CAT Scans, Fart Yoga, and the Art of SUV Maintenance

Thumbs up and a smile, but my eyes betray me in this photo.

Today is an anniversary for me. It's not a great one, but one I am happy to be able to celebrate. Today is the anniversary of my first visit to the hospital, the start of my cancer journey. This is always a somewhat difficult time of year for me, as even little things like the smell of a warm rain can trigger unwanted memories and feelings. In a way, the beginning was the most difficult part: unknown futures are scary. 

Eight years ago, I was finishing up some work on our car. It needed a new rack and pinion, as well as a steering pump. Not wanting to spend the $2,400 to have it fixed, I decided to take on the task myself. Being a driveway mechanic at best, this was a monumental undertaking. I borrowed a friend's garage, since he had a kerosene heater, and got to work. It was hard, physical work on a cold concrete floor, often late into the night to finish. I was tired, sore, and even feeling a bit sick with chills. Little did I know what was to come of those symptoms...

A 30-rack of PBR and PB Blaster, always a good time.

I finished the car, and was laid up in bed, figuring I wore myself out and got sick. However, that wasn't to be the case. My condition worsened, adding belly pain to the mix. At the time, I remember being pretty unconcerned. I'd suffered from IBS in the past, so the "clogged" feeling in my guts wasn't completely unfamiliar. Ash had me doing "fart yoga", which seemed to release some of the pressure, but the symptoms continued to worsen. After about a week, the feverish symptoms continued, along with intensifying pain in my abdomen. 

Actually found a pic of the Fitbit I had!

Sitting miserably, trying to distract myself with a movie, I felt my heart racing. I checked my Fitbit (shout-out! that little watch might have saved my life) and discovered that my average resting heart rate was in the mid-90s! This was disturbing, as I'm usually around 55 BPM. We called the doc and were told to go to the emergency room promptly. Pro tip: Don't ever go to a city hospital ER unless you are sure you'll be admitted. The waits are outrageous, and the waiting room can be like something out of a horror movie. We drove to the ER, with me hunched over in pain, trying to stay composed in the passenger seat. After a cursory inspection, rubber glove included, the ER doc sent me straight to radiology for a CAT scan. 

A CAT Scan machine with some bougie lighting.

A CAT scan is an X-Ray machine that spins around, giving a "3D" image. It's especially valuable in situations like the one I was in, as it can "look behind" organs and give a clearer picture of what is happening. It wasn't long after the scan that the doctor returned to give us the results, and the look on his face let me know things weren't great before he even started speaking. 

There was so much inflammation in my abdomen that the radiologist wasn't able to accurately determine what was wrong. The inflammation in my abdomen was severe enough that the doctor stuck me in an ambulance and sent me to Akron General Hospital to be admitted. No bueno bro.

The kids were amazing and came to hang
out with me. 

Honestly, at the time, I figured I'd be there for a night or two, get some antibiotics or pain killers, and be home by the weekend. Once I was settled into my room, watching mid shows on the Discovery Channel (it's the only thing to watch at odd hours in a hospital, I got into Street Racers and Bering Sea Gold Hunters), a resident arrived to give me the plan: Hitting me with some monster IV antibiotics, hoping to reduce the inflammation, and then a colonoscopy/CAT. I'd be there at least a few days for observation. The meds did help, but not enough to do the tests, so I was sent home after a few days to wait for the infection to subside. 

All smiles on the outside.

At this point, I was quite scared. The antibiotics I was on were nuclear-level, and even after three days of massive doses via an IV, I still felt terrible. The plan was to wait two weeks, take the meds, and then do another scan to reevaluate. 

Leaving the hospital to go home. At this point, 
I figured the meds would work, and we
were good to go. 

At this point, I had one of the hardest experiences to cope with during the entire journey: I took Maddie (my daughter) skiing for the first time. She was five years old. I wasn't sure what my own future held, and I wanted her to have a memory of me teaching her to ski. I could barely walk up and down the stairs, but we hiked the bottom of Summit at Boston Mills, doing "pizza" and "french fries". She did well enough that we did a few runs on from the top. It was a beautiful, sunny day. My friends and family were drinking beers on the bar deck (I couldn't stomach one). I remember longing to be one of the "normal" people, just enjoying a wonderful ski day. The pain in my belly and my waning energy reminded me that I was not one of them...

First turns with my Baby Doll.

Maddie's drip is fire. I could barely crouch down
for this photo.

Needless to say, I didn't make the two-week deadline for the next scan. After about a week, my pain level intensified to intolerable levels. Back to the ER we went. I was admitted instantly. Blood tests revealed my body was fighting a massive infection (the inflammation from said infection made scans unreliable for diagnoses), so the team of docs decided we needed to do surgery. 

The kiddos blew of some steam in the mud when we got 
home from the hospital. I sat on the deck, lost in my thoughts, but 
needing their smiles.

We can stop here for now. I don't think I have it in me to go further. The memory of skiing with Maddie brought me to tears, and I think of it every time I see her ripping down black diamonds as a teenager. In a way, I'm the luckiest man on the planet to have the chance to experience these moments. That, right there, is why we must conquer. 

Fortitudine Vincimus,

Ryan

I'm Terrified, I Don't Want to be Doing This!

"I want to do jumps and parks, but it's so scary!" I hear this all the time from skiers and boarders who want to start riding the park. They aren't wrong; it's super intimidating to stare down park features for the first time. I'll be honest, I'm scared every time I hit a jump. 

Big air at the BMBW carnival a few years ago.
The deck on this table was 50 feet, with big consequences.

Fear is inevitable. It's also important. It keeps us from falling off high things or setting ourselves on fire. I joke, but being scared gives us respect for the consequences of our adventures. A mountaineer from the golden age named Hermann Buhl said, "Mountains have a way of dealing with overconfidence," and I love the quote. If we lose respect for the seriousness of what we are undertaking, the hill can eat our lunch. 

Hermann Buhl

Do you guys remember the clothing brand "No Fear"? I thought it was the coolest, and it fit the vibe of early XGames. "Extreme" sports were just becoming mainstream, with the general public being exposed to skiing, base jumping, skateboarding, etc After a few years of experience, older me tends to think 'No Fear' is bullshit. We can't wish away our fears. 

Screen cap from a cork 900 at Breck. I could barely feel my legs
coming up to the lip.

A skier named Troy Podmilsak, had a moment of honesty that I want to share. He was about to take his run in the big air competition at the XGames. A reporter asked him why he was shaking; was he cold? His answer: "I'm terrified, I don't want to be doing these tricks." I loved it because it showed that even the incredible athletes we admire are human, just like us. BTW, he went on to land a 2160. That is six revolutions! Here's the link: I'm Terrified

We will talk more about how to get past the barrier fear presents. Today, the important message is that it is OK to be scared. It's normal to be scared. Everyone gets scared. We can't judge ourselves for our fears. This idea doesn't apply only to skiing or other sports. Lots of life events are scary. For example: getting cancer, taking on a new job, buying a house, having kids, or going outside in Ohio in January. The important thing to realize is that those feelings are normal. Recognizing and accepting that fear is unavoidable is the first step in not letting it hold us back from our goals. No Fear? Nah, fighting that voice in our head telling us to go to the car instead of sending it is what makes it good. 

Fortitudine Vincimus, 

Ryan

Steer Toward the Light, and the Sun Will Rise

 

The moment the sun broke the horizon.

The sound of the stove hissing in the cabin brings with it a dream, a dream of a cup of hot coffee. David and I are putzing around, making an effort at organizing the boat in the pre-dawn stillness of a Lake Erie morning. If you have ever been to Put-In-Bay, you probably understand the need for coffee! Luckily for this crew, the water taxi (we are moored on a ball in the harbor, and the water taxi is needed to get to the boat) shuts down at 11. 

A watched pot never boils, especially when it's
coffee at 5 am.

We sailed the 50ish Nautical Miles from Cleveland a few days ago, and have been bouncing around the Lake Erie Islands, pretending to be someplace much further away. It doesn't take much arm-twisting to believe. Rum cocktails in the warm sunset. Sailing past the Marblehead light, which happens to be the oldest continuously operating lighthouse on the Great Lakes. Dodging the ferries, hustling tourists to the islands from the mainland. Trying to name the rollercoasters at Cedar Point, rearing up on the horizon like sea monsters. Sitting on a swing, under a thatched roof, feet in the sand, a cold beer in our hand, listening to live music waft up the street. If you've never been, it's well worth a trip! I'll post some links below, and do a "visitor guide" here sometime soon. 

South Bass Island light

Later CLE. Making good time, past the crib and still early!

Go West, mid-life-crisis-aged man!

Dark and Stormy is waaay better for drinks than weather.

South Bass Island light

 

Frosty Bar was rocking by 2 pm.

Endurance, looking fine in the setting sun.

Back to the task at hand. The coffee is doing its magical work, burning off the cobwebs the way a rising sun clears a morning fog. We hank on the jib, run the sheets through the fairleads, and back to the winches, double-check the halyards for tangles, slosh the fuel tank to make sure it's full, and put our course into the chart plotter. It's still pitch black as we warm up the engine, making it feel like we are waking up the whole harbor. 

From the night before, but this is a good view of the harbor
from the boat.

I'm not sure if it's the coffee on an empty stomach or my nerves making the butterflies flutter around in my belly, but it's time to go either way. David goes up to the bow to release the mooring. I drop the motor into reverse, put the tiller hard over, and spin Endurance toward the channel. The only sounds are the water gurgling along the hull and the putt-putt of our little outboard as we glide through the other boats in the harbor, somewhat jealous of their still sleeping crews. We are following the green and red lights of the channel, as the carnival-like sparkle of the Put-In-Bay Boardwalk shrinks behind our transom. 

An admittedly crappy picture, leaving the 
harbor. Cut me some slack, I was trying
not to hit boats and rocks and stuff.

As Endurance makes her way between South and Middle Bass Islands, we carefully go over our next steps. Raising the sails and switching from a power boat to a sailing vessel will be one of the more stressful parts of our journey. The wind is blowing from the South-Southwest, meaning we will need to turn the bow South once we are in the channel between Kelleys Island and South Bass Island. The seas here are often confused, with waves bouncing off islands and being kicked up by invisible reefs. Mariners must exercise caution and be well aware of their location on a chart. 

Sails are up, we are under way!

The sudden breeze on my face lets me know we have left the harbor before we pass the final markers. Endurance lets us know as well, beginning to move with the waves as we leave the protection of Put-In-Bay. David swings her bow to starboard (right), while I add the waterproof VHF to my life jacket and get ready to head up on deck. I carefully make my way to the mast, removing the jib halyard from the cleat and quickly hauling the sail to the top of the mast. With the bow into the wind, we are in what's called "irons". Sailboats can't sail directly into the wind, and the sails flap crazily with the boat in this position. It's critical, though, as raising sails under power (filled with wind) can be nearly impossible. I'm now clinging to the mast in the dark, jostled to and fro by unseen waves, while being flogged by the flailing jib. The main can't go up fast enough... Luckily, the main sail goes up smoothly, and I'm soon back in the safety of the cockpit, steering Endurance off the wind and sheeting in, beginning our journey in earnest. 

Cleveland, here we come.

The breeze is blowing around 12 knots, and the boat seems to jump from under us as the wind takes hold of her. Sailboats are meant to sail, the ride becoming much smoother as she heels to leeward and begins to power through the waves. We peer out into the moonless night, aiming for a three-quarters-of-a-mile gap between Kelleys Island and a submerged reef. Looking over the charts yesterday, this seemed like a large gap. Now hustling along in three to five foot seas, trying to make out the dull white line of surf crashing onto the rocks of the island's North Shore, and the flashing beacon marking the reef, it feels like threading a needle! The lights of Top Fuel Dragster and Millennium Force finally come into view from behind the dark hulk of Kelleys. We can breathe a sigh of relief as we sail into the open lake, leaving the sound of the crashing waves behind. 

Hustling along, close to hull speed, waiting for the sunrise.

It always takes at least an hour for me to settle into a sailing journey. The "are we there yet" feeling fades away as I settle into the rhythms of the sea and the boat. This morning, it's all the more difficult in the stifling darkness. There's no sound other than an occasional wave (three to fives with an occasional big set) breaking past the transom, the wind in the rigging, and the occasional creak of a bulkhead when the wind gusts. We are now navigating East, using the chart plotter to find a light on the horizon, fighting the tiller to keep the waves from bashing us off course. 

Kelleys Island has nearly disappeared behind our stern.

I realize David went down into the cabin a while ago, and holler down to see what he is up to. Oh no, it seems the taco stand in the park may have been a poor decision... Our crew of two is down to one as the first mate hopes for sleep down below. The situation doesn't help the spooky feeling of being nearly out of sight of land, in a relatively small boat, at night. It's a strange, childlike fear of the unknown, reminiscent of the fear of closet monsters and unknown boogeymen. The difference is, we can't yell for Mom to bring us a glass of water out here. 

Glad I got the Chicken...

Man down.

Good to have some space. Sail trim looks suspect now that I
can see it...

The first magentas and pinks of dawn's promise begin to appear over Endurance's bow. From the helm, I seem to will her to sail faster. Faster to the East, faster to the warmth and comfort of the rising sun. The cool blues and purples of night, giving way to the warmth of morning, are like a blanket, offering a sense of security. Then, in a sudden burst, the arc of the sun breaks its way over the horizon, spraying its orange and yellow light across the lake. I can't accurately describe the feeling of seeing the sunrise from the helm of a boat at sea. It is a sudden sense that all is right with the world, and everything will be OK. We had a full workday of sailing left to reach home, but the anxiety was gone. Now we were racing along, having a blast as Endurance surfed the following seas, racing us towards Cleveland. 

Look at that sunrise! It was magical.

I'm constantly amazed at the way adventures mimic life. The way an epic day can bring clarity to our approach to everyday tribulations. No, I'm not talking about food poisoning from bad tacos! A lot of life feels like trying to hoist the main in confused seas, in the dark, with serious consequences for mistakes. High stakes create high stress. We can do our best to minimize the risk: wear a life jacket with a whistle and a light, make sure the radio/phones are working, learn and know the boat... However, even with the best preparation, our challenges can still feel scary and overwhelming. 

Cheers!

What do we do when we are scared, alone, in the dark? Hold on tight to the tiller and steer the boat toward the light. No matter how choppy it gets, no matter how hard the wind blows, the sun will rise. It comes up every day, no matter what we accomplish, or don't accomplish. Sometimes we just have to make it to the light. To a new day and a fresh start. By Endurance We Conquer!

Fortitudine Vincimus, 

Ryan

Monday Motivation: Me

 

First day of chemo. I was terrified.

If you are anything like me, you find it hard to talk about yourself. Good, bad, ugly...it doesn't matter. I can yap all day long about the intricacies of traveler trim and slot size while beating upwind, but ask me to tell a bunch of strangers how it feels to get cancer? That's gonna be a no from me dawg. 

This is the rector who married Ashley and I, giving me a 
blessing, minutes before they wheeled me away for surgery.

Yet here I am, about to share what it feels like to get cancer with a bunch of strangers. Why? I'm reminded of a quote from Sergeant Horvath, right before the final battle in Saving Private Ryan: "Someday we might look back on this and decide that saving Private Ryan was one decent thing we were able to pull out of this whole godawful shitty mess." Replace "Saving Private Ryan" with "sharing my story, so others can maybe get through something awful too", and it's on the money. 

Looking into the PET Scan machine. I didn't know Ashley took
this photo until recently.

In efforts to keep this a blog post, and not a short novel, I'm going to skip forward in the timeline a bit.  I'm recovering from surgery, know that my biopsy has confirmed that I do have cancer, and have had a PET Scan to determine the severity of the disease in my body (a PET scan is kind of like a super accurate CT, but they put the radiation in you and detect it, rather than bouncing radiation off of you like an x-ray). We are sitting in a tiny room at the oncologist's office, we'll call her Dr. Can Do. The hum of a computer fan and an overpowering antiseptic smell are the only distractions from the building dread while we wait for the doc. The paper on the exam table gives little comfort to my sweaty palms as the door creaks open and Dr. Can Do squeezes into the tiny room with us. I try, unsuccessfully, to get a read from her facial expression. Oncologists are skilled at maintaining a professional demeanor with patients. Ashley and I make darting eye contact with each other, fearful of bursting into tears if we linger too long. We are scared; however, at this point, I was expecting to hear I had stage one colon cancer and would need around six months of chemo.

 

These photos are the hardest to view. The kids 
were champs through the whole journey. 

Doc's lips were moving, but I was no longer hearing the words she was saying. The air seemed to have all rushed out of the room at once, and my mind was spinning. She had just informed us that my cancer had spread to my liver and lymph nodes all the way up into my neck. I had advanced, aggressive, stage four colon cancer. It was the worst-case scenario, a death sentence. 

Leaving the hospital after surgery. I was in for two weeks.
This was some of the first food I was able to eat.

Have you ever been let go from a job unexpectedly? How about getting in big trouble at school and having to go to the office? That hot feeling on the back of your neck, a little bit of nausea, and the instantaneous BO? Those are the best analogies I can think of to describe finding out you are more likely to die than live. 

Even big, tough dads need a teddy sometimes.

I hope most of you are still here, because this is the good part! It's easy to give up when the odds are stacked against us. When the mountain seems too impossibly tall to climb. The good news is, we don't have to climb the whole mountain right away. What do we do when we get devastating news, like having cancer, losing our jobs, or the loss of a loved one? We start chipping away at recovery. I will be totally honest, at first, I was just getting from minute to minute, trying to quiet my mind enough to sleep for an hour or two. As time went by, I was able to process days, weeks, and now, even thinking about years. There's a climbing parable that many have heard me share: "A Western climber arrives at a giant mountain. He tells his Sherpa (local climbing guide) "I can't possibly make it to the top, it's just too large". The Sherpa replies, "I know you can't make it to the top, but can you take one step, and one more after that?" 

This photo was taken two weeks ago, on the deck
at the Foggy Goggle, Seven Springs PA.  

There are a lot of things we can't control. Sometimes, we can't control whether we live or die. That's a scary thought! For those of us who have looked into that hole and lived to tell the story, there's an understanding that worrying about things out of our hands is a waste of our limited energy. Maybe the chemo will work, maybe the risky new job will pay off, maybe we are ready to start a family? We don't know the answers, and I'm certain we won't find them on our couches with a bowl of ice cream at three am. The only thing we can do is give it our all and do it with a smile on our faces. 

The "motivation" part is that you never know! My surgeon told me, "Even if there's only a 25% chance, if you are in the 25%, it's 100% for you". We have to fight! Fight for ourselves, fight for those we care about, fight for those who need our help!

Fortitudine Vincimus, 

Ryan

Life Moves Pretty Fast, If You Don't Stop and Look, You Might Miss It

 

Cuyahoga River, from the Oxbow trail overlook | Summit Metroparks

Winter has been a weird one so far in Northeast Ohio. It's been cold, it's been 65 and sunny, it's snowed, rained, and everything in between. The full-on freezer treatment has arrived this week! Cold temps and lake effect snow warnings dominate the local news cycle, and my Facebook feed is filled with "winter sucks" and "how many days until spring?" posts. I found myself reading those posts and thinking, "noooo, don't wish it away", which got me thinking... Why do I love winter so much, while so many hate this time of year? 

Can you spot the bald eagles?

Being a skier certainly helps. The first cool nights of fall, when we see our breath taking the trash down for the first time, bring a twinge of excitement and anticipation. We'll be clicking in and ripping with our friends soon! However, skiing is not the only reason I get hyped up when the fluffy flakes start falling.

The Oxbow, without some cornball blocking the view | Summit Metroparks

Scraping off the windshield, stepping in a slushy puddle, or enduring a longer commute in crummy weather all suck. There's no denying those facts! But have you ever sat quietly in the woods, drinking a beer and listening to the sound of the snowflakes landing? Heard the bald eagles chatting with each other over the gurgle of the not-yet frozen river? Seen a bright red cardinal, perched in a snow-covered hemlock, the colors seemingly unreal against the monotone landscape? It's magical. 

Woods beers are the best beers

What makes a snowy day magical? It's fleeting. The snow is here, and then it's gone, never to be the same again. The next time it snows, it won't look like it does today. Listen to Ferris, "life moves pretty fast, if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you might miss it."

In case you didn't find em in the first one

"So, how does any of your slightly frozen rambling (I just got back from my walk in the woods) help me hate my commute to work any less", you ask? Honestly, I don't know. I do know that shifting our mindset, learning to see beauty in things that appear to be a pain in the butt on their surface, can bring more joy into our lives. In the end, isn't that what we are all here for, to experience joy and be happy?

The view downstream from the Overlook

This little parable about a winter walk in the woods can be a metaphor for our lives. So much of what we do feels like a grind. That's not what life is about! There's joy to be found in most of the stuff we do every day. OK, maybe there's no joy in replacing the wax ring on a toilet...but there is in the people we work with, the tasks we accomplish, or the things we do to help others. Choose joy. It's that easy. 

Thanks for reading to the end! 

Fortitudine Vincimus, 

Ryan