Small Steps Every Day

I’ve written before on new year’s resolutions (or goals as I prefer to call them). I’ve talked about how even if we don’t meet our goals, the act of setting them means that we accomplish more than had we never established them. For example, setting a goal of running 300 miles for the year and then only running 150 is not a failure. Sitting on the couch and running 0 miles is a failure. Never starting is a failure. 

One of my goals this year is to get back to writing my blog. So much has happened since I last posted. In August of 2024, I was diagnosed with leukemia. In November of 2024, I received a bone marrow / stem cell transplant thanks to an anonymous donor. (I know that she is in her 20s, lives in the U.S., has type A+ blood, and is generally healthy. She is also generous, community-oriented, and concerned about others–they didn’t tell me these things, but I know them.)

Last year, I didn’t set any new year’s goals. I had been given this new lease on life, but I couldn’t see it yet. When I was first diagnosed, my coworkers sent me a small piece of artwork (wooden with painted letters) that said, “Small Steps Every Day.” That became my mantra. Others sent cards that said “Get Well Soon!” While well-intentioned, these notes reinforced the fact that I would not “get well soon.” After this first round of chemo, I would need another and another and then at some point a transplant (if I could get into remission first). I didn’t know the extent of the treatment. I didn’t know it would work– although I told myself over and over again that it had to. I just knew that I needed to do the next thing that the doctors or nurses told me. But “Small Steps Every Day” made sense both figuratively and literally. I couldn’t beat cancer in a day, but I could accept treatment and I could walk. 

cards at the hospital with the Small Steps Every Day sign

For the first few weeks of treatment, I maintained 10,000 steps a day. I wasn’t allowed to go outside or even to leave the oncology floor once my blood counts dropped, but I was allowed to leave my room. So I did. I chatted with the nurses, with the doctors, with the CNAs and medical assistants, with the maids. I continued to walk around and around the floor, peering out the windows. Looking out was the hardest part, because I missed being outside so much. Often I would tear up.

Once the effects of the chemotherapy started to hit, it became harder to walk as much. I got a neutropenic fever, which spiked up to 103.7. My steps dropped off rapidly, but I managed to get out of my room a few times a day, take a few, small steps. So much was out of my control, but I could do this. Maybe not 10,000 steps, but at least 3,000.

In September, I came home. I walked outside for the first time in over a month. Each afternoon, I would take a walk with my son around the park and back. The loop was about half a mile. When I went to a follow up with my oncologist, he couldn’t believe I was walking, but honestly I couldn’t imagine not doing so.

back outside in September

Then, in October, I ended up in the hospital. I again spiked a neutropenic fever. This time, they were able to determine the cause pretty quickly – a strep infection that had entered my bloodstream. I was admitted to the hospital and hooked up to intravenous antibiotics. This new hospital did not, however, have an oncology floor and I was surrounded by people with contagious infections. This time, I was allowed to go only as far as the alcove right outside my room. Walking from my chair to this area, around, and back took about 30 steps. 

Without movement, I became depressed. I was closer to home, so family came, but in an attempt not to spread infection from the other patients, the nurses limited their visits to my room. I was lonely and static.

I was released from that hospital about a week before my admission for my stem cell transplant. A longer, more complicated story for another day, the important part here is that my blood counts were still extremely low (white count undetectable), so I had to be diligent to protect my health.

Once I checked into my new hospital in Denver, I was the weakest I had ever been. Here, however, there were rules. I had to shower every day. I had to walk. And I did. I left the room and walked around the floor. The area where I was allowed to walk was smaller than at the first hospital, but much more expansive than the second. I could walk around the circle of rooms, down the hall and back. The whole loop was less than 800 steps. I tried to complete it a couple times a day, but sometimes only made it around once. I was continually hooked up to an IV. Sometimes I felt light headed. I rarely had enough energy to stay awake for more than an hour at a time. 

the IV I had to lug around on my walks (yes, I was often hooked to all those machines at once)

Once I left the hospital, I stayed with my mom in an apartment in Aurora. I was required to stay within a certain radius of the hospital. Each apartment opened to an inside hallway. On our floor, you could walk a full loop, which was approximately 1000 steps. On either end, you could walk a smaller loop, which was about 250 steps. The first week, I could hardly make it around the smaller loop. Some days, I didn’t try. If I walked over 500 steps, it was because I had to walk from the parking lot to a doctor’s appointment. When I got inside, I had to sit immediately.

After a month (mid-January of last year), I started setting goals again. This week, I’ll walk 400 steps a day. The next week, I upped it to 500. Soon, I was at 700, but that was a struggle. My blood pressure was low and the medications made me dizzy. I would often have to sit down immediately after I stood up. Once, I blacked out for a second and fell, just narrowly avoiding hitting my head. 

Soon, though, I became bored. I needed to try getting out more. My mom and I went to the art museum. My legs felt like pieces of wet spaghetti when I stood, and I took advantage of each bench along the way. I was frustrated that I could not move the way I once had.

*****

Skip forward to the summer. I returned to the climbing gym. I didn’t go often, but I went and I climbed the easier routes. I ran a bit. Very slowly, very short distances. I played disc golf. I couldn’t believe how much distance I had lost, but I kept going. Little steps every day.

*****

Skip forward again. Now it’s January 1st. I start the day with a round of disc golf with the local club. I come home and run 2 miles (yes, I walked some; yes I was slow – it still counts). By the end of the day, I’m at 13,000 steps. 

This year, I set goals. I again give myself writing goals. I again set a distance to move (walk, run, and hike). I again identify projects that I’d like to finish this year.

I again feel optimistic about the future, but more than ever I see progress. And that progress isn’t a publication or a faster mile time or a project completed. It’s merely moving forward. It’s little steps every day.