Mac Richard's message on hurting and Johnny Cash's song on the same

Johnny - http://vimeo.com/3104201

Mac - http://vimeo.com/109470758

The 401

These days I am a little bit skinny. This is not an issue I have dealt with in the past. Since I was a very young fella my dad used to tell me I had “tree trunks” for legs. And once in sixth grade a cute girl named Laurie Anderson told me I had a nice booty. (Sorry Debra, that was a highlight for me as a sixth grader.)

I got my legs from my dad. I can recall once – again in a river – I had been splashing along the other side when I suddenly realized I needed to get across to the adults. I was little, maybe six or seven. I began to wade out into the current and was quickly overwhelmed and pushed off my feet. It wasn’t life threatening, but I remember it pretty vividly so I know I was out of control. There was a little commotion and then my dad calmly walked to the middle of the stream and plucked me out. We were with dear friends named Jerry and Judy Polson. Jerry looked at me hanging there in my dad’s arms and said in his Oklahoma accent, “Your Daddy’s got strong ol’ legs like yours. He’s just bigger.” I never thought of my dad as having strong ol’ legs until that moment. But after that it stuck with me. Anyway, I had strong, thick legs.

Up until about first grade I could use those legs to hit and tackle with my older brothers and held my own pretty well despite being 4 and 12 years their junior. Then my first choledochal cyst showed up and as a result I was precluded from any contact sports, including soccer and baseball. So after languishing with shin splints from hurdling in middle school and early high school, I picked up mountain biking. That was much more aligned with my “tree trunks” and 5’9” towering build. Mountain biking was a new thing that no one knew anything about. Surely there would be no contact with any immovable objects, right? I mean, what could go wrong? The logic for why I was allowed to do this sport isn’t clear but I thank God my parents never investigated.

When I arrived at Baylor with my bikes in tow there was no cycling to speak of. I was a bit of an anomaly in my tight pants. Before long I found others who could ride with me and we formed the first Baylor mountain biking team. Together we christened many of the trails in Waco’s Cameron State Park with our own sir names, as well as lots of other names. Ironically, none of those trails is named “Gillham” or “Gilamonster” after me. A trail only got your name if you couldn’t ride it. Those were my glory days filled with scrapes, cuts, and feats, and indeed I do relive them with the right people :-) .  

But all that is background. The point I am getting to here has to do with a ride in Crested Butte, the Mountain Biking Mecca of North America. I had always wanted to go there through college for a mountain biking trip but ended up working all my summers. I finally got to go and found out several things. First, there are some amazing riders in the world. Second, there are trails that I crashed big on and couldn’t clean, but I didn’t get to name them “Darth Wader”. And third, it was indeed a Mecca and if I had been a little more adventurous I would have upped and moved there to be part of the scene.

The ride I referred to above is a gargantuan one that has always filled my cup. It is simply called “the 401” (four-oh-one). If you leave from town it's about 24 miles long with total climbing of around 14 miles and 4,000 - 5,000 vertical feet. Of course that is literally nothing to some of the biking gods here in Austin. (Lance, Anna, PJ.) But for me, that is a four-letter-word big ride. 

It starts in town at 8,885 feet and climbs another 1,000 to Mt. Crested Butte, the ski town just up the hill. The climb is all asphalt and as cars pass I always imagine the occupants looking at me with a cool nod of acknowledgement for my efforts. “There goes a real rider,” they say in the coolness of their gas-pedal comfort. (I have no idea if they say this or not but it feels cool to think they say something like that.)

Unfortunately, this is in fact the “easy” part of the ride’s uphill segments. You can push a big gear on the asphalt and maybe even keep up with the town buses. Then you leave Mt. Crested Butte and climb into Snodgrass for another 500 feet or so. After that, for better or worse, you descend into a hippie biodiversity-ecology-experiment town called Gothic. (Every time I go through Gothic I think it’s the birthplace of the legalized marijuana movement.)

Outside Gothic the real climb begins to the top of the ride at 12,200 feet. There is a stunning mountain along the south side of the road called Gothic that looks like the flying buttresses of a Gothic cathedral. Somewhere along here the mind starts bending as you really begin to suffer. There are long straight sections of uphill road that pop into mind when I think of sustained pain. They are particularly brutal when you round the bend of one climb and see another, longer one waiting for you, towering in the afternoon sun. Up you go…and then when you finally arrive at the top of the road at Schofield Pass you have another 1.5 miles of climbing through single track to get to the top.

Why would I suffer through this? Let me tell you something amigos, the rewards are worth the pain. When you arrive, the top is literally above tree line and the Rockies sprawl unobstructed before you – the purple tinted Maroon Bells, Gothic Mountain, Crested Butte Mountain, and best of all, a 6 mile descent through chest-high wild flowers down some of the very best single-track riding in the world. For a passionate rider, it is an out-of-body experience.

More than halfway down the descent, Maroon Bells in the distance, wild flowers in the foreground.

When you finish, you roll through town to the outdoor pizza place on Crested Butte’s Main Street for after-ride beer and pizza. The memory of sitting outside at that pizza joint, beer in hand, mud on my face and legs, and the calm knowledge that I have just finished one heck of a hard ride is one of the best I have to relish. All that pain and suffering pay off with an experience and memories that no one can ever take away.

Many are suffering right now, including me and my family. Why? This is an all-consuming question that is never really answered without a degree of faith. One end of the spectrum states suffering is without purpose; the world is a tough place and bad things happen. This view does indeed require faith that there is no other – bigger – reason for the suffering. That is a lonely, hard, long road, and one I have consciously chosen to avoid. The other end of the spectrum is that pain and suffering are not without reason, and can and do ultimately lead to beneficial results. My pastor* taught a message on it this past Sunday that blew my mind. I had never internalized the immense suffering that the disciples underwent while their leader, mentor, hope, inspiration, messiah and friend laid dead in a tomb - victim of a political plot by conniving church leaders. In hindsight we can see the benefits of the beautiful belief system that came as a result, but at that time things were dark.

On the 401 the benefits are so wonderful that I will actively chose to suffer through the climb. The descent through wild flowers, the view from the top, the pizza, the beer, the recognition – these rewards have filled my cup on many occasions and hopefully will one day again.

I believe my family’s current suffering has a higher purpose too, a positive outcome of some sort that I have yet to understand. This experience and lack of knowing the long-term picture is helping me to appreciate the small positive moments in spite of physical and mental difficulty. Last week was very hard physically, but we got confirmation the treatments are working as the cancer markers in my blood are coming down. I can look back and see that there is difficult road behind me and my family. There is more climbing ahead. But grinding it out is a little easier knowing the treatment is coming to an end and it’s working.

I am not saying any of this is easy for me, or anyone. But what I always found rewarding on the 401 was to look back down at how far and how high I had come. That long difficult road behind me always made the remaining uphill a little less daunting. Sometimes when I looked back down, far below, there would be another rider cranking up behind me. I know that for him or her my silhouette on the top of the crest was an inspiration and motivation. Maybe part of the payoff from my current grind is inspiration for others. It’s one I can only indirectly appreciate. But it’s meaningful and without this suffering I would not be a part of helping someone else. 

Let me also say that I do not think finding the benefit is easy. I cannot imagine the depth of the grief I would feel if one of my children were going through what I am, or worse. No parent should ever have to suffer those burdens. All I know is that now, with this level of life experience, I would have to search for a higher meaning, a benefit, a positive outcome to justify the suffering. If there were none, ever, then I just don't know how I would deal. I just don't know.

We all experience suffering of some degree. We all have pain and don't understand why. I chose to believe there is a bigger purpose behind any significant suffering I or my loved ones must endure. I had never appreciated the benefits so much as I do right now. Small or large, they make this all more manageable. 

* Mac Richard at www.lhc.org

The River

Life is a river. It’s a lot of things to a lot of people. But in this particular writing it’s a river.

Rivers and I go way back. Not the Class 5 style river you find in Colorado, but the Class 1 or 2 style that lends itself to a good jumping rock, a rope swing, a lazy float trip, and watermelon cooled in the deepest hole. I have a distinct memory from underwater in Arkansas by a jumping rock where a rope swing dawdled in the current above my brothers and me as we pushed a watermelon back and forth through the crystal green water. It was slow motion, inverted catch.

I suddenly noticed a water snake weaving out from under the jumping rock about halfway between my oldest brother Pres and me. White bubbles shimmered to the surface between it and me as it swam toward the far bank. (Nothing moves like a snake, especially in water, and most especially when they are underwater.) I pushed the melon away from me, down and toward the snake’s undulating form with Pres floating suspended on the far side waiting to retrieve it. The melon arced under the snake, moving and floating lazily upward and toward my brother. The snake moved over it and past, flashing in the bent light from the river’s surface. It’s a Super 8 memory film that plays on demand for me. The colors are vivid. The snake’s movements are almost indescribable, and it’s probably bigger in my mind than it was in reality. My brothers and I are there in the water. And all the while, the river moved past.

That was when I was a kid, less than 10. Not long ago, I was on another river with several good friends. We had laughs on that river that made us incapable of doing anything else. Those are the health of life. Someone had hatched the idea of paddling up the Rio Grande in the Santa Elena Canyon for a six-hour out-and-back canoe expedition. What could go wrong? The going was not too tough but keeping the canoes straight proved to be challenging to us Austinites.

At one point we were paddling furiously up-stream against a small riffle and making very little headway. Our guide, a long-haired river yogi nick-named Smokey, watched us thrash as he effortlessly dipped his oar and moved up the riffle. He was solo in his canoe and standing in its direct middle. For those of you who don't know, this is a feat reserved for canoeing deities. Him smiling at us was the mildest, sweetest kind of getting made fun of that I have ever experienced. I captured video of the moment: a former UT football player and a very fit young doctor paddling like war gods as Smokey watches them go backward down the riffle. We have laughed at that like kids in church.

Once past the riffle, we continued our trek up the river to a landing spot whereupon we refueled ourselves with sandwiches while the bugs fueled themselves with us. And then we headed back down the Rio Grande for the remainder of the trip. The going down was considerably easier, and being fairly adept at navigating calmly flowing waters, my partner and I zigged and zagged from wall to wall going under and through rock formations. It is a dear memory.

Rio Grande, Santa Elena Canyon. Mexico is on the right. 

In the end all of us amigos ended up at the same sandy take-out spot, tired, wiser, more sunburned, and closer friends. And the river flowed past behind us as we cracked a cold one.

Life is a river. It never stops. Even in its calm expanses it is moving me and you and hundreds of millions more along. When we sleep, it moves tirelessly. When we wake, it is moving there, welcoming us to its waters. It is neither benevolent nor capricious. It just is. It flows whether we acknowledge its movement or not. It is like a harvest moon, shining equally on plentiful crops in good seasons and empty silos in bad ones.

I have been marking its passage lately with Xs on each day that goes by in my treatment. I mark through “AM” for morning chemo and walk. I mark through “IMRT” for mid-day radiation. I mark through “PM” for evening chemo and walk. And then I mark the whole day off with a large X. After tomorrow, Friday, October 10, I will be halfway through the treatments. What I recently realized is that no matter whether I do any of the steps in my treatment or mark any of them off as complete, the days turn over. The river moves.

While lying on my back today with acupuncture pins in my feet, hands, arms, face, and ears, I thought back on river times with my family: perfect rope swings with dear friends, phantom snakes on the bank, catching craw daddies (a.k.a. catching “daddy-head wobsters” to Ben), skipping stones, building river-rock dams in Crested Butte’s frigid Coal Creek, diving in deep blue water from our friends’ ranch springs…. And always the river is flowing.

This is not a sad thing; but it is something to note. The river moves. It does not wait. It does not return. It is up to us how we zig and zag, or if we do at all. It is our decision to smile with excitement or grimace with fear, either way we are in the river with that snake, and we’re all going through that riffle.

Hi. I'm Wade.

Hello Friends.

I have not been feeling well for the past few days and so I have not been writing. The mood struck, and so here I sit, trying to put down some of the thoughts I have had through the nausea.

First thought: nausea as a general concept is not good for writing.

Second thought: nausea can be battled with walking, also not good for writing.

Third thought: I forgot this thought because I have the dreaded “chemo-brain.”

An aside on chemo-brain for a moment: it is a hilarious but deeply frustrating chemotherapy side-effect. I am not sure how many people even know what it is. In short, the chemo is attacking cells in all parts of my body including my brain and as a result my short-term memory is suffering. I am like that guy who introduces himself over and over again to the same people: “Hi. I’m Wade.”

For a real-life examples here are a few that I have dealt with. I left my medicine at home when I left Austin for Houston this week. I remembered while passing through La Grange, just about half way to Houston. Debra, the angel, met me on the road to bring them to me. There is a story within that story though because I had also left a big umbrella at home, which I remembered at the same time that I remembered the meds but forgot to tell Debra to bring. 

Here’s another little story bring a tear to your eye
I was taking chemotherapy so my cancer would die
I took the chemotherapy, or so I believed
I did my one hour walk. I was so relieved
I came into the kitchen and what did I see?
My chemotherapy was there, laughing at me!

I have chemo-brain in a bad way. I had to take the hour-long walk twice that night. I don’t have any idea why that story rap-rhymed above. It just did. Maybe that's another side-effect.

Hi. I'm Wade.

So anyway. I was walking for those two hours the other night and I had an epiphany. I know each of us knows the phrase “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” It’s a phrase we have all used at one point or another to describe why one person thinks another person is pretty or attractive that we would never, ever think was pretty or attractive. Can I get an amen on Donald Trump?

I was walking and looking for a house I saw on my first night of walking. It has a wrap-around front porch and sits heavy, back from the street with warm lights, thick, protective pillars, comfy wicker chairs and a grey stucco color that makes it blend perfectly with the verdant grass and octogenarian oak trees. The porch is lovely and I want to show Debra when she’s next here. As I was searching I found another house with another porch, this one was too well lit and had too many arches.

BAM. Epiphany. The home was newly built, the ground was freshly laid grass squares, and it dawned on me that the owners very likely spent hours perfecting how that porch would look to all who passed by. They probably went around and around with their architects and builder getting depth and arch spacing just right. And in the end, it looked perfectly lit with exactly the right number of arches. To the owners, when they pull up to that new house in this beautiful neighborhood, the warmth of accomplishment and welcome is palpable. It’s exactly what they wanted. It is without flaw in their eyes.

What’s the epiphany? It’s hard to articulate, but here’s my shot: not only do people count on the scale of beauty and beholders, but this statement of tolerance can also apply to almost anything. It becomes a golden rule for tolerance. Feeling judgmental of something someone likes? Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. 

It allows for one person to want a gold toilet and another to want no toilet at all, just stars and a lonesome view. But more important it allows for Mr. Golden and Ms. Starry to coexist without judgment. One person’s diva wears Prada and another’s wears Converse. One person’s Radiohead is another’s Bob Dylan or Neil Diamond. One porch sits next to another, with each being the best in someone’s eyes and neither having a corner on the market.

The real key here to making this a true golden rule of open-mindedness is the nuance of infringement. As long as we as humans don’t force love of a thing on others who don’t feel the same way, we can coexist. This even applies with one religion and another thriving beside each other. I know, it’s heresy. But it’s important heresy to internalize.

“Hi. I’m Wade.”

From the first day again - short reprise

I found this today when I was looking for information on integrated medicine. It's just a little diddy about my first chemo pills. But I liked the part about Debra so I posted it. 

Sept 23, 8:31 AM – The two chemo pills are now officially down the hatch. No one is going to get them out of me now. They are marked 77 on one side and 161 on the other. 77 seems to be a perfect combination. 161 adds to eight. It’s just a pill, right? Who cares what’s imprinted on it in a factory in Boston’s suburbs where all medical stuff happens? Only someone who is putting poison in their body I guess. I wonder what those numbers mean.

I looked them up. Mine are special pills. The “normal” Xeloda pills say “Xeloda” on one side so you don’t take them for birth control or something. And they give the amount of the drug on the other side, either 150 or 500 for mg. So my pills are especially for me. I am looking forward to seeing if all of them have unique numbers on them, or was it just my two this morning? “77” to me is a very good omen. 161… well I just don’t know.

I walked for an hour afterward with my companion Debra. I am having phantom side-effects already. My hands are numb. My stomach is upset. Light hurts my eyes. My skin is sensitive. People are friendlier. All but one of those was phantom.

But we walked and walked.  Deb is so fast. That’s why I love her. So walkie walkie. Like a cute little meerkat.