apparently, after the HIPEC treatment, they discovered another "patch" of disease on the back side of my liver. Dr. Foster determined it would be best to remove it, so rather than close me up, they went back to work, adding time to an already long surgery.

Of course, this was of some concern to those waiting in the waiting area, as they thought the surgery was going to be over soon. But because I wasn't out there, I won't write about that perspective. I am sure if you ask Rose or my family for their story of that day, you will hear what things were like for them out there.

The take-away of all of this is that I feel very fortunate with how things went. I had all of the confidence in the world in Dr. Foster but I didn't know what cards my body would deal him. And while going through this surgery wasn't fun, I am happy with how well it went.


If you asked me to describe that night I would say I was in a dark room on a boat that was sailing out in a storm. I know that I wasn't, of course, but that is the felt-sense that I had. I felt as if room was always dark, and that things would come and go in waves. I don't really remember any major pain or discomfort. I remember the kind and compassionate voice of the nurse, and I remember Rose frequently saying "thank you" to her. I knew that Rose was on my left, between my bed and the window, and I knew the nurse came in from my right. Beyond that, it was an ebb and flow in and out of consciousness.

I don't remember waking up the next morning, specifically, but I do remember I was sitting up in bed when the pain team came in. I also remember their shocked faces when they saw me. One of the doctors said, "Oh my god, you look great for the day after that surgery."

This is a theme that would continue throughout my hospital stay. "You are not the norm," "you are an atypical Foster patient," etc etc...

I have no magic words for this. I am extremely grateful, yes. I may also be very lucky. And it helps that I am probably younger than many of Dr. Foster's patients. But from a behavioral perspective, all I can say is this: go in to these endeavors as vital and as healthy in body, mind, and spirit as you can.

Positive mind, positive outcome. That's not a promise that things will always turn out rosy and totally in-line with your desires; you can't control everything. But control what you can. Thoughts and beliefs are so powerful.

And that seems like an appropriate segue in to what happened next....

The dark night.

In addition to my epidural, I was on a PCA, which allowed me to click a dose of Dilaudid (hydromorphine) every eight minutes. I found people's instructions on when to use it a bit ambiguous, however. On one hand, it seemed clear: if you have pain, click the button. But the second most commonly said thing was: don't let the pain get ahead of you. This implied you should do some preemptive clicking.

I was not in the mental state to distinguish between those two things very well, and Rose, I'm sure, was more inclined for me to click than not click. The idea of "getting behind" on the pain seemed like a really bad option.

At any rate, I clicked. Quite a bit. Not every eight minutes, but probably every 8-20 minutes. We were so concerned that I would fall asleep and not click for hours, and then wake up in tremendous pain, that Rose set a timer on her phone. (God bless Rose, who fought off sleep all night to help in this endeavor.) We thought we were doing what we should be doing.

A quick aside...

In addition to the normal IV/telemetry alarms, there was one alarm that occasionally went off that sounded different. Our ICU nurse told us that that alarm sounded when something not so good was happening somewhere else. It went off in all of the rooms. It was subtle, but ominous.

And it was that alarm that I heard around 2:30am, followed by a whisper, "Tonight is the night you will die."

The rational part of me shrugged it off, but every time I closed my eyes my mind was full of dark, disturbing (even evil) images. My only escape was to open my eyes, but even that didn't stop my mind from replaying the whisper, "Tonight is the night you will die."

It might be interesting at this point to veer off on a tangent regarding my deep inner beliefs as to why I was experiencing this disease and surgery in the first place. Because armed with that information, it is easier to see why, along with my brain being bathed in Dilaudid, I couldn't shake darkness of this experience.

But if I do that right now, I will disrupt the whole thread of this story. So let me come back and address that some time in the near future.

To continue on with that night, the darkness wouldn't go away. At 3am I finally woke Rose up and told her I couldn't sleep. She spent 20-30 minutes reading me all of the kind Facebook comments that people had written on her post about my surgery. It was a nice distraction, but it wasn't enough to create any peace.

I felt like I was trapped in a small dark box, filled with disturbing images. Every time I closed my eyes, they were there. I tried lots of mental techniques to claw my way out, but nothing worked. (If you have ever done any "energy work" before, of any kind, I can tell you I felt completely "cut off." I couldn't connect up, I couldn't ground, I could bubble up. Whether this was a matter of not being able to properly visualize/concentrate, I don't know.)

Eventually, my mind went to something Dr. Foster had said in my appointment with him the previous month: in about 1% of cases, some patients, especially the younger ones, can go in to adult respiratory distress, which is a very serious condition.

I know, I know.... Now, looking back, it seems like an odd place for my mind to go, but that is the negative spiral I was in at the time.

Eventually, Rose went and got the nurse so that I could ask her about it. The nurse said that in those rare cases of adult respiratory distress, it typically happens upon extubation, which I was more than 36 hours out from.

The reason why I bring all of this up is because, rationally, I knew all of this. I knew I was caught in a negative state, I knew I was probably not in any real danger, and I knew that it was probably all due to the pain meds. But none of that made a difference. I was caught, and I couldn't find a way out.

And I am FASCINATED by that.

But again, before I go off on to a tangent (we will save them all and eventually circle back, don't worry), let's keep moving forward.

Describing my difficult night to the doctors the next morning was even more painful. I kept trying to describe it but they weren't getting it. No, they weren't dreams. No, they weren't technically hallucinations because it only happened when my eyes were closed. Etc etc

The end result of it all was this; after that night, I rarely pushed that damn PCA button. I did when I really needed it, or when I knew I was going to have to move or go for a walk, but that was it. I may have pushed it less than ten times in my final 3-4 days in the hospital.

That dark place never returned.



And that is the end of Part One.

Coming very soon - Part Two: The NG Tube Blues, Awesome Nurses, and the No Good Very Bad Day

When The Only Way To The Other Side Is Through

Way back when I started this blog I mentioned, numerous times, that I was going to live the mindset of the moment, and not waste the life I was living caught up in the mental fear of future scenarios, real or imagined.

I also said that there would come a time when those anxieties and fears would be true enough.

In the last day or two, those moments have finally started to find their way in to my every day thoughts. They don’t dominate my thinking; they are more like faint whispers from the shadows, lingering just outside of sight.

I expect that in the next 24-36 hours they will fully step out of the shadows and in to the light, facing me squarely, eye to eye.

My goal is to face the realities of the situation but to keep my mind fixated on as many positives as I can. The alternative is to fixate on the negatives, and I don’t know of anything good that can come of that, even though I know it is a pretty normal thing to do.

I have come to the point where the only way to the other side of this obstacle is to go through it. There is no around or under or over (that I know of). The time for those things is now all behind me.

This is the battlefield of the physical; the time for courage to confront not just this disease but also the treatment, and to hope for, nay, count on, a more positive future. And yes, it is also time to allow the feelings of fear, sadness, weakness, and anything else that might be present to come forth for full acknowledgement.

It says so much about the human life that we have the space inside to hold so many opposing things at one time.


Interestingly, I think this is the time that a few of my friends have been waiting for. Not that they really want me to “break down,” but that they don’t know how to help or assist me until I do.

I have read it in their language since the very beginning. Amazing, loving, kind people, who I am honored to have as friends and acquaintances, all waiting for me to “lose it” so that they can find a gap in which to feel useful.

First and foremost, do not take this as a criticism of these beautiful people. I only recognize it because I can be one of these people as well. We are loved and adored and appreciated for being the helper; the listening ear, the shoulder to cry on, the “I am going to put you on my back and carry you through this come hell or high water.” And we associate strongly with that aspect of ourselves. We are not only helping those we love, we are stoking something inside that feeds off of that kindness and service. It feels like a sense of purpose.

It makes me wonder…

While the intention and the outcome can be a very beautiful thing, can we find ways of being there for someone that don’t require another person’s fragility? Can we stand by in support while they remain strong and are doing well?

It seems obvious, but it isn’t always as satisfying.

There is this thing that Rose always says. I don’t remember when she and I were first talking about it, but we have both referenced it a number of times in the last few years.

The Golden Rule states: Treat others as you would like to be treated.

The spirit of it is to create awareness and empathy. And in that, the rule succeeds. But it can be taken one more step…

Golden Prime: Treat others as THEY would like to be treated.

Each of us has our own unique preferences and desires. What is right for me might not be right for you. If I don’t know you, the best place to start as a helper might be to treat you the way I would like to be treated. But soon enough, I need to determine how YOU would like to be treated. The two can be very different things, and I try to remind myself of this so that I don’t end up pushing my own, very well-intentioned, agenda on to the person I am trying to help. If I do, I make it more about me than them.

Or perhaps, there is another, deeper, agenda at play inside of myself. Perhaps one I am not even conscious of.

I can already sense the depth of digression that is possible here, but time is short, so I will have to develop it more in a later post. :)

For now, let’s stick to the present reality…

Friday night I was trying to go to bed early because I had to wake up at 2:30am to catch my cab to the airport; except I wasn’t really that tired. And that created the opening for those first thoughts…

They weren’t about “Will I be able to still run mountains and do physically active stuff?” or “Will I be able to be as active with my children as I would like to be?” or “Will I have to have this surgery again in 5 to 10 years?” Those are all thoughts that have crossed my mind, but those aren’t the ones that set in on Friday night. The ones that came in to my head and grabbed me by the throat were all about post-op.

The pain, the discomfort, the questions.

What tubes will I have in when I wake up? NG tube, abdominal drain tubes, an epidural, a catheter, a central line, and probably a temporary ostomy. Will the NG tube give me a feeling of suffocation or choking? I’ve noticed that my breathing is my security blanket; the thing I can count on to create calmness. The thought of not having it the way I am accustomed to it is a little disconcerting.

I didn’t dwell on those thoughts very long, but I decided that I needed to create a proactive mindset; a way of navigating and preparing for what I might experience without dwelling on it. I think I have some of those strategies in place, but there is really no way of truly knowing what those days will bring.


One of the reasons why this whole situation has been difficult to truly embrace is because I have been so asymptomatic. I hear I have this disease, but I don’t feel it, so it just remains a conceptual idea. I have no real visceral experience of it.

However, having five days of GI issues leading up to today has really been helpful, in an odd way. It has helped me experience, albeit mildly, just some of the things I could experience if the disease was further along. And that is the type of reminder I needed heading in to this surgery.

To consider a surgery of this magnitude while being symptom free has been a tough idea to swallow. But now, the importance of the surgery is finally settling in. Again, conceptually I have understood this, but there was an experiential disconnect.

As I head to the hospital on Monday morning, I will keep this truth first and foremost in my mind. Beyond that, it will be about confronting the crappy and overcoming it with optimism.


This will most likely be my last post for a while. Tomorrow morning I head to the hospital, and then surgery is scheduled for early Tuesday morning.

I have greatly appreciated all of your super kind thoughts and comments and emails and texts and calls. I am so richly blessed with so many friends and family members. I also have to send a special shout out to the OCR community, who has really rallied around Rose and me throughout this situation.

Get out there and GIDDY UP! Don’t take it for granted!