Not Quite Ready to Run

Last summer, I was training to run a 5K in the fall, and my training was on track for something in the neighborhood of 30 minutes. My leukemia, however, had other plans.

These days, I walk almost every day, but not very fast. Weakness is part of the slowness, but the main issue is neuropathy, or nerve damage. I have had some mild peripheral neuropathy since last spring, in my feet. It showed up a month or two after my first transplant, a slight numbness in my toes and forefeet. Neuropathy can be a delayed side effect of chemotherapy, and that probably explains mine. Last summer, my neuropathy was mild enough that it had no effect on my mobility.

During treatment leading up to my second transplant, which featured four rounds of chemotherapy, my neuropathy got noticeably worse. My feet were more numb than before, and a mild numbness extended past my ankles and partway up my lower legs.

I have received different answers from doctors about the future of the numbness. My doctor says it's unpredictable. Another doctor said it usually heals, but very slowly. A third said he's never encountered a leukemia survivor who complained about numb feet. I don't know whether this means that it eventually resolves, or that his patients have all been relatively sedentary people who don't care about numb feet, or that when you survive leukemia you just don't get that worked up about your feet being numb.

I am bothered by it, because it prevents me from running. There is the lack of perception, which makes for unsteady foot plants. Worse, I don't have full muscular control over my feet. My right foot, in particular, has recently started slapping down with each step, especially when I try to walk fast. I also can't raise my right forefoot past the 90 degree point, which makes it easy to stub my toes on flat surfaces.

This past Illinois Marathon weekend included a 5K on Friday night, and I entered it. My goal for the 5K was to break an hour, slightly faster than 20 minutes per mile. Walking with me were Mara, my father, and Jake. Once upon a time, I used to line up on the very front line of 5Ks and occasionally win them. This time, we started at the back. Not near the back, but at the very nobody-behind-us back. It's a different look.

And off we went. Step, slap, step, slap, passing a lot of people. We didn't time the first mile. The second mile was around 16 minutes. (Once upon a time, I would have already finished a 5K by the time 16 minutes had passed.)

With about a half mile to go, I was still feeling good. Step, slap, step, slap. I tried a little bit of jogging, about 20 yards. It felt good — easier than walking. After some more walking, another interval of jogging, cut short by a spectacular tumble as my droopy right foot caught the pavement and spilled me hard onto the concrete. 

An EMT who happened to be walking at my pace stopped to tend to me, and another walker offered some wipes to stanch the bleeding from my hands. My knees and right ribs hurt, as did my right ankle. After sitting in the middle of the street for a few minutes, I was ready to finish my 5K, with my hands wrapped in wipes and a sore ankle adding to the unevenness of my gait. 

I crossed the finish line in 55:18 (17:48 pace, 153 out of 168 in my age group). 

Dad, me, and Mara at the finish. I am the one
holding the wipes. Jake is just off  the left edge
of the image. (Photo credit: Brightroom)

Post-transplant PR! Then I headed straight to the medical tent, providing just about the only action they had all night. The medical volunteers joked as they washed and bandaged my wounded hands that Jan sent me there to test their readiness.

The price for my first running steps since September was bruised and bloody hands; bruised shoulder, ribs, and knees; a sprained ankle; and a scolding from my doctor.

The sprained ankle a few days later, swollen and bruised.

Worth it!