The First Half

Making our way to Huntington Beach in the early morning fog, I had but one thought:  Get me out of this!  I was still considering a myriad of excuses for not doing the half up until the time Tim dropped me off: my leg hurts (it didn't but I knew it was going to - thus, technically not a lie), my shoes are too tight, my hydration pack is too big, I have to go to the bathroom...

You get the picture.

I gingerly made my way to my finishing group's corral.  Curiously, everyone looked healthy.  WTH?  Where were the cardiac patients and people on crutches?  My friend Shayna found me there.  Shayna, who threatened to stab me if I didn't finish declared she'd walk with me.  She'd make sure I finish.  "We'll take it easy," she said.  "We've got 6 hours.  You can do this!"  I didn't feel as certain about that as Shayna did but I felt buoyed by her enthusiasm.  

Truthfully, I had made a deal with myself.  I would try but I wouldn't push too hard.  If it came down to completing it significantly injured or quitting in the middle, I'd quit in the middle.  I wasn't going to throw away working out for the next 6 weeks for a medal; not even the super-cool surfboard medal.  A week or two, I'd sacrifice.  A month or more?  After the 2 month hiatus from working out I just had?  Oh, hell no.   If I had to cut out, I would.  I would be mindful of The Big Picture.  I would be mature.  Stop laughing.

Mile 1-3 went by in an instant.  Having Shayna with me helped immensely.  We kept a decent pace and chatting through it, we played catch up with each other's lives.  Perfect.  Shayna knew a lot of participants so while she was hugging various people during the race, I took time to stretch my legs and back.  I was glad to get the little breaks.  

Mile 4, I started getting the same charlie horse in my right calf that has plagued me the last couple of times I've run.  Not horribly painful but there nonetheless.  I knew where it was headed; up the back of my knee to my thigh and hip.  I took note but slogged on.  I just slogged a little bit slower.  

The long stretch of Pacific Coast Highway that were miles 6-10 were brutal.  Good lord, where is the turn!?!  (repeat 10,000 times in my head). I grew up in Huntington Beach and couldn't figure out for the life me where I was on that stretch.  None of it looked remotely familiar.  I could feel a blister beginning to fester on the ball of my right foot under my big toe.  My second toenail on my left foot began to holler as it banged against the inside of my shoe.  Annoying yes, though not annoying enough to make me feel like needed to stop walking. 

Mile 9, a lovely spectating soul was handing out pretzel sticks and Red Vines.  The two little Red Vines I ate gave me a little happy boost.  Screw those little Sharkie things; I'm integrating  Red Vines in my training.  I dropped one while walking, stopped, picked it up from the street, and in front of everyone, ate it.  I don't normally eat things I drop on the street but by then I was operating on lizard brain:  "Survive! Survive! Survive!"  Besides, I believe endorphins have anti-bacterial properties.  You can quote me on that. 

Mile 10-12 were, for lack of a better term, easy all things considered.  I hadn't run a step throughout the race yet it appeared that I would finish somewhere around the time I projected last fall when I was going to run it: 4 hours.  Yay for setting the bar low!  I turned to Shayna and said, "Holy crap, I think I'm going to finish this thing."

Mile 13, Tim and Bambina showed up.  He took the hoodie I had worn for miles 1-11 and that Shayna had kindly carried for me through mile 12.  He bailed out and Shayna and I ran the last 100 steps to the finish line.  My legs felt like lead and pain shot up my right leg through to my hip but, whatever.  I wanted a running finish.  And I got it.  Yippeeee!

My official time?  3:49:53  Certainly, nothing to brag about but I did it under 4, walking.  Most of all, I did it.  And next year, God willing, I'll do it again even better. 

Redefining Excellence

What do you do when you know, down to marrow of your bones, you're about to choke, publicly?  Do you take a pass and politely bow out?  Or do you just say "eff it" and do it anyway?

This was my dilemma.

Back in November, I was doing swimmingly in preparation for my first half-marathon.  I was consistently running 3 and 4 times a week and cross-training on my non-running days.  I was in control of my diet, had sworn off sugar.  I was even taking a multivitamin everyday.   I felt strong, healthy, and in control.  I had lost 5 pounds.  I felt like a million bucks.

Did you notice that these things are framed in the past tense?

The holidays (ugh) brought overtime, extended work shifts, and hospital stays for both my parents.  Thus began sleepless nights, carbo-loading, and multiple trips to Starbucks everyday in effort to just slog through it.  And if these things weren't bad enough, the first week of the year, I abruptly switched from the night to the morning shift.  I regularly went to the gym around midnight; I still haven't figured out where to put gym time into my schedule.  In the month of January, I managed one (1) trip to the gym.  Last week I ran/walked 6 miles around the neighborhood and pulled a muscle in my right leg.

Did I mention that the half is in (looks at watch) 5 days?

I have given serious, real consideration to blowing the half off multiple times.  Clearly, I'm nowhere near where I should be to walk it, much less run it.  I fear for my flabby, pasty, legs and hips that last week were screaming while I was hitting mile 4 on flat asphalt.  It's clear that if I manage to even participate in this thing I'm going to be hurting - completing it is but a dream.  The burning rubber of certain failure permeates my new, barely touched, running kicks.  Oh, I'm screwed for sure.  I'm the salmon swimming upstream...right into the mouth of big ol' bear.

Yesterday, I had rehearsed an excuse speech to give my dear friend Mila who is presently having panic-attacks thinking about the half after successfully completing a 10 mile run last weekend.  Poor prepared Mila.  She can only imagine what failure might look like.  I'm about to embrace it.  Purposefully.

Because if I'm going to do this, Mila...

Yep.  Sunday morning, I'm going to be there in all my half-ass, utterly unprepared, about-to-be-digested-salmon-swimming glory.  Fuck it.  I'm in.  I don't know if this is the stupidest thing I've ever done because there are so many contenders for that honor, but I think that not to at least try my best would be even worse.  My best effort is going to look pathetic and weak, but not as pathetic and weak as fearing failure and doing nothing at all.  Whatever it is, no matter how ugly it looks, I'll step up and I'll own it.  It will be mine.

I'm down but not out, bitches.  Bring it.

Why I Run

Doctors don't tell you that you have MS like the way you see it portrayed on television dramas.  You know, in hushed, gentle tones; maybe trying to prepare you emotionally for the bad news with a lot of eye contact and perhaps some hand holding.   It's a matter of fact business because let's face it, if you're in the profession in which you'd find yourself breaking this sort of dreary news, you'd be a basketcase if you really thought about what kind of life most likely awaits the 29-year old, stay-at-home mom who can't really feel much of her own body from about mid-chest chest down.

That 29-year old mom would be me.  Back then.  Circa New Year's Day, 1994.   At Mission Hospital.  

I took the news remarkably well.  This was due in part because I was relived it wasn't something worse.  My neurologist had recited to me a laundry list of horrendous possible disease and disorder explanations for the paralysis few days prior: Lou Gehrig's disease, brain tumor, Lupus...  While he was reciting these possibilities, as if I were buying a pair of shoes, I was mentally trying on each one for size, "Ugh. No thanks. Next..."  I kept waiting for The Cause that would be cured with a simple antibiotic prescription and a few days rest; maybe someplace warm...like Hawaii.   There wasn't anything like that on his list.    

After marinating with the all possibilities for a few days, MS didn't seem quite so bad.  Seriously.  It was odd to think I might spend some portion of my life in a wheelchair but I was rather fond of sitting.  I could make it work.  Plus, by the time the neurologists had narrowed the cause down, I could get around fairly well with a walker.  I couldn't really feel my legs and feet, but as long as they were getting the message to move from my brain, I was willing to make the most of it for as long as it would last.   

When friends and family heard the news, I got a lot of sympathy.  This annoyed me.  I wondered who these overly-sympathetic people thought they were, behaving as if life was going to leave them utterly unscathed.  I didn't think, "Why me?"  I thought, "Why not me?  Who am I to get a special pass on the consequences of living a life?"  


Other than a handful of exceptions, most people would come visit me and I would end up trying to comfort them.  "I am the same person sitting down that I am standing up," I'd say.  "I can be paralyzed and miserable, or just paralyzed.  The misery part is strictly optional, right?"   I wasn't in cheery denial.  I really did see misery as an option I could take or leave, though I'd be remiss if I didn't give God the credit here.  I really felt in my heart of hearts that everything was going to be alright.  I truly did.  I didn't know what was going to happen to me, but I was going to be okay with it.  I may not end up living my first choice lifestyle, but generally speaking, I didn't have to make peace with it - I was at peace with it.  From the get-go.  And I didn't do a thing to bring on that peace.  It just was.  Amen. 

Happily, I recovered most of my physical abilities to near completion within a few months.  By April 1994, I was passing myself off as a perfectly functioning human being.  I was walking totally unassisted, though I was still finding myself exhausted doing the simplest daily household tasks.  By the time I gave birth to Sabrina, two years had passed and I was doing well.  After her birth, I went on beta-interferon, which I had to inject into my thigh once a week, after I had plied myself with a beer (ever the cheap date).  I had decided I wasn't going to give MS any place in my life - MS would have to take whatever it got.  I took the kids to the park every day; I coached Cassandra's first soccer team; I walked an 8K for a local charity.  I did have bad days; days in which I couldn't physically accomplish much other than entertaining the kids, getting them fed, and to the park to play.  Those days weren't great - but I got through them.  I tried not to think about the future too much.  I wanted to make sure the kids had memories of me up on my feet and active; just in case.  And every New Year's Eve, I would run.  Not far, not fast.  But I would run, because I could.  I would put on the plaid flannel hoodie that I wore in the hospital the day I got my diagnosis, and at 11:59 pm and a handful of seconds, I would head out the front door and run in the new year.  Every year.  Alone.  I'd run as hard and as fast as I could.  When I started to hear horns blaring, the sound of cow bells, and people shouting, "Happy New Year!" I'd run faster.  And I'd keep running until I couldn't run another step.

Turns out, I didn't have MS; a fact I learned some five and a half years, and a new series of MRIs and blood tests later.  What I did have, as best as the neurologist could tell, was something called Transverse Myelitis.  It presents with the same symptoms MS does, but it's a much more rare condition.  The only real difference between MS and TM, is that TM is usually just a one-time event.  There are 3 possible outcomes with TM:  You end up never recovering at all; you end up with limited recovery and in need of an assistive device to get around; or you end up with a nearly full recovery and a handful of minor, mostly insignificant neurological issues.  I am in the third catagory.  My remaining issues are insignificant.  Most I can simply ignore, so I do.  Granted, no one can explain why the lesions on my optic nerve and brain just disappeared;  but they did.  Is it a misdiagnosis...or a miracle?   My take is everyone's nervous system is a miracle.  So is mine; so is yours.  Amen.

I gave up running in the new year when I got the re-diagnosis because I didn't feel the need to do so anymore.  These days, my New Year's Eve celebrations generally involve Tim, a fireplace, and number of glasses of champaign.  But every time I put on my running shoes in preparation for a run, I think of when I couldn't run; and I acknowledge that someday, I won't be able to.  Again.  I will have bad knees, or a pesky hip, or some other regular, old lady issue that will once again make running impossible for me.  Or maybe something else will sideline me before that.  It is possible.  This is life we're talking about.  No one has a guarantee for anything in this wild, wonderfully unpredictable, world.

I run because I can. 

Sabrina & Me
The Iron Girl Race - San Diego - 2009

The Return of the Absolute Laurie Blog

Admit it, you've missed me.  

Today I received two items in my mailbox.  One I had ordered; the mint green Nike Dri-Fit tank top, and a mysterious package from someone named Suzanne Atwood.  Suzanne Atwood?  I don't know anyone named Suzanne Atwood so naturally, I thought it was some sort of mail bomb because, you know, that's what mysterious packages from strangers always are on TV shows.   Always.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Hmmmm.. who do I know that would want to kill me in a dramatic yet desperately cowardly fashion?

Failing to come up with the name of anyone that I could have inspired such a passionate, deadly response, and despite my better television-honed judgement, I opened the package.   This is what was inside:

What the..?  My first guess was these were some sort of quilting squares from someone that mistook me for a person with some practical, useful talent.   And for some mysterious reason, they wanted me to make a really, really ugly quilt for them.  Obviously, this Suzanne Atwood person, who wants me to make an ugly quilt for her is totally unaware that I don't know the first thing about sewing.  Nothing.   I have on occasion, used a stapler to hem my dress pants and once in a pinch, busted out the duct tape.  My daughter Cassandra is the proud owner of a fistful of loose Brownie patches from back when she was in Girl Scouts.  They're sitting in a neat little pile my closet because you can't staple them to the little brown vests without being on the receiving end of a bunch of shade and negative social repercussions from all "The Good Mothers."

Meh.  Whatev.  I do other things well.  You know, things like using self-deprecating humor to dodge having to learn how to do stuff that would bore the living daylights out of me.

Intrigued, I googled up the name "Suzanne Atwood" and discovered she is the owner of a company that makes 100% organic baby products.  In fact, you can order a package of these little flannel squares which incidentally are spit-up cloths, for $18 a throw.  Ohhhhhhh, okay.  Wait.  Huh?

There must be some confusion on the part of Suzanne Atwood, or somebody, somewhere.  Either that or a friend of mine has mistaken the 10 pounds I need to lose for a devastating mid-life pregnancy.  And really if that's the case, why didn't they send narcotics? 

Ash Wednesday

In my spare time, I volunteer to take pictures of headstones in local cemeteries for people doing genealogical research. If you live in East Bubbleflip and your kin are buried near me, I make a trip to the cemetery and take a picture or two. I then send them via email and/or I post them on a virtual cemetery website. This way people who live far away can get a sense of a cemetery visit (or at least a gander). Or, if they're working on their family trees, the pictures can serve as a primary sources of information or sometimes give them additional details that they didn't have. It's fun, easy, and doesn't take a lot of time. And the people making the request really appreciate the help.

A few weeks ago, I saw a couple of photo requests for a cemetery a few miles from my house. The person making the requests had excruciating detailed instructions where to find the two headstones. Perfect! I have no sense of direction so I thought the instructions would help. I click to agree to volunteer and then ask Tim if he wants to come along because really, what's a better way to spend an sunny, summer afternoon than a trip to the cemetery?

Answer: Nothing.

We spend over an hour in the blazing sun looking for these people. We keep consulting the map and the explict instructions: "Area A & B, rows yadda, yadda, spaces blah, blah, blah." We're searching in Area A & B - no dice. We even traipsed over into Area C, D & E - nope, not there. For good measure, we even checked the mausoleum vaults; the areas where the cremains are buried; the veterans' section - nothing. This cemetery is huge. It would take days to go through and read names on every row in the place. And it's a Saturday. The cemetery office is closed.

I leave feeling like jerk. And a disappointment. This person is depending on me to get the headstone pics and I've failed. I go home and send the person making the request an email. I tell them that I tried to find the headstones and was unsuccessful. I also tell them that I'll go back when the office is open. "I'm sure the people in the office can help me and I'll get the headstone pictures. I promise." They write back and say, "Here are the instructions where to find the headstones."

Yeah. I had that info.

On my next day off, I head out early to the cemetery. I stop by the office and speak to the two ladies working there. They're very nice and totally willing to help. Yay! One hops on the computer and types up the names. She turns to the other lady and using that "Uh-Oh," uncomfortable tone of voice I use with passengers when flights are delayed a couple of hours, she says, "Ummmm, Nancy?"

Nancy walks over, quickly reads the display on the monitor and then turns to me and cheerfully chirps, "Sorry honey, they've been cremated! There are no headstones for these people. They've been scattered over in the rose garden."

Holy crap! I'm pretty sure I said that outloud.

"Just go take some nice pictures of the flowers!" she happily suggests. "Because God only knows where they're scattered out there."

While walking to my car to go fetch my camera it occurs to me that the person making the photo requests has absolutely no idea that Grandma and Grandpa, or Aunt and Uncle, or cousins WhatsTheirFaces have been cremated and scattered. Apparently, they didn't keep in touch so much. The people I'm looking for have been dead for a mere 10 and 20 years respectively. In genealogical terms that's about 3 or 4 minutes. They both were both born in the midwest and died in Los Angeles. I know this because I did a little research beforehand. I like to know who it is I'm taking pictures of out of respect. I don't know what these people are doing scattered, nameless in south OC. Did someone in the family decide to take the more ecomonical funerary road and maybe...ummmm, fail to mention this little fact to the rest of the family living in East Bubbleflip?

I grab my camera and take a bunch of pics of the memorial garden. I tried to make sure the pictures were lovely so as to give a cheerful, optimistic twist to the burnt and scattered truth. I then wrote an email gently letting them know there is no "row yadda, yadda, yadda; spaces blah, blah, blah." Feeling bad about having to break the news, I start chatting up the memorial garden, like I'm writing advertising copy. I use words like "beautiful," "serene," and "lovely." I mention the many colors of roses and the general feeling of peacefulness. I don't mention the apartments directly facing the garden - epecially the one playing mariachi music, loud, at 9:30 in the morning. Life is celebration and it most certainly goes on. And that's a good thing. This just probably isn't the time to discuss the merits of those ideas.

I haven't heard back.

Perhaps they're seeking a second opinion.

Wade

Someone I knew and cared about died suddenly yesterday. The details are sketchy at best but the point is he's gone and the world is lesser place without him. I wasn't close enough to Chris Wade to say that he was my friend - but he was certainly more than just a work acquaintence to me. I worked with Chris at Southwest for years before he left to work the ramp over in Phoenix with his best friend, Erik. Chris was a good guy with a kind soul. He was always there doing his job with a smile and a hug for the CSAs working the gate. I was sorry to see him leave OC. I'm much more sorry today.

I can't begin to imagine what his family is going through.

Rest in peace, Chris. I was blessed by God to know you.

iLaurie

As most of the free world by now knows, I am the happy owner of an iPhone. I'm not usually the sort of person that has to have the latest and greatest gadgets nor do I own any other Apple products. But I've been jonesing hard for an iPhone since the thing came out. I'm surprised Jersey Boy didn't suffocated me in my sleep just to get me to stop yammering about it for two solid years. Hell, six months in, I wanted to kill me.

I've been to iTunes and downloaded and used some cool applications. I pulled in some of my photos and music; I've bookmarked my favorite Internet sites. I've used the iPod, I've sent text mesasges, I've Facebooked, and (get this) I've even made some phone calls. I'm pleased to say that this iPhone thing is everything that I'd hoped it would be and more.

Yes, there are many, many terrific cell phones out there and yours is probably much better/more powerful/advanced than my iPhone but...can your cell phone be operated by a drunken chimp? Because that's the cell phone demographic I'm in. Like a neanderthal communicating by the use of iconic pictures on the wall of a cave, I too, have a heavy dependence on the use of icons. When I want to text someone, I don't want to have to deal with anything more complicated than poking my finger at a picture.

Complimentary neanderthal-style grunting, of course, is strictly optional.

Speaking of Neanderthals, since when did they become pronounced ne-ander-talls? What happened to the "h" in there? Granted, I spent most of my life mispronouncing "Orangutans," "Orangutangs" as if they were apes made out of a manufactured "orange juice like" breakfast drink designed for the purpose of space travel - but this stuff with the neanderthals is different. My best guess is that someone really smart dropped the "h" and now everyone else has decided to follow suit.

Of course, the great and simultaneously infuriating thing about the English language is that words evolve; pronunciations and meanings change over time. I recently saw an ad chastising kids for employing the word, "gay" as a negative description of things. It reminded me of my grandmother who wasn't pleased that homosexual people usurped the meaning of "gay" for themselves. My grandmother wasn't homophobic; she was once a flapper and was "gay" in the archaic definition. She took issue with people using a word she identified with and turning it into something she could no longer identify with personally. It would be like a group of Chinese basket weavers in France suddenly deciding to call themselves "Californians." I'd think, "Whoa, wait a just a second now..." I'm not Chinese, I don't know how to weave baskets, and I have never been to France.

Of course, none of us own words. No one gets to be the ultimate authority on their usage based on their personal preferences. Majority always rules. Sure, people can try to influence language usage but at the end of the day we're all just gay neanderthals poking at pictures of orangutans.