Reading, napping, walking, and collecting sea glass at the beach are my kind of hobbies these days. Back in the day, I loved to ski, ride a mountain bike and goof off with my friends. I love to be adventurous, and outdoors is where I am happiest to this day. I have also often imagined a life in a little cottage with a fireplace, soup on the stove and a dog at my feet. My husband Jimmy? If napping was an Olympic sport, he would have won gold for the catnap event. Give him ten minutes and he was fully charged.

The rest of the time, he always chose a hobby that carried some danger to it. Jimmy grew up riding dirt bikes. He raced them for a lot of his late teens and twenties. He won his race at Mammoth Mountain Motocross one year. Quite an accomplishment. When we met and got married, we both kind of morphed our hobbies. We chased our kids around for many years and that felt like our whole world. With small kids, he didn’t feel dirtbike riding was that feasible or safe. I didn’t ski as much nor live in a snowy town anymore.

When Jim was diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer and had his first major surgery, he came home one day and said, “I stopped by the cycle shop today and ordered dirt bikes. One for me and two for the boys.” Life left my body while I ingested the words that he had spoken. I will not repeat the next few minutes of conversation. It was rather salty. I hadn’t seen Jim that intent on something in a long time. He was going to ride that motorcycle no matter what.

After we bought out all of the available safety gear for them, they went to the Mojave Desert with a group of lifelong friends and started riding. Our oldest, Gradon, took to it instantly. Our youngest, Kyle, had zero interest. He would go with them to the desert and play with toy rockets and wait for Jimmy to start the bonfire at night. They would sit around and enjoy the desert sky. Jim had this little cannon. Yes, cannon. It didn’t send any projectiles out but in the morning ,when all of his buddies were snuggled into their RVs sleeping, he would put a little gun powder in it and set it off. The BOOM would wake up everyone and scare them half to death. He loved that thing.

Eventually, I decided to go and bring my camera. I wanted to capture what was happening and be supportive. After surgeries and treatments, it was good to see him laughing and talking (and talking some more) with his buddies. He would ride off with a group of friends along the trails and return so happy.

I was always worried. He was already trying to navigate cancer, what if he were to get hurt? What if something awful happened? We had already been through so much. I was being extra careful to keep us free from extra trouble and he was throwing caution to the wind and going for it.

Jim’s doctors weren’t having it. They were all very honest about how they felt. The risks were not worth it. I was on their side. I agreed. But the thing was, I had this tug in my heart that made me feel bad when I vocalized my feelings about his riding. The thinner or less strong Jim appeared, the more he needed his rides in the desert. The more worried I became. Then a beautiful thing happened. Jim stopped by a dirtbike shop and asked them to sponsor him in an upcoming race at a local track. My amazing hubby got it! They wrote a letter of sponsorship! They gave him a discount on anything he bought. He got their gear to ride in this upcoming race. I was less than happy to hear that he would be racing! I had visions of men just ‘dog eat dogging it’ around a track. I saw this as a potential major hazard for our life. If Jimmy got hurt, I would have to take care of him. What if something worse happened? I was just beside myself with worry and a little flash of anger. Why was he willing to possibly put us in a predicament of catastrophe? Yes, that’s right catastrophe. (I went there.)

That is what a caregiver thinks every time something else comes into the picture while they are holding up the universe. I am a future tripper extraordinaire. I worry about all the what if’s. The thought of anything else being a threat to my family made me use invisible bubble wrap and caution tape. I had slowed or stopped all the darn fun in life for my family. Cancer was the only risky thing I could handle.

The day of Jim’s big race he packed the truck and took the boys out to the track about an hour and a half from the house. I eventually grabbed my first aid kit, phone numbers of local rescue teams and emergency information…just kidding, but secretly I did want to bring in a whole ambulance team. I arrived at the scene to find Jimmy sitting in the back of a truck watching the races before his own. He was serious in thought and very quiet. A quiet Jim Faulkner was an unusual sight. He finally changed into his gear and walked his bike to the starting line. I perched far away from him where I imagined I could get a photo of him whizzing by. I was so nervous and possibly armed with a few “I told you so’s” just in case he fell and got hurt. The race started and Jim Faulkner, racing number 42, and all the other racers left the starting gate. Racer after racer flew past me. I had my camera ready for Jimmy. It seemed to be quite a while before I saw him in his sponsored jersey and cool helmet round the corner. He rode by me and he was not going fast at all. He was slowly riding the track. I felt his determination. I felt his focus. I felt his joy. I realized Jimmy wasn’t interested in being the next Evil Knievel. He was completely locked in the moment. There was nothing else on his mind but what was in front of him. He didn’t notice or care if other riders were passing him by. He wasn’t looking for a trophy. He was feeling peace. He was in the state of mind that you only get when you are totally focused on one thing.

He finished that race. Period. I don’t know his time or where he placed. I know this:** He rode that race**. He came off the track, and his buddies and our boys greeted him. They hugged him and shared high fives like this was the best day ever. And guess what? In some ways it was. His friends were so supportive and happy. His boys thought he was incredible. (He was). Most of all, he did it. He set his mind to it and enjoyed it. He enjoyed the whole thing.

I left Jimmy and the boys at the track to pack up and drive home with a new set of emotions to sort out. I understood what was in front of me all along. Jimmy felt alive in that moment. He felt like cancer could not reach him while he was on that bike. The wind, the ground and the blue skies above him were all he was feeling. He felt free. He felt one with the universe in his own way.

Later that night, we had a really great conversation and he explained just that. The desert, his bike, his family, and friends were what he really needed to live. He left behind the endless pain and the constant thought of cancer in the back of his mind. He brought forward the reason we live. Joy. Mindfulness of the present moment. Peace.

The next time a doctor criticized his hobby, I would shut them down. I supported his desert trips. I would help him make his trip easier by prepping his food that he had to make for everyone at camp. I ordered his medical supplies and sent him on his way in the RV with the boys and the dirtbikes. I never worried again about what could happen. What if this is the way of life? Do what you love when you can and take care of business when you must. There is no way I would want to look back and think I kept Jim from enjoying his life. He was living with a lot. He may as well live with total abandon and clear mindedness when it was possible.

I still worried. I also accepted the possibility that he could get hurt. This risky choice on his part reminded me that he lived with cancer every second of every day and nothing can be as hard as having to accept that. I still chose calmer hobbies to offset the chaos, but I now think about doing the things I love. I am hoping to stop seeing the risk in adventures and return to fun Karalyn again someday. I am hoping to really jazz it up and buy new hiking boots this winter. I want to take a long drive with my dog and see some parts of the country that I haven’t been to. I hope those of you living with NET cancer continue to find your peace and joy. I wish caregivers the time and energy for the fun they need as well.

A year after he passed, all of his friends and our family met in the desert and guess what we did? We put some of Jim’s ashes in that cannon and woke up the whole desert with a boom that included a little piece of his magic. If you had the pleasure of knowing Jimmy, you know that he was amazing. This month will mark 8 years since he passed away. Remembering him as an unstoppable force in this world brings me comfort and sadness all in one. I feel his energy in my work at The Healing NET Foundation. His personality shines through our amazing sons. As Thanksgiving approaches, I want to remind all of you that I am grateful for you. Thank you for reading Karalyn Cares. I really do care about all of you.

Just in case he can read this, Happy Trails Jim Faulkner. Happy Trails.