Bucket List #1: Cyclocross Nationals

I have a bucket list.

Aren’t you special? Don't we all?

I dunno. Maybe. It's a new thing to me. I started writing mine a year ago.

You keep writing that: "A year ago..." Get over it already!

It’s yesterday, to me.

It’s 360-something days…

To you. Not to me.

Sigh.

I know. I get it.

But it’s still with me—in what I remember and in what I don’t.

I remember little about Christmas 2013. I do remember the overwhelming kindness of friends; I don’t remember my children.

I don’t remember the start of 2014. New Year’s must have happened. I was…somewhere. But, I have no memories. None. None at all.

I don’t remember going into the hospital for my fourth cycle. But, I do remember overwhelming sickness. I remember groking what it meant to be “debased”. And, I remember not caring.

I remember the battle. I remember fighting. And, I remember feeling that I was losing.

And, I remember hope.

- - -

I first heard "bucket list" a few years ago. Maybe it’s a thing for people of a certain age. You cross 40, and suddenly you consider your bucket. Or, the kicking of it. I've never heard anyone talk about the bucket itself. Is it half-empty or half-full? Why does no one care? Shouldn’t we care more for our bucket?

(I prefer a towel to a bucket any day. Always know where your towel is. But I digress from my digression…)

I don't think of my bucket list as a collection of things I need to do before I die. To me it's more of an ambition list.

It’s not filled with audacious unattainables, like "I will climb the Seven Summits wearing only a loincloth, descending each on my arse whilst playing the viola."

Though that sounds like fun.

(In fairness, it does have "I will dive under the ice in Antarctica." But as a former SCUBA instructor, that feels less audacious than it seems at first read.)

No, it’s more of a list of things that make me happy.

That give me hope.

Some are all about the journey, like my list of athletically-focused things I WILL do. The struggle without and within—that’s what matters. They make me happy, even as they shatter me.

Other things give me joy.

- - -

I’m joyful when I see good people living their dreams.

Jeremy Powers is one of those people.

When I shared time with him last fall, J-Pow said something to me that stuck. It stuck hard, and it stuck fast, and it’s with me every day.

I was in the middle of my decision process. I was between hospital travels, and I was struggling. I briefed him on my situation, and when I finished outlining my process he nodded and said. “Exactly. You make your decision, and you live it.”

He said it with emphasis and enthusiasm, with an engaging smile. He radiated optimism.

“…and you live it.”

He was talking about committing to a path. About not looking back. About Living.

Not living. ..Living.

He was the right person at the right time to deliver a message I needed to hear.

- - -

I'm posting this from Austin, TX; I'm here to see the U.S. Cyclocross National Championships.

It was a hospital promise to me.

I made that promise. To me. A pinky promise.

And that promise was a touchstone through this long recovery year.

It got me out of some deep, deep holes.

And here I am.

Goddamn it. HERE I AM!

I still have nightmares.

But I'm not dead yet.

I’ve made my decision; I plan on living.

So should you.

What will be will be what will be.

I’ve got this.

Starting Over (...Again)

Quickened breath. Butterfly heart. I walk in DC streets.

The light won't change. Come on. Change!

Cross. Hop curb. Grasp handle. Open door. Breathe.

Oh, that stench. It hits me. They gym's earthy-chemical melange. It smells good.

Some things never change.

- - -

People tell me I look great! They like my hair...my emerging beard...they see life in my eyes.

But they don't see what's within. That's mine.

I plunge. The water shocks me. Cold. Core-cold.

Shivering, I stretch out, reaching. Fluid floating—I'm buoyant! I smile. For a second. Then I bite down, grimacing. Float = fat. I'm fat. It's not aesthetics; it's practical. My legs used to be muscle; they sank like stones. Now they float. I have much work to do.

Underwater creaking. Popping. Sharp edges in my joints.

Sinews protest. Long-forgotten movements...motions...odd, yet, familiar. Muscle memory. I start to flow.

But, it hurts.

- - -

This can end at any time.

I know.

No. Not that. You can *stop* at any time."

Yes. THAT. And I KNOW I can stop.

So...stop. No one's watching. No one will know. No one cares.

Fuck you.

- - -

I sputter. Chlorine burns my nose, my throat, my eyes. My shoulder screams. My knee stabs. I'm struggling.

And so it goes...

You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and in the manner in which you live.
—Stuart Scott

If you've been reading this blog for any amount of time, you know I've been searching and struggling and surviving and finding my place. I'm becoming. I'm finding balance.

There are things I want to do and places I want to go and people I want to meet. Yes, I have a bucket list.

It's very long.

When my body hurts, these things keep me going. Some may not seem bucket-list worthy. But, it's my list, not yours.

• I will ride my fatty in the 2015 Patapsco 100. I will do better than in 2014.
  
• I will ride both days of Pelotonia 2015.
• I will race cyclocross in 2015. See you at DCCX, Schooley Mill, and Rockburn!
• I will ride from DC to Columbus, and then ride all of Pelotonia 2016. Because. Dammit.
• I will cross the bay by water. In 2016.
• I will earn my ink. By 2018...before I am 50.
• I will earn my brick.
• I will race across the sky.
• I will see America...by bike.

There will be hard days.

Some things never change.

The long journey has begun.

I have a long way to go. I cannot do it alone. I will lean on you for support. For guidance. To learn. To recover.

What will be will be what will be.
I've got this.

Nightmare

Today I awoke mid-nightmare.

Fourteen hours later, it is still with me. Crystal. Tangible.

The rough hospital sheets chafed my shoulder and I bent-double in bed. 

I was burying myself, pressing against coarse muslin pushing into plastic mattress. Tangled IV hoses wrapped around my arms, sheets entwined my legs, and chest catheter tubes pressed against my ribs, bruising me.

Urine. Vomit. Blood aroma. 

Door opened, screaming bright light. Starched bowling-ball nurse waddled in, torture-tray in hand. Nurse’s cap perched askew—like her eyes.

I hate those eyes. Toothy smile; dead eyes.

I stare into and beyond her eyes, into the light behind her. Shooting pain. I throw my tangled hands into my face, heels pressing my eyes. Pushing the pain.

No!

I open my eyes to scream…

And he’s standing there.

Quiet smile. Calm, bespectacled eyes. Hands casually thrust into white coat pockets. My oncologist from New York. 

“Why?” I howl. “What is happening to me?”

He tuts.

“You know,” he says, knowingly.

“What!” I demand. It’s not a question.

“I told you this might happen, and if it did, I warned you…”

He glanced at the nurse, calmly. Almost with grace. He nodded.

She turned to her tray. She turned to me, greenish-blue fluid in her syringe. An enormous syringe.

BWAP-BWAP-BWAP-BWAP

The alarm shattered my dream.

Thank gods.

- - -

Yesterday I awoke and the world was…weird.

I could smell everything. Strongly.

I was so sensitive; I could smell the fan on my laptop. My wool socks. Otherpeoplesmells assaulted me. Olfactory tinnitus. Someone had cranked the volume—for my nose.

And when you smell everything, you taste everything.

Incipient nausea. All day.

Someone said that it sounded like I was pregnant. Hormone changes. Something...

That would explain my pot belly...

And I couldn’t feel my feet.

Everything in front of the ankle was puffy, post-Novocain insensibility. So, when I walked, I fought nausea as I stumbled hither and thither.

Pregnant, bewildered, I stumbled through the day.

And then I got sick.

So, I went to bed.

(You already know how I woke up.)

- - -

A year ago I was so debased I couldn’t roll over in my hospital bed. I willed myself through it.

Today I was in a weight room. Building. Slowly.

So, I guess I’m living the dream, right?

Right?

- - -

What will be will be what will be.

I’ve got this.

Holiday Reminder

Everyone:

It's the holiday season. So very much happens. Most of it seems to be out of our control. It's confusing, this maddening madness.

And most of it is a complete waste of energy.

I did not participate much last year. I was "otherwise occupied". I remember little of last December. And what I do remember...well, I prefer to not dwell.

This year, I recognize how blessed I am to to have wonderful people around me; and I realize how little of what swirls around us this month matters.

Many people I know are overcome by real situations--not manufactured ones. And I empathize with their situations, and I wish there was something I could do to help in a meaningful way.

And I have learned that one of the greatest gifts we give to one another is...ourselves.

So, pick up the phone. Type a quick note. Leave a quick message that says: "I was thinking of you, and I wanted you to know." Or, get crazy, and say: "I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate you."

You might make someone's day.

You certainly will bring out a smile.

And it won't cost you a thing.

You've got this.

The Passing of Daniel Vokhgelt

I didn't know him.

This isn't an obituary. I don't have any direct connection. Besides, this obituary is beautiful.

May we all leave such a loving legacy when we depart this world.

- - -

Singularly-focused, cancer is...elegant. Tragically so. It feeds. It grows. Abnormal cells divide without control, invading. Cancer corrupts. It thrives as it destroys. It's a suicidal assassin—dying with its host. The perfect end for a perfect killer.

Cancer knows no borders, no boundaries, it respects nothing. It's a ruthless, opportunistic predator—silent and cold.

As patients we "fight" it; we "battle". Supporters nobilify our struggle, honoring us for our suffering.

Should we win our battle, we are declared "survivors".

Should we lose, we're dead.

But, do we ever really win?

How do you fight a force of nature?

- - -

I'm a survivor. Twice-over.

But, I'm still fighting cancer.

You see, I haven't won anything.

Cancer is bigger than me. It's always there. It always will be.

The soul of cancer is in me. And that is a blessing.

- - -

How do you fight something bigger than you?

One battle at a time.

- - -

Daniel did not lose his fight. He didn't lose his will. Daniel died.

The disease was too much. It was elegant, ruthless...lethal.

It did what it does.

- - -

Cancer is bigger than me. It's always there. It always will be.

Cancer is bigger than you, too.

Right now, cancer is bigger than all of us.

That must change.

In the wake of Daniel's life, the question is not: "what have we lost?"

The question is: "how will we live?"

How will you live?

Cancer is bigger than you. It's always there. It always will be.

We can change that.

What will be will be what will be.
We've got this.