Pierce McManus: Boo Boo Boy vs Cancer

As a marathon runner, Pierce McManus prides himself on his toughness — but then he begins coughing up blood.

Pierce McManus relocated to Washington, DC from New York in 1992 to pursue a career in international diplomacy. When his budding ambassadorial ambitions fell through, he opted for a different route -- running marathons, fronting a sleazy rock band, and diving headfirst into a career in digital communications. Pierce is a fixture of DC's venerated storytelling scene and the co-host of the popular Perfect Liars Club. You can learn more about him at the curiously titled piercemcmanus.com. 

This story originally aired on Oct. 12, 2018, in an episode titled “Cancer Sucks”.

Story Transcript

When I was a child, my parents bestowed upon me a rather unfortunate nickname.  They called me Boo-Boo Boy.  Say it one more time, Boo-Boo Boy.  Because every nick, cut, scratch, cold, illness, malady, real or imagined, would send me into complete hysterics quickly followed with a desperate search for some sort of parental consolation. 

My father was a grizzled New York city police officer.  My mother was an old-school devout Catholic.  Basically what I’m trying to say is parental consolation in any form was in very short supply in the McManus household. 

“Here comes Boo-Boo Boy,” my father would say whenever he saw me approach with tears in my eyes. 

In retrospect, I know that nickname Boo-Boo Boy was a thinly veiled attempt on the part of my parents to toughen me up.  Quite frankly, I don't blame them.  I was a pudgy, bookish lad with more imaginary friends than real friends, a propensity to burst into tears at the drop of a hat, and all the athletic skill of a wet sponge. 

I loathed being called Boo-Boo Boy and I made it my goal over the years to put as much time and space as I possibly could between him and me. 

By the time I hit my forties, I was pretty sure I had completely shaken the stigma of Boo-Boo Boy.  I was living in Washington DC.  I had a successful career in advertising.  I had this swinging Mad Men bachelor lifestyle that accompanied a career in advertising, and I had finally discovered a sport that I was actually good at.  Distance running.  Marathons. 

I went from being a kid who would cry at the first sign of pain to pursuing a hobby that required a high pain threshold.  Yeah, take that, mom and dad.  And when I say I was into running, I mean I was really into running.  I was really good at it too, like Boston-Marathon good.  And in the fall of 2010 at the Philadelphia Marathon, I qualified for my sixth Boston Marathon. 

Life was good.  The world was my oyster.  I had a great job.  I loved my swinging bachelor ways, and I loved the counterbalance and the mental discipline that running offered.  I would say I felt invincible. 

If we've learned anything from the Old Testament, Shakespearean tragedies and mid-1990s Nicholas Cage films is that the minute you begin to feel invincible, is the exact moment you should begin to watch your back for the unfathomable comeuppance that is waiting for you right around the corner. 

I ran smack dab into my comeuppance four months after that marathon when I woke up one morning, made my way to the bathroom, hopped in the shower and proceeded to cough up blood everywhere.  I do mean everywhere.  My bathroom looked like the murder scene from Psycho. 

Naturally, anyone in their right mind would exit the shower, dry off and call a medical professional.  I did not.  I was ridiculously hung over.  I had spent the previous night at the annual advertising bacchanalia known as the ADDY Awards and I had raised all sorts of Cain into the early morning hours. 

Truthfully, as I surveyed the crime scene that was my bathroom, I could hear the voice of my mother.  “See all that?  God is punishing you for your poor choices.”  So I told no one. 

Six months would pass before I found myself in a doctor’s office.  I'd gone downtown for my annual physical.  “Everything looks good,” my doctor told me, “but is there anything else you need to tell me?” 

The truth was my life had begun a complete tailspin since that first coughing-up-blood episode.  I was tired.  I was lonely.  But most of all, I was scared I couldn’t keep it a secret anymore. 

“I've been coughing up blood,” I told her.  Things really took off from there. 

A week later, I made my way downtown for a CT scan to identify the source of all that blood.  “We’re going to inject you with some dye,” the nurse told me.  “That helps us read the scan better.  But there's only one small side effect.  It makes you feel like you're wetting your pants.” 

As I lay in this giant metal tube for what seemed like forever, I was just completely terrorized not at the notion of what the doctors might find but out of fear that I had actually wet my pants.  When the scan was complete, I was very relieved to discover that that was not the case. 

But what I did discover shortly thereafter was six missed phone calls from my doctor and one very urgent voicemail.  “Pierce, you need to call me right away.”  It’s never a good sign, guys.  

The scan had revealed a large mass in my right lung. 

“I've made you an appointment with a pulmonologist this afternoon,” my doctor informed me. 

Three hours later, I found myself in another examination room in downtown DC.  The doors swung open, a doctor entered and, without introducing himself, he raised his finger to his chin, he looked me up and down and said, “Hmm, you don’t strike me as the cancer type.” 

Two weeks later I am diagnosed with cancer.  Leiomyoscarcoma.  It’s a soft muscle tissue cancer with a 50% life expectancy, depending on which medical journal you read.  But here’s the thing.  It’s typically found in the uterine lining of older women, not in the lungs of healthy marathon runners. 

“You’re one in a million,” my doctor tells me.  I smile at the notion of winning Cancer Powerball. 

I make the long walk home to my house that morning and I’m in complete shock at the news.  And as much as it pains me, as much as I don't want to return to my Boo-Boo Boy ways, I call my parents.  It goes right to voicemail. 

I make my way finally into the lobby of my condo building and, just out of sheer habit, I check my mail.  I reach into the mailbox and I pull out a large postcard. 

“Congratulations!  You're accepted to the 2012 Boston Marathon.” 

The race is six months away.  I wonder if I’m even going to be alive in six months’ time.  My grandfather went from cancer diagnosis to death bed in the span of three months. 

Then, in that moment, I am overcome with something I am not accustomed to.  Sheer, unmitigated anger.  Fuck that!  I am running this race.  I am going to be in Boston for the 2012 Boston Marathon.  I’m not going to let cancer and I’m not going to let anything stop me.  I just needed to get my doctors on board with this plan. 

Things did not get off to a good start when I met my surgeon.  “You will lose part of your lung, that is for certain.  There is a good chance you will lose all of your lung.” 

Things only went downhill from there when I met my oncologist.  He described a series of radiation treatments that would happen after the surgery. 

“But I've got the Boston Marathon,” I told him. 

“Oh, Pierce.  There will be other marathons.  You need to focus 2012 on getting cancer free.”  Clearly, this plan was not working.  I needed a Plan B. 

Plan B meant a second opinion, so I gathered all my materials and slides and I sent them off to Sloan Kettering Cancer Center in New York City.  Due to the unique nature of my diagnosis, they completely expedited my case and in a week’s time I was sitting right across from one of Sloan Kettering’s top thoracic surgeons. 

“I hear you run marathons,” he said.  “My daughter runs marathons too.”  I knew immediately that I was in great hands. 

A year to the day of my Boston Marathon qualifying run in Philadelphia, I had surgery at Sloan Kettering.  The doctor described it to me as having a lung transplant with my own lung.  The challenge was being able to remove the tumor without having to remove any parts of my lung. 

I woke hours later and was miraculously informed that both my lungs were still intact.  That’s where things got really weird.  Because further analysis of the tumor would indicate that I had been completely misdiagnosed.  I did not have leiomyosarcoma.  I had the equally rare and kind of bizarre glomus tumor, which is a benign tumor typically found underneath fingernails. 

“Don’t worry, Pierce,” my doctor told me, “you're still one in a million.” 

I was in the hospital for four days and I was released on Thanksgiving Day 2011.  I wound up spending the next two months recuperating under the watchful eye of my mom and dad in my childhood home. 

“We were worried about you, Boo-Boo Boy,” my parents told me.  “We’re happy to have you home.” 

A few weeks later at a follow-up appointment with my surgeon, I said, “You know, doc, I've got the marathon coming up.  When can I start running?” 

He says, “Running?  We didn’t operate on your legs.  You can start running whenever you want.” 

So I started running.  In four months’ time I made my way to the start of the Boston Marathon.  I savored every minute of that race and I still savor every minute.