This blog post, as mentioned in my previous blog post “How My Cancer Journey Began,” is one of the only two blogs that I chose to keep in their original form. As I looked back on these blogs in April and May of 2019, I felt that these two were the best I had written. I had taken the most time to write these and they were the most raw, emotional, and powerful.
Below is an exact copy of the blog post “Thoughts Before Running Across the Country.” I wrote this a few days before the 4K for Cancer started while I was on the plane. It was published on June 16th, 2019.
This blog consists of my final thoughts before this whole adventure starts for real. It has some things that I’ve only told my closest family and friends. I hope everyone reads this blog post with an open mind and understands that I didn’t write it for pity. These are simply my thoughts over the past few days as June 16th looms closer and closer. I do apologize if I’ve missed anyone in this post, there are just so many incredible people who have come to my mind and have helped me to get to this point. Too many to mention. I hope you enjoy reading this.
I have struggled with my whole cancer experience for quite a while. The life-changing events have led me to change my perspective on life, my choice in career, and has opened a whole new realm of possibilities. Despite the harsh effects of the treatments and surgery, the complications, the emotional turmoil, and the physical challenges, I wouldn’t change anything. Without having gone through everything starting almost four years ago, I would never be on a plane heading across the country. I would never have bought a one-way ticket to California just to run back. If you had asked me five years ago where I would be right now and what I had done, there is absolutely no way that I would have predicted most, if not all of it.
On the contrary, however, this very same experience that has given me so much has also come to haunt me. Having been treated in both a children’s as well as an adult’s hospital, I truly saw how there was no place for a young adult patient, or their loved ones, going through this type of trauma. In the children’s hospital, there were playrooms, bright and cheery colors, and so many parents. I was almost always the oldest patient walking through the halls. I’d pass by an infant who was only months old, an elementary student, or middle school student, all being treated for cancer. I don’t know if the effects of the cancer diagnosis were more evident on the innocent and scared faces of the kids, or on the exhausted and worried faces of the family. Either way, I felt out of place as a sixteen and seventeen-year-old. The volunteers that provided entertainment and different programs within the hospital were excellent, and I utilized many of them. I still felt out of place though. In the adult hospital, I quickly realized there was no place for a young adult there either. I was the youngest patient by two decades at least. So many patients had all the signs of an aging body worsened by the effects of a cancer diagnosis. In my time there in the adult world, I saw more crying, and distraught family members, than I had the months before in the children’s hospital. I realized, as you get older, your prognosis worsens due to the body’s slowing processes. I distinctly remember my neighbor in the unit saying he doesn’t want to continue radiation anymore. I remember the family, continuously coming in for days after that, all having quiet words with the doctors and nurses. All of them with tears streaming down their faces. I remember when that room went quiet. I remember when the visitors stopped. I remember seeing that empty room, with a single lamp setting an eerie tone when I passed by. Mr. Rodriguez was his name. There was no place for a young adult here either.
When someone is diagnosed with cancer, their family becomes their entire life. The threat of death quickly teaches someone what is important and what they cherish most in life. It makes someone reconsider everything. It brings out the good in people, the love, the happiness. The stress on your body and your emotions changes your family dynamic. Your family is affected by the treatments almost as much as you are. I remember my family downstairs in the family room keeping me company as I slept in the recliner. There was no way to get away from the immense amount of pain I was in and the recliner was the only way to escape the pain enough to go to sleep. My mom, dad, sister, and brother all slept on the couch or floor. Helping me to go to the bathroom almost every hour. Helping me to take my pain medicine. Right from the beginning, that first night in the family room, my family was keeping me from jumping off the ledge. I don’t think they knew this then, but I was already struggling. Without them, there is no way I could have gotten through treatment. Their support came through in the best of times, and the worst of times, and will always remain there. I will always be grateful for everything that they have done for me.
My mom flexed her hours at work and even took a brief leave of absence so she could become more caregiver than working mom. My dad took up a new, more stressful job, so we had better health insurance. My oldest brother Kevin lives in San Diego and would get updates from us, but his support was always there as well. My other brother Justin graduated college and I missed it because of how sick I was. Our aunt came over our house and I remember watching the live stream on the TV with her. My twin sister Aly was always strong. She continued to tour, apply, and look for colleges since we were both finishing our Junior year in high school. The fact that we used to have most of our classes together, and it had been this way for our whole lives, and suddenly I was in cancer treatments while she continued to go to school, was tough on both of us. She continued to go to class while the entire school asked her about me daily. When you come from a small town, everyone reaches out with their support. They would all ask her about me, and few would ask about her. The attention was on me. Mr. Kessler, our band teacher, was probably the best supporter for Aly. I can’t imagine having been in her shoes if our roles were switched.
There are so many countless people that reached out for support. Some of my family sent cards weekly and these always gave me a smile. My closest friends came over to talk and visit. It was quite a change from running outside together, hiking, and being active like we usually were. Yard games and sitting on couches were the new norm but they were completely okay with it. Their support never failed. Sometime around August 5th, Aly’s and my birthday, they all threw us a surprise birthday party. It was probably one of the few times that both of us didn’t think about the treatments for a few hours. It was normal. I will never forget the “Run for Ryan” that my friends in the AP science classes coordinated for me, or the food, the books, and the jokes that everyone brought over. The number of teachers and kids at school was incredible. I will never forget the pictures of all the people lined up in the hallway to shave their heads at school. Even two girls completely shaved their heads. I still have the pictures, the books, and everything that people had given me. The handmade wooden relay baton, signed by everyone on the track team, is still proudly displayed in my room. Our neighbors cooked dinner for us multiple times a week and even planned to bring it over when we would be busy with my doctor’s appointments. My AP chemistry teacher came to our house and tutored me multiple times between treatments. Then she proctored the exam for me in the kitchen. I wouldn’t have passed without Mrs. Furlong helping me do this.
There are way too many supportive friends and family to mention them all. It astounded both me and my family just how many people came out to support us. The good in the world was truly displayed.
Despite all of this, I was struggling, just like any other patient in my situation. I loved and appreciated all the support, but at the same time, I felt like no one understood what I was going through. I hated when someone looked at me with pity or sorrow, and I despised when someone said, “they understood what I was going through.” There was just no way that this was true. There was one person who really helped me anytime that I spoke with her though.
Two weeks after I was diagnosed, my cousin, Laurie Wimler, was re-diagnosed with ovarian cancer. She had received surgery previously but had just been given the news that it had come back. Over the course of the next few months, we talked on the phone occasionally and were even able to visit every now and then. Of course, this only happened when we both didn’t have doctor’s appointments, we both were feeling good (which became quite a relative term), and our immune system was somewhat strong. Keep in mind, chemotherapy was designed off gases used in war. So, visiting each other only happened a handful of times through treatment. Those talks and visits, as few as they were, became extremely important to me. I am not sure if Laurie knew how much she always made me feel better after talking with her, but I hope she felt the same way I did. I felt that she was the only person who understood what was going on with treatments and how it made us feel. I knew that when she said, “I understand,” she did understand. Even though we were in different places in life because I was still in high school and Laurie was in her fifties, I will always appreciate the support that she gave me. Soon though, things changed. My blood counts started to improve, and Laurie’s did not. I remember when Laurie started a clinical trial, her last hope just as I ended my chemotherapy treatments. I remember coming home from school one day, after I had received an all-clear, to go visit Laurie in hospice. I remember how Laurie planned her own funeral. I remember crying at her funeral. Survivor’s guilt is real. The amount of guilt and questioning of God, Fate, and whoever is in charge up there, still enters my mind.
For a while, this guilt that I was alive, and Laurie was dead, consumed me. I didn’t appreciate life; I didn’t understand why God had chosen me to live and not Laurie. I still don’t. I was depressed. I never told many people, but I think my closest friends and family could tell something was wrong. My mom often encouraged me to find a support group, but I never did. The only way that I could get away from this guilt was to push it away. Going to Sacred Heart University in the fall after graduation and Laurie’s death, was quite literally a fresh start for me. I didn’t tell even some of my closest friends about Laurie, or my cancer for the longest time. No one knew except a handful of people. I kept myself busy so that I didn’t think about it. Sometimes, when I have a free moment, that guilt and then the depressed moods come flooding back. But then I busy myself and it goes away.
I want to give back. To show my appreciation and my support for everyone who has helped my family and I. When 4K for Cancer came along it was the perfect opportunity. I could finally do it. Even more excitingly, I would be fundraising for the Ulman Foundation. After some research, I quickly realized that I wish I had known of all the different resources that the foundation provides. Ulman provides support specifically to young adults, and their families, impacted by cancer.
So, in a few short days, I am running in Laurie’s name with the 4K for Cancer. I am running to honor her and everyone else who has been impacted by cancer.
I have so many things I am nervous about. I know I am okay physically, to handle the task of running across the country, but emotionally I am not so sure. Will the downtime and the constant reminder of cancer prove to be the opposite of therapeutic? Will the 4k for Cancer open old wounds instead of providing closure? Will the guilt come flooding back? I’ve pushed this experience to the furthest part of my mind and chosen not to forget, but to avoid. Now, I am confronting cancer one step at a time. If I could change one thing about Laurie and I, it would be that I was there for her more as she received hospice care. It was too tough, emotionally, to visit her while she lay dying and I went to track practice. I stopped going. I was afraid I would only make her feel bad by simply being there in her presence. I was afraid that she would not be at peace if she was reminded that I made it and she didn’t. That I was back in school, had graduated on time, and she was in hospice. I was selfish because, with every visit, it only worsened the survivors’ guilt that I was feeling. In the end, I feel like I let her down.
While writing this on the plane, I’m realizing now why I have been nervous leading up to these few days before June 16th. This summer, my biggest worry isn’t that I won’t be able to manage the toll on my body, or that I will have trouble bonding with a team of other friends I haven’t met yet. I know these things will be hard, but I’ve done everything I could to train and I won’t be the only one who has these worries. What I am most nervous about is letting Laurie down again.
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