#460: What Job Taught Me About Depression

Albrecht Durher: Job on the Dunghill

I've been thinking about Job quite a bit. Not so much out of pity for myself, as much as a desire to make sense of all that I have lost in the last few weeks. Not that there is much sense to be made of it. Part of me believes that it's just a string of really bad events. Coincidence.

Job's story doesn't offer a satisfying explanation of why suffering exists; but it does teach us a way to respond to the pain of existence.

Job stayed faithful. So did God. When life takes everything away, God remains. Paul prayed to have the "thorn in my flesh" removed, and God's answer was, "my grace is sufficient for you." God isn't cruel and unfair: life is. But what God is, and this is a most radical and difficult idea, what God really  is, is faithful. Did God take away my friends? My health? I don't know. But what I do know is that God will not take away the Steadfast Love that is at the heart of the universe. When everything else is lost, God's love remains. If there is a theme that ties all of the Bible together, I think that is it. Life may be confusing and painful, almost unendurable at times. But it is a pain that we can endure because in our darkest hour, when it seems like everything we need or desire has been taken away, God's love remains.

In spite of the healing I feel every day, there are still times when it feels like the only reason it isn't getting worse is that I have nothing left to lose. But that is not true: my purpose remains. There are still people with cancer. People will find comfort and inspiration in the story I have to tell. People need to know that there is abundant life after cancer. People's lives can be better because of what happened to me.

My life's work remains. And where will I find the strength to do that work? It will be where it has always been. Even when I thought it was coming from smiling faces and kind words. My strength comes from God, who will never abandon me, not even in the deepest regions of the shadow lands.

People in the 21st century might find that a pretty foolish thing to believe. Many of the people I love find Job's story to be silly and superstitious. I can live with that. "Religion is for the weak," others will say. I can live with that, too. If this season of darkness has taught me nothing else, it has taught me just how weak I am. Healthy people don't need doctors. Strong people don't need God. Well, I'm not healthy, and I'm not strong. I need God's love to stay alive.

And by God, I'm staying alive.

A famous theologian, Karl Barth was once asked, "what is the most profound religious truth you have ever heard?" His answer was one that could transform the world, if only we would let it:

Jesus loves me, this I know,
For the Bible tells me so,
Little ones to him belong,
They are weak, but he is strong;
Yes, Jesus loves me...
The Bible tells me so.

Peace,
Pennsy

#455: Meta Cycles and Bipolar Disorder

I've been looking backwards a lot, lately. Looking for patterns. How does this disease work? What does it look like? How might I head it off?

I see cycles around 10 years long. These are the times I can remember my severe episodes.

1978 Break up with high school sweetheart
1982 Mono keeps me from national grad school auditions after breakup with second sweetheart

1986 Break up with third sweetheart

1989 Fiance goes on world tour

1996 Death of my Father
1998 Lose my job
2003 Disastrous contact with high school sweetheart
2009 Lose my job

2010 End of cancer treatment
2013 Lose my boss and mentor


Always losses. Big ones. But why these particular ones? We all experience loss every day. What was so special about these? To be sure, there are some biggies in there. Losing a parent. Life threatening illness. Lost jobs and lovers. Lost dreams. What is it that makes me react so powerfully to life's big losses?

Part of me really wants to know what I did wrong. But another part, the runner, the fighter doesn't care about the last episode. I want to know how to delay or prevent the next one. Exercise more? Eat differently? Change my thinking? Change my lifestyle?

The depression after each later breakup was like an echo of the first. I didn't see an event as a failure... I saw it as another failure. Now I see that they are connected. These breakups defined the first 30 years of my life. Too fat. Too poor. Until I met Mrs P, I wasn't sure anyone could ever love me. I was simply an unattractive man. When she went to the Soviet Union and Japan on tour, just months before our wedding, I went into a dark funk. Staying home. Not bathing. Watching TV. Eating Pizza. Gaining weight. It was as if I was sure she wasn't coming home. Certain she would meet someone actually lovable out there in the world and leave me. That fall, after we were married, a long quiet phase began.

My father died 7 years later, in February of 1996. February became an annual downswing for me. These were usually a week or two long, and I rarely anticipated them. I would find myself tired and unmotivated, bored and irritable, and then realize what time of year it was. By the second week of February, Dad's birthday, I would be fine again. But many of the subsequent episodes were colored by that pivotal loss.

The depressions after my job losses in particular were very much about my Dad. He worked hard, often at two or three jobs. He was respected and admired for his ethic and his integrity. Getting fired felt like I was soiling his legacy. As if I were reflecting badly on his life. I even tried contacting my high school flame, as if connecting to my teenage self could re-connect me with Dad. About a year after the second job loss, I was admitted into the mental hospital. There they taught me that I could change my emotions by changing the way I thought about things. I began to change the way I thought about my father. He wasn't a saint. He was a man. A good man, to be sure, but not a perfect one. I didn't have to live up to his standard. I didn't have to become him. And in time the arc of that loss swung to a kind of resolution.

This current episode doesn't have anything to do with a lost lover, though at first, it felt just like that. And it isn't about losing a job, though that was a fear I had at first.  Looking back, I think that the cycle I've been in this spring really began three years ago, when my cancer treatment was finished. The friendly caregivers all went away. Mum went home. Mrs P went back to work. The doctor visits went from once a day to once or twice a month. I was lost. I had no one. No wonder I got depressed. No wonder losing my friend and mentor three years later dredged up so many fears. Fears of death. Fears of life without focus or purpose.

When they told me I didn't have any more cancer, I thought, "Now what? What if I've gone through this and wind up going back to the same miserable man I was before?" I didn't really understand how much I had changed until I met Coach. Losing her was like losing all that, too.

Tonight, I look at my life and find I am either at the end of a very short and intense meta cycle, or else I am in the middle of an issue that will haunt me for years to come. "What if my life has no purpose? What if I die alone, and for nothing?"

Could I have stopped the two previous cycles before they led to misery and hospitalization? I don't know. Probably not. For one thing, I didn't even know I was sick, back then. I wasn't even diagnosed until after my Dad died. By then, my habits were ingrained. It took 5 weeks in the nut house to start breaking them. No I don't know how I could have prevented the first two meta cycles. But I have a plan for cutting this third one short.

This time, things are different. I know what my disease is, and what it does to me. I'm learning how it works. I finally have a good team of mental health pros whom I trust. I have an amazing support system of friends, family, and co-workers who know about my illness and love me anyway. When you are used to hiding something like bipolar mood disorder, you learn to dread what might happen if anyone ever shines a light on it. What I've found is that people keep loving me, even with the disease. And that helps. A lot.

But the biggest difference is that I know that the fear in my depression's core is a lie. 100%. My life does  have a purpose. I am not alone. And I refuse to live for nothing.

This time, I can see the bastard coming. God didn't save my life so I could give it back to fear. I am here to kick fear right back to hell where it belongs.

Will this kind of thinking keep me from swinging back into the shadows again? I can't say. But there's only one way to find out.

Start praying... and start kicking.

Peace,
Pennsy

#444: Why Would Anyone Want to Run a Marathon?

After finishing the
2011 Iron Horse Half...

Why on earth would anybody want to run a marathon? 

... and then in 2012.
What a difference a year makes.

It takes forever to train. It screws up your system. It makes you cry and puke. Sometimes you pee yourself. Sometimes you fall down and bleed into your $15 socks (socks!) And what do you get when you're done? A tee shirt. A goofy medal to hang on the wall. The knowledge that you finished in 26,493rd place in a race that was finished before you were a third of the way done. Nobody in their right mind would do this.

Ahhhh... we're getting warmer.

So what's the problem? What's wrong with a person's mind that prompts them to lace up a pair of shoes that cost more than a prom dress and run 26 miles, 385 yards?

Marathoners aren't satisfied. Getting by isn't enough for us. We want to go farther. The places we've already been just don't fulfill us. We want to to go where we've never been before. No matter what we've achieved or praise we've received, there's still something missing. Marathoners don't want things handed to them. We recognize that life is full of blessings and gifts. The sun and the rain. Feet that can carry us. Friends who support us. But there is something in them that can only feel fulfilled by something they had to go out and earn.

The face of triumph?

Yes, we run because there's something missing inside of us. But we also run because there's something in there that just has to come out. You know that feeling you get when your favorite song comes on and your feet start moving in spite of themselves? Or when you were a little kid and you finally managed to make it to the top of the ladder for your turn to slide down the big slide? Now multiply that by a couple of hundred times, and you'll have an idea of what the starting line of a marathon feels like. When I was waiting at the back of a pack of 37,000 runners to start the Pittsburgh Marathon last year, Mrs P could see my my bib number flipping up and down. It was my heart pounding. I know what stage fright feels like. This wasn't that. I wasn't nervous, I was ready to explode. Poets write because the words and pictures are too strong to keep trapped  inside their hearts. Runners run for the same reason. Every one is different, but every runner has something to say that only a marathon can express.

Where am I? What's my name?
Why can't I feel my legs?

So why does the Fat Man run?

Remember the story of Saul of Tarsus? The guy who came to write over half of the Christian Scriptures and is called St. Paul? Paul was struck blind on the road to Damascus where Jesus gave him his vocation: his calling. Paul became the Apostle to the Gentiles... the witness who testified to the world outside of Israel about the loving power of Christ. I have always identified very strongly with Paul. I am also a witness. I am God's Apostle to the Nation of Survivors. I have been called to serve Christ's gospel of love and endurance and life to the people who know resurrection from the inside out. The suicidal. The addicted. The chronically ill.

I have been called to preach, and the Marathon is my sermon.

Post-race prayers for the Five

Paul's testimony was that nothing could separate us from the love of God. Mine is that nothing, not even death, can separate us from the love of the life that is God's gift to us. I run the Marathon because I want the world to know that nothing... not sickness, not sadness, not disease, not disorder, not shame nor embarrassment nor poverty nor injustice can separate us from living the life God gave us. From serving. From enduring. From achieving. From LIFE.

Life: The gift of God for the
People of God

Cancer can't do it.

Mental illness can't do it.

Losing your job, your savings, your house;

Nothing can keep us from living unless we allow it.

What does it mean to live strong? Not that you always win. Not that you never fail. Not that you are better than other people, or worthy of praise. I know myself better than you do, and I'm less worthy than anyone. But living strong means never ever ever giving up. Living strong means fighting for your life until the very end.

It means living as if there is something more important than comfort and and safety.

Pennsy, Coach Chelsea, and Darlene:
cancer Warriors.

It means living as if "surviving" just isn't enough.

The Marathon is my sermon, and it's message is this. You can achieve your dream. You can be more than the world tells you you can be - more than you can even believe yourself. You are stronger and braver and more inspiring than you have ever imagined and if a suicidal, bipolar, cancer ridden, blood clot filled, failed salesman, small-time actor, big time egotist, 400 pound Fat Man can run a damn Marathon, then you can do the amazing things that you were created to do, too.

Never, ever, ever give up.

That's why the Fat Man runs. Not so people will be inspired to say nice things about him. But so you will be inspired to find the marathoner inside yourself. The one who wants to run. To write, To start a business. To ask for a date. Your marathoner may not ever pin on a bib or grab a paper cup full of lukewarm Gatorade on the run, but you have your own race, and it scares the hell out of you. Let the Fat Man remind you that you can run it. Nothing can stop you from loving. Nothing can stop you from living.

The ones who give up? They all die.

Cancer can kill us, but it can never defeat us... nothing can... if we live strong.

Peace,
Pennsy

#442: Spider On A Thread

The God that holds you over the pit of hell, much as one holds a spider, or some loathsome insect over the fire, abhors you, and is dreadfully provoked: his wrath towards you burns like fire; he looks upon you as worthy of nothing else, but to be cast into the fire; he is of purer eyes than to bear to have you in his sight; you are ten thousand times more abominable in his eyes, than the most hateful venomous serpent is in ours. - Jonathan Edwards "'Have a Nice Day' and Other Sermons for Children (Just kidding. Little Calvinist humor, there. It's actually from Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God. If you are the sort of demented soul who feels the need, you can read the whole Hallmark card here.)


One of the more insulting pieces of good news I've ever received was on a radiology report: "Analysis of the brain shows nothing remarkable." What they meant was that there was nothing bad in there. My oncologist explained that this is a much better comment than: "Imaging of the brain was negative," which means that they looked, but didn't find anything. So sometimes words can conceal positive results.

In the past 30 hours or so, when I've checked my emotional vital signs, the results have been increasingly positive. Reduced tear production. No evidence of chest convulsions, throat contractions, or sobbing. Heart lightening. Creepy-crawlies subsiding. The subject appears to have turned the corner. We are cautiously optimistic.

But still, I'm wary.

Last night, Mrs P reminded me that depression is only half of my diagnosis. My wife the clinical therapist conjured the full name: Type II Bipolar Disorder with Severe Clinical Depression. No wonder it takes so many pills. No wonder I never speak it's name out loud. That is a disorder for a person who is seriously screwed up.

It's not that I hide it, not really. Readers of FMR know that I hide precious little. Much less than any decent person should.  I wouldn't say I'm a Closeted Crazy. But bipolar disorder is the one gremlin in my life that I would just as soon not name. Ever. I remember the first time I read the words, typed into my file at the mental hospital. "Well, son," I whispered to myself, "Looks like you're the Bull-Goose loony in this nut house now." And until they taught me how I could exercise my way back to the light, I pretty much was.

I stay more-or-less stable when the meds and the therapists and the coaches are all working together. People think of me as a little eccentric; a little emotional; loyal; protective; outgoing; you know, a Leo. When things get out of whack - and the whack often comes from sudden, unexpected grief - I can find myself dangling like a spider on a thread in the wind, blown from giddy with optimism to paralyzed with despair in a single gentle gust. A conversation with a friend can put me on top of the world. Burnt toast can lead me to consider suicide. A phrase in a newspaper article. A lick from the dogs. The song of a mockingbird. A paper cut. I don't know of any more helpless feeling than the one you get when you realize that you have no control over yourself or the size of your emotions. Everything is exaggerated. Bipolar disorder means living in hyperbole.The best you can do is remember that depression and manic states are really a set of lies that you tell yourself - they doesn't last for ever - and your only job is to ride them out without hurting yourself or anybody else.

Mixed results, so far. The folks at work have been supportive, without exception - but they are only human. I expect there will be consequences for my two-week disappearance - I know I'll be imagining what they're thinking about me for a while.

I haven't done myself any harm that I can see - other than shaken confidence and the stubborn stains of shame and embarrassment. I kept up with my training. Ate. Slept when I could. Bathed regularly. No boozing, binging, bruising, or burning of bridges. I said my prayers. Gave thanks for my blessings. Asked help for my trials. Kept writing.

Mrs P got the worst of me. She always does. No rage this time. Just angry confusion for both of us about how a husband can get so damn worked up just because his boss goes away. I think Coach was pretty spooked by the whole thing, too. 250 pounds of nervous breakdown is a lot to handle in a tiny office. I'm not sure either of them felt entirely safe alone with me when I was blubbering to them about What Am I Gonna Do? and Please Don't Go and Oh Dear God It Hurts So Much.

Depression is like cancer in that way. It is cruel to carry inside you, but think it's even more cruel to the people who care for you. I wish I had done a better job protecting them, no matter how sick I was.

But, today I'm riding... Not high. Not low. Just sort of cruising along. Had a nice short run today. Seven miles on the treadmill and the Legacy Trail. Smiles and laughter, all appropriate to the conversation. As I'm typing, I feel more human, more like myself than I have in many, many days. If I can keep it up for a week, I'll be able to write about what it's like to finally get over a depressive episode. Today, I'm erring on the side of caution. There are still a lot of vulnerable people around me. And I'm still a bull in their emotional china shops.

Things are good at the moment. But vigilance is needed here. Things can change so quickly for a spider on a thread.

Peace,
Pennsy

Source note: Creepy spider picture stolen from here.

#437: Depression is Emotional Cancer

You need a team. Recovering from a severe depression is a long process.

When they found my cancer, they started by cutting the worst of it out. The surgeon cut away a lot of stuff. But they couldn't be sure they'd gotten it all, so the oncologists went back, first with chemo, then with radiation. If they had stopped after the operating table, I would almost certainly be dead by now.

Depression is emotional cancer, and its cells are the thoughts, the mis-beliefs, the lies that live in your head and try to convince you that you are worthless or evil or stupid or incompetent. That you don't deserve happiness. That you don't deserve to be loved. Your Therapist's job is to help you kill these deadly growths before they take over your mind.

But that's only part of the story. There's also engineering to be done. Plumbing gets blocked. Wires get crossed. The chemistry gets out of whack and somebody has to go in there and troubleshoot all the connections. That's where your Psychiatrist comes in.

His job isn't to shrink your head. It's to bust it open with electric shocks and psych med.s Stuff with scary names like Paxil and Valium and Lamictal and Xanax. I've known people who carried pharmaceutical warehouses in their backpacks - loads of this stuff. It's easy to accumulate, because it's hard to find the right combination. The Psychiatrist's job is almost as much art as science. We try this combo and see if it works. If not, we add a pinch of this, a dose of that, and wait and see. It can take months to get it right. And after a few years, your brain can change on its own, like a virus evolving to overcome a vaccine. Sometimes your meds will just stop working all of a sudden, throwing you into a tailspin that can be as life threatening as any carcinoma.

Brain and Mind. Body and Soul. They are so intimately interwoven that it is absurd to try to describe them separately. How to you describe the difference between what you are and who you are? I have a really good team to help me put myself in order. I'll be visiting them both today. It's going to be a long afternoon.

My Therapist is a sort of Buddhist Evangelical Christian who has amazing listening skills, great compassion, and a deep sense of professionalism. He hears my stories. He gives me homework. He cares. He has talked me down from a few ledges over the years, though never one quite as high or narrow as this one.

I met my Psychiatrist during my stay in the mental hospital, back before I became The Famous Cancer Boy Who Didn't Die. He speaks very softly, and always seems to be seeing just a layer or two deeper than the surface. He also listens to my stories. He asks questions. Then he stares at me quietly, sometimes for an uncomfortable length of time. I once worked with a plumber who would squat down and stare at the empty space where a sink or a water heater or a pool filter was supposed to go. He would stare quietly for a long time, not speaking, not writing anything down. When he was ready, he would walk to his truck and start pulling fittings. Within an hour or so, he could assemble a maze of elbows and joints and valves so complex that I couldn't even follow them with my eye. They fit tight, and they worked. He was just that good.

That's the way my doc looks at me. When he is ready, he pulls out his prescription pad and scribbles something on it. Sometimes he hands it to me. Sometimes he calls it in himself. It's often some stuff that I've never heard of before. And it usually works.

Today, after I see my therapist, I'll be visiting the doc for a tune-up. He hasn't seen me this screwed up in a long time, but working in the hospital, I'm sure he's seen worse. I have two hopes for our meeting today. I hope he doesn't say I have to go back to the nut house. And I hope he can use that x-ray vision of his to find my short circuit on the first try.

You can sometimes just wait out a mild depressive episode. A day under the covers or a walk in the sun can be enough to chase the shadows away and make everything look bright again. But you have to treat the big ones differently. You go into this battle knowing that there won't be a quick solution and the one you do find is liable to hurt like hell. Rigorous honesty can be painful. Once the chemistry is right, you have to start telling yourself the truth, and there aren't many people who can stand that for very long. That's one reason so many people never get better. Sometimes its easier to just live with the pain. That's not a luxury I can afford.

People I love are sick and dying. Every day, it seems. I see their faces when I close my eyes and I feel their prayers when they know I'm hurting. I hear their voices when I run. I have a wife to love. Dogs to feed, Miles to log. Money to raise. Tomorrow, there will be more people diagnosed with cancer. More people in pain. More people afraid. Who need to know there's hope. Who need to share the stories. Who need to live strong.

Last night, I talked to Mrs P about all this. All these people. Especially the fallen ones. I am left alive while good men and women are gone. I feel like I have to justify that somehow. I can't live in a world where such things happen for no reason. I feel as if they purchased my life with their own. I owe it to them to be the best man I can.

And that means I have to get well. I have to take the time to get myself healthy so I can go back to work.

C'mon, doc. Let's reach into this rat's nest get these wires untangled. Please?

Peace,
Pennsy

#434: The Nothing

We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar
Shape without form, shade without colour
Paralysed force, gesture without motion
Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to deaths other Kingdom
Remember us - if at all - not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men
~ T.S. Eliot, The Hollow Men

I woke up this morning in the land beyond tears, beyond pain. This is depression's more fearful realm: The Nothing.

I haven't been here for a long, long time. But I remember my last visit. It is burned in my memory. When I tell people I've been to the gates of Hell, this is the day I'm talking about.

It began with tears, like so many before it had done. Mrs P trying to start her day, me weeping in the bed, unable to move, unable to quiet my raving inner monologue, or to keep it in. Hate. Anger. Please, help me...

You have to go to the hospital. I'm calling the hospital. She dials and makes the arrangements. She knows the drill. She's taken plenty of sick children there.

And then the sudden quiet. I'm going to the nut house. I am being committed.

Welcome to the nothing.

In the shower, you barely feel the water as it runs down your body. You can't smell the soap. You don't hear the curtain rings as the slide away and the towel barely touches you as you dry yourself off. Clean underwear, of course. Won't need your phone. Won't need your keys. Why have you stopped crying?

It is raining as she drives you across town. How many times have you driven past the place? Wondered what went on there? Who are the poor souls who have to live inside? She slips the car into a parking spot, and you are walking. Opening the door. Reading signs. Payment at time of treatment. Visitors must check in. No phones, electronics, weapons. You sit, and she whispers to the woman at the desk. The TV blinks overhead.  Magazine unopened in your lap. Stare at the plant, your back to the windows.

A buzzer sounds, a door opens, a kind woman steps into the room and calls your name. Martha takes your hand, and you walk together into the hallway. It is empty. Clean. Soft light. Like a hotel. The doors swing silently and the magnetic lock latches behind you. You are not going back through that door. Not for a long time.

You sit together. The three of you. The kind lady takes your medical history. What has brought you here today? You answer with a voice you don't recognize, in tones you can barely hear. The furniture was once pretty, but has seen better days. Chips. Scratches. Little things that more loving hands might have mended. Wallpaper. Upholstery. The room smells of tears. She thinks it would be best to admit you. You agree and she goes to prepare the paperwork. Martha is crying. She is so sorry. "It's OK," someone says from inside your mouth. Why can't you feel your feet? Your face? Your chair? You are disappearing.

A pretty young lady comes in with a clipboard to talk about money. Insurance. Financial arrangements to be made. Her pretty lips move and her pretty face is sympathetic and gentle. Martha talks with her and their conversation seems to be taking place underwater. Now, the kind lady returns with a paper bag. I will need to remove my watch. My wallet. My jewelry. My belt. My shoelaces. They don't want me to hang myself.

One last kiss. Words. Follow me, please. Doors. So many doors. Each one with a buzzer, a metalic 'klunk". Silently opening... closing behind..."klunk." Turn into an exam room. more like a long, narrow closet with a curtain dividing the space in half. Please step behind the curtain and remove your clothes There is a second person here now. Another nurse with another clipboard. I step out. You need to remove your boxers, too. I slip them to the floor without comment, without feeling. Two strange women inspect my body. Noting every bruise. Every scratch. Turn around, please. You may dress now.

More buzzers. More doors. More kind faces. I am in a room with two beds. The mattress is plastic. The wooden shelves are bolted down. There are no rods, no hooks no hangers. The mirror over the sink is a metal plate, bolted to the wall. There are no sharp corners. No secure protrusions. No handle to unlatch the little window. You lie down on the air mattress and stare at the ceiling. Unblinking. Waiting.

And you feel nothing. You don't realize it, because you've never been here before, but you have entered depression's darkest room. You walked in the moment you agreed to come here. You are in The Nothing. It's a merciful place, in a way, because there is no pain here. No tears. No regrets. No shame. Nothing at all. You are invisible here. Unseeing and unseen, you sit alone, eyes wide open, jaw loose. muscles relaxed. This is the There But Not There. The Nothing.

And that's where I woke up today. For the first time all week, I am not crying as I type. I am not feeling anything at all. Twenty minutes ago I looked down and realized I wasn't wearing a shirt. I must be cold. I should finish dressing. Love doesn't hurt today. I'm not sure what could hurt me here.

It doesn't last forever, I remind myself. I am not alone. I am loved. I am a child of God. I am in the darkness, but the darkness is not me. I will not disappear. My light will not go out completely.

The words give me no comfort, though I know they are true. There is an ember of hope inside. An observer with a clipboard would see emotionless stillness. But there is a war raging inside. A war for my soul. Cancer has hardened me. Depression doesn't know who it's messing with. Tomorrow I will run. Today, I will wait here. In depression's darkest room. I do not feel afraid. I do not feel anything at all. The disease cannot touch me. Nothing can touch me here. Tomorrow I will run. For my life.

Peace,
Pennsy

#434: The In-Between Time

I wish I could explain why Neil Young is stuck in my head these days. In the Bluegrass, we talk about the High Lonesome Sound. Neil is the wild haired Canadian master of that mountain cry. At moments, his strange voice can ache and smile at the same time. His rendition of Long May You Run was one of the highlights of the Calgary Olympics for me. Tonight, he is blessing my tired soul.

I spent the morning calling doctors. Making appointments. Talking with Mum so she wouldn't find out about all this on Facebook. Holding back the tears. "Just keep talking to me," she asked. "I would rather know than worry." I told her things were under control. Mrs P is here. No need to grab the "Bob Bag" and jump in the car just yet. In fact, I might like to spend some time up there, running in the mountains. Reading on the porch. Smelling spring as it wraps itself around the hardwoods. "It's going to take a while for me to get myself together for the drive, though. I don't think I can cry all the way from Lexington to Limestone." Mum's answer caught me by surprise and caught my heart in my throat. "I've done that. It's not much fun." I don't see how there can be anything in the universe as powerful as my mother's love.

Had a nice green salad... left overs from my tearful lunch with Mrs P yesterday. The dogs teased me for croutons, then sprang out the back door woofing at every sound that came in through the open windows. Friends reached out to me with text and email and chat messages. Cyber compassion is as good as the old fashioned kind, I promise you. I wept at the loving words. The tears flow without sense or reason. They wash over me like the spring wind blowing the running shirt hanging on the line.

When I was in the hospital, going to the gym to play volleyball was the first thing that made me feel alive again. I knew that I needed to move. Under the afternoon sun, I started the mower and plowed into the dandelions that filled my front lawn with gold. I hated to see them go, but there's rain in the forecast, and they would soon have gone to seed or grown too heavy with rain to cut. As the engine roared along, I found myself thinking about the Y, the people I had let down. The way I had left... frightened and sobbing. I started to blubber there in broad daylight, hoping that the sound of the mower covered my voice as I pushed on. When I finally finished the yard, I shut off the motor and came inside, unable to muffle my grief.

Mrs P ran in from her office, startled by the sound. "Are you OK? Did something happen?"

"No," I cried. "I just don't want them to remember me that way. Running away."

"That isn't how they remember you. They love you."

She brought me a cold cloth and held it on the back of my neck until my shoulders stopped shaking.

"I didn't cry like this for my father when he died. Not when my high school sweetheart left me or my college lover told me she was seeing someone else. I've never cried like this in my life."

Mrs P said, "Maybe these are tears you should have shed. Maybe your heart has been filling with tears for a long time. For the people you love who have cancer. For the ones who died. For Molly and Buddy and Mo and all the animals we've lost. Maybe your heart has broken open to let all of the tears out."

My God, what a woman I married.

Before dinner, I went out for a run. Oh the sweet mercy of the road. Feet tapping the pavement. Breathing smoothly in time with each step: in-two-three, out-two-three-four. Just two miles of sidewalks, but enough to quiet the grief for a while. I can still run. I am still alive.

Tonight, I type in the den. Neil Young's voice soothes my ears. The dogs soft breathing surrounds me as they stretch out on the couch and the floor around my desk. My eyes are moist, but not flowing. My heart is heavy, but not choking me. This is the in-between time. I don't know why all this is happening, but I am so grateful for the time between fits of sorrow. I am so grateful for the mercy of the friends I've disappointed  and for the understanding of the ones who have traveled this dark road themselves. Can you feel shame and joy at the same time? Humility and humiliation in one gasp?

Part of me wishes I could just go to sleep and wake up and be all better and raring to go. But I know that isn't going to happen. It would be easier for me to wake up and be back to Wednesday morning, before the hurting, before the tears.

I have often said that our hearts break so God can come in. I believe that's true. But Mrs P is also right. Maybe our hearts break so the tears can get out. Maybe that's why my friends' love hurts so much right now. My heart is too full of tears to hold their kindness as well. I pray God will be there to fill it back up again once they have all been wept away.

Peace,
Pennsy

#431: Depression: It's The Shame

It's not the sadness that gets you. It's the shame.

It's knowing that when the going gets tough, you will cave.

The People who counted on you, who relied on you to be there? They're going to find out they were wrong.

I cannot remember a day when I felt more ashamed than I do today. I have just walked away from the best job and the best people I have ever known. I sat weeping like a baby in the Director's office, trying to explain how the Miraculous Cancer Boy Who Didnt Die could be beaten by his own broken heart. He was very kind.

"Leave of Absence." Sounds as if I am taking a semester to study in Oxford.

I wrote about every step of my cancer journey on these pages. I. Don't see how I can do that about my depression. There are people who know this pain from the inside. Who might find comfort from my story, the way some have from that other battle. But this isn't about a sick body. My mind is sick. People I love are part of the confused blur in my imagination. I can't trust anything I think or say. I am afraid of things that I can't explain.

It's the sobs that are always stuck in your throat.

The tears that take you by surprise when you're driving your car.

When I wrote about cancer, I felt like a warrior. Now, I just feel like a pathetic exhibitionist. I'm gonna have to stop writing for a while, I think.

This disease is never going away. It has no cure. It wont always be this bad, but it will always be a part of my life. It will not kill me. It has come close in the past. Closer than any carcinoma ever did. But it will not break my soul the way it has broken my mind. As long as I can run, I can live. Mrs P loves me with a power that no chemical brain storm can overcome. I have good docs. good friends. A god who loves me and has brought me here for a reason. I'm not going to die from a broken heart.

But sweet Jesus, it hurts.

And I am so very ashamed.

And I am so very sorry.

Peace,
Pennsy

#417: Training Begins

As of yesterday, I'm back up and running. I have plenty of time to train for my spring Marathon in May, and a good plan that includes plenty of racing between now and then. This weekend was the start, and I kicked it off with a run that was hard to finish, but much harder to start.

I went to bed Friday night looking forward to a run I had anticipated for a couple of weeks. Our running group, John's Striders was planning a 13.1 mile morning trip through the hilly and beautiful Run the Bluegrass Half Marathon course. I was excited to see everybody again, and to take on one of the most challenging and gorgeous courses I've ever run. When I woke up on Saturday, a wave of depression washed over me. Everything I saw, everything I tripped over in the dark, every whine and yip from the dogs cut into my heart and sucked the life out of me. I tried to get myself together. I lit the kettle for some herbal tea, but by the time the whistle started, I knew I wasn't going anywhere this morning. I fell to the couch, pulled a blanket of despair up to my ears, and sobbed myself back to an uneasy sleep.

Mrs P woke me long after the sun had come up. She bent to kiss me good morning and I burst into tears. She held me, whispering softly until I could talk about what I was feeling. Lovingly, she coaxed me back to sanity. This disease would have killed me long ago without her love and patience. Eventually, we had a cup of tea and some oatmeal. It turned out to be a pretty nice day with my sweetheart. God had another training plan in mind for me. I needed love to exercise my heart's strength before the road tested its resolve on Sunday.

Sunday morning, I was determined to make up the miles I had missed the morning before. I felt like I owed it to the friends who ran, and I owed it to myself, too. In a way, I guess I also owed it to Mrs P. She had worked too hard bringing me back from the brink for me to spend another day on the couch. At 10:00, I was off into the cold Lexington morning. 37° and steely gray skies that seemed just a few degrees from snowing. I started at a nice, comfortable clip, running without walk breaks, just taking in the air and watching the streets pass by. It was a peaceful morning. Most of my neighbors were either in church or in bed. I did the 4.6 miles to the Arboretum in good time, and made my way to the parking lot to meet C. We did 4 miles together, running 2:00/walking 1:00. Later, I would regret not starting walk breaks from the beginning. Our run was like most of our training together. Good friends talking about life and work, punctuated by long, comfortable silences as we patted and puffed up and down the rolling hills. I really enjoy running alone, but there are certain people whose company I love having during a workout. C is one of them.

The last part of my run was not nearly so carefree. After C and I said goodbye, I continued off on the long course I had plotted for myself that morning. The next mile or so was along very busy road with no sidewalks. Fortunately, the beautiful lawns of the stately homes run right up to the curb, so I helped myself to some manicured turf. The soft ground felt good under my feet, but it requires a little more attention. There are holes and sticks and muddy spots to avoid. I was much too far from home to turn an ankle. At mile 11, I went back to the walk break intervals that C and I had used. It wasn't long before I realized that I had waited much too late to start them. Soon, cramps started in my upper calves. I suspect that I was getting a little dehydrated, in spite of the cold and the small amount I was sweating. My hands started tingling. I wasn't sure if it was from the cold, or something worse, but I had no choice. I kept moving. My pace slowed from 13:30 to 14:30 in the course of a couple miles. By the time I got to mile 13, I was hurting pretty badly. I had trouble keeping straight, another warning sign of dehydration. I stopped using the interval timer, and started using light poles. Run to this one, walk to the next one, run to the one after that. I don't know what the timing was, but having a clear, visible limit to my intervals seemed to help. I "ran" the 14th mile in just under 17 minutes. I don't think I've hurt this much since the marathon in May. I jogged my way to the final intersection of my route, then walked about a quarter of a mile to the house for water, hot tea, bananas, and a good long stretch on the den floor while the dogs licked the salt off of me. It's not exactly a massage, but it's a relaxing way to finish a workout anyway.

This one gave me a real sense of achievement. I managed to beat down the devil who tried to keep me off the road, even if it did take a day to get it done. After my nap, I made about four quarts of juices to put up in the refrigerator to get the week started. The colors, sounds, smells, and textures that are part of this task really relax me. It was a good finish to a good weekend.

And so, while it may have been a rocky start, training has begun. It's good to be back.

Peace,
Pennsy

#415: Intervals: Just Keep Going

There are a lot of different kinds of runs. One of my favorites is the Long Slow one. I usually schedule one a week, at least 8 miles: longer if I'm training for a race. This is pure endurance training, miles for their own sake. I always record my time and pace from these runs, but I rarely pay much attention to them while I'm on the road. More often than not, I'm enjoying the scenery or the company if there is any.

A Recovery Run is great after a hard workout or race. 2-4 distance. Easy jogging. Lots of walk breaks. I use it to keep the joints moving and get the blood flowing. A Recovery Run is a healing run.

Tempo Runs are more aggressive. They're all about speed. If you have a time goal for an upcoming event, you might try to hit your goal pace for part of a run or even the majority of your workout. Tempo Runs can take you a little beyond your threshold of comfort.

Then there are Intervals. Intervals take you way past the threshold. Yesterday's was an interval workout. I jogged about a mile to warm up, then set my timer to go off every thirty seconds. For the next three miles, I tried to hit progressively faster speeds, for half a minute, with walk breaks in between. By mile 4, I was running at 8 MPH: that's a pace of 7:30 per mile. That's about as fast as I can go no the treadmill which makes it about as fast as I can go.I was pleased that I could keep the intervals up for the entire last mile.I guess the next step is to start making the quick ones a few seconds longer. In any case, yesterday had more than it's share of frustrations, so I was glad for the chance to blow off some steam out on the trail.

The run got me thinking about "intervals" in general. You know, the way life can sometimes feel like you're either going full speed or not moving at all? I'm sure everybody has times like that. During a depressive "spell," it seems like that's all there is. You're either frozen, not daring (or wanting) to move, or else everything around you seems to be moving at light speed and you don't see any way in the world of keeping up.

One of the hard lessons a runner has to learn is "Run Your Own Race" If you have a competitive bone in your body, you always feel a little tug when another runner passes you. You don't want to get left behind by that kid or that old guy or that pregnant lady pushing a stroller. But the truth is that sometimes, runners are just faster than you are. You have to learn to let them go. I guess that's how I manage my dark times nowadays. I remind myself that I'm running injured. I can't go as hard as I'm used to going. There are some parts of life that I just have to let run on past me. That's tough. I may not be a champion, but I'm pretty driven to always give my best. It's tough to take when your "best" only feels like 45%.

I started on the new, higher dose of "nerve pills" yesterday. The chemistry takes time to adjust. Time. It's just one more of those things that you have to let go at their own pace and trust that you'll catch up eventually. In the meantime, the people who love you suffer right along with you. Harsh words are spoken, promises are broken, plans fall through. At its worst, the disease tries to convince you that the only solution is to stop running and get out of the race. I know that voice well. It spoke to me with screams around mile 16 of my marathon when my legs started cramping at every stride. All I could think, all I could say was, "Just keep moving." Every time my watch beeped for another walk break, I just wanted to put my hands on my knees, fall to the curb, lay down in the gutter and quit. But I knew people were counting on me. I was counting on myself. "Just keep going."

On the track, you can make it through the intervals by reminding yourself that they don't last forever. Your lungs burn and your legs ache, but you know that the sprint only lasts for a few more seconds. You know that the hard part doesn't last. You can make it. You just keep going.

And in the end, what's left is the strength. Your heart comes through stronger. You recover faster. You move a little quicker. That's why you run intervals on the track. And I guess, I do them in life for the same reason. I just have to trust that they'll be over eventually and I'll be stronger for having gotten through them.

Just gotta keep going.

Peace,
Pennsy

#414: Warm Thoughts on a Frigid Morning

Lord, but it's cold out this morning. 24° when I turned on the defrosters in the Honda at 4:45. My little girl is 12 years old now, but she still fires up like a dream. The stars were breathtaking, or maybe it was the temperature that stopped my heart for just a second.

I spent years as an evening person. Show business and all. Many times my friend Noah and I watched the sun come up as we wandered the streets of Manhattan after a long night of music, billiards, beers, and smoke. Now, my bed time is much earlier, but the payoff is these pre-dawn hours to reflect on yesterday, plan today, and enjoy the peaceful breathing of Mrs P, Kizzie, or the pack, depending on who's sleeping where.

Yesterday was not a bad one. I got to work early, then enjoyed my regular running date with my friend, Christy. It really helps having a partner to run with. I can talk myself out of almost any other workout, but knowing that my friend is going to be there, counting on me... it makes my Tuesday run one that I really look forward to. We did four fairly quick miles on the Legacy Trail. "Too cold to dawdle," is my mantra this time of year. Once my own workout was done, I met with a client and we had an hour in the gymnasium doing indoor laps, banging the medicine ball around, and learning some fundamental kettlebell skills. By the time I got home, I was ready to pass out.

I wake with a start. Pitch black. Kizzie purring softly beside me. What time is it? 7:30!!! Oh no! I was supposed to open the gym at 5:15! Why didn't anybody call? My phone! It's charging in the den! I didn't hear Coach Melissa's call. She probably had to get up and drive to the Y in the dark to open up. Damn. Pull on some pants. Shoes? Where? Damn. Go find my phone. Call Coach. Where's Mrs P? The lights are on in the den. The dogs are awake. Mrs P is watching Netflix. "What are you doing up? Why didn't you wake me?" A light blinks on in my head. I lean against the wall, panic subsiding. "It's not morning, is it?" My wife smiles the tender smile of a woman who knows that she's in love with an idiot and she's come to accept the fact. "No, honey. It's Tuesday night. You were so tired, I let you sleep. There's tuna on the stove." I skip the casserole, pour a bowl of cereal, watch half an episode of Lie to Me, and go back to bed.

I have a long day planned today. After my morning shift, I'll take a water aerobics class, then find a quiet corner to swing the kettlebell for a while. I have an idea that I may start my group exercise career teaching water fitness, so I'm trying to observe and pick the brains of the more experienced teachers so I'll be ready if the opportunity comes. I'll see the shrink this afternoon, then for the rest of the day and evening, I'll do intake interviews for the January LIVESTRONG at the YMCA class.

I'm eager to see the Psychiatrist, too. We're tapering in a new medication, and so far, it isn't making much of a difference. Still edgy. Still irritable. Still angry at nothing and everything. The only thing I'm noticing is that I've gained about 5 pounds since starting it. That's not OK. I hope we can get the meds and my brain stabilized soon, so I can figure out what other changes I need to make to keep my girlish figure intact. My goal for the winter is to drop some pounds so I'm ready for the spring racing season. I'm moving in exactly the wrong direction, but like Cool Hand Luke, I got to get my mind right or the rest of my wellness is going to come apart. First things first.

I've been writing this in the gym, which is against the rules, but the Y is pretty low maintenance in the early morning hours. Keep the coffee hot and the non-members out of the locker room. Men come in to use the bathroom and warm their hands for a bit in the wee hours. When there are kids around, I have zero tolerance for such goings on, but at this hour and at these temps I don't have the heart to run them off without a little bit of hospitality. You never know when an angel is going to wander in looking for a cup of coffee. Christmas is not the time for "no room at the inn."

Peace,
Pennsy

#413: Same Goal, Different Foe

Been quite a hiatus since my last post. My bad. I've let a lot of things distract me from my center. Some important, some irrelevant, some seemingly insurmountable. There have been other priorities: getting the taxes done, (finally); increasing my workouts to build strength and speed; dealing with finances and paperwork; blah, blah, blah, etc. There have been time wasters: solitaire and Words with Friends; way too many hours spent on Facebook; Netflix. Then there's my old friend, depression. I've said that cancer was easier to live with than depression, and I meant it. Both are potentially fatal diseases. But only one is curable. I'll spend the rest of my life as someone who had cancer once, but I'll always be a man living with depression. It's never going to beat me. I'm not going to let that happen. But it's going to keep trying.

Depression is a cruel disease. The things that help the most are exactly the things that depression tried to keep you from doing. Get out of bed. Remember your meds. Exercise. Tell a friend you're hurting. See the doctor. Visit the therapist. Fighting cancer is a pretty passive process by comparison. Mostly, it's about enduring. You suffer and you take it. You know that cancer will either kill you or it won't and you just hang on for as long as you can until that resolution comes. But fighting depression requires action. Getting this blog back in motion is one of the actions I think I want to take as part of my own fight. I'm not going to let the darkness win. Ever.

There's been lots of good news since summer. Maybe the best is that I've taken one more step toward a dream that was born even before I got sick. Two weeks ago, I signed a contract as a Personal Trainer for the YMCA. I got a little misty as I put my signature at the bottom of the page. I flashed back to the day during radiation treatments when tried to make it to the bathroom and couldn't get out of bed. I threw up all over the floor and sat there weeping as Mrs P cleaned me and the bedroom up. I thought of how weak I felt that day, and how her faith in me was often the only reason I had to keep fighting. Her love kept me alive through the worst of times, and now it felt like the best of times were ready to begin. I'm still a rookie trainer. I'm studying hard to earn that NCSM certification that will be my real credential, but for now, I'm doing the work I love: helping people to fight for their lives.

I ran two Half Marathons this fall: the beautiful Iron Horse Half in Midway KY and the Monumental in Indianapolis. The Monumental was particularly special because I got a chance to finally meet and run with a friend and inspiration: Charlie the Javarunner. His blog, Running With Coffee is an informative and authentic telling of his own journey and struggles as a runner. We've been friends for over a decade online, but never met before my trip to Indy this November. It was a joy and an honor to meet him and spend 13.1 flat Indiana miles together.

I've been training with Coach Carrie for most of the running season this year and it has paid off. This year I set personal records in the 5K, the 10K, and the Half. She encourages me to work hard, and inspires me to keep going through the pain and fatigue that comes when I approach my own limits. More than once, I have heard her voice on the road or in the weight room when she isn't even there, pushing me to finish that last mile or pull that last rep.

It's funny. I've never been very big on combat metaphors. I was very competitive when I was a kid, and since I wasn't really very good at any of the sports we played in the neighborhood, that hunger to win produced a lot of anger and frustration in me. I tried to give up fighting for anything, but cancer taught me that some battles are worth taking on. Today, my battle is against another disease: one that hurts a lot of people I love. It is relentless and insidious. It wants to take my life.

And it's gonna find the Fat Man and Mrs P to be a formidable team.

Peace,
Pennsy

#173: All Along the Waterfall

Yesterday was a painful one, the first time my depression really inserted itself into this whole cancer situation. I had a restless, sleepless night and after fitfully dozing just before dawn, I woke up in a panic. I felt as if I were in my grave. The stale air conditioned air seemed to suffocate me. Panicked, I begged Mrs P to open the windows. I wanted to hear the birds and smell the earth outside. I wanted to see the sun coming in through the curtains as they billowed, filling the room with the late spring air. I wanted to hear the kids on the way to the bus and the grownups driving off to work. I wanted to be sure I was still alive. She did as I asked, then covered my eyes with a cool cloth and lay beside me till I slept.

Mental illness has been my companion for a long time - maybe all my life. Deep depressions can fall on me without warning. Something in my brain is on a hair trigger, and I never know what it takes to pull it. I have been surprised that the devil has left me alone for so long. It seems like cancer and depression should go hand in hand. Both lead to a longing for any relief, even death. Mercifully, my shadowy friend did not stay long. I don't really have the strength for long visits from anyone these days.

Tonight, I'm listening to the gentle song of the evening birds, so much less busy than their morning cousins. They seem to whistle to themselves as they are tiding up for the night. There is a big storm system to the south, heading for the eastern mountains. No flood warnings in our part of the Bluegrass, only the faint smell of earth and the promise of a cooling weather front bearing rain.

I'm sure it is a cliche to say that the proximity of death heightens one's senses. I do seem to smell more deeply. I hear individual voices among the birds and bugs and critters in my neighborhood. Today, as she changed the dressing on my PEG tube, I gazed at Mrs P, this woman I have loved for almost a quarter of a century. My god, but she is beautiful. In her eyes I saw the compassion and expertise she has developed after years of looking after animals and the people who love them. As she carefully cleaned me and placed the fresh bandage in the morning light, I watched the years melt from her face. The hair was dark again, the skin pale and clear, the lines of worry and laughter and tears faded away and she was the young girl whose devilish smile broke my heart within minutes of meeting her. I never had a chance.

When she had finished, she turned and looked at my moist eyes. She smiled and kissed me. Her face returned to its familiar shape and color. She was not the girl I married, but the woman I have come to love with all my heart. Her hair is not what it once was, but her eyes - Oh those beautiful brown eyes...

Hey where did we go,
Days when the rains came
Down in the hollow,
Playin' a new game,
Laughing and a running hey, hey
Skipping and a jumping
In the misty morning fog with
Our hearts a thumpin' and you
My brown eyed girl,
You my brown eyed girl.

Some things, not even death can change.

If you need me, look in the green grass, behind the stadium...

#172: The End of the Beginning

I can see the mouth of the tunnel from here. We went to the doc to day to check on the PEG tube. It's been a rough week since it was placed. I developed an infection around the site where it pops out of my belly. We wound up on the ER on Saturday morning of Memorial day weekend. They gave me some antibiotics and sent me home. Today the surgeon gave me a clean bill. The infection has cleared up, the tube looks good, and we are all clear to start chemo and radiation on Monday. At last.

It's funny. I'm looking forward to starting what promises to be the worst part of my treatment. I'm not sure though. The waiting has been pretty bad. Anticipating something awful can be worst than the thing itself. Like waiting in the office to see the elementary school principal.

There were horror stories about Miss Grove and the instruments of torture she kept in her small chamber. The most dreaded was the "Electric Paddle." It was said that only the worst of the worst miscreants of our school had ever even seen, let alone felt it. I'm not sure I ever even heard anyone explain what it was. Only that it was the most cruel, painful punishment imaginable. I made a trip or two into that office. I was whacked with a ruler once or twice, and I have a vague recollection of a confiscated paddle-ball paddle, but I never did see the evil machine hidden in her closet.

That's what this feels like, this waiting for treatment to start. All the preliminaries are complete. Tumor cut out. Teeth gone. Tube installed. They have prepared me for the worst, and my imagination has filled in the rest. I have no idea what awaits me in those dark little rooms full of needles and isotopes and whirring machines. I only know that I am exhausted with dreading them. I'm ready to go.

The beginning of my Cancer treatment is over. Time to turn toward the tunnel.

Finding the Inspiration to Keep Going

Unlike men of better character, I have always found it easy to quit. On projects. On relationships, On jobs. On myself. Yesterday morning around 5:36, I came very close to quitting on the whole stupid idea that I might ever be fit.

I had taken a week off of any workout at all. My legs hurt. I was tired and depressed and I really wanted to take one last shot at running in the 5K this weekend. Since the race is Saturday night, Wednesday morning was really my last chance to try if I was going to get two runs in before the event. Tuesday night I laid out my running clothes before bed. Wednesday the alarm went off at 5:00. I spent about 15 minutes waking up, then about 15 minutes getting ready.

Outside in the dark morning it was comfortable. There was cool in the air from the evening's rain and the streets were quiet. I walked for about five minutes. So far so good. I tried a little jog for a block.

The pain shot through my right calf and I pulled up. "That's it," I thought. "I'm done. I can't run on it if it's hurt. Hell, I probably can't run at all." I turned around and started limping back home in my clean dry shirt.

Then two of the people I had spent my weekend with caught me up short.

During her visit last week, Mom gave me a book, Keep it Simple by Terry Bradshaw. It isn't a very good book. Brad's shtick is that he's just a big dumb hick who says funny stuff. Well he is big, but he's not dumb. He probably stopped being a hick several million dollars ago, and the stuff he says is sometimes funny but sometimes it's just goofy. So no, I didn't care for his book. But by the time I was finished, I really did like him. His writing is so odd and quirky and genuine that his character delighted me much more than his style annoyed. And here's what I took away from his delightful, annoying book...

• Life can be hard
• Love can seem impossible
• Keep living
• Keep loving
• Never give up

He talks about his divorces. There are lots of references to his transition from the Boy Wonder of little Louisiana Tech to the benched former starting quarterback of the never-won-a-thing Pittsburgh Steelers. He has been dumped by wives, booed by strangers, bullied by bosses, betrayed by teammates, and he has never given up. Instead of limping home in his clean dry shirt, he got back up and got back to work.

During the weekend's depression over not being able to run, I went looking for inspiration online and started watching YouTube videos of Lance Armstrong. Just about everyone knows his story by now. A hard charging up-and-comer, America's next great cyclist washes out at the Atlanta Olympics and learns he has cancer. A lot of cancer. 40% chance of survival type of cancer. He goes after cancer like he goes after a mountain on his bike. It tries to kick his ass. He could have limped home in his clean dry shirt. He kicked cancer's ass instead. And he's been kicking ever since.



I thought about those two brave men. They weren't better than me. They had stronger, younger muscles sure, but it wasn't muscles that got them back on their feet. It wasn't their principles or their up bringing. I was raised by good, hardworking people who taught me right and wrong. Where did their strength of character come from?

Practice.

Muscles get stronger when you use them. So does courage. They chose to act courageously. They practiced persevering, staying hopeful, setting their jaws and moving their feet. And never going home until their shirt was soaked.

So that's what I did. I turned my self around and I limped till I could walk. I walked till I could jog. I jogged till I could run. And by the time I got home, my stinky soggy shirt told the story. Three miles before breakfast. Then a long cold soak in a tub of ice water. Ahhhh...

I have decided to take the advice of two guys I got to hang out with this weekend.

Keep it Simple
Live Strong

Peace,
Pennsy

Half Way Through

I'm half way through my experiment. I've learned the word for it. It's called periodization. It's where you commit to a routine for a period of weeks or months, employing progressive resistance, then you switch to a different one. For example from heavy weight and low reps, then lower weight, higher reps, and shorter rest periods.

I have been lifting heavy and long (two-plus hours of lifting) with two days of recovery between.

BODY COMPOSITION

Body Weight: 357 >> 352 (-5 lb)
Body Fat: 115 >> 114 (-1 lb )
Lean Body Mass: 242 >> 237 (-4 lb)

The body composition numbers are interesting. My body fat and lean body mass are both going down. I haven't changed my nutrition very much (look, it's never perfect) but my sleep was lousy this week. I had a hard time staying asleep and consequently didn't get up on time. The other thing I noticed about this routine was that only going to the gym three times turned my mood pretty dark. The anti-depressant effect of exercise is something I can't afford to play with. I think that getting the right rest, and being smarter about what and when I eat will make a difference.

My goals for the year are weight 270 and Body Fat 12.5%. That's going to put my lean body mass right about where it is now. I don't know how to manage that change. Obviously excess muscle mass isn't going to be a problem for a while.But I need to manage fat loss without losing lean. I think Cardio is going to be the answer. I want to run, but for now, I need to suck it up and do the boring work on the recumbant bike and the elliptical. It will be a while before I can ride my bike enough to make much difference to my heart. (though my quads are feeling it.)

PERFORMANCE

Bench Press: 155 >> 165 (+ 6%)
Dead Lift: 145 >> 175 (+ 21%)
Squats: 105 >> 175 (+ 67%)
Pushups: 8 >> 10 (+ 25%)

These numbers each tell different stories. The bench press is an exercise I have been pushing on for a while, so I was working close to my max when the week started. The deadlift and squats are fairly new to me and my focus has been on learning proper form without hurting myself. Know I am testing myself more to find my max. I'm close, but not there quite yet. Pushups I just started. I was embarrassed to try because I knew I would suck at them. I just finally decided to start. (no sense waiting until I can bench my own body weight - besides, right now the bigger problem is core strength. My back gives out before my arms.)

SUBJECTIVE IMPRESSIONS

I've already touched on one - I don't like the two days rest. the gym has become an important part of managing my depression. Even if it's just a short trim on the stair climber, I need to be there more often than this.

I am getting stronger in every muscle group. I feel harder and am seeing more muscle.

I miss cardio, emotionally and physically. The big power lifts, squats and deadlifts really test your cardio-pulmonary system. When I finish a set, I am breathless, sometimes dizzy, and yesterday I was slightly queasy for a minute. I recovered soon enough, but eventually cardio is going to be critical to improving those lifts.

The thing I feel good about is that I'm sticking with the plan. I will keep at this for another week before making adjustments. It feels good to stick with my commitment.

And finally my usual whine -- I really miss running.

All in good time.

Peace,
b

Caught from Behind -- for a Day

The Boogerman got me.

I am determined not to write a mental health blog or a depression diary or anything like that. There are plenty of great ones and my voice won't add much to that river of information.

Still, I am running for my life and that means acknowledging the things I'm running from now and again.

I am running from a bipolar disorder.

Yesterday, it caught me.

My reaction to my meeting with Brad really surprised me. Everything he had to say was good news, but it hit me as if he had said, "Give it up, Fatboy. You're going nowhere fast." I knew something was wrong in my head, but the Bipolar Boogerman has been so quiet since I started working out that I guess I dropped my guard. I've been taking my meds, and combined with the well-documented mental health benefits of exercise, I guess I figured I had the old man licked.

Looks like he can still catch me from behind when he puts his mind to it.

My mind was racing Tuesday night. No way I could have gone to sleep. I was up until 2:30 reading and writing. Mrs P made an appointment for us to take Molly to the vet Wednesday morning and by the time I woke up, I was certain we were taking her in to put her to sleep. She's a very tired, old lady and like so many big dogs, she has a lot of trouble with her hips. I latched onto the idea of losing her and crashed into the trough of the emotional wave that had kept me up so late the night before. I was a bear to Mrs P all morning, and by the time we were in the exam room with the doctor, I was breaking down sobbing as I told him about Molly's troubles. He and my patient wife discussed the science while I held my Golden Retriever close and prayed. It turns out I was the only one in the room with euthanasia on his mind. Doc and Mrs P arrived at a plan after considering several options, then Molly had some blood drawn and got her nails done. We pulled out of the parking lot with our little old granny dog happily gazing out the back window of my car.

I had lost all sense of emotional proportion and I knew I was screwed. I went back to the house and instead of just dropping the ladies off and going on to the office, I got my computer and went inside. In the living room, my heart was racing and I called in sick for the rest of the day. I had a good lunch, a Healthy Choice® frozen thing, then went to bed and slept for about nine hours. When I woke up, my dog was still alive, my wife hadn't left me, and I had been suitably humbled by my old nemesis - the Boogerman isn't melting away any faster than the fat man is.

This morning I feel much better. I'm sure my knee will appreciate the day off, and my thoughts and emotions are much more clear. Nobody is dying here. Not today anyway.

The fact that this episode hit so hard comes as a real surprise to me. I usually notice the warning signs and am better prepared. On the other hand, the fact that it passed in about a day is something I take as a very good sign. The old man may have knocked me down, but this time I had a really good reason to get back up, and that's what I've done.

The truth is, I have always had those reasons. A wife I love and who loves me beyond all reason. A job that challenges me every day. A house full of animals who teach me about affection and honesty. A workplace full of talented colleagues who teach me about honor and perseverance. Only now that the fat man is running, I realize that I might actually have a role to play in all that as well. I can be a person who is worthy to stand with all those people and even benefit them once in a while.

A fat man running is a fat man who has decided to stay alive for one more day.

It's good to be alive.

Eat my dust, Boogerman.

Peace,
Pennsy

Running in the Dark

Fat and depression have been my companions all my life. I am determined to part ways with both of them, but they are stubborn bedfellows.

I’m bummed this morning. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up this time.

I’m not sure I would call last night a work out. I was scheduled for a cardio day, but couldn't really get it going on any of the machines. I started on the recumbent bike, but after about 10 minutes the knee felt a little weird, so I decided to try something else.

I’ve never tried the stair climber before. It seemed like an exercise with very little pounding, so I checked it out. I made it about 2 minutes. Not because my knee hurt, but because it is one mother of a workout for a fat man. I decided to try something else.

The treadmill was a washout. I did about 15 minutes at 3mph. My heart rate never got above 108. I guess that’s a good thing. That’s what my heart rate was the first time I stepped on the treadmill after walking to it from the locker room. Still, it felt more like a good sweat than a good walk.

The elliptical was my last choice and turned out to be my best effort. I did 10 minutes and finally got my heart up to 131 bpm. Then I bailed.

I had intended to take a yoga class last night, but my “warm up” had taken all the wind out of my sails. The depression that exercise has been battling down rose up and grabbed the back of my shirt. I changed my shoes and came home.

The knee isn’t painful, not really. I don’t limp or anything, but the threat of injury has triggered a real fear that I will get hurt and give up. Irrational? Sure, but depression isn’t a rational disease. I’m not at the stay in bed with the covers over my head stage - haven’t been there for years - but I am in a pretty dark place right not. The place where Mrs P asks “Are you mad at me?”

When I left the gym last night, I decided to take today off. That decision was what put my emotional state over the edge, I think. I may go in and do a light weight workout, just to keep the wolves in my head away from the door of my heart.

Peace,
Pennsy

Post Script: right after I finished this post, I went to my Google Reader to look for a reason to lighten up.

It's not true that life is one damn thing after another; it is one damn thing over and over. - Edna St Vincent Milay

Sometimes just knowing that you're not alone is comfort enough.
pax
p

The Fat Man Rides Again!!

Saturday I got really depressed about not being able to work out. My beloved Mrs P held my hand, wiped my face, and then took me out to the Indian buffet. Nothing lifts a mopey boy's spirits like a good woman's love and all the curry he can eat.

I slept my blues away and on Sunday made my first trip to the gym since the big slip. My toe hurt to bend, but had stopped throbbing. I didn't want to put any stress on it, so I didn't lift weights. That left walking, but I could not imagine the cardio benefit of limping on a treadmill. The elliptical machine remained a mystery to my feet, so I decided to try the recumbent bike.

I figured out how to move the seat and checked out the console. All the trails and mountains and whatnot made no sense to me. How can you talk about miles on a bike that stands still? I finally settled on a program called "cardio" and put Meat Loaf on my headphones. Before I knew it, I was pedaling like a bat out of, well, you know. I spun the pedals for an hour while the console coached "Keep Pedaling!-----Need Heart Rate!---Grab Handles!----Who's Your Daddy?" It was a little weird.

The program adjusts resistance to keep your heart rate at the training level you set, so it has to monitor your pulse constantly. I was surprised at what a good workout it turned out to be. I was not surprised that I could barely move when I was done. I stretched, finished my water, and made my way to the locker room. When I took of my sock, I was shocked. My toe looked like a plum. The bruise went from the joint almost up to the nail and more than three-quarters of the way around my toe. Forgive me, but I've decided to spare you photos.

Monday the bruise had faded, but was still pretty ugly. I made it through the work day without it feeling any worse, and by evening, the bruise was a much less angry color. I went to bed early and decided to try once again to wake up and go to the gym early Tuesday morning.

For some reason, the alarm woke me. Usually I just give it a well intentioned wack on the snooze button, then go back to sleep. Instead I tip-toed out of the bed and made my way to the car. There were a LOT of people at the gym at 6:00! I changed and found an empty bike. This time I had a chance to look around a little. There were not many familiar faces, but plenty of very determined ones. I am continually amazed and inspired by the way the people around me work. I got a chance to really watch some people on elliptical machines and started to make sense of what their legs were doing. Of course, you don't really want to spend too much time watching people at the gym. You start to feel like a stalker.

Work was just painful. The toe was ok, but the legs were screaming. Turns out I still haven't reached that magic place where a workout gives you more energy. The funny thing was, by mid afternoon, I was really jonesing to get back. I went right after work, and lifted weights for the first time in a week. I stepped down the reps and stepped up the weights on all the machines. I also tried the elliptical for a cool-down. It went pretty well, and I felt like I really started getting the hang of it.

This morning I did not go to the gym early, but I felt GREAT all day. Maybe that energy boost is on a delay? After work, I did an hour on the elliptical. I used the "Cardio" program and yes, it was a real workout. On both the bike and the elliptical I could feel different muscles working - especially after I was done.

Right now, I should be in bed, but I'm so happy to be back to work. I just wanted to let you know.

The heart, the mind, and the toe are all bruised but unbroken -- and the healing goes on.

Peace,
Pennsy