The moments

I have the good fortune of being able to run through a country side filled with horse ranches. I love watching these beautiful animals in fields along the route. Usually they ignore me, and sometimes they stare; but recently two of them decided to join me. They galloped down to the fence, and raced alongside me, before sprinting ahead. Within a few hundred metres, however, they were forced to stop, because of another fence. As I passed them standing there, I could see by the look in their eyes how much they wanted to keep going.  Horses get it.

I’ll never forget that moment.

It was stage 5 of the Gobi March, which was an 80km day, and the fact I’d already covered the distance of a marathon was of little consolation. The intense heat of the Turpan Basin (also known in China as “the oven”) was causing some serious nausea. I had just thrown up for the second time in the past 20 minutes and was beginning to worry about hydration. Worse, it was making it tough to spot the small pink flags marking the route through this unforgiving desert terrain and I had to back-track on more than one occasion.  I needed to get out of this stuff and needed to do it soon.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, I stumbled out of the heavy, flour like sand and onto a single lane gravel road. This meant I was less than 8km from the 55km checkpoint, but the surface heat was well into the 50’s (Celsius) and I could feel my swollen feet beginning to cook. As I shuffled down the road, cursing the sun, I approached a large group of local men who were watching me like I was the strangest thing they had ever seen. Despite how I felt—and I’m sure looked—all I could do was smile at their reaction, which then made them smile and laugh, too. Before I knew it they had coaxed me in amongst them by insisting (through gestures) that I eat some fresh cantaloupe they had. How could I say no?  So I made the sacrifice and agreed, then proceeded to devour the fruit as fast as it was handed to me. Suffice to say, it was the best cantaloupe the world has ever known. 

I’ll never forget that moment.

Yesterday was my 38^th birthday. Tomorrow I’ll be getting blood work for my three-month oncologist appointment next week. My mom is winding down her chemotherapy treatments and soon she’ll have surgery to remove the tumour. 

In THIS moment, as I’m typing, foremost on my thoughts is the importance of living in the here and now. As much as I love reflecting on wonderful memories, and about the amazing things I have planned for the future, I can’t forget about the present. Time, my friends, is a non-renewable resource and we are all way more precious than we realize.

I hope I never forget this moment. 

Hope, Belief, and Perspective

Last week I had my chemo-port removed, because my latest CT scan showed “favourable” results.  As much as I’d love to wax poetic about my existential journey into the deepest corners of my soul, I’m in a much more “matter of fact” kind of mood. Starting with these three:

1. I HATE cancer.
2. It takes everything in my power to try and channel that energy into something positive.
3. Running is my outlet.

My Belief about Perspective

As I’ve said before, cancer—or any adversity—can put things into perspective in a hurry. But life is an ongoing education and I’m also learning to put “perspective” into its proper perspective. You follow me?

Allow me to explain what I mean.

Imagine I’m standing directly in front of you holding up an ordinary medium-sized box. Printed on the front of it in large bold writing is the word “CANCER.” At first it’s the only word visible, because you’re looking at the box head on. Then you take a couple of steps to the left. Because of your new view point you can now see another side of the box and notice the words “POOR ME.” Finally, you take four or five steps back to the right so you can see along the opposite side, from here you spot the words “NEVER QUIT.” It’s still the same box, with the same word on the front, but just by moving your feet—a different perspective—it has changed dramatically.

And really, it’s that simple. If we keep our feet and our minds moving it allows us to change our perspective on anything at any time.

I personally believe that human consciousness is the most powerful tool on earth. And because we possess this ability to control our thoughts—and in turn, our actions—there is nothing stopping us from doing anything. Yet, I also think that we often lack the most important belief; the one in ourselves. Notwithstanding the external factors and/or influences of why we may have self-doubt in the first place, ultimately it is still a choice—OUR choice. We can’t control what others think or do—as much as we may like to—but we CAN control what we think and do.

My Belief about Hope

Let’s assume you’re a runner (I really HOPE you are) and have an upcoming race. You’ve trained hard and physically you’re ready. As the day approaches I say to you “I hope things go well.” Standing next to you is your training partner, also entered in the race. They’ve done the exact same training as you and to them I say “I believe you’ll do well.” Is there a difference? I think hope, no matter how noble the intentions, implies some level of uncertainty, whereas belief is concrete—absolute.

Don’t get me wrong, hope can be a wonderful thing. For example: I really HOPE cancer doesn’t resurface; and I’m hopeful THOUSANDS of people will read this blog. But those are things beyond my control. When it comes to my own mindset I prefer belief. I BELIEVE with all of my heart that I’ll go to the Gobi desert, run my race and finish well. I just hope it doesn’t get too hot and I don’t get bitten by a snake!

And that’s my perspective on hope and belief. For now at least; because my feet and mind are still moving so it could change at any time.

I’d like to leave you with something I recently read:

When I was a young man, I wanted to change the world.  I found it was difficult to change the world, so I tried to change my nation.  When I found I couldn't change the nation, I began to focus on my town.  I couldn't change the town and as an older man, I tried to change my family.  Now, as an old man, I realize the only thing I can change is myself, and suddenly I realize that if long ago I had changed myself, I could have made an impact on my family.  My family and I could have made an impact on our town.  Their impact could have changed the nation and I could indeed have changed the world. ~author unknown



The chemo-port that was in my chest. I asked to keep it as a souvenir.





Lessons in living: One person's battle with cancer

I wrote this back in the summer for beingwell magazine, but it was just posted to the Cancer Society "fight back" website.

Some words can conjure up an array of powerful imagery and frightening thoughts, if we allow them to. One fearful word can beget the next until our minds play out the worst possible scenario: Cancer, major surgery, chemotherapy, death.

But, used effectively, words can also be a source of inspiration and strength: cancer, adversity, character defining, perseverance, victory.

Really, it’s all a matter of perspective.

Still, sitting in the cancer clinic at Southlake Regional Health Centre listening to the constant drip of my chemotherapy cocktail and the hum of the IV machine, I struggle to concentrate on the second set of words rather than the first. And I can’t help but wonder when I look around at the other people receiving treatment what’s going through their minds.

There’s a bond between those of us having to go through chemo and although it’s an unspoken one — in fact, I barely speak at all while in the chair — I can certainly feel it.

So I find myself trying to read their faces and analyze their body language in the hope they may give me some perspective on what words they’re choosing to listen to.

As tough as the physical aspect of cancer treatment is, the mental battle may be even worse. And this year has been a war for me.

When 2010 began, things were going very well for me and I honestly had no idea what was looming on the horizon. I was preparing to run another half-marathon and my personal training business was busy. I felt incredibly healthy and optimistic about what the New Year would bring.

But a couple weeks later my world was rocked. At 36, I was staring at my own mortality.

It was fate that brought me to the doctor’s office.

While volunteering with the Canadian Cancer Society, I had the opportunity to spend time listening to some moving stories of cancer survivors.

Almost without exception, they expressed regret over not having seen their doctor earlier, when they first noticed changes in their health.

Even though I was experiencing only mild symptoms, certainly nothing that was affecting my life in any way or would make me think cancer likely, I decided, as the cliché goes, it was better to be safe than sorry.

A good lesson: If I’d waited until the symptoms were becoming problematic, it would have most likely been too late.

When you hear the phrase colon cancer, you forget the embarrassment — or what seemed like that at the time — of having a colonoscopy.

Another lesson: How quickly pride can change to humility.

The next few weeks, my schedule was filled with a dizzying number of appointments at the hospital, for CT scans and MRIs, blood work and ultrasounds.

After receiving the wonderful news the cancer hadn’t metastasized to any major organs, I underwent surgery on Feb. 3 to have a section of my large intestine and a number of lymph nodes removed.

After a four-and-a-half-hour surgery, I spent the better part of the next five days in a hospital bed. I took an occasional gruelling walk up and down the hall; it felt like I was climbing a mountain.

In retrospect, the post-surgery recovery was the most humbling part of this whole process for me, perhaps the most humbling period of my entire life.

I had always been super-active and had worked for more than a decade as a personal trainer but during recovery, I was almost entirely dependent upon the care of the medical staff at the hospital. I couldn’t even roll over without their help.

The following weeks at home weren’t much easier. Even if I had wanted to disobey the medical staff by working out, I don’t think my body would have been capable. What I’m left with from the experience is a sizable scar, a shorter intestine and the lifelong memory of complete and utter weakness in my body.

A third lesson: We discover much about ourselves when we are at our most vulnerable.

Following surgery, I learned the cancer had spread to at least one lymph node and I would need chemotherapy.

As disappointing as the news was, it didn’t come as a total shock. My surgeon had been forthright with me from day one and I knew it was a distinct possibility.

I also learned Lesson 4: Self-pity only drains away energy that should be used to fight the good fight.

In the third week of March, I began the next chapter in the book I call Jim Kicks the Hell Out of Cancer. (Maybe the title gives away the ending a bit, but I’m not much of a suspense writer and it helps me stay optimistic.)

I won’t lie and say it has been easy. The nausea is horrible and carrying a chemo pump in my pocket is no fun. But I see the way it can wipe some people out, so I think I’ve got it pretty good.

I’m grateful there has been no travel for me through any of this. With the number of trips to the hospital I’ve made, it’s hard to imagine driving 50 km or more each time instead of the 4 km I do.

So here I am, part way through my 12 chemo treatments, spending hours and hours at the hospital, writing, watching and thinking.

One word has dominated my thoughts: Life. I’m only just beginning to grasp its magnitude. What does it mean to you? In the end, it doesn’t amount to anything but a word if you don’t act upon it and make the most of yours.

This is perhaps the most important lesson I’ve learned: Life is not about the things that happen to you, it’s about the things that you make happen.

Cancer has changed my outlook and my priorities and I’ve grown in many positive ways as a result. But cancer doesn’t define who you are as a person. Seven-inch scars on your body don’t speak to the type of character you possess. Six months of chemotherapy can’t show people what your values are. But how you deal with and respond to adversity tells the world everything about you.

So when my treatment is finished, will I go back to training to run half-marathons? Absolutely not — that would be too easy! It’s time to move onto bigger challenges, such as ultra-marathons. Compared to past several months, running 80 plus km will seem like a leisurely stroll.

Running for my life

This is an article I wrote for the June 2010 issue of iRun magazine:

How many experiences in our lives can be classified as monumental enough to be destiny shifting - the kind of moments that are so powerful, they can move us all the way to the foundation of our core values? And if or when one of these events happens to you will you view it as hardship and misfortune…or perceive it as opportunity?

When 2010 began, the most pressing challenge facing me, or so I thought, was how to schedule the necessary runs to ensure hitting my 1:30 half-marathon goal in March. But as noted, life has the ability to humble you beyond belief at any point in time, and just a few weeks into the year my world was irrevocably rocked. At 36, I was staring in the face of - what I assumed would be decades away - my own mortality.

YOU REALLY, REALLY NEED TO GO FOR A RUN

It’s too bad it often takes something life threatening to give us a glimpse of divine insight. And I’d like to say I’m different, but obviously not, because like many before me, my proverbial eyes were opened in a doctor’s office. When you’re diagnosed with cancer - in my case, a large intestinal tumour - two things immediately happen to you. The first of which is nothing; literally. You simply go blank, as if everything you thought you knew has come to a screeching halt. And second, the instant things do begin to move again, it’s with a mind jarring explosion of emotions; fear, anger, disgust, and in this case, surprise - a lot of surprise.

Yet, this isn’t a story of my emotional battle with and/or triumph over cancer, which at this point is still a daily struggle; it's about one very simple realization. Because, although there were a barrage of voices bellowing in my head after the news, there was one yelling louder than all the rest; and it was saying “you really, really need to go for a run.”

THE POWER TO HEAL AND STRENGTHEN

Like an addict needing a fix, I did need to run, and the next day had possibly the best of my life. Hopefully you’ve been fortunate enough to enjoy one of these surreal episodes and can relate. As I moved along - or more appropriate, glided - my body, my whole being, was in a higher state of awareness. Everything felt fantastic, connected, perfectly synchronized. The air going in and out of my lungs, my heart as it pumped in my chest, the rhythm of my feet hitting the ground, the feel of the wind on my face... It’s possible I could have gone on like that forever.

I used the run. Milked it for all I could, from its therapeutic effect, to its power to heal and strengthen. After all, it’s what we do, we use our runs to remedy all manner of ailment; it’s part of the allure and magic of our beautiful and peculiar obsession. And just three days later that notion was reinforced to me by a woman taking the 10k clinic I’d been teaching. I’ll never forget - as we jogged through the night, snow falling around us - how she shared with me her journey into the world of running. She explained how last year she was diagnosed with thyroid cancer, and after the initial shock wore off, felt absolutely compelled to prove her resolve, if only to herself. Now, here was a woman with zero running background, yet decided to go out and train for a half-marathon. And she met her goal too, at the Scotiabank Waterfront Half-Marathon in Toronto last September.

THIS IS WHO I AM; AND THIS IS MY OPPORTUNITY

As I listened to her that evening, I really got it; it was perfect logic that likely only a fellow runner could comprehend. The truth is we are all motivated to do this for something, some internal force. And that connects every one of us. Think about it, when you see another runner what do you do? Even if you’re in the car and they’re ambling along the road side, you look. You look, because in that single glance you understand why they do it and you understand them.

Which means you also understand me, and in turn, my realization. It’s not about the things that happen to you, it’s about the things you make happen. Just like cancer doesn’t define who you are as a person. Seven-inch scars on your body don’t speak to the type of character you possess. Six months of chemotherapy can’t show people what your values consist of. But how you deal with and respond to adversity, says everything about you. And my personal response to cancer: a marathon when I’m done chemo treatments in the fall, and an ultra marathon next spring. That is who I am; and this is my opportunity.