Going with the flow

I hadn’t been out of my element to this degree since my college days, when I drunkenly debated the lyrical merits of the song “99 Red Balloons” with a philosophy major. Yet, there I was. Floating downstream in a kayak on the Klickitat River in Washington state, ready to take on some rapids and holding my paddle upside down.

Thanks to the good folks at First Descents, a nonprofit that provides free adventure trips to young cancer survivors, I was able to give this whole kayaking business a go. It was the next phase of a much larger, multi-step plan that forced me to abandon my comfort zone, to get out there and live.

Since my whole cancer ordeal began in 2013, I’ve slowly made my way out onto that limb. I’ve posted pictures of my breast reconstruction on my blog (for the benefit of fellow breast cancer patients, and perhaps some random pervs), joined an annual 200-mile charity bike ride (despite the fact my last bike-riding experience had been 30 years prior, on a pink Huffy with a banana seat), momentarily forgot my intense fear of public speaking with a speech to about 200 people (with the assistance of about $100 worth of hotel booze) and now, clumsily attempted whitewater kayaking.

Photos courtesy of First Descents and Wet Planet

The kayaking trip had a slightly “Breakfast Club” feel to it, minus the teen-angst-fueled drama and animosity. We were strangers when we arrived, all from different backgrounds, seemingly little in common.  Artists, college students, writers, firefighters, athletes and parents—these were our labels out in the wider world. In some cases, we were separated by an age difference of 20 years or more, as evidenced by the belief that the Spice Girls was “oldies” music and the quizzical stare at the mention of “Hammer pants.” But there was one label we all shared: cancer patient. And though we were all at different stages of our respective cancer journeys, it was a powerful common ground. We were part of a club that none of us really wanted to belong to, but which had afforded us this amazing opportunity: the Cancer Club.

When the 15 of us descended upon a remote lodge tucked in the forests of Oregon, none of us really knew what to expect from the week ahead, but we had our reasons for being there. In need of physical challenge or new adventure. To replace something cancer had taken. To regain a sense of normalcy that so frequently eludes you following a cancer diagnosis and treatment.  I think I can safely speak for all of us when I say we were looking for a safe space, a place where it was OK to not be an inspiration or a fighter, but rather just be.

The teens in “The Breakfast Club” knew what it meant to be pigeonholed. And so do cancer patients. How many times have you heard a cancer patient being described as a brave warrior? It’s not a bad metaphor, per se, but it’s a metaphor that’s never quite sit right with me. Warriors sometimes lose battles, and I don’t like to think of people with cancer “losing,” as if they didn’t fight hard enough. As with many things in life, the cancer journey is primarily made up of just putting one foot in front of the other. I’ve been told, “I could have never handled it like you did.” To these people I say, “You’d be surprised what you can do when you’re just trying to stay alive.”  

Having cancer is kind of like wandering through Wonderland. It’s a place where negative results are positive—“My PET scan came back clean!” It’s a place where you will time to move both slowly and rapidly, so you can simultaneously savor moments and speed towards those that are in the distant future, because not being alive for your child’s high school graduation is a heartbreaking prospect. And sometimes, you have to face your own mortality to learn to live again. The latter was my reason for awkwardly planting myself in a kayak and heading down river.

As I approach my five-year NED (no evidence of disease) anniversary, my anxiety level has been ratcheting up. No woman in my family has gone five years cancer-free. I’m the only one alive. For years now the “I’m the only survivor” spin has had a negative connotation. But not anymore. Heather, you’re not dead. And if hurtling down a river doesn’t prove it, I don’t know what does.

I suppose one of the biggest lessons I took away from this week was to, literally and figuratively, “just go with the flow.” It wasn’t an easy lesson. For the better part of the past five years, I’ve been fighting against the current, trying to beat back cancer and do everything to prevent it from returning. But out there on the river, such defensive efforts just left you upside down in your kayak, in said river. It’s a tough lesson for someone who needs to feel in complete control at all times. You can’t control everything in life. You can’t control the river.

Was the trip amazing? Yes. The people, the food—thanks to Bumblebee and Gem for helping me “get regular” again for the first time in years—the kayaking, the instructors. Everything. Amazing. Did I relish smelling like basement mildew thanks to a wet suit that never quite dried? Nope. But it wasn’t anything a shower couldn’t take care of. Was I awkward as all hell? You betcha. Kayaking put into sharp focus the range of motion and core strength I had lost thanks to cancer and surgery (plus my overall lack of athletic prowess). 

But I gave it my all. My grit, as it turns out, was not a casualty of cancer. Nor was my opinion of “99 Red Balloons.” I still think that song is total bullshit.

HOTDP: Survivor-Rider Rachel Kelley

This is part of a continuing series chronicling "Humans of Tour de Pink"--the amazing survivors, co-survivors, supporters, volunteers and others who make up this rolling family.

 
Rachel Kelley would often receive compliments on her road bike from strangers. It was sleek and black and adorned with fierce pink flames. “I would tell them it was an expensive bike—I had to be diagnosed with breast cancer to get it,” says Kelley, who’s a 12-year survivor. 

Kelley’s bike is part of a Liv Cycling program that each year donates limited-edition road bikes to breast cancer survivors participating in the Young Survival Coalition’s  three-day, 200-mile Tour de Pink charity rides. She received her survivor bike in 2014 and is riding in her sixth Tour de Pink West Coast this year as captain of her team, Zen Pedalers. Last year, the team raised more than $51,000 for the Young Survival Coalition, a nonprofit dedicated to providing support and resources to young women diagnosed with breast cancer.

It’s a cause near and dear to her heart, and Kelley recalls the road leading up to her diagnosis:  On March 29, 2006—her 9^th wedding anniversary—she showed up for her first day of work and immediately went to her new boss to ask for time off. Diagnosed with breast cancer in her right breast just the night before, Kelley had a whirlwind of medical appointments ahead of her. “I met with my breast surgeon on March 31 and on April 6, I had my surgery,” she says. Seven weeks of radiation, five days a week, followed.

The Cypress, Calif., resident quickly discovered that breast cancer was a disease assumed to strike only older women. “The local support group I was referred to was made up of women who were in their 50s, 60s and 70s,” says Kelley, who was 42 when she was diagnosed. “And it met at 10 a.m. on Thursdays, so not exactly the most convenient time for those who are working. But at the time I didn’t think to look for other resources.”

Cycling for a cause

Breast cancer wouldn’t be the only health issue to beset Kelley. A back injury in 2010 left her using a walker. During this time, she began accompanying her husband, Christopher, on his cycling trips.

Reclaiming life, on a bicycle built for two. Photo: Rachel Kelley                   

In 2012, he rode in his first Tour de Pink West Coast. The benefit bike ride is actually part of a cycling trifecta that includes not only the West Coast, but South and East Coast rides, as well. The Tour de Pink rides are the major fundraisers for Young Survival Coalition, raising more than $1M for the organization. This money helps fund endeavors that include support groups, research advocacy and conferences such as the Young Survival Coalition’s National Summit.

Still recovering from her injury and on the sidelines for 2012, Kelley met for the first time Tour de Pink co-founder Lisa Frank, who is also a survivor. “I remember her standing in front of me and asking, ‘Who are you?’” she says, laughing at the memory of the interrogation. When Frank discovered Kelley was a survivor, she got excited. “She told me I had to be out there at the beginning of each day’s ride to have my picture taken with the survivor-riders. The survivor-rider photo was a tradition. I told her, ‘But I’m not riding.’ She didn’t care. She made sure I was out there every morning for the picture. We got such a welcome from her, and I thought, ‘Now this is an awesome organization.’”

With the proper rehabilitation, Kelley was able to ride with her husband the following year on a Co-Motion tandem bicycle. In 2014, she rode all 200 miles on her Liv survivor bike. It was quite the feat for the previously casual bike rider.

This year, as Kelley marks 12 years of survivorship, it’s a particularly poignant time for her: 12 years was how long her mother went before she had a recurrence of breast cancer. As Kelley and any other survivor can attest to, the fear of recurrence never quite goes away. But she doesn’t dwell on it long before she moves on to what challenges she looks to tackle next. 

“I want to do the Tour de Pink East Coast and South rides one day,” she says. “I don’t have a bucket list. I have a bike-it list.”

For more information about the Zen Pedalers or to help support Young Survival Coalition by donating to Rachel Kelley’s ride, please visit: https://west.ysctourdepink.org/Rachel .