Run, Forrest, Run

Listen to this reflection by playing the video below or continue down the page to read the full text version.

I am not sure when I realized that Amy was going to die. The seriousness of her diagnosis was apparent from the beginning. Her medical team acted with haste to move Amy to the front of the line for scans, radiation, and chemotherapy. The location of her metastasized cancer put her at high risk of vascular compromise. Their urgency told us all we needed to know.

At some point among all of the appointments and scans, most families will inevitably ask The Question. How long do I have? I am sure medical professionals dread this question. As ours relayed to us, statistics apply to groups, not individuals, and there is no way to predict outcomes in any individual case. But, as to the statistics for cases like Amy’s, he estimated one year if it acted like pancreatic cancer and perhaps closer to two years if it behaved more like colon cancer.

At one of the appointments after it became apparent that it was unlikely we would ever know the origin of her cancer, I pressed him for an educated guess on what type of cancer it might be. He deftly sidestepped my question, but when I pressed him again, he admitted he suspected it was pancreatic cancer. Given Amy’s chemotherapy regimen was textbook treatment for pancreatic cancer, this only confirmed what we had already guessed.

It was sometime after that discussion, that I began to realize I might lose Amy. Whether it was 5 days, 5 weeks, 5 months, or 5 years, we likely were not going to be together for our golden years. After working so hard for so long to raise a family, help the kids through college, and getting them launched into adulthood and their respective careers, we were going to be denied the coveted years where most couples are able to notch it back a little and focus on their own lives. Whether it be travel, adventures, the joys of being a grandparent, or simply a slower pace, we were going to be denied that precious time together.

Amy of course vowed to fight on and was adamant that she wanted to be that one in a million that beat the odds. She was going to hang onto hope and let go of her fear. She was not open to any discussions of not achieving that goal. My sole goal, therefore, was to make every day the best day it could possibly be for her despite everything she was going through.

When someone you love has cancer, you find yourself with a lot of time to think. Whether it is waiting for doctor appointments, slogging through chemo with them, or simply holding their hand to provide comfort as they doze in and out of sleep.

Gradually, those thoughts took form as grief. I began to grieve in anticipation of a seemingly inevitable outcome. I grieved knowing that I was likely going to lose my best friend and companion. Her spirit and her joy. Our future together. I was going to lose it all. How could I ever overcome such a monumental loss. I couldn’t even imagine a life without Amy.

Like many who have walked this tortured path, I considered such thoughts selfish and inappropriate and rarely if ever discussed my feelings with anyone on the subject. Despite my shame for these thoughts, I slowly began to contemplate how I could heal from such a catastrophic loss. Maybe if I could just get through the first year or two, maybe I would be able to heal.

I found inspiration in the movie Forrest Gump. When Jenny left Forrest, his heart was broken and he ran. From coast to coast and back again he kept running until his mind cleared, he finally got tired, and went home. Instead of running (which I wasn’t particularly fond of after three years of cross country in high school) I would take up hiking. I would walk and lose myself in going from point A to point B. While doing this, I could revel in the infinite beauty of this country and reflect on those treasured and precious memories of Amy. In this way, I could share these adventures with her and perhaps, just perhaps, find healing on my journey. Amy would also have been pleased by the example it would provide Claire, Morgan, and Carson.

More than two months after Amy has passed, I am laying plans to accomplish these goals. I registered to go on a Thru Hike with REI Adventures to the Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument in southern Utah. The trip is planned for late September when the weather is favorable in that region. Four days and three nights in the back-country and dark sky of Utah.

It will require training for the distance and carrying a 30 to 40 pound backpack. As I learn more about backpacking through the numerous YouTube videos of thru-hikers on the Appalachian Trail and the Pacific Crest Trails, I find myself at least excited by the opportunity, even if I feel guilt at the prospect of enjoying something without Amy. Make plans. Do something. Keep moving forward. For me, that is the whole point. I hope it works.