Still Running from Cancer

It’s been a few weeks since I finished the Atacama Crossing so this post is obviously overdue. 

But I wanted to wait, because in many respects I hadn't quite finished the journey yet.

The day before I left to fly out to Chile I met with my Oncologist. She said that there were some concerns about a recent blood test I’d done and the results showed that my CEA levels—one of their cancer markers—had risen pretty dramatically. She suggested that it could be an indication that cancer had returned. Mostly it meant I needed to go through more testing, including a PET scan, as soon as possible so we could know for sure.

I’m not going to lie… I was pretty freaked out… Maybe even VERY freaked out. I walked out of the cancer clinic riding an emotional roller coaster; my mind was all over the place. And for a few seconds I actually thought about not going to Chile.

But I did what I've so often done in my life; I put on my “stubborn” hat. I decided the freaking scan could wait until I got home, because I had 250km of desert to cross! In the grand scheme of things, waiting another few weeks for testing probably wouldn't make too much difference—and luckily the doctor agreed with me.

So off I went. Uncertain about what I was heading into, and even more uncertain about what was in store for me when I got home. One thing I did know, however, was that a week in the desert would sort out my head, and put things into perspective, one way or another.

The Atacama Desert is easily one of the most remarkable places on earth. It is beautifully rugged, almost to the point of being surreal. Trying to explain what it’s like to run across it is a bit anti-climatic, and doesn't give it the justice it deserves. But I will say the combination of endless coral-like salt flats, sand dunes, river cannons, and other general ass-kicking terrain, made for one of the most challenging adventures of my life.

I just tried to soak it all in. Day one of the race was a quick but brutal reminder of exactly that... Slow the hell down and take a look around you!  The altitude, the landscape, and what was weighing on my mind the most—do I have cancer again?—made my 8kg backpack feel like it weighed a hundred times more.

That’s exactly what I did. I slowed down, took some time to look around, to think, to breathe, and to enjoy the moment. It was the right decision. What I experienced from then on was absolutely beautiful, fulfilling, and life altering.

It also helped that the other competitors were amazing—and they inspired me every day. The race organizers, doctors and volunteers were so encouraging and helpful. These events are made that much more special by the people involved. And I did form a very special bond with the people in my tent. They helped me in a way that I don’t think I’ll even be able to fully thank them for—they were exactly what my soul needed. In particular my friend Matt—we met in the Gobi Desert back in 2011—because we spent so much time out on the course together; including almost the entire long stage (76km). It’s a day I’ll never forget, because it was so therapeutic for me. At that point in time it was probably the most beneficial place on earth I could be.

And believe it or not, by the end of the race I was actually feeling stronger and better than I had at the start. My mind was in a much better place, and I’d decided that I was ready for whatever life wanted to throw at me.

But then I got home.

I think there’s often a letdown after adventures of this nature. You invest so much time and energy into them and when it’s over, after the adrenaline high wears off, there’s almost a sense of loss. It’s a bitter sweet feeling.

Plus, I had other things to worry about. Like a PET scan. The scan itself is not a big deal; it just means not eating for a few hours and another trip to a hospital. The worst part is waiting for the results, which take another week to get.

So that’s where I was this morning... Meeting with my Oncologist again—to get the results from last week’s scan.

The first words out of her mouth were… “There’s no sign of cancer.”

THERE’S NO SIGN OF CANCER!!

I still have to do some a bit more testing over the next few weeks just to be sure. And I’ll have to visit her again sooner than planned, but it’s the best news I could have received today. I'm happy, I'm relieved, and I'm grateful.

And I finally feel like my Atacama Crossing 2013 is over.

Photos from Racing the Planet
by Shaun Boyte

Peeing My Pants and The Meaning of Life

Once upon a time I laughed so hard that I peed my pants. True story.

And in retrospect it taught me everything I’d need to know about life. It just took me three decades—because I was nine at the time—to realize I should share it with others.

My childhood was filled with the kind of lessons you can’t learn in school. The ones taught through real life, social economic education. We were dirt poor, and it was a daily struggle for us. We were often without power, heat, or food. By the time I was 12, and the house we were living in burned to the ground (luckily we weren’t in it, but my dog wasn’t so fortunate), I knew perfectly well how to deal with challenge... You just keep going.

My mom worked her butt off, in low paying jobs, to support me and my two siblings, but she was often on her own. My dad had a brain aneurysm when I was six, where he spent a while in a comma, and people said he was never the same after. He was a bit of a gypsy, coming and going, repeatedly in trouble with the law and occasionally incarcerated. And later on, despite how much I rebelled and got into trouble—which was far too often—I rationalized it by thinking I’d still never be worse than the old-man.

As I grew up I believed it was because of the adversity I’d become stronger—and made it out. But I’ve since concluded it was what others taught me during those struggles that really made the difference.

And that is no more evident than the time I wet my pants from laughter.

I was in the back seat of the car, my dad was driving and we were on route to my hockey game. That alone was cause for celebration, but the best part was that two of my teammates were sitting beside me. I was beyond ecstatic. And before we got to the arena the laughter flowed until, unfortunately, the urine did too.

I was mortified. I didn’t say anything, and at the rink I refused to get out of the car. My friends, who apparently hadn’t noticed, just looked at me. My dad figured something was up so took them in and passed them off to the coach. When he came back I finally broke down and told him.

This is the point where things could have unfolded in a number of ways. He could have been mad at me for potentially ruining the cloth seats. And he could have tried to make me go inside and play the game anyway—where my team would have figured out my shame. That could be pretty devastating stuff for a nine year old kid.

But he didn’t do any those things. Instead he kind of smiled and said something about how things like this happen in life. Then he got in the car, drove us the 15 minutes home so I could change clothes, and drove me back to the hockey game. We arrived just in time for the start. No one ever knew; he kept it to himself. And I don’t recall the outcome of the game, but I’ll always remember how good it felt to step on the ice that day.

What I learned from that has been part of who I am since.

One minute we can be laughing at the top of our lungs, thinking life can’t get any better. Then, the next minute, we can be sitting in a puddle of our own urine, utterly humiliated, thinking life can’t get any worse. But if we don’t let ourselves get bogged down during the hard times, then we can be up and playing hockey a half-hour later.

And that’s all life is for any of us. Good times. Tough times... And perspective.

What many people see in me as optimism is maybe just an inherent persistence—a stubbornness to never give in to adversity. Because I know that life isn’t always fair; but we can still have an amazing one. I know that life will knock you down; but you can decide to get back up. My folks taught me that. And it’s helped me get through cancer and every other thing I’ve dealt with.