The Peripheral Pain Again

I have been absent from my blog the past week because, primarily, I haven’t been able to muster the energy or moments without pain to write, which brings me to this disclaimer.

There has been a great deal of good in this experience, whether they have been realizations I have come to personally or just the people who have taken care of me on a continuous basis, but for the sake of brutal honesty (and some entertaining reading) I have yet another less than pleasant set of experiences to share as I continue to hope the pain I’m dealing with leads to others being able to handle theirs should they find themselves in my position. I promise, however, positive posts will soon follow.

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The doctors came to my room a few days after leaving the ICU to continue checking on my progress, continuing to praise my physical advancements, attributing my quickened recovery to my health and running prior to entering the hospital, and generally checking on my state of well-being. They were quite pleased, except for one thing.

“Have you passed gas yet? Had a bowel movement?”

I bluntly answered, “No”, every time.

“Ok, well, no problem, it will come. We’ll just wait. This is common and as soon as it happens we’ll see about getting you out of here. Everything else looks great. You look good, you sound good….we just need to get your bowels moving.

What I was to learn is that after a major surgery such as mine, the body unsurprisingly shuts down some of it’s functions for one reason or other. To conserve energy, out of shock, to redirect resources, etc. The bowels shutting down are fairly common, but add to that the constipation inducing nature of pain medication and you have a serious waiting game on your hands before things get moving again. So there I sat, feeling so good that I felt awkward being in the hospital environment, except for that pesky “lazy bowel” as it is called.

So we waited. And waited. And waited…..nothing. No passing gas. No nothing.

The docs then decided to switch me from a nutritional drip to clear liquids and then quickly to solid foods, hoping to stimulate the gut and kickstart the bowels into functioning again. I called up one of my scheduled visitors who brought me a requested meal of soy yogurt, medjool dates and peanut butter, as I wanted to keep it light instead of jamming a vegan cheesesteak down my throat. Plus, I, surprisingly, wasn’t that hungry. Actually, when I started eating the food, I found that I wasn’t that hungry AT ALL and could only get down small bits, slowly, before pushing everything aside due to a growing discomfort in my stomach.

I was afraid of this.

Before going into the hospital I had a lot of difficulty eating due to the compressed nature of my abdomen and was hoping that after a great deal of the cancerous mucin was removed that the compression would lighten and I could take down foods with ease and without pain, but I instantly started feeling the same discomfort when I started eating, as if there was some sort of “blockage” in my intestines that was keeping everything from flowing easily. I was essentially backed up.

And I didn’t have a bowel movement.

I tried to eat more throughout the day, but found the pain increasing and only hoped a bowel movement would relieve the pressure, but to no success. The doctors, increasingly worried, gave me a double dose of Milk of Magnesia (doesn’t actually contain milk) and a stool softener, hoping to make the body do what I couldn’t. I threw back the toothpaste tasting liquid and promptly fell asleep for the night, waiting for the relief to come and the pressure to leave my abdomen, but instead I woke up at 2:30 AM with an incredibly painful gassy feeling consuming my body, heightening with every attempt to roll over and completely ruining a night of sleep as I struggled to block out the pain.

I woke the next morning to the doctor who pushed down on my distended belly, made a face that expressed both frustration and confusion and then immediately ordered a CT scan, wondering if there was an intestinal blockage that could be seen through the images  in order to give them another plan of action. 30 minutes later a transport cart took me from my room and wheeled me down the CT room for scans, as I suffered through the horribly uncomfortable pain and tried my best to stay still as the machine took photos. Very slowly, and very gingerly I managed to slide back onto the cart to be wheeled back up to my room where my parents were now waiting for my arrival.

I lay in bed, exhausted, in pain, and staring into the wall as if I could see through it. My parents tried to ask me questions, but I could only muster broken responses. The nurse, running through the procedure of taking my vitals suggested upping some of my pain medicine doses to help alleviate a pain that now seemed to only be increasing with each passing hour as we waited for a response from the CT lab. She added a second shot of Dilaudid pain medication to the drip that was already filling my system, but to little avail. I was becoming increasingly inconsolable and began twisting and turning in bed, squeezing into the fetal position and back out almost rhythmically. This continued on and with the nurse still at a loss, she added a couple of Narco pills to the mix in hope they might act on a different area of pain, and they might have, but the overall discomfort that now had me writing back and forth in near agony was not going to be medicated away.

Then to add insult to injury, the amount of pain medicine my body was now processing was compounded by an intense feeling of nausea from the combined meds, so not only was I still in incredible pain, but now I felt miserable and on the verge of vomiting the entire time. My parents sat next to me, helpless, and frustrated, when we got the word from the doctor that the CT scan showed no blockage and our next step was to get a gastric enema, which would help us look for more blockages further up the colon and, more importantly, offer some relief from the pressure in my abdomen as they drained away some of the built up stool.

There was one problem with this. In order to get images of my potentially blocked intestines, I would need to drink another normal amount of “contrast” fluid, diluted in a disgustingly sweet concoction of fruit juice that always seemed to be the worst part of the experience on the whole. The nurse casually placed a large styrofoam cup of liquid in front of me and I started at it for a few seconds, turned to my mom and said, “This isn’t going into me. There is no room! That’s impossible.”

But without much other choice, I began taking gulps of the liquid, stifling back gags and trying to get as much down as soon as possible to minimize my disgust. And just as I suspected, as I forced it all down, the almost intolerable pain in my abdomen began to multiply as the liquid added an even greater pressure to an already overstuffed cavity. I had enough…and told the nurse so.

“I’m sorry..that’s it. There is literally no way I can drink anymore. I’m going to throw up.”

But it wasn’t even the throwing up that concerned me so much as it was the increased pain I had just brought upon myself. I was now out of my head in agony.

Another hour of writhing pain passed, I estimated anyways, as by now I had completely lost track of time in the distraction of the experience. I didn’t know if an hour or 5 hours had passed since the morning began. Then just as I thought I was going to pass out from the added pain and frustration the transportation cart came to the room and, now unable to walk on my own, they pushed it to the side of the bed for me to transfer positions. The nurse mercifully gave me one more dose of Dilaudid to help me stay as calm as possible during the procedure (which was going to be crucial), then I was pushed out of the room and towards the imaging area.

Now the fun began.

In order to do this properly, I needed to be awake as the technicians were going to ask me to move around, change positions and basically needed me to communicate with them through the discomfort. And this is how it went.

I was transferred to an in incredibly uncomfortable glass table and laid on my side, my top leg pushed passed by bottom leg and was instructed to breath deeply and slowly, relaxing as much as possible. With only the most casual of warnings the tech then slowly, almost too slowly for my comfort, slid a long rod into my rectum, repositioning it periodically as he pushed through impacted stool and let it rest deep inside my colon. When it was in far enough a balloon at the end of the rod was then inflated, which served to both hold the rod in place and create a barrier for the liquid contrast that was to be injected into me and held throughout my intestines. The contrast would allow them to take the images and determine if anything was backed up.

For the next 20 to 30 minutes I was directed this way and that, to roll on my left side, then to my back, then to my right, then back again. The table was dropped as a large camera swung over my abdomen, it’s huge lead bags hanging from the side swinging into my stapled incision and causing further and unnecessary pain on top of the rest. The table was tilted forward, almost upright, as I struggled to take deep breaths, my fingers clutching the side of the table as the pressure in my abdomen shifted and the pain followed. The inflated balloon inside me pressed against my bladder and other organs, triggering a constant need to go to the bathroom. The rod pressed against my rectum, causing sharp pains and an incredible discomfort. The contrast slid around my body as they rolled me this way and that, tipping the table up and down, essentially shaking it through my body to look for blockages and help soften the stool stubbornly residing in my upper intestines.

It. Was. Miserable.

But soon, it was over. They relieved a bit of pressure by extracting a small amount of stool through the enema tube, then rolled me on my back, by now my pelvic and hip bones sore as hell from the pressure of the glass table, and drained the rest of the now softened stool from the tube. Finally, the balloon was deflated and both it and the rod were pulled from my rectum as I lay on my back in state of complete defeat. The tech asked me, “Are you feeling better? Does the pressure feel lessened now?”, but honestly, I couldn’t tell. I think I was so tense from the experience that I couldn’t relax enough to gauge my pain, and of course, I will still laying on the hardened glass table.

They switched me over to the transport cart, wheeled me out into the waiting area to be brought to my room and….THEN I could feel it. The pressure…it was gone. Mostly. Enough anyways. The incredibly painful gas feeling was gone. The accumulation in my lower abdomen was gone. Generally, aside from the trauma of all that had happened in the past 15 hours, I felt pretty good….relieved. I was wheeled up to my room where my parents were still waiting, laid on the bed, and took a few moments of calm before I relayed the gastric enema procedure to them.

And then I went to the bathroom, on my own. I had that elusive bowel movement I needed to have. Then shockingly, I looked at the clock to realize almost the entire day had gone by and it wasn’t too far off from bedtime, which was fine by me as I felt emptied in so many ways. I had a couple more bowel movements that night and then……well…..nothing.

My doctor informed me that after looking at the images he didn’t see any blockage or scar tissue obstruction from surgery, but rather just “a boatload…and I mean a BOATLOAD” of impacted stool. He could offer no explanation for it, but simply said that I should have more bowel movements coming now as everything fell back into place…except…again…..nothing.

A day went by, then two, and no more bowel movements. It was almost like we were back to square one, except with a lot less stool than previously. The body was STILL not cooperating and I was still experiencing “lazy bowel” post-surgery. But this time I was determined to avoid any increasing pain or stool accumulation, so we decided to try another stool softener and Milk of Magnesia to get things moving.

I took the prescribed dosage and….nothing. Absolutely nothing. No tummy rumblings, no gas, no nothing. It was time to bring out the big guns. Before going to bed the nurse brought me a 12 oz bottle of Magnesium Citrate laxative, another absurdly sweet “lemon flavored” carbonated beverage that would essentially work to clear me out. And clean me out it did.

I didn’t get a lot of sleep that night, nor the next day as my time on the toilet seemed to grow longer and longer. I won’t say it was fun, of course, and the experience was so intense that it was hard to even say it was a “relief”. I mean, it was great that I was finally getting emptied out once and for all, so there was going to be NO residual leftover from the past 2 weeks and my gut could get back to doing what it is supposed to be doing, but the pain, horrible flushing feeling, and everything else that comes along with a chemical concoction like this really sours the experience. Needless to say though….IT WORKED.

And finally, after countless days, pushing through another bout of extended abdominal pain, shots, procedures, helplessness and frustration, I finally heard my doctor say those precious words,

“You can go back to a regular diet.”

And that’s exactly what I did yesterday, starting slowly anyways. I’m taking it easy with soy yogurt and smoothies, but did indulge in a cookie. Today the doctor wants me to actually try solid foods, to again try and get the gut working again. For whatever reason I’m feeling much better about it this time and have a sense that everything is going to start working properly again, which would be great because we are now talking about, if everything goes well, getting out of here in the next day or so. I’m ready to feel the sun instead of just look at it. Sit outside passing the time instead of in a hospital bed. Walk around the house freely instead of wheeling some contraption next to me. And so much more.

Again, it seems this cancer I’m dealing with has been the least of concerns throughout the ordeal. It’s everything on the periphery that wears you down, sucks the life out of your body and leaves you empty and desperate. Right now, I just wanna get home so I can forget about everything on the periphery and start steeling myself against the larger battle that is still to come.

Sorry for the rambling friends, but thanks for being here with me.

Routines (Un)Interrupted

It is the rare individual that doesn’t live a scheduled life in some way, as our hours are often dictated by seemingly undeniable external forces, whether they be work, hunger, family, biology, etc. I’ve come to toe that line of routine somewhat precariously, often finding an urge to throw off all the shackles that have shaped my life against my desires, but all the same enjoying the sense of calm and comfort with knowing what is to come, what to expect and what I can control.  I am undoubtedly, almost viciously, a Type A personality. I crave simplicity and order in all things and try to create my life around these dynamics.

So it was no small thing when after having finally managed an insane, n0n-stop daily schedule that started at 6am and took me from bike commuting, to running, to design, to bike commuting, to work, to bike commuting, to food preparation and straight to bed to start all over the next day, that everything, and I mean EVERYTHING abruptly stopped. Indefinitely. It was like I the forces of gravity suddenly stopped working for me, and me alone. I knew what to do each day, to get me to the next hour, to complete the day on top of the game and now I didn’t even know what to for the afternoon. It was quite disconcerting.

I made it work though. As best I could, I tried to fill the days by starting new routines with writing, eating, and completing errands, all while I waited out the days to surgery.

I didn’t mind this really, because in the schedule of my future I knew this was still very temporary. This was just a looong break in routine where at some point I would get back to recreating my life, namely through a new job and, of course, running. The importance of those two daily activities can’t be overstated. But what I didn’t expect was this most recent news about the problems during surgery, problems with the cancer and now a timeline that has extended my state of hovering in anti-gravity that much further….so much further that I don’t even have an estimate for it. Previously, I was given a general 6 month timeline to work from, which however fluid this may be, was at least numbers on a calendar I could work from, but now, well, between recovery time and the effectiveness of coming chemo treatments, followed by the potential of this HIPEC surgery again and then recovery again….it’s going to be a long road. And I suspect without a lot of defined routines.

I’m not worried about what I will do with myself, I’ll find ways to make busy whether through more writing, creative projects, blogging, etc., but even just the option find continuous employment will be next to impossible knowing every interview will have to be underscored by my physical, psychological and emotional weakness that will come during chemo treatments, the looming date of surgery and so on. I just don’t even know what options there are for work in this state, outside of really making a push in freelance endeavors (which wouldn’t be the worst thing to be honest).

Looking further out though, I have an even greater concern for routine. Let’s just assume all goes well. I build my strength and start the chemo, which the cancer responds to and the HIPEC surgery is scheduled and performed. I recover well and finally find myself cancer-free and ready to create my life without further interruption. Then what? I’m 36, am looking at missing out on a year of my life, left a stop-gap, low-paying job when the cancer hit and then walk into a world as a 37/38 year old, still needing to manage my finances and secure stable employment. But, and maybe this is my Type A coming out here, I feel like losing the routine for all that time will have me struggling to get back on track, an unemployable adult, and relegated to another job that is unfulfilling and pays insufficiently. I just can’t face that sort of future coming out on the other side of this.

Let me take a deep breath here though. I know this depiction is being pessimistic, because I’m just preparing for one “worst-case scenario” in order to find ways to circumnavigate it, to consider the bad in order to find the good. Because maybe, just maybe, the experience of this whole situation might actually open more doors for me. Maybe the skills and knowledge I get from going through this might aid me directly or indirectly in ways that will alter my previous struggles with finding a solid career path and I’ll actually end up all the better for it. That certainly is an option.

For now, of course, I don’t dwell on considerations that far out. I can’t. I’m more occupied with getting my body to pass gas so I can eat again, pressing my pain button at the appropriate intervals so I don’t have full on pain attacks and just keeping a positive perspective through all this.

Which brings me back to the necessity of routine, even in the immediate.

The Mini-Marathon is coming to town on Saturday. This is THE premier running event for our city, heralded as the country’s largest half-marathon, drawing, I believe 45,000 runners. There is prize money and the winners are often overseas elites who come to sprint down a finishing time of 1:01 – 1:04. For the local elites though, it’s a stage for us, a race to throw down for and have a great showing amongst our friends, families and world-class crowds. It’s just damn exciting. Unfortunately, I have only raced it once, knocked out in other years by injury or hiatus.

It was this time last year that I was still in a self-imposed running hiatus, feeling sorry for myself for not running competitively and instead just trotting out 5 early morning miles on the treadmill before I would head into work every morning. Something started happening about this time though. The weather started getting better, more runners were showing up at they gym and suddenly I wasn’t just running intermittently, but repetitively, 2 week stretches at a time. The fire was building, and the warmer it got, the faster I ran. Then on race day I sat on the steps of the Y just prior to opening, watching the runners stream into the downtown on a beautifully sunny day, some sub-elites doing warm-ups in their racing flats and the nervous excitement just filling the air intoxicatingly.

But the doors opened and I went inside to run. 11 miles. At 6:30 pace. Just for fun.

And suddenly, at some point during that run, the switch had flipped. As I stated in great detail in a blog post soon thereafter, I WAS NOT DONE. The fire turned into an inferno and the only thing I wanted more in the world was to start training again, doing whatever it takes to balance family life and competitive running…so that’s what I did. I set my alarm an hour early every morning, drug my weary butt out of bed and rode downtown to start my workouts in the pitch dark, by myself…whatever it took.

Fast forward to just over a month ago and I was still on a similar routine, getting up early to run then starting the rest of my day, and although I wasn’t in my best shape, coach and I had decided I would run the Mini this year as a gauge of fitness, going into it without much “race readiness” and just to see what happened. I was psyched. I was finally going to experience such a huge local event again and I already started doing the calculations in my head to determine if I could be my previous time on the course.

Then…well…cancer.

And no routine. No long runs, no gym, no speed workouts, no intervals, no hills. No nothing. Just a new focus and the Mini given up on once again….almost.

A part of my recovery process is making sure my legs don’t swell out of control and develop blood clots from lack of circulation post-operation. They told me that going for repeated walks during the day would be a strong factor in getting that blood flowing, not to mention would keep me from getting lulled into the passive comfort of an adjustable bed, letting the rest of my body whither all the same. I wasn’t sure what other physical strength options I had at the time were, but if walking was presented as something that would create effort, than it was good enough for me.

On my first time down the hallway I realized it extended pretty far, took a quick turn and then came all the way back to my original starting point, effectively creating a “lap” for me to work from, as if a hospital had designed a local track instead of a sports group. Good enough for me. After just a few laps I realized how important this was for me, this sense of routine, specifically related to physical effort. Sure, it was just walking, but post-operation walking is not much different than a “preparation pace” run in a normal state. Beyond the physical benefits there was that mental space I needed. Running provides such an open time where the body does it’s thing and the mind can do it’s own, allowing for not just valuable insight and considerations, but that mental space alone. That sense of clarity and simplicity that I have yet to find elsewhere. So even more than just getting out there and doing laps, I was experiencing the mental benefits of running all the same as I did when I was knocking down 6:00 pace instead of 16:00 pace.

Of course, I couldn’t just leave it at that. The mini was coming up and my team is getting psyched to chase down their own PRs, and I didn’t want to be left out of the phone. Without much thought I made the declaration,

“I’m ‘running’ my own hospital mini.”

I’m going to get up on race day, wheel my contraption out into the hallway with me, and when the gun goes off downtown I’m going to start 13.1 laps of the hospital hallways myself, most likely finishing my own distance AFTER my team finishes the real 13.1 miles.

And just like that I have salvaged a piece of my old life routine for my current one. I’m both running (oh, just let me use the term) for the physical and mental rewards of the effort and training, in a way, for a specified goal.

The value of that routine simply can’t be exaggerated. And if I can find a way to hold on to these routines in the hospital, then surely I can find a way to do the same when left to my own devices. Until then, I’ve got time to think on that more, and some training to get back to.

Good luck Team Athletic Annex and all other friends running the Mini Saturday.

Never Say Die…Unless.

Never Say Die…unless.

I know there have been many individuals wanting to hear more about my situation lately (mainly because you’ve said so!) and I apologize for any delay, but before I wrote more about my experience I wanted to gather a little more information that would bring everything up to speed, to keep everyone on the same page and not present this in a way that it very much is not, as if I’m misleading you in some way. See, some discoveries were made during the operation that changed the Doctor’s original plan at killing this cancer, and he had to effectively abort mission in order to prevent “doing more harm than good.” So the short of it is.

I still have cancer.

Two different types actually, both of the appendix, but still confined to the abdominal region.

The long of it follows. The plan for the operation was the “standard” HIPEC procedure, which involved cutting me open, removing/scraping away any tumors, removing the “mucin” (mucus-like cancer cells), then flooding me with 90 minutes of heated chemo, and finally installing 4 ports into my abdomen which would draw the chemo drip in for the coming 4 or so days in the ICU. Well, the doctors cut me open, started removing tumors, but found them significantly harder to remove than any other PMP tumors they had dealt with before, necessitating a much more vigorous approach. Then in removing the tumors they found more in areas of the abdomen (upper) they certainly weren’t expecting, leading them to believe these were behaving a little differently than PMP tumors and demanding a different approach for removal. They simply weren’t going to be able to remove them without getting so vigorous that they risked severe organ damage..and so they backed off. Instead of the 24 hour surgery they were looking at, it was cut to about 9 hours for further assessment. What they needed to do was extract the tumors and send them to a pathologist for deeper study, which will establish the next course of action.

After a few days of impatient waiting, my parents and I met with the doctor, who was quite excited about my current state of recovery. He explained the occurrence during the procedure again and I started following up with questions to get a grasp on what I was facing, which I pretty much understood, but needed to hear directly from him.

“So, this is going to involve chemo treatments down the line now, right?”

- “Yes, we’ll assess you in 3 to 6 weeks to see how you have recovered, make sure you are strong as you can possibly be and then start the treatments.”

“And the treatments will determine how to proceed?”

- “Yes, we need to see if these cancers are going to respond to the chemo treatments. If they do respond and we can shrink them down, we will then perform the HIPEC operation again to go back in and make sure we’ve removed everything possible.”

“Ok, and if the chemo DOESN’T shrink the tumors…if they don’t respond? What does that mean?”

- “Well, if that is the case, there really aren’t any other options for treatment.”

I nodded my head in complete understanding. “Ok….that’s all I really need to know.”

And they soon left after that.

Again, he didn’t say, “You will die”, but that’s what he said.

And so where I hoped at this point I would be slowly beginning my recovery from cancer, figuring out how to best get my life back in order, I’m now faced with not just an extension of this continued trauma, but the very real possibility that I may not HAVE a life that needs to get back in order. Very simply…that.

For now, that is all I can muster to write. Still very much battling the trauma of the operation and necessary recovery procedures, I’m just gonna ride that out for awhile and let it all come as it may. Thank you for being there with me friends. I will now stay in more frequent touch.

 

The First 5 Days

Disclaimer:

This was written as a much needed catharsis and documentation of some of my experiences waking from post-surgery. I don’t want to be a downer on this, but I feel the visceral truth of many people’s experiences goes unmentioned, leaving the next person in their path walking just as blindly as before, so I felt it was important to actually post this as well.

I am still in the throes of initial recovery at the hospital (out of the ICU yesterday), but have a long way to go before I’m able to really care for myself and leave this place.

Also, I haven’t wanted to post anything because there is a much greater story as to the “development” of my cancer and the forthcoming ways of dealing with it, a lot of which my parents and myself don’t know yet. We are waiting to have an appointment with the oncologist and after we get a wider understanding of what is happening and the plan from here on out, I will post a more informational update.

For now, I have this to offer, coupled with all the gratitude I can muster out of this broken body for the care packages, financial donations, and words of encouragement. If you would rather not hear about the less than pleasant aspects of post-operation life, I would suggest you not read this one…and I totally understand.

Till the next update friends, enjoy your runs!

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5 days with Cancer.

There is Cancer.

And then there is everything else.

There is everything else surrounding cancer, that may or not be directly related to that greatest of concerns. Those that often go unmentioned. Unnamed. They are there, on the periphery, out of the spotlight, as their individual states of pain and discomfort are trivial, but as I’ve learned, the combined effect is so incredibly potent.

There is the pain on the bottom of your foot from struggling to find a comfortable position in bed all night, but always resorting back to resting in that one same position. There are festering, multi-colored sores, highlighted by surprisingly tall, thin, fluid-filled blisters on the inner arm and abdomen, a map of sorts to the newly-discovered allergy from medicinal tape. There is the nurse that scrubs your forehead too hard with a soapy washcloth, painfully tearing away the acne that has built up and dried into clusters in the open air, now leaving little scabs dancing across the forehead. There is the tube that was pushed down your nose and into your throat, rubbing raw against the sensitive inner skin as your body swelled around it’s extension. There is the fear reserved for horror movies during those first two days when you lapsed in and out of consciousness, unable to communicate verbally as the tube filled and choked with your constantly draining mucus, causing at least one vomit episode in order to force a path through. There are the oxygen tubes inserted straight up your nostrils and taped to your nose so tight that after a few days every breath in drug them repeatedly over an already worn path of painfully raw cartilage. There are the chunks of blood and mucus dried up behind those indiscrete tubes, accessible by no one and choking off just that much more precious oxygen. There is the catheter unforgivingly extending from your penis and running off to a container somewhere on the floor, it’s exit point marked with a spot of pointed burning, causing fear of moving too much once you have appeased it’s complaint. There is the nurse that gave such careful and attentive care during the day, only to be replaced by strong, fumbling new recruits at best, and hardened-hearted veterans at worst. There is the swollen face, holding captive the sleep in your eyes, unable to drain away, so now drying up and becoming yet another abrasion to contend with at some point during the day, you ending up as the loser with stinging, salty eyes. There is the accumulated psychological fatigue of the passing of days and hours, which you can not find the energy to track, only waiting with fierce impatience for the ailments to fall away and die. There is the pain in your rectum that you aren’t sure what is it’s cause, hearing nothing mentioned from doctor’s or nurses alike, forcing you to consider if anyone even knows there is something down there. There is the rippled balloon pulled a touch too slowly from the rectum, unleashing the foulest of feces smells into the air after being trapped by the enema device for days. There is the morphine that offers such a magical release from the pain and yet holds the body down as if it is being crushed by a lead blanket, destroying all ideas of movement and basic self-care. There is the urinating container on the table next to you, just 2 inches further away than you need it to be for careful grasping, like a dare one can’t avoid taking, and the subsequent pain that stabs your abdomen as you are forced to roll to the side to achieve those precious inches. There is the swollen scrotum, expanded to a point one is hard-pressed to believe as a common response to surgery and something much more dire, creating great magnitudes of difficulty in movement, in distinct fear that a little too much pressure, or a mis-judged placement of sitting might rupture the whole casing completely. There are the leads that extend to the wires, their adhesive backs pressed deeply into chest hairs that involve a great ripping removal when procedure necessitates, multiple times in the span of a week. There are the fluid and electric pathways, so many of them, snaking in and out of the hospital gown and entering into the body in some spots or into ports in others, always a tangled hassle of plastic tubing, causing detailed calculation with every simple movement, wether across the room or just simple across the bed. THere is the epidural entry point that runs the back like an external spine, finding an IV access to bring it inside, offering the most precious relief on the inside, but an unavoidable point of nagging and discomfort on the out, ruining the hopes for a simple flat backed sleep position. There are the dreams, induced by restless sleep and a body filled with the effects of pain-numbing drugs, always difficult and hard to separate from reality, which upon awakening didn’t offer much safety. There are the moments during the day where one is hypnotized in and out of consciousness by the effects of the drugs, a set of closed eyes immediately bringing in images of frustration, discomfort, inhibited drunken movement, only to be awoken into reality with only the characters changed. There is the indescribable pain of switching off one pain management system to another, causing a brief lapse of time that becomes filled with a quick growing and increasingly mounting physical stabbing of the abdomen that threatens to consume the whole body, offers no respite, and is only fought off with minimal mitigation techniques and the slow drip of drugs, leaving the victim with a 100 yard stare and unable to recognize the world around them. There is the skin that dries with sores, and if kept still too long pries away at the attached with a forceful tearing of movement. There is the itching that comes with fabrics pressed to the skin for days on end, despite baths contained within wash cloths. There is the string of social workers, nurses, doctors, specialists, who some show themselves to be caring and considerate, while others merely filling formalities, but all unable to break from the procedure of interrupting sleep, thoughtful consideration and just necessary downtime for a wounded animal. There are the spaces between joints that begin to pop and press on each other with the most simple of movements that have now gone neglected for more time than one even gives thought. There are the days without real food and real liquid, replaced by a nutritional concoction and fed unceremoniously into the body, circumventing any tastebuds or pathway of enjoyment, making you feel like a dystopic, futuristic sci-fi movie character. There is the accumulation of mucus that builds in the mouth, throat and lungs as one sleeps with little positional relief, necessitating a morning of incredibly painful half-coughs, hoping to dredge up just enough chewable mucus to spit away and allow for a few moments of free breathing. There is the waiting, comprised of the boredom that can’t be filled with just movies, reading, individual passions, before being consumed again by the desperation of it all. There is the oxygen tube, snaking out from the nostrils before joining back up again to wind around the backs of the ears, rubbing a blister gently, slowly, but unremovably in its place. There is the poke in the back of the arm, to keep the legs from clotting post-surgery, that starts to come day after day after day, a dreaded morning companion who hangs around into the afternoon. There is the mouth as if filled with paste, robbed of quenching fluids and left to smack against itself in desperate longing for any tiny remnants of moisture. There is the line of staples, pulling together the incision as if a railroad was laid on the abdomen, making an abrupt turn around the navel before finding its course again, visually threatening to derail everything in its path should the rails split under tension. There are the arms and legs swollen and restricted from the water flooded into the body during surgery, fending off death in the moment, but creating a monstrous visual in the aftermath.

There is cancer. And there is all this.

And then there are the tears that arise like a rapidly filling well, all this accumulation, all this compounded discomfort, all these non-cancers that take a toll impossible to trivialize, the tears that flood out all the positive imagery and thoughts of strength, leaving behind a desert of cracked land where no individual with the passion of life in their body would find desirable to reside, or even visit.

These are the first 5 days after my cancer surgery, the externalities and the cancer itself…Right now, it’s hard to discern which is worse.

 

STATUS OF SCOTT’S SURGERY

Thank you to all Scott’s friends  – locally, electronically and universally.  Your friendship, encouragement and support is the best medicine for ALL of us during this journey.  What we have to report at this point is pretty general until we meet with the doctor today and know more about his pathology reports. We also want to make sure Scott is the first receiver of his condition prior to this blog.  What we can report is that because of Scott’s general great health, he came through surgery without any complications.  Surgery lasted about 9 hours and he is being cared for in ICU right now.  He is sedated,  breathing with the help of a ventilator,  but they anticipate removing that sometime today to see how he does on his own.  Wish we had more details to report.  Check back tomorrow and hopefully we can share more information with you.

Scott’s Mom & Dad

The Other Side

The starting line.

It’s such a cliche to say, “After the marathon, nothing will be the same”, but after running my first in Chicago ’09, I was surprised to find that it was also very true. Everything HAD changed. My understanding of my own potential, my awareness of a new kind of running pain, my own sense of accomplishment, my new goals, my shattered limitations. It had all changed. I found myself referring to running in terms of “pre-chicago” and “post-chicago” quite often, as if I was now speaking in biblical timelines. Anything before the marathon was my “before christ” period.

And now, I count down today’s hours as the last of my previous life. On one side, an existence filled without the concerns of a life-threatening disease, and on the other side….something different. Something changed. That, I already know, will be inevitable. It is why I have been saying to my friends the past week,

“I’ll see you on the other side.”

Which I know…sounds sort of final, almost morbid. As if I’m referring to the other side of “life”, where one side is living and the other is the afterlife. That, of course, is NOT what I mean to convey. But I can’t deny that when I enter the hospital tomorrow morning, get put to sleep on Tuesday, and wake up a few days down the line, that part of my existence now completely absent….I will be on the other side, and everything will have changed.

I will have changed quite physically. The dying part of me will have been killed itself (we hope, completely). And other parts will be missing, whether whole or in part, excised, removed, and disposed. I will experience the new physical sensation of being gutted, lying somewhere beneath the tides of pain that will be washing over and through me. On the outside I will be missing other things, hair, a bellybutton, some skin. Most prominently, I will have a rift that extends from the top of my abdomen to the bottom, like the story embedded in a timeline, but fortunately one I will not have heard. I will be physically changed.

I will also have changed emotionally and psychologically. Though I don’t know quite how yet. I don’t know what this new sense of identity will mean, this post-cancer existence. I don’t know if I will now feel a limit to my potential, tethered to the ground by the weight of my scars, or like post-chicago, will feel unleashed, as if the sky never ends and gravity doesn’t exist. I only know that it will be impossible to enter into a transformation like this and come out the same as when I went in.

I will be on the other side.

I will face a life of great uncertainty. I will be without work and self-generated income for months. I will be physically atrophied. I will have lost all expectations of my body’s functions. Everything will have changed.

Well…Almost. Not everything.

This cancer and this operation can change me physically and this experience can change me psychologically and emotionally, but I will never have lost everything, no matter what side I’m on. This is stomach cancer after all, not brain cancer. This experience and this operation can not erase my memory of what life was like pre-cancer.

I haven’t forgotten what it was like to run 2:25 in Chicago and I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to keep going after that PR. I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to run an easy 10 mile MGP run at 5:18 pace. I haven’t forgotten the feeling of finishing a back to back 4 hour trail run, coming off the trail and into the parking lot, drenched in sweat and feeling the power of gods and demons combined. I haven’t forgotten that, and on the other side, I still will not have forgotten. And so whatever has changed within me, that potential will still be there. Those memories, that drive, those goals, that return to the epic life will always be a part of me, in the distance, waiting to fill the physical void I will now harbor.

On the other side I will be changed. Broken down. Back to square one. Emptied and atrophied. It will be a new life…if only because I will be starting over.

And in starting over, there is only one direction to head. On the other side I will be empty, weak, slow….and so on the other side I can ONLY get stronger, faster. I will start with waking. I will progress to moving. Then walking. Then jogging. Then running. Stronger and faster. Stronger and faster. Until that day I stalk the grounds at the end of a sweat-drenched trail run, crush yet another seemingly impossible speed workout, and step over the finish line faster than I ever have before.

Today is my last day on this side. Tomorrow I will step into the hospital to be prepped for the operation on Tuesday, residing temporarily in space between my lives, like hovering in transition between earthly and other realms. I will not leave those walls until weeks later, stepping through the front doors and into my new life.

In the face of so many unknowns, so many potential worries and debilitating fears, I feel ready. I feel ready to face the coming pain and everything I can’t know is out there.

Bring it on. Bring it the fuck on.

See you on the other side friends.

Calling The Shots

I’ve had a few posts in my head that I’ve been reluctant to write, in concern that I might offend some of those who have offered support to me, but also not wanting to use my recent illness to be critical instead of positive and inspiring, but with that said, I think the following post is important enough to put those concerns aside, especially since I’m in the throws of it at this point, on the verge of surgery, my patience wearing thin and my emotions shifting from hour to hour. So let me just summarize this outright, and allow me to steal this phrase from another writer on the subject, and which doesn’t mince words….

It’s. Not. About. You.

Trust me in that I don’t say this in a manner of scolding, or even passively aggressively addressing this to a certain individual or individuals (more on that later). I’m not. But it’s worth repeating. IT’S NOT ABOUT YOU.

And although I’m going to talk about my own experiences, I’ve come to understand through reading accounts by others suffering from disease or illness, terminal or not, the sentiment is universal.

Since making my cancer diagnosis public just about 2 1/2 weeks ago, I have absorbed an overwhelming amount of support from friends, family and strangers, all in relatively unique and varied ways, but also residing in certain parameters of understanding and in a manner of playing it safe, treading lightly. Initially, I brushed off the concerns that friends expressed to me in their wariness of “saying the right thing” or even “not knowing what to say”, but as the surgery date nears, and again, my patience wears thin, I’m beginning to understand the importance for the supporters to tread lightly and take the safest route possible.

To be honest, this has surprised me.

I thought I was going to remain pretty normative in my emotional state, absorbing others sentiments and gestures as I do in more expected situations, you know, those not drug down by the weight of a quickened dying, but instead I’ve noticed my normal social behaviors adjusting by the moment, and where I could easily take the personalities and character intricacies of others without offense, I’m now much more vulnerable and therefore PROTECTIVE of my own emotional state. This has probably confused some of my more closer friends, so I hope to clarify my sudden changes in behavior lately.

As anyone who knows me rather well….or even not so well…it probably goes without saying that I’m the type that prefers to overshare rather than stay silent. I speak my mind, as constructively as possible, but speak it no less. I’ve been described as “transparent” and “brutally honest”…guilty as charged…and I’ve purposefully and inherently been open about my experience dealing with this cancer diagnosis from day one, which I understand might lead others to think they can interact with me in the same way they always have in the past…but now I realize they can’t.

And it doesn’t seem fair.

It doesn’t seem fair that I get to carry on and on and on through my blog writings, post as many normative statements on Facebook as I have in the past, carry out and express my emotions as I have become accustomed to pre-cancer…..but then respond to gestures of support by others in a way that seems counter to my expected sense of normalcy.

It’s not fair that I get to say, “I want to see so many friends before I go in for surgery next week! Let’s hang out!” and then when friends contact me again and again to meet up, I’m suddenly busy, finding excuses to be alone, or even silent to their requests.

And I’m sorry. I’m sorry because I know it’s confusing.

But I need to say this….It’s not about you. Right now I’m accepting an incredibly unique and unexpected moment of blunt and unapologetic selfishness as I prepare for this surgery. I’m doing what’s best for me and not giving much thought to other’s needs and concerns. And I’m sorry…but this is what I have to do. And so, It’s not about you.

Not only is it not about your needs right now…but my behavior is not about your gestures either. You are not at fault. No one is.

See, I’m facing down this life threatening disease, this quickened dying process, this risk of invasive surgery, this complete reworking of my life from Monday and onward…and that’s not even the extent of my worries…so suddenly I’m…not unstable…but protective. I’m protecting my emotional state and protecting others from my emotional state. I’m handling things differently (or maybe MORE honestly) than I often do.

Right now, I’m going inward. I’m simplifying even more than I usually do, which is saying a lot. I’m keeping all externalities to an absolute minimum, so I’m not hurting others and not getting hurt myself….it’s how I know best to deal with this situation…and it’s what you need to understand.

For those facing something emotionally weighted like this, the best thing you can do is offer two things.

1. A gesture of support. Express a sentiment of kindness or encouragement, even if that means saying, “I don’t know what to say”, and expect nothing in return. Don’t feel hurt if the individual responds differently than you had hoped. Don’t be hurt if they don’t respond at all, because again, it’s not about you.

2. Offer availability (if you are in the position to do so). If you can be available, offer that, but don’t expect it…and don’t hound it. Put it out there and walk away, because trust me, if the person feels like they need someone, whether that is to talk to, unload on or to distract themselves, they will contact you. Just offering your availability is what is most important above anything else.

That is all you need to do as a supporter, because both of those gestures leaves the decision making up to the person dealing with the emotional weight themselves. It keeps the ball in their court. It let’s them call the shots. It keeps the situation about them and not you.

This isn’t to say you don’t have something unique or unseen to offer the suffering individual…not at all…but that doesn’t even matter. If the suffering individual needs something more than what they are getting from their selected avenues of support, they’ll continue to look elsewhere, and it’s up to you just to be available and be there should they contact you. No matter how powerful you can be for them, don’t interject yourself into their place of need…they may not want you there. And it may be confusing. It may feel to YOU that they are making a mistake…but they aren’t. For SOME reason they may feel the need to be alone or keep their circle of support to a minimum, and most likely it is going to come from a protective need, and although you may not understand it, you must trust it and accept it.

Years ago a stray cat I was helping take care of suddenly went absent. A few days later I found him lying by the garage door, listless and apathetic. I moved him to a more comfortable, less vulnerable spot, but he went right back to that position open to the weather and predators. After a couple days of this behavior, I realized he was dying. He was protecting himself in the face of an irredeemable circumstance. Still, I took him to the vet and it was discovered that he had feline AIDS, to an untreatable extent. The vet picked up his limp body and purposefully (but gently) pushed his head into the side of the exam table. The cat didn’t protect himself, didn’t lift his head to avoid the collision, didn’t respond to the discomfort. He knew what was coming and had accepted it. We put him down. But if we had brought him home, he would have undoubtedly gone right back to that spot by the garage and let himself die, incomprehensible to me, but instinctually right and comforting to him.

Fortunately, I’m not a dying animal. Ok….I AM, but not irredeemably. I’m going to live, but that doesn’t mean I don’t feel the need to protect myself right now, and so I’m surely acting in ways that confuses some of my close friends, but feels absolutely right to me. Because right now, It’s about me. So I’ll do things like this…

“Hey! I want to see you before I go into the hospital!” I’ll tell that to you in the morning. And by the afternoon I’ll suddenly say, “Hey, I can’t make it. I’m busy. I’ve got things to do.” And then by the evening I might say, “Can you meet up?”

Or you might text me…and I won’t respond. Or you might have made plans to see me in the hospital when I’m available for visitation and I’ll suddenly go quiet at the prospect. Because, honestly, I don’t know what I’m going to want right now. I don’t know this from day to day and hour to hour. I’ve driven 15 miles north to sit and write, because it’s theraputic, because it feels right, because it somehow feels good to be alone, but after sitting for an hour I suddenly feel like I want to be home…so I drive the 15 miles back home. And by the time I’m home, I don’t want to be there and drive back North right to the same coffee shop I left from to write some more.

And sometimes I want to see people, and the second I’m contacted by 15 people who have made themselves available, I suddenly feel overwhelmed and want to be alone again. I walk into coffee shops and see people I know, then instantly turn around and walk away because I don’t trust myself to respond how I feel is best.

I’m emotionally vulnerable and I have to protect myself. I walk through the back door of my favorite coffee shop and see people whose personalities I usually enjoy, but suddenly walk right back out the front because in that moment I can’t handle them. The extremism in character that I find so valuable and exciting in normal circumstances has now become dangerous to me and I prefer neutrality and solitude. It doesn’t make sense, I know.

And I’m physically vulnerable. I walk into coffee shops and if the available seating isn’t the kind I wanted, I leave. I walk into coffee shops and if it’s too cold, or the light sucks, or just doesn’t feel right, I leave and find one that works for me.

I’ll be driving home and suddenly stop at a business I frequent because I felt the need to have a simple conversation with someone I’m comfortable with, but then reject an offer to spend time with a good friend because it just doesn’t feel right.

And sometimes my body is just not cooperating. I’m experiencing varied degrees of stomach pain due to the foods I eat or other things going on inside me, and I just don’t feel like talking. I don’t feel attractive. I don’t feel motivated. I don’t feel like suffering through the pain while trying to hold a valuable and constructive conversation.

And I’m sorry, but it’s not about you.

And at some point in the future it WILL be about YOU, but I can’t honestly say when that will be. I have had so many people say they will be there for me when I can have visitors at the hospital, and all I need to do is put out the call and they will be there….but here’s the thing…that call may never come. Right now, I still want to be alone. I don’t envision wanting people to come see me when I’m able, for many reasons…but that may absolutely change. When the time comes, I may want a line out the door. I just don’t know, but I have to protect myself. I have to keep this about me…and I know you understand.

But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. And I’m sorry. But here’s the thing…you can’t feel hurt, because it’s not about you. But, of course, that’s not true. You CAN feel hurt, just don’t internalize it, and certainly don’t express it. Process it and understand that it doesn’t come from a point of maliciousness or callousness…but rather protectiveness.

Let me reiterate though….this is not a sentiment directed at an individual or individuals in my specific situation. This is just good advice and an explanation to those who may feel confused, and even hurt, at my behavior lately. Because this is a learning process…for me just as anyone else who may not get it.

And I’m fortunate…immeasurably fortunate, because I have not had a single person in my LEGION of supporters who has come to me with a spirit of negativity, judgement or admonishment. Not. One. No matter how I’ve felt about the gestures of support offered or given to me, I can say with absolute certainty that they were all from a foundation of positivity, and for that I am incredibly grateful.

So please, friends, understand that I express this in the most compassionate manner I can possibly offer….It’s Not About You.

————-

And with that said, I offer you this work in progress, this expression of gratitude through the naming of supporters. Thank you.

(These are in no specific order and I wouldn’t bother looking for your name…if you do, and don’t find it, it’s because this is a work in progress and I’m still hunting down all the gestures of support. This is going to take awhile.)

Sarah Meyer Overpeck, Chris Overpeck, Katie White, Amanda Owens Solis, Kindra Hunckler, Jon Nolen, Amanda Shuman, David Agranoff, Lisa Daugherty, Alan Vedge, Brenna Macias, Syed Jaffery, T Garrett O’Sha, Stephen Mason, Brian Kremer, Tricia Mera, Mark Finney, Mark Bowder, Wes Trueblood, Heather Dane, Jonathan Auyer, Wendy Miller, Nekoma Burcham, Andrew Griswold, Colleen Osterhaus, Kate Grass, Ian Phillips, Martin Stacy, Kipp Normand, Stephen Hanes, Matthew Moody, Chromis Pasqueflower Bowerbird, Jennifer Kennedy Wyrick, Stephanie Griggz, Megan Jefferson, Mary Balmes, Lori Thompson, Jamie Farhner, Dan Farhner, Kirsch Bowker, Fredrik Winberg, Scot Sedley, Matt Shull, Toni Giacoletto Bohannon, Tatjana Rebelle, Chloe Vincent, Kristen Tribby Cook, L. Leona Frank, Alex Shoebridge, Jim Jennings, Rochelle Del Gunter, Mark Bowder, Sally Marchand Collins, Ivy Campbell, Scott Brunner, Ben Hudelson, Emma Faesi, Matt Robison, Kate Van Winkle, Joyce Holsten, Scott Holsten, Mary Mezey, Kevin Huff, Steve Baber, Missy Baber, Joshua Mason, Nekoma Burcham, Raymie Anderson, Martin Stacy, Louie Langley, Sara Biniecki, Debbie Hassid All, Alicia Ford, Jayson Meyer, Jasmine Rau, Jon Rau, Chris Fettig, Anna Lissa Abad Smith, Melissa Cass, Jennifer Roberts Jorgenson, Abbie Shapiro, Rebecca Zink, Kyndra Moeller, Erica Westhoff, Ron Day, Piotr Paciorek, Mary Rittenhouse, Robert Scheer, Tim Gatreau, Doug Marcum, Christopher Newgent, Scot Sedley, Carrie Jae, Jimmy Ryan, Nicole Campbell, Amanda Shuman, Matt Woodman,Cecilia Santos, Lara Brainer-Banker, Whitney Bevins Lazzara, Kristin DiSeveria, Christy Victor, Deanna DiSeveria, Blake Roberson, Lauren T. Rider, Steven Rider, Lisa Menninger, Brooke Merry, Keith Woods, Brittney Walker, Alison Nichole, Chris Beck, Molly Trueblood, Alan Vedge, Dylan Hammons, Rodolfo Palma, Cheryl Harnishfeger, Fred Iversen II, Terry Wilson, Koy DePompeo, Dustin Eagan, Michael Hofer, Chris Swisher, Jenny Swisher, Jesse Houser, Wendy Miller, Becky Boyle, Scott Breeden, Wes Trueblood, Terence Shackleford, Jacqueline Falzarano, Aaron Miller, Alain Bonacossa, Daniel Roth, Collin Moses, Bridget Flynn, Heather Howard, Brian Wyrick, Holly Sommers, Sara Pugh, Luis Vicente, Heather Lake, Carly Cooke, Kelly Shull, Rev. John Sowers, Laurie Guerrettaz, Hillary Keyes, Kelly Darden, Blake Roberson, Tito Downer, Leah Downer, Suzanna Gural, Skott Daltonic, Katharina Addas, Andria Baumgartner, Natasha Bivens, Ryan Scott Love, Lucas Maxwell McCabe, Matt Ebersole, Garry Howard, Patrick Roots Dugan, Chelsea Butler, Laura Minor, Luc Rodgers, Nicole Kemerer, Jeremy Atkins, Bill Watts, Jes Valentine, Jackie Dikos, Ryan Howard, Dan Ziegler, Jill Ziegler, Kat Lev, Errol Katz, Jen Bex, Kevin Harvey, Tania Hines Juillerat, Jonathan Juillerat, Marie Ursuy, Angela Bryant-Hofstetter, Chad Bauman, Travis Ryan, Katharina Dulckeit, Patrick Clauss, Matthew Yeager, Erin Sloan, Chris Ryan, Corrado Francolini, Melissa Palma, Oscar Sanchez-Huerta, Jonathan Nolte, Antonio Leiriao, Leslie Dolin, Steven Dolin, Elizabeth Sparrow, Kate Nolan, Michelle Craig, Jeff Melton, Colleen Douglass, Aaron Edge, Michelle Pemberton, Seph Hatley, Russ Goodman, James Meldrum, Piotr Paciorek, Steve Allen, Heidi Keller Phillips, Eliza Innes, Nick Keener, Nichole Ossim, Shawna Jeanne Thompson, Heather Dane, Amanda TJ Scott, Eric Bogan, BJ Davis, Marcey Cram, Jess Livinghouse, Carroll Bilbrey, Patti Jean, Denver Hutt, Sphie Holman, Linda Waddick, Daf Davies, Samuel Hartman, Ayden Jent, Wendy Wahine Clay, Mark Lafay, Jennifer Denton-Walker, Terry Fletcher, Duncan Alney, Louis Gregoire, Rob Williamson, Cindi Cohl Browning, Stephen Cummings, Brad Quartuccio, Jeff Guerrero, Becca Hopson, Lindsay Gilliam, Mary Ellen Wheeler, Josh Pollack, Jon Little, Kara Egan, Casey Atchley, Clark Giles, Laura Johnson, Mike Luce, Maggie Brown, Nichole Pichon, Stephanie Crumley, Jerry Lee Atwood, Joanna Potocki Wiggins, Holly Hilton, Sarah D. Munson, Tricia Mera, Rudy Nehrling, Jamie Price, Austin Reedy, Kipp Normand, Leslie Hulvershorn, Kathleen Finn, Jennifer Zbikowski, Joel Capolongo, Curtis Singh, Cris Iles-Wright,, Gerry Groothuis, Bret Bright, Bobby Burnam, Julia Von Ranson, Amory Abbott,, Zach Mitchell, John Stewart, Erica Westhoff, Annie Skinner, Keri Mordue VanVlymen, Sara Lunsford, Kyle Jeffrey Kranz, Tim O’Donnell, Genisis Dancer, Freja Pelich, Kurt Austin, Brett Randy Bunting, Alex Bond, Hayley Trussell, Reillo Dahl, Christopher Banul, Bradley Saul, Beth Weik, Thomas Chute, Annemarie Katz, Kathryn Goggin, Scott Torguson, Greg Swallow, Nicole Boals, Lisa Menninger, Jenne Horne, Emily Schwank, Stuff Erin Makes, Heidi Gluck