No one and nothing — Bridget Black Writes

I never imagined that I would get breast cancer in my life, let alone in my early 30s. In the fall of 2017, I felt strong and healthy, coming off of a summer spent training for triathlons and doing hard hill repeats in Central Park. Then came the Bad Things. It started, as these things do, with a call from my doctor.

When I hung up after that first terrible phone call, deep down I believed it was a mistake, some huge mix up. Maybe they had swapped some of my tissue with someone else’s, or maybe even my files? Perhaps a drunk pathologist? Some misplaced paperwork? Bad doctor’s handwriting? Hallucinations? Something could explain this, I thought. Resolute in my denial, I hung up and walked into a conference room and led a meeting. I felt no need to panic over this mix up that would surely be easily explained away.

Turns out, it was not a mix up, and it was anything but easily explained away. I’d learn that over the course of a full three months, in which my diagnosis shape-shifted, the bottom falling out over and over.

Before all of that could unfold, but after some follow-up mammograms that left me weeping all over various locales on the Upper East Side, I returned to a state of denial and defiance. It was the weekend. I had a cute dress to wear, and the fall weather was nice, and friends had invited me to a wine bar where I could eat something called a “Pig’s Ass Sandwich.” Somehow, I also decided to run a duathlon Sunday morning. Feeling cornered by an uncertain future, I fought back by doing all I could to reclaim exactly the life I wanted: full of friends and wine and fitness.

So, I woke up early Sunday and walked up to the race registration table and paid in cash. I sent silly pre-race texts to my Dad and fixed the numbers to my bike. Then, I raced my heart out. In the hard work of the race, I found my denial started to fade. My feet pounded along to the drumbeat of cancer cancer cancer. I chased down women who had no idea what I was facing. I wondered where I would be in a year.

I crossed the finish line 6th overall woman. As I celebrated a strong, spur-of-the moment race on a beautiful fall morning in Central Park, a part of me was convinced that this meant that nothing could be wrong. Cancer patients don’t run duathlons.

But of course, something was wrong, and denial couldn’t cure it. Months’ worth of surgeries and medications could. Throughout my treatment I fought fiercely to live the life I wanted, the one that felt like “me.” I told as few friends as possible, preserving their image of me in order to preserve my image of myself. I went back to work as early as I could after every procedure. I was promoted. I took trips. I got a dog. I worked so hard to remain my own woman, the one I wanted to be, the one who wasn’t diseased or sick, the one fully in control of her life and her body.

I didn’t realize that I had failed until July. Finally on the other side of pre-planned procedures and recoveries, I started to run again. Every slow step hurt. As I trudged through those early 2-mile runs, it hit me: I had clung to the idea that this experience would be –bloop!- over once the surgeries were done. Instead, I found that I was a different person in innumerable ways. I’d put on 10 lbs and my clothes didn’t fit. I used to fill my days with activity and socializing, but I found myself exhausted and headache-y almost all of the time. My sleep was haunted by both side-effects from medication and the occasional bout of paralyzing terror. When I looked down in the shower, the scarred body wasn’t mine. My future, my bank account, my body, my psyche - cancer had ugly fingerprints on all of them. I had fought to remain my own woman, but I was not. I was a new, cancer-owned person.

I slogged through summer runs. They slowly got longer, but not much faster. Suddenly, it was fall 2018, the anniversary of all of the Bad Things: the first ultrasound, first biopsy, first astonishing call from the doctor. Those memories obscured another, happier anniversary of a beautiful fall morning spent racing around Central Park. I barely remembered it, but a friend texted me to come out and watch this year’s race. I thought of my bike, collecting dust on the wall, last year’s number still attached. I thought of my unconscionably slow runs. Then I looked up last year’s slowest finishers and decided I could join them.

With this goal in mind, I walked up to the registration table and paid in cash, just like last year. I took the line, started with the back of the pack, and found myself passing people. During the bike leg, I found that I was passing even more people – 6 women, to be exact. On the final run, I caught 3 more. I finished 9th overall.

In the hard work of the race, I didn’t wonder where I’d be in a year. I didn’t feel tired, or even especially slow. I just felt the force of my body, legs pounding on pavement, searching for strength that I had forgotten. I felt like myself - competitive and somewhat fast. Active and healthy. Owned by no one and nothing, not even cancer itself. Cancer patients don’t run duathlons.