I just wanted to successfully finish the 13.1-mile race.
Essentially, I lollygagged around for the first mile and captured images of the glorious sunrise and other sights that morning.
The race has been a healing and invigoratingly spiritual ritual. I had walked the AF half marathon in 2015 as well; I had undergone my first major brain surgery earlier that summer for a nonsecreting pituitary macroadenoma. My neurosurgeon was successful in removing all of the noncancerous tumor. In a nutshell, the benign tumor did not affect my hormones, but it did slowly grow from a microadenoma (first discovered in 2008) into a macroadenoma. Microadenomas measure less than 10 millimeters in diameter (about three quarters of an inch). In 2021, I underwent the same surgery a second time as the mass returned and its size, once again “macro,” was problematic.
The post-surgery periods challenged me: I was wisely instructed to not work, drive or bend over for six weeks. I was incredibly tired and congested the first few weeks, but I slowly started doing chair yoga, then walking a block a day, and then two blocks a day, and increasing the distance as I gained strength, confidence and balance.
As always, the AF half marathon provided marvelous incentive.
Around mile marker 3 or 4 of the race this year, I started chatting with a cute participant from northern Kentucky who had already finished the 10K that morning. I admired Annette’s perky ambition and down-to-earth persona. We talked for at least four hours during the race, stopping to take selfies at various points.
Honestly, the dilly-dallying paid off.
That morning, Annette and I felt as if we were the only ones on the race route. There was no competitive stampede of runners/walkers around us. It was quite lovely and soul-inspiring to travel this hilly path and share dreams, prayers and stories of family, grief and faith.
My life partner, Bobby Joe, and I started training for the race shortly after I was released from my four-day stint in the hospital.
After we triumphantly sashayed across the finish line, Annette and I found Bobby Joe at one of the hospitality tents. He had set a personal best for running the half marathon, and he patiently waited for me for several hours with bottled water and snacks in hand. I happily introduced him to Annette and then she left to join her husband and children who attended the event as spectators.
A bounty of blessings emerged on race day – including a lasting friendship with this delightfully energetic woman.
Operation redux
Last year, the surgical procedure proved to be perilous because of the tumor’s proximity to my optic nerve, pituitary stalk and carotid artery; but it was a success.
My brilliantly compassionate neurosurgeon, Dr. Ania G. Pollack, and her top-notch team of specialists performed a second transsphenoidal surgery, on Oct. 26, 2021, to excise the benign mass that had returned to its original size.
This time, however, additional complications hindered the delicate procedure. As my neurosurgeon was removing the mass, pulsations nearby implied a weakened arterial wall near my previously coiled, unruptured brain aneurysm. (Dr. Bryan R. Ludwig masterfully performed this procedure in 2011.)
As such, the whole tumor could not be removed without grave danger, Bobby Joe explained to me and my loved ones afterward.
Because the mass was not entirely gone, I underwent 30 days of “fractionated radiotherapy,” also known as “intensity-modulated radiation therapy” (IMRT), a few weeks later.
A name to remember
After the 2015 surgery, Dr. Pollack had said there was a 16% chance the mass would return. “Your pituitary stalk looks beautiful,” she said back then. She scheduled me for annual MRIs, MRAs and other tests. At that time, I named my plucky little tumor “Patrice.”
When I was a copy editor at this newspaper, I had read a wire story about Grant Reed, an Ohio State fan who named his tennis ball sized-tumor “Michigan.” He was diagnosed with brain cancer at age 11 in May 2012. He died a few years later.
Grant’s brave tale uplifted and inspired me. His was a terminal condition. Mine was not.
Accordingly, I named my petite mass “Patrice.”
Why “Patrice”?
As vice president of the high school French Club in Spearfish, South Dakota, I chose “Patrice” as my official name. This appellation appealed to my teenage self as it was feminine, maybe a little flirty, chic; and, in my imagination, Patrice rightly dwelled in the City of Light.
On Nov. 4, I had an appointment with my radiation oncologist. Dr. Gregory Rasp’s rundown on Patrice was quite positive: There’s a 50% chance that she stays the same size; 40% chance that she gets smaller; and a 10% chance that this little lady will grow bigger.
Those odds left me beyond elated.
Nowadays, Patrice and I have settled upon a graceful détente. It does me no good to consider her a frenemy.
Radical times
A year ago, my radiation oncologist was now in the driver’s seat on this next lap of what seemed to be an endless car race. Would it be Ford vs. Ferrari? Willow Springs? Indy 500?
On Dec. 7, 2021, I had two high-tech brain CT and MRI tests to set the treatment plan for radiation and also create a “mask” for me to ensure pinpoint accuracy of the beams.
Both imaging events were remarkably heady experiences, and I met some refreshingly honest and caring health care professionals. During the tests, the techs (including Memory, Toya, Tanya and Pam) and I talked about losing a loved one, divorce and how journaling was an effective coping mechanism.
On Dec. 20, 2021, my 30 days of radiotherapy began. As expected, the side effects included fatigue and a minimal amount of hair loss. Fifteen-minute naps and a gorgeous collection of berets and knit caps to cover a bald spot assuaged those minor issues.
After my last zap of radiation in January, I settled into the sofa that evening with a bowl of popcorn and watched “50 First Dates,” a 2004 romantic comedy starring Adam Sandler and Drew Barrymore. Memory had recommended the film. I thoroughly enjoyed, and needed, its message of hope, resilience and love.
My cool mask, which I was able to keep after treatments ended, stands out as my finest sci-fi fashion accessory. I plan to get creative eventually with this one-of-a-kind helmet.
Moving forward
Last month, I met with my radiation oncologist. Dr. Rasp had terrific news: My next visit would be in one year. As I made my appointment for 2023, I asked Julie to please say hi to Memory and the rest of the radiotherapy gang. Julie encouraged me to head back into the waiting room and say hello in person. Memory walked out and I waved. “Happy holidays,” I said.
She smiled and admired a Southwestern-inspired choker I was wearing that day with my denim shirt and jeans. “It was my mom’s,” I said, as she already knew my mother had died three years ago. I miss my mama so. But the little bits and pieces of her I feel through prayer, or discover as I still go through Mom’s boxes, assure me she’s in heaven.
“A Very Cozy Christmas” playlist by various artists is sweetly humming as I write. Sipping a cup of Pumpkin Chai Latte tea, I reflect on the past year. The unyielding support I have received from Bobby Joe, my mom’s second husband, my siblings, other family members, friends, colleagues, managers and employers (past and present) astonishes me.
They have shown me kindness, patience and clarity — on good days and some incredibly rough days.
And that unconditional love shimmers so brightly as the true spirit of Christmas.
Next Sunday’s column: What a new year might bring: more books, journals and workouts.
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