Roughly two years ago I got a call from my doctor that said I had extremely low blood levels and that I should go see a hematologist immediately. I had a hemoglobin count of 8.2, when anything below a 10 shoots up a red flag. Upon seeing him, he tossed around various possible causes (thalassemia was tossed out there at one point), and said something to me that I’ll never forget:

“Well, you’ll never run a marathon.”

Apparently my blood count was so low, he thought I’d never be able to sustain the energy to ever do anything physical. A bit of time passes and I’m finally diagnosed with Crohn’s Disease, the reason for my extremely low blood count is finally understood (hello, bleeding large intestine!), and I begin treatment for that. At one point during the path to diagnosis, this very same doctor opened the door to an exam room and blurted “Well, you don’t have Hodgkin’s!” Gee buddy, thanks.

As I began treatment for Crohn’s and the inflammation of my lower intestine got a bit more under control, I decided I was going to start running. I didn’t like this doctor telling me I couldn’t do something, and I wanted to do something to prove to myself that I wasn’t going to let this stupid sickness stop me from doing anything. The first month was rough. I started training in the heat of the summer, and my body was pissed. I spent most of that time married to a toilet until I finally figured out I was just constantly dehydrated and my insides were mad. A little Smart Water in the diet and boom, all is well.

With the running came the decision to run the half marathon. I wanted to prove that doctor wrong, but I also wanted to prove to myself that I could do it. Running for me has become that hour a day where there’s no work, no stress about being sick and paying medical bills, just solitary time to let the mind wander. Since I’ve started training I’ve had two surgeries, an abscess drain placed into my colon, and four colonoscopies. Each one of those things came with it’s separate challenges with weeks, even months off from training. I even still have two tears in my colon tied up with small rubber tubing and stitches. My last setback in February pushed me out of completely running the race, but I’m committed to running as much as I can, and finishing.

The drugs are also not fun, I’ve basically been on a low dose of chemotherapy every day for 18 months now, and am on weekly shots to suppress my immune system. But this isn’t some “woe is me” tale, it’s just my story on how I’m coping with daily disease, and how something as simple as running a mile can make a huge difference. Or in this case, 13.1 miles.