So quick question? Can you run 13.1 miles? Or better yet,
would you want to run 13.1 miles? Well, this Saturday I will find out if I can.
This past July I made the decision to participate in the Richmond
Half-Marathon. However, this is more
than just an opportunity to challenge myself physically; it is a way to fight
cancer.
Let me explain. Family and the Wnorowski name go together
like Oreos and milk. They are interdependent upon each other. My dad has two brothers and a sister, and each
of them has three children. As long as I
can remember, the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, my mother, father, brother,
sister, dog, and me pile into our car in the wee hours of the morning with
plenty of blankets, pillows, and snacks and begin the trek North. Every Thanksgiving, the Wnorowski family
tradition is to alternate between celebrating the holiday in Pittsburgh and
Syracuse, the hometowns of two of my dad’s brothers. This has never been a small shin-dig. There are brothers, sisters, parents, aunts,
uncles, cousin, grandparents, great-aunts, great-uncles, and dogs, of
course. The tradition always includes
the Macy’s Day Parade, Black Friday Shopping, lots of fantastic food, and, the
most important to all of us, endless games of pinochle.
Within the past 6 years or so, we added on a new
tradition for when we celebrate in Syracuse: a Turkey Trot 5-8k. Syracuse is the hometown of the oldest of the
siblings: my Uncle Dan. Always big into physical activity, particularly running,
he, my other uncle, brother, and a few other cousins start the morning out
strong with a little cardio and great family bonding. I have always seen bits of Uncle Dan in
myself as I have grown as a person. Working
as an orthopedic doctor, we share an interest in medicine – both working to
find joy by serving others. Also, a love
for running is something that has driven us closer together over the past
years. If I can ever see his drive,
motivation, and caring nature in myself, I will know I have become a person I
truly aspire to be. He is the person
that doesn’t believe in the word “can’t”.
To date, he has run in total at least 30 half-marathons, full marathons,
triathlons, and can officially call himself an IronMan, which he completed for the second time July 27th (just for the record that means swimming
2.4 miles, biking 112 miles, and running 26.2 miles). His character brings inspiration to those
around him.
So that was what Thanksgiving always was for me. A time spent with family to enjoy laughter,
warmth, love, and smiles. It never
occurred to me that things could change.
However, in June of 2011, life took an unexpected route. One evening, during dinner, my parents
explained to my little brother, sister, and I that Uncle Dan had been diagnosed
with lymphoma. At the age of 16, I knew
what cancer was; I was aware of how terrible it could be and what it had to
potential to do, but it was never anything that could actually affect my own
life. Right? I had tearfully watched as it affected other families – but not
mine. Or one of those news articles that
you see on CNN. It was a tragedy but not
something that could happen to us – everything was too perfect. Yet,
information and updates continued to come.
The first mountain to climb was the type of cancer. Lymphoma, or cancer of the lymph nodes, is
normally restricted to one of two types: Hodgkins or non-Hodgkins. However, there are rare cases when both types
are present and require not one, but two types of chemotherapy. That summer was filled with e-mails regarding
medical diagnosis, prognosis, and explanations.
At the end of each and every e-mail, even the most dismal, Uncle Dan never
failed to end with an inspiring quote – staying true to his optimistic and
strong personality. The cancer also
never stopped his running; if anything, it motivated him more. He ran a total of 11 races in the course of
his chemotherapy during that summer and fall – never slowing down, taking each “one
step at a time.”
In
October of that year, we finally received the e-mail we had all been hoping and
praying for – after several PET scans, no lymphoma was found. The e-mail closed with, “The greatest reward
for the climb to the summit is simply the view from the top.” We had finally
reached the top of that mountain and could now see the view of the future – the
comfort-zone of happy, healthy days spent with family. Thanksgiving that year was extra sweet; it
was my first time seeing him after he had started chemo. And that is when it truly hit. Still experiencing the side effects after a
very aggressive chemo regime, he looked tired, but a smile remained across his
face. We had done it.
However, as one e-mail said, “‘An emotional ride on the
roller coaster of uncertainty.’ Such is life.”
In August of 2013, I began my first year at UVA. That same month, actually the same weekend as
move-in, my oldest cousin, Amelia, who is Uncle Dan’s daughter, was married. Because I was unable to attend, I felt
obligated to spend the first three weeks of classes, sufficiently Facebook
stalking every wedding photo I could find.
My personal favorite was one of Uncle Dan and Amelia hugging. It captured the personality and love both of
them felt towards each other as well as everyone else around them.
Two months later, I was sitting in the quiet area of Clark
Library when I noticed a new e-mail from my dad. The subject put the world on
pause: “Fw: Recurrent Lymphoma”. As I
read, the anxiety and frustration with homework assignments, studying, and
other petty problems fled from my mind.
The only thing I remember thinking over and over again was “Call dad.
Get your phone and call dad.” I felt the tears welling-up in my eyes as I
rushed from the library to the steps on the side of Clark. I sat on the side underneath the tree and
made the phone call. By the time my dad
answered, I couldn’t talk. The reality
had hit followed by a flood of tears. I
asked – no- I demanded to know why and how this could happen. He had been doing so well – the running, the half-IronMan,
the wedding. It wasn’t possible. It
couldn’t have come back. But it
did. Recurrent lymphoma in the small
bowel. So plain and simply written, yet
life-shattering. In that moment, I felt helpless. Here was one of the strongest, smartest, most
physically fit, nicest people in my life losing a battle with cancer. I felt so
alone, so disconnected from my family; 3 hours from my parents; 10 hours from Uncle
Dan. That’s when what I thought was the
power of cancer hit – it has no respect for family, for distance, for strength,
for anything. In my mind, the strongest
person I knew was facing a time limit. My thanksgivings were now on a count
down.
That November, the week before Thanksgiving, I received
another e-mail. One more Thanksgiving
stolen by cancer. Biopsies performed at the Cleveland Clinic had come back as
adenocarcinoma of the jejunum – not only had the cancer returned, but this time
it was a rare form that was less understood and had been caught in a later
stage. It had been decided he would have
surgery the day before Thanksgiving for resection. My dad and his brother flew to the hospital
to be there for the surgery along with his wife, children, and parents. Instead
of spending Thanksgiving with family and food, we spent the majority of it in
prayer and waiting. Finally, the phone
call came with the news that the surgery had been completed, he was awake, and
now all we could do was wait. Looking at
the previous e-mails, one quote stuck out: “All that we are is the result of
what we have thought. The mind is
everything. What we think, we become.” From that, my mother, brother, sister,
and I enjoyed our small Thanksgiving. Instead, we decided to be thankful for
the things it made us appreciate a little bit more - each other, our extended
family, Uncle Dan, and each passing day we were able to spend together. Focusing on the negativity of cancer would
allow it to win.
Through the next six months, we went through the
motions. All hoping, waiting, and
praying for the good news. Then, on
Friday July 18th we got the e-mail. He had done it. Again. And 9
days later he became officially the IronMan we all knew he already was.
Now, four months later, we are still in the clear. We all are aware of the possibility of it
returning. But if we focused on the
negative, cancer would win. Instead, we
have won. Now we enjoy every moment a
little bit more – knowing how sweet and precious each one is. That is why this Saturday I will run my first
half-marathon. I run in honor of the
strongest person I know – who beat cancer, not once but twice. Who, instead of
feeling pity and worry for himself, turned into a stronger individual and
pushed himself physically, mentally, and emotionally. I run to prove to myself and those around me
that we are stronger than we think. I
run to prove to cancer that we are stronger that it thinks; that it cannot set
a limit on how many Thanksgiving we can celebrate together. We will win. We already have won by refusing to give it to
its rules and limits.
That’s why I Relay – for the true IronMan in my life –both
on the inside and out.
With RelayLove,
