Choose Love and Waterproof Mascara

I’ve never seen anyone with Stevens Johnson before. It’s horrible. Any RN who’s ever had a patient with it knows what I’m saying. It’s the saddest, scariest, most traumatic thing I’ve ever encountered outside a burn unit. It made me feel like a horrible nurse. (non-medical peeps, don’t google that. Seriously. you don’t want to)

Damn, I was tired when I got home last night. It was Valentines Day and I worked. The heaviness of the prior days settled over me like a mantle of sadness, and I once again wondered why I had chosen such a hard profession.  I could have gone back to school to be anything. Anything at all... and I chose THIS? On PURPOSE? 

Then I pictured myself doing anything else, and I could not. In every imaginable reality I can conjure, I wear waterproof mascara and a stethoscope, and I work with people who cannot talk for themselves.

I wonder ~ do I work for them, or with them?, I thought as I popped the cork off a bottle of red.

I filled my glass past the point of convention, and then added a bit more. My first gulp was too big. It was not satisfying and it burned all the way down to my stomach. The warmth does nothing to quench my thirst, nor does it satisfy my need for mindlessness. It would take far more than a few glasses of wine to erase the pain of this weekend.

Not that I want to forget. Exactly. But the pain part of this weekend was that harsh raw pain that leaves a scar.

This weekend was a celebration of love and pain. And that shit wore me the fuck out. Not in the way I prefer.

I recently came to the conclusion that falling in love is something that happens to us. Being in love is something we choose.

So love is a choice. Choosing to look at the person beside you every day for 365 days, or 19,710 days in a row, and say to yourself, “I choose this person” is what it takes to BE in love. From my point of view, love is about acceptance, understanding, and grace.

And if Love looks like a choice, well Grace probably looks like something different to every person who wields it. It is a shield to protect your love, a sword to defend it, a pen to write it a letter, an offering in sacrifice, a song to celebrate it, a poem to express it, or maybe, just maybe, it’s much simpler than that.

Maybe, sometimes, grace looks like a three word question. This weekend I watched a dying man ask his wife, “are you OK?”

She turned around, surprised that he’d said anything. He’d been quiet for days. He had no strength for words, no air for them.

She said “yeah. Yeah, Matt. I’m OK.”

She was across the room, and I was at the bedside. He turned to me slightly and I asked if he was in pain, and he whispered yes.  The strength of his speech was fading. I offered him morphine, and he mouthed yes.

If you’ve ever seen a patient suffering from this illness, then you know that asking if he was in pain was the most redundant question in the world. No one could be in anything less than excruciating pain when in this condition. (again, non medical peeps, don’t google it)

And I knew. So I said, “later – if you can’t talk – can you show me if you have pain and want more morphine?”

And he reached up, searching for something, with his left hand. I took his palm in mine. His fingers were cool, puffy, and tight. My little fingers were dwarfed by the size of his. I felt a squeeze, and I looked in his pain-laden eyes and nodded. We had a plan. If he wanted morphine, and was in his right mind, he would find my hand and squeeze it.

Nothing I did could really help though. It was a gruesome sight. I did anything I could to offer comfort, but nothing I did could possibly help. And that haunted me.

The day went slow.

It dragged on.

Click. Click. Click. Went the minutes on the clock.

And suddenly it sped up. We were running out of time. Hurry, Hurry! Places everyone!

She was laying across his body sobbing and he knew he had to go. He couldn’t stay with her any longer. I felt a little helpless for her and a little hopeful for him that it would be quick. Please, I prayed to my God, please let it be quick for his man who suffers so much.

Please, I prayed, Let her forgive us all for telling her it’s OK to let him go.

And then, her ragged breathing was the only sound in the room. The muffled whir of the oxygen bubbling faded away and we realized he wasn’t straining for air anymore. He was quiet and at peace, with his love stretched over his body.

There would be no more searching gestures, no more hand squeezes and no more three word questions for his wife.

“He left me”, she turned on me with a broken angry voice.

“He waited until you said you were ok”, I replied in my most confident tone. “It was his choice. Don’t take that from him. He chose when. He chose and he waited for you to be 'ok'.”

Silence came over the room. I felt the gaze of all the family settle on me, though I did not break from looking at her. 

I watched her face crumble as understanding dawned...

Hers.

Theirs.

Mine.

Love is a choice. You get to choose to keep it, or let it go, and it is a choice you make for you. No one can choose for another.

Love is a choice.

And after it was over and the tears, the accusations, and the anger began to fade from the room, the great love this couple shared began to fill it. It filled it so full that I could see there wasn’t room for anyone else to squeeze in, and at the same time, I wanted to press myself inside the walls and soak in it a little. Forgiveness was offered, hugs were exchanged, and compliments were made.

“You were a godsend, I’m so glad you were our Nurse. You showed us such compassion, even when we were angry.”

And to that I said, and meant, “I think you all were put here in my path to show me something, too.”

Today I am less raw. I drank. I slept. I cried. 

I look at this couple, this family, and I wonder if they could ever possibly know how their love and pain brought understanding to this nurse on Valentine’s Day.

Right Turns

It happened again.

I was praying for the end of my run by mile 2. At 2.68 I had checked my watch at least twice. I started wondering if there was something wrong with me. I showed up to run rogue, and instead I wanted to run away.

Why was running so hard today?

My legs were dead and my heart felt as though it was going to erupt from my chest. At some point I was struggling just to put one foot in front of the other, and all I could say to myself was, “Just try to hang on to Dead Ass Last and you can turn back with the group that is running 5 miles instead of 6+.”

So, I made a new goal.

I would hold on until the turn, and run the shorter distance. In fact, I got a little cocky with the new plan and I ran side by side with Harry Potter for a few strides. He mocked me gently, I pushed back, and then he dropped my sorry a** like I was standing on the street waiting for the bus. I pushed myself to try to catch him again, even though I know I can’t do that. I pushed myself because I knew I would be running the short route.

The pack bifurcated at an intersection.

All I needed to do was turn left and I would be Dead Ass Last behind the shorter distance pack. A right turn ensured an extra mile of torture.

I stood on the dark corner and watched everyone run away from me.

Head lamps and blinkies were the only thing I could see, though I could hear snipits of conversations. “...said so... Shamrock will be... was fine... elbow now... retirement plan...” FYI~ runners are weird

I had about 3 seconds to choose or I was going to find it excruciating to catch either group. Left for 5, Right for 6.2ish.

3

“Run Short!” my mind screamed.

2

I stepped left...

1

...and turned right.

My spirit sighed in relief even as my legs complained. I dug deep and caught the two women who represented the Dead Ass Last crew.

Why (the f*ck) did I turn RIGHT?

Chasing the group for an extra mile sounded like a terrible idea almost as soon as I did it. It became even more terrible sounding as we started the first in a series of climbs. Yet, I was elated by the terrible decision.  As further validation, one of my companions pointed out that being Dead Ass Last at Rogue is still faster than the average runner, by far.

In other words, we don't suck.  

The last climb was horrible, I might add. I almost quit. I dry heaved about a block from the end, and stumbled to a walk. One of the People I Don’t Know grabbed my arm – “NO! You DID NOT RUN THAT HARD TO QUIT NOW.”

I ran side by side with her to the end. And I appreciated every bit of energy she shared with me for those last steps. She was amazing, and positive, and all the things we need to be for each other on days like today.

Some days are harder than others. And in that way, Running once again proves that it is just like Life.

Today I further clarified my personal distinction between the pain of an injury, the pain of general fatigue, and the deeply satisfying pain of a hard run.

Running is hard. If it was easy they would have named it something else.

Like, “napping”.

~ savor the run ~

To The Pain

Pain heals.

Chicks dig scars.

Glory lasts forever.

Shane Falco – The Replacements

Don’t you love when you’re having a totally meaningless conversation with someone you barely know, and suddenly you think, “Ah HA!  That’s why I...”?

My friend, the Galactically Badass Rower – so he claims, and I’m willing to entertain him on his claim – pointed out that if 98% of Runners Are Weird, 99% of Rowers Are Masochists. 

To which I said, WHOA there buddy, don’t try to out PAIN a marathoner.  Runners are masochists too.  Only we like to do it for hours.  (That’s what she said)

Wait, are we really bantering about who likes pain more? Runners or Rowers?  I bet Cyclists would want to weigh in.  And Triathletes.

The bottom line is, for those of us who are amateurs, enduring fitness-induced pain on a daily basis makes all of us masochists on some level. We aren’t getting paid to hurt. We are choosing the hurt in exchange for personal glory. (and abs, or assets, or...)

I suspect that 99% of people would try to argue that No one really likes pain. 

I mean, no one does...  Do they?

Me especially.  I mean, I am 82% sure that hate pain as much as the next person.  Except that 94% of the time I label myself as a runner, and approximately 99% of the Rogue miles FECKING HURT.

So, probably I can’t say that I’m “anti-pain”....  I can’t be, or I’d take up crochet or knitting or shuffle board like normal women my age.

Drills.  Speed Work.  Hell Repeats.  Handstands.  PT exercises.  All of these things hurt on some level.  But I do these things despite the pain, or because of it.   Lately when I run, I frequently push myself into the red zone.  I want to see how far I can push myself so I can “see if we can make it hurt, without hurting ourselves”...  Even the stairs at work are just another pain in my ass, and that is just another source of pain that I can’t seem to stay away from.

And so even though my new obsession with pain the 5K PR started as someone else’s idea, I have fully embraced it.  It’s starting to grow into a curiosity about the 10K. Way back in my mind the Half and Full Marathons are getting jealous.

Every time I have another epic training run I wonder if there’s a way to get there from here.

And no matter where I go from here as far as race distance - no matter if I run with The People I Don't Know at Rogue or run solo on the streets near my house - I'm going to have to run through the pain to get where I'm going.

~savor the run~

The Year of the 5K: Day 1

I love data.  I love it.  I like to look at metrics and trends.  Of course, the ONLY way to look at trends is to A) Set a baseline for comparison.  B) Collect data.

Today I ran my first 5K of my Year of the 5K.  It’s been a LONG time since I’ve raced a 5K.  I figured the best way to launch my Year of the 5K was to just run one cold to see where I am.

5K's hurt. But let's not skip ahead.

I selected a Richmond Road Runners Contract Race that benefited a local YMCA charity.  I like running the club or contract races because I feel like they’re well organized.  Also, the course is one I’ve run a few times, so I am familiar with it and knew the topography.

Since it was less than two weeks since Steamtown Marathon, I wore my marathon race shirt.  I figured that way, if I was slow, I was at least wearing a shirt that proved I’m a badass.

I arrive early, registered, and ran about a mile warm up with some high knees and butt kick drills, as well as a few pick ups.

I decided to run without a watch today and just go on effort.  The goal was to run at “Max” effort for as long as I could.  I lined up a little off the start line because I knew I wasn’t going out to win it.

It wasn’t awful.  It was miserable.  It hurt like a ‘mo-fo’, or a 5K, whichever actually hurts worse.  I had a good time.  I chased down a guy ahead of me, dropped the girl tailing me, and in all ran about what I expected.  Ok... ok, I ran 1+ minutes faster than I expected.  Pulled out a 26:15, thought I would run around a 28:ish. 

5^th female overall, 2^nd in AG.  It was a small race, but I’ll take it.

My IT band is still a bit sore as it turns out.  Who knew?

Anyways.  I’ve now got a baseline upon which to set my standard.  The goal is a 5K about every month or so.  

Also, have I mentioned that 5K’s hurt?

~savor the run~

Hockey Moms, Marathons and Meth Labs

Marathoners are an odd breed. Hockey Moms are equally odd.
Oh, look at that. I guess technically I'm both of those things at the same time.

I recently read somewhere that Marathoners are considered experts on pain. Experts. Yeah. That sounds about right. If you're going to be an expert at something ginny, why the heck wouldn't you choose something a little more useful than pain? you could be an expert apple pie maker, or brewer, or heckfireandshoot, an expert nailpolish toe painter... but no.... had to go with "pain". Marathoners have to be experts at pain, because there is only one way to get to the end of a marathon, and that's through the pain. A bit like childbirth. You can't go around it. You gotta go through it.

And once you do it, and you can no longer claim ignorance, why go back for another serving of that flavor of pain? because runners are weird, that's why. There are few people who knowingly volunteer for the exquisite pain that accompanies 26.2 miles. But once they know how bad it hurts, marathoners fall into two categories...

“Everything that happens once can never happen again. But everything that happens twice will surely happen a third time.” Paulo Coelho

If you do one marathon, you'll swear that you'll never do another. That's the "One & Done Marathoner". But almost immediately after one's second marathon is finished, probably before the sweat is washed off off, it's not uncommon to be caught planning a third marathon.

Tonight I was reminded that I am a marathoner. Even though I'm not training for a 26.2 mile suffer fest, I can still claim that I am a marathoner. I've done 4, I'm qualified. and labeled...

I was standing at my son's hockey practice, with blue frozen toes, talking with some of the hockey moms. As I said, they're an interesting crowd. Kind of like STAGE MOMS only with HOCKEY STICKS. Not the best combination, but whatever...  And in our conversation tonight, they were talking about how they train their 10 year olds to build endurance.

I tuned in as the one mom said, "My son runs."

I said, "Mine runs off and on throughout the year."

And round and round the conversation went about running versus cycling versus extra ice time to keeping them motivated with 5K races until finally the one mother asked me if my son "did a 5K would I 'sherpa' him, or if I would spectate"?

"Sherpa him? He doesn't allow me to do that. He likes to run alone, so I usually just race the 5K, and wait around at the finish for him," and then I paused for a minute as a random thought hit me, "Except, honestly, I hate 5K's enough to not want to do one right now. They hurt so much more than marathons."

Picture three women standing in a semicircle, and one of them has just admitted to having a meth lab in her basement. Well, that's just about the reaction I got to the 5K/Marathon comment.

And then what happened...?

The Hockey Moms promptly changed the subject back to hockey.