Throwing a lifeline

ASHLAND -- It's 7:30 a.m. and David Hatch and John Joyce have just finished their 4 -mile run around the Ashland Reservoir. Instead of returning to their homes for showers, they head down to the shoreline, stripping off their running gear for a quick dip in the water.

It's the perfect summer diversion. Only this is late January, and the two men are standing barefoot in a dusting of snow.

Once a week, Hatch, 50, and Joyce, 51, take this post-run plunge. The ritual began in September 2005 when Hatch's wife, Liz , was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.

"Before Liz's diagnosis, we occasionally swam after our run, but always during the summer or fall," said Joyce, Hatch's longtime friend and a software engineer with Hewlett-Packard. "But after Liz's diagnosis -- and I don't even know if the reason was ever spoken -- I just said, 'We have to do this every week.' "

"It's a way of showing support for her," Hatch added. "With the cancer, the treatments, the uncertainty -- there's so little I can do. But this swim? This is something I can do."

Although pancreatic cancer is the 12th most commonly diagnosed cancer, it ranks fourth in terms of cancer fatalities, with 32,000 deaths annually , according to the American Cancer Society. It can be difficult to diagnose because there is no blood test for early pancreatic cancer and its symptoms of jaundice and back pain can be attributed to many other causes . By the time a diagnosis is made, the cancer has often metastasized.

Liz, 47, suffered from back pain and no cause was determined for more than a year, even as it forced her to quit her job at Whole Foods. The day after she quit, an MRI revealed the cancer, which had spread too far for surgery to be an option. The couple quickly learned the grim statistics online: Even with treatment, the average survival time for metastatic pancreatic cancer is less than a year . Liz has passed that mark, however.

Liz called Joyce after her diagnosis, asking him to keep her husband busy and active during what she knew would be a difficult time, although she initially was concerned about the idea of swimming year-round.

"I thought David was crazy at first, and I was worried about his safety," she said. "But now I like knowing he has an outlet for dealing with my situation.

"It helps me to know that he's doing this. David's got so much pressure now, from working and taking care of me and the kids and running all the errands. This swim is the one thing in his life, though, that he's always going to do. And the longer I stay alive, the more it becomes a spiritual experience for him."

Hatch, a sales representative for Milford-based Selmark Associates Inc., acknowledged that he struggles to understand why his wife was stricken with this disease. He remains angry with doctors for not finding the cancer earlier, and he wonders whether there is some connection to Ashland's Superfund site, the former Nyanza dye-manufacturing facility that is being blamed for unusually high cancer rates among the town's residents. The site is about a half-mile from the house in which the couple has lived for two decades.

But Hatch, the father of two teenagers, knows he needs to relinquish his anger and accept what he can't change. Focusing on the weekly swim with his old friend helps "add a little sanity to an insane disease."

The two men have been friends since 1974, when both were working as security guards. In the months before the diagnosis, Hatch and Joyce saw little of each other, each busy with his own life. But when the crisis arose, there was no question that Joyce would stand by his friend, even if that meant standing in freezing water.

"When Dave says 'Jump,' I jump," Joyce joked.

At the reservoir, Joyce uses an ax to chop the ice in the shallows until he opens a clear path to the deeper water. Slowly, the friends ease their way in. They disappear and reemerge, both men quiet as the freezing water streams from their bodies. Only when they're back on dry land does the cold appear to faze them, as they snatch up their towels and change into warm clothes.

Often, it's Joyce driving the friends on. When he hears of a particularly frigid day in the forecast, he calls Hatch, with a strange and masochistic glee, to plan a swim. In fact, Joyce may be gaining as much from the experience as Hatch is. "It's a challenge -- more a mental challenge than a physical one," he said. "A year ago, I was surprised that we had made it that far. But now I realize that we can withstand more than we think we can."

Over the past 18 months, the friends have withstood temperatures in the single digits, waded through snowdrifts to get to the water's edge, and used the axes more than once. Despite the obstacles -- and perhaps through them -- Hatch said he finds strength and solace in the ritual.

"It's a routine that ties me to the whole ordeal my wife has to go through," he said. "It's not a hardship. It's something I do in honor of her battle. It's our commitment."

Compared to what Liz is going through, he said, it isn't hard.

The two men often offer what they call a prayer before their swim, addressing it to Liz. Like the friends, the words are unpretentious and direct: "This is for you, Liz. We hope you're feeling better."

Hatch hasn't always been a spiritual man, but his wife's cancer has changed him.

"God has to find you; you can't go find God. I've had many prayers answered in my life, yet I've always wrestled with faith. Now I feel like I have no choice. I have to submit. I pray all the time now."

Hatch and Joyce would like to someday shift their energies into raising awareness about pancreatic cancer. They've considered organizing a fund-raising event with PanCAN , the support organization for pancreatic cancer patients, perhaps tying the event to their swim. But for now, the ritual at the reservoir remains intimate and personal. "It's peaceful there," Hatch said. "You go there, and you can't see anything but water and trees and sky. It's my refuge. It's my sanctuary."

To learn more about pancreatic cancer, visit pancan.org.