heroes

January 11, 2015January 11, 2015 / jane in training / 6 Comments

I am not an alarmist.

Okay, I sort of am.

One time, I thought I was getting a strange skin growth on my face. Until I wiped it away. It was called peanut butter. Another time, I knew I was diseased when all of my fingernails suddenly turned orange. I forgot that I was experimenting with self-tanning lotion. (By the way, I also thought my car was diseased when the leather driver’s seat started to stain in strange spots.)

In 2013, when my friend Nancy told me she was feeling bloated and it wouldn’t go away, we joked about gas like ~~eight year-olds~~ ~~teenage boys~~ two mature and sophisticated women. She subsequently went to get her colon checked. It was healthy.

It turned out that she had a late-stage ovarian tumor that had started to secrete fluid into her abdomen. She fought hard to kick cancer’s ass and gave it a tremendous fight, but a year and a half later, she was gone.

She was 52 years old.

My friend S recently told me she had been feeling bloated.

Alarm bells blared in my ears. I didn’t want to hear them. I didn’t want to share them with her. But I did because I told myself that if any woman ever used the word “bloated” in a conversation, I would inquire further and gently ask them to consider seeing their gynecologist. Many symptoms of ovarian cancer are disguised as common symptoms that we all experience.

S was one up on me. She had already seen her gynecologist and everything appeared fine. Phew. Stupid alarmist. Why did you have to scare the crap out of me?

But as it turns out, all is not fine.

Ovarian cancer is nefarious. It slips quietly into a room and by the time you notice it, it has taken up most of that space. It’s greedy. It wants more. It wants to suffocate you from the inside out. And you can look for all sorts of reasons why it showed up in the first place, but one of those reasons could simply be, as scientists termed it: bad luck.

I love my female friends. They are my support system. And I have a hard time understanding why I would even have to consider giving them up. Why are they being attacked? While I’m at it: breast cancer, leave us alone, too. All cancers. Just go away.

Stuart Scott, an ESPN anchor and sportscaster, recently passed away from his battle with a rare form of appendix cancer. About six months before he passed, he said these heroic and inspiring words:

“When you die, it does not mean that you lose to cancer. You beat cancer by how you live, why you live and the manner in which you live.”

My friend S is transcendently forgiving, full of grace, and tough as nails. She will be navigating her way with the kind of light that you need to see through those dark places.

They don’t call it the hero’s journey for nothing.

time

September 10, 2014September 10, 2014 / jane in training / 11 Comments

I drove out to the Point Sur Lightstation last night to join one of the moonlight tours they offer every month. At first, my dramatic self didn’t want to go: Would being alone make the moon less beautiful? Would I feel even more alone going alone?

Get a grip, Sarah Bernhardt.

The wind up at the lightstation was fierce. I had visions of being tackled and catapulted across the ocean by this mack daddy of winds. I scanned the tour group to assess who would allow me to grab onto them without judging me. I now have a deep appreciation for sturdy frames.

As per usual, I was the only one who was there by themselves.

I’ve viewed a lot of sunrises, sunsets and moons as a singular person. In a way, I’m not really alone. It’s me and the sun. It’s me and the moon. Even when I’m with other people, it’s still just the two of us, sharing an understanding…sharing a secret together.

Last night I watched time pass as the sun set amidst a bank of clouds and the moon rose above the mountains.

When I woke up in the morning, my hair was like the Salvador Dali of bird nests, tangled by sleep and that maniacal wind. And then during this very ordinary moment, time stood still. I found out my loved friend passed away from ovarian cancer some time this morning.

…

“I don’t know, Jane…” She had said the last time I saw her. “The doctors say I have six months and I’m trying to be strong, but I don’t know…”

As I walked away from her, I suddenly turned back around, gave her a final hug and told her I loved her. We stood there together and cried in silence.

…

That was five and half weeks ago. And now she’s gone. My brain can’t compute it. But my heart, which I am learning to take more seriously, holds her close and revels for having known such a remarkable person.

I’m never alone. I never was.

Peace for Nancy. I hope she is seeing all of the most beautiful sunrises and sunsets ever imaginable.

“I just try to live every day as if I’ve deliberately come back to this one day. To enjoy it, as if it was the full final day of my extraordinary ordinary life…We’re all traveling through time together, every day of our lives. All we can do is do our best to relish this remarkable ride.”
~ “About Time”

The symptoms of ovarian cancer are often mistaken for other illnesses – for more information, please check out the American Cancer Society website to learn more about this disease.

Grateful

January 9, 2014January 9, 2014 / jane in training / 9 Comments

Runners’ highs sure are unpredictable. I thought they were gifted to you after a run or maybe during some kind of physical peak, not right as you began running. The High hit me as soon as I stepped foot on the trail. It’s possible that I was feeling extra good. Or maybe it was the caffeine. No matter. The run had me feeling extremely grateful.

I love to run on the trail along the ocean. It’s probably hell on my knees, but I’m not a sprinter or a galloper, nor do I run the entire time, so I feel like I’m not punishing them too much. After I completed my first 10k on New Year’s day, I was grateful to have finished. I didn’t care where I placed or if I lost time to take photos of the course. It simply wasn’t enough for me to take mental pictures – I had to capture this:

The view I have on my regular runs is spectacular. I get to see things like this:

and this:

I’m grateful to be able to see and experience all of the above. And not only with my eyes.

I’m grateful to have a voice that is growing stronger and am thankful that I know when not to use that voice (you should hear some of the things that go on in my head that luckily for you, I keep to myself).

I’m grateful for my health and for limbs that keep me going. Once castigated, my legs have told me, Don’t be ashamed of us anymore. Understood. My respect to you, you healthy burritos. And I say that with affection, not in a snarky way, per my usual self.

I’m also grateful for forums like this. For all of the Internet’s overindulgence and creepy-uncle aspects, it also opens up a world where people can connect in the best ways possible. It helps me grow and learn and discover. And in return, I hope I can extend that energy back out into the world.

As I mentioned in a post a year ago, I used to look at runners and think, “Really, now. Why?? Where are you even going?”

Where am I going?

Everywhere, with grateful intention go I…