Sunday was the Victoria 5K for Breast Cancer. The forecast was for heavy rain and 40km an hour winds. We went anyway. Linda and I had a pact; one we made in May when my PT had told me that a) it would be “impossible” for me to do a 5K in the manual chair as I would be too weak and b) that if she heard any more about this kind of self destructive talk maybe she would force me to get the electric wheelchair. Being me, I immediately planned (in secret) to do a 5K race (and a 10K). I told Linda. I did 5K training wheeling, first up to twice a week, then once a week, then once every two weeks, then not at all. Ain’t prophecy a bitch?
So I missed a bunch of 5K’s and 7K’s because they were too far away, or too many hills. I missed the Terry Fox run. But I still had the breast cancer run.
You know someone with breast cancer, or who has had breast cancer; they may not have told you, but you know someone; it is that common. Indeed one of the things I dislike about the public perception of breast cancer is that it is “common” or when someone says, “I have cancer” the thought is; “geez, that’s horrible.” When they continue with breast cancer, the thought is, “That’s lucky!” Yeah, breast cancer is the “good cancer.” Well, I think any time you have to choose how much risk versus how much body part/part identity to cut; it is not “good.” Chemo isn’t good. In the Harpers 2007 article Chemo World, the memoirs of a nurse on a cancer ward tells how the head nurse ended up with cancer and how she got her chemo on Wednesday. And by Saturday she would start feeling fine, and by Monday night, she would start crying. How Chemotherapy is so toxic that for some cancer patients just seeing the nurses coming in with the special suits and chemo drip pump caused a body memory that would start them vomiting before the chemo even hit their system. So yes, lumpectomies, and success rates aside, I don’t think of it as the “good” cancer.
But I wasn’t there that cold and windy morning because of a memory of a friend; I was there because I was incredibly angry and incredibly scared. Nothing like race day to make last minute calls of the bathroom. I was scared that the PT was right, that I was too weak, that I would not finish; that even if I was willing to incur a painful price on my body that even more choices had been taken away and I didn’t even know it yet.
I was in the front of the 5000+ people with Linda behind me, the top runners in front of us and I behind them on the basis that it was far easier for them to run around me than vice versa. I started playing the MP3 player with its heavy beat trance music. If you don’t have the training, then get a machine with enough bass so that you can fake it. And we were off, I was cruising so fast that I am just a blur in the front corner of the picture.
I wish I could explain the overpowering anger that rises when I think of some of the things doctors or occupational therapists or physiotherapists have said. It is usually based around the statements of “This is what you will be like from now on..” or “You can’t do (this or that) anymore…”, “You’ll never do (this or that) anymore….” No, I am not the “plucky” crip who decides she’s going to walk again, climb Mt. Baker, etc. It was me that said, “gee, I seem to be falling down several times EVERY day, maybe there is something I can do where I get around and not end up with so many bruises/hospital trips.”
But after the breast cancer 5K had finished, when I was lying in my bed, unable to move, on painkillers, I faced the wall and if I could have been shaking with rage, I would have been. If I could have smashed plates against that wall, I would have. “WHO ARE YOU? WHO ARE YOU?” I screamed inside, picturing those calm medical faces, “TO TELL ME WHAT I CAN AND CANNOT DO!” In this case, it was less about ego and more about people who, “for my own good”, placed seeds of insecurity, fear and doubt when they could have helped me; or at least had the decency to get out of my way. If medical professionals spend half the time helping dreams instead of crushing them…
The major difference between the training wheeling and the race day 5K is, in training, I am sensible, take a steady pace and rest 30-40 seconds every kilometer or so. When you are in a 5K and there are still over 4000 people behind you and still passing you; I simply don’t have enough common sense willpower to overcome the vanity. So you press on…and on. We went down a hill. I had to brake to stop running into people. “I’m going to pay for this later.” I told Linda. We got to the turn around point. There was a wheelchair porta-potty. They had placed it up behind a curb where there were no curb cuts. I asked Linda for a “hand up” (a move to get over curbs), she bodily lifted my chair over the curb (on adrenaline much Linda?). A bit lighter ala portapotty I started up the hill.
OMG! I have to look up to see the street lights at the top a half kilometer away.
It was long and steep and I cranked the music so all I could hear was the bass in my bones telling me when to push. Linda said later that the volunteers where saying all sorts of things, calling me “inspirational” or “heroic” or whatever. I told her I guess we are supposed to work for an equal world where half of them curse me and yell, “Get out of the way, ya freaking slowpoke!” – I’m always a bit unclear on why we shouldn’t want people to encourage us while we drag ourselves up a hill with six inches a push while everyone runs (or walks) on by. News Flash: This IS harder for me than it is for you (with the exception of the woman with arthritis and two canes – but even SHE passed me on the hill).
Twice during the 5K my body starting crying without me; it just does that tear leaking thing when I hit a certain pain level. But don’t worry, that doesn't stop me. I got to the hill top, gave a weak upraised fist of victory to a volunteer, wheeled the corner and as my front caster got caught in a big old pothole, I was flipped out of the chair.
Gee, I used to be proud of my legs. As of today, the atrophy on my legs has passed my knees now and is half way up my thighs. A visible wasting of the flesh, as the lower leg becomes uniformly even. Without calf muscles, without lower leg muscles to give definition it simply becomes a straight tube of flesh encasing a bone. In my case, functional muscle still, and sometimes weight bearing; but not enough to stop the atrophy from progressing up past the knee until now only the mighty quadriceps remain to fight for leg definition. The right leg is hanging tough; Linda says that Epee leg is still giving benefits. When I look, I feel frustration, regret but a deep sense of wrongness. It is one thing having a bit of a pot/belly because you don’t do enough sit-ups or stair-climbing; but legs actually changing shape, wasting away….grrrr. I’ve always wanted to be “top heavy” but I meant bigger boobs!
When the chair flipped me out, I hit and was out for a short time. Linda said she got to practice her first aid by yelling at people to stop crowding around. I think she put me in recovery position. A female doctor and nurse wearing green jackets were there calling 911 when I woke up. We convinced them that wasn’t a fun idea. And I told them in my “I am a very scary determined individual voice” that if they could get me back in the chair I would continue. They found some RCMP officers and I was back up, I re-hooked the oxygen and Linda held my head upright. Thirty second rest. I set MP3 player to “God is a Girl” and I told the nurse, “Catch me when you can” and I was off.
Being in a wheelchair on a rainy day, I was at an eye view with a lot of three and four year olds kids being pushed in covered three wheel jogger units by the modern “hot moms.” Kids find me fascinating. I tend to wave or simply say, “Race you!” (Hey, I know the child-like mind; I have a child-like mind). So for the long straight -this four year old with huge eyes and I raced (I think his mom helped). She told him, “Isn’t she strong.” Is there something inherently wrong that I was using racing a four year old as my motivation for the third kilometer?
Coming back to the university at 3.5K, I felt a familiar, whump, whump, whump. I had felt it in cars, but never on the chair. I stopped and checked. The left tire was flat, flat, FLAT. The nurse had caught up and was calling to see where a van could come to pick me up. People were passing me, and they weren’t even running. I thought about being pushed to the corner and getting picked up. I thought for about 30 seconds. “I’m going on.” I told Linda.
“How hard can it be?” That’s a secret phrase Linda and I use for, “This is going to be incredibly difficult and painful.”
Jill, the nurse in the green jacket stayed with me the rest of the way. Thank you Jill.
The chair pulled so hard to the left that I just used the left hand to push and the right to brake, in order to keep the chair in line. I didn’t know that Linda was behind me the whole time with her hands just inches from the handles ready to grab hold if I lost control (see picture). She said later that I kept hitting the orange cones that separated the lanes. I don’t remember because wheeling isn’t like running. When you run a 10K, you can get to the point where you are running on habit; where you are running beyond what you can run and once you stop and walk, you simply won’t be able to run again. There is no instinct in pushing a wheelchair with a flat tire in the rain where a soaked glove has to try and find traction. If I did not concentrate every second on the single concept of PUSH, then a mental lapse of only 5 or 6 seconds would bring me to a halt.
At 4.5K a woman yelled (as encouragement) "It's all for the Cure!" (as Linda said later, "I had no idea what she was talking about, whatever reason we had started the race, where we were mentally at 4.5km had NOTHING to do with ‘the cure.’").
Oddly in all the 5000+ participants I was the only self propelling manual wheelchair. There was an electric wheelchair, I could see it in the distance, and I was gaining.
By the time we reached the finish line, it wasn’t there anymore. I kept asking, “Have we reached it? Can you see it?” We weren’t in the front pack or the second pack, or the seniors, or even the seniors walking a very old dog pack. We were in the “There’s still people coming in?” pack. Eventually Linda had to come around in front of me and say, “We’ve passed it” so that I would stop pushing. When I tell people I did the Breast Cancer 5K they ask, “What was your time?”
I reply, “Hell.” They are confused. I don’t know how else to explain it.
We collected our fruit and yogurt and cookies. I missed getting a “door prize” by one number; I was 4991 and 4990 won a prize. Grrrr. By the time we got in the ride home, I was slurring into non-understandable. One word Linda could understand: Marathon. The Victoria Marathon is next week. She was not amused. She put me to bed. The next day, when I woke up, the wheel to my wheelchair was gone.
No, she was getting it repaired.
“The best of days” I told Linda when I finished the race. She understood. It wasn’t about succeeding or overcoming or “plugging on.” It was something we had wanted to do together; reminded each other over the months to incite the other to exercise. It was cold and early but we were there. It rained and I got a flat but she was there and I was there and we were there together at the end. It was the best of days.
1 day ago