‘I Ran 7 Marathons On 7 Continents In 7 Days—And I Have Brain Cancer’

It was mile 19 of the Marine Corps marathon in DC in 2004. Even though the race always takes place during the last weekend of October, this one was the hottest on record. I clearly remember it happening: There was a huge pop in my head like I was going up a mountain in a car and I had to clear my ears. The pressure was so intense. 

My running gait changed, almost like I was drunk, and I was swaying back and forth hitting other runners. Still, I thought I was dehydrated from the heat and I pushed to finish those last seven miles. After the race, I tried to hydrate.

The next day, I went to work. I’d run five or six marathons before, and it wasn’t unusual for me to run a marathon and then go back the next day. As an assistant to a cabinet member in Washington D.C., I facilitated my boss’s major appointments, and kept track of phone numbers and meetings. 

But that Monday through Wednesday, he missed key appointments because of me. I couldn’t walk straight. I couldn’t think straight. I hopped on the train to go home one day and accidentally went to Maryland instead of Virginia where I live. 

That’s when my boss sat me down. He said that something was wrong—and it wasn’t dehydration. So I saw my doctor in D.C. At first, he thought I had an inner ear issue that was affecting my balance. But he consulted with my old physician in Pennsylvania, where I grew up, who said that the symptoms I was having just didn’t sound like…me. He asked for them to do an MRI.

A week later, I was in the office working and I got a call from my doctor. He told me I needed to go in. But I was busy, so I convinced him to give me my results over the phone. He told me the MRI showed I had a frontal lobe brain tumor.

When I got the diagnosis, I didn’t know what brain cancer was. I sat there in disbelief. I was in D.C. by myself because my family was in Pennsylvania. My mom is a recovered alcoholic of 30 years. She’s also one of my best friends. I didn’t want to tell my parents because the outlook was not good, and I didn’t want her to turn to the bottle. So it wasn’t until a few weeks before my first brain surgery in April of 2005 that I told them. I don’t think I’d do it any different. Alcoholism is a disease, and I was afraid of what would happen.