SEPTEMBER 16, 2022 – (Cont.) Late in my dream sequence last night appeared a garbage container. Yes, a large, plastic garbage container like the ones that line our alley on garbage pick-up day, which happened to be today. The refuse receptacle was the sole object of the dream, and it was a veritable wreck. A large hole with jagged edges had been punched out of the lower side, revealing over-stuffed plastic garbage bags inside. The container had a double cover, which had split open, revealing the flattened, desiccated remains of an over-sized squirrel.
I woke from this disturbing dream and wondered what subliminal turmoil had conjured up such imagery on the dawn of “Day 24” of my current marathon, as it were. More on that at the end of this post.
My physical condition seems to be ahead of my mental state—at least as revealed in my dream. If I’m not exactly in shape to run an actual marathon, I did log a two-mile walk late this morning. The exercised left me a bit tired, but not because my hemoglobin is sub-par. I attribute the “wear” of a fairly rigorous, albeit short-distance, hike to the loss of stamina from having slacked off over the past month. Plus, my body has been preoccupied of late overcoming the effects of the ol‘ “chemo-blast” 25 days ago.
A reader of yesterday’s post asked, “Is 26.2 the finish line?” He was referring, of course, to the length of the modern running marathon—26.2 miles. The odd mileage is a puzzler to the uninitiated; it’s a major challenge to any marathoner, no matter how fast or slow. For the slower runners of the field, 26 miles and 385 yards means a very long duration of agony. For the elite runners (sub-2:15.00), the distance is covered far more quickly but at far greater cost: imagine running a mile in five minutes, nine seconds—then repeating, back-to-back, 25.2 times.
Legend has it (there’s no documented evidence) that Pheidippides ran from Marathon to Athens—a distance of 25 miles—with the message that the Greeks had prevailed over the Persians. No one knows how fast he’d run the distance, but it was fast enough to kill him: According to Lucian (second century C.E., Pheidippides ran to the feet of the Athenian leaders, said, “Joy to you, we’ve won!” and expired. What Herodotus tells us in The Histories, however, is that just days prior, Pheidippides, a professional courier, had run from Athens to Sparta—a distance of about 150 miles—and back; his message to the Spartans was, “Get your butts to Marathon to help the Athenians fend off the Persians!” Perhaps having run the equivalent of a dozen marathons over the course of four days before the marathon, is what spelled the runner’s doom on the occasion of his 13th and final marathon, which, again, as legend has it, was the world’s first marathon.
The world’s second running marathon—a distance of 40 kilometers, which is roughly 25 miles—was held in the 1896 Olympics in Athens. In the London Olympics of 1908, the race was stretched an extra mile and 285 yards so that the start could be on the lawn outside Windsor Castle (allegedly so the kiddo-majesties could see it from the windows of their nursery). The finish was in front of the royal box inside the Olympic stadium, 26.2 miles away. That distance “stuck” forever more.
Thus, if my current metaphorical marathon is in its 24th day today, its 24th mile, I have just the weekend to go before I reach a symbolic finish line. And in fact, on Monday—Day 27—I have an appointment with my U of MN BMT (bone marrow transplant) doctor before being transferred back to my regular oncologist at Regions Hospital (for long-term maintenance and monitoring)—the good doctor who said I’d be “skiing next season and for many seasons to come.”
Unlike the 24th mile of a running marathon, the 24th mile of my metaphorical endurance race has been relatively easy, and I have high expectations that the next two days of the “race” will find me in even better condition—especially if my taste buds can repair themselves, as promised, so that the foods I so enjoy will taste as they did before the start of this marathon.
As I close out this 24th day and anticipate the next 2.2 “miles,” I take stock of how far I’ve traveled, not only physically, but mentally, spiritually, philosophically. I conclude that the bizarre dream was actually effective self-therapy and a sign that whatever mental abnormalities are on the loose inside my head are being worked out in my sleep.
There’s still much ground to cover before my immune system can weather normal exposure to fungal and viral agents of the world, but I’m ever so grateful for all the care and support that have brought me this far. Never before have I felt so . . . alive and alert. Now for a good night’s sleep . . . and dream therapy. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
