I'm asking

It's not often that I ask for help, and there has to be something special behind the request for it to happen. Today, I'm asking.

February 2011 was a banner month for me. In four short weeks, I lost three people to cancer. Today is the one-year anniversary of the first. Mark King was just 37 years old. He was one of my oldest friends and my high school sweetheart. Next week will mark one year for Don Harmon, who was one of my mother's oldest friends, a man I knew from when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I had not seen him in a number of years but felt his loss in that part of me that remains a little girl. February 27th will mark one year since we lost my father-in-law. Glen was an amazing man who showed a level of strength and courage in his battle with cancer that will influence me for the rest of my life.

With Glen, I know I did everything I possibly could have for him. My husband and I went to all of his doctor appointments and procedures, all of which were in another state. The last hours of Glen's life were my shift, and I took care of his every need, administering his medication every hour, keeping him comfortable, singing to quiet him. I suctioned his throat, so he could take what would be his last breath. I have no regrets. I miss him like crazy, but I gave Glen everything I had.

While Glen fought for more than two years, Mark's fight was much more brief. Few people even knew he was sick at first. It wasn't his way to broadcast his business, and to the very end, he only allowed a very few people in his room to take care of him. I sat in DC, hundreds of miles from the nearest person who even knew Mark. I was glued to Facebook and my phone waiting for any news after he went into the hospital. I was isolated and helpless. There was nothing I could do to stop what was happening to Mark, nor to ease his family's pain. It was heart-wrenching and infuriating. In the end, Mark was gone, and I felt like I'd given him nothing. I'd done nothing.

Anyone who knows me, knows that doesn't go over so well. Dealing with the loss of Mark has been more difficult because I feel helpless and guilty. I know that in my rational mind, but it does nothing to sooth my heart.

A few months ago, I lucked across something that spurred my craziest idea ever, but that has also turned out to be my way of fighting back against the sadness and frustration of losing too much to cancer -- Team Mark. I've recruited a group of Mark's closest and oldest friends to join me in Nashville on April 28 to run the Country Music Half Marathon as a part of Team In Training to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Recruiting, organizing, raising money, these things are easy for me, and I wouldn't feel like I'd done enough if I wasn't also going to do something that will test the outer limits of anything I thought I could ever do -- run 13.1 miles.


I was not kind to my body in my youth. I'm out of shape, overweight, arthritic and asthmatic. I've never been a runner, much less a long-distance runner, and two months ago when I started training, I couldn't run a solid minute without having an asthma attack. When I signed up, LLS kept reassuring me that I'd be able to meet my fundraising goal with all the support they'd lend. I looked very seriously at the man and said I wasn't worried about $3,000 in the least, I'm much more worried about getting 13.1 miles on something besides wheels! Well, this past Saturday, I ran 6 miles.


I'm under the supervision of two doctors and a physical therapists. I have three inhalers, plus a couple of pills, and a stubborn streak a mile wide. It was one of the things that Mark most loved and hated about me. (He had one, too.) It won't be in record time, and it may be ugly, but I'll finish. And end the end, not only will I have done the easy stuff to help end cancer and care for those who fight, but also I will have left every last ounce of sweat and tears I have on the road to the finish line. I'll know I gave Mark everything I had, even if it's too late.


Whether you're cheering from the sidelines (or Facebook), offering up advice or a "Go Team!", chanting and praying or best of all donating, I hope you'll support me. Together we can beat cancer.

Battle song

Please read this post by the most amazing Bloggess.

Heaven help me

My half-marathon training is ramping up to distances I've never gone in one shot before. Saturday, I walked/ran 4.5+ miles. It was painful. Today, I ran just over 2 miles, and while I didn't hurt quite as much, my left shin and right calf were still cramping like crazy. I'm supposed to run 4 miles tomorrow.

I've got all the gear, and my physical therapist is working my legs over on a weekly basis. I stretch all the time, and I'm not sure what else to do. I'm trying to stay motivated. I keep telling myself that as long as my breathing is in check, I'm not stopping because my legs hurt. These cramps are obviously trying to tell me something though, so I'm trying to be more careful, but I don't want to get behind.

I am so frustrated!

That's a first

I went for a run today as part of my training. I only ran 1.6 miles as run/walk intervals, but what was pretty amazing for me was not feeling like I was going to die when I finished. I was hot and out of breath, yes, but I actually felt good. My left calf and shin were cramping like crazy, but I recovered pretty quick. In all my 36 years, that's the first time that's happened. Consider my mind blown.

Today, I ran 2 miles

The alarm went off at 7am this morning. I'm not sure who thought I was crazier, me or the dog. I don't get up that early to go to work. I was so out of it I couldn't get my contacts in. I'm still horrible at this layering thing, too. I am in dire need of a trip to the running store.

This whole running thing started because my friend Mark died of non-Hodgkins lymphoma back in February. The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society has a fantastic program called Team In Training that helps even the most out of shape losers like me run half marathons. :)

Cancer has had a profound impact on my life this year. Three weeks after Mark died, my father-in-law lost his battle with cancer, too. A different type, but cancer nonetheless. I took care of him the last eight hours of his life. Giving him is medicines every hour on the hour through the night.

One of my mom's oldest friends I'd known most of my life, another extended family member, a man from back home I knew. All gone. Others I knew were still fighting. My friend Renee's family had just been through hell with her nephew fighting a rare disease, only to find out that her dad has cancer. He had surgery not long ago to remove the cancer and is having followup radiation now. Our friend Nate from college kept fighting even though the traditional treatments weren't working. He lost the fight last week.

Not everyone I know has/had the same kind of cancer. LLS is the only organization with the great training program, and more people die of blood cancers than the next four cancers combined. Some of the drugs developed for blood cancers have become treatment options for other cancers. So that's how I found myself getting up at 7am to go run 2 miles this morning.

While I was running, Joe was waking up in Nashville. Today is Nate's funeral. He was 34. Thirty-freaking-four! He left a beautiful wife and two adorable kids. This isn't the first young friend I've lost. I've gone through this three times before. Mark was only 37. Mark started all this, but today isn't about Mark. Today is about Nate.

Nate was a good guy, and he didn't deserve this. His wife doesn't deserve to have to raise their kids alone. His kids don't deserve to grow up without their dad. I can make a donation to the kids' trust fund, but the bigger thing I can do is be an active participant in the fight against cancer. I can raise money to help cure the disease and make life better for those with it. I can run two miles and train for a half marathon.

These two are for you, Nate. Safe home.

"Have you lost your damn mind?"

As posted on my fundraising page for Team in Training.

Sub-Deb Halloween Hayride 1991

Mark King was my high school sweetheart, but long after that, he continued to be my very dear friend. We shared a love of books, a mile-wide stubborn streak and ferocius loyalty to those we love. Regardless of how often, or not, we talked, there was never a doubt in my mind that Mark would be with me if I needed him. If I could have moved a mountain to make Mark well, that's exactly what I would have done.

Even now, I have trouble imaging that Mark isn't still alive and smiling. He'd found his place and his home in Florida, and knowing he was happy, gave me faith that I would be happy, too. My life is better for having had Mark in my life, and the world is a little darker without him in it.

Mark would think it's hilarious that I'm going to run a half marathon for him. Specifically he'd ask, "Have you lost your damn mind?" May be, Mark. The thing is that no flowers or donation seem to be enough to honor what Mark meant to me. I need to feel like I gave everything I could to show the place in my heart that will always be his.

So here I am. There is a team training with me in DC as a part of Team in Training, and other team members who will join me at the race as a part of Team Mark. Together we're raising money and pushing ourselves not just to honor Mark, but to help vanquish the disease that took him from us.

To learn more about Team Mark and others you can support, check out the Team Mark blog.

$3,000 seems like a lot of money, but in the race to beat cancer, it's a drop in the bucket. On social media alone, I'm connected to more than 1,000 people. If just 300 of them donated $10, I'd meet my goal. I would love to have that many people donate a small amount to show their support for me and solidarity against cancer.

I hope you'll join me.

The perfect goodbye

It was lacrosse weekend. I called you from the field during the alumni game, and you came down. It was chilly, but you had those nasty Adidas sandals on with your toes hanging off the edge and a white undershirt on. You called my name and I ran to give you a hug ... "Mitchy!" I remember that hug like it happened five minutes ago. Those long, skinny arms of yours could wrap all the way around my waist twice. The players threw a party at the lacrosse house. You didn't want to go, but I came by to nudge you along. I put on my makeup in the mirror by the door while you got ready. During one trip from the bathroom to your bedroom you stopped and told me I'd be so hot if I weren't "such a mom." Ha!

While you were getting dressed you told me about spending time with your dad. I was glad to hear you were establishing a relationship with him. You were also going to take a class in the spring to get back on track with school. You were looking at the future and making plans. It was so nice to see. I told you how happy I was and how proud. I know what a rough road you'd traveled. I'd been on some of the same ones. I was always glad to be your touchstone or sounding board when you needed me. We finally made our way to the party. People couldn't believe I got you out of the house.

You may have gone because I made you, but you had a ball at the party. The house and yard were packed. Students were running around in costumes that were interesting to say the least. The pregnant teenager costume complete with "Baby Daddy" fueled your snark all night. It was the first lacrosse party Joe and I attended as a couple officially, so there were questions and comments constantly. You kept telling everyone that you knew it would happen all along. You also walked up while I was talking to different people all night to tell them that I tried to have you killed the first time you met me. You'd then walk away to leave me to explain. You were in full effect that night.

Claiming you were an old man, you left the party a bit earlier than the rest of us. You said I couldn't bitch because if it had been anyone else you'd have never left your apartment that night. You'd follow me anywhere. I gave you a big hug, lingering to tell you how proud of you I was and I love you. You were grinning as you walked up the hill, threw up your hand to say goodbye and walked into the night. What I didn't know is you were also walking out of my life. Just like that.

We never know when the last time we'll see somebody. I'd never have guessed that would be the last time I'd see you, and once the confusion, pain and shock settled, I could not have asked for a more perfect goodbye. There was no sadness. I was going to see you the next day. We'd had such a great conversation getting ready for the party. You were more positive than I'd seen you in years, and you said you were really feeling better, like things were turning around. You had so much fun at that party -- laughing, smiling, flirting, snarking -- you at your most Mitch. I can look back at that night and smile because I remember the happy, hopeful Mitch. I can smile because the last thing I ever said to you was "I love you."

Nothing has been the same since that night. The next 24 hours were like a living nightmare. I had to call your best friend to tell him you were gone. He still freaks out when I call him, even about nothing. My voice brought one of his greatest losses into his life. I called every person anyone could think of that needed to know you were gone. The last person I told was Lindsay, and when I got off the phone, I went into the living room and cried because I was finished with the list and I didn't want to make anyone else cry.

We drove to Ohio for your funeral. Your mom and grandparents were so sweet. It wasn't very "Mitch," so we celebrated your life a bit more appropriately at a casino in Wheeling, WV, on the way home. As Ethan sat with an entire row of machines lit up and maxed out, I stared in disbelief. He just looked and pointed up and yelled, "Thanks, Skeet!"

I called my mom to make sure she knew what my final wishes would be. I know your parents were so confused and shocked. Losing you made all of us realize that we are very mortal and being young means nothing in the grand scheme of things.

We went back to Knoxville to really say goodbye. Ethan still had a key to your old apartment, so it wasn't technically breaking and entering. We met some of your neighbors who'd heard stories about us. I got your ice skates from one of them and sent them to Thomas. You'd have wanted him to have them. At the end of the night, Joe and Ethan climbed onto your roof and placed a forty and a can of dip where the three of you hung off the back side hiding from the cops. I kissed my hand and placed it on your door.

American Movie

Some things don't change. Ethan still watches movies that would have both of us bored to tears while he laughs his ass off. Joe still has the famed spaghetti pot. You'd still think I'm hot and "such a mom." I thought about you on my wedding day. I looked in the mirror all made up, wearing my red dress, and I swear I could hear you, "Damn, you're hot." I just whispered, "Thanks." I saw someone who could pass for your twin at a Nationals game once, and before I could catch myself, my heart leapt and I thought, "Mitchy!!" Then, my heart broke. Every Halloween, I remember that perfect goodbye. Every November 1st, I send Ethan a message telling him I love him. Nothing more. Joe always finds a suiting tribute. Today, both of our Facebook profile pics are of Skeeter.

I can't believe it's been eight years. I had to write this to tell you I remember. I remember it all, and I still love you, Mitchy. Forever.