Meet MS Support Hero Paul Josephson
“The Semi-Colon and Running” by Paul Josephson
Nine years ago I was stacking 4 cords of wood with the help of two students. My lower belly ached, and so I wasn’t as enthusiastic with this “cross-training” as usual with this exhausting summer chore. Through the day, the pain got more uncomfortable and unfamiliar. Eventually I took myself to the ER. They were curious a lot and already worried a bit about my distended tummy, but my blood work was normal. They gave me some pain killers and sent me home. The discomfort only got worse and disorienting over the next days. I ended up twice more in the ER, on consecutive nights (yes, why didn’t they take me in the first time?), with an MRI that showed intestinal blockage. Thankfully it was the same ER doc both nights so I did not have to go through my history again, and she was truly sympathetic. By the way, I’m still not sure how I got to and from the hospital, or why they let me drive myself, because I was given painkilling drugs.
On the third day, a Friday, they ambulanced me to the hospital of my GI specialist across town. He came in only late in the afternoon after a day of colonoscopies, and he indicated he didn’t want to take any more crap from a patient. He said he’d be back on Monday to check in on me. But by Sunday I had declined badly, and the on-call doctor took me into emergency surgery where I had I colostomy because of an intestinal blockage. It seems the cause was diverticulitis. I was likely within three hours of a rupture, massive infection and death. (When the GI doc returned Monday, I told him to get out of my hospital room and never speak with me again. What an ass!)
When I awoke after surgery, there was the local surgeon and my nurse. The surgeon was old school, came to see me every day, sat and talked, and violated HIPAA by sharing details over the phone with my mom everyday about how her son was doing. I was on morphine and violation of HIPAA seemed the least of my worries. I later shared with the surgeon an article I had written on the environmental and social costs of jet skis; I told him about an article I’d encountered in my research in the Journal of Trauma called “Rectal Blowout by Personal Watercraft Water Jet.” We now shared data-based, intimate knowledge of lower GI trauma.
I knew not initially what had happened when I awoke from the emergency, but Dr. John’s first words were the most comforting I might ever hear: “I am 99% certain this is reversible.” I did not know yet what “this” was. Then the nurse said, “I’m Stacy, your ICU nurse.” She wrote her name on a white board in big letters so I could see them through my stupor. Then she wrote the word “GOALS” in big letters. She asked, “And what are your goals?” At the top of my lungs, I answered, “I want to get the fuck out of here!”
Reality set in. Here I was, a runner, deathly ill, suddenly with a colostomy bag, in the ICU, a feeding tube, a central port in the middle of my chest for all the drugs they were pouring into me. I determined first of all to freak out the doctors, nurses and myself. I got up, slowly, painfully, crazily, and five times each day and walked around with two IV stands, one in each hand, as long as I could, by the fourth day 25 minutes at a time. I was out of ICU on the fifth day. Why? “I want to get the fuck out of here and go for a run!”
I was released on the 12th day when I could take food, but had lost 10% of body weight. At home my son thankfully took care of me. I tried as much as possible to be independent. I walked the dog two times a day for strength. When the dog yanked on the leash I felt the pain in the incision everywhere in my body. One day I made a crucial decision. I forgot something upstairs. I walked to the steps, looked up and told myself I was too tired to climb. Then I remembered, that “I want to get the fuck out of here and go for a run!” I walked upstairs.
On the 19th day after surgery I ran one mile. I was faster walking than running because my rectus abdominis (gut muscles) were so weak that I could barely lift my legs off the ground. On the 56th day I ran a half marathon with my colostomy bag, then three more marathons that autumn. At one, in Amsterdam, I was complaining to myself how tired I felt. I passed an Italian runner with his support buddies about 18 miles along. He had one leg, would pop his crutches out ahead of him, double pump off his remaining leg to jump forward, land on the leg and repeat. For 26 miles. At 4:45 pace. I stopped complaining to myself. Reversal surgery indeed followed in month five after in December after Reggae Marathon in Negril, Jamaica, where I met Cheryl and Brian Hile a few years earlier.
I am now at 149 marathons and aiming for 200, older, slower, without the strength I once had, and short a few inches of colon. Yet I still run, almost every day, between 60 and 90 minutes, around 40 miles weekly, because I love it and it’s what we do. We run because we love it, for the friends who give us strength, for the beer before and after (and occasionally during the race), and because it reminds us that we are stronger than any bumps in the road.
As for semi-colons: don’t use them in your prose. You don’t know how, almost everyone misuses them, and few comprehend the irony that might be involved in their embrace. But if you insist on knowing about semi-colons, write me and I’ll explain; I’ve lectured on the subject. See you at beers!
Paul R. Josephson is a leading historian of science, technology, and of Soviet history, and the author of thirteen books. His research has taken him all over the world, from Siberia to Brazil, and from meat packing plants to nuclear reactors, lumber mills to hydroelectric power stations, to soy, fish and chicken farms, and from rain forest to tundra. Josephson is Professor of Russian and Soviet History at Colby College.