Davi-Ellen
Written by Elizabeth Chabner Thompson,
MD, MPH, Davi-Ellen’s daughter.
When I was a little girl, there were two places I knew to find my mother. Either she was sitting at her desk in the “4th bedroom,” a little attic crawl space housing her desk, a typewriter and stacks of papers, or she was at “the track.” My mother, a nice Jewish Girl from Brooklyn, was the granddaughter of a union organizer and the daughter of a model. Beautiful, with thick brown hair, she wore a ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) bracelet, but she was no bra burner. She wore her “sports” bra all the time, so she would always be ready to run. She ran in her patched Levis or gym shorts; yes, the classic 70’s version that are so stylish right now. She was the first woman in our neighborhood to buy a pair of three-striped blue and orange Adidas running shoes, and she competed in every local race from 10K to half marathons. She loved to run. She had a 1.3 mile route around the block that would allow her to park my brother and me in front of the black and white Zenith television and still get in a reasonable loop. She’d run a loop, check on us, and then run another. Then, one day, she went out with my Uncle Lee for a run on Falls Road and she felt pain in her knee. The stabbing pain was chondromalacia– softening of the cartilage. Her orthopedist told her “you should never run again.” She was heartbroken, but not defeated, and immediately turned our cinderblock basement into a home gym with stack weights. Unheard of, once again, at the time for a nice Jewish girl from Brooklyn.
Just about that time, I began running. I would meander around my mother’s loop around the block (1.3 miles) or run to my friend Terry’s house– 6 miles away in the fancy section of town. I didn’t really think of it as exercise, but as the normal thing someone does each day—like brushing your teeth or showering. My mother encouraged me, but worried that my knees had only a certain longevity. I ran through my teens just for fun, but did not find my true passion for running until medical school when I ran my first marathon. My classmate Marion and I decided to run before lectures in the morning, in between labs, and post-call. In medical school most students give up all hobbies—this one seemed to be, once again, part of my daily existence, hardly exercise.
That fateful NY marathon in 1990 would light a fire in me and my mother for years to come. My mother had severe claustrophobia, but she came to cheer me on that November day in 1990. We never saw each other, but my mother saw hundreds of women crossing the finish line. In the back of her head, an idea was planted. If they could do it, so could she.
My mother the Amazon
Two years later, after coming in from a run in downtown Baltimore around Ft. McHenry, I got a call from my mother. She had found a lump in her breast, her right side. She had already had it biopsied and it was cancer. She was scheduled for a mastectomy the next day (my father, an oncologist, would have cut it out himself right then, if he could!). I drove home from Baltimore to my parents home, immediately. My mother, always nervous, was uncharacteristically calm. She would let my father make the decisions, all of them. The next morning, while she underwent her mastectomy, I ran around the block– my mother’s 1.3 mile loop, 10 times. Julia, our cleaning lady, flagged me down off the street to take the call from my father. They got all the cancer out– “negative margins”. It was relatively small, 1.3 cm but had all of the “bad” markers– ER negative (estrogen receptor), PR negative (progesterone receptor). I went to the hospital to see her and she asked me to stay the night and sleep in the bed next to her. I brought my pharmacology textbook and read about the anti-cancer drugs, their activities and their side effects. There was no way she would get away with not having chemotherapy. My father had devoted his career to drug development for cancer. He intended on curing her cancer. This meant the full court press. Cytoxan, Adriamycin, 5-Flourouricil. The Adriamycin might affect her heart. The next 6 months would not be easy. She would definitely lose her hair. I panicked because I had already sent my “match” choices for residency– I put San Diego as my first choice, Hopkins as my second choice. When I filled out my forms for residency, the last thing on my mind was the possibility that I would be taking care of my mother. She always took care of me!
The biggest immediate challenge, however, came from changing her bandages. She could not look at her chest, she refused. She whimpered when the surgeon even “took a peak.” Now, the surgeon asked me to take the dressing down and let the area get some air. She turned her head as I took off the gauze and reapplied another clean piece. She was now, in the true meaning of the term, an Amazon– a female warrior with no right breast. Legend has it that the Brazilian women from the original tribe, cut off their breasts to facilitate shooting a bow and arrow. My mother was going to fight this cancer like a warrior, even if she could not look in the mirror. In her mind, she would beat it. She looked at the next 6 months of recovery and chemo as an athletic event. She would plod along and not let it get her down. She had her own medical marathon to face.
Initially, the hardest part of the chemo was the smell of the hospital and the clinic. Just walking in the door, before they even put the IV in her arm, my mother felt nauseous. The medicines to stave off the nausea also made her incredibly sleepy. Her friends rallied and drove her back and forth to her appointments. I was busy finishing medical school, taking my Boards and getting ready to move to San Diego.
When I left for San Diego in late June, her chemo sessions began to take their toll — she lost her hair, her appetite, and her energy. She refused to wear a wig and preferred cotton scarves or a bald head. Washington, DC, summers can be brutal, but she spent hours lying in the sun on our deck, sleeping the cancer away, patiently waiting for it all to be done. There was no talk of running, training or exercise.
Fast Forward to 2000
Sixteen years and 16 pounds later my mother was fed up. She was completely healthy, and distracted by grandchildren and her teaching and writing but could not stand the “bulge” that hit her below the belt. A veteran marathoner by that time, but Boston “virgin,” I had decided to try to qualify and run the Boston Marathon. I thought that she could do it, too. It took me about 5 minutes to convince her that the time was now or never. So, she obtained a number as a charity runner for Mass General Hospital and decided to train and run the marathon. She committed to raising money for the MGH Children’s Cancer program and she did a great job inspiring people to contribute. At age 57, she would run her first marathon!
The only problem was that she had not exercised vigorously for years. She discussed the plan with her medical oncologist who did blood work, chest x–ray and ran some heart tests. She had received Adriamycin, a potent anti-cancer, chemotherapy agent in her breast cancer “Cocktail.” The drug can affect heart muscle function and he wanted to make sure she was healthy enough to withstand 26.2 miles and potentially 6 hours of continuous exercise. The tests came out showing no damage and he gave her the green light to train; she was strong.
Just to prove that the athlete was still alive inside her, my father suggested that my mother support a local 3 mile race for “Friends Fighting Breast Cancer.” My mother would claim it was a “fluke,” but she entered and won the race in her age category, women over 50! The reinforcement of the trophy added fuel to the fire. The athlete inside her woke up. When I asked her about it, she recalls, “I did it for one main reason. To me, running a marathon, training and sticking it out to FINISH meant that I was strong again….even after a diagnosis of breast cancer, losing a part of my body and receiving chemotherapy. I was making a statement to myself and to other women that it was certainly POSSIBLE to accomplish an endurance athletic event after great trauma to the body. My breast cancer and recovery was a great motivational factor in my training and the race itself.”
Plodding Along
The Jeff Galloway method combined running and walking at regular intervals and it seemed reasonable to train with this run/ walk scheme. She planned on building her running base for 4 months and then following the 16 weeks training plan. My family had spent every summer on Nantucket, in a little cottage on the South Shore. The dirt roads and our one mile paved loop, proved a perfect training ground. Each day, she would complete serial loops around the one mile paved road. I could watch her from the deck and keep an eye on the kitchen clock. From our deck, I could keep an eye on her running. If she didn’t come around once every 15 minutes, I would set out in the baby jogger with Bebe and Sol, then ages one and two, and we would check on her and run beside her. The first few runs of anything over 3 miles, she found she had trouble catching her breath. That gradually eased up once she built up her stamina. Eventually, after a few weeks, she began to think that she would be ready for more serious training. Her biggest hurdle was recovery time. She couldn’t run 5 days in a row. She needed days off, so to help her cross train on her days off, she put on her “granny belt” and ran in the pool. Committed to finishing her first marathon, she took everything seriously. In addition to building endurance that summer (8 months before Boston), she decided to lose the extra weight. The combination of training and weight loss was amazing; she began to see the athlete in her again. Even with the positive start, 26.2 miles seemed like a long way.
Running Shoes
While the blue and orange Adidas of the 1970’s had been her favorite back then, my mother discovered a brave new world of running shoes, but this time, she needed to go up a few sizes. She found comfortable shoes in the men’s section– size 10 mens! And she realized that her feet had the tendency to swell on long runs. She needed orthotics, thick socks, and plenty of body glide to prevent blisters. Running gear had also evolved from the blue piped gym shorts which caused friction just by putting them on. She now had capris, tights and anything that prevented chafing. She wore a running belt and carried a stock of band aids, and other goodies for her long runs.
Bra and Prosthesis
Initially, she had a hard time finding a comfortable running bra and figuring out which prosthesis to wear. Foam or silicone? Most running bra companies do not make a bra with a pocket for a prosthesis, either. Who could imagine a breast cancer survivor needing a running bra? Athletic bras were a relatively novel invention. Forget about running bras with pockets for a prosthesis. Crisis! She had to go to the “old lady bra store” and convince the ladies there to sew a pocket into an exercise bra. “You’re doing what?” they asked with the look of complete confusion. Balance and weight of the prosthesis also needed to be taken into account. A foam prosthesis weighs less than a silicone prosthesis, and after even an hour of running the body can detect a weight difference, so silicone seemed a better idea. The silicone prostheses were heavy and made for sedentary women. Something in between, a prosthesis for athletes, did not exist. The prosthesis either became completely soaked with sweat (foam) or they slid around (silicone) . Eight miles into a run on the Nantucket Polpis loop, my mother simply took off her prosthesis and put it in her fanny pack! She could not stand the sliding. Instant Brazilian butt lift!
Light weight, foam prostheses for athletes did not exist either. My mother commissioned her Japanese friend, Kyoko, to sew a “falsie” out of Japanese stockings and cotton batting. Although weighing less, the foam hardly felt natural. After several months and different bras, she decided to ditch her prosthesis all together and run without one. Furthermore, any runs over 12 miles would leave her with “hot spots” where her skin chafed. She had altered sensation on her chest wall and under her arm anyway, so it felt better with no prosthesis. “Who cares what I look like?” she asked. She ran unbalanced, but soon the rhythm of the running took over and she forgot about the right side.
Fatigue and recovery
Even taking days off and cross training in the pool, a 57 year old woman does not recover as quickly as a 35 year old. My mother decided that she needed help. She hired a “crew” to get her through the winter months of running. A stretcher kept her limber, a Pilates instructor strengthened her core, and a masseuse kneaded her fatigued muscles. My father teased her that he had to take out a loan to pay for the marathon staff. Money was no object to her, determination was the driving force. She wanted to cross the finish line. My father and I were her biggest fans. My mother felt it critical to have my father in full support. He took it seriously and made it his project as well.
When my parents travelled to medical meetings or vacation, my mother brought an extra suitcase filled with her training gear. She ran 20 miles in Palm Beach, 16 miles in Vancouver and dozens of miles in New York visiting me. She followed Jeff Galloway’s method like a Bible. Variation from the training routine was not an option.
Breathing “Huh, huh.” Who can listen to that for 26 miles?
My mother was always a heavy breather. When we were kids, we knew where she was in the house because she always made noise and a big mess. This became accentuated while she ran. After about 3 miles, each breath was “Huh, huh.” I couldn’t stand listening to it. I could not fathom how anyone let her stay awake during childbirth. She must have driven her obstetrician crazy with her breathing. None of her devoted Wellesley College roommates or book club friends were still running in their late 50’s or 60’s. So, she ran alone. Nobody could take the noise of running next to her especially since Ipods had not made it to the market with her first marathon. It would have helped to drown out the breathing.
Nutrition and Style
My mother became a protein junkie. She made friends with the “meat heads” at GNC (General Nutrition Center). Jugs of protein powder lined her kitchen counter. Each morning she took a dozen vitamin supplements– chondroitin, fish oil, multi vitamin, St John’s Wort, you name it, she would take it, so long as it promised to make her stronger. She ate egg whites with peanut butter, sliced turkey and cheese. Anything that promised to make her stronger.
We teased her mercilessly, but with complete support of her efforts. My father called her “the penguin” for the style of her running, but he was completely committed to her cause. He worried about her ability to stay hydrated and maintain electrolyte balance. Once winter set in, she had to increase her mileage and my father would drive her to a point along the Boston Marathon course– first Wellesley, then Natick and then Hopkinton. He would let her run along the marathon course towards Newton, always finishing at the top of Heartbreak Hill. He would find her every few miles with a banana or Gatorade or a coffee. Along with a soft handkerchief, she kept a dozen protein/energy bars in her running belt and she indulged every 30 minutes. We teased her that she was the only person who would gain weight training for a marathon. Truth be told, she lost weight and she got herself in great shape.
We researched the brand of electrolyte support and nutrition provided on the course. She tested bagels, oatmeal, cereals before long runs, so that nothing would be left to chance on race day. My mother only drank yellow Gatorade. We discovered that PowerBar would provide the mile 17 “gels” so my mother trained with Powerbar nutrition.
Psychological Stamina–Everyone needs a coach and a cheerleader
I would call her in the evening to discuss her next day’s runs and then call her in the a.m. to make sure she would get out of the house. Boston winters are tough on a marathoner. No one would believe that a grandmother, a cancer survivor, would start her marathon career at age 57 and choose sub zero Boston winters to try her first one. But the pressure of knowing that her MGH marathon team supporters were counting on her finishing kept her on track.
Race day Logistics
The weekend before Marathon Monday came along quickly. It seemed like a surreal experience. We drove to the Hynes Convention Center to pick-up our numbers, and stocked up on Boston Marathon. We loved the giveaways! We ate pasta and hydrated and tried to get a good night’s sleep despite having 2 little children in the house and the teasing from our husbands– “Olympic Trials Tomorrow.”
On the marathon morning, my mother woke up at 4 am. She took a bath, went to the bathroom, drank a few cups of coffee and then fell into dark thoughts. “I’m not going to finish. What if they take me off the course? I won’t finish in 6 hours and they won’t give me a certificate. What if I need to go to the bathroom? What if I can’t find Dad at the finish?” On and on…. I had to calm each thought with a soothing answer. Everything would be OK,
We made it to the bus with time to spare, rode with the MGH to the “waiting house”– a pediatric dental office with empty space, and read magazines for 4 hours, wrote our names on our singlets and hats. By the time we were supposed to line up, my mother was full of nervous energy to burn off. The race organizes the participants into “corrals.” I was in the middle of the 35,000 participants. My mother was in the back of the pack.
I took off with my group and worried that my mother might not cross the finish line. She relays the real events: “ As I remember the run, I went out fast because I was with a fellow team member who was worried about making it to the finish in at least 6 hours. At about mile 11, he could see that I was lagging and he told me to leave him and go ahead. I just kept going and talking to myself about 
putting one foot ahead of another to get to the finish. I had my ‘you can do it’ mantra and made it up Heartbreak Hill in good shape. I’ve come to realize that running a marathon is probably 80% mental. You have to visualize the course and your crossing the finish line. You have to do your physical training, but you also have to KNOW you can do it in your head. My finish time was 5 hours and 19 minutes! The best part of the race was running past Wellesley College, my alma mater, 37 years ago! I was sure that I was the oldest alum running! The Wellesley women seemed to be cheering for me alone!”
Again and Again and then Retirement
Each year after running Boston, my mother let herself rest. She would throw herself into volunteer activities, teaching, traveling and taking photographs of nature, friends and her favorite subjects, her grandchildren. But come July on Nantucket and the clear blue skies, she could not resist the temptation to run, to commit to running another Boston Marathon. She recalls, “To prove that it wasn’t just a “fluke,” each year I ran 8 more Bostons and one New York in 2002 (again at my daughter’s suggestion). Actually, when I stopped running in 2010, I was worried that not doing the marathon would be a signal that I was aging and weak (my legs just didn’t have the “uump”). Running the marathon had become such a big part of my life. However, now it seems the better part of valor to know when your body tells you to move on. I’m still exercising and recently have found yoga, which is also good for me…. for strength, flexibility, endurance, and for my head as well!”
Every time I watched my mother cross a finish line, I would get choked up. Her grit and determination were always right out there for everyone to see. How could anyone try so hard? Her accomplishments belonged to everyone she knew. Paul and Trudy at the barbershop, John, the framer, her friends, Brenda and Jackie, her decorator, Mollie, her grandchildren. Everyone somehow felt like they, too, crossed with her and shared her glory.
Elizabeth Chabner Thompson, MD, MPH is a physician, a mother who started a company BFFLco which brings products to market to improve the lives of women fighting cancer.