He had a perfect record

It is almost 5 years since my very special man passed away.  

As each year passes by the void of my personal loss has not dissipated one bit.  What time has done is to slowly allow me to practise handling the grief and loss until I reached a point when I finally felt I could let go and move forward.

That does not mean any lessening of value of anything to do with him in my life, but I feel he's finally managed to unclasp my tight grip on the mourning and 'if only' ruminations I was so want to hang on to.

So life in the past period, particularly since by breaking ties with our Auckland haven, has thrown some amazing experiences, opportunities and positive attitudinal steps forward in my life.

Then Facebook comes and throws in a wrench that manages to churn up the resting waters of grief.  Don't you just hate that!  But now those moments are just that, moments of grief - not days, weeks.  This week a photo of Tony, our best training mate Doug, and myself after an Ironman training bike six years ago popped up in the Memories screen.  The minute my eyes hit the photo the gut wrenching reaction of loss instantly hit every point in the body, and soul.  A few seconds later it settles and soon becomes an enjoyable look at the wonderful life I had led with that remarkable man.

Two week earlier I received an amazing piece of script from a friend, who laterly said he had hesitated to send it to me, but I am so very glad he did.

It was a basic draft of reflections Tony had written during the summer of 2012, a time when he was training for his 28th New Zealand Ironman race.

According to Paul, who had messaged me this piece of Tony script, it was written for a book a chap in the USA was trying to compile on Ironman stories, the stories than never went to print.

We don't think the book ever went to print.

It was Tony's reflection on his brain tumour diagnosis in 2007 and his aim to overcome the predicted outcomes by planning his next Ironman.

With Ironman New Zealand 2018 only 5 days away, it seems timely to blog the article.  I am hoping lots of competitors from this year's Ironman will read it - especially those who have had some personal trials and tribulations to get them to the start line.  I am hoping the two Tony Jackson scholars will read it and take something from it with them to the start line on Saturday that makes them feel all the more amazing as they too have had their own battles, just to get there.

Whatever happens on the day to those two wonderful individuals and all the other 1300 starters, always remember, the brain is a wonderful thing, when you use it positively.

This is Tony's story:

Perfect Attendance

My relationship with Ironman goes back to 1981, when I first discovered triathlons.

During a regular Sunday morning run along Auckland’s picturesque Tamaki Drive with my YMCA running group we passed a group of athletes training for a triathlon. At the time, triathlons were a brand-new sport in New Zealand. Having run many marathons I liked the idea of a new challenge. With typical Kiwi gusto a handful of us from the running group decided we would give it a go.

So by 1982 I had competed in my first triathlon and by the time I crossed that finish line

I had caught the triathlon bug. That year I competed in six triathlon events.

As I became drawn to the sport so too did the wider world. In the early 1980’s the

Ironman triathlon was held exclusively in Hawaii. However in 1982 the Ironman event was catapulted into international notoriety when ABC television broadcast the courageous efforts of the woman's Kona Ironman race leader, Julie Moss, who collapsed only yards from the finish line. She began to crawl forwards while her main competitor passed her. Still she crawled on and finally crossed the finish line. Her pluck and determination won the hearts of the people all over the world. Suddenly, others wanted to try out this amazing event.

In 1985 Ironman and Air New Zealand negotiated the rights to host the first Ironman event outside of the USA. Ironman New Zealand was born. I signed up straight away.

The first Ironman event in New Zealand was held on Auckland’s waterfront; had only 214 competitors. Equipment was very rudimentary; all we brought with us were our swimming togs, old bikes and running shoes. Over the next 20 years I competed in the New Zealand Ironman every year, and watched as the sport evolved around me. 

One year, an American arrived at the start line wearing a sleek full-length rubber wetsuit. We had never seen anything like this before and us Kiwis laughed and chuckled at this new ‘innovation’, that was until he finished eight minutes clear of the rest of the field. The next year we all had wetsuits.

Over the years the New Zealand Ironman has provided a wonderful focal point for fitness for me and others around me. My wife Verna and I had met through our sporting activities and arranged our wedding around the 2005 event. Verna had successfully competed in Ironman and had notched up 8 finishes. 

By 2005 the race had grown in popularity and size but there were only two athletes who could claim a 100% attendance record for Ironman New Zealand: Ex Navy Seal Diver, Mike Ramsey, and me.

Ironman had given us so much. Therefore it only seemed appropriate to give something back to this fantastic sport. 

Prior to the last few Ironman events I have given talks to any first-timers who wanted to hear advice - talking about “eating the elephant ...piece by piece”, and breaking the enormity of the Ironman challenge into small bite-size pieces. My pre-race talk has grown each year and through speaking at these seminars we have managed to raise substantial sums of money for Cystic Fibrosis, Ironman New Zealand’s nominated charity.

Throughout all these years I always thought that the Ironman would be the toughest challenge I would ever come across. I was wrong.

  

In November 2007, then a spritely 69 years young, I began to experience a few problems with verbalising my thoughts. Whilst I had no difficulty actually speaking, I struggled to articulate my thoughts. But the symptoms were more widespread. I was feeling perpetually tired and listless. Verna noted to friends that I was only training six or seven hours per week. Then two weeks prior to Christmas that year I tripped over on a city footpath, then again when jogging in the Waitakere bush tracks around Auckland’s western suburbs.

Verna was immediately worried that I had suffered a stroke. She whisked me off to Auckland Hospital. It wasn’t a stroke. A scan quickly showed I had a brain tumour, one the size of a golf ball. Our life went into limbo as we waited a few days for surgery, so very unsure of what to expect. Thankfully the operation went to plan and I started to show quick signs of recovery due to the removal of the tumour. However Christmas celebrations were overshadowed by the anticipation of the follow up biopsy results.

A few days after Christmas my Oncologist, Dr Anthony Falkov, advised me of that my

Intercranial Frontal Lesson was metastatic:  that is, I had a category five tumour. The worst grade of tumour one could have.  

Then the devastating implication: I had only 10 to 12 weeks to live.

I refused to accept the finality of what Dr Falkov had said. I cracked a joke about the twelve week deadline not suiting my Ironman timetable ( which was less than the 10 to 12 weeks he was discussing).  I told Dr Falkov that it was important to me as I had an attendance record to maintain. 

Verna was devastated; our whole life was under threat.

Dr Falkov prescribed a combination of radiotherapy with a new experimental chemotherapy drug he though could possibly extend that 10 to 12 week diagnosis.  But he did know if it actually would.  He had worked overseas on the development of a new targeted smart drug called Temodal, which seeks out the malignant cancer cells and kills them. To my mind, I had nothing to lose.

In February I started the concurrent course of radiotherapy and chemotherapy, with daily visits to Auckland Hospital and up to 6 tablets a day of the orally administered Temodal.

Reports of my predicament started to circulate throughout the Ironman community and we received a flood of positive emails and messages. We knew we were not fighting this battle without support.

Ironman NZ Event Director Jane Paterson visited me after that first brain surgery and the issue of competing in the race was broached, well, I broached it.  I was lucky, after I saw the look of shock on her face, with me just having had my brain cut open and still hooked up to machines, Jane was fully supportive.  She made only one stipulation; my participation could only happen if there was complete agreement from the Event Medical Director, Dr Lucy Holtzhausen. Lucy was incredibly positive and supportive, but clearly stated that she reserved the sole right to pull me out of the race if she felt my well being was endangered. I agreed; it was, after all, only a race.

The question of exercise was raised during one of the many consultations with the neurosurgeons and oncologists. Dr Falkov told me to do what was normal. Normal? I don’t think he had any concept of the hours of swimming, cycling and running training required for an Ironman. However I didn’t feel the need to enlighten him.

Training proved to be rather difficult. I still had a huge number of staples in my skull which were holding the incision across my scalp.  This did cause ongoing issues with the wound healing.  Parts of the large around the head scar would not heal. Therefore any swimming was out. Running was uncomfortable as I struggled with my run-walk-shuffle. Cycling provided the only viable means of keeping fit.

As the March 1st race date approached, I felt reasonably comfortable that my years of residual fitness would be enough to get me through the event and to the finish line.

However I confessed to Lucy that I hadn’t advised the oncology and medical team of my intentions to be on the start line. “Oh well” she advised. “It will make a nice surprise for them!” Her support and humour was infectious. Uplifting.

As the Ironman grew close I felt ready to go. Now all I needed was to ask radiotherapy if I could skip Friday’s treatment. The reply was both negative and resolute. No, I could not skip any day of radiotherapy, at all!  I wasn’t about to endanger my health any more than necessary, or make them feel I was not hearing their advice so resigned myself to not being able to get down to Taupo, I would have to miss the race. My spirits plummeted.

Then, four days before the event, luck finally turned in my favour. One of the radiotherapy technicians advised that the radiation machine would be off-line for maintenance on Friday, so treatment that day would be cancelled,  with the next available radiation treatment being on the following Monday.

My heart began to race, Ironman was on Saturday. If we left Auckland immediately after Thursday’s radiation treatment we could drive the three hours to Taupo, be able to register before they closed off everything. I could make it to the Ironman! 

Verna remained resolute in her enduring support and promised to pace me throughout the race.  She had after all, told me on one lonely, sad night in hospital when she was sitting by my bedside and I was bemoaning my bad luck and bad timing, that, "if you can get to that start line, I'll be right there beside you."

We went to Thursday's treatment at the hospital and left the hospital fairly skipping to the car, all excited that Taupo was our next destination.  Happy.  We arrived in time for the traditional pasta party, trying to remain low key. However Jane and her event team had other ideas. Both Mike Ramsey and I were invited onto the stage, and mention was made of my health issues. The support from the Ironman family was humbling. I couldn’t help but grin as everyone around me cheered. With our arrival in Taupo, a couple of radio shows and television networks filed stories on my battle with cancer and my Ironman quest, so I was soon swamped with well-wishers.

At 3 am, on the morning of the race, I awoke to take my chemotherapy medication, resigned to a two hour wait until anything could be eaten. By waking at 3 am I could then have my ritual porridge breakfast at 5.00am, before leaving for the race start. 

The anticipation was building and I realised I hadn’t felt this nervous at a race start for some time. Hampered by continuing issues with the incision, I donned a protective swimming cap. One of our support team, an experienced intensive care nurse and kayaker, was granted permission to accompany us during the 2.4 mile swim and provide any medical assistance if it should be necessary.  This was my first swim since diagnosis back in early December.

While the crack of the start gun at 7 a.m. started a cascade of swimmers, Verna and I took our time at the back of the field, avoiding any risk of a wayward limb striking me in the head. With no swim training I struggled initially but soon settled into a steady pace. Verna and I exited the water amongst the stragglers, finishing in just under 1 hour 27 minutes.  The slowest swim time for either of us, but we didn't care.  We were happy.

With the best supporters a guy could ask for I chipped away at the 112 mile cycle leg. Verna kept about 10 yards behind me, providing a steady pace and regularly barking instructions about when to eat and drink. However the weather was not in our favour, with blustery conditions and intermittent rain showers sweeping the course. There were concerns about keeping warm, but with a steady pace I managed to maintain an even comfort level. Ironman 2008 also marked the first time I had been lapped on the cycle leg by the race leaders. With the clock approaching 5 pm we finally entered the transition area and began the marathon.

The Ironman Taupo run course features two 13 mile circuits of a picturesque route alongside the lake front, weaving through many of the streets of holiday homes and beside the main highway, towards the turnaround point on the south side of town. Verna and I shuffled our way forward as the sky blackened and night set in, with vocal support from both our team and complete strangers.

The turnaround point for the run is at Five Mile Bay, a quiet street, isolated from the highway traffic. At the 19 mile mark, with the gloom and inclement weather it seemed a dark and lonely place to be. As Verna and I approached the timing pad, a TV camera light flicked on and a then middle aged man stepped out from the supporters at the sideline and approached me.

“Are you the chemo man mate? Are you the chemo man?” he asked, as the TV camera finished filming.

“Yeah,” I replied.

Verna, sensing that this supporter was somehow different, backed off a few steps and allowed us some space.

“It’s a bloody privilege to meet you mate! I’m on 16 weeks of chemo, only got four weeks to go and you have really inspired me. I’ve locked myself in my home for the last few weeks, feeling sorry for myself. I’m going to get out and do something now, instead of sitting inside,” he said. “I’m getting a bike tomorrow!”

The magnanimity of his words hit me. Until this moment I had felt a little selfish in my pursuit. Now my participation and circumstances took on a whole new meaning for me, and someone else.

If I could give just one person the courage to move forward then everything I had fought for over these past weeks of operations and therapy would be worthwhile.

We wished each other the best of luck, with the utmost sincerity, and then he melted away into the darkness. I realised it’s hard to see in the dark when your eyes are moist.

Verna rejoined me and we ran on. My energy levels sagged, but the number of supporters still lining the course late at night was humbling. Finally, after 16 hours 10 minutes we managed to jog down the finish shute. Almost 1000 supporters cheered us in as we crossed the finish line, together, hand in hand.

Each Ironman finish line you cross gives you a feeling like no other. Your legs are jelly, your mind is shot, but, as the announcer calls your name, goose bumps ripple down your neck and your smile is a mile wide. This one was special. I’d had a date with death and stood him up.

Verna got a hug from Cystic Fibrosis sufferer (and Ironman) Aaron Fleming, whereupon she collapsed in deep sobs, totally exhausted from the day’s events and feeling an incredible sense of relief that we had actually made it. Months of bottled-up anxiety now came to the surface and boiled away with her tears. All I could do was hug her, thankful for her enduring support and love.

We made it back to Auckland on the Monday morning, in time for my chemotherapy session. However wide spread news coverage preceded me and my entrance to

Auckland Hospital was met with consternation and wonderment.

Dr Falkov met with Verna and I privately. He pushed his chair back, came around his desk and gave me a huge bear hug. “You’re our miracle man,” he marvelled.

But for me, it was no miracle; it was just another challenge I had to overcome. Just like any other Ironman. I keep pushing forward because I know that I can achieve anything if I set a goal and take it one bite at a time. Just like eating an elephant.

At the time of writing, Tony’s cancer is in complete remission and he is currently training for Ironman 2012.

Tony eventually passed away in March of 2013.  Remarkably he well outlived the 10 to 12 week prediction the medical teams had given him.  And not only did he make it to the 2008 Ironman NZ startline and finish it, creditably.  But he continued to strive, and help others strive - he even more remarkably completed a further 4 Ironman events - all after having to have further major brain surgery, having endured strokes and limited ability to seriously train.

He was a remarkable man who had a perfect record.  

Verna Cook-Jackson

Hypna...something...

Many years ago a fellow work colleague and I had our own private little competition on who could slip in the  most complicated word into a general sentence when talking to one another, or in a team meeting.

Because it was a competition, I became competitive, and as the months passed I scored more points on the chalk board than he, much to his chagrin.  But we did have bonus points if we truly thought the other had come up with a sans pareil word.  He tended to win many of those.  Most of those words have completely left my memory banks, with the exception of one - hypnagogic.

And hypnagogic is the perfect word to what has been a most surreal period of time over my past few months. 

Life has not been plebeian for me for some time now.  And it's all good.  I find myself constantly reflecting on the daily experiences I have been going through.

My lovely son, partner & grandson gave me a Dawn French diary at Christmas which means I am to journal my daily happenings.  A great tool to remind me just what a heteromorphic life I am leading of late.

This week is a perfect example.  After all, there are only 4 days in this working week and every day has found me doing, experiencing or sharing heteroclite experiences.

For instance, at one point I found myself unexpectedly travelling the Desert Road;  or, meeting and sharing my home with some delightful and intriguing guests; been wined and dined out by folk who were once my major nemesis; done a road trip with Young Son (which I have not done since he was a teenager - he's now mid-40's); was in the Auckland Museum at 6.45 a.m. one morning when I was in Taupo merely 12 hours earlier; fare welled a much loved cousin at the celebration of his life in a major central Auckland church then found myself in a Thai restaurant in Taupo only 4 hours later.  I have been riding on my Gaye Bike along the Taupo lakefront cycleway on an evening with the most gloriously hued sunsets - with a delightful gentleman I'd only met a few hours earlier who, in our short initial conversation, we discovered knew a number of my old associates from a previous sporting interest I had in my 20's; and then there was today.

Today, a day I had presumed would be relatively quiet, mundane, and domestic.  I had scribed a list last night of the various jobs I planned to do during the day; the usual things - changing linens, washing laundry, vacuuming, paying bills, clean water fountain, mow the lawns, prune trees, Healing Hands ... very normal, domestic things, except for the Healing Hands.

Almost a year ago a darling friend of mine from Dubai was staying with me in my home.  As a leaving gift she benevolently handed me an envelope that was clearly a card and due to its thickness I knew it had something other than just a card inside.    I chose not to open the card at the time as they can often have words scripted in it that would put me into a sentimentally, teary mode when already upset at saying sorrowful goodbyes to someone I wish did not have to leave.  I chose to put the card aside and wait until a quiet and special moment, when on my own, to open, read and quietly feel grateful for whatever it was that had been inserted as a gift.

I think it was almost five weeks later when I felt the want to open the card and read whatever words had been ascribed on it.  It was, as expected, a lovely card with lovely words, I become hopelessly sentimental when people write nice things. 

And as expected, inside the card there was something else.  It was a gift voucher.  A gift voucher that stated I would be the lucky recipient of a manicure, and foot pedicure.

Us of the feminine gender love having pedicures - far more than manicures.  Indeed, think both genders delight in having someone's hands rub the sensitive nerve cells of the foot. 

It had been a long time since I spoilt myself with paying for a pedicure.  Prior to Tony's slow demise, he used to massage my feet almost nightly if we were couch bound and watching television.  And of course, his renown ability with his sports massage meant I could never complain about tight muscles due to extreme exercising we would be doing as he was always happy to use his own healing hands on those sore calf muscles, tight quads and hamstrings.  How lucky I was.  I so miss those regular massage table dates we used to book each other into.  That's sports massage, for those with wandering minds!

So when I read this gift voucher my little heart skipped a happy beat and I determined that I would savour the expectation of the pedicure for when I felt my feet, and my soul, were truly ready for the half hour of tootsie bliss.

And last week was it.  I'd been run off my feet, literally, for some time - therefore the ebullience of the expectation of foot euphoria had been building up until I knew I'd appreciate it most.

I walked myself up to the Healing Hands premises for my checked in time of 10 a.m.  I had arranged to meet someone at 11.30 and knew there would be ample time to enjoy the contentment of sitting back and having my feet scrubbed, trimmed, bathed, massaged, oiled and nails painted.

And that is what happened.

It was glorious.

I tried so very hard to not emit happy, yet guttural moaning sounds throughout the whole procedure.  Even just sitting still in a laid back, leather podiatary chair-come-bed was heaven in itself.  I was purring out loud.

When lady had painted on the last of the toe nail polish and left me for a good ten minutes for it to thoroughly dry, I savoured those few extra minutes and sat back, eyes closed and almost nodded off. Such was the result of the relaxation and treat.

She returned to the room, I moved to rise off the bed to leave.

"No, no," says she, "now comes the best bit.  Just stay there.  And take off your top and bra and I'll begin the next part of the session."

"What?" says I, "it's only a pedicure I'm here for, isn't it?" 

"No, no.  You're here for the full treatment.  Back, shoulder and head massage, full facial and hand massage to finish off.  You are here for another 2 hours yet."

"Really?" says I. "Are you sure?" 

Surely she had this wrong.  I was sure my Desert Princess in Dubai had only purchased a pedicure.  I questioned the lady.  "No," says she, "I remember your friend very well and I remember her specifically wanting you to have this treat."

"Look at it as reward for paying it forward."

I confess - to then, being like any cat who one picks up and begins to pamper - I flopped back, I let all the tension go, without uttering another word my body told her "take me" ....   I purred all the more.

A further two hours of just lying still, doing nothing, rolling over when gently prodded, being smoothly rubbed and massaged, steamed on, heated towelled, sponged, creamed, sponged, creamed some more, rubbed some more.  Neck muscles feeling the pleasure of fingers prodding in to those tights bits; it's years since I've had Mr J do that.  This may not have been him, but I didn't care; didn't care who was on the other end of those Healing Hands.  It was glorious.

 

Somewhere in all this fussing and rubbing I did mention to her that whilst in this a vulnerable position a photo should be taken and sent to Desert Princess, to show her and have her enjoy the gift she so generously gave, the wonderful gift she had given to this woman who is going through the most ethereal period of her life.  She added even more surealty to it.

And at the risk of yet again making a fool of myself, I share the photos that were sent to me later in the day. 

The pity of it is, there was no photo taken of this 37-plus year old woman, who left the Healing Hands premises, literally walking as lightly as a fairy due to the delectated, seventh heaven three hours she had ravishingly enjoyed in being pampered on, over and with. 

It was hypnagogic.