Literally Running for Survivial
It's been a while since I posted and one of these days I hope to get a moment to write a real post, but in the meantime, please read and respond to this very important message from a fellow Survival Shuffler, Cathy Troisi, who I met at the Grand Island Marathon in July.
Cathy's daughter, also a runner, was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2005 and is currently fighting a metastatization of the cancer in her liver. Cathy will be running the Boston Marathon for the benefit of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and is gathering support from the running community. If you can help support her, please do so. If you can't make a financial contribution at this time, please at least read her daughter's story, pray for Cathy, her daughter, and her family, and remember that colon cancer can strike even the young.
December 17, 2006
My daughter set the foundation for my running career in 1991. Initially I balked but relented to her persistence mid-year 1994. As a runner since her sophomore year in high school, she prefers the 5k distance (3.1 miles). She’s more interested in speed. I’m more interested in the marathon distance (26.2 miles) with focus on endurance. It helps me rationalize my lack of speed.
One year, one week, three days ago my daughter completed six months of chemotherapy for stage 3C colon cancer. She was diagnosed at age 35, well below the traditional medically accepted and recommended age of 50 to schedule a colonoscopy.
She’s looking good, her chemo-thinned hair replenished to its normally thick mane. Usually make-up free, she has a smooth complexion, once again highlighted by naturally pink cheeks. Her eyes, shiny and bright, radiate a healthful look. Knowing I’d understand she enthusiastically told me this morning, "I feel good. I’m running three times a week, three to four miles, eight minute miles." She continued, "I feel like a well-oiled machine, fluid and fast."
Eight minute miles! I’m impressed. Even if she hadn’t had an advanced stage of cancer, surgery, and 648 hours of chemo, I’d still be impressed. Her dust would have settled by the time I got to where she’d been! She proved that October 6, 2006 at the Albany Race For The Cure. With her two and a half year old son (weighing a hefty 38 pounds) in a jogging stroller, she pushed him the full 3.1 miles. I lost sight of her in the first half mile. She clocked a 31 minute finishing time. I finished in....well, let’s just say she could have run another one and a half miles while waiting for me to finish.
December 27, 2006
I returned to Albany to babysit my grandchildren during my daughter’s next day medical appointment to determine a course of action for the split muscle (behind her twelve inch surgical incision) and the consequential hernia. In an effort to keep the holiday spirit merry and bright, she only now shared the real reason for tomorrow’s appointment: the split muscle and hernia have been relegated to the back burner, replaced by the need for a liver biopsy. Instantly I’m paralyzed. With a self-imposed mantra of "breathe, don’t cry, breathe, don’t cry, breathe, don’t cry, breathe," I listened as she related the report from her December 18, 2006 appointment. The December 14th scan showed five tumors, each 2 cm, have invaded her liver. Her scan six months ago was clean. My mantra continues, "Breathe, don’t cry."
I did breathe. I didn’t cry. At least not until the household was settled for the night. Through those hours I cried and sobbed quietly into a continuous pull of kleenex tissues. I fell asleep crying and later awoke to the sensation of one lone tear trickling down my cheek.
December 28, 2006
Although my daughter’s husband is a successful attorney, he was unsuccessful in convincing the arbitrator and opposing attorney to cancel this day’s trial to allow him to accompany her to the biopsy. Which is how and why I’m in the room with her as she’s prepped. I haven’t yet been asked to go to the waiting room. Two male and two female "white coats" attend to various details, including the ultrasound. I wonder if they’ve forgotten my presence since no one has asked me to leave. Main "white coat" enters. More activity. Finally the words. They haven’t forgotten me. Main "white coat" speaks, "You’re welcome to stay if you want." Expecting to hear, "You’ll have to leave now," it took me a moment to process these words to the contrary. A few minutes earlier, expecting a momentary dismissal, my daughter and I shared our tears, our "I love you" and I steeled myself to exit my daughter’s bedside. I had expected to leave my only child in this impersonal room full of strangers whom we hoped had the most advanced medical knowledge and victim to medical equipment I’d only seen on Grey’s Anatomy. Now I’m told I’m welcome to stay if I want. I’m her mother, of course I want. Yet I offer, "Whatever she’s comfortable with." My daughter immediately counters, "Whatever you’re comfortable with. You’re the one afraid of needles." Very true, but my immediate retort, "Only when they’re directed at me," brings a chuckle from the "white coats." Main "white coat" responds, "Only one patient per room." Then a kind, soft-spoken "white coat" instructs me, "Bring you chair right up to her feet. It’s ok to touch her." Immediately, from my purse, I take out a photo of my daughter with her arms wrapped around her five year old daughter and soon to be three year old son. I captured that Kodak moment ten days earlier. I hold it up for her to see and then rest it against her feet. I put my hand gently on her foot, hopefully with enough pressure for her to feel my touch through the traditional hospital footwear, the tan footsie socks with skid proof soles.
Although the procedure is painful, she is unable to be under full anesthesia. It’s possible she’d be asked to breathe deeply or move her arm a certain way in order for main "white coat" to reach the affected areas of her liver. The room is quiet as he explains the procedure in detail, prepares her for the pressure and pain she will feel. I glimpse the needle. My maternal instinct is in overdrive, and although I’m grateful not to have been relegated to the waiting room, I also am unable to watch as he inflicts pain on my daughter. I maintain my hand contact with her foot, bend over and lower my head. I hear main "white coat" as he speaks gently to her. I note the room is silent except for his words. I know there is pain. I feel it. Not only as a mother feels mental and emotional pain for her child, but I feel her pain as her feet involuntarily flex against it. Now the only sound is the "click," five times over as a sample is taken from each tumor. Each click seemingly echoes in the quiet room. I watch as my silent tears puddle at my feet. On the fifth and final click, I breathe.
January 2, 2007
Although two active and precocious grandchildren kept me busy this morning, I found myself constantly clock-watching and listened above their din for the car to come up the driveway. I waited anxiously for my daughter and her husband to return from her follow-up appointment after last week’s biopsy. I hoped for a different outcome but was prepared as much as was possible to hear her tell me she would again have chemo. I forgot my mantra. I cried. Same routine as she had in 2005: 54 hours per treatment every other week for at least six months, probably a year. At some point another scan will be done to determine adjustments and/or further course of treatment, as necessary. Boston’s Dana-Farber Cancer Institute was consulted and there is agreement across states as to her treatment.
January 19, 2007
As I write this, my daughter has had her second treatment. She’s also had permission from her oncologist to continue running. Which she had planned to do anyway. I won’t be running with her; I can’t keep up. But I will be running for her in the Boston Marathon, as a member of the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge team, on April 16, 2007. My challenge is to run 26.2 miles. Dana-Farber’s challenge is in their on-going efforts "dedicated to discovery, committed to care" in the continuous battle against cancer. My daughter’s challenge is to once again wage battle against this insidious disease. Please keep her as close to the top of your prayer list as possible.
*Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, a teaching affiliate of Harvard Medical School, is ranked by the National Cancer Institute as one of the world’s premier cancer centers for its research and improved treatments of cancer.
*Your support of my Dana-Farber Boston Marathon will partner us with qualified researchers and medical staff as they continue developing new and better cancer treatments while continuing their quest for a cure.
*100% of your contribution goes directly to the Barr program in cancer research.
*Checks for your tax-deductible contribution are payable to DANA-FARBER MARATHON CHALLENGE.
*Due Date: Friday, April 6, 2007
*If your employer has a matching gift policy, include the completed matching gift form provided by your employer with your contribution.
*If you have family, friends, co-workers who may be interested in contributing, please forward them this information.
*If you have family, friends, co-workers who would benefit from my daughter’s experience with colon cancer, please share her story with them.
*With your support, the efforts of everyone associated with Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge will go beyond the 26.2 miles of the marathon course and marathon day.
*Thank you for your contribution and commitment to Dana-Farber’s efforts through the Marathon Challenge.
Cathy Troisi
11 Anthony Drive, Seneca Falls, NY 13148
Cathy's daughter, also a runner, was diagnosed with colon cancer in 2005 and is currently fighting a metastatization of the cancer in her liver. Cathy will be running the Boston Marathon for the benefit of the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and is gathering support from the running community. If you can help support her, please do so. If you can't make a financial contribution at this time, please at least read her daughter's story, pray for Cathy, her daughter, and her family, and remember that colon cancer can strike even the young.
December 17, 2006
My daughter set the foundation for my running career in 1991. Initially I balked but relented to her persistence mid-year 1994. As a runner since her sophomore year in high school, she prefers the 5k distance (3.1 miles). She’s more interested in speed. I’m more interested in the marathon distance (26.2 miles) with focus on endurance. It helps me rationalize my lack of speed.
One year, one week, three days ago my daughter completed six months of chemotherapy for stage 3C colon cancer. She was diagnosed at age 35, well below the traditional medically accepted and recommended age of 50 to schedule a colonoscopy.
She’s looking good, her chemo-thinned hair replenished to its normally thick mane. Usually make-up free, she has a smooth complexion, once again highlighted by naturally pink cheeks. Her eyes, shiny and bright, radiate a healthful look. Knowing I’d understand she enthusiastically told me this morning, "I feel good. I’m running three times a week, three to four miles, eight minute miles." She continued, "I feel like a well-oiled machine, fluid and fast."
Eight minute miles! I’m impressed. Even if she hadn’t had an advanced stage of cancer, surgery, and 648 hours of chemo, I’d still be impressed. Her dust would have settled by the time I got to where she’d been! She proved that October 6, 2006 at the Albany Race For The Cure. With her two and a half year old son (weighing a hefty 38 pounds) in a jogging stroller, she pushed him the full 3.1 miles. I lost sight of her in the first half mile. She clocked a 31 minute finishing time. I finished in....well, let’s just say she could have run another one and a half miles while waiting for me to finish.
December 27, 2006
I returned to Albany to babysit my grandchildren during my daughter’s next day medical appointment to determine a course of action for the split muscle (behind her twelve inch surgical incision) and the consequential hernia. In an effort to keep the holiday spirit merry and bright, she only now shared the real reason for tomorrow’s appointment: the split muscle and hernia have been relegated to the back burner, replaced by the need for a liver biopsy. Instantly I’m paralyzed. With a self-imposed mantra of "breathe, don’t cry, breathe, don’t cry, breathe, don’t cry, breathe," I listened as she related the report from her December 18, 2006 appointment. The December 14th scan showed five tumors, each 2 cm, have invaded her liver. Her scan six months ago was clean. My mantra continues, "Breathe, don’t cry."
I did breathe. I didn’t cry. At least not until the household was settled for the night. Through those hours I cried and sobbed quietly into a continuous pull of kleenex tissues. I fell asleep crying and later awoke to the sensation of one lone tear trickling down my cheek.
December 28, 2006
Although my daughter’s husband is a successful attorney, he was unsuccessful in convincing the arbitrator and opposing attorney to cancel this day’s trial to allow him to accompany her to the biopsy. Which is how and why I’m in the room with her as she’s prepped. I haven’t yet been asked to go to the waiting room. Two male and two female "white coats" attend to various details, including the ultrasound. I wonder if they’ve forgotten my presence since no one has asked me to leave. Main "white coat" enters. More activity. Finally the words. They haven’t forgotten me. Main "white coat" speaks, "You’re welcome to stay if you want." Expecting to hear, "You’ll have to leave now," it took me a moment to process these words to the contrary. A few minutes earlier, expecting a momentary dismissal, my daughter and I shared our tears, our "I love you" and I steeled myself to exit my daughter’s bedside. I had expected to leave my only child in this impersonal room full of strangers whom we hoped had the most advanced medical knowledge and victim to medical equipment I’d only seen on Grey’s Anatomy. Now I’m told I’m welcome to stay if I want. I’m her mother, of course I want. Yet I offer, "Whatever she’s comfortable with." My daughter immediately counters, "Whatever you’re comfortable with. You’re the one afraid of needles." Very true, but my immediate retort, "Only when they’re directed at me," brings a chuckle from the "white coats." Main "white coat" responds, "Only one patient per room." Then a kind, soft-spoken "white coat" instructs me, "Bring you chair right up to her feet. It’s ok to touch her." Immediately, from my purse, I take out a photo of my daughter with her arms wrapped around her five year old daughter and soon to be three year old son. I captured that Kodak moment ten days earlier. I hold it up for her to see and then rest it against her feet. I put my hand gently on her foot, hopefully with enough pressure for her to feel my touch through the traditional hospital footwear, the tan footsie socks with skid proof soles.
Although the procedure is painful, she is unable to be under full anesthesia. It’s possible she’d be asked to breathe deeply or move her arm a certain way in order for main "white coat" to reach the affected areas of her liver. The room is quiet as he explains the procedure in detail, prepares her for the pressure and pain she will feel. I glimpse the needle. My maternal instinct is in overdrive, and although I’m grateful not to have been relegated to the waiting room, I also am unable to watch as he inflicts pain on my daughter. I maintain my hand contact with her foot, bend over and lower my head. I hear main "white coat" as he speaks gently to her. I note the room is silent except for his words. I know there is pain. I feel it. Not only as a mother feels mental and emotional pain for her child, but I feel her pain as her feet involuntarily flex against it. Now the only sound is the "click," five times over as a sample is taken from each tumor. Each click seemingly echoes in the quiet room. I watch as my silent tears puddle at my feet. On the fifth and final click, I breathe.
January 2, 2007
Although two active and precocious grandchildren kept me busy this morning, I found myself constantly clock-watching and listened above their din for the car to come up the driveway. I waited anxiously for my daughter and her husband to return from her follow-up appointment after last week’s biopsy. I hoped for a different outcome but was prepared as much as was possible to hear her tell me she would again have chemo. I forgot my mantra. I cried. Same routine as she had in 2005: 54 hours per treatment every other week for at least six months, probably a year. At some point another scan will be done to determine adjustments and/or further course of treatment, as necessary. Boston’s Dana-Farber Cancer Institute was consulted and there is agreement across states as to her treatment.
January 19, 2007
As I write this, my daughter has had her second treatment. She’s also had permission from her oncologist to continue running. Which she had planned to do anyway. I won’t be running with her; I can’t keep up. But I will be running for her in the Boston Marathon, as a member of the Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge team, on April 16, 2007. My challenge is to run 26.2 miles. Dana-Farber’s challenge is in their on-going efforts "dedicated to discovery, committed to care" in the continuous battle against cancer. My daughter’s challenge is to once again wage battle against this insidious disease. Please keep her as close to the top of your prayer list as possible.
*Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, a teaching affiliate of Harvard Medical School, is ranked by the National Cancer Institute as one of the world’s premier cancer centers for its research and improved treatments of cancer.
*Your support of my Dana-Farber Boston Marathon will partner us with qualified researchers and medical staff as they continue developing new and better cancer treatments while continuing their quest for a cure.
*100% of your contribution goes directly to the Barr program in cancer research.
*Checks for your tax-deductible contribution are payable to DANA-FARBER MARATHON CHALLENGE.
*Due Date: Friday, April 6, 2007
*If your employer has a matching gift policy, include the completed matching gift form provided by your employer with your contribution.
*If you have family, friends, co-workers who may be interested in contributing, please forward them this information.
*If you have family, friends, co-workers who would benefit from my daughter’s experience with colon cancer, please share her story with them.
*With your support, the efforts of everyone associated with Dana-Farber Cancer Institute and Dana-Farber Marathon Challenge will go beyond the 26.2 miles of the marathon course and marathon day.
*Thank you for your contribution and commitment to Dana-Farber’s efforts through the Marathon Challenge.
Cathy Troisi
11 Anthony Drive, Seneca Falls, NY 13148
posted by Bon @ 2:02 PM
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