The image of a quote from Sitting Bull, captured in marble above is a key to understanding how he had to exhibit fortitude during his life. It says: "When I was a boy the Lakota owned the world. The sun rose and set on their lands. They sent 10,000 horsemen to battle." By the time of his death in the late 1800s, circumstances were much different for the Sioux. Most of their land had been stripped from them by the U.S. government. Their defeat was in no way a sign of a lack of effort on the Sioux's part, but a glimpse of the white menace that believed in winning at all costs. Who would know that within 100 years, the white menace would have dropped atomic bombs on Japan and would be capable of destroying the entire world over and over using just nuclear weapons.
The Sioux believed that the second virtue a man should be judged by is fortitude. According to Robert Utley, author of The Lance and the Shield: The Life and Times of Sitting Bull, there were two main aspects that contributed to a person exhibiting fortitude. The first is the person's ability to endure pain and discomfort. The second involves showing reserve and being dignified, particularly when emotional situations present themselves.
So how would the Lakota Sioux have thought about me when considering my fortitude? I think they would have been impressed by my ability to endure pain and discomfort, but they might have some issues with my ability to show reserve and constantly remain dignified.
Throughout my life I have always been able to take a great deal of pain. This may have started inadvertently from a playful lesson that my dear mother used to make me endure. Mom taught me "mind over matter." No, this wasn't a game in which she made me endure pain and try to suffer through it. Mind over matter was just the opposite. Mom would tickle me until I could use my mind to control my feelings and not laugh while being tickled. Little did she know that this useful skill would one day turn against her. Being a curious child, I somehow always managed to find mischief. Since spanking was commonplace those days, that was my usual punishment, don't worry, mom wasn't mean I really deserved every spanking I got. She'd use a paddle to spank me. Knowing that I could use mind over matter, I would sit and laugh each time she swatted my ass. Of course, this would make mom madder, and then she'd hit harder. I'd keep laughing until the paddle broke, at which point mom would give up on the attempt to reign me in. This trick worked later on in school. Teachers could still paddle then and every time I was given the choice between detention, writing sentences (I will not...), or getting paddled, I'd choose the swat.
During high school, I joined the wrestling team. Talk about showing fortitude. There is no way to be a good wrestler without being able to endure pain and discomfort. By senior year I was the captain of the wrestling team. We were comprised of only three experienced wrestlers, one of whom died during the middle of the season. That's why it was so critical for me to lead the team by example.
Toward the beginning of a match versus Whiting High, the referee didn't blow the whistle in time and instead of the match stopping when I went outside of the circle, the other wrestler continued his move, and I was taken down on the gym floor, not the wrestling mat. Landing on an odd angle with the other wrestler's weight on me, pain soared through my body. Being so psyched to continue, I jumped up, went to the middle of the mat, and awaited the referee blowing the whistle to resume the match. After wrestling for another period and a half, my opponent made a mistake, which I took advantage of by pinning him in the "Saturday Night Ride," a humiliating position to be pinned in.
After the ref blew the whistle and went to raise my arm, I realized something was terribly wrong with my chest. I almost yelled in pain, but summoned the courage to eat the pain. When the team went to put the mats back up onto the balcony, I couldn't do it and knew I'd suffered a significant injury.
The next day I want to the doctor's office to have my chest examined. To my horror, the doctor told me that I had torn my right pectoral muscle and would miss a significant portion of the season if not all of it. At that point of the season, my record was 17—1, with my only loss being to my nemesis, Ivan Gonzalez, the number one ranked wrestler in state. I had visions of scholarships dancing in my head until that point of the season, but I vowed to myself that I'd come back to finish up the season.
About a month later, I was able to suck up the pain well enough at the doctor's office to convince him that I was well enough to wrestle again. You could tell that the man wasn't sure because of the lack of strength on that side exhibited during the exam, but he seemed to understand that the need to wrestle was more important to me at that time than the need to heal.
Coming back toward the end of the season, the time when all the tournaments happen, conference, sectionals, regionals, semi-state, and state while still hurt was distinct disadvantage for me, especially because at some point in each of these tournaments, I'd have to face Ivan Gonzalez again. And that I did, wrestling that beast four more times, losing every time. The only positive aspect of wrestling Ivan, if you can call it that, was my final match against him, when he was 37—0, having pinned every opponent he faced. I came real close to beating him, separated his shoulder, and went the distance with him. The bad thing about it is that with the separated shoulder, he lost in the state championship match, thus making my five defeats to the man seem less significant. And with a 27—7 overall record that year, there wasn't a school in the nation that offered me a scholarship.
However, all of this effort wasn't for not. The following year, when I was home from college, I went and practiced with my old team. To my surprise, when going to practice a move that I often used when starting on top, the coach called out for each wrestler to hit "the Pozeck" ten times. Now I hadn't invented the move, but the entire team, coach and all, honored my memory by naming this move after me. I felt humbled because it was a move I was taught by my previous coach, Mario Chapa, a great man and an even better wrestler. However, I decided to take the naming of the move after me as a sign that my commitment to the team had inspired these young wrestlers and proven to me that I had the ability to teach through example.
Now, I'd like to say that was the only time I fought through pain in athletics, which are sort of modern man's outlet for proving himself, but it wasn't. While trying to make the collegiate wrestling team, with a pectoral that still wasn't at full strength, I re-tore that pectoral and was told that I wouldn't be able to wrestle the rest of that season. It was then that I met some rugby players that lived on my dorm floor. By spring, they had me out on the rugby pitch and even playing in the Midwest Rugby Championships.
By my senior year, I was once again a captain of a very talented team. At a practice about midway through the season, I broke a long run, something unusual for a prop. There was one man to beat, Chaos (Jeff Franciscovich). He was a mild mannered Chemistry student during the day, but once he hit the rugby pitch, he became Chaos. I tried cutting to miss getting tackled, but he hit me right as I planted my left foot. I went down instantaneously and knew I had to go directly to the hospital.
While there, I saw my roommate, Jeff Schmid, walk into the emergency room. I thanked him for coming to check on me, and at that point Jeff held up his left hand, which had a giant gash between the thumb and index finger. You could see bone and just about every layer of muscle. I asked him what had happened, and he gave me a sneer, looked me in the eye, and said, "Chaos is what happened." So in one practice, Chaos had hospitalized two of his own players. Too bad he couldn't master that technique on the teams we played against.
Perhaps the best example of fortitude I've shown in my life has been my battle against brain tumors for the past 16 months. In November 2005 I began having massive headaches, which I believed were migraines. They kept getting worse and worse, but I kept dealing with them, even going on 30-40 mile bike rides. Finally, on December 23rd I went to the doctor's office to see what was up. He agreed it was a migraine and gave me pills. The pills didn't touch the pain, but no matter, I kept riding.
On January 5th, 2006 I went back to the doctor's office. By this time, my eye was exhibiting some tunnel vision caused by a partially closed eyelid. The doctor seemed to know right away that I was having what was called a third cranial palsy. The third cranial nerve controls the right eyelid, the pupil, and the direction the eyeball faces. Doc had me take a CAT-scan and following that, sent me immediately to get an MRI. Turns out, I had two tumors in my head, both of which had been there since birth.
On January 7th, I underwent my first of five brain surgeries in which they actually had to cut my skull open, spread it with tools, and get at the tumor. Then in all but one case, in which infection was involved, my head was put back together with metal plates and staples.
However, throughout the first twelve months or so, I showed fortitude. Being in such good shape before the surgery really helped, and I amazed doctors, nurses, and everybody who visited by how well I took the pain, my great sense of humor about what was happening, and my ability to bounce back quickly. Within three weeks of my first surgery, I was out riding my bike again. These weren't 30 mile rides, but I was riding 5 to 10 miles. If I wasn't biking, I'd be on the trail hiking. Sometimes even going with my aunt and uncle to the mall to walk, because the weather was too cold for those snow birds.
My second surgery was supposedly the deepest my neurosurgeon has ever gone, and the tumor he removed was about the size of my sister's fist. I had some problems with brain swelling following this procedure that were messing up my speech. I could think of words, but they weren't coming out as the words I wanted. It took almost five days before I could read again. Imagine that an editor and writer who couldn't even read.
Almost miraculously after being given higher doses of steroids I was reading and talking like a pro again. Within two weeks of surgery, I was back on my on my bike again, much to my family's dismay. However, I was determined to make my annual pilgrimage to Yellowstone with my friends. Between the third week of March and third week of April the park's roads are plowed and open just to bicycles and local traffic. So we ride 50 or 60 miles through the park. Now, I knew I couldn't ride that far, but I still went with the boys, despite my family's objections, and rode 15 miles.
As I arrived back to the hotel's parking lot, I hit a rut and was tossed from my bike, crashing into the ground. Now with the large hole in my brain where that hand-sized tumor used to be, this fall caused my brain matter to resettle at a massively accelerated rate. I immediately felt sick and was soon to pay the piper for my insistence on riding. Within a week of returning to Boise, my head began swelling, leading to more hospital stays. Finally, one morning, my sister realized that my scares from were leaking liquid (cerebral spinal fluid). I was admitted to the hospital and treated for a brain infection. Basically, Dr. Little had to remove a portion of my skull near the infected area, treat the infection, and sew the head back together. He had to leave that portion of the skull out, so I was forced to wear a custom made helmet (a NHL hockey helmet) for the entire summer.
There were other problems to deal with, such as having to give myself at-home infusions of Vancomyicn twice a day through a tube in my arm. This eventually led to allergic reactions to the medicine and perhaps my worst hospital stay ever. My mom found me seizuring on the hallway floor. All I remember is waking up next to the washer and dryer and eventually being taken away in an ambulance. This time, I was in the hospital for an entire week. The longest for brain surgery had been three days. The allergic reaction eventually was controlled, but I was weak, very very weak. To top that off, I began receiving a series of radiation from June through July. This took most of my remaining strength, but I dealt with it. In August I had another crainitomy. However instead of taking stuff out of my head, Dr. Little was putting fake skull in my head. It was sort of like using Bondo on a car, but this was skull putty being used inside my head.
No matter how sick all of this sounds, I dealt with it. Somehow, through it all, I knew I'd be alright, even with the loss of use of my right eye. I didn't ask for pity. I didn't beg for help. I wouldn't let others treat me as a pathetic helpless case and believe it or not that caused problems. My mother and sister came from Florida many times last year to help me. Their intentions were wonderful, but my insistence on not being treated as someone who couldn't function by himself led to conflict. I kept having to remind them that this was my apartment, my life, and I was going to damn well going to continue to operate as I always have, by operating independently. For God's sake, I wanted them to stop telling me to beware of every curb or cord in my way; to stop rearranging everything in my house; and most importantly to show me the respect I deserved for everything I've accomplished in life.
Now the summer's worth of medical mayhem kept me off my bike for a while and made it so even hiking the smallest hill was taxing on my body, so I had to take it easy. Simple walks around the neighborhood were all I could do for a while. By mid-September one of my favorite Boise events was occurring—New Belgium Brewery's Fat Tire Bike Fest. I wasn't going to miss out on this. The first event I attended was card night. Basically, cyclists rode from from bar to bar, collecting a playing card at each one. At the end of the night, the people with the best poker hands won prizes. My prize was a Bike Fest t-shirt.
That Saturday the main festival happened. The main event was the fat tire bike parade. I wasn't going to miss that. Dressed as Elvis, this one-eyed fool rode with between 750 to 1,000 cyclists in a parade through downtown. I soon learned that it's hard riding with that many people without being able to see out of one side of your head. I guess I'll just have to break away from the peloton when I race in the Tour de France:) The ride went off without a hitch, and Elvis rode home for a much needed nap.
After this day, I continued short bike rides and hikes for a while. But in early November, an MRI revealed that the tumor operated on in January, which I received radiation on in June/July, was growing at an incredible rate. Dr. Little would need to perform another brain surgery. In this one, he would remove the entire third cranial nerve, the source of the tumor. This meant that use of my right eye would never come back. It had already been closed since January, so I thought what the heck, let's cut it out and be done with all this shit.
On November 17th, the surgery on the nerve went well; however, there was one hitch. During the surgery, Dr. Little realized that the tumor, which was bigger in November than in January before the first surgery and all the radiation. Besides that it had extended itself to my brain stem. Another procedure called sterotactic radial surgery would now be needed. An actual operation would not work, because you cannot cut on the brain stem.
This is where I lost my fortitude. My situation seemed hopeless. I finally started believing that saving my life was now a hopeless cause. Upon speaking with Dr. Sawyer, my radiation oncologist, I found out that there was a very good chance I'd be blind from this surgery and there was a good chance of paralysis of some sort. I couldn't imagine living the rest of my life blind at first and wasn't going to have the surgery.
For a while, I put exercise out of my mind. I filled my life in a way I hadn't in years. When I was young, I was a horn dog. Every woman I dated, no matter how much I liked her, was cheated on. Usually, I'd break up with a girl shortly after starting to see another one. However, since college, I learned to respect woman and treat them like princesses. Only cheating on one woman, and although it doesn't make a difference that was to be with a woman I truly loved who had previously left me and moved to Tuscon.
Now it was going to be what I thought was my final stand. If I was going blind or going to die, I was going to go out with a bang. And bang I did. Having met a group of questionable woman, I worked my way though the lot of them. Now don't get me wrong, I had feelings for just about all of them, but I wasn't going to put any effort in, it was just about sex. Funny thing is, that's what it was for all of them.
My true friends then had to call me back down to earth. They had an intervention at a bar with me. Great idea but a stupid place to do it at. One should never bare grievances in public, especially putting the one at question in such a vulnerable situation. I wouldn't have minded if it was a room full of my friends, but it was three friends and a bunch of strangers. What finally got through to me was my buddy Chris' anger. He's one of the people I respect most in the world. He's intelligent, hip, and a man of peace. In fifteen years of knowing the man, he's done nothing but help me, inspire me, and encourage me. In all that time, I'd never seen him blow up at anyone. But my actions and his disappointment in me led him to be screaming in my face at the bar. I almost walked out on the group, but I couldn't walk out on him. As a result, I agreed to stop all the sleeping around with floozies and other foolish/dangerous behavior.
All of that got me to thinking how to adapt if I went blind from my next procedure. I even met with a wonderful lady, Dana Ard, from the Idaho Commission for the Blind and Visually Impaired to see how I could live if I became blind. After several phone conversations with her, she agreed to meet with me. When I met her, my spirits were bouyed. This intelligent together woman, who was obviously very organized and proficient at her job was blind. Seeing her and hearing the words she spoke made me realize I could handle being blind, I could even help out other visually impaired people as I did so.
Now I was ready for the March 1st stereotactic radial surgery. If I lost sight, there were classes for me to take to teach me how to adapt. If I passed the mobility class, I'd even be able to get a helper dog. Of course I'd be willing to wait until a golden retriever became available. Matter of fact, the challenge of overcoming the obstacle of losing my vision while helping people seemed to inspire me.
When my mother, sister, and I entered the hospital room on March 1st, my mom noticed a red toolbox on the window sill. Jokingly, she said, "Dr. Little is going to use those tools on your head." My serious reply was, "Mom, he really is going to have to use those tools, he has to use a ratchet set to screw four screws into my head to hold the halo I need to wear during the procedure."
When Dr. Little entered, we talked a couple of minutes until he was set for the procedure. Then I was given a shot of morphine (Ummmmmm morphine) and four shots of novacaine, each going where a screw would be placed. As doctor little screwed the screws into my head, I took the pain. My head wobbled back and forth from the morphine, but the pain had no effect. Dr. Little asked how it felt, and I replied that it felt a little like having your hair pulled that it was ok. Realizing my ability to absorb pain he let me know that I'd most likely be going home that night.
After a CAT-scan and six or seven hours of surgery, I was ready for my hour in the Norvalis machine with radiation level set on high. The procedure seemed to go smoothly and Dr. Sawyer was pleased with the angles he was able to use to hit the tumor. I felt well and just wanted the damn halo off of my head. Now Dr. Sawyer knew unscrewing the screws could be very painful and unpleasant to watch so he suggested that my mother and sister leave the room. I'm not sure if it was their fortitude that made them watch or that they just wanted to see me squirm, but they stayed in the room.
As Dr. Sawyer took out the first screw, it initially hurt like all hell. However, I used mom's technique of mind over matter to take the pain. Once the first screw was out, I knew the level of pain I'd have to endure for the rest of them and somehow, the removal of the other three screws didn't hurt so bad. My family although somewhat amazed at the pain I had endured surprisingly didn't seem surprised.
In the follow-up conversation with Dr. Sawyer, I found out that although I currently still had my vision, the way such doses of radiation work in your body meant that I could lose it in two days, two weeks, two months, two years, etc. This made me realize that I should just quit worrying about the operation taking my sight.
There seemed to be no negative effects from this procedure. I was even at the bar the following night and the night after that. Four days after surgery, my mother, father, and sister left for Yellowstone. Grant it, I wouldn't be riding a bike through the park this time, but riding a snow coach. The trip was amazing and I was able to show my family much of what I loved about the park.
Upon returning home, I made an effort to start regular exercise immediately. After a few preliminary hikes, I went to the Snake River Birds of Prey Conservation Area with my buddy Tim, one of the three guys who originally brought me back to reality. While lamenting the possibility of still becoming blind Tim talked to me in words that put me on track. He said, "During your first several surgeries, you had the attitude that you were going to kick this things ass, but now you're worried. What you need to do is get back that confidence, you're Tony, and now is the time to kick that tumor's ass."
Suddenly, my confidence in myself was back. I now knew that my strength and toughness could go a long way to fighting my tumors. On that day, I promised myself to get back into good shape. Now it's a long way off until I can bike to the top of Bogus Basin (the ski resort on top of the mountain above Boise), but I was going to damn well start trying. So I've been exercising as much as I can. Bike rides are becoming 15 to 20 mile rides, and I'm even riding to and from just about everywhere I need to go. Hikes are becoming longer, and next week I'm even returning to the gym.
(The portion of this article dealing with the second precept of Sioux thought regarding fortitude will be in an entry later this week.)
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