The Ironman

Here we are again in the midst of a chemo week, # 10 to be exact. The adrenaline, anxiety, and anticipation that once surrounded these weeks have started to fade, and are now replaced by the weight of exhaustion, irritation, and the slow grind of endurance.

The Monday appointment at the clinic was with a physicians assistant we had not seen previously, and as she walked into the exam room I quietly thought, "Oh shit." Nothing against her, but the pep, perma-smile and invasion of Phillip's personal space were just too much for him to handle at the start of a chemo day. Thankfully, he kept calm and politely answered her questions. The PA then went on to explain Phillip's hemoglobin has dropped even more since last cycle, despite the blood transfusion. Phillip would need another transfusion as soon as possible because it was at a critical level.

We explained to her that just couldn't be possible, how could his hemoglobin be a 6.2? On Sunday, Phillip and I had spent the beautiful fall day chopping and hauling wood. He was cutting down trees and doing intense yard work. There was no way someone with a hemoglobin that low could do all that. It made no sense. But as I processed this information, I realized we are not talking about just anyone, we are talking about Phillip. His stubbornness, strength, and determination aren't within normal range. He knew we needed to do this work in anticipation of winter. (For those of you who do not know, we have an outdoor wood boiler that heats our house. This requires us to throw logs on the boiler a couple of times a day and has triggered a year-round wood hoarding hobby for Phillip.) With very few breaks in between slinging logs, we got the job done together and I soaked up the normalcy in this task together.

Despite our disbelief in the labs, we settled in to chairs in the infusion suite and began working through our calendars to schedule the blood transfusion for this Thursday. This week has been packed: Monday, chemo infusions; Tuesday, a colorectal appointment; Wednesday, pump disconnect and iron infusion; Thursday, blood transfusion. I can see the toll that doctors and appointments are taking on him as he wears this frustrated look every time he walks out the door for another appointment.

While laying in bed the other night, I turned to him and said through tears, "I just really hate all of this." To which he said, "Me too, Kell. Everyday is just such a grind." He couldn't have described it more perfectly. It. is. such. a. grind. Losing the adrenaline of the initial firsts, the urgency, the shock, the constant flurry of new information, has left us in this long, flat stretch of this new life that I am still not convinced is ours. The days blur together with appointments, side effects, medications, and the constant mental math of what needs to get done before the next round. We wake up each day with the goal of simply trying to get through it.

We have been told Phillip will have "chemo for life" and that sounds so daunting and unwelcome every time it is muttered to us. Frankly, I hate the words "incurable," "heavy disease burden" and, "palliative treatment." But then I remember, the doctors don't know who they are dealing with. Phillip does not fit the demographics or statistics of others who fall into this bucket.

Phillip is an Ironman - twice.

He's the guy who swam through chilly shark infested waters from Alcatraz to shore.

He's the guy who ran a 50-mile trail race on rocky train tracks with a fractured ankle.

He's the guy who swam across the lake at my sister and brother-in-law's lake house to prove his feats of strength.

And he's the guy who finished his chemo today, had an iron infusion, and drove straight from the clinic to Costco to battle crowds to buy a beef brisket because he wanted to smoke meat.

That stubborn determination and refusal to let anything slow him down is nothing new as it's the same grit that defined him at his peak as an elite athlete. I truly believe that every grueling workout, every challenging race, and every moment spent pushing his body past its limits taught him something invaluable: how to summon true grit. Those experiences weren’t just tests of physical strength, they were lessons in endurance, resilience, and the stubborn refusal to quit. I can’t help but think that all of that training was preparing him for his greatest feat yet: kicking cancer's ass.

So here we are...ten rounds in, still standing, still showing up. The grind hasn’t let up, and the road ahead feels long, but Phillip keeps proving, day after day, that grit is crucial in a cancer journey. If anyone can take this stage IV diagnosis and turn it into a story of strength and defiance, it’s him.