Peg Gauthier

December 2014

I’ve been a runner for over 40 years. I started participating in marathons in 1983 and ran my first Portland Marathon in 1984. Since then, I’ve started and completed over 40 marathons and ultramarathons (distances from 30-50 miles), including Boston and Athens. In 2013, I completed my 19th Portland Marathon, and entered the 2014 race, as I thought it would be a milestone to do 20 Portland marathons in 30 years. I never did them fast, as my goal was to avoid injury, enjoy them, and keep running for the rest of my life.

Before the 2014 Portland marathon happened however, I found myself starting a marathon of a different type, with no idea what the finish line would look like.

My new “marathon” began in mid-March 2014, when I went to my FNP(Family Nurse Practitioner) because I had developed a hernia in my left groin. She wasn’t concerned, called it a femoral hernia, and said since IF wasn’t bothering me, surgery was elective. In April, I traveled to Virginia for my aunt’s birthday, and noticed not feeling hungry (we Gauthier’s are perpetually hungry!) and chalked it up to travel, excitement and stress. At this point, I was running six to eight miles 4-5 days a week, and did have difficulty breathing deeply and some abdominal pain, especially on downhills.

Before a trip to Maui in early May, I found another hernia, which was below the breastplate. While on Maui, I continued to run, but found I had to walk a lot to ease the discomfort. I made another appointment with my FNP, this time for a yearly exam, but it really was an excuse to address the hernia and increased bloating I was experiencing. My PAP was normal, and my FNP sent me to a surgeon for repair of the hernias.

The night before my May 21st appointment with the surgeon, I found a lump in my right groin. At our meeting, we discussed the two hernias, and I also pointed out the newly found lump. He recommended a CT scan, which was completed on May 23. The doctor called me several hours later (after the radiologist had consulted with him about his preliminary findings). The CT scan showed “marked ascites” (accumulation of abdominal fluid from the liver), masses in the lower right side, the upper left abdomen, and liver. I was referred to a gynecological oncologist, who diagnosed me with stage IIIC ovarian cancer, and scheduled me for surgery on Friday, June 6. Blood work showed a CA-125 of over 3700, which at that time, meant very little to me.

My new gyn onc estimated that the surgery would take four hours, depending on what he found. I would start chemotherapy a month later, which would last 18 weeks. My response to his diagnosis and plan was, “I guess this means I won’t be running the Portland Marathon this year.” He replied, “I’ve had patients run during chemo, and do races, but I’ve never had one do a marathon.” I remember thinking to myself, “Yet.”

In the meantime, the ascites was accumulating in my abdomen, and I had three liters (nearly 10 lbs) drained twice in the six days before surgery.

Of course, all of this news was quite a shock to me, as having cancer was the furthest thing from my mind. I was a very healthy 57 year old, active in hiking, climbing and running, and clueless about how my life was going to change. Fortunately, I had a very strong support system of friends and family who would prove to be godsends over the next six months.

The morning of surgery, I did go for a short run with my loyal running pal, Bonnie, an 11 year old Brittany. I knew it would be a while before my next jaunt, so wanted to seize the opportunity while I could. Despite the discomfort, I still felt better after the run, mentally, physically and emotionally.

Surgery ended up lasting seven hours, as my gyn onc found more tumors than he expected, and in places he was not expecting such as my colon, pancreas, and rectum. He called in a gastro-intestinal (GI) oncologist to address those tumors. Due to the extent of the involvement of the colon, the GI doc needed to remove a large portion of that organ and perform a permanent colostomy.

Chemo started on Tuesday, July 1, and on that day, my CA-125 had fallen to 735. I had been warned about the lovely side effects of the taxol/carboplatin cocktail, and told that they would worsen as chemo progressed. I completed one of six cycles of treatments, then my white blood count tanked. A new regimen of one treatment every three weeks, with a neulasta (white blood cell booster) shot 24 hours after the treatment, was prescribed to keep my white blood count numbers high enough to tolerate the chemo blast. This regiment seemed to work well for me, and I was able to complete the rest of the treatments with decent white blood counts.

At my first follow up with my gyn onc in early July, he asked if I had any questions, and of course, I asked, “Can I start running?” He rolled his eyes, and replied, “Yes, one to two miles, but do about 11-12 minute miles.” I was in heaven, as returning to running was the first step towards normalcy for me.

It sure wasn’t easy, though. My incision was still healing, so running downhill was quite painful, and going uphill, my legs felt like tree stumps. I knew enough about the body to understand that those feelings of discomfort were little speed bumps to work through, so I persisted. Most of the time, I did a jog/walk combination, and by mid-July, I was up to six miles in about 80 minutes.

In the meantime, my nephew Brendan had signed up to do the Portland Marathon, which would be his first. My sister Nan wanted to join the fun, so she entered the half marathon, which would be her 20th. I hadn’t made a commitment to running the event yet, but it was still in the back of my mind. Knowing that running the entire 26.2 miles was not realistic, I found several run/walk interval plans. The one I found suitable for me was to run (more like jog/trot) seven minutes and walk three, so I started increasing my mileage and time on the streets, according to this plan.

I ran/walked five to six times a week, and would take one day off, usually a Monday. I really feel that running through those nasty post-chemo days made the recovery from that stuff a lot faster. No matter how bad I felt before getting out, I always, without exception, felt better afterwards. The most disconcerting side effect was the peripheral neuropathy, especially in my lower legs and feet. I found myself falling frequently (usually in front of someone), so I started wearing bike gloves to help protect my hands when I pitched forward. Once my legs became stronger, the episodes became less frequent, but I was still uber-vigilant with foot placement.

The weekend of the marathon, which was October 5th 2014, rolled around, and pre-event excitement was building. All of us entered went to the packet pickup, and I think it was at that point I was pretty sure I would run. I would be 12 days post-chemo, and the window seemed open.

Marathon morning was perfect, with temperatures in the 50s, little wind, and lots of energy in the air. I toed the line with no expectations, and knew I could opt out at any point. I can honestly say that there was no point during the run that I questioned why I was doing it. By 13 miles, I felt great, and was a bit smug because I didn’t have to bother with port-a-potties due to my colostomy! The most significant hill was at 16-17 miles, but even that seemed comfortable. The 20 mile mark, which I consider the true half, was relatively painless, and I felt confident that I would finish the run.

About a half mile before the finish line, the tears started flowing, and a bit of the impact of what I was about to complete was hitting me. I had been wearing my favorite, beat up baseball cap, and I took it off to expose my little fuzzy head. I crossed the line in 5 hours, 50 minutes — my slowest marathon ever, but one of my proudest.

The reunion with my sister and nephew was another emotional event, as although we’d done individual events, we were a family team at heart, and were so proud of each other.

In retrospect, what was significant about completing that marathon was that I never once thought I couldn’t. To not start would have been failure for me. I also recognize that I could not have gotten as far as I would have without the support of my family and friends, who, though they may have been thinking it, never thought I was crazy to start the marathon.

I had a blood work appointment the Tuesday following the run, and brought my finisher’s medal to show my doc. He had never discouraged me from running, and seemed pretty pleased that I had completed the marathon.

My last chemo treatment was October 14, 2014, and my CA-125 was down to 8, where it had been hovering for the past several months. I feel so lucky to be where I am, and cautiously optimistic that I have beat the cancer. The next five years will certainly tell.

I’m slowly transitioning back into my normal life, which includes full time work as a physical therapist, volunteering for two Brittany (dogs) rescue groups, and getting back to hiking and climbing. I feel so blessed to have had the unconditional support of my family, and friends, and to have found the Ovarian Cancer Alliance of Oregon and SW Washington. I hope I can support others as well as everyone has supported me through this marathon.