demons

I often peruse other cancer blogs, and go on breast cancer message boards to see how people are doing, how they cope, how they write about cancer, etc. I like seeing other people doing well, I like when they write interesting things about their battle with this disease, I admire people who can see it as "the enemy", whose subjugation will enable them to go back to "normal" life. I read, but truth told, I don't really relate. I seem to be very different from most cancer survivors. I'm not sure why, but I suspect that I've always battled demons, and cancer is just another one of them.

I also am not exactly what i show to the blogosphere (well, who is?) I mean I rarely blog about cancer. Does this mean I'm in denial about it? If I am, I'm glad. Unfortunately, I'm not equipped for denial. My mind collects, records, renders in full color and obsesses over any minute negative possibility. I cannot even leave the house without unplugging every light from every wall socket and knowing in great detail exactly where i'm going. I cannot hear the word "scan" without practically vomiting in fear. Hence, I do not do denial, try as i may.

Also, i'm rarely (present post excepted), introspective in my blogs. I guess I don't find the contents of my obsessive mad little mind all that interesting, and prefer to write bad puns and self-deprecating athletical stories.

I'm not, however, a fun individual. I'm not funny, I'm not strong, I'm not focused, warm or particularly good. I'm a woman who's got demons after her, and always has. I've always been outside, I've always been alone. This is not new. This was not brought on by cancer. Cancer did not suddenly change a healthy, well-adjusted, kind woman into a haunted, curse-obsessed ghost running for her life. Cancer grrl has always been haunted, always been chased here and there by obsessions, has been trying to flail her way blindly out of dark places for as long as she can remember. Cancer did nothing more than take some of the demons out of her head, and put them into her body.

And even though the cancer's gone... the demons aren't.

Maybe that's the difference.

tri report

The triathlon is done! It was easier and harder than expected (easier in the swim, harder in the bike and run), I was faster than I thought (in the run), and I actually felt better physically after the tri than I did after either of my two (last years) running races.

Also, I came out close to the top quarter of all racers, combining all times and my transition times. I mean, I'll take that! This wasn't near as bad as I thought I would be.

Of course my slowest time was in the swim event. Nonetheless, the wetsuit helped enormously. I didn't get super tired, although I did find myself swimming the long way round, because I kept forgetting to sight. It was darkish and foggy too. I was looking at minnows and fronds for a while, then i realized that all the flailing human bodies were headed a different way. Ah me. At any rate, it was over soon enough and I rose out of the water like the swamp thang, peeled off my neoprene carapace and donned biker chic.

At first I was elated to get out of the water and onto my bike, where I really do feel most at home. I started to fly...WHEEEEEE!!! I started to feel like I was just going to kick ASS. WHEEEEEE! ...
and then WHEEEEE gradually turned to "f**k. F**K. HOLY F**KING SH*T!" There were hills. LOTS of hills. Hills throughout the WHOLE course. And these were steepish hills. LONG hills. Short stocky fat hills that came one after another in an annoying steplike fashion. Hills with smaller hills on their peaks like massive pimples on a nose. I could not believe it. Later, I looked at the website, which actually described the course as "challenging". Why, thank you. I was not expecting challenging for this baby tri. Nonetheless. I persevered. However, I forgot that I was to hold back some mojo for the run. Also, my race number flew off my bike at one point, and I, like a stupid dummy, went back to get it. As I picked it up, someone whipped past me saying "oh you don't need that..." haha. But I am so damned anal that i held onto it for the rest of the ride. My pace was average of 16mph overall. This is no tour de france-type pace, but, hey, for me, on hills, it was ok.

Then, I had a surprisingly good pace on the running portion (8:18 min mile, which is also no elite pace, but is a good pace for me). This was amazing, because i was trying to run slow, just so that i wouldn't have to give up and walk, because, as already stated, I had sorta blown my wad on the bicycle portion. Running after biking did not feel good, despite the fact that in the gym, it often does. But then, in the gym, my bike training is usually pretty half assed, and the treadmill soft and forgiving... Here, my legs felt like they were slamming the pavement hard with every step. I tried to consciously make my footfall softer, but it wasn't easy... Additionally, at the beginning, someone handed me a packet of sports beans which i clutched the entire time, wanting to eat them, but not really knowing how to do it in a non-spastic manner. Thus, i did both the bike and run holding on to unnecessary objects. I suppose that is good training for wartime or something. I dunno.

I did my transitions in a leisurely and calm fashion. Since I used to perform in some rather prop-heavy shows, I am good at setting up my props and keeping that part of things together. I did not feel like rushing, especially since I was more interested in my separate times for each event than my overall time. Nonetheless, in looking at my stats, it would behoove me to shave a bit off those times...I mean, I could have had a light luncheon in the time it took to get from swimming to biking...

I've decided i am a fan of the triathlon. It has something for everyone. Enough physical punishment for the masochist, enough gear for the gear head, enough planning and lists and setting up for the obsessive compulsive, enough exercise for the fitness minded, enough of a "pack" for the social, and enough autonomy for us loners (after they call your swim wave, you are really on your own for the rest of the race, you basically make up your own schedule...)

I spose I'll have to get that swim time up, tho. If my swim percentile had matched my bike and run percentiles, I'd have done a lot better stat wise. Ah well. Maybe I'll just buy a better wetsuit...

Tri-not: Part 3: "the wet suit"

And so, today's installment of cancer grrl's tri-ing tales has her tri-ing to rent a wetsuit. It is appropriately entitled "Tri-umph of the Silly,"* or: "Sexual Dimorphism Through the Eyes of Young Triathletes..."

And the moral of today's tale is: Be ye not so silly as to attempt to rent a wetsuit in NYC a week before the tri.

Today, cancer grrl, after blithely enjoying a morning free of work worries (she is on VACATION!), and, after thoughtfully scrubbing the tub and laconically rinsing out workout clothing, ventured into the man of hattans (manhattan, for those of you unused to CG's continuing compulsion to dissect and/or backwardsify words), to rent a wetsuit.

Yesterday's delightful romp in the frothy briney (see Tri-not: Part 2) convinced CG that a wetsuit was this year's most necessary tri accessory. Why? well, those that know, tell you that the wetsuit keeps you warm, AND buoyant! Since I tend to be both hypothermic, and prone to sink like a stone, the wetsuit is a must-have for me.

However, again, pardon my stupidity, but, how was I to know that you had to rent these things eons before the actual tri? The answer to that is that I should have known. Anyone who has lived in NYC for as long as I have should know that the odds of desired/necessary object "A" being available when you desire/need it for event "B" decrease exponentially the closer you get to event B, given the high probability "C" that someone else exactly your height and weight and sex will come to the store that very morning to rent the last one of "A", and in all likelihood, will rent it exactly for your event "B". (The damned slut.)

Anyway. The day dawned cold and wet, in complete contrast to yesterday. I went to the store to rent my wetsuit. The man on the phone took my height and weight, and assured me that there were suits available in my size, a women's "medium".

However, when I arrived at said store, the damned slut who has my body had rented MY wetsuit for the very same time period that I would need it. There were no more suits in my size and sex.

I was desperate. What could I do? I asked for a men's small. And I tried it on, much to the amusement of the extremely young man waiting on me, who attempted, blushingly, to explain the difference in men's and women's bodies, which is apparently reflected in wetsuits. Therefore, he patiently instructed, the men's suit's crotch would sag and its chest would bind.

Haha. I had to laugh. I got the sucker on, although I almost gnawed my leg off in the process. The crotch was fine and the bust was fine. The SHOULDERS felt tight. Ah me. I did not wish to tell the young lad that he needn't worry about my secondary sex characteristics, because cancer and surgery took care of pretty much all of them, thank you very much. So I rented the suit. It is not optimum, but I am as comfortable in it as I can be, given that I'm not a fan of tight neoprene by any stretch of the imaginiation (sorry, hadda do it).

Now I have my suit, and will not drown. It would be good if I could practice in it, but, alas, this is not a perfect world, and will not be a perfect tri.

Thus spake Cancer Grrl.

*I recently viewed leni riefenstahl's "Triumph of the Will," the nazi propaganda film. It is a lovely film, capturing the nazi party "summer of love", and merry ole adolph h. doing his best to smile at the (aryan) children filling their puffy cheeks with certified fatherland-grown produce. Although riefenstahl goes out of her way to capture young, healthy germans, eating, washing, exercising and drilling (militarily of course) happily in the eternal sun of the third blight, and how inspiring it all is, all i could really think about was the monty python "Funniest Joke" sketch. "My dog has no nose! How does he smell! Awful!" Anyway, there's no way to view this movie without the perspective hindsight gives, so I'm not even going to attempt to say anything intelligent about it. See it for yourself.

But, see Olympia too. It is slighly less propaganda ridden, and worth it to see Jesse Owens kick butt.

Tri-Not: Part 2

Welcome to the continuing saga of my lighthearted and parsifal-like romp through the world of triathlons. This particular segment is titled, appropriately: "Fools Rush in Where Angels Fear to Tread." In case you wonder about my role in this story, I can safely tell you that I'm no angel.

As our heroine approaches the eponymous tri, she begins to quail a bit about the swim. Each piece of sage tri-wisdom and real athlete advice to newbies holds that it is important, imperative, and perhaps even completely absolutely necessary to practice an open water swim before you do an open water tri.

so, it was with some small trepidation, but no real knowledge, that I, on the sunny summer sunday that was yesterday, hooked up with these people for one of their more "relaxed" open water swims.

Ok. I mean. I had no idea.

"These people" were CHANNEL SWIMMERS, (and i'm talkin English Channel, not HDTV), ALCATRAZ SWIMMERS, etc. These people swim a mile in the time it takes me to swim 10 lengths at the local Y pool. These people were going to swim a leisurely 4 miles that very morning.

I told them in no uncertain terms that I would be swimming maximum 1/2 mile. They told me the direction, and where to sight. They told me that a white building some ways off was the 1/2 mile turnaround point. I said OK. Then I got in with them. And that is the last I saw of them (til they regaled each other later with speeds and distances, as I crept back to the starting lifeguard chair to recover my belongings).

And the white building? Damned building was the white whale, and I was Ahab. Damned building mocked me. Damned building backed away from me like a blissful dream receding as you climb out of morpheus's tender embrace, leaving nothing but an imprint on your yearning mind.

Well, I was not scared at all. Nor panicked. Rather i had this odd feeling that I was the butt of some huge joke. Like, uh, was I headed the wrong way? Was the pier actually a moveable painted backdrop? They were kidding about the white building, weren't they? And further, what actually happened to my stroke (never very good, but certainly not this bird-in-a-dirt bath flutter and flop)?

I flipped onto my back. I pondered the fractals made in the water by my spastic limb-fluttering. I pondered the brown water and its unpleasant temperature. I swallowed some, purely experimentally, I assure you, and discovered that, yes, indeed, it was coney island sea water. I flipped onto my side. My butt and legs grew even heavier. I looked at the pier. It was no closer. I attempted some freestyle again, but, for the love of pete I could not for the life of me get the rhythm. I reasoned that I had two choices: either i continue freestyle and forget about breathing, or I do something else. I chose to execute my flailing version of the backstroke for a few minutes more.

And the white building? White building be damned. There would be no white building for me today.

When I got about 20 feet away from the pier, I decided I had had enough. I could not freestyle at all. I headed in. I checked my distance. Yes folks, cancer grrl, our perhaps a touch overconfident tri-newbie, managed about a 150 yard swim. Next saturday, she is to swim 820 yards, and then bike and run.

(insert laugh track, as clown takes a bow)

Well. I got out, slogged landlubberishly and sheepishly back to the starting chair, and told the lifeguard I had returned, lest they drag the surf for my body, probably still sporting a confused, disbelieving look on its face. Then, I defiantly put my running shoes on and lurched off for a much needed, soothing, ego calming, run on the boardwalk. THAT at least felt normal.

So, here's the moral of l'histoire, and the point where I get to add to tri-wisdom: Do not worry grasshoppper. There will always be someone worse trained than you are. In fact, if your tri is next weekend... that someone may well be me.

two more infusions of herceptin on the wall, two more infusions of herceptin...

ok ok, it does not scan at all and would be very difficult to sing while drunk. however, it is more true than 99 bottles of beer on the wall, because, face it: how does all that beer get on the wall? I mean it is syntactically and grammatically perplexing. If it's on a shelf, why not say "on the shelf?" It scans the same for the love of pete. If it is indeed "on the wall" how does it stay up there? come ON people. It's not that difficult. Please, for me, invent songs that make sense. Especially drinking songs. The french do a good job of the drinking song that makes sense, in general. Usually about adultery, cuckoldry, and various acts of unpleasant, yet humorous, revenge. But, it all hangs together and makes sense. None of this "beer on the wall" crapola. my jeez.


Anyway. My version does make sense, and further, it is true. I only have two more herceptin infusions to go. Then, I get a variety of scans to make sure the herceptin pac men and ms. pac men ate all the bad cancer ghosts. Then, i get bloodwork done every 3 months. I'm told that although the old protocol was to do scans every 3 months, they are finding out that scans and bloodwork are equally as (in)effective in determining recurrance of breast cancer, and scans subject you to all that very bad radioactive juju. I am no fan of the scan, being both claustrophobic, and, slightly allergic to the iodine used in CT scans. Thus, I am glad I won't have to undergo them that often. I do not mind bloodwork. I mean, what's to mind? I am just masochistic enough to enjoy being jabbed regularly with needles. Seems a lot cleaner than lying in the hole of some damned toroid that has embraced and applied sneaky, snaky doses of radiation to a million ungirded and undignified human bodies...

I remember, as a child, when my mother told me that cosmic rays and gamma rays were going through me all the time, I was terribly uneasy, and could not stop fretting about it. It was an odd thing for her to tell me anyway, since she knew full well that I was completely unable to sit near electrical outlets, because I claimed that I could hear them and that fire was going to shoot out of them at any moment's notice.

What is my point? Well you tell me. I seem to have lost it. Point? Point? Are you there, point? I guess it goes to show why i prefer bloodwork to scans.

Anyway, I have nothing to blog about. So I am blogging about it. At least I'm not blogging about work, which would be unwise. Therefore, although this post is lame, it shall not be lost....

How not to do a triathlon

My training regimen for this triathlon is pretty bad. I didn't really start doing swim workouts until last week, (tri is on July 29), and basically, my swim workouts consist of a few laps of an aptly-named-in-my-case "crawl" that is so slow that I am regularly lapped by old ladies weighing 300 pounds and wearing flowered shower caps in order to keep their hair dry (they don't put their heads under water).

My bike workouts consist of a few miles of FLAT roads, and some half-hearted hill attempts at the stationary bike at the gym, the one that says it isn't out-of-order, but which still regularly tells me that my heart rate is either 55 bpm or 300. Extrapolating its accuracy in bpm to its elevation accuracy, i am either climbing the matterhorn or actually coasting pretty smoothly downhill at any given "hill climbing" moment.

And running...well, in my case it is really better described as "jogging", or perhaps "hobbling." In fact, I sometimes have to check to see whether I am actually jumping rope instead of running, because i seem to stay pretty much in the same place for long periods of time. And here I thought running was supposed to move you forward.

Trouble is, I don't look sick, cancer-thin, or out of shape. I look athletic. Thus, it's kinda embarrassing because people expect me to be able to do stuff. I'd much rather look like i'm on my last legs and then blow the competition out of the water, than look like I know what I'm doing and then turn out to be slower than the #1 train on the weekends.


Nonetheless, I am mentally as game as a young racehorse, although I may be physically more like something fossilized and reconstructed for the eddification of paleontologists....