“I’m tough, rough, ready and able
To pick myself up from under this table
Don’t stick no sign on me, I got no label
I’m a little sick, unsure, unsound and unstable

But I’m fighting my way back”

—Thin Lizzy

The Chelmsford Sports Club (now closed) was located in an old industrial building off the main road of the town. The club’s first incarnation, before it moved down the road a bit, was a large, well-lit space that resembled a three-way combo of a Boston loft, combat training area, and rehearsal space for a death metal band. (Which, as I found out, some days of the week after 9 p.m. it actually was.)

The place was littered with all manner of workout gear. Climbing ropes, TRX straps, stationary bikes, weights, kettle bells, heavy and two-way bags and tires hanging on the walls (a Thai kickboxing thing). The floor was covered with mats, roughly the size of boxing rings. But there were no ropes, no corners. No way for people to do three rounds and lean on the ropes and strike a “Rocky” pose.

I loved the place.

What’s your emergency?

Even though I had been in out of boxing since I was 22, this had been my first training session in years. We were 20 minutes into an hour long session and already, my coach, Donny Mustapha, was looking at me in that “how fast can I dial 911?” kind of way.

A Lowell, Massachusetts native, Donny is a mixture of joviality and intensity: Handsome, half-blind, and street-smart, Donny is equal parts cheering squad and pugilist with a generous side-order of a certain self-awareness that comes from a career in combat sports. Which means he doesn’t suffer BS gladly – especially when it comes to safety in his gym.

I struggled through my session and he stayed very close by, ready to stop me at any second. Who could blame him? Sweat was pouring off me as I struggled with the measly eight-pound bar resting on the back of my neck. My atrophied arms shook and burned with lactic acid as I mentally ordered withered biceps and triceps to raise that bar above my head. The spirit was willing, but the flesh? Well, you get the idea.

Not dead yet

And yet, there I was, angrily enjoying the pain – another small reminder that I was still alive – and commanding myself not to quit. This bar, I told myself, was going over my head.

I had to get back in shape. I had to get my body strong again. There were so many things I had to do, so many things in my life to reclaim. I was not going to quit.

I tried to take a deep breath, but my lungs couldn’t suck in anything other than a puddle-deep snort of sweat-scented air. My eyes were turned down, focused on my sneakers. Droplets of perspiration fell to the ground as I still urged myself to just give it just one more try. But when my head started spinning, the rational part of me took over and I relented. I let the bar fall to the padded gym floor and placed my hands on my knees, panting. It was all I could do just to stay upright.

I said: “I think I have to stop.” Donny nodded patiently and I told him I had something to explain to him. He nodded for me to continue and I spilled.

“I’m recovering from Leukemia,” I said.

Tired of talking

His eyebrows raised and he lightly admonished me a little for not telling him beforehand, because he would have handled the session very differently. In my own defense, I wasn’t, by not telling Donny, trying to be a “tough guy.” What I was, was flat-out tired of telling people about my leukemia.

Partly, I was tired of that “deer-in-the-headlights” look I often received. Mostly, it was because in that year, getting diagnosed with leukemia was only the opening salvo. In the weeks following my diagnosis Sara and I would also lose our younger child. Believe me when I say I would endure chemo for the rest of my life if we could have our quiet joy, Aidan, back.

I have to be husband again, I explained to Donny. I have to play with my son, love my wife, I have to learn to live again. And I couldn’t do it without boxing, without the feeling that I was fighting – even if I was only punching bags full of sand.

But Donny did not give me the “deer-in-the-headlights” look. Instead he told me that we would start even slower, and we scheduled my next time for me to come in and train. Donny made little or no judgments about people. He was one who was quite good at seeing beyond a first impression. He told me, that, in that day, he saw someone who would come back again and again and again until he got better. He knew I was a fighter, even if I wasn’t sure anymore.

The good kind of hurt

Even though I was aching from head to toe, it felt good to be hurting because of physical exertion and not because of mental anguish or fear of dying. It made me think about the role exercise played in my life. I had known for a long time that exercise could make you feel better, mentally, could take stress away and give you a sense of accomplishment that didn’t exist in the same way in the professional realm. And of course, there are those endorphins. That’s a help.

But what is fitness, really? Is it looking like the guy/gal in the gym ad? Is it being able to do three sets of 15 reps with a minute rest in between? Is it being able to run a mile without collapsing? Is it a combination of all or none of the above?

I decided to train with Donny and find out.