Breathing easier these days

I am writing today in a better state of mind than I have experienced in weeks.

About a week or so after my last entry (yes, I know, a loooonnng time ago), I went to the dermatologist for a check-up. Long story short: They found melanoma in my leg. Melanoma in situ, that is, which as the doctors put it, "If you're going to get melanoma, it's the best kind you can get." I was surprisingly undaunted by the news, mostly because the doctor reassured me it was not anything to worry about. OK, I admit, I was neurotically worried -- not about the cancer, but about the surgery to follow; I had barely made it through the biopsy -- a virtually painless biopsy -- without passing out, so the idea of undergoing a giant incision to have the melanoma removed gave me the serious heebie-jeebies. (Yep, I am a wimp.)

And so, undaunted, I told my boss about the melanoma the next morning. I reassured him it was nothing even though I would be out of the office for numerous appointments, telling him, "It's cancer with a lower case "c," not an upper case "C." (Yep, we are editors. Nerds!) His response: "Yeah, but there's still the "-a-n-c-e-r" that makes it scary." Touché.

Another long story short: In the weeks, that followed, the follow-up X-rays showed a spot on my lung. And, in the same week, my family doctor found a lump on my breast.

No need to worry -- all is well. After many rounds of CT scans, ultrasounds and blood tests (good times!), no sign of cancer. Big sigh of relief.

I had the surgery a couple weeks ago, and they have confirmed that they removed all the melanoma. I had a lovely 4-inch incision, bruised and swollen, with giant Frankenstein-like stitches.

So, in the end, it was nothing to worry about. But what a strange experience. Isn't it bizarre how we respond to serious news? As, in the kind of news that brings us a few steps closer to our mortality?

I am embarrassed to admit, my very first response to the news that cancer was a possibility: "Wait, no, my running is the best it's been in my life. I am on the best streak ever. I can't stop training." Ah, yes, vanity, vanity, all is vanity.

My second response: "Wait, no, I can't stand needles and blood. I can hardly face the prospect of having a tourniquet put on my arm, much less having to be poked and prodded on a regular basis."

My third (and more nagging) response: "What if I leave this earth never having contributed anything to the world? Why me?" -- But why not me? Why shouldn't it be me? Doesn't it seem more fair that I get cancer rather than somebody who has a family, or somebody who is a Nobel Peace Prize winner, or somebody who is feeding starving children in Africa? -- "What would I be remembered for? And why is it even important that I be remembered?" These are the kinds of things that kept me awake at night, as my thoughts dipped into issues a little more existential than running PRs.

In any case, I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders -- which makes me feel more than a little guilty when I consider all the hundreds of thousands of people who have to face the true reality of cancer, and who have to go through round upon round of treatment.

Today I ran for the first time in about 1 1/2 months. The doctor told me I should take a little more time off if I wanted to prevent scarring from the incision. (Screw the scar, I'm crabby as hell when I don't run.)

It was an ugly, awkward, clumsy run. I looked like a fool, I know. I tried to spit off to the side in the grass and ended up spitting on myself. Nice. But it was sunny and beautiful, and Mt. Rainier looked gorgeous, and I felt great, despite feeling alarmingly out of shape. Who would've known how wonderful such an ugly run could be?