Fifteen Mile Trail Run or What Was I Thinking?

 

 I had serious doubts about doing a fifteen mile trail race. I like to push myself physically, but what is that limit anymore? It used to be easier to assume that I had the stamina and ability to do just about anything. Now, I don’t know. My energy level could range from functional to dead tired with no consistency. Would I injure myself by spacing out, resulting in a fall that would render my knee into a bloody pulp? Get exhausted and walk the whole way? 

At least I knew what the course was like, having ridden it by mountain bike many times. It had some nasty rock strewn sections. Once to the seven mile point, it got easier and downhill. Still it was a long way. My goal was simply to finish in one piece.

At the start, everyone took off, leaving me mostly alone. This is a common event for me. I figured that I would catch some of them later. My arm and knee still hurt from a bad fall the week before, so I started slow 

After two miles was where all the rocks started. This was a tough part and went uphill. One time I fell lightly on my hands. Most of the time my toe would hit a rock with no loss of balance. I kept up with an older man, but passed him eventually. It was slow going. I wasn’t worried about time, just completion of the distance.

The older man picked his way carefully among the rocks. Maybe this was how he avoided injury. Is frequent tripping an old person thing? At one point, I saw that he took a wrong turn and yelled at him. It was my good deed for the day. I lost him and didn’t see him after that.

Occasionally, I could look at the desert vistas instead of staring at the ground hazards. Four Peaks mountains still had snow in the crevices. The park stretched on into the horizon. Trail running is certainly more scenic that the boring streets of road racing. Saguaros beat shopping malls anytime.

My gurgling insides finally forced me to stop and find a bush. Luckily, no one was around. This is an advantage to trail running–being able to use a bush rather than carrying a load around. It was a long way to a restroom. I cursed inwardly my colon, which wouldn’t behave itself.

Running this route verses mountain biking was definitely different . The distances that would by pass quickly with a bike stretched out with running. I can coast on a mountain bike. I can climb rocks without falling. It seemed like I was going nowhere slowly and sometimes the anxiety of wondering where the hell I was and if I was lost took over. I had done this trail many times on a bike, but it was more desolate and vulnerable on foot. I overtook people sometimes and wondered why the hell would they be lagging back there with me.

I knew that the endpoint of the climbing was the shelter with the skeleton dressed in a serape, but I thought I was lost in the endless twists and turns of a trail that went nowhere. I was happy to see my boney friend. 

My friend with a different costume.

The next aid station had coke! Coke has saved me on long endurance events when my energy was flagging. I drank some and continued. My slogging pace picked up. I think that a 50k runner lapped me because he was moving much faster . I was on the downside slope, with some rough, rocky patches that were not as bad as the first stretch. I shuddered to think what negotiated that when I was tired would be like. The miles seemed longer and longer.

I passed another runner who was walking fast. Being polite or annoyed, she let me pass. I moved faster. 

I crossed the park road, hoping that it wouldn’t be much longer, but it was. Would this trail ever end? Four miles to go and it was easier to run. The ground was smooth and the coke had kicked in. Where did this energy come from? Too bad it didn’t come sooner. The trail twisted and turned and I hoped to see some evidence of the parking lot, but nothing appeared. Then the restroom structure loomed in the distance. I kept running hard just to get the damn race over with. I was under my modest goal of 3:45.

Finally, the race ended at the humble finish line. Total time was 3:41. The skin of my knees and hands was still intact and I had mostly stayed upright.

This was a really low key race, so no medals, announcers or timing system, except someone writing the time on paper. This didn’t matter to me, but I wondered what was the point of running trail for fifteen miles. Running verses biking the trail was one of the draws  to see the difference. I had only run a tougher half marathon trail in Page, but two miles more wasn’t that significant.  Maybe it was to prove to myself that I could do a long run after a pandemic, cancer treatment and being older. I hadn’t even done a road half marathon since 2019.

We like to think that we are in control of our destiny. Doing crazy things gives me the illusion that I can defy age, expectations and physical limitations. If I can run fifteen miles, maybe that will hold off infirmity, fat and appease the joints that hate me. No one expects people my age to be doing such activity, but why should years dictate the end? I won’t live forever, or may even die next year, so why not do it now when I am able?

Or maybe it was just to feel just a bit like my old normal self again, rather than a depressed, achy, tired cancer survivor. I didn’t get my usual race high, but still could claim victory.

Grand Canyon Rim to Rim

 

Going down to the bottom of the Grand Canyon had long been a goal of mine. A mixture of curiosity, the exceptional scenery and a lack of common sense enticed me to trod the rugged depths.  It’s one of those trips that sounds great in theory, but the reality involves some serious craziness.  The hike is a strenuous long way down and up in a day in an unforgiving climate. It would be badass to do at my age, though and it’s fun to test myself physically, otherwise known as suffering. 

This goal had always been thwarted by circumstances. My ex went down with his brothers, but I had to watch our young child. The car really stunk when they got out after sweating and camping for days. Another trip, the person backed out. A prospective group never had room. A tour was expensive and camping was involved, which is a nonstarter. The logistics of going by myself was difficult and hiking alone wasn’t appealing. Then came cancer and the pandemic. My strength to hike to the river, let alone rim to rim, was doubtful due to health issues. The goal seemed out of reach. After all this disappointment, the time was finally right.

Looking down into the abyss on the south rim the evening before, the coming venture was daunting. The ancient rock faces and formations in the fading light were striking, but harsh. The vast terrain looked merciless. I had been on both rims before, and it was pretty to look at and not threatening. It’s one thing to enjoy the scenery on the surface; another to subject myself to the climate, ruggedness and perils of the interior. Be unprepared for heat, dehydration or exhaustion and the consequences were dire. I was scared, but still compelled to hike it.

Walking down should have been the easier part, but the thousands of steps put a strain on my knees.  Poles alleviated the effort, but my legs got really tired anyway. My lower right leg developed a persistent stabbing pain. Traversing by myself was isolating in the empty vastness of the landscape. By mile five, even finishing seemed doubtful. Step wrong and my shaky legs collapsed. I fell once and skinned my knee, which dripped blood. This prompted passers-by to ask if I was okay. Past experience told me to block out how far it was and to just keep going, even when it seemed impossible. Mental focus trumps physical pain. But despair lurked on the edges of my thoughts. Finally the trail smoothed out on the plateau.

A line of horses passed me twice, pissing and pooping on the trail, so I stepped carefully. These riders don’t know what they are missing. I went through the tunnel, got to Indian Gardens and reloaded on water and wet myself down at the water stop. People say to soak yourself in the stream but lack of time and a norovirus had been going around made it seem risky.  Being very tired by this point, I walked in a zombie state to Phantom Ranch and got the overpriced lemonade and sat down with a sigh of relief to write a postcard to send to my daughter. The $5 lemonade perked up me up again. I bought ice and put it in my water containers. Ice was my savior, since warm water is not thirst quenching.

The "Box"

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The riparian areas in the “box” of rock walls by Bright Angel Creek were lovely and soul soothing. Birds sang in the bushes and flowers dotted the banks. Brooks are my happy place; a zen place of peace.  An interesting snake slithered by and two deer appeared in the brush. The shade provided relief against the heat of the day. Sometimes a breeze kicked up and dried my sweat. 

Many people must have passed through here in various states of physical exhaustion. The rocks are 500 million years old, so they had seen a lot of souls. The rims are forests, the bottom is desert and two climate zones down and the reverse going back up. Basically 4000 feet down and 5000 up from South Kaibab to North Kaibab, so it was a wide temperature and altitude range to adapt to. 

I stopped to try to find food in my pack and a passerby rudely commented that I had thirteen miles to get to the north rim before sunset. Thanks a lot buddy, but I was acutely aware of the time limitations. The park rangers don’t encourage people to attempt rim to rim in one day because they don’t  want to have to rescue them. I was finding out why it was so tough for us mere mortals. The effort was taking everything that I had to keep going.

Some other members of my group caught up to me and I walked with them for a while. This area rose upward from the creek and was hot, desolate and dry. Getting cooked and very thirsty, I stopped at Cottonwood for more water. The group went on. It was difficult to suck water out of my camelback container, so I dumped its water into my water bottles and guzzled it. 

The people I had been walking with were resting at Manzanita. I was exhausted at this point, with the worst yet to come. The next stop had no water, so filled my bottles. Eating gels, jerky, bars, and salt tablets didn’t seem to provide much energy. Part of the problem was that my pack was disorganized and my nuts and trail mix were buried in its depths. My electrolyte mix had spilled. Digging through the pack was too much effort and I wasn’t that hungry. I nibbled on jerky, something that I wouldn’t touch otherwise. The misery of the ironman run came to mind. This seemed about as hard, but with no aid stations or cheering crowds.

Stairs were again a real obstacle now and North Kaibab had plenty of them. The ascending trail went down again and I thought really? The bridge that I had hiked down to from the North Rim with my ex in another life came into view. I even have a old picture of it in the time before digital cameras. Ascending North Kaibab long ago was a lot easier without the present previous twenty miles and a few decades of living. My legs were rubbery and threatened to collapse at any moment. The poles helped me to keep climbing, but didn’t always help my teetering balance. The stairs were dodged any chance I could. 

Another random rim to rim group caught up to me and decided to follow me. Maybe they were just being nice, but they weren’t in a hurry. Finally, a group going at my pace. One of the guys was really kind, offering to let me rest anytime. He gave me a caffeinated gel which helped some. The support of random strangers was nice. I would have probably married him at this point if he didn’t already have a spouse.  

My shaky, tired legs wanted to quit NOW. Supposedly, the total distance was about twenty miles, but it was longer and never seemed to end. A mile took about 40 minutes now. The altitude was 8,000 feet, which didn’t help. The trees on the north rim obscured the path, so gauging the distance left was difficult. Someone thought that it was twenty-two miles, which was a discouraging thought. After stopping and resting several times, I finally decided to forge ahead the last couple of miles after someone commented how hard it was to stop and go. My last vestiges of strength were being sucked away. Finally we heard cheering through the trees and knew the ordeal had come to an end. I had done it.

Total moving time was 11:25. Elapsed time was 13:17 for the 24 miles, probably due to water stops, Phantom Ranch stop, taking pictures and watching wildlife. It was a remarkable and excruciating experience.

It took a few days for the experience to sink in and the memory of the physical pain to fade enough to realize the impact of the experience. The exhausting ordeal didn’t seem worth it at first, but then joy seeped in. The ancient walls had dared me to defy age, physical limitations, dehydration, health problems, mental demons and common sense. The general suckdom of life was forgotten and replaced with lovely riparian scenery replaying in my mind. 

After struggling with fatigue, mental stress, joint aches, and residual weakness from cancer treatment for two years, I had serious doubts about my physical abilities. It took a long time to even get an opportunity to try and finishing a very difficult goal was gratifying. But the best thing was descending into the Canyon depths and coming out feeling invincible. And badass.

 It’s been two years since active cancer treatment ended for me, and life is different. People always assume that once  treatment is over that everything is normal again. The medical nonsense doesn’t end with the twice yearly oncologist visits, blood tests, yearly mammograms, in addition to the assorted other related and unrelated health problems. 

A sense of invincibility vanishes with a cancer diagnosis. If one bad medical thing can happen, maybe another one could? Every subsequent scan brings on the small twinge of “what if results are abnormal?” that wasn’t there before. The underlying anxiety never completely goes away even with “no evidence of disease.” Every little stupid medical problem takes on more significance beyond what it really is.

Physical reminders of what happened are surgery scars, less energy, more depression and strangely, still slightly curly hair from the chemo.  Blue dot tattoos are still on my chest from the radiation. My toes are still a little numb from chemo neuropathy. 

Invisible fallout from treatment can also manifest in weird ways. Laundry product scents are still repulsive. This reaction hasn’t diminished much since 2020. My theory is that while walking nauseated around the neighborhood after chemo, the strong smell of fabric softener poisoned my brain permanently. I lost the deep inadequate feeling of sickness and abnormality from having this weird sensation when I finally realized that the vile scents are being vomited into the air by countless suburban dryers, and that the ever present mystery smell was not a figment of my imagination. Now, being subjected to these odors is just irritating. I am the normal one and the users of stinky softeners are the insane ones.

For God's Sake Stop Buying This Shit!

Innocuous things like the freeway exit to the chemo infusion building used to make me inwardly shudder a little every time I passed it, but now it’s more of a shrug. Even a mere four rounds, three weeks apart, was traumatic. The exit was to a place of physical weakness and sick feeling, fatigue, hair loss shame, anxiety and fear of the unknown. Disassociating the experience from the freeway was a relief since I use or pass it often. I don’t have to go there anymore in my mind and it’s just a stupid exit.

Chemo rooms still invoke fear and anxiety in me. At a bone drug infusion late last year in a chemo room, a surprising strong urge to leave almost overtook me. I convinced myself to stay, and tamped down the fears by talking to the nurses. The bone drug was to counter the bone density loss caused by the Exemestane, a aromatase inhibitor drug that I take that blocks estrogen and therefore cancer growth. 

Part of the anxiety was due to being the first time I had it. The list of its side effects is disturbing, since I always endlessly google them ahead of time. Dealing with the worry about one scary drug is tiresome, without having to deal with others. It made me sick, but not in the same way as chemo. The next two days felt like the flu, with body aches, then I had an eye inflammation and fatigue for a month. If I ever have this drug again, the infusion won’t be in a chemo room. The side effects are bad enough without adding to the unpleasantness. I felt bad for the people who were stuck there through their treatments, when I could walk away.

I am tired most of the time. The cumulative effects of active treatment and Exemestane have dragged my energy level down. It took over a year to recover to a partial level of prior fitness. Twelve supplements, an antidepressant, an NSAID, an acid blocker, pain treatments and thyroid medication ease the side effects. Exercise and therapy have helped. It’s still a medical merry-go-round. My thyroid medication had to be adjusted. It was very difficult to sleep for a while because of low TSH levels. I spent a lot of time at the opthamologist for the eye problems.  My neck developed a constant ache and stiffness that was only slightly relieved by PT, drugs and steroid injections.

How can such a small pill be so evil?

                                              

Doctors push aromatase inhibitors claiming that taking them results in a 50% deterrence of cancer recurrence, but it is not guaranteed. They are all difficult to tolerate. I tried the three types and Exemestane was the only one I could stand.  Anastrozole was very harsh, messed up my thyroid and caused intense chest pain. Letrozole made me extremely fatigued. Besides the normal side effects were the unexplained weird ones. Random stabbing pains, scalp pain, tooth aches, muscle cramps, high cholesterol and the loss of any ambition to do anything, whether necessary or fun. 

Lack of energy brought on a case of I just don’t feel like it-itis. Everything seems like too much effort. The house can go clean itself. The cat can mop up her own pee. Getting one thing that needs to done in a day is a win. Forgetting what it was that I was going to do because of brain fog doesn’t help. The urge to just go take a nap is strong.

I miss estrogen. I used to take HRT and felt a lot better with more energy and less depression. The hot flashes came back and never left. Adjusting to a second menopause involved endless doctor visits, medical tests, support groups, therapy and anxiety. Cancer may feed on estrogen, but the body likes it too. Without it, the bones weaken, the joints ache, the brain forgets words, the lady parts dry up, and moods go south. An added bonus is belly fat. It’s a pharmaceutical crapfest.  

Because of the depression cancer treatment caused, I had to get therapy and take an antidepressant. Questioning all the mean things that I say to myself was an eye opener. Telling myself that I was ugly because my hair fell out wasn’t helpful. Thinking that I was stupid to run into a cranky Uber driver while changing lanes didn’t make the situation any better. My neck pain made it hard to turn my head and I didn’t see him. Saying to myself that people didn’t like me was an assumption not based on reality. It took practice, but I now try to be kinder to myself. My messy house does not mean I am inadequate.

 The thought of taking aromatase inhibitors for three more years seems an eternal punishment. The only thing I could do is make it as bearable as possible. Avoiding cancer recurrence versus the misery of the drug is a tenuous balance that requires a lot of effort to maintain. Neither cancer nor the stupid medicine will rule my life. If I learned anything, a difficult experience can be gotten through with enough help, determination and faith in oneself. And a lot of sticky notes to remember what the hell was it that I forgot to do.

Bird images from Eff'ing Birds by Aaron Reynolds

Tower of Terror

 

The end of chemo is a glorious time. It’s like finally reaching the mountain summit and all the muscle pain, strain and sore feet from climbing fades away. A year ago, April 30, 2020 was that day. 

The process to get to the end was wretched. The deep body sickness affected my psyche, with a  dive into a dark abyss of fear and misery. It was like having the flu for months on end. Even just four session seemed impossible to endure. End time felt worse and took longer to recover from. Just barely functioning was difficult.

The side effects were numerous. Hair loss, mouth sores, loss of appetite, nausea, weakness, extreme fatigue, gum pain, dehydration, eye inflammation, anxiety, high blood pressure, depression, neuropathy, rashes, brain fog, constipation, diarrhea, abdominal pain, among others.

It’s no wonder that I felt like dancing out the infusion room when the last drops of poison dripped from the I.V. bag. I would feel bad afterwards for weeks, but the healing process could begin. Hope shined in. It felt glorious.

I haven’t been back since to the four story building where I had the infusions, but passing the exit on the freeway reminds me of the experience and I inwardly shudder. It’s my Tower of Terror. The thought of even setting foot in it again brings up the memory of all the countless hours sitting alone in a chair watching the I.V. tube of death dripping into my vein. When the bag  emptied, my heart  raced and an overwhelming sense of panic set in.

It’s strange how the brain works. The sight or smell of something dredges up a long forgotten memory, like the scent of pine evokes Christmas or an old school building reminds an adult of  roaming grade school hallways. Just the thought of chemo brings out a deep revulsion and a flight response. I want to get away from any hint of it. Maybe that’s why chemical odors bother me so much, with the unconscious association 

Luckily, I haven’t had to set foot in the infusion building since last August. I don’t even like being on the same street or even in the same area.

It’s taken a lot work to beat back the mental trauma of chemo. Hormone blocker pills worked against recovery. It took a lot of Zoom support groups, doctor visits, tons of supplements, lectures, reading, therapy and tests to get to a place of healing. I still can’t sleep, have hot flashes, back, neck and hand pain mixed with bouts of depression and anxiety from the pill.  It’s a struggle to live with it and it’s tempting to quit and take my chances with cancer recurrence. 

Still anything is better than chemo. Hopefully, time and therapy will cure the cure.  Hopeless thoughts aren’t reality and the mind gives them more weigh than they deserve.

Maybe remembering the exhilaration of finishing instead of all the grueling discomfort to get there will diminish the weight of bad memories. 

Castle Creek Triathlon

 

Among the things I have missed in 2020 besides traveling and actual human contact is in person triathlon racing. Virtual just doesn’t cut it for the real thing, whether it’s social connection or racing. A decent conversation with a disembodied head on the computer screen is hard. Racing alone takes discipline with no one around to motivate me and it lacks the fun and camaraderie of the actual experience. When this Lake Pleasant Race was actually approved to go on, I signed up for a chance to have a modicum of normal.

I didn’t feel particularly in shape for it. I had been consistently training, but not intensely, since I was not feeling up to it. Chemo, surgery and radiation had sucked the life out of me and five months later I still wasn’t recovered. Lake Pleasant is nothing but rolling terrain and climbs. I had no energy to run train for hills and the weather had been insanely hot for months. Hilly bike rides and open water lake swims were at least some preparation.

Of course, if a race was scheduled, my bike had to fall apart. On a ride three days beforehand, the seat seemed loose. With no tools to fix it, I just kept riding. Arriving home, as I dismounted, the seat sadly flopped down and sagged sideways in disapproval of my ineptitude. Upon inspection, a screw and a part was missing. Without a functioning seat, the whole bike was useless. Maybe my mountain bike was an option, but it would be painful on the hills.

The next day, I retraced my route on my mountain bike and found the missing seat piece laying in the street, but no screw. During the ride the cog on the mountain bike drive train froze. Seriously?  Am I cursed by the bike gods? I still could ride home, but the chain complained the whole time.

Option C was my old road bike. It was nice in its time, but only three of the 24 gears worked because rear shifter just didn’t feel like moving anymore. Also the bike was an iron horse compared to my tri bike, so climbing hills would be a lot of effort. Between my bike woes and my tired body, my expectations were low. But at least it was a real event with actual people.

Racing during a pandemic is a different animal.  People are potential plague carriers and have to be spaced apart from one another. Mask wearing is necessary, at least while milling around. I got there early and set up. Due to Covid, there was a lot of space between the bikes, which was an advantage. No one to intrude on my space or knock my stuff around. For the water entry, we had to stand apart on the ramp and enter the water in timed intervals. 

Lake Pleasant can whip up with the wind, but the water was warm and smooth at 78 degrees. The temperature was cool enough to allow a wetsuit, but I would have worn one legal or not. Swimming in deep, murky water is scary enough without the buoyancy of a neoprene wetsuit to prevent drowning. At this point in 2020, I did not need more stress. 

Sometimes,  a swim start makes me hyperventilate with panic, but this time was easy. I swam fairly steady and went faster than I did in training. Somehow, I added 160 yards, not that I needed to swim any longer and took 27 minutes, not counting the long slog up the ramp. I tugged off the wetsuit in transition and mentally gritted for the bike ride.

The first hill was steep seemed liked a 10% grade and it was all I could do to keep moving. In laymen’s terms 10% grade is a “standing on the pedals to force them to turn and hoping not to fall over climb from lack of momentum.” If only the bike had a lower gear. Was I going to make it up without getting off and walking? Three speeds on my 2001 Trek road bike wasn’t enough. This bike sucked. I feared trashing my legs for the run, but got through the first loop.  Downhills saved me. In a sick way it was fun to conquer the terrain, despite the physical suffering. 

But it was still a relief to get to the end with no mechanical problems. The bike and I didn’t fall apart. I thought the ride would take an hour for 12.2 miles, which was slow as hell, but it was about 56 minutes, which was just less mediocre. I had remembered the hills as being tough, but not as bad as they were with an a three gear, heavy piece of crap old bike. It was a reminder why I don’t do a lot of Lake Pleasant races.  It’s humbling because the terrain reminds me of my strength and speed limitations.

I got into transition and dumped the bike to go slog on the run.  With a lack of run training on hills, they would be slow and painful. The route went up the god awful hill again, then turned down and up another nasty climb. It didn’t feel as bad as expected. I had estimated a lot of walking and except for some steep ascents, the miles were mostly functional running.  

The whole race took 2:11 to finish. It didn’t matter being at the tail end of slow, that I had to ride my crappy bike or that I wasn’t strong enough to run fast up hills.

After an abnormal year it was good to have “normal.” 2020 threw at me the physical discomfort and emotional distress of cancer treatment; long periods of social isolation; depression; the stress of dealing with a pandemic; and lack of anything to counter the bleakness. All the cheery optimism blather about “being in it together” and “you are not alone” didn’t make this steaming pile of turd year more bearable. 

So, it was a relief to finish, see people I knew and have an actual event despite Covid. Months of physical weakness from treatment made me doubt my ability to swim, bike and run in succession without keeling over. But my arms and legs still had the muscle memory to get me through water and up hills. They worked better than the ancient bike, which was reassuring.

All the crap didn’t beat me down. A hint of the high that I used to get when I first started racing emerged. Speed didn’t matter, but conquering the terrain did. Perhaps the threat of deathly disease changed my perspective. Or maybe this year sucked so bad that any good experience was appreciated.

For real.

UNPREDICTABLITY

 

Where did this bird come from?

Sometimes the unknown is exciting. A step into the future without certainty can be a chance for growth, success and joy. But then 2020 happened. It’s more like chaos, depression and death. People have adapted, but we all have lost connections to friends, family and normal activities.

I long for predictable. Too much uncertainty is terrifying. The pandemic has made planning futile. If I was depressed, I could sign up for a race, see a friend, go to a local museum, volunteer or book a trip. Now all these activities are pretty much impossible. Faces on Zoom don’t entirely make up for it. People are still dying, getting infected and can’t get tested. The end in not in sight. All my methods for coping are useless except for lone activities, phone calls and online meetings. Even as an introvert, I desperately miss traveling and seeing people live. Thrown cancer into this mix and it’s even more complicated and risky.

 Part of my struggle is that after five months, I still wrestle with continuing on  Aromatase Inhibitors. The drugs are supposed to decrease the chance of cancer recurrence. I tried Anastrozole, then Letrozole, then Anastrozole again. I hate Anastrozole, but hesitate to again switch to another. Some days it’s awful, with intense fatigue and some mornings I wake up very depressed. Other days, I am fine. Hot flashes, neck and hip joint ache are consistent, but mood isn’t. Other aches come and go on different body parts. My brain is in a fog and I can’t remember what I was doing a minute ago.

Even the IDEA of this drug is overwhelming because it is not kind. It weighs heavily on the body and spirit. A five year sentence of misery is a long time. But once a person gets cancer, they are tainted with the specter that it might come back, despite all the bodily assaults of treatment. An evil cancer cell might lurk in the depths of the body, waiting to grow. Obsessive research online yields no definitive answers on what to do. Prediction models of cancer mortality are just that--guesses of what might happen.

I want my old pre cancer life back. Estrogen helps with mood, bone health and the lack of it taxes the mind and body. I have gone from hormone replacement to hormone deprivation and it feels awful. It always feel like something good is missing.

I suspect a man came up with these drugs, and thought that they were a good idea to take for FIVE years or even TEN in some cases. If he had to subject himself to this god awful medicine, it would have been a different formulation. A woman would have found some way to make the drugs more bearable. 

It’s tempting just to chuck it all and take my chances for recurrence. Two other drugs are options, but not very good ones. Tamoxifin causes blood clots and isn’t as effective Aromasin is expensive even with insurance. They both still cause the hot flashes, depression, fatigue and joint pain. 

I don’t know where my life is going, but it would be nice to be able to diminish the specter of cancer that is looming over it. Meanwhile, the world stumbles through Covid and the election nears. With fires, floods, drought, hurricanes, murder hornets and a pandemic, what’s next 2020? 

At least my head is no longer bald, though five months after chemo my hair is not even an inch long and is growing in random direction. Maybe it’s waiting to thrive too.

  

SURVIVORSHIP?

Evil pills

Recovery is a bitch. A mean, vengeful screaming harpy. After the last round of chemo, I was ecstatic. This misery was DONE. But after the haze of sickness eased, my brain woke up and thought OH MY GOD, THAT WAS TRAUMATIC.  During treatment, all I could handle was getting through it. Now that the emotional and physical stress of diagnosis, surgery, radiation and chemo was over, the mental baggage carried around from the whole process came out of storage and tumbled down. I had naively thought the physical healing was the only thing to worry about. The mental part was just as hard. And the two were intertwined.

This transition  from cancer treatment to “normal” life is called survivorship, though the term isn’t necessarily accurate or appropriate. Survivorship is general, meant to encompass all stages from diagnosis to life after treatment. Not everyone has a set end time or even a cure, though.  It also sounds like the patient is a victim rather than a warrior and fighting is required to survive the ordeal.

The leap back into routine has been emotionally discombobulating. Everything was different, with no point of reference. Now with the ordeal done, I was unsettled and lost.

I was bald for four months and my hair growth was still sluggish. Hurry up and grow already! The damage was still there, taunting me. It mattered more than I thought. The bristle that had survived the chemical onslaught, grew softer, darker and longer, sprouting in random directions. But it was too light and sparse to cover the baldness. My eyebrows disappeared, then stragglers came back. Most of my lower eyelashes fell out. I longed for normal hair. I had to block inner thoughts that told me that I was ugly. 

Physical fatigue hung around like an unwelcome guest that wouldn’t leave. It was cumulative and stronger from each infusion.  The last chemo recovery took longer than the others. The muscle weakness eased off, but the bad memory of it didn’t, worming into my brain. Running was easier, but it wasn’t as fast and strong as it used to be. Feeling good was elusive. Sometimes, I just wanted to nap all day. Tiredness came out of nowhere and hit hard.

My mind was weary as well. Worry about side effects, what was going to happen, insurance and bills was exhausting. Throw in a pandemic into the mix and it was much worse. Was I more likely to get Covid with a compromised immune system? Was it a good idea to be In the grocery store hunting for nonexistent toilet paper while tired and queasy? Emotional support programs were cancelled, so good luck and you are on your own. I had no one to complain about my life, which made the isolation worse.

Part of the recovery distress was realizing that people still stunk, literally. From chemo I had acquired a strong, gut punching aversion to sickly sweet odors of cologne, deodorant or soap. This affliction remained. I assumed everyone got this, but found out they didn’t and I felt like a freak.  Little research about it was online about and no information that it’s an after effect.  Maybe it was a psychological reaction. Entering a locker room that was just disinfected made me queasy for ten minutes. Outside, scents assaulted me with no visible source. A revolting smell could emanate even from a passing car. Leaving the house meant an olfactory war. Viscerally, my body recoiled from scents that everyone else thought was nonexistence or pleasant. The stench of a passing bike rider brought forth a flashback of being sick and weak during chemo. How did this happen?

Treatment wasn’t really done, either. The oncologist recommended another torture, a hormone blocker, since the original cancer cells responded to estrogen and progesterone. Decreasing estrogen by 70% to prevent cancer recurrence sounds good in theory, but not so much in living with it. These drugs can cause joint pain, bone loss and hot flashes, among many others. They have paragraphs of side effects. People complain online about crippling pain. The pills are supposed to be taken for five years, which is a long time to be miserable. It’s difficult to commit to that length of time if the pills are unbearable. Life is too short.

Doctors aren’t always helpful offering ways to ease the side effects. They think a patient should live with it or take more drugs with even more side effects to counter the ones of the original drug. It’s cruel. Taking the drug is a steep price to pay for a vague chance of preventing recurrence.

Each new treatment, I imagined the worse, thought “no way”, gritted my teeth and did it anyway. Why does it always have to feel so bad? Why can’t doctors do a better job making procedures more bearable? Why can’t drug companies make more tolerable drugs? The treatments are worst than the disease. I have reached my limit in putting up with them.

Anastrozole  made my hip ache and hot flashes were more intense and numerous. I would give anything not to be drenched in sweat ten times a day. The pill killed my appetite and deposited fat in my abdomen. Occasionally, it caused headaches and nausea. Worst of all is the melancholy that came out of nowhere. I was sad for no reason and lacked motivation to do anything. The stupid pandemic forced isolation added to the funk. Part of me felt like I had died. I missed my hormones and wanted them back.

Now on Letrozole, it’s not much better. The joint pain and depression is a little less, but occasionally the fatigue is intense. I feel dead inside and tired. It’s difficult to decide what to do about it. Another drug  might be just as bad. Be miserable for five years? Don’t take it and risk recurrence? Trade quality of life for less chance of cancer? Use natural supplements that may or may not work?

In an attempt to feel less isolated and to regain a sense of peace, I have tried a Zoom cancer support group, hypnotherapy, Nidra yoga, and an assortment of naturopathic supplements. Exercise is also good if I can avoid stinky people. All these remedies help somewhat, though the lack of physical social contact due to the pandemic makes it more difficult. I could seriously use a real hug. Cancer is an emotional wallop, even when the prognosis is good.

This difficult experience left scars, invisible and physical. They harden, constrict and distort flesh, burrow into the brain and change thoughts and emotions.

It beats the alternative, though.

Recovery is a f’ing bitch.