Bolivia: bikes, pampas & lots & lots of salt!

A trip that was ten months in the making came around mighty quickly. I have now been home for two long weeks and it feels like this trip was a lifetime ago. When we booked our return tickets to South America in December it felt like our adventure would never come around. The suspense of it made worse when for a few weeks in May and June there was the very real possibility that it wouldn't come to fruition for me given a positive biopsy for cancer in my mediastinal lymph nodes. Thankfully, very early on the 12th of October I caught the shuttle bus to Brisbane airport for the start of a 5 week holiday with a backpack and two friends. 

I met Sarah and Kristen in Sydney later that morning. Sarah I've know for almost two years and Kristen I met that day! Yes, I suppose it is a little unusual to travel for five weeks with someone you don't know but given we had a mutual friend whom has a fairly rigorous screening process for friends, I was quite confident it wouldn't be an issue.

We arrived in Santiago, Chile about the same time and day we left Sydney. That always messes with my head and also my body clock. We managed to push through until about 5:30pm until none of us could keep our eyes open. We were up damn early the next morning (2:15am) to make our way to La Paz, Bolivia.

La Paz, Bolivia

We flew into the half finished, brick city that lays in a dust bowl of a valley more than 3500m above sea level. Don't get me wrong, La Paz may not be aesthetically pleasing but it is a city that everyone should visit once in their lifetime. 

The city is a mixture of traditional Bolivia, tourism and a modernization of their own culture. The city is dotted with 'Cholita' women. Dressed in their distinct traditional outfits of knitted cardigans, layered calf length skirts, long socks, black shoes & multicolored sling backpacks, their get up would not be complete without long plaits and a top hat. 

They're extremely friendly when they are selling you something like their tasty cheesy bread or bottled water. With short statures and heavy set frames, their low center of gravity and their gait somewhere between a jog and a walk, we dubbed these women 'the impassables'. You don't want to get in the way of a Cholita on a mission. Kristen found out the hard way you will come off second best with either broken ribs or a ruptured spleen when she was t-boned by one on the street. Beware that they are not just fabric underneath their exterior. 

We checked into our notorious hostel Loki (http://www.lokihostel.com/). Notorious for its party reputation which we found out about that night around 11:30pm. Not an ideal selection as far as accommodation goes when you are three nanna's suffering extreme jet-lag! We wandered through the city streets of La Paz and had dinner at Layka restaurant to try the coca tea (which is supposed to help with the effects of altitude) and lama steaks. We all gave lama the ticket of approval and the girls thought that 'lama paramas' would have potential to take off back home. 

Our first full day in La Paz we took our chances with the $1 empanada (cheese bread) from a Cholita. 

Not knowing exactly what we had bought, we though the dough wasn't cooked properly in the middle. I proceeded to tip the runny mess out when Sarah informed me that it was in fact ricotta and I was wasting the best part! They were delicious but a bit of a handful to manage whilst eating on the go.

We navigated through the streets to find the red line cable car which for 6 Bolivianos ($1.50) you can take a return journey to the top of the city for some spectacular views of La Paz and the surrounding mountains. 

After a sticky beak at the witches markets where many a bird and llama foetuses were to be seen we had a quick drink stop at a pub before checking out the San Francisco church. 

We had an 'English speaking guide' who could barely speak English but It was still a worthwhile venture. After a viewing of the government building and the center square of La Paz We had a late lunch even though none of us felt like eating. 

Altitude is a funny thing. We all handled the high altitude fairly well, aside from maxing out our heart rates each time we had to climb a flight of stairs. It can effect your sleep and wake you up as though you are having a panic attack. It also dulls your appetite. We were lucky to feel like eating at all whilst in La Paz. We felt satisfied enough with one meal a day. I don't know if it was the altitude or La Paz's dry climate but I constantly felt thirsty and my mouth was bone dry. I couldn't drink enough. I would wake up multiple times a night for water and to put pawpaw cream on my lips. 

Our second day was what I came to La Paz for. Death Rd! We booked our Death rd mountain bike tour with Gravity Assisted Mountain Biking (http://www.gravitybolivia.com/index.php?mod=homeb). We met with our guide 'Mo' at 7:30am and was on the bus heading out of the city shortly after. 

An hour later we were kiting up in our buffs, helmets, gloves, jacket, pants and being fitted to our bikes.

The nervous energy was tangible but excitement was also there. The ride starts off on Yungas Rd on asphalt. It's about 22km of downhill but we would stop every few kilometers to regroup and make sure everyone was still alive. At the end of that section was the optional extra to ride the next 8km which included some 'gradual' inclines. Those gradual inclines were not so gradual and at over 4000m the air was noticeably thin. Of course we accepted the challenge and were happy to have a sandwich meet us when we were done. That also meant the official start of Death Rd. It is a 32km single lane, downhill, dirt road that is open to road traffic in both directions. Some of the cliff faces are sheer drops of over 550m with not much more than a meter between the edge and the left wheel rut in which we were riding. Downhill traffic must give way to uphill which means if two cars meet the downhill vehicle has to reverse until the other can pass. This has lead to numerous road fatalities over many years which is why it has earned itself the tile of 'the world's most dangerous road'. Thankfully in 2006 a new highway was constructed to reduced the need for vehicles to use it which has reduced traffic and fatalities on this road. 

It took me a few kilometers to warm up to it but soon I was in my element. I haven't done a lot of mountain biking but I'm sure all the road riding I've done was beneficial. I had to make sure I didn't get too cocky as there were baby's heads popping up all over the place. Baby's heads are large rocks that could end your day by death! Sarah and Kristen overcame their fears of heights to soon be cruising downhill dodging baby's heads and a couple numfies like 'full face' who decided that a full face helmet, knee and elbow pads were vital for him after stacking it on the first 20m of dirt road- red flag alert!

Every now and then I got the urge to look out to the left which usually turned into a death wobble and jelly legs. It was better not to look. We stopped frequently for photos, water and to shake out the hands. Our two guides; Mo & Rodriguez kept the front and the rear covered and our sag wagon bus followed behind with our gear and supplies. At the last stop we had 8km to go. I set off to which Kristen alerted me to a flat tyre! Just my luck! Rodriguez did a quick change and I was soon fanging down the last few k's into Coroico to be greeted by a cold beer. The high was spectacular but the adventure of the day wasn't done there. We jumped in the back of a truck and drove 4km back up death Rd to do three ziplines over the valley. I had peer pressured the other two into pre-booking this about a month ago without knowledge of their fear of heights. I went for the face first superman option with a guide and the other two went solo. It was the icing on the cake for a full day of adrenaline.

We headed to Senda Verde animal refugee for a much needed early pasta dinner before one of the worst bus trips of my life. It was a three hour trip back to La Paz on the new road which I questioned as to why it was better that the old road. As we were leaving Coroico the road is still very much like Death Rd; narrow with a sizable drop off the side. We meet a truck coming uphill so we had to back up to a widening to allow it to pass. At that moment I almost saw my pasta dinner! Once on the highway it became apparent that blind corners, double lines and oncoming traffic didn't mean anything if you wanted to overtake another vehicle. I thought I wasn't going to make it back to La Paz but by then I was so far beyond exhaustion I fell asleep in the most awkward of positions. Once we were dropped off a block from our hostel I was so disorientated by fatigue I had no idea where I was until I was practically standing outside of Loki. After much needed showers we all collapsed into bed.

We were all a bit sore and sorry the next morning and were happy to find bacon, eggs and decent coffee nearby. We packed up, checked out and jumped into a cab to head out to Motorcycle Tours Bolivia (http://www.motorcycletoursbolivia.com/site/) near moon valley in Southern La Paz for a morning of quad biking. The man at the shop looked somewhat nervous when he saw the three of us coming. I can't tell you how many times I heard him say 'please be careful' and 'safety first'. We got decked out in our bikie gear, did a lap around the block on the quads with the instructors and were given the tick of approval to go. 

Our guide that day was John. He was unbelievable. He worked out pretty quickly that none of us were princesses and had the need for speed! Kristen needed to 'negotiate' with the police as she didn't have her Aussie licence with her. John took Kristen's phone for the two hour tour of Moon Valley taking photos and videos with it whilst guiding us at speed and fending off wild dogs. We had a few photo stops at the top of Luna Valle where once again the girl's fear of heights were realized.

It was really fun way to end our time in La Paz speeding through the streets and Moon Valley on quad bikes, waving to the locals. I'm pretty sure our mothers would all have had heart attacks if we had of told them this was on the agenda. I thought I saw the man at the shop breath a sigh of relief and wipe his brow when the three of us walked in unscathed, raving about our morning and returning his quad bikes intact. We jumped a cab to head off to the airport which was an adventure in itself. The cabbie took a short cut up a steep dirt road and at one point I thought Sarah and I may have to get out and push. We checked in for our 4pm flight at 2pm to be told that we were supposed to be boarding right then for a 2:30pm flight! Apparently Amazonas airline is renowned for its unreliability and change of flights without notifying passengers. We tore through airport security, grabbed a muffin and flew down the stairs to the gate where it was unmanned. Kristen and Sarah ran through the door and almost made it onto the tarmac before anyone stopped them! I was a little disappointed not to see them get taken down by airport security but no-one seemed overly concerned about the security breech. Our flight ended up being delayed until 4:30pm anyway and we were just relieved to get on-board as we had been told there was the possibility that it would be cancelled. 

Rurrenabaque, Bolivia

Around 5:30pm our tiny little plane landed in the town of Rurrenabaque in northern Bolivia. It was hot. Bloody hot and about 1000% humidity. Our bags were thrown on top of a car (without being secured) and we were taken into town to check in at the Mashaquipe office (http://www.mashaquipeecotours.com/) for our tour that would leave the next morning. We made it to our dive of a hostel 'Los Tucannes de Rurren' but considering the shower was icy cold it was worth the $10/night we paid for it. I;m sure Sarah would protest this given she was rudely awakened by a cockroach running across her body at 4am and managed to kill the big sucker with her trusty thong with out waking Kristen or I. 

By 8:30am the next morning we were on our way 120km north of Rurrenabaque to the pampas near Santa Rosa. Our guide Ron was about as native as you could get. He had been born in the jungle and had spent the last two and a half years guiding pampas and jungle tours for the company Mashaquipe. It was a long dusty trip on another dirt road. We stopped about half way at a drop dunny where there were some rather large pigs who were also suffering with the heat. 

Sarah got conned into riding a drunk mans horse before we were back on the road. 

We finally made it to the Amazonas river for a short trip by canoe to the eco lodge and were lucky enough to spot a couple of pink dolphins within the first five minutes.

We dumped our things in the lodge, complete with bathroom frogs and mozzie nets, before a delicious three course meal. The lodge has a full time cleaner, Gladys and a chef, Wilson, who do a fabulous job in keeping the camp clean and all visitors fat. The lodge even has its own resident pet, Timo, a horrible looking possum that likes to bite and scratch people. I wasn't a fan! 

We had a siesta in the hammocks before starting our first proper river cruise but there were dark clouds rolling in quickly, spots of rain and none of us had come prepared. The sky opened up and we were saturated in an unrelenting downpour. We opted out to return and dry off and wait for the shower to pass. We headed back out later in the afternoon and spotted a million caimans (Bolivian crocodiles), capyburas (giant Guinea pigs), turtles, piranhas jumping, pink Dolphins and a tree full of monkeys. That day I completely fell in love with the capyburas (I had Guinea pigs as a kid) and think I found my calling to be the first Australian capybura farmer.

We returned after dark and saw that at night with a flashlight, the caiman's eyes glow like red lasers and the banks were lined with babies. We all agreed that we all had our best nights sleep in the jungle. The rain had cooled things down and the surrounding jungle noises were like a calming sleep CD. 

The next morning we set off on an Anaconda hunting expedition. We headed up the river in our gumboots and trundled into the marsh with our hiking sticks.

I was bloody petrified as there's nothing worse than a snake. I've spent my whole life avoiding them so how had I come to find myself plodding around the Bolivian pampas trying to actually find one? It soon became apparent that the place was not crawling with them and within half an hour I knew I'd be disappointed if we didn't see one. Unfortunately we didn't but Ron reckons he saw a little one.

On the way back to the lodge we did however see a green tree snake swim across the river and slither up the bank. After the mandatory siesta and seeing a rather large tree snake climbing up a tree at the lodge, we were pretty geed up for piranha fishing. 

We set off to catch some dinner with a few cervazas (beers) on board. Sarah was first to reel a fish in after Kristen and I both had near misses. Unfortunately it was a baby catfish!

We decided Ron's secret spot was pretty ordinary so we move down stream where we hit the jackpot. I caught three, one was a little small that I threw back and a catfish, Kristen also caught two big ones and a catfish and Sarah caught another catfish and a small piranha. 

We called it a day and set off to watch the sunset, however Sarah wasn't satisfied and was saving her final bait. Whilst we were watching the sunset a proud Sarah came back up from the boat with a proper piranha. 

The chef fried up our catch of the day for dinner and we decided to try our luck at a nocturnal river cruise to try and spot the elusive jaguar. I'm pretty sure the three of us were asleep most of the time so no big cats were seen. The final day we did a long and hot river cruise to try and spot more monkeys and Jaguars. All I could think about was my burning skin and the impending heat stroke with the lack of water I had on board. I spotted a lone monkey and we managed to see two of the really big caiman that can measure up to 8m long. These animals look to be from a prehistoric time and are quite frightening to see due to their sheer size. Even Ron didn't stick around for us to get a photo as he said that they have been known to attack boats at times. We packed up our cabin, had some lunch and headed back to Rurrenabaque on the dusty road. We made good time, checked back into our dodgey hostel and hit the Luna bar for some cold coronas. Pizza for dinner and back to the cockroach dump for our last hot sweaty night. 

Uyuni, Bolivia

The next day was a travel day from Rurrenabaque to La Paz and then from La Paz to Uyuni. There's not a lot going on in Uyuni. Just a lot of dust and funny street names. Our sole purpose for a trip to Uyuni was to take a one day Red Planet Expedition tour of the famous Salt flats (http://www.redplanetexpedition.com/).

We had a teeny tiny triple share (single + bunk bed) hostel room at hostel Oro Blanco with a small bathroom with a poorly placed glass panel in the door. It was basically at crutch level when you sat on the loo! We walked quite possibly every street in dusty Uyuni before a quick bite to eat and an uncomfortable nights sleep. 

A late departure time for our tour meant we could have a lazy start to the day. Kristen and I sat at the buffet breakfast for a good two hours pillaging the free wi-fi before heading off to Red Planet Expeditions for our salt flats tour. We meet our guide Obed and five of us piled into a land cruiser. Our first stop was the train cemetery. 

The trains that were imported from the UK a number of years ago weren't built to handle the altitude and therefore degraded rapidly in the Uyuni climate. It was like a jungle gym for grown ups with some fun photo opportunities. 

Our next stop was for lunch at the small town of Colchani. The town solely revolves around the production of salt. We walked through a family owned salt factory and learnt about how it is processed for sale. The rest of our day included a number of stops across the 10,000km2 Salar de Uyuni to see the salt pyramids, the location of the Dakar car race, fish island which is covered with giant cacti and petrified coral and the 'eyes of the salt' where the water lies just underneath the salt and forms large salt crystals. 

There was of course many opportunities along the way to stop and take the mandatory perspective photos which we found require a special knack. 

We caught a late night flight back to La Paz which marked our final night in Bolivia. The next morning we said adios to Bolivia and headed off to Peru. Bolivia was muy bueno!

Time: the most precious gift of all

The most precious gift of all is the gift of time. I have heard this multiple times before but I’ve only recently come to understand the profound magnitude of this statement. I have been given some time. How much? Maybe 6 months, maybe a few years, I don’t know. This changes everything for me. My future, my plans, my zest for life and living. Up until six weeks ago 2016 to me was a black hole. A hole where I would have to somehow climb out of, reinvent myself, my goals, my life, my body image and my ability to enjoy things that are currently foreign to me. But now there is a flicker of light.

After the drama of May, June and July that turned my entire world and future upside down, I managed to push the impending doom aside and devote my focus to a race. I trained fairly solidly towards the first Yeppoon Triathlon at the beginning of August. My preparation was only mildly interrupted by an unplanned blow out at my friend Natalie’s hen’s party. The following Friday Mum and I flew north to spend the weekend with our long time family friend’s Ron and Sharon.

It was a fantastic weekend in Yeppoon. Glenn Skinner (The Yeppoon Triathlon race director) was extremely generous in offering me an entry and asked me to participate in the 5km fun run on the Saturday afternoon. I ran with fellow triathlete Ben Cook and even though we chatted the whole way I finished up running a lot faster than I had planned but was quietly confident that I was feeling pretty good for the race.

Glenn had asked me a few weeks prior to give a motivational ‘road to recovery’ speech at the athlete’s dinner. It’s still difficult for me to tell people what is happening to me when on the outside I still train 20 hours/ week, work 35 hours/ week, socialise and plan a 5 week overseas adventure. That my road is not so much towards recovery but towards a life that is full of uncertainty. Glenn was exceptional in empathising with my situation having traveled a rocky road himself and offering a pardon from the speech. I decided that I was more than happy to share my story with the other athletes. In all honesty, I was far more nervous about giving my speech at the dinner than competing in the race itself. I was fairly composed until my closing where there emotion of the situation hit me pretty hard and the voice wobbles came with the tears.  

The next morning was race day. A nice civilized start time allowed me plenty of time to set up my transition, go for a warm up jog and stroll down the beach to the start line. Even after all these years of racing I still make last minute calls about my race gear. At briefing I decided that since my body wasn’t as lean as usual (meaning I had a chest) that I would wear a sports bra under my race suit only to take it off again half way down the beach. Before I knew it we were running into the ocean. I still need to work on my beach starts as I’m very slow off the mark. I managed to make that up quickly and settled into a nice rhythm. I kept Chloe close in my sights as I knew that she was a stronger swimmer than me. I exited the water in 2^nd only 30-40 seconds down on Chloe. 

By the time I left transition I had shaved another 20 seconds off her lead. I felt AMAZING on the bike, rode past Chloe at about 42km/hr and knew that I was putting time into the girls behind me. 

The 40km bike felt like it took 10minutes and I was soon out on the run course. 4 laps of 2.5km made it easy to eyeball the competition and know that I was continuing to put more time into 2^nd with every lap. My lead bicycle tried to take me down the finish shute at 7.5km but I knew that I still had a lap to go! 

I crossed the line in a very quick 2:03 but I think it was a little short but I will claim it. I was over the moon because at that moment I thought it would be my last time. I felt as though I had finished on a high and close to a near perfect race.

The high lasted a number of days from both the win and the commendations I received for my speech. I was more proud about the later and so thankful to the entire committee who organised such an amazing first time event. I was soon back into the mundane routine of work, exercise and trying to have a life. With my trip to South America fast approaching I tried to continue to focus on a positive ahead rather than what lying on the other side.

I had a review with my oncologist in early August which I had postponed for a month given I didn’t think it was very important. My oncologist isn’t offering me any treatment at this time. He is a wonderful man. They type of man you wish was your grandfather (he’s about 75). He’s kind, incredibly intelligent and so well experienced in thyroid cancer. He always starts with ‘how are you?’ and shakes my hand. I still find this question ridiculous. I am fine, but I am not fine. I still have cancer yet I look well.

‘Aside from all of this,’ I said waving my hand over my neck and chest, ‘I am fine! I won a triathlon 10 days ago,’ and then everything changed. When a doctor sits there and says to you that his recommendation would be to do nothing how was I supposed to interpret and react to that? We all knew that I still had cancer lurking in the lymph nodes behind my sternum. We have proven that with a biopsy. There is potentially still cancer in my neck too but we’ve been unable to access it for a sample but I’m sure it’s likely to be cancer too.

For the first time in my life I was speechless. I didn’t know what to do, what to say, what questions to ask. I thought I should call someone and talk about these new developments in my medical management but I actually needed the hour drive back to the coast to process the new information. The fact of the matter is that the disease itself is quite stable. My blood levels (thyroglobulin) are not really changing at this point and the cancer isn’t growing rapidly on my radiological scans. Additionally, right now, I am fit and healthy with quality of life. People are so quick to say ‘just cut it out,’ without any considerations of the potential repercussions on me and my life. There are dark days where the thought does cross my mind that I’d prefer not to wake up from the next surgery rather than living with the ramifications of how it will leave me. So before you jump to say unhelpful things like ‘just cut it out’, take an extra minute or two to put yourself in my shoes and really consider how you would be feeling if you were facing something so frightening, so life-changing that you can no longer see a future beyond it. Modern medicine is profoundly advanced however surgeons are not miracle workers and there are no guarantees on a good or even a bad outcome. I know one day that this decision will probably be taken out of my hands. One day the thyroglobulin levels will elevate and the mass in my chest will start to grow or even more frightening still that cancer will show itself in other areas, namely my lungs and bones.

I have been forced to evaluate so many questions that continually run through my head when I (rarely) get a moment to myself to think about it all;

Can I live with cancer?

Can I sleep knowing that it is still inside me and has potential to spread beyond where it currently is?

Can I manage every 3-6 months the sickening anxiety that plagues me when I have to have investigations and bloods done? Can I handle the waiting time between having the test and hearing the results?

When you have conflicting information from multiple doctors at the top of their game who do you listen to?

There is no easy answer here. No-one seems to have the right answer and I suppose it comes down to what I want and what I can or can’t live with. One thing that has resonated with me loud and above all is that; sometimes the cure is worse than the disease.

Rachie xo

Below is my speech from the Yeppoon Triathlon:

First and foremost I wanted to welcome everyone to the first Yeppoon Triathlon. I would also like to thank Glenn & Belinda for inviting me to talk tonight and I appreciate the opportunity to compete in your event tomorrow.

For those of you who don’t know me, a brief history. I have been a professional triathlete since 2009. One morning in June 2013 I got up as normal, went and swam 5km with my swim squad and went for a 10km run. At 9:30am I went to see my GP & was diagnosed with thyroid cancer. I had no signs or symptoms and I was fortunate enough that they accidently found a thyroid nodule during a physical examination by another specialist a month prior. Supposedly it was a good one to have with near 100% 5-year survival rate. I was told I would probably only need one operation, one round of radio-active iodine and it will likely never bother me again. Fast forward two years & unfortunately my papillary carcinoma hasn’t played by the rules. I have had four extensive neck operations, two failed rounds of radio-active iodine and sadly the story hasn’t ended there. 3 months ago I had a large needle inserted between my ribs to take a biopsy of a suspicious mass behind my breastbone. A week later it was confirmed that it is in fact cancer. The fight of my life continues.

But I am not here with a ‘woe me’ story and the ins and outs of my cancer. Glenn asked me to give a motivational ‘road to recovery’ talk tonight which is a little bit difficult given my situation as my road is rocky and the end is far from in sight. So I thought instead I would talk about my ‘road to reckoning’ as I felt it was more appropriate.

Adversity strikes when we least expect it. It reveals to us the true person we are deep down. It challenges us to the core and forces us to re-evaluate all we’ve ever known. When life is smooth sailing those moments fade and blend into one another and are usually the memories first to be forgotten. The times of hardship are those that will be ingrained in our memories forever. We constantly ask why do bad things happen to good people? We’ve asked it so many times it’s become cliché. But bad things do happen to good people all the time. I think I’m a fairly good person. I work in an altruistic job as a Physiotherapist helping other people every day. I lead a healthy life. I exercise regularly, I eat well, don’t smoke or take drugs and I’m nice to my mum. But Cancer doesn’t discriminate.

My memories of the past two years revolve around my surgeries, multiple admissions to hospital and then jump to racing and good times with close friends. I don’t really remember the patients that I have fixed over the past six months. However I do remember sitting on the edge of my hospital bed in December whilst my mother brushed my hair because I could barely lift my arms. I remember what I was wearing and that I was crying out of sheer disbelief. I remember riding an exercise bike for hours on end whilst I was in isolation in October 2013 during treatment. I remember waking up in the high dependency unit in July 2013 feeling as though someone had taken an axe to my neck, how painful my right heel was after resting in the same position for my 7 hour operation and the look of fear on my parents faces. And then I remember racing my first triathlon post cancer diagnosis at Bribie Island in February 2014. How I took the lead early in the bike leg and never looked back. How I had my 2^nd operation days later and returned to win the next race there only 3 weeks later. How only days after being told that I had more lymph node cancer in my neck in August 2014, I did my first half marathon and ran 6^th over the line. I remember running the last 2km for the win at Coffs Harbour Triathlon in March this year 3 months after my 4^th major neck resection thinking “insert explicit here-you cancer”. I remember having an epic weekend in Byron Bay for my 31^st birthday in June with 10 of my closest friends and the birthdays, weddings, engagements and celebrations for dear friends over the past 2 years. I remember the numerous home cooked meals made for me from the people in my support network.

To a lesser degree, the same goes for sport, specifically triathlon. We never retell stories of perfect races but rather the ones that went wrong. I don’t really remember much about the 70.3 I won in Malaysia in 2009. I do however remember standing on the side of the road for an hour in 2010 at Japan 70.3 waiting for a mechanic. Rather than pull the pin I decided to finish the race even though the other 4 pro women were an hour up the road. 6km into the run leg, I ran past one of the other pro girls walking. So even after a time consuming mechanical I still didn’t come last! When we race, sometimes things just don’t go right. Tomorrow things will go wrong for some of you. Mechanicals, flats, broken goggles, blisters, the list is endless and more often than not completely out of your control. I say to you embrace those moments. Thrive on the way in which you deal with it, react and recover from the disappointment of things not going to plan. This is training for life. There will be another race down the road where things will be smooth sailing. But those will only be mildly etched in your memories. And in the scheme of life, will it really matter? Your wife, husband and children won’t love you any less. On Monday when you go back to work your clients and colleagues won’t treat you any differently. They probably won’t even know what you did yesterday. The biggest thing you will have to accept is how you react and cope with your disappointment.  

So how does one react to being told ‘you have cancer’? I can tell you it was never something that I considered being said to me, even during the week of scans and biopsies I underwent in the lead up to diagnosis. I had lost one of my good friends on her 28^th birthday to cervical cancer 2 years prior. But she was really sick and had a lot of pain. I was fit, healthy and planning an international race schedule but all of a sudden I had Cancer. No-one knows how they will react in a situation like that until it happens. You just have to hope that when it’s your turn you’ll know what to do. How to cope. How to persevere. In that moment for me I went into defence mode. I gathered what was left of my composure, went for another scan and then to work to fix other people’s problems when mine were just beginning. There is no manual on how to react in times of despair and tragedy. I am often praised for the strength and courage I portray but my private moments of struggle, weakness and desolation far outweigh those of bravery. These moments are very rarely seen by others. I’ve always been a bit of an over achiever and some would say that has made me somewhat of a control freak. I’m a firm believer of you  get out what you put in and at times I have been known to put in 110% at any cost in order to achieve. So I don’t cope so well living everyday with something so out of my control.

So how do I cope? How do I persevere? In the face of something I never thought I would have to go through in my late 20s I’ve learnt to embrace the hard hand dealt to me. I’m not saying that I’ve come to grips or am looking forward to the impending life changing surgery I will have to have later in the year but rather I’ve embraced the person that this hardship has moulded me into. Why should adversity be deemed as negative? Cancer for me has been a huge wake up call. To put things bluntly I’ve learnt to cut the crap and every day I am more aware of the things that matter to me. I have tightened my already close circle of friends and family to include people that offer me more than just friendship and support, they are those that go the extra mile. I have re-evaluated what I actually want from life, everything from my career to travel, from love to life experiences.  

I am comfortable in talking about what’s happening, however sometimes I stupidly find it somewhat embarrassing. I don’t look sick. I don’t even feel sick. So how can it be that I have a metastatic cancer? As athletes we are quite forthcoming with telling everyone about our injuries. I’ve had two pelvic stress fractures, broke my collar bone and disrupted my AC joint in my left shoulder, however I can be a little more cagey when declaring my cancer to someone I’ve just met. It makes other people a bit uncomfortable and unsure as to how to respond. But talking about it helps me. Sometimes I don’t know how to put into words the emotions and feelings I’m experiencing. Grief, disbelief, fear and uncertainty is difficult to describe and we each feels these things differently. Writing also helps me. I have a notebook I keep to vent feelings of frustration, sadness and anger. I write a blog to keep people updated, not for a self-indulgent purpose but to help others understand what it’s like from this side and to rethink saying to someone with cancer ‘it will be ok’. 

I have rediscovered my love for triathlon since being diagnosed. It was once an all-consuming obsession for me, borderline unhealthy. This will be familiar to some of you I suspect, but I used to reject social offers for training, racing and early nights. I felt like my world was falling down around me when I had a bad race, which now seems profoundly trivial. At the end of the day I was the only person losing sleep over a poor performance. That’s the thing about triathletes, we are pretty self-absorbed and in retrospect I really didn’t like the person it had morphed me into. Now triathlon and training is my main coping mechanism. It is one thing right now that I can control. I can control getting up and going for a ride or a run. I get to choose with triathlon. However, I now do it with far more balance than ever before. This time last week I was at a Hen’s Party and let’s just say no exercise was done the following day. Time with precious people should never be sacrificed in the name of training. I do savour the seconds I’m swimming, riding and running as in months to come it may no longer be possible for me. Most of the time my training isn’t in the pursuit of athletic success, but rather for a therapeutic purpose. It keeps me healthy leading into more surgery and is my opportunity to expel my ‘why me’ anger to make sure I don’t take it out in the work place. It’s my thinking time to plan for my trip to South America in October, for surgery on my return and my life thereafter. That life is filled with new opportunities. I’m already planning to learn how to surf, trading my beloved time trial bike for a roadie and possibly going back to university.

One day I will look back on this stage in my life and say I fought like a trooper. That over a number of years I managed to race triathlon at a high level, I even won some races, the whole time with a massive monkey on my back. For now I will race and enjoy with what time I have left. I have some time to spare as my cancer is growing slowly but I will have another significant and life changing operation later this year. With major thoracic surgery and a likely vocal cord paralysis there is an enormous possibility that triathlon is soon coming to an end for me. Unfortunately the end of my professional triathlon career is not on my terms. 

Tomorrow I will try to imprint the moment I cross that finish line, regardless of the result because for me it will be likely to be one of the last times. So cherish the moments you have ability to do something you love. I know I sure do. I wish you all the best mechanical luck for your races tomorrow. Don’t forget to give your support crew a wave and a smile when you are out on course and when the going gets tough embrace it. 

White noise, lies, hard truths & planning for a life there after

I hate liars. I have always valued people on their honesty. So for someone who doesn’t like them, I’ve become a pretty good one of late. Most of my patients ask how I am, to which the socially acceptable reply I usually give them,

 ‘Good thanks,’

What a horrible, dirty little lie I repeat time and time again, hour after hour, day after day, week after week.

Yeah. I’m fine. No really. Everything is super. The biopsy I had of my suspicious mass in my mediastinum (between my lungs) has proven to be cancer. I’m wonderful. This has been quite possibly one of my biggest fears since learning of this suspicious deposit in October last year. Now it has been confirmed. It is in fact metastatic cancer, cancer that has spread from where it first started. I will now face my biggest, most aggressive and invasive surgery later this year which will bring with it incredible repercussions and mandatory life adjustments. Yeah I am awesome. How would people react to that response? Not very professional is it? But the truth doesn’t take into consideration being professional does it? And cancer, in short, makes most people uncomfortable.

I started a race report blog months ago. An upbeat blog about how I went back and raced Noumea International Triathlon for the 5^th time. How a younger athlete ran me down at 7km on the run leg and how years of experience, mentally toughness and sheer determination gave me the upper hand to run away from her and take 3^rd place. 

And how I then raced Fraser Coast Triathlon at Hervey Bay and had a solid day to finish 2^nd to an Olympian, even clocking the fastest female run split.  All this was quickly overshadowed by what happened in the following weeks. 

Breathe in and hold your breath. Don’t breathe or swallow. ‘Injection going in’, Breath in and hold your breath. Don’t breathe or swallow. Every time I have a contrast CT I feel like I wet myself. They actually warn you that this is a normal sensation of the scan. An injection of iodine enters my bloodstream, quickly followed up with the smell in my nose and then the taste of it in my mouth. A few seconds later and there is this warmth between my legs that feels like I have peed myself. The process is actually really fast. A scan, an injection, a scan and repeat. I hate every single moment of this process now. In my past track record these things only lead to bad news. The good news was that my CT in April showed the two questionable deposits had not changed in size since last year however an interventional radiologist was confident in being able to take a sample of the mass behind my sternum. So a few weeks later I went back to RBWH radiology. Quite scared. They were going to take a biopsy of something behind my breastbone whilst I lay awake on the table. Thankfully after a local anaesthetic I didn’t feel the giant needle the doctor put between my ribs and into the suspicious mass, nor the multiple fine needle aspirations taken via the giant needle.

A week went by and no word on the results. I was told pathology would likely be back within 2-4 days so when 7 days had gone by I thought it probably timely to chase up the verdict. I sent my surgeon a text between patients on Wednesday and soon received the message: “Unfortunately the pathology confirms papillary carcinoma…..” All I heard was white noise and a sickening numbness take hold of me. I was there, but I was not there. I could barely stand. Yet I had a full afternoon of clients booked. That day I repeatedly asked my clients the same question in a span of minutes. I started to put an ankle strapping on in reverse before realising that something I do day in and day out was no longer an easy process for me. I blanked out when people started whinging about their arthritic knees when they continued to live a lifestyle of obesity. The day was not helped by my father’s reaction of ‘well they’ll just have to split your chest open and it should be done as soon as possible’.

For four days all I heard was static. My teeth hurt, from grinding and clenching. My head ached constantly with a full pre-frontal cortex that was overloaded with stress. If I wasn't drinking I certainly wasn't hearing anything being said to me. I am still struggling to listen to or process anything anyone says to me.

That Wednesday night I got drunk for the first time in months. Two days after that I was pretty tipsy and the next night after that completely written off. I was in good company (Sarah I don’t know what I’d do without my number one wing woman) which helped drown out the white noise and the pounding in my head which is still there now. But once the drunken haze had passed nothing could take away the astounding abyss that lay in front of me.  

Okay cancer you win. You have struck me down multiple times the past two years and I've defiantly rebuilt myself physically and mentally to give you the angry bird but this time you will have the upper hand. At the end of the year I will have major surgery.

A sternotomy. A cardio thoracic surgeon will split my breastbone open, go into my thorax and remove lymph node cancer from my chest. This will have grave repercussions on my ability to swim and run as I’ll be left with altered thoracic mechanics, movement and range. Work will be out of the question for several months. I am not a big person, yet I treat enormous people from time to time. Having had my sternum split, lifting obese legs will not be ideal rehabilitation as sternal instability is a risk if I do too much too soon.

At the same time I will undergo my fifth neck dissection as there is still a para-tracheal deposit lying on the right side of my neck. Due to its position it is difficult to biopsy but given my history I’m sure the bastard is sinister. To remove this mass it is more than likely I will be left with a permanent right sided recurrent laryngeal nerve injury. This means a paralysed vocal cord and voice changes. The voice I've had for 31 years will be altered forever.

A paralysed vocal cord will also cause permanent coverage of half my airway making exercising at intensity pretty much impossible. My time as a professional triathlete and all those goals and aspirations of returning to a competitive half Ironman athlete having beaten cancer will be quashed with the slice of a knife. The gut- wrenching fact is that it won't be on my terms. I will lose part of my identity. Rachael Paxton triathlete will be laid to rest. And no, I won’t just roll around courses to make up the numbers because that is not me. My ethos is all or nothing. What’s the point of doing something if you can’t do it properly?

And the scars. I can almost pick the moment now when people I meet for the first time register that something has happened to me in order to have a 20cm incision around my neck. Now I will also have a whopper on my chest too. The adhesions in my neck are bad enough now. Another hack at it may leave me quite restricted in movement due to excessive scar tissue. These also come with a horrendously painful, ripping sensation when I move my neck. It would be so much better if my scars were from trauma. An accident seems to make people handle them a little better, because you’re still standing on the other side. When you tell people it’s from cancer they usually say to me; ‘but you’re ok now right?’ Ha, the million dollar question. With a pretty bleak answer.

People say to me 'it will be ok'. This statement completely unravels me. You’ll be okay because it’s not happening to you. It’s happening to me. And it will not be ok. Yes I will make something of my life on the other side but I'm yet to accept that it will be ok. Because right now, it doesn't sound like an 'ok' life to me. Most days I still can't believe that this is happening. It all feels like a sick joke or a bad nightmare. I do ask; what have I done to deserve this? Is a higher power making an example of me? Am I going to be one of those 'what a sad story' you hear about and not be around to tell the tale myself? Fuck, I may die. And to most people this really won't matter. Unlike the friend of mine with an aggressive brain tumour, she has a husband and two beautiful children. I tell you what; it really makes you take a look at your life, those that are in it and begs you to ask the question: who will really miss me if I don't make it through?

So don't tell me it will be okay. Because right now it’s not okay.
Don’t tell me about the retiree you know that’s had a sternotomy. A 70 year old with a heart condition is very different to a 31 year old female who is a physiotherapist and professional triathlete.

Don't tell me how I should feel and not to be angry.

Don’t tell me YOU got anxiety because I got sick.
Don’t give me medical or health advice. If you know more than the best thyroid oncologist, ENT and Cardio-thoracic surgeons in QLD then by all means but if you don’t, shut your mouth and close Dr Google.
Don’t tell me work is a good distraction, it is not. I resent my job for wasting my last normal days of life pre-surgery. If I could I'd chase every race on the circuit until the day of the operation however that is unlikely to pay my bills. This I will most probably regret. I am replaceable at my place of work. Would they miss me if I quit or died? Unlikely. Is the time I'm spending there in my current state replaceable? No it is not. Reading that out loud makes me so incredibly disappointed with myself for living in such a way that I never thought I would. Wasting my time and life with something so unimportant when I could be making the most of my final fully functional months doing things and a sport that are the center of my being. However, being sick is bloody expensive. I will have to pay gaps for my surgery. I will take an extended period of time off work without income because here’s the cracker of the conundrum, because I’ve worked hard over the years I’ve been fighting cancer, I have too much money in the bank and therefore don’t meet criteria for sickness benefits.

So what can you do? What you can do is.... Christ I don't know anymore. Pour my glass full of wine. Feed me good food, chocolate, cake and coffee. Plan mini-breaks, social get-togethers and non-triathlon related adventures to help me plan and fulfill my life there-after. Talk to me as though I don't have cancer. Tell me about relationships, travel, life goals and aspirations and where you see yourself in ten years time. Remind me that maybe you’d like to still have me around in another 10 years.

My little light for this year is that my surgeons have allowed me to still go on my trip to South America in October. I booked this trip from my recovery bed in hospital in December last year. Much to the disappointment to my parent’s, this is my priority for the year. I feel that I will be the one who will be affected by the consequences of waiting a few extra months to have this operation done. We have been aware of the masses in my chest and neck since October last year. They haven’t really changed in size at all and there are no new areas of disease have been identified since. So really it probably doesn’t make too much of a difference if I have the op done now or at the end of the year. So I choose travel. I choose to take five weeks with my incredible friend to go on an adventure because living with regret is quite possibly worse than living with cancer.

I don't regret a thing I've done, only those I didn't do. I wish I had made the jump and done an Ironman. I wish I had accepted my four slots to race as a professional athlete at 70.3 world champs in 2009, 2010, 2011 and 2012 and my slot to Hy-Vee 5150 in 2014. I wish I had taken six months off one year to go and race in Europe. I wish I had been pushy in seeking out the coach I'd always dreamed of having. That dream came all too close after talks with him at the end of 2012 and finding myself working towards it until the day of diagnosis. And now it's all slipping away and there is nothing I can do about it. I am healthy, I am fit, I am strong. I will train for hours tomorrow and am prepping for a race in two weeks. But I am sick. I have a cancer that can kill me. It doesn't make me sick but has potential to make living difficult if I don't undergo the drastic measures to rid myself of this fucker. I don't know how to function. I don't know how to be a normal person because I don't feel normal. I struggle to rejoice in other people’s times of happiness when I feel so cheated, so forgotten and so incredibly broken. I find myself unable to empathize with trivial complaints and have to sometimes physically restrain myself from eye rolling or screaming 'are you f*$king serious?!' Every day I feel my job is on the line because of my mental state. Yet somehow I stay 100% professional in my workplace. I put on a front that everything is ok. I get out of bed, I train, I get dressed, I go to work, I train, catch up with friends and function like I am ok. If you don’t know me then you would think nothing is wrong. But something is wrong. Majorly wrong. Every day there is that moment when I get into bed. That moment where I am then alone to think about what is happening, what will happen and who I will be and how my life will be after this. That moment is the worst moment of them all.

Rachie xo