#457: Put Me In, Coach

I don't have a lot of experience in the athletic world, but this spring has taught me about one thing... there are few frustrations in life like being sidelined by an injury. Last summer it was a groin pull that kept me from running for a couple of endless months. This spring, it's a very different kind of injury, and a very different kind of game.

When I pulled my groin, I was trying to press for more speed. I tried to go faster than my body was ready to travel, and wound up with a nagging pain inside my thighs that seemed like it would never go away. When it did give me a little relief, and I would test my strength, it kept coming back, sometimes as a twinge, sometimes as a pain strong enough to double me over. It took most of the summer and fall for it to mend completely. I'm a lot more vigilant about those muscles these days. I knew that if I pressed them when they were damaged, I would make things worse. I also know now that a re-injury is more likely, and could be much harder to rehab.

Now that I am past my April of discontent, I have finally decided to bring that same mentality to healing my injured mind. It's been a hard lesson, but the people at the Y have been gently trying to convince me of its wisdom. Like a pulled muscle, an injured mind keeps you from performing. It can strike with a twinge, or with crippling agony. Rushing back into action too quickly can re-aggravate it, and make things worse than they were before.

An athlete hates the sidelines. There is a special kind of shame that comes from sitting on the bench, watching your team mates struggle without you. You want to pull on your helmet, get on the field, and hit somebody. Four days after tearfully begging my boss for time off, I was standing in his office announcing that I was ready to get back to work. I believed it, too. I knew in my heart that the worst had passed: I had had a rough couple of days, but the Kid Was Back. Put me in, Coach. Cancer Boy is ready to tear up the turf.

My heart was wrong.

What I thought was the bottom was barely the beginning. What I thought was the worst loss of my life was just the tip of the iceberg. There would be many more days to come. Many more tears. Many more pain-filled blogs about shadow and despair. And through it all, my only wish would be to get back to work. I threw myself into my training, my fundraising, anything to take my mind off the fact that LIVESTRONG at the YMCA would be starting three new classes without me. I was suffering. But I was healing, too.

Three more times I returned to my boss's office. "Put me in, Coach. I'm ready." Like a careful training staff, they would ask me questions and listen to my answers. Whatever they heard told them that I needed more time. I never tried to bluff them. I'm not sure that I could have, even if all my acting skills had been sharp. I'm not sure I wanted to. But I was becoming more aware, more mindful. Now when they told me that I should take another week, my heart knew they were right. I was still hurt. And I knew that a re-injury would be much worse than the first one.

Last week, they heard something new. I was ready to start testing myself. Not with sprints, and not by jumping right back into the game, but by stepping onto the field to see how the grass felt under my feet. I would make a speaking appearance, one I had booked many weeks ago. A director would come with me to observe and evaluate my performance. I wasn't going to be side-by-side with my team mates, not yet. But I would be out on the empty field, learning and showing just what I could do.

And so the first test was in place. I began to prepare. I didn't know that God had already scheduled my first workouts.

Out of the blue, I got the call. Coach Carrie rarely calls me on the phone. I looked at the screen and saw her name. Was she calling me back to work? Just checking in? No, she was calling with a shocker. My last remaining Coach at the Y, the last of the three amazing women who had coached my class of Eight had gotten a new job. Coach Carrie was calling to tell me she was leaving. I felt my heart catch, and my eyes start to moisten, but then my weary brain pulled itself up and did something it hadn't done in a long time... it had a rational thought. "I'm disappointed, Coach, But I'm so happy for you. It sounds like a great chance for you and your family. You have meant so much to me. And I hope you have a great time in your new gig."

There is a training technique, one Carrie never used with me, by the way, where you put an athlete into a plank position, tell them to brace their core, and then whack them with your hands or feet, as if to knock them down. The challenge is to hold your stability, even though you don't see the blows coming, and don't know how hard they are going to be. I felt God putting a foot in my side as Carrie told me about her new job, and I felt my soul brace and straighten itself back up after the blow. I was getting stronger.

Later, there was another blow. A man I respect and admire, a warrior who had never been in LIVESTRONG at the YMCA, but who had fought the Damned Thing for 12 years finished his battle this week. He had never given up his love of life. He kept acting and directing. He loved the young people who came to him for guidance and inspiration, and he gave it to them with a sweet and generous spirit. And cancer had killed him. Another loss. Another death. A few loving tears. But no collapse. I loved him, and was able to love his life more than my own pain.

Finally there came news of a young boy whom I don't remember ever meeting. He was an actor. He had lots of friends. He cared about politics and justice and freedom. And a few days ago, he chose to end his own life. Such a cruel reminder of how easy it is for someone to slip out of the safe harbor of love and into the dark waters of depression. The grieving friends and family who are left behind may be filled with confusion and anger and even guilt, but the truth is that the tide was just too strong. The lonely swimmer was pulled out to sea. My prayer is that he now knows the peace and comfort that he could not find here. The church has always called suicide a mortal, unforgivable sin. Some of us know better. I do not accept that God will punish us for falling to a fatal disease. I believe that this sad, wounded boy is resting in Jesus' arms today. Finally resting.

The Y is going to test me on Wednesday with a speech and a Q&A session in front of a room full of strangers. But God has tested me already. Not so God can learn if I am strong again, but to show me that I am. It may not have been game speed or full contact, but I have taken hits and gotten back up on my feet for the next play. I can't say that I never went down, but I promise you that I never stayed down. The Y will test me. God has already shown me that I'm ready for the test.

There are going to be other tests. Other losses. For all I know, the worst is yet to come. But I know two things. I will not face them alone. My Creator will never abandon me, and will always send loving people to help me to mend, no matter what the injury. And I also know that there is nothing that can make me give up. The ones who give up... they all die. And I am in no mood to die. I am in the mood to play.

I'm almost ready. God has sent trainers with wisdom and experience to judge my progress. It wont be much longer now. Soon, I'll be back in the dust, mixing it up. Not wanting to come back off the field.

Soon, coach. Soon.

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.

#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

#398: A Hero on the Road

I met a hero today. He noticed the shirts we were wearing for our Keeping the Dream Alive fundraiser, and stopped to talk. He told us his name was Chester, and that he had done a lot of work at Actors' Guild. He had an easy smile and a contagious laugh as he tried to remember what his last show had been. My teammates and I didn't recognize him, but we nodded politely. Turns out he was one of the "old timers:" the people who had helped to build the company years ago. I pricked up my ears. I enjoy the stories of restaurant basements and old gymnasiums that fill the company's early history. I thought he might have some great dish on one of the people I have met over the years. He had a much better story than that.

"They'd never tried anything this radical, but
they figured, why not? I was dead anyway."

Do you know what you are looking at here? This is a man's left knee and lower leg. You know how that happens? An unlicensed, uninsured, drunk driver plows through a red light and over your motorcycle as you are legally driving through a busy downtown intersection. He runs you down, trapping you and your bike under his pickup truck. He panics, and tries to run. Can't move. So he backs up, trying to dislodge whatever is hanging to his vehicle. Tries to pull away again. No dice. Tries a third time. Eventually, the driver stops trying to escape, and pieces of you are left under a truck and a motorcycle to wait for the coroner to arrive. 


"When they found me, my brains were on North Broadway, my guts were on North Broadway, and my leg was mostly torn off." Did it hurt? Nah. He was in a coma for the next four weeks. He says he died. They gave his mom 600 reasons why he should be dead. When he came to, after a month of morphine, they told him he should expect some mental retardation. Mom asked, "How would you know the difference?" Every survivor needs a wise-ass who loves him. Chester has a good one.


They had to tuck his brains back in to his head and stuff his guts back into his belly. They rebuilt his leg from scratch, drilling steel inside the soft tissue that remained. He told me he works out every day. The docs said his physical fitness was the only thing that saved him. "When I run, I look like Joe Cocker, drunk!" he jokes, but he by-God runs. He finished this morning's race just 5 minutes after I did. Just about the same time I ran the race a year ago. And I had both my own legs.

On his Facebook page, he says he harbors no negativity toward the man who almost killed him 600 ways. "All it does is eat you up and does nothing positive at all, as fear or worry, or jealousy; they are all negative emotions with no discernible value except to take you down, and not forward." Chester is a man who is moving forward.

I don't know this guy. But I really want to know him better. We "friended" today on Facebook. He is a genuine hero to me and an inspiration. It's going to be really hard to give up on my next long run when I remember a man who is training for a 10K after having himself spilled out all over a city street.


Running brings out some amazing things in people. And sometimes, amazing people come out to run. If you're lucky, you get to meet one. 


I was lucky today.


Peace,
Pennsy

#357: Recovery and Ramping Up the Miles

There's something strange about the idea of running to recover from a run. They tell me it's smart to get moving again. Breaks up the lactic acid or something. So, I gave it a shot. Here's today's journal entry.

60 degrees. 3.58 mi/40:37 7:08 AM. Adidas. No Walk Breaks. Splits: 11:43, 11:28, 11:07. Recovery run. Slight soreness inside right ilium during warm up. Worked its way out. Feels fine now.

The hip bone's connected to the...

Just showing off with the ilium thing. I don't remember much from Mr. McGregor's high school biology class, so when one of those anatomy names floats up out of the fog between my ears, I like to throw it in. Sort of like saying gastrocnemius instead of calf. These little indulgences help me feel like I'm still mentally functional. What I meant was that I had a little soreness on the inside of my right hip bone, but since hip bones are a relatively new phenomenon on my body, I think I should be able to call them whatever I want. No matter how much my spell checker complains about it.

Not actually Pennsy

This morning's run was not pastoral like Saturday's long one, but it is lovely on the streets Rat 7:00 in the morning, especially when the big clock in front of the bank says it's 60 degrees. I decided to go slow today, just to get my heart pumping and to keep up the momentum from the weekend. At the last minute I took off my watch, the one that beeps my time intervals. I would take my breaks when I felt like it, or maybe not at all. I had a short warm up, then started jogging at the corner where a crossing guard, a retired-looking fellow with orange gloves and vest was placing cones at the cross walks, preparing for the kids to arrive at our neighborhood elementary school. I wished him a good morning, and he smiled and waved a day-glo colored hand at me. It reminded me that I've got to get one of those reflective vest thingees before the mornings get much darker. Next paycheck. After a couple of blocks at an easy pace, I decided to go without walk breaks, just to see if I could maintain a tempo. I felt so good after two miles that I trotted through another mile and a half. Easy pace, quiet breath. No pressing. No pushing. Just gently gliding along. Smooth up the hills, coast down the other side. When I finished, the crossing guard was just picking up his cones and finishing his work for the morning.

"Get 'em all in safe and sound?" I called from across the street.

"Oh, yeah!" he answered with a smile. Something tells me we're going to be seeing a lot of each other.

Can't wait to wear this tee-shirt

I'm going to try increasing my mileage by switching to an every-other day schedule. The cooler mornings make running feel even better, and they also remind me that October and the Iron Horse Half-marathon are around the corner. My only goals are to finish, and to maintain that minimum 14:00/mile pace so I don't wash out. I really don't think that's going to be a problem as long as I keep training and stay healthy.

I have some chores to do around the house this morning, then it's off to the gym for LIVESTRONG at the YMCA in the afternoon. Melissa tried to kill us with a brutal spinning class on Wednesday. There's no telling what evil her imagination has conjured up since then. I have learned that crying for mercy is useless. She doesn't even respond to guilt: "Don't you know we are all battling a fatal illness?" The best thing to do is just shut up, listen to the music, and keep your feet moving. Just like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer... it feels so good when you stop.

Peace,
Pennsy

#347: Opening Night and a Rambling Recovery Run

I'm a huge fan of rest. Love it. Can't get enough of it. But waiting three days to get back on the road after Monday's 10K seemed like an eternity. True, my legs didn't really feel like running until today, but the rest of me was jonesing to get out there. I know I'm addicted now, because I start getting restless and irritable when I go too long without a run.

I decided to "ramble" today. Left the driveway with no particular distance or route in mind. If anything, I wanted to explore some streets and paths that I hadn't used before. All I knw for sure was that I wanted to go sloooow. At the end of Monday's race, I pushed myself. Hard. It felt great, but I have no idea what that long sprint (if I can call it that with a straight face) might have done to me. I just wanted to get out and move my feet for a couple miles. Just get the blood flowing.

It was hot. Like 85-89 degrees hot. Like 101 degree heat index hot. I was careful to drink plenty of fluid before the run, and checked in frequently to make sure that my head was clear, my vison sharp, and my skin sweaty. My mouth did dry out a couple of times, but that happens to me a lot thanks to the false teeth and the damage the radiation did to my salivary glands. I kept a slow enough pace that I didn't over exert myself, but stayed just fast enough to keep the breeze blowing against my face. I don't think that the heat affected me much one way or the other.

I pulled the Nike Pegasus Trail Runners out of the shoe shelf today. I haven't run in them for a while, and while they're pretty old and squishy, I like the way they feel and like to use them now and then. Today I discovered that they can rub me a little wrong. I had on very short socks, like a little pom-pom short of being what Mrs P calls "footies." Ordinarily, these are just fine, but the tongue and welt on these trail runners are a little higher than my other shoes. The lining rubbed my skin and while I didn't get any blisters, I did get a couple hot spots on the back of my heels and the top of my right ankle. My toes seemed to be getting on one another's nerves a lttle, too. I may try putting a little Aquaphor on my feet before my next hot run, just to see if it helps.



Fat Man Acting...
"Woe, woe for England..."

Richard III opened last night to very kind notices. I'm not usually a fan of reviewers, but Candace said something nice about me, so I'll be eating out of her hand for a few more days.Of course, if she hadn't mentioned me, I'd be calling her an idiot right now. Let's not get carried away. A critic is still a critic, after all.

I was a little surprised at how positive the review was. I have a sort of sick, maybe even pathological reverence for Shakespeare. I'm never as hard on myself and my colleagues as I am when playing in one of Will's little worlds. I am so focused on perfecting my work, I can only see the flaws. Kind of nice to have an outsider look in and say that she enjoyed what she saw. It doesn't keep me from trying to improve the authenticity and clarityof my playing, but a little applause can be good for the soul.

I'm looking forward to tonight's show for a couple of reasons, but particularly because I just had this nice hot run in the part of the day that I usually fill with a pre-performance nap. At the moment, I feel a lot fresher than I do when I've spent an hour asleep in the afternoon. It will be interesting to see if that lasts until the curtain call... or at least until they cut my head off in Act 2. I'm going to be doing a lot more playing and running in the next few months. How great it would be if I find them starting to compliment one another?

Peace,
Pennsy

#283: Redeeming the Parts Cancer Took

Recovering from cancer means finding new ways to do old things. You can't lift as much or walk as far as you used to. You can't stand up as long or eat as much. It's tempting to look at the things you can't do in the old way and conclude that you can't do them at all. It's tempting to give up on activities you enjoyed before you were sick, because your way of doing them doesn't work anymore.

Tonight, Mrs P asked me to take out the garbage. This is bigger than it sounds. It's been about 8 months since she asked me to take out the trash. I think we both assumed I was too weak, too frail to lift and carry and drag the cans out to the curb. That sounds pretty pathetic, but it hasn't been too long ago that it was true. I would no more have tried to walk through the yard in the dark than scale the side of the house. Some days, I would barely have made it to the cans, let alone haul them to the curb. Before I was sick, I would fill my arms with recycling, trash, even old cat litter and haul them out to the cans in one big nasty-smelling load. .  When I tried to pick up the trash from my office and the recycle bin full of newspapers, I realized that I could not lift them both at once. In spite of lifting weights in the gym, I still wasn't strong enough to perform this simple household chore. for a moment, I considered giving up. I'm still too weak. I can't do it yet. My arms and legs won't do what I want them to do. But my bride is home sick today and she is in no shape to be hauling trash cans. She is not the kind of person who calls in sick casually. It would have been so selfish of me to expect her to do all that without help. Her head was aching and spinning at the same time. She needed me to help, and I was determined to do it.

It took me about 15 trips. A handful at a time. When everything was out in the big cans, I opened the gate and rolled them out slowly, one by one. Then I closed the gate and made my way back to the house. It wasn't particularly heroic. All I did was put the trash on the curb. But I had to do a couple of things that are going to pretty important to my ongoing recovery.

I had to admit that I couldn't do things the way I wanted to do them. I had to decide that the goal, (helping Mrs P) was more important than the obstacles. And then I had to come up with a new way to do this old, simple chore. That's the way things are going to be for a while. I can choose to give up on the things I want, or I can find new strategies for getting them. I can't put aside three hours to clean house, but I can work fifteen minutes at a time. I can't haul two armloads of groceries, but I can carry a bag, rest, then carry some more.

I couldn't go to the gym today. I'm still pretty sore from Sunday and Monday. I was determined to to go anyway, then I remembered not being able to finish my upper body exercises on my last trip. I had rushed things, and I can't push myself the way I used to. I was afraid I would get hurt if I tried to lift today. I decided to take another day to recover.

It felt like giving up.

Tomorrow is going to be a pretty big test for me. Will I get off my duff and go to the gym, or will I give up completely? After all, I can't lift the weight I used to. I can't run the way I used to. It's embarassing to be passed on the track by old ladies or to take all the plates off a machine before I use it. I wonder what all the young dudes who are doing 200 lb shoulder shrugs think about a fat old man who can't lift a 25 lb dumbbell over his head. I wonder if I'll ever be able to lift more than my own weight again.

I am determined not to give up. I will be strong and fit again. I will run farther and faster than I ever could before, and I will do it if it takes me two years just to get back to where I was. I'm going to do it because it's important to me. But to get there, I have to admit that I'm not going to be able to work as hard or as fast I used to. I won't be beating any personal bests anytime soon, maybe not even in a year. Recovering myself, redeeming the parts of me that the cancer took is going to take time. It's going to be embarassing sometimes. But I'm walking so I can run. I'm running so I can live. The goal is worth finding new ways to get there.

My teeth fall out when I sing sometimes. I won't say it's embarassing. I'm not performing for strangers yet. Everyone in the rehearsal hall knows my story and it's something we can all laugh about. But it is frustrating. I'm still learning how to make words with my mouth. Believe me, that has never been a challenge for me. Now it is. Now I have to practice. But if I want to act, I'm going to have to be able to speak with clarity and energy. I'll need to be able to project sound while retaining my upper plate. The doc will help me. I'll get lots of good advice and coaching. But at the end of the day, I'm going to have to find my own new way. And I'll have to be willing to take the time to get it done, no matter how frustrating it is.

Look, I know this isn't a particularly profound life lesson. The thing is, I've always been the kind of person who doesn't want to work hard at things I'm not already good at. This isn't a very admirable personality trait, and it has cost me a lot over the years. I think my life would have been a lot different if I had been willing to improve my weaknesses more. Now, I have so many of them that there isn't much choice.

It's challenging. Humbling.

And the prospect of doing things better this time? It kind of turns me on. I'm going to be a better husband and actor than I was before I ever heard of Squamous Cell Carcinoma.

Who knows? Tomorrow I may even volunteer to bring the cans back in from the curb...

Peace,
Pennsy