The Flying Fortress

Update (2 months in 116 words) … 10 rounds lower spine radiation: helped pain (can sleep), hurt stomach (lost 10 lbs) … new chemo: 1 drug is light work, the other sent me the hospital for a night (thought it was heart toxicity, but probably just a tumor in my chest) … approximately 427 different scans/tests later, we have plan for next 2 months or so: continue chemo, radiation to upper spine and neck (more tumors in vertebrae), radiation to skull (4 tumors starting to press on my brain), start bone drug to mitigate fractures, biopsy one of the newer tumors (chest, liver, whatever) to make sure again this is still type A thymoma we’re dealing with … start clinical trial in May?

NOW FOR THE IMPORTANT STUFF …

I’m a bit of a history buff, and I have a habit of falling asleep at night listening to either history books or podcasts. Lately I’ve been listening to a Dan Carlin podcast (Supernova in the East) about the Pacific Theater of WWII. Wow, brutal. I’m always hesitant to enlist combat metaphors when I’m talking about … well, anything, but in the case of cancer, it truly is what it is … it’s a war. Treatment is combat—you’re trying to kill your cancer, and your cancer’s trying to kill you. So, it’s only natural that listening to accounts of the close-range, brutal combat of the South Pacific islands would produce relatable images in my mind. My particular war has dragged on for some time now and has reached a somewhat fevered pitch over the past six months or so. I feel like I’m lying in a muddy, shallow foxhole, a mere fifteen or twenty yards or so from the enemy, and we’re just taking pot shots at each other and lobbing grenades back and forth. It ain’t pretty, but in some ways, it’s liberating (even comical in a “lost-your-mind” kinda way)—like, “okay, the only way outta this miserable hole is to blow that mutha to smithereens, so what the ****, hand me another grenade.”

I’ve also been watching the Spielberg/Hanks-produced Masters of the Air recently. It’s not quite Band of Brothers or even The Pacific, but it’s a solid depiction of the famed 100^th Bomber Group, a squadron of B-17 “Flying Fortresses,” tasked with an endless succession of missions to destroy targets in Nazi-occupied Europe. In less than two years, they lost 177 planes and 732 airmen, including an insane 77% of the original members. Watching Masters of the Air has put a vision or two in my head, as well. In these, I’m piloting a Flying Fortress myself. Flak is filling the air around us, blowing holes in our plane. Enemy fighters are swooping in, swarming, shooting. Before we know it, we’re taking on ridiculous damage—there are holes everywhere, engine 2’s out, engine 3’s on fire, our left rudder’s jammed, and we’re leaking fuel. Our ball turret gunner’s been knocked outta commission, our navigator’s yelling he’s been hit, and blood-splattered maps are blowing all over the place—it’s chaos.

Of course, I’m not the plane, I’m just the guy sitting in the pilot’s seat, trying to steer it, take care of it, get it back home. No, I’m no more the plane than I am my physical body. The plane’s just my temporary ride, just like my body’s no more than a few trillion atoms that, for a very, very, brief period of time (considering the history of the universe and, well, eternity) God has chosen to glob together to form “me,” and, in doing so, has allowed me to experience this amazing life He’s blessed me with. I love my plane, err body, even if it is not particularly attractive, getting kinda doughy, and is mediocre in every way imaginable—but it’s got a lot of holes in it. In the end, of course, all planes, whether they’re shot all to hell or just run out of fuel, cease to remain airborne. One day, those trillions of atoms will stop working in harmony, break away from each other, and go off on their own, only to reform some other object in the universe. This is okay. But I’m a long way from giving up the ghost, as they say. I’m gonna fly this sucker back to base, get it patched up as best I can, and get it back in the air for a few more missions.

One year ago (last 3/11), I finished the Frozen Foot Adventure Race in just under 8 hours. I stopped near the end of the race and made a thank you video for all the doctors who’d treated me and who were responsible for making the improbable actually happen. It was the kind of day that made me think anything was possible. I can vaguely remember thinking (absurdly) that if I worked hard enough, I might even be able to pull off another 24-hour race again at some point (my last one was in 2012?). It also marked the 20^th consecutive year I’d completed at least one AR race. Well, needless to say, that streak is in jeopardy now. I have to admit, that stings. Not the end of the streak itself, just the thought of being unable to do something that makes me feel alive. The fact I know I can’t race right now (can’t run or really even bike at the moment), has got me thinking about things I want to do in the future (or always thought I’d do) that might be … unlikely. Oddly enough, I’m not thinking about this in a sad way … in fact, in some ways, it’s actually kinda firing me up. I find myself putting odds on things …

• Adventure Racing this year … 1 / 50 odds (there aren’t many races on the calendar, and right now I can barely put my socks on by myself)
• Adventure Racing again, ever … 1 / 3 (c’mon, I got this, just gimme a baby sprint race and make Paddle Boy or JohnnyWash portage the canoe)
• Completing another 24-hour race … 1 / 300 (oh man, those are really hard on an aging body … even without cancer)
• Climbing Mt. Kilimanjaro again … 1 / 10,000 (time, money, logistics, age, cancer … but it sure would be cool to do it again, this time with one or some of my kids)
• Running a “real” mile (under 7 minutes) again … 1 / 25 (if you’re gonna lay a bet, this is the one with the best ROI, folks—I’m telling you, if we can cement my bones together enough to allow me to run at all, I will get back down to a 6:59)
• Running a 5K again, regardless of pace … 1 / 5 (3.1 miles? C’mon! Again, I just need bones that won’t crumble)
• Running a marathon again … 1 / 300 (forget cancer – knees, knees, knees, and did I mention … knees)
• Returning to Aconcagua to finish off the last 800 vertical feet … 1 / 3,000,000 (I always said I’d go back, but really? 23,000 feet? At this point? Twice as old and stage-4 cancer? Maybe things would fall into place the second go-round, but it’s hard to forget what a chaotic mess that expedition was)
• Building something, Fixing stuff, Landscaping … 1 / 3 (I might need this one the most—I like to work with my hands—I like physical labor—I gotta get this part of my life back)
• Lifting weights again … also 1 / 3 (I ain’t trying to break no records—I just need an almost-respectable dumbbell workout)
• Hitting a heavy bag again, for real … 1 / 50 (I love this … but the torque and stress it puts on the bones and joints, especially the spine … ouch)
• Playing a round of golf again … also 1 / 50 (I suck at golf and haven’t played in years … but oh, the warm nostalgia … played a lot as a kid … but again, the spine …)
• Filming The PR sequel … 1 / 25 (look, the script is ready … and Jagr Beero is putting the pressure on me … the issue is the stunt work, damnit—the script has me jumping from the back of a pickup onto my bike!)

So, there you have it, folks. Sure, there are some long odds on that list, but one thing you will notice … they all begin with a “1”. There’s always a chance. Anything is possible. Now, it’s time to mount the Peleton to get in a very short, very slow workout, while somehow keeping my back and neck perfectly straight. Because, as our favorite mall cop, Paul Blart, once said (in the sequel), “I don’t drink … but I do ride!”

A few, heartfelt words to those of you out there dear to my heart who know a thing or two about cancer and are fighting their own “wars.” Every person is different. Every situation is different. There is no one playbook for how to manage this. Somewhere in the tug-of-war between resistance and acceptance (which, I can tell you in my case, changes all the time), I suppose we each find our profoundly unique path. I won’t pretend to know what you are going through, but I can tell you that you are not alone. I feel your presence and your power with me in that shallow foxhole, and I hope you feel mine. May God bless you with comfort and peace.

Joe