Brian Sluga - Fleet of Foot

The 45-Minute Procedure

That 45-minute procedure was all I needed to discover I was cancer-free. My fears went away temporarily when I heard it was prescribed by Dr. K for me. I had no idea what a lymphangiogram was. A blue dye, called contrast, would be infused into the webbing between my first and second toes on each foot. Then, a small cut would be made, and a tube would be inserted into the channel. That was the easy part. 

A very rough-and-tumble radiology tech entered my room. The tech said when the lymphangiogram is over, I’ll sew up the little cuts.” I figured he would give me some shots in my foot and stitch me up. Instead, he handed me a large white towel and said, “Put this towel in your teeth and bite down; you’re going to want to punch, kick, and hit me, but please don’t.”

What I felt was a blazing, scorching, torrid fire in my toes. The pain was more excruciating than if I would’ve touched the sun itself. The doctor asked if I required a cup of ice to chew to help ease the pain; I screamed, “No, please make it stop!” In total, after the dye was injected, the procedure took less than a Catholic Mass, but it felt like an eternity. I was disoriented, self-conscious, dizzy, and awkward. I recall I said I felt like Superman, sounding dumb to someone at the hospital I was trying to impress. 

But it was then that I embarked on a life change, a new beginning. No more feeling sorry and melancholy. Although I was afraid of a blank page in my journal and scared of being together with someone of the opposite sex, I was prepared to be more than a survivor.

I had my life, great family, and friends. God gave me a second chance. The day I was released to go home, I told my doctor and myself I was going to get plenty of rest so that I could wake each morning feeling refreshed and ready to race another 5k. I discovered attention to myself was what I needed to focus on to shut down the fear of cancer returning. Focusing on anything else would not be beneficial. 

The clock reads the time as it is set. There are no products to diagnose, treat, cure, or prevent testicular cancer. However, that did not stop me from looking back and wonder what I should have done differently. But those thoughts were soon replaced by inspiration to a new way of life.

I saw the world differently. I saw things almost like stars colliding. Now I could see myself growing older, being more educated on my health. I’d been given the opportunity to have a second life. It’s a joy that is aligned with my excitable natural attitude.

Months later, I felt quite well and energized, emotionally and physically. However, I was not going to climb a mountain any time soon! I found myself at the moment having a feeling of coming from off a ledge. Euphoria came over me like ice-cold water on a 110-degree day. A rush of adrenaline. A life worthy of swimming back up to the top. To breathe again.

A Roller Coaster

Nine months after the unnerving surgery, Dr K advised that friends and others would continue to be cautious about asking or wanting to hear my experience. My hometown newspaper wanted to interview me, the local runner and cancer survivor. I wanted to be left alone or to talk just about running, not my cancer. My euphoria over a new chance in life gave way to the grind of work, school, and life as a 20-year-old. I became sensitive, sometimes crying or becoming irrationally angry over insignificant issues. It would be great to be happy again. I was unsure of whether or not the removal of my testicle had this effect on my emotions. Specifically, if emotions and negative thoughts were caused by less testosterone.  Maybe having one testicle was a more psychological puzzle than a physical loss. I viewed every day the same, just like the movie Groundhog Day. The day I got “The all clear” one year after surgery, my eyes were opened again. Everything was bright. I did not fear my life-changing. Being positive, healthy, and alive was above all things. I saw an opportunity to be me. I thought, “Why not train for a marathon.” At least I might get the feeling of a runner's high. 

Running Beats Cancer

Hearing the great track and field runner Steve Scott had been diagnosed and surviving with testicular cancer inspired me. If a superb runner like Scott could return to the track, then there was hope for me.  

I remember waking up early every morning for a 5-mile run before classes and work.  Once or twice a week, I would run longer. When I started training for my first marathon, I would train with my buddy, Joe. Once, he biked along 20 miles and helped me through the boredom by singing pop tunes and making me laugh. 

Running truly, was my therapy. I could run and train by myself or with a group of colleagues and friends. Slowly I began to understand who and what I really was as a survivor.

A running mentor of mine once said, “Sometimes, running is the thing that we do to make sense of the world.” I didn't understand at the time how that verse was completely true. Running was just the vessel that I needed. It was something that I did and was my rescue, and it had been a long haul to get there. I felt stronger, knowing that the testicular cancer was in the past. I was a survivor. Racing was my way of making sense. I could not let losing a testicle control my life.

Many friends and acquaintances in my small hometown would ask me, “How do you feel?” It felt awkward to say I have a dream, a goal I’m willing to work for.” It felt even more crazy to detail the physical and emotional pain of the past, so instead, I’d shrug my shoulders and say, “Did I tell you I’m going to run a marathon?”

The Chicago Marathon

So, here I was in my Nike Air Pegasus shoes, the best thing since the Big Mac. I was feeling proud of myself as I stretched out. My singlet with my racing number and running shorts, barely covered my body on this cold October morning. As I warmed up in the streets for the Chicago Marathon, I couldn’t believe that I was going to run all 26.2 miles just 14 months after my surgery.

I had put every ounce of my soul into training for this event. I thought training would be the best way to take my mind off the tests and doctor visits. Running had always been my escape, a sanctuary for my heart and mind. Running made me forget the world. It was the repetition and ritual that put me in a good frame of mind. As I was lining up for the race, I had a feeling of excitement with butterflies in my stomach. I needed to turn those pre-race jitters into routine calmness. I looked through the crowd and saw my parents and my friend Joe. After hearing the gunshot, I started the race of my dreams.

But my journey was just beginning after mile number six. A huge tremor shook my body as I sucked in air, rose up, and examined what was coming down the road before me. A faint murmur of running shoes clopping on the hard pavement rose from the distant street to the skyscraper buildings. My consciousness melted into a silence, which was only broken only by the rhythmic creak of the wheelchair on which a body moved with all its weight. The cadence of feet from behind came sounding like a load of buffalo. 

I saw a young 30-ish wheelchair entrant in a low-rider, special racing bike give me the thumbs up. I turned and said, “Keep the faith.” I’ll never forget that guy. Here I am, running, sweating, and feeling like I’m the only one with troubles. Lo and behold, this guy has a physical disability that keeps him from running, and he is encouraging me, a guy with perfect legs. Talk about a humbling life moment.

I was pushing myself as hard as I could. At mile ten, I muttered to myself, “Had cancer changed me?” I didn’t know that by running a marathon, I would sort my life out. I listened to music playing loud all along the race route. I had very deep soul-searching dialogs with myself throughout the entire race.  

I remember seeing along the race route posters protesting the Iran-Contra scandal and high unemployment. Reaching the 20-mile mark, my young mind wandered but always had a purpose and destination. It was important to take a moment and remember how hard I worked to get to this point. Running for time and also competing against myself, I realized what I had been missing was that sense of community, especially being with friends and family. 

I crossed the finish line in just over three hours. It was three hours that produced blisters and a dehydrated body. My feet, the feet that had endured the lymphangiogram, had taken me 26.2 miles and ensured I met my dream of finishing the race. Fourteen months prior, my hospital room was near a garden in the south courtyard. I would sneak out in the morning to the sweet smells of jasmine. I always knew my life’s truth was somewhere, not in that sweetness of a flower garden but rather on the hard concrete. Life doesn’t get back to “normal” after cancer. For me, it was chapter four in the novel of my life. After the Chicago Marathon, I realized I couldn’t fixate on looking in the rear-view mirror as I was focusing on life ahead. 

It’s Working for Me

I believe if it were not for running, the world would be a much different place for me. Now, running is a large part of my novel. Chapters are full of my races and the friends I met because of running. Days after running the Chicago Marathon, I felt complete. But my desire was incomplete. I wanted to run another.