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Dear Mr. Trail,
Thank you for your comment, but you misunderstand.
The trail is not a metaphor for cancer. My fear of this section of the trail is a metaphor for my fear of cancer. Cleaning the section is facing my fear.
“Flipping Cancer the Bird” is about conquering fear.
My niece made this drawing of me in my orange cast. I think it's quite an accurate depiction.
It's really hard to type with this damn blue cast on my arm. I wish I'd stuck with the orange. I have a lot to write about, but I just can't do it until this thing comes off. . .
I went to an orthopod in Needham yesterday and he changed me into a longer cast!
I thought he might say that it was not so bad and that I did not need a cast. Rather, he said that the bone is fractured all the way through and that I need a cast over my elbow so that I cannot twist my wrist and cause the two pieces to shift. He did not have orange, so I had to settle for blue. At least he gave me the kind that can get wet so it is somewhat easier to shower. I had to pay extra for that because insurance companies will not pay for the great luxury of a cast in which one can shower--cost me $30 extra ($15/roll). It is, however, now almost impossible to type because of the angle of my elbow! I'm doing the one-handed thing. I might have to find some kind of voice recognition software as this will be going on for quite some time, it seems. He will re-check in two weeks and I'm hopeful that I can switch back to a shorter cast at that time.
I still kinda feel like I'm a badass -- it's pretty fun to say I had a mountain biking accident -- sounds impressive. Although some people just look at my face and then look away, afraid that perhaps I am a victim of some sort of violence, I think.
On Sunday, April 17, I had brunch with Rea, Milissa's stepmother and my friend. We spent several hours together looking at a project she's working on and talking. After that, I headed over to McDowell Mountain to ride the race loops one last time before I had to go back to Boston. When I arrived, there was no ranger at the pay station, so I had to self-pay. I was mad when I found that I had only $10s and $20s -- the entry fee is $5. Rather than not pay, I gave a $10. Then, when I parked the car and got my gear on and readied myself to take off, I found that the battery in my GPS was dead. I am so obsessive about recording my biking and I was pissed off. There was no good reason for the battery to be dead -- I had just charged it. I guess it may have gotten switched on while it sat in my gear bag.
Anway, I took off for the ride sans GPS. Well, actually, it worked for about ninety seconds before dying. So, I started off on the Sport Loop, an easy 3 mile trek. It intersects the Technical Loop, so I veered onto the Tech loop about 2 1/2 miles into the ride. The Technical Loop has these intense vertical drops which scare the shit out of me. Sometimes I do them, sometimes I walk them. I took the first drop without incident, although I did take the easiest line. After that drop, there is a long, technical climb. I was chugging along on that climb and my rear derailleur kept slipping and the chain would move between the two smallest cogs on the cassette. Not only was it pissing me off, but it was screwing up the climb.
I kept pushing and came upon two men with shiny new red Specialized full-suspension bikes. They were walking the ascent. I pedaled by them and they encouraged me on. I had to stop briefly right after I passed them because of the rear derailleur. But, I was making the climb and they were walking the climb. I did have to touch several times, but only because of the derailleur. I was very concerned that they would not understand that my pauses were not due to lack of skill, but due to my messed up derailleur.
So, when I made it to the top and came upon the major drop, I knew I had to take it without pause to show them just how tough and kickass I really am. I pointed my wheel and went over the edge immediately regretting the decision. In that moment of regret, I panicked and touched the brakes. That's all it took. It was almost like slow-motion. I felt the rear wheel lift up off the ground behind me as my body was propelled forward over the handlebars. The slow-motion moment of time I spent airborne was abruptly curtailed by the smack of my helmet agaist the ground as time started moving at its normal pace once again. My left wrist joined my helmet to absorb the initial landing. I must have bounced several times given the amount of bruising and abrasions that cover my face and body. Finally, I came to rest on my back, grasping my arm and swearing:
"Godammit-motherfucker-sonofabitch-shit-shit-shit-fuck-damn-ahhhhhhhhh," I yowled.
The specialized boys came upon me and one called down, "Are you all right?"
"Sonofabitch-shit-shit, no, man--motherfucker-shit!"
"Just hold on, I'm coming down." He skidded down the steep drop to where I was laying. "Okay, just take it easy," he drawled.
He and his friend consulted one another about what to do while I lay there swearing. They decided to get me up and walk my bike and I back to the parking lot. They left their nice, shiny new bikes there on the trail in order to take me back.
They got me up off the ground and one of them rode my bike back to the lot while me and the other guy walked. He was very kind and held me up the entire way.
"My name's Kevin," he said, "what's yours?"
He made small talk all the way as I swore and moaned. He had a nice southern drawl and told me that he had just moved to Scottsdale from Alabama. He and his friend were personal trainers and had moved to the area to open a personal training salon. He said that his wife was back at the parking lot and that she was a nurse and would know what to do.
We finally made it back and the wife took over while the nice men went back to get their bikes. She tried to clean me up a bit, but it was sort of a lost cause. Mainly, I wanted to figure out where a hospital was because I knew my arm was broken. Another biker showed up from a ride and offered to take me to an Urgent Care place that he knew. So, off I went with him.
My dad met me at the Urgent Care facility where they confirmed that I had indeed broken my wrist. They could only splint it, however, because they did not have the facility for casting there. I also damaged the middle finger of my right hand quite severely. The x-ray revealed no break there, but the knuckle is purple and the finger is about 1 1/2 its normal size. The irony of my "bird finger" getting injured in this crash cannot be ignored. But, I must contemplate this further. At Urgent Care, in addition to splinting my wrist, they cleaned all of the dirt from my abrasions, making sure to reopen all scabs. That was fun, but not too bad because they did that after they had given me a shot of demerol.
I extended my stay in Arizona in order to see and orthopedic surgeon. Milissa was concerned about me walking around with a broken wrist with no cast and no ortho consult. So, I saw that doctor today and they gave me a nice orange cast to match my bike.
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| April 17, 2005 (day of crash) | April 18, 2005 | April 19, 2005 |
Jim, a man who joined the cancer support group shortly before I left gave me a great gift. One evening in group, we were all discussing the difficulty in making plans for the future—cancer takes the unquestioned future away from you. While others make plans and assume that they will continue on, after you have cancer, it is difficult if not impossible to do this. Jim said that he delights in making plans for the future and that every time he makes a plan he feels that he is “flipping cancer the bird.” I love this.
Jim is probably in his late fifties or early sixties and is not a man that you would expect to utter such a phrase. He was diagnosed with lung cancer and had part of his lung removed.
Flipping Cancer the Bird has become a mantra for me. As I train to race mountain bikes, I think about how I am flipping cancer the bird. I make plans and I have goals and I will be successful. Fuck cancer.
I am in Arizona. Yesterday I was riding the Long Loop at the McDowell Mountain Race Loops and I came to a rocky ascent that I consider a personal nemesis. Last year as I was making my way up, I hit a loose rock, lost control of the bike and fell hard, slamming my knee into a sharp rock. It hurt. It hurt a lot. I lay on the trail for a bit thinking of how I might die there because my knee was broken into pieces. It was not, but there was a lot of blood and some serious bruising. I finally picked myself up and walked my bike to the top of this particular ascent.
Since that fall, I have not ridden to the top of this particular rocky ascent. At the slightest sign of danger, I stop and clip out and walk the rest of the way up. This time when that happened, I said, “fuck cancer.”
I turned my bike around and coasted back down the hill to start over. I did not make it. I turned the bike around again. I said, “fuck cancer.”
I did not make it. Fuck Cancer. I turned back around to try again. I did this approximately fifty times (okay, maybe twelve), but it was worth it. The last time, I gritted my teeth and pedaled hard. I pushed my legs, tightening my quads, mashing the pedals and refusing to clip out. I cleaned the ascent and I cleaned it beautifully. Fuck Cancer.
Once I was at the top, I laid my bike down and sat on a rock. I was breathing hard and feeling very good. I looked down and between my feet were two attached chain links partially buried on the desert floor. After photographing myself and the links, I picked them up to take them as my reward for giving cancer the bird.
To me, Florence is the quintessential New Englander—reserved, self-effacing, and perhaps a bit repressed. She has strong, sharp features that reveal a beautiful bone structure with salt and pepper hair and small frameless glasses that often slide down her thin, angular nose. Her skin is milky white and she has long, thin fingers. Her soft manner and quiet voice belie a great wit and intellect. Florence is from the South. I did not know this until last Saturday. I am sure that she probably mentioned it at some point, but I am so consumed by my own fantasy of who Florence is that I somehow missed this fact.
I found out that Florence is from the Georgia at her memorial service on Saturday, so I suppose I should be using past tense when I write of her. She was in my cancer support group. She was too young to pass—58—and I was not ready for her to go. I know she was not ready—she said as much in group as we watched her waste away, arriving each week thinner and more vulnerable than the last. Her passing has been awful. Each time a member passes, it is awful, but each time is uniquely awful. With Florence, I just was not prepared.
I had decided over a month prior that it was time for me to leave the group and finally determined that last Monday would be my last night. I was emotional all day which surprised me. I walked into the meeting room and sat down to immediately be told that “Florence died last night,” by the woman seated next to me.
I felt like a steamroller had done it’s business on me. I was dumbfounded and absolutely stunned. Florence had been visibly sick. Her weakness was evident each time she arrived for group. I was often surprised that she could even make it to group. But, that was one of the really charming things about Florence: no matter how awful she felt, she would come to group and proceed to dismiss her own suffering. She would offer quiet, thoughtful advice to others in the group with comparatively minor issues as she tried to arrange her body on the couch in a way that would be comfortable. I do not think she ever could find a comfortable position, but she never complained. At times, she would double over in pain, but do so as quietly and unobtrusively as possible.
One evening as group broke up for the evening, Florence walked past me as I stood outside speaking to another member. She was in such pain that she could hardly walk to her car. She was holding her side and limping. I asked her if she was all right. She was reluctant to acknowledge that she was suffering, “Oh, I’m okay. I’m just having a little pain.”
She insisted that once she made it to her car and was seated that she would be fine. I offered to drive her home, but she refused. I offered to follow her in my car to make sure she made it home, but again, she declined. I sent her an email when I got home to be sure she made it home. She replied and minimized her problem and thanked me for my concern.
I miss Florence. I feel sad that I never told her how delightful I found her to be in the world. I will so miss her quiet, intelligent voice. Her phrasing was brilliant and charming. She lived with a man with whom she shared her life for over ten years. Whenever she spoke of him in group, she did not simply refer to him by name. Instead, invariably, she would say, “Dudley, the fellow I live with. . .” in soft, somewhat halting words as she nervously straightened out her shirt. She just assumed that we would not remember who Dudley was—that we would not hold the details of her life. That makes me so sad because I did hold the details of her life—the ones that she shared. And, I liked her so much. I always felt as if she minimized her presence in the world, reluctant to ask for anything for herself and yet the first to offer assistance to others.
I wish that I would have told Florence how much she moved me—how very lovely she was as a person and how wonderful it was that she was in the world. I wish that I would have told her how significant her presence was to me. I will miss her and am so very sad that she is not in this world anymore.
Today is the day. Two years ago today I called my doctor for biopsy results. I expected to hear about uterine fibroids, but instead she reported, "You have cancer." I brought a yellow legal pad with me to the telephone so that I could write down the details about the anticipated fibroids and the treatment. I wrote down 'cancer' and 'hysterectomy.'
I'm okay now. I'm good. Today is a hard day still. But, I'm okay. I am training to race mountain bikes. I have a new beautiful studio space and I am working. I brought my little westie, Sara, to the studio today. She is sniffing around, curious. This afternoon, I am going to the movies with Milissa and then we will go out for dinner. I am okay.