Running the Marathon:
A Metaphor for Chemotherapy
Suzanne Levanas, LCSW
Spring 1996
I recently ran the Los Angeles Marathon, and people keep asking me: "How could you run 26.2 miles?!" What they don't realize is that while my body was running the marathon, my mind was actually going through chemotherapy. Let me explain. Nine years ago, when I had a recurrence of Hodgkin's Disease and was told I had to undergo 12 chemotherapy treatments, I was devastated. I couldn't imagine going through such an ordeal. But I did, and I learned a lot about myself in the process. Last summer, I challenged myself (a non-runner!) to complete the marathon -- another seemingly impossible goal.
With my health history (Hodgkin's Disease at age 17, a recurrence at age 18, thyroid cancer at age 35 and a second recurrence of Hodgkin's Disease at age 36 - whew!!), I didn't exactly see myself as a "physically fit" individual. On the other hand, neither did I see myself as "sick". I joked with people about being the healthiest person I knew -- "I just keep getting cancer". My doctors had told me that I had lung damage from the radiation and that it could limit my physical activites. I resolved to challenge this image of myself and to prove not only that I could exercise, but that I could do something as outlandish as run a marathon.
I decided to approach the marathon as another course of chemotherapy only this time, someone tricked me and added one more treatment! I divided the course into 13 two-mile stretches or 13 chemos. To me, running the marathon is a lot like undergoing chemotherapy except that the marathon is voluntary, and no one voluntarily goes through cancer treatment! But both are physically and mentally exhausting ordeals that seem interminable and fraught with obstacles along the way.
So, on March 3, 1996, while other runners were counting off the miles, I was counting down the chemotherapy treatments. Every two miles was one less to go, one treatment closer to the Finish. The first few "treatments" weren't so bad. I was fresh and enthusiastic. I rewarded myself with water at every water station and Power Bars every five miles, just like I rewarded myself following each chemo with a new pair of earrings or lunch with a friend. I used to keep a paper on the refrigerator listing the numbers 12 to 1, and after each treatment, I crossed off a number -- one less to go. I still have that paper. I did the same during the marathon. I crossed off the "treatments" mentally as I passed each two-mile marker.
Both marathons and chemotherapy have unexpected obstacles along the way: hills; blisters; muscle strains; low blood counts or side effects. My goal was just to finish and not to worry about how long it took me. They say that a marathon is run one step at a time and that's a lot like chemotherapy. You take it one treatment at a time, and the last few treatments, like the last six miles, are the most challenging.
Nothing is easy when you're in the middle of it, but I found that mental imagery helped me get through both experiences. When things got tough, I imagined myself somewhere else, feeling incredibly strong and physically healthy. I thought of my friend, Judy, who loved to run and who died three years ago following surgery for lung cancer. I felt like she was running with me and I was the lucky one. I thought of other women whom I have met through my work at the Ted Mann Family Resource Center who are going through treatment and whose courage and will to live inspire me and make my little aches and pains seem insignificant. During chemo, I put signs around the house that read: "I Love Chemotherapy!"; during the marathon, I wrote on the back of my hand, where I could easily see it, "I Can Run Forever!", and I almost believed it.
At last, I rounded the final corner, and there it was -- the Finish Line! I crossed it to the cheers of family and friends who supported me through my months of training. Suddenly, it seemed that they were all there with me: the friends and church members, some of whom I didn't even know, who brought meals following each treatment; my sisters-in-law who lovingly took care of my little girls every other weekend so I could rest and recuperate; the friend who never forgot a treatment and whose encouraging card or flowers welcomed me when I returned home from the doctor's office; my "babies", now 13 and 10 years old, who have dim memories of a time when Mommy wasn't always available for them and who now greeted me with a banner that read: "Suzanne: The Best Runner and Mom in the World!"; and my husband who can't stand needles, yet who was there for every chemo, who fielded questions and concerns from others, who never let me know how frightened he was, and who kept telling me until I believed him: "We'll get through this together." They were all there, sharing in my triumph. I was exhausted yet exhilarated, and I went home feeling that if I could do this, I could do ANYTHING!
Suzanne Levanas, LCSW, is a member of our clinical staff and a two-time cancer survivor. She facilitates one of our breast cancer support groups, our Living with Cancer class, and, with the American Cancer Society, our offering of the Look Good, Feel Better program.
For reprint authorization, contact SimmsMannCenter@mednet.ucla.edu.