Round #1

Mar 12

It’s astonishing how unique we all are. While scientists say that 99.9% of all human DNA is identical, that 0.1% has delivered me more answers that contain the phrase “I don’t know” from medical professionals than I thought was even possible. Three months ago I was diagnosed with a type of “visitor” that one in every million people get. Over the past few months I’ve had the opportunity to speak with survivors of their own individual battles as well as those who are still on the front lines. It’s been a blessing to share experiences and to receive advice from others. Last week I received my first chemotherapy treatment. In this blog I’ll discuss the road leading up to it, the process of receiving chemo and the aftershocks since. My name is Kyrah Ayers and this is Running On Ayers.

I finally made it out of the corral. One of life’s densely packed waiting rooms filled with palpable levels of hope, anxiety and fear. The music from the starting line DJ is getting more and more faint as I continue on my quest farther and farther away from where I once waited. The transition was swift and filled with surprises. As I sat in a recliner with an IV hooked up to the port on my chest, I asked myself which of my road races did this journey reminded me of most. The answer was definitive the Yosemite Half Marathon. I ran this race for the first and only time thus far in 2022. I had been trying to get into the race for years, but that year I had finally done it. The starting line was in the middle of the forest and the race started prior to sunrise. I had no idea that the first few miles of the race would be spent on a trail dodging rocks and roots. This beginning of this race feels very similar to how I’m feeling right now. If interested in the full race recap feel free to read it here.

One week after they had surgically installed a port in my chest in order to deliver the chemotherapy to a targeted portion of my body, here I was, back at the hospital preparing to receive my first treatment. The hospitals policy is that they only allow a visitor to come with you for your first treatment. After that, you must come alone. Once I saw where the treatment was administered I understood their reasoning. Like the pre-surgery prep areas I had recently gotten the opportunity to see, each station is surprisingly close to the neighboring stations and being that one of the side effects that chemotherapy treatment can cause is a decrease in your immune system’s ability to fight off even a common cold, I appreciated this precaution while still saddened that this would be the last appointment my wife could be there with me.

For my first treatment, they were kind enough to give my wife and I a private room where we waited for the IV bags to slowly shrivel. The nurses came in periodically to explain each medication, to check to see if we needed anything and probably a couple times just to figure out why we were laughing so much. I’m grateful for her being there for me on my first visit. It was comforting during a time of great uncertainty.

Some of the potential symptoms that they warned that I may experience included:

neuropathy: numbness of fingers/toes
high sensitivity to cold (no ice/cold drinks/even washing hands in cold water)
nausea
change in taste
becoming more tired/lethargic
appetite reduction

There were plenty more, but these are the ones that I’ve been dealing with in the first part of this race. The neuropathy happens mostly when I’m outside in the cold too long without gloves. It effects the tips of my fingers. I’ve moved to room temperature drinks to avoid the cold sensitivity.

The nausea made a couple cameo appearances so far in this play. I spent about 48 hours as a spectator to my stomach playing a spirited tennis match with anything that I attempted to nourish or hydrate myself with but I feel like I’m slowly finding the rhythm of that volley.

When it comes to the changes in taste, I’m still trying to get a handle on the pattern of this one. The one consistent attribute of it is that every time a new taste is introduced to my temporarily mutated pallet, the sensation resembles when you take a sip of tart lemonade and you get that pinch where the top and bottom jaws meet.

I’ve done my best to listen to my body and take the rest that it’s requesting. I’ve never been a napper, but I’ve found them to definitely help with rejuvenating energy. As far as the appetite, I hadn’t even figure out how much to eat after the last surgery. I’m basically relearning the sensations that the body sends that indicate hunger or full, but in the meantime I’m erroring on the side of caution by reducing the sizes of meals and increasing the frequency of when I eat. The repercussions of getting too full are NOT worth the risk.

Once the sun came out during the Yosemite Half Marathon race, I realized how beautiful of a path I was on. There were waterfalls, lakes and the morning light dancing on the leaves. It was amazing! The beauty that surrounds us is there whether we see it or not. That waterfall didn’t make running 13.1 miles any easier, but focusing on it for that brief moment helped me gain an appreciation of the journey I was on.

In Round #1 I saw how caring and understanding and supportive my family and friends are. I’m thankful for the overwhelming number of requests asking how they could support. The selflessness that has been displayed has been touching and I’m grateful. Shout out to my Black Men Run Brothers, Poetry By The Bay , and Queen Hippie Gypsy communities who refused to let me not specify on ways they could help. There’s power in numbers and I’m blessed to be a part of some amazing groups. For those willing and able to support, please click below and give words of encouragement along with monetary donation. Anything is helpful and I’m grateful for it all.

Donations

I’ve also created some custom gear. I call it The Resilience Series that will feature positive and encouraging messages for you to share with the world around you.