Dottie Lessard
In late 2006, during a state of desperation after losing my precious mother (to one of the diseases I now have), and the humiliating experience of filing bankruptcy, I decided to try running. That didn’t work out well: I was nearly 200 pounds from a year of binge eating, my knees, lungs, and back hurt. Everything jiggled and bounced and jarred with each footfall on the asphalt. I signed up for a Hunger Run 5k, and ended up walking most of it. No one judged me for walking.
The following month, I got a flyer in the mail from the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s Team in Training, with several races listed. If you sign up for one of their races, you agree to raise a certain amount of money and it goes to supporting local people going through blood cancers, and to research, advocacy, and public awareness. Many of the patients in our intensive care unit have blood cancers and the many life threatening complications that go with the illnesses and chemotherapy. Participants were allowed to either run or walk in the marathons and half marathons.
Signing up for the Chambersburg Half Marathon was another one of my “crazy ideas”, and focusing on something helped me deal with my grief. I also saw it as a way to indirectly help all of the people I met through my job who have cancer. I trained with a dedicated group of people and tolerant coaches.
As race day approached, so did a massive nor’easter. And wouldn’t you know it, about 10 inches of snow landed on Chambersburg and our coaches decided to withdraw the team.
The Lehigh Valley Half Marathon graciously accommodated us at the last minute. I purchased a ticket to the pasta party/inspiration dinner, where the likes of Bart Yasso and Ryan Hall spoke and encouraged us. Ryan’s advice was not to “bust out of the gate at a 4:30 pace”. I laughed. No danger of that, Ryan. I’d be lucky to “bust out” at 14:30.
The third speaker was Dottie Lessard-O’Connor (she later divorced and was known only as Dottie Lessard). Dottie’s story riveted every person in the room. People stopped eating so they could listen.
Dottie was born with cystic fibrosis. As a child, she tried to compete in track and field but would be out of breath within a few hundred yards. Eventually, she was unable to participate. As she looked on wistfully from the stands, she envisioned herself as a runner. She made it a personal goal to be able to run to a certain fence each day. This fence is shown on the cover of her autobiography, released a few years after her talk in Allentown.
Many patients with cystic fibrosis came through our ICU regularly too, and they usually did poorly and had lengthy stays. Many died. When we heard we were getting a CF admission, a mindset of “oh dear, he’s going to die” would come over us. It was very difficult to get these patients weaned from the ventilator, and they required vigorous care. Some were aggressive, some acted childishly, most had very demanding families. We always braced ourselves for these patients, and the typical end-of-life decisions/tension that went along with them.
One doctor–Dr. Vender–balked against this mindset. He had hope for his CF patients and took offense against our attitudes.
Dottie caught pneumonia several times and spent lengthy periods in the hospital, on a ventilator much of the time. She asked her family to bring in sets of light weights. Even as she lay there barely oxygenating, and with a tube in her throat, Dottie would reach down and lift her weights. 1. 2. 3, 4…as many reps as she could. She was determined to build strength.
And strength is what she needed. Her lungs became so scarred and dysfunctional she required a double lung transplant. The recovery was astoundingly rough, as you can imagine when most of the organs are removed from your chest. I might get to experience this first hand somewhere down the line.
But back to Dottie. Her lungs gave her a new lease on life, and she was able to run to that fence, and run past it. She began competing in the Transplant Games. But as if she hadn’t been though enough, her kidneys failed because of the anti-rejection medications. She needed another transplant.
And I thought I had problems.
Dottie healed quickly from her renal transplant, and went on to win 5ks in the Transplant Games. She also became a fitness model, and started an organization to attract young girls to physical activity. At the end of her tear-jerking speech, she was tearful herself. She implored us to “do tomorrow’s race simply because you can!” I thought of Dottie throughout the painful, long 13.1 mile walk the following day, knowing it is nothing compared to any pain she endured. I had an ID bracelet made, with the words “Because you can!” inscribed on it.
Dottie changed me in several ways. Most important of all was how she taught me to look at the patients in my care. Dr. Vender transformed from a doctor who was “out there in his own world” to a quiet hero in my eyes. I no longer saw CF patients in distress as hopeless cases. Yes, they die from their illness. But Dottie nearly died several times, and made it back. I learned that nobody is hopeless. You never know who has the will to survive. The aggression in these patients often stems from fear. They are frustrated because they have the illness. They had no choice in that matter. The childishness also stems from fear and rebellion. These people have had their illness since childhood, so they often revert to an earlier developmental age when in the hospital. Girls are often into Goth, are cutters, or abuse drugs. They hate not having control, and this often comes across as resentment towards medical staff. I cared for one young woman who, when she finally opened up to me, had given birth to a daughter. The daughter tested positive for CF. No wonder this young mom was so unhappy. She feared her own death, loved her new baby, and felt very guilty. Before hearing Dottie speak, I might have simply rolled my eyes at this woman’s behavior or argued with her when she refused care. I saw all my CF patients as warriors, as people who could be like Dottie and leave a positive mark on the world.
I reached out to Dottie when she released her autobiography and told her these things. She wrote back and said she was glad to have been an inspiration. She had never thought about the perspective of her nurses, and appreciated the insight. Dottie inspired me greatly, and I also inspired her (just a little).
Unfortunately, Dottie went missing one day. When they found her, she had passed away. The reasons were not made public. But she had apparently been “herself” the last time she was seen. Her death took her family and friends by surprise.
I only hope to touch people’s lives like Dottie touched mine. I hope I have in some way. And I keep looking for opportunities to do so, especially when I am in my mental black hole. Despite my Goo Goo Dolls experience, I still get in there a lot. But I force myself to move, just as John Rzeznik did when he wrote the song, just as Dottie and the CF patients do. Dottie didn’t waste a day thinking “oh poor me”. She LIVED.