Tattoos, Tanning Booths, Sunscreen and Zingers

Tattoos

My husband hates tattoos.  They are so popular now that he admonished me not to long ago “Never get a tattoo!”  Now I have two!  As a breast cancer patient receiving radiation, I got a tattoo on either side of my breast, to help the technicians make sure the radiation is going to the same place each time.

Getting the tattoos was hilarious.  I went to Massey Cancer Center downtown and put on a dressing gown.  A nurse came and got me.

“Are you going to give me my tattoos?”  I asked.

“Yes, I give you prison tattoos!” she said in a thick Russian accent.  I trembled.

“Prison tattoo?  I was hoping you would do this,” I said, showing her a picture of an “Ironman” tattoo that many of my friends have gotten.  It is called an “M-dot.”

She looked at it admiringly.  “Pretty!” she said.  I was hopeful.

“NO!  You get prison tattoo!”  she concluded.

And so I got the standard issue prison tattoo.  No colors, no liveliness.  And symbolizing something a lot harder, I’ve got to tell you, than an Ironman.

Tanning Booths

Radiation isn’t nearly as bad as chemo, though.  I was told the main side effects would be sunburn and fatigue.  Both side effects would get worse and worse during my six weeks of treatment, and subside a few weeks afterward.  I told the doctor about my fitness level, and he said this would mean I wouldn’t have any trouble with the fatigue getting in the way of my work and day-to-day living.  “But you will have a crummy run one day,” Dr. Arthur said, “and you will blame me.”  He is a marathoner himself, so he knew how to make me laugh.  “I’ll do that!” I promised.

I got my radiation treatments every weekday at 6 pm at the Stony Point location of Massey Cancer Center.  Dr. Arthur admonished me that I could not miss a single appointment.  “Don’t be telling me you’re busy at work and you can’t get here.” he said.  I think he’s met lawyers before!  I did manage to get to all my appointments on time, often telling folks that I had to go to my tanning booth appointments.

Going to radiation is, in some ways, like going to the gym.  Or the tanning booth. I go through the main entrance and sign in with the same guard every night. Then I say hi to the receptionist in radiation oncology and she buzzes me inside.  From there I go to a dressing room and change, and then I sit and wait my turn, with ladies who become my friends over our weeks together. A technician gets me and I go into a gigantic room with a huge machine in the middle. There is a second technician helps me lie on a table. There is a block under my butt so I don't slide down, and then I lift my arm over my head and rest it on some padded armrests. After they get me all adjusted they step out of the room. A big screen thing begins to lift up, slowly, tracing from left to right, in an arc, across my chest. As it goes I can feel the progression as tingles that move along. It is really strange feeling. The treatment only lasts a few minutes.


Sunscreen

After a few weeks, my breast became bright pink,.  The scar under my arm where they took the sample lymph nodes was the worst because my bra rubbed there.  OUCH.  After a month, everything began to peel.  OWWW  Worst sunburn EVER.  And I’ve had some doozies.  I still remember wearning zinc oxide and a t-shirt and staying inside mid-day during our vacations in Florida when I was a little girl.  By contrast, my olive-complexioned sister could run around outside all day.

A friend of mine asked me why I didn’t wear sunscreen.  I repeated this to the nurse, who was HORRIFIED.  Apparently last summer, a patient did wear sunscreen, despite repeated warnings not to use anything on your skin before treatment.  She told the nurse, “well, I put on sunscreen right before coming because I didn’t want to burn.”  Oh dear.  You see, sunscreen does block something or other, and they actually want to torture us with this radiation.  This is war, and it’s a war we want to win.  The radiation is designed to kill the cancer cells, and unfortunately there’s collateral damage, like in any war.  I surely didn’t want to spend an hour every day getting shot with nothing but blanks!

Fatigue was the other expected side effect.  The ladies who sat with me each evening were experiencing fatigue.  I was tired during Thanksgiving weekend, but decided in the end that the turkey did it.  I kept running and cycling during radiation.  I also swam.  Sometimes I wondered if people noticed my “glow.”  My shoulder hurt quite a bit during this time because I used it so little right after surgery.

Zingers.

So, fatigue was nothing.  Zingers, on the other hand, were terrible.  I was warned that I might be standing there, minding my own business, when I would be struck with something that felt like a lightening bolt in my breast.  I felt these--it was as though a nerve was hit errantly.  This, they said, was a side effect of radiation.  “They only last thirty seconds or a minute,” they promised.

Not so.  Turns out if you run for hours and experience a zinger mid-run, it will not go away for hours!  I took to wearing four bras again, and taking four ibuprofen.  Sometimes I would still be shot with a zinger.  I asked Dr. Arthur what people had done in the past.  He confessed that he’d never had a patient who trained as much as I did.  If you ask the average woman doing her thirty minutes three days a week exercises what she’d do if she were struck with a pain in her breast that felt like a lightening bolt, I think she’d say she would get off the treadmill and go have a glass of wine.  But I kept at it.  In the end I found the winning combination was four bras and four ibuprofen.

Post-Surgery and Humpty Dumpty PR

I asked the doctor whether I could go back to work the day after my surgery.  He said, “absolutely not!  You will be loopy!  I don’t think you will want to go back to work for a full week.”

 “When can I run again?” I asked.  “Not for three or four weeks,” he said.

I thought these predictions were a bit crazy before the surgery.  In the recovery room, the nurse told me that the anesthesia would keep the pain away till evening, when she admonished me to take the prescribed oxycondin (yes, the addictive stuff) before nightfall “whether you think you need it or not.  Otherwise, the anesthesia will wear off in the middle of the night and you’ll wake up screaming in pain!”

That sounded pretty awful.  I imagined myself morphing into Edvard Munch’s famous painting.  It was not pretty.  So I took the drug.  I don’t think drugs work on me the same way as normal people.  Before long, I was totally hopped up.  Instead of spending all night sleeping, I spent all night wide awake and thinking crazy thoughts.  It was terrible.  All in all, I wished I’d taken advil!

And just as the doctor suggested, I did not go back to work all week.  I was totally wiped out.  I always get daily emails suggesting a workout, and respond to them by posting my actual workout.  I had not bothered to get this adjusted due to the surgery.  So I would get something like “run three miles” and I would write "went to the beauty parlor, which wiped me out!"   Getting my hair done on Wednesday after surgery was exhausting!

But what about the doctor’s prediction that I would not run for three weeks?  I thought this was crazy too.  But one week after surgery, I started “fitness walking” again.  Jiggle, jiggle, OWWWW!  Running would be painful, I realized.  But I missed running!

Two weeks and five days after surgery, my friend Holly said she was going to run 9 miles.  I joined her, after taking four ibuprofen and wearing four bras.  No way was there any jiggling possible. In fact, it was a bit hard to breath with all that compression going on.  But it was a  glorious run!  The following weekend was the Richmond half marathon.  I had assumed I could not run a half marathon only four weeks after breast cancer surgery.  But the day before the race, I said, "what the heck!"

I dressed as the white rabbit from Alice in Wonderland and kept telling everyone I was late. The best part was when little kids in strollers noticed me. One set of twins kept yelling, "Bunny! Daddy, Bunny!" Daddy was looking at his iPhone and never got to see Bunny. Poor Daddy, letting the good things in life fly by!

Truth be told, I was Humpty Dumpty, if the King’s Horses and King’s Men had done a better job!  I was put together again.  No Personal Record (PR), but I got a HUMPTY DUMPTY PR--fastest half marathon I’ve done four weeks after a surgery!

My Genomic Score

After surgery, I learned that my "margins were clear" and that there was no evidence of cancer in my lymph nodes.  Excellent news.  In the old days, the doctors still wouldn't know whether to recommend chemotherapy.  Chemotherapy is a horrible thing--it can cause all sorts of medical problems, and even death.  And of course, the hair loss.  But at the same time, if can prevent a recurrence of cancer.  But until recently, deciding on chemotherapy or not when there was no indication of metastasis was a crap shoot.

Now, they have a test called the oncotype dx.  They send off your tissue after surgery to do this test.  It must be enormously expensive because they actually called me to get me to authorize it.  They said, "your insurance company has approved the expenditure.  You have met your deductible, so you will not have a co-pay.  Your doctor recommends the test.  Would you like it?"  umm, yes!  And then I had to wait, and wait, and wait.

On this test, a high score is over 31, and any doctor would recommend chemo.  Under 18 and the doctors do not recommend chemo.  In between, once again, it's a crap shoot.  You have to make a difficult decision whether to undergo chemo or not.  The doctor does not know what to tell you. As I waited for my results, I wondered about my score.

"I know what my score will be," I told Steve.

"You think it's in the middle. Because you cannot stand uncertainty and that would be uncertain."

So true.  I was absolutely convinced that my test results would fall into the grey zone.  And then I would opt for chemo.


Despite this decision, I was on pins and needles waiting for the results.  I called the lab, which indicated that the  doctor would have them by Friday.  I called the office and tried to change my appointment to Friday, but they said he isn't in the office then, nor on Mondays.  My blood started to boil.  Where the heck was he, playing golf?  Then I remembered that on Mondays and Fridays he does something other than golf.  Like, um, surgeries?  Oh, yeah.  I was all ready to be mad as a wet hen, but I guess a surgeon has got to do surgeries....

But, miraculously, the results were back Thursday. My score is 9!  HOORAY! Far under 18.  This means the risk of recurrence in 10 years if very low. The average rate of distant recurrence (meaning recurrence of cancer in your lungs, liver, bones or brain) for someone like me is only 7%. So chemotherapy is not recommended.  Radiation yes, Chemo no.  This is good--chemo can kill you and makes your hair fall out.  Radiation causes sunburn.

I am a redhead who grew up in Alabama.  I am an expert on sunburns.

My Health Score

At work every year, we march down to the break room, where a nurse weighs us, measures us, and gives us a flu shot. Then we answer a series of questions about our health, diet and exercise. We receive a “health score” in various categories, of: Excellent, Good, Needs Improvement or Houston, we have a Problem!

With my Type A personality, I strive to receive an “Excellent” score on each topic. This year, as you know, I have cancer. Nevertheless, I got weighed and measured and answered all the questions. To the question “Do you have cancer,” I checked “yes.” What was my ranking on the cancer question? Good. HA HA HA. What do you have to do to get a score of “Houston, we have a Problem”? Apparently, you have to smoke, drink to excess, eat Ding Dongs and exercise only if somebody’s chasing you with a carving knife! Or maybe all those, plus actually have cancer.

When I told my husband this story, he said, “you answered the question incorrectly.” Say, what? “You do not have cancer. You had cancer. The doctor removed it.”

Surgery: No Hamburgers

On my day of surgery, I was told to fast. Thank goodness I was scheduled for an early surgery because I was starving!  I told the nurses to bring me a hamburger when I came to.  I ask people to bring me hamburgers during races and they don't believe me.  The nurses didn't believe me either.  Sigh.

I was given some sort of painkiller by a needle that just about killed me and then they knocked me out cold.  Next thing I knew, I was coming too and it was over.  But no hamburger.  Truth be told, I was okay with the crackers and ginger ale.  I told Steve I actually thought I might vomit.  I am never nauseated.  What a horrible feeling.  I feel for all of you and thank God for my iron stomach.

Patience in the DMV

I was very happy with my treatment at Massey Cancer Center, but sometimes it was a study in patience.  


First, they  ask me all kinds of questions such as "Can you walk a block without running out of breath? Do you do street drugs?" And, for some reason, they repeatedly ask me, "have you fallen down today?" 


There is a room at MCV that looks like a cramped version of the DMV. As I waited, I realized they use the same call out numbers randomly with no pattern scheme that was perfected by the DMV. The room was filled with the same cast of characters you'd find at the DMV, including the woman wearing all purple, including an eye-catching wide-rimmed purple hat with a plume.


 The man next to me was carrying a book covered in something that announced it was a book banned in 47 countries. He looked at me wondering if I knew what it was. I knew it was not Huckleberry Finn. He offered me something from his suitcase of religious tracts as he was called back to see the doctors.

Picasso and Scarves

How do you reconcile these two seemingly contradictory instructions:

1. Do raise your right arm any higher than your head.

2. Wear a sports bra with the maximum compression?

I guess I need to buy one with a fastener because the pullover sessions are tough. I made Steve help me when I first got back from the surgery and was all bandaged up. But now the bandages are gone, yet I am not quite ready to test the sickness and health thing. So I have been wearing two crummy bras instead of one good one.

I am hoping the Frankenstein monster look is temporary. I recall quite clearly my surgeon looking at my chest as though he were an artist looking at a nude model and declaring that the surgery would result in something "cosmetically pleasing.". After I sent my blog out, many people sang Dr Bear's praises. I was convinced I had found, through happenstance, quite an artist. A Rembrandt. I should have asked one more question, I think. It appears I got a Picasso.

And there is a hidden scar under my arm too. Hidden, but it appears to have exacerbated that fat roll between my boob and arm. I should have asked for that to be liposuctioned while he was in there. Insurance would not have noticed. I think that would be the only way to get it gone. I am convinced that just before Karen Carpenter died she noticed such a fat roll and it sent her over the edge. Bless her heart.

I always have to read about things a lot before I attempt them. I hope I do not need chemo, but I might, so I am reading. I read something suggesting that you should decide whether to wear a wig or a scarf or a bare head, or some combination depending on the circumstances. Like a scarf to work and a bare head to worship. I think that was an example for Buddhists, maybe. I have never bought one of those expensive Hermes scarves. They seem so extravagant. Have you seen those pictures of Queen Noor in her collection? Sheer beauty. But then I wonder if the TSA would assume I was a terrorist and do a pat down? Demand that I remove it? He he, serve them right!

So now I have been thinking about this scarf so much that I want one, even if I don't have to undergo chemo. Yes, yes!
I wrote this not long after my surgery, and I did get a scarf. A gorgeous one from my friend Lilo of Lilo Collections.

My Most Difficult Challenge

Five years ago I was too out of shape to walk my dog all the way around the block.  This was no surprise to friends who remembered me as "the kid who gets picked last" in gym class, and to my family who remembered my refusing Mom's orders to pull weeds because I didn't want to get dirty or sweaty. Since 2006, I have completed countless running races, including three marathons, several long bike rides, including a century ride (100 miles), two endurance swimming races and countless triathlons, including three half ironman triathlons and, most recently, a full Ironman triathlon, thought to be one of the most difficult athletic achievements one can undertake.  This spring, I was awarded the "triple crown" by the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society's Team in Training, celebrating my completion of a marathon, a century ride and a triathlon, all while fundraising to help find a cure for cancer.
And, this fall, for the first time in five years, I wasn't sure what to do next.  I was tired, so so tired, and did not want to do another full Ironman.  Among other things, I wanted to spend more time with my husband, Steve.  At the same time, I realized that I would not be content doing short, local races.  I needed some big challenge.  My challenge needed to be something a triathlon buddy of mine calls "epic."  What was it?  I began to pray for God to tell me what my next challenge was to be.  Please, God, make it something big, I asked.  God answered my prayers. 
I have breast cancer.  This answer was not what I was looking for.  Steve suggested that my mistake was praying to the Old Testament God, the God who turned Sarah into a pillar of salt and sent down the plague of locusts.  He implored me, "don't do that any more!"  I prayed again, more specifically, carefully and pointedly, couldn't my challenge be to run an ultramarathon (a running race over 26.2 miles long), which would be quite enough!  I promised to raise money to fight cancer, other people's cancer, please.  Please.  But it was too late.  My challenge is to fight cancer directly.  And I have come to understand that God has given me this challenge because I am strong enough to take it on and because I am meant to tell this story.  And so I shall.  If you do not want to hear the story, I understand, but consider sharing it with your wife, your girlfriend, your sister.

Discovery.

After a "clean" mamogram in May, I discovered a little lump in my breast in August, while on vacation.  I usually check once a month, but I always have assumed that I could not feel anything even if it appeared.  Or even if I felt it, would it feel out of the ordinary?  Probably not.  Months have gone by when I didn't check.  After all I do get a mamogram once a year.  And breast cancer is not in my immediate family--my great aunt and her daughter, my father's first cousin, are the closest relatives who have had breast cancer. 
But there I was, noticing something different.  Was it there in July?  No, it was not.  I did not think it was cancer, though, but I was scheduled to see my doctor upon my return anyway, so I would show it to her, "just to be sure."  She, likewise, thought nothing of it, and surmised it was a harmless cyst, but she scheduled me for another mamogram and a possible ultrasound "just to be sure."  I rather thought it was a waste of time, but I went, late on a Friday afternoon, to be tortured by the pressing machine. 
This was my 10th mamogram, and by far the worst.  They marked the spot where I felt the lump and squeezed it many times over, admonishing me "do not move, do not breathe."  Time after time, I thought I was finished, only to be told that the doctor wanted another shot.  Finally, this torture ended and I was taken to another room for ultrasound.  A doctor conducted the ultrasound, and without saying anything about what she saw, told me she was working with another doctor, who would be joining us.  The second doctor, older than the first, came in and repeated the same examination.  All of a sudden, I had a really bad feeling.  Why was it necessary to repeat this exam? 
Dr. Ellison, the more senior radiologist, told me it was not a cyst and that she would like to do a biopsy to find out what it was.  "We can do it right now," she said,  "or you can come back next week."  Holy cow, let's find out now!  They performed the biopsy that afternoon, but I would not learn the results till the next Tuesday.  But by Sunday, I knew that it was cancer, and I knew something else.  I knew I would survive.
On Tuesday, Dr. Ellison confirmed my suspicions.  Breast cancer.  "Yes, I know," I said to her.  It is a "infiltrating ductal carcinoma, high nuclear grade," according to the pathology report.

Waiting and Worrying.

The next step, Dr. Ellison explained, would be to have a routine MRI, "just to be sure" that I had no other cancers.  She had scheduled this examination for the next day, followed by a meeting with a surgeon, Dr. Bear.  "We will have preliminary results of the MRI when you meet with Dr. Bear," she promised.
An MRI machine is a loud thing.  Apparently a lot of people freak out when they are rolled into a little coffin-like space and subjected to jackhammering sounds.  Furthermore, if it is a breast MRI, they make you lie on your stomach with your breasts hanging down two holes that look medieval, somehow.  To add insult to injury, they jab you with a needle.
"What kind of music would you like?" the technician asked, earphones in hand.
"Jazz?" I asked, warily.
"No problem. We'll put on the Kenny G." 
Well, not exactly jazz, but you give me a little Kenny G and some loud jackhammering, and guess what I do?  I fall sound asleep.  ZZZZZZ
I had been warned by Dr. Kladder, my primary care physician, that although Dr. Bear is world-renowned, he is not known as "warm and fuzzy."  No teddy bear. He said that he had not received the preliminary results of the MRI, but we could look at it together.  He saw nothing on his laptop computer, but noted that the radiologists have much better views.  He explained that, assuming that the MRI was all clear, I could chose between a full mascectomy of both breasts, or a "lumpectomy" that removes the tumor and leaves the breasts.  With a lumpectomy, I would need a course of radiation therapy, likely to last six weeks. Treatment would occur every day.
My husband asked the doctor, "every day, including weekends?"
Dr. Bear answered, "no, only Monday to Friday."
Steve inquired, "is that because the cancer does not grow on the weekends?"
"Correct," answered the doctor.
Ha!  Not a Teddy Bear, but a man with a wry sense of humor! 
He went on to explain that, statistically, my 10-year survival rate would be the same if I chose a lumpectomy and radiation or if I chose to have a full mascectomy.  If I chose the lumpectomy, though, I might have to undergo chemotherapy too. Whether that would be indicated for me would not be known till after surgery.  He did say that they tested my cancer and learned that it responds, and grows, when fed by estrogen and progesterone, female hormones.  So I cannot take birth control pills or, later, hormone replacement therapy, and in fact I am likely to be prescribed a drug that prevents my body's natural hormones from feeding my cancer. 

So, radiation and hormone blocking drugs, and maybe not chemotherapy. 
"Which is the treatment that makes you lose your hair?" I asked.
"Chemo.  Radiation does not make you lose your hair.'
I decided to go with lumpectomy, radiation, and the possibility of chemotherapy.

But then I realized he said the MRI results were not in.  "Dr. Ellison promised me someone would have read my MRI by now," I reported.  "Oh, she promised, did she? We will call her on that!" He called and got the radiologist on the phone.  And I heard him say, "oh, I see.  Where is it?"  He moved his mouse over the mouse pad, and suddenly we saw it.  Another lump, smaller than the first, but there.  "Is that in the left breast--the opposite breast from the known cancer," I asked, sick to my stomach. 
"Yes.  We need to have this tested, to see what it is."
The "test" would be another biopsy, which could not be scheduled till the next week, and then there would be more waiting for those results.  Somehow, this wait was harder than the wait to hear whether the first biopsy was cancerous.  If I had a second cancer, in the opposite breast, then I knew the doctors would recommend a full mascectomy. I contemplated this option with some dread, until I read something that suggested reconstruction surgery takes place right away, and can result in breasts smaller or larger than the originals. 
Should I go with Dolly Partons?  Having those was a secret dream when I was a teen, though not so much lately.  What about going with flat boobs like Mirinda Cafrae.  Fast Ironman World Champion, but mosquito bites, bless her heart.  Still, she no doubt can go for a run in a T-shirt, no bra.  I did a bit of research, though, and discovered that these options came neither with the honey-like voice nor the Ironman speed of these two ladies.  So all in all, I wanted to keep the originals.  I prayed for no factory recall.  And it wasn't just a cosmetic worry, of course.  How could a second cancer have appeared in such a short time?  It would mean that I had some sort of invasive, aggressive cancer that would be hard to fight.  So I worried, and I had to wait.

Learning Not to Plan.

After dutiful waiting, I got the good news that the second spot was not cancer, not at all.  "It is a Pamploma," I thought I heard the radiologist report to me.

"Good news!" I told Steve that night.  "The second spot isn't cancer, it's a Pamploma!"

"Pamploma is the place in Spain where you run with the bulls," he said quizzically.

"Oh, maybe that's not right.  Well, they said I get to keep the thing inside me that wants to run with the bulls!  Only the cancer is coming out!"

I met with Dr. Bear again the next day, to confirm to him the kind of surgery I am to have to remove my cancer, which he confirmed to me is stage one cancer.  Surgery is scheduled for next Monday, October 17th.
"Can I go back to work the next day?" I asked.
"Absolutely not!  You will be under general anaesthesia and will be loopy and unable to think on Tuesday.  You probably won't be able to work until tthe following Monday."
"Oh, wow.  When can I exercise?"
"Are we talking fitness walking or golf?"
"Triathlons!  Or, put differently, swimming, biking and running.  I ran an Ironman in June."
"Oh, I see.  Well,  I think it will be 3-4 weeks before you can return to those activities.  We will have to see."
"Okay.  When does radiation therapy start?"
"Well, this depends on......"
"Doctor!" I cried, "I want to put all my treatments into my day planner for months going out.  I really need to plan!"
"Yes, I can tell you do," he replied.  But no information was forthcoming.
I am told that I will learn to be patient, to take one day at a time.  hmmm  I am tryng!

Exuberance.

All of this news has been stressful.  I know in my heart of hearts that I can do this. I can and will survive.  But sometimes I feel a bit overwhelmed.  And sad.  I do not like feeling sad.  I always view the glass as half full, and I like to be happy.  Furthermore, I find that if you want to be happy, you can be happy.  Years ago my mother told me that if she telephoned me in a Chinese labor prison, I would report that I was "doing fine!" 

Somewhere before I was diagnosed with cancer, as I cast about wondering what my next challenge would be, I really did think it would be to run an "ultra marathon."  These races are longer than 26.2. miles.  Often they are 50K (which is about 31 miles) or 50 miles long.  Typically, they are on trails rather than on roads. 

I hike on trails with Steve on vacation, and I have always had this irrational fear of crossing streams.  It takes me forever!  Plus, I have no experience running on trails.  Years ago, I ran on trails while Steve and I were on vacation because I was training for a marathon and the park ranger told me that they'd spied a Grizzly on the road where I wanted to run, and "he'll think you are prey!"  He advised me to run on a groomed Grandma trail.  That little run resulted in bloody knees, bloody hands, and a bloody chin. 
Despite this, I had spied a 10 mile trail race in December that I thought I might try.  Now, though, with the cancer, I could not do the race.  My surgery is on October 17th, after which I will not be able to run for 3-4 weeks.  That would leave only 3-4 weeks to get back up to running 10 miles, and during that time I would be on radiation, which makes you tired, or chemo, which makes you sick. 
A friend mentioned the race again, and I was a little sad.  And then I realized I needed to sign up for it.  I need to view the glass as half full.
So what if I have never done a trail race before?  
So what if I am clumsy and usually fall down?  
So what if this race has five scary creek crossings?
So what if I am normally slow as a turtle, so I might be the last to finish in normal times?
So what if the cancer treatment will make me slower still?  
So what?  
I signed up for Bear Creek 10 miler, and at last count I talked about two dozen friends into doing it with me.
The glass is half full, and I am filling it to the brim!  I will live life with exuberance.

Videotape of My Ironman Finish!

Wow.  After nearly 17 hours, we finished.  Holly and I crossed the finish line together.