The Big "C"

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about cancer.  It’s one of the fine print side effects of participating in a fundraiser for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society.  Cancer, “the Big C”, that most insidious class of diseases that turns a body against itself and steals those you love from right under your nose. 

Cancer took my Aunt Peggy when I was 12. She lived far away, so I experienced her decline through pictures. My once vibrant, silly, full of life aunt slowly shrank and faded away.  After that, I lived in fear of that boogey man showing up at our door. When I was 23 my parents sat us down to explain that the lump in my sweet, patient, brilliant Daddy’s neck was, in fact, cancer.  Most of that time is a muddled mess in my memory, but I can recall with uneasy clarity the feelings of angry terror. Although his treatment was fairly routine and he has been healthy since, the “Big C” changed us forever.

Before each team practice, someone is chosen to share a “mission moment”, the story of the impact of cancer on someone, a story of survival or a memory of a lost friend. It helps to keep us focused on why we are in training for this swim across the Hudson, reminds us that this is bigger than ourselves, bigger than the river, even; we swim to save lives.

The other day, during a “mission moment’, it occurred to me that while cancer may be the “Big C”, we are combining lots of “little c’s” that will win out in the end:

community

commitment

coaching

creativity

compassion

companionship

cheering

cash

crazy people

These are just a few of the “little c’s” that, when combined will bring us to the biggest “c” of all --- “CURE”.

Want to help us find a cure? Please donate today at http://pages.teamintraining.org/wch/Hudson11/egallagbvf

Fearing from the Sidelines

Last week, I got benched. 

I went to swim laps and as I started to get into the pool, I noticed that I was bleeding, a lot, from my leg. A vein, which migrated close to the surface after I was hit by a car a few years ago, had sprung a leak. As I sat in my own blood, pressing my hands against my leg, my biggest fear was that I would die in my bathing suit. I was mortified. The last thing I needed was probationary police officers and EMTs-in-training taking my blood pressure while I was practically naked and why hadn’t I bothered to repaint my toenails?  I think I managed to apologize to everyone, at least twice, for the horrible inconvenience I had caused.

An ambulance ride, a few stitches and a lot of tears later I was sent home with new rules.

No swimming for four days.

No open water for at least three weeks.

In the hospital, four days seemed like an eternity. How could I stop doing the thing that was becoming the routine, the thing that I had come to love and prioritize? Later, as I was trying to sleep, I kept replaying the scene over and over.  There are visuals that only time can erase.  They haunt and keep sleep at bay.  During the long night I came up with new questions. How will I ever face those lifeguards again? Why could I only think of two people to call? Why did I ever think I could do this? What if it happens again and I don’t notice until it’s too late?

I’m not sleeping the way I did last week.  Last week I came home wet and worn and slept easily. Today was the fifth day and I wanted to go swimming, but I couldn't do it. Suddenly, this adventure got scary and I am afraid. I try to think of the people I started swimming for in order to gather the strength, the children and adults who fight cancer, not as a hobby or on a whim, but because they have no choice.  Those who survive their ordeals continue on, knowing that danger is always lurking, but that every day is a gift.  

Tomorrow I will try to get back in the water for them.

I won’t give up because they can’t give up.

Photo by Brian Auer  http://www.flickr.com/photos/brianauer/

Label Maker

Quick, think of three words to describe yourself. Now, think of three words you think others might ascribe to you. Are they the same? Better or worse? Do they change?  I've been thinking a lot, during this training process, about the labels we put on ourselves and the ones we hope, or fear, others have put on us and how those labels shape our thoughts and actions.
When I tell people that I am in training for a swim across the Hudson, my expectation is always that they will not believe me.   I've never seen myself as athletic; I was always a chubby kid who loved to dance and sing and read, but an athlete? Not me. I've been called horrible, hateful things in my time by strangers and friends alike, but no one ever screamed "swimmer!" across a crowded cafeteria. Even when I played team sports I thought of myself as an outsider, waiting for someone to reveal my complete lack of credentials.
On our first night of practice I told my team that I had learned to live in the body that I have and to push that body to do amazing things, no matter its size or shape, but I wasn't sure any of us bought it. In the weeks since, I have started swimming as often as I can, carrying my swim bag around constantly, just in case I can't make it through the day without heading to the pool. Each time I get in the water I get a little stronger, breathe a little easier, trust in myself a little more, but there are moments when I start to worry about looking foolish, being too slow, not really being an athlete. I've come to realize that my greatest challenge is not a three mile Hudson River crossing or a fundraising goal (though please feel  free to donate); my greatest obstacles are the words I have written on my soul and adopted as essential characteristics.
I've struggled with whether to publish this post, because, let's face it, the internet is not Mr. Roger's Neighborhood, but even the Neighborhood of Make-Believe had a Lady Elaine Fairchilde. My challenge to myself this week is to remember that most labels are only affixed with glue and that I have control over what gets written below "Hello, my name is..."

The Buddy System

The first few weeks of training have been much harder than I anticipated; I have struggled to breathe properly and felt like quitting a hundred times already. Being part of a team is wonderful, but also an added stress because everyone else seems to be swimming faster, progressing farther and generally just being better than me.  As much as I know none of them are judging me as harshly as I judge myself, the fear of failing creeps in and makes me panic. Panic doesn’t help with breathing.

As children we are taught that when we are in the water we should have a buddy, someone to keep an eye out for us, to hold our hand as we jump waves, to alert the adults should something go terribly wrong.  As we grow up, most of us stop relying on the buddy system, trusting in our own skill or expecting that the lifeguards to keep us in their sights.  Perhaps we shouldn’t be so hasty to let go of the hands of those who are willing to be our buddies.

A few nights ago I had the pleasure of swimming with my friend who has agreed to be my unofficial training partner.  The term partner is used pretty loosely; because aside from my willingness to show up, I’m not sure I bring much to the relationship (I can picture her rolling her eyes as she reads this).  As a former competitive swimmer and swim teacher, she is a great source of knowledge and encouragement even when doing drills that make you look silly. 

We swam together and she kept pushing me to go a little further, swim a little faster and to stop whining, the latter being the hardest challenge of all. About midway through our workout, I realized that we were laughing, chatting and exchanging barbs (and the occasional hand gesture) all while doing kickboard laps and I wasn’t wheezing.  Somewhere along the line I had started to have fun.  Her willingness to stay with me, pushing, challenging and teasing made the struggle far less painful, even enjoyable.  It was good to have a buddy, someone who could help quell my fears, remind me to breathe, and still push me to do a little more than I thought I could.

Show me the Monkey!

If you want to know, and even if you don't, here are two truths about me:

1. I am a child of public broadcasting, as such, I believe wholeheartedly that generosity should be repaid with commemorative items, the kitchier the better.

2. I have an unusual relationship with a sock monkey.  His name is Sackal and he likes to have adventures.  He was given to me by a wonderful friend last winter, and soon became a fixture on my facebook profile because he's kind of a ham. He has a yellow swimsuit he calls the banana hammock, but I'm not sure what he means by that.

What do these truths have to do with anything?  Well, Sackal has generously volunteered to serve as a pin-up for a limited edition 2012 calendar, which will be given to everyone who donates $100 or more to the Leukemia Lymphoma Society in support of my swim, and everyone who donates at any level will receive an autographed Sackal photo.  If you would like to support the swim please click here http://pages.teamintraining.org/wch/Hudson11/egallagbvf  

Sackal and I have some ideas for his photo shoot, but we could definitely use your help. Please send your ideas in the comment section and help make this the best calendar ever.  Also, we're having a bit of a debate for October; lederhosen and a little stein or dressing up as one another, you decide!

Thank you all for your support. 

<3

Lighthouses

The first team training went exceptionally well. Everyone was friendly, nervous and excited about this experience we're embarking upon and I think that together we will do great things. My body was happy to be back in the water, though my lungs were less enthused. Building up stamina will be my greatest challenge this summer.

  

The morning after practice, I awoke feeling slightly sore but somehow stronger, more accomplished. My phone was blinking with new emails and I saw that I had received my very first donation; not from a badgered friend or family member, but from a stranger. A friend had passed along my blog, and her friend, a four year survivor of non-Hodgkin's lymphoma appreciated my efforts and decided to chip in.  The rest of the day I felt like nothing could bring me down. Her generosity toward a stranger reminded me how closely we're all connected, by friends, by love, by diseases and challenges.

  

In the days since, I have been visiting my family by the ocean. Our small town has a very tall lighthouse which strangers can never seem to find (hint: it's at the end of Lighthouse Blvd.) For me, the official start of summer is the first time someone asks for directions to the tallest structure in town. If they're nice, I tell them the truth. As funny as it seems to have to show someone the way to such an obvious landmark, we all need help finding the clear path some days.

  

The weekend was mostly lovely, but I had some seriously rough emotional waters to navigate.  There were moments when I felt all was lost. In those moments, I relied heavily upon my own lighthouses, my family and my dear friends. I thought of my first donor, a stranger who believes in me, and felt certain that even in the darkest days I will somehow make it safe to the other shore.