( genetically , there is less than a 6 percent chance of that happening ), and I was surrounded by a loving family and incredibly supportive community to help me get through it all .
With pickleball top of mind , one of the first questions I asked my oncologist was related to any potential limits on physical exertion . Her response was that I should keep exercising as long as I could , while being sure to “ listen to my body .”
I asked my body , and the answer was pretty darn clear : “ Pete , get out there and play pickleball !”
So I played , and it truly became my therapy . In the three-plus months leading up to the transplant , I played before transfusions that I needed every few days to stay alive . I played before my chemotherapy sessions , and basically any time I could amidst what felt like an endless calendar of medical appointments .
I played even when I began to need to sit out for a while between games . And my wife constantly warned me that I was playing with dangerously low platelet counts . But I needed to play . I needed a distraction , and a sanctuary where I could feel “ normal ” for just a few hours at a time , as often as possible . And all the while I told my playing partners that I wanted no pity — errant dinks should still get mercilessly pounded right back at me !
But just as pickleball would eventually mark the milestones of my recovery , so too did it lay bare for me the physical deterioration that I would first need to endure . In particular , the chemo began taking its toll . I was quickly losing both strength and balance , and my joints and muscles became achy and sore to the point where I lost nearly all my mobility .
Just prior to going into the hospital for my transplant , my brothers and parents came to visit . We all went to the local courts , and mixed and matched for a couple of hours . I was only able to play two games .
My body was speaking , but not so enthusiastically this time . “ Time to put the paddle away for a while , and let me rest ,” it said . And so I walked off the court , knowing that the ultimate challenge was still ahead of me , but that it wasn ’ t going to be on the pickleball court .
The next four months included a month in the hospital for the transplant , and then another three months of being under 24 / 7 care at home . But although I was no longer on the pickleball court , the game continued to be an important part of my emotional , mental and physical healing .
In the hospital , I refused to wear a “ gown ” and instead had my family bring me a regular supply of pickleball clothes . With minimum ability to focus and concentrate , I watched hours of pickleball videos on YouTube . And I walked countless laps around the hospital and even rode a spin bike that the nurses brought into my room — in hopes of returning to the pickleball court as soon as possible .
Once I got home , I created a makeshift practice wall in our basement with a net line marked on the wall and a “ kitchen ” line taped 7 feet away . When I had periodic bursts of energy , I ’ d drill against the wall , keeping tallies of how many dinks and volleys in a row I could hit . And as I regained the ability to concentrate , I filled time by reading entertaining pickleball books ( and this magazine !).
A couple of months post-transplant , I got the OK to venture outside with a mask . One of my first destinations was the local pickleball courts . I ’ ll never forget opening that gate . Two courts of play — both filled with my local playing buddies — stopped their play , and just looked my way . Nobody knew quite what to say , but finally one of my friends walked up and , with a tear in his eye , just said what I know they were all thinking , “ Welcome back , Pete , it ’ s so great to see you here again .”
“ 0-0-Start .” That ’ s what it has been , in so many ways . As soon as I got the OK to travel ( very , very carefully !), my son and I did a road trip down to southern California to train with an amazing teaching pro . I was able to play for three hours a day , three days in a row , thanks to a lot of Advil , Tylenol , an icing machine , a roller , a Theragun and a variety of other recovery tools !
A few months later , my wife and I attended a pickleball camp in Newport Beach , and I was able to play for sixplus hours three days in a row .
I ’ m now 18 months post-transplant , and I ’ m sober to the fact that there is still a journey ahead of me . But there is also a lot of journey behind me . One of the things I have learned is how critical it is to envision a future state to fuel you through these kinds of situations and nurture and guide your healing . I ’ m incredibly blessed to have so many reasons , and so much purpose , for which to live . And , funny as it may sound , pickleball is absolutely one of them .
I ’ m incredibly grateful for this game , and everything that it means for me and so many others — the exercise , the quality social connection with friends and family , the intellectual engagement , the outlet for healthy competition , the opportunities to explore and travel , and so much more .
Thank you , pickleball . Seriously , thank you . I hope to be saying “ Just one more game …” for decades to come . •
When not playing pickleball , Pete Wheelan serves as an Executive Coach and advisor to CEOs in the education industry . He and his wife , Julie , live in Mill Valley , CA , but are moving to Park City , UT , later this year , in part because of the vibrant and growing pickleball scene there . They have two sons , ages 22 and 18 , who also love pickleball and the family can often be found playing competitive “ parent versus kid ” matches .”
JULY / AUGUST 2023 | MAGAZINE 43