The finish line

By Kevin Courtney

Give me credit, people. During the seven months from cancer diagnosis to end of treatment, I took the high road. I never asked for special consideration from family or employer.

Not until two weeks ago.

Adopting a weak-is-me tone of voice, I suggested to Cheryl that maybe it wouldn’t be such a good idea for me to work Napa High Band Bingo right after my final radiation treatment at UCSF Medical Center.

Three days might not be enough time to recover. It might be best if I stayed home while she and Jonathan did the bingo thing.

Did Cheryl smother me with sympathy? Did she go, There, there, my little Kevie. Stay home and recuperate?

No. She wasn’t buying any of it.

Wasn’t I planning to run Turkey Trot on bingo morning? A man who can run a 10K ought to be strong enough to sell a little flash to the bingo players, she said.

Busted.

Running Turkey Trot in Davis was indeed a fantasy of mine. From the moment of my prostate diagnosis in April, I repeatedly calculated the odds that I would be fit the weekend before Thanksgiving.

Turkey Trot is a father-daughter tradition that I was loath to give up. Turkey Trot kicks off the holidays in a high-spirited way. It allows me to share endorphin highs with my dear Jenny.

Unfortunately, cancer treatment called all the shots. For months Turkey Trot seemed a dicey proposition. I might exit radiation in November no more able to run than a fried eggplant.

During my pre-op visit with my San Francisco doctor two weeks ago, I waited until the end to broach the subject. When my two days of high-dose-rate radiation are over, can I jog? I said.

Notice I said jog, not run a 10K. I wanted to increase the odds that he would say yes.

No reason you couldn’t, he said. But don’t ride a bike anytime soon.

Thank you, doctor.

Released from UCSF the Wednesday before Turkey Trot, I wasn’t in great shape. I was vomiting. There were other issues. Still, I dreamed of my beloved Turkey Trot.

Cheryl was against it. If there were ever a time to go slow, this is it, she said. There’s always next year.

And then there was Jenny. Anticipating that her father, the cancer patient, would be in no shape for a six-mile fling, she hadn’t run a lick in months. If I ran, I would run alone.

Perversely, Jenny’s unavailability only whetted my desire. I wouldn’t run it for us, I’d run it for me. I’d run it because I still had lots of working body parts. I’d run it because I wasn’t dead.

I’m a walking cliché and I know it. Countless made-for-TV movies celebrate people with health issues who attempt something vaguely heroic as part of their recovery.

That’s OK. It would be fun to make my own movie.

Seeing I would not be deterred, Cheryl wished she could come along and watch me cross the finish line. Translation: If you collapse, I want to be there to call the ambulance.

As it was, she had to work. I would go to Davis alone.

The Sacramento Valley was cold and foggy last Saturday. Davis swarmed with thousands of students and prime-of-life adults gathered for the many races of Turkey Trot. I didn’t look or feel as robust as they, but my zeal was unsurpassed.

When the starter’s horn sounded, the mob and I slowly began to move. The mob wore fancy athletic apparel. Per tradition, I wore Jenny’s old Napa High gym shorts with “Indians” printed down the side.

I didn’t run fast, but I ran. I was happily part of a ribbon of churning humanity, winding through subdivisions and across parks, huffing and puffing, relentlessly moving forward.

Compared to cancer, Turkey Trot was a breeze. Was it as good as I’d imagined? Better.

After the race, I did the thing that I would normally do with Jenny. I went to Bernardo’s for buckwheat pancakes. I really poured on the syrup this year.

Jenny, who had to work that morning, showed up at noon. She was disappointed at having missed her dad’s Race of Recovery, especially in a year with such a great T-shirt.

That evening my muscles were sore and stiff, but my endorphins were still flowing. I worked bingo like a champ.

Kevin can be reached at 256-2217 or Napa Valley Register,  P.O. Box 150, Napa 94559 or kcourtney@napanews.com

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