NOTE: I wrote this content back in August, one month after being diagnosed, and one month before surgery.
Some days I feel great, on others I feel a good deal of discomfort ( I hesitate to call it pain), and on others days, like today, I feel angry. I don't deserve to have cancer. I have been vigilant about my physical health my whole life. Starting with team sports as a high school student until today as an age-group competitive triathlete. I have run the Boston Marathon (in 2011) and completed my first 70.3 Ironman (in 2017). I am typically on the podium, if not the winner, in my age group for short triathlon races held in the Pacific Northwest. I also just missed qualifying for the US Team in the short distance age group national duathlon championships. I have taken care of myself my whole life. Cancer doesn't give a damn about any of that. Now I am a cancer patient, I am both dying from, and living with, cancer. The word sucks. It makes people cry, right in front of me. They think of only one thing – He is Dying! I discovered this condition on Saturday, July 28, 2018. I went in for what I thought (hoped?) was a kidney stone. I came out with a preliminary diagnosis of Stage 3 Renal Cell Carcinoma. I have an 11+cm tumor on my left kidney. There is evidence of local spread – swollen lymph nodes for one. I have had three CT scans, a chest X-Ray, and am awaiting a bone scan. For the past four weeks I have made the drive to the North East section of town, where the hospital and every other imaginable medical building is sited. The parking lots are full, the waiting rooms are full. I have become one more body in the long procession of people who are “sick!” I hate it! I read a lot about cancer. It never leaves you. Even if you think it does, cancer patients still make the trek to the local medical complex to get scanned, poked and prodded to see if “IT” has returned, showing it's ugly face elsewhere within the body. I can't out train this, out run it, or bike harder. For the first time in my life, control of my body has been ceded to others we call “Doctors!” I hate it! I am still in the process, despite all the URGENT referrals, of getting tested and prodded to finally reach a confirmed diagnosis and recommended regimen of treatment. I hate it! I think often of what I will do. Will I bend to the will of “those that know?” Or, will I bend to my own will, and retain control of my body. Meaning – do I refuse treatment? Yes, I am thinking of that. To me, there is a difference between extending my life and living my life. To say such a thing, even to think it, is abhorrent to those that hear it. Of course, you have to fight it, they say. Stay positive, they say. Fight the good fight, they say. I am expected to do so. Any other thought is selfish, wrong, misunderstood. I asked my doctor what would happen if I refused treatment. He said I would die. Duh! Oh, he said within two years – an estimate. If I get treated, maybe I hit the five-year statistical prize! But, at what price? Will I be able to train, will I bike, will I throw up all the time? Will I “learn to live” with the side effects. I hate it! Whenever I meet someone that I know, the first question is always, “How do you feel?” I hate that they ask and hate if they fail to ask! Understand? I now feel tired – always! I ride slower, and the response is “At least you are out here!” I hate hearing that. I don't sleep very well anymore The constant dull ache of this poison inside me, as it grows larger, attaching itself to whatever is near, wakes me at about 1 am. There isn't a position that is comfortable, so I watch the clock, waiting for it to turn to 5 am – my early limit. I hate it! I am tired, I am tired of being tired, and I want this to go away. I hate it!!
