Grief and Goals

 

My dogs are dying.  (Yes, I know "we are all dying..." My dogs are terminally ill--with cancer that's rapidly advancing.)  It feels unbearable.  I could go on and on about how they are the most bonded pair I have ever met, how they were diagnosed with the same (rare) lung cancer exactly two weeks apart, the expenses and guilt of choosing palliative care for this senior pair, the rollercoaster of the past four months, the lack of sleep, the INTENSE anticipatory grief that won't let up and the fact I know the grief to come will be even worse, the fact that these dogs saw me through over a decade of military wife life as my constant companions in a world of chaos...  I realize that many people are struggling and I am fortunate to have so many privileges (like the financial ability to do all that I can for them and a flexible work schedule to spend time with them).  But these dogs are my family--they have pulled me through some tough times.  My time and energy have been dedicated to them in so many ways (especially recently) and my self-worth and comfort, I realize, are largely wrapped up in that bond.  I am so lucky their lives have been spent with me--we've had so many adventures and wonderful times.  I used to say the only time I was ever truly happy and in the moment was when I was walking my dogs.

All of this comes down to the fact that I hurt physically and mentally in a way I have never have before.  I have lost dogs before--dogs that I loved deeply.  I have never lost two dogs at essentially the same time, with a full-time demanding career, with huge family commitments, during a global pandemic where I have been isolated for a year.  People have suggested I journal about my feelings.  I don't like feelings/emotions--especially the ones that are so hard to feel.  But I do realize that I USED to write about my trials and tribulations with my pups.  I realize that I once found a blog about a dog who had the same disease as my Sampson, and reached out to the author who gave me some solidarity and support during that tough journey.  Maybe this will help me.  Maybe somehow in some way someone will find this and it can support them.  Or maybe I'm just rambling with no reason or purpose because I am so desperate.  Regardless, here I am--after a LONG hiatus from this virtual space.

I'm trying to figure out how I am ever going to make it through this still standing.  It seems impossible.  But I have a daughter (and husband, career, family, and friends)--so I have no choice other than to try--not just try, but stay "still standing."  I'm searching for any way for some GOOD to come from this tragedy.  I can't fathom how that is even possible, but I have to hold on to something to keep me putting one foot in front of the other and functioning on some level these days.  I am working on living in the lessons Daisy and Claymore have taught and continue to teach me, not the least of which are to live in the moment and love unconditionally.  I hope I can come out on the other side of this stronger somehow.

Speaking of strong, the one thing I have been making sure I do during this time is exercise.  I've always been dedicated to fitness, but it has taken on new meaning.  We got a Peloton last year (I may have joined a cult but that's for another post...) and back in December I committed to trying to do at least one activity every day for a year.  That doesn't mean I have to do a hard bike ride, but SOMETHING Peloton offers--even if it is a 5-minute stretch or meditation...something that forces me to focus on that goal at least once per day.  So far, I've kept it up.  Today, the weather was actually nice (after a ridiculous month of insane winter weather) so I went for a run in my neighborhood with the Peloton app.  I've been riding much more than running these days.  (I am now 40 and my knees and below often feel like I'm way older than that.)  But I thought about the fitness goals I have had before.  I wonder if I could run a half marathon again?  Not for speed or time or even in a formal race, but just to have a goal to help push me through this grief.  So, that's (maybe?) my goal...by my 41st birthday.  I'm putting it out there.  And I will try.  If I fail, I know I can do 13.1 miles on the bike.  I just hope I can make it through this seemingly unbearable time still standing...

Will run for ice cream

Wow!  This past year has been another whirlwind.  I just signed on to my blog so I could follow a friend's blog and…I totally forgot I was going to start chronicling my racing journey!  Ha!

Well, in the past nearly year since I've visited this little site, I have kept running.  (Other than healing time for a few injuries, one which landed me in a cast and another that now requires me to wear more specialized orthotic inserts.)  Despite the fact that I now have a podiatrist, I am faster and stronger than I have ever been...but I still continue to worry about everything.  Thank goodness running is my medicine!

In keeping with the ongoing theme of the blog…ICE CREAM…I would just like to say that running makes me feel less guilty about indulging in an occasional sundae, warm apple pie with a scoop of vanilla, or huge bowl of Moose Tracks in my comfy pants on my couch.  And, maybe I'll be back here more often with my continued adventures of running.  I just finished my first race of the season (Sweethearts 4-ever 4-miler in Fredericksburg).  I came in at 35:02 (a bit faster than last year, but not much)…117 of 323 total runners, 37 out of 168 female runners, and 8 out of 27 in the women's 30-34 division.  In the couple's division, Buzz and I were 15/44…he finished in 31:13, helping our average out a bit.  :)  In a fit of stupidity, I have registered for the Blue Ridge Half Marathon…where I get to run up TWO mountains.  Should be interesting…  Also hoping to complete the Historic Half again, along with a few additional races this year.  So, stay tuned…perhaps I will chronicle my misadventures, foot pain, and hopefully triumphs over the miles of pavement.  Either way, you are likely to find me in some comfy pants enjoying a bowl of ice cream.  :)

November 2013, my first run after a 6-week recovery from a partially ruptured foot tendon 

The Journey to Runner Status: 50 Shades of Purple?

Since I was a teenager, I have regularly run—other than a few “breaks” for things like pregnancy and a bad ankle injury.  But, for the most part, running has been my main mode of exercise.  It has been my “medicine” for anxiety, sadness, to help me achieve health (even though my health is my biggest source of anxiety)… I like to run.  No, I love to run—especially after the run is over. 

Despite my individual participation in the activity of running, I have always been hesitant to call myself a RUNNER.  I mean, I ran around my neighborhood in old t-shirts and shorts.  RUNNERS run competitive races, keep track of time and distance, have nice running clothes, special running shoes, and they have those amazingly sexy toned calves.  I’ve never been a REAL runner.  But that all changed 2 days ago…

But my journey to runner status really began about a year and a half ago.  I hurt my ankle and couldn’t run.  I tried biking and walking and the elliptical machine—nothing was the same as running.  I decided once I could run again, I would RUN again.  I wanted to run a 5k and not be embarrassed.  Last summer, I started timing myself and seeing how far I could run.  I couldn’t even run a 5k after that stupid injury!  But I was setting a goal.  Physical goals are hard for me.  Though I had run, I wouldn’t push myself or anything like that.  So, my goal was to, by this spring, run a 5k and not be embarrassed.

Then, Buzz ran the Marine Corps Marathon last October.  He did it without training and made mistakes a real runner would never make—like buying new running shoes the day before the race.  I mean, even I knew that was a no-no.  I made fun of him—a lot.  But, on the day of the MCM, something inside ME changed.  I obsessive-compulsively checked the live updates to see how he was doing.  I was so proud of him.  Maybe he wasn’t a REAL runner, either (though hands-down he was way closer to one than me)…but that didn’t matter.  He was out there pounding the pavement for 26.2 miles like every other RUNNER out there.  I was inspired.  That day, I ran 5 miles under a 10 minute pace.  That was the longest distance I have ever run, at least since college.  When Buzz got home, he was sore to say the least.  But within a day, with the pain still present, he said he wanted to do it again.  What was wrong with him?  Was he a real runner?  Only a real runner would subject himself to that kind of torture, I think. 

Then, we signed up for the MCM series Turkey Trot 10k.  I “trained.”  My goal was to finish in an hour.  I was nervous.  Buzz and I ran the course prior to the race, since it was here on base, and I made it under my goal time.  Still, race day I was really nervous.  But I came in under 55 minutes!  I felt great!  I couldn’t wait to do it again!  Maybe I COULD become a runner.  We signed up for a 4-mile race in February.

I bought real running gear, not so much because I wanted to LOOK like a runner, but because I realized that that gear is more comfortable and necessary when you are running long distances outside—especially when it’s too cold to be outside to begin with.  I considered starting a blog called “50 Shades of Purple” to chronicle my quest to become a runner—turns out I really like the color purple and this is reflected in my running clothes, even though it must be impossible to match shades of purple among various articles.  Plus, it fit with the whole 50 shades theme as I became obsessed with running and developed a new relationship where the running dominated my mind and body.  But, I opted out of the blog idea because I was scared I would fail and then I would have these deep desires out there for people to see…and everyone would know I didn’t achieve my goal. 

Then came THE injury.  It was some strange-name condition that is worse than shin splints and not as bad as a stress fracture (which they thought it was but was ruled out with an MRI that diagnosed the strange-name-thing).  I only had to take a few more weeks off from running (yay!) and get some orthotic inserts for my running shoes.  I felt old and anyone who needs orthotic anything is certainly not a RUNNER.  Nonetheless, the day after I got the diagnosis, I signed up for the MCM Historic Half Marathon—about 4 months away, even though I had still not run more than 7 miles.  Ever.  My goal:  13.1 miles in less than 2 1/2 hours.  IF I could do that, I would feel confident in calling myself a RUNNER.  That race became more than a goal.  It began to define who I was—or who I could be—or who I wanted to be.  It consumed my thoughts.  Running was always on my mind.

So, I “trained” again.  But this time I knew I had to start out slowly, despite reaching the 7-mile mark before my injury.  I had to start out at 1 mile, slowly, and then work my way up.  That was frustrating but I didn't want to risk another injury.  I remember my sense of accomplishment when I completed my first 8-mile run without a struggle.  I stopped getting gastrointestinal distress (as Buzz and I embarrassingly call it) after my longer runs.  I started recovering faster from the joint and muscle pain and stiffness.  The first time I ran 10 miles (with hills) the pain was intense but the sense of accomplishment was bigger than the pain.  I was soon able to run 8 miles with no problem.  Then, one day, after my 8 (planned) miles, I just kept going—to 13.1!  Yes, there was pain—but it paled in comparison to the goal I had just reached—in less than 2 hours and 10 minutes (with minimal hills). 

I started researching my big race.  Hospital Hill scared me to pieces!  Hospital Hill refers to the hill next to Mary Washington Hospital in the final miles of the half marathon.  There are stories…this hill is a legend around here and among those who have run the course.  Running groups (with real runners) started training to tackle THE hill.  I started training to run more hills on base, since I wasn't part of a real-runner club.

The day before the race, I cried on the way to pick up our race packets.  Buzz didn’t understand.  Of course I could do it, he said.  But what if I couldn't?  What if I stopped/didn’t finish, or got hurt, or passed out, or died?  (Yes, those were real thoughts.)  We drove hospital hill.  It didn’t look THAT bad in the car…except I would have to run 9+ miles before I tackled it on foot.  My response:  at least the hospital is right here.  All I wanted to do was finish under my goal time and that hill was standing in my way.  But, if by some chance I could actually achieve that goal even with the evil hill, then I would have done it, I could call myself a runner, and I would never do it again.  I would stick to 10k’s and finally run that 5k I talked about this time last year. 

The night before the race, I carb-loaded with Moe’s and mac and cheese.  I only slept about 4 hours.  I was so nervous.  When the alarm went off at 4:45 I was exhausted, but jumped out of bed easily thanks to my nerves.  Real runners aren’t nervous before a race.  And they probably aren’t that tired.  Plus, real runners probably train when they were tired.  I didn’t.  I waited until another day to run if I was tired.

I got dressed—I had put aside my race day outfit (with 4 shades of purple) a week before, down to my underwear that I knew wouldn’t give me wedgies.  I made my old-faithful long-run breakfast—a peanut butter and banana sandwich.  But I couldn’t finish it because I had a nervous stomach.  Real runners didn’t get that—I bet they were able to scarf down their breakfasts.  I took my vitamins, kissed K (the babysitter spent the night so she would be there when we left), drank lots of water, and headed off.

We parked.  After 2 pee-pee stops (at Wal-Mart and a porta-john) we were off to the start line.  While waiting for the porta-potty, I saw people—real runners—running to warm up.  I couldn’t do that.  I had to save my “juice.”  The first 2 miles was my warm up—plus I was already warmed up from the heart-pounding anxiety.  But, back to the start line: It was real.  This day I had dreamed of—choked up about envisioning myself crossing the finish line—was here.  It was real and surreal all at the same time.  I bet real runners didn’t think it was surreal. 

I almost cried during the national anthem.  There I was, among Marines and real runners—at the same start line on the same course.  It was happening.  Deep breath…the gun fired.  And we stood there.  With that many people running, it’s not an on your marks, get set, go sort of thing.  It takes a while to get to the actual start line and then some more time to really get going as you wait for the pack to disperse.  But, soon enough, we were off.

I remember running under the huge flag in the air right after the start line—hoping in less than 2 ½ hours I would be looking at the same flag from the other direction with a huge sense of accomplishment.

I was so excited, but told myself to settle down.  I had 13 miles ahead of me.  Then came the rain.  I realized that I hadn’t trained in the rain.  Real runners do that, but not me.  Oh well, it would keep me cool, I thought.  It did.  And one of my shades of purple was a new armband I had bought at the expo the day before (a not-real-runner move, I'm sure--to get so excited at the expo and make irrational-type purchases) and it was perfect for keeping the wetness out of my eyes.

In all of the excitement, I am so proud of what I did the entire race: I took it all in.  ALL of it.  I looked at every person cheering that I could.  I high-fived the people on the side lines.  I read the signs.  I looked at my fellow runners—fellow runners?  If they are fellows, does it mean I am among their ranks?  Anyway, if this was going to be my ONE and ONLY half marathon, my one experience that would help me become the runner I wanted to be even if I would never do it again, I had to take it all in.  I had to savor all of the information my senses fed me.  And I did.  When I got tired, I danced to my music on my iPhone, just like I do running at home.  When I hurt, I reminded myself that it was just pain and the race was really run in my mind.  When it got tough, I took the advice from real runners—it’s just me and the road.  When I had to, I looked at my feet, saw I was still moving, and reminded myself this was about ME and I COULD do it.  And the only person I had to prove something to was ME.  It hurt toward the end.  I remember telling Buzz that every step hurt right after Hospital Hill.  Hospital hill was a beast, but I conquered it with flying colors, with Buzz by my side.  I loved the sign that said “What Hill?”  I loved the clapping and cheering.  It makes me want to go be a spectator at a big race and cheer on all of the runners…maybe I could be that person with a sign that pushes the person who "wants to be a real runner" toward their goal.

Buzz and I held hands as we crossed the finish line.  The pics and video show a big smile on my face.  My time: 2:12:44.  Maybe it wasn’t the best time for a real RUNNER, but it was AMAZING for ME.  The pain didn’t even bother me.  I was on top of the world.  I did it!  And I loved it.  I took it all in.  I lived each moment.  I RAN each moment.  And it felt good.  It still feels good—amazing!

The pain has subsided for the most part and, yesterday, I signed up for another half marathon later this year…and the Turkey Trot 10k again.  What’s that?  I signed up for ANOTHER half?  But the one two days ago was supposed to be my one and only.  The only explanation…I AM a RUNNER!   (And I’m writing this down because I never want to forget this feeling when I made that transition…or maybe I’ve been a runner all along, but that was the moment when I recognized it for REAL.)

The Rambling Calm AFTER the Storm

Oh yeah...I remember this feeling...

I keep thinking "once X is over, things will be okay"--with "X" being a fill-in-the-blank of life happenings such as comp exams, deployments, bad days...

I've recently blogged about my efforts to come to terms with the fact that things just don't settle down.  Period.  And I need to stop looking at that supposedly greener grass on the other side.  And now, I'm in what was supposed to be the calm AFTER the storm.  And, on that point, I will digress just a bit...

That big storm that hit us a few weeks ago--utter craziness--is a great metaphor for this attempt I am making to be okay with the stress that encompasses my life right now. 

I'm sure most people have heard the phrase "the calm before the storm," to illustrate when you know something big is coming even if life is relatively quiet at that given moment.  Well, my life has been filled with calms AFTER storms.  I am usually immersed in fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants adventures between mommyhood, work, school, and military wife life.  And then, sometimes unexpectedly, things seem to slow down--and that's hard on me.  I apparently thrive on having things to do--right now.  It's when I slow down that the stress intensifies.  During the crazy times, I'm just trying to get through the minute--get done what is due here and now.  But when things slow down, my mind takes over.  Unfortunately, though, in this lifestyle, it never really stops.  So, the big exam is over (for now), but now I realize all of the things I put off preparing for that one day--like keeping the house organized, preparing other manuscripts, being the mom and wife I want to be. 

So, this calm AFTER the storm has hit me pretty hard--not to mention I am back in my hometown awaiting my mom's homecoming--which keeps getting pushed back--AND (I can't even believe I am writing this because my fear runs so deep I don't even want to dance around discussing the topic) there are people on my mom's hall who are getting the (gulp) stomach bug...and it's spreading.  I'm a wreck.  I know I need to be there (like physically, on the sick-hall) for my mom, but that fear is elevating my stress to dangerous levels!  Anyway, this "calm" is taking a toll on my sanity...just like that storm. 

Back to the actual storm: There was no calm before that thing hit our house--it had been windy, raining, thundering, etc. all day.  Schools asked parents to pick kids up early, after taking shelter for tornado warnings earlier in the day.  It was a crazy day to start off with.  And then THE part of the storm that rocked our world hit--and it was scary--the scariest weather I have ever witnessed.  So, we took shelter in our little downstairs bathroom (without windows)--all of us, including the dogs.  And, from our hideout, we could hear the storm--the wind, the hail.  It sounded like someone was shooting our house (and it looked the same once we caught a glimpse).  But, possibly the creepiest part was how it stopped. 

It just stopped. 

We sounded like we were in a war zone (which was verified by my husband who has been in such zones)...and then, nothing. 

Silence.

I was scared we were in the eye of the storm (which I'm not even sure that storm had an "eye" but after living through many hurricanes in Florida, that was my terminology).  I wouldn't release us out of the bathroom for a while--the quiet was the creepiest part of it all.

When we finally went out of the bathroom, we looked out the windows, and eventually made it out to our yard--where all of our neighbors were doing the same thing, crunching through the hail.  We could see each other through the steam rising from our damaged yards.  We all made sure everyone was okay.  (Greatest part of life in the 'burbs: your neighbors make sure you are accounted for after a natural disaster.) There was this smell in the air--I can't describe it--I'd never smelled it before.  My neighbor and I decided THAT was what creepy smells like.

But other than our crunching through the hail and our voices, there was nothing...no cars, no animals, no sounds of life.  And, as I mentioned in my previous post, WE are the LUCKY ones.  In our calm, the storm left our houses standing (though severely damaged) and our loved ones, though shook up, were safe.

So now, in my life's latest "calm" after the storm, I am living in a perpetual anxiety attack.  The exam, the semester, and so much of the craziness from the past year is over. No transition, no outlet, and I won't know if I passed that exam for another month (or more).  There was no closure.  It's sort of like the time when Buzz comes back from a deployment.  It's exciting--I'm glad he's home, just like I'm glad this chapter is over (unless I didn't pass that exam and have to do that part all over again).  It's a great milestone.  It's good.  But it's different.  Just like when he comes home, we hug, and we go home--but there's no transition, no closure or outlet for all of the stress I bottled up for the entire deployment. I guess all of this points to the fact that I don't handle stress well in the moment OR after, huh?  :P

I'm on edge; I'm shaky; I'm nervous.  There is nothing that has to be done RIGHT NOW but so much on the to-do list.  The exam is over, but the work doesn't end.  My mom's surgery is over, but the recovery is in full swing.  And, of course, Buzz is not here.  Nope.  The Marine Corps always takes him when I feel like I need him most (which, in fairness, is always, so it's not like there's ever a good time for him to be absent from our lives--but it happens so often and it always seems like a really bad time). 

Am I crazy?  Probably...but I'm also human.  And I need to work on finding internal calm in this stressful calm after the storms of the past few months.  I don't know how to do it.  But the first step is to stop dwelling on it here in my online outlet.  So, Step 1: stop rambling; Step 2: deep breath...here we go...

Is ghostly white the new tan? Can it be? Please?

I have heard people say "White is the new tan."  I assume they say this because either 1. they are really NOT tan, or 2. they are making a statement about sun/uv-rays safety.  Either way, I want this to be true. 

I am pale...like, really pale.  And so is my little girl.  We're just pretty pasty.  I recognize this mostly the first few weeks of short/skirt/dress season.  And this week, I'm at the beach--there's no hiding it now!  I used to sport a nice glow in the summer...and winter because I would bronze myself at tanning beds.  This was, of course, when I was young and cared way more about appearance than I do now.  Plus, I don't remember all of the hubbub and mainstream media coverage of the dangers of that beautiful, healthy-looking tan.  If that was in my face, I am pretty sure I would have foregone the rays because, well, I'm scared of lots of things--not the least of which is cancer of any type--and now, the research speaks loud and clear to me.  (For the record, I visit the dermatologist twice a year because I worry about my bad tanning decisions of the past, but I digress...)

So now, I'm pretty conscientious about the health no-nos of having that amazing tan.  And I sport my pasty legs with pride--and, seriously, when I say pasty, I mean put your sunglasses on if you are around me in the sun because these things reflect the rays in a major way.  And, by pride I actually mean I'm a little embarrassed.  But WHY?  I am a generally health conscious person--I practice and promote healthy habits for myself and my family.  There's no shame in that!  So why is slathering on the sunscreen a problem in my eyes.  I guess it's not so much a problem in my eyes as I assume it is for the other eyes who catch a glimpse of these legs. 

Way back in the day, being pale was a status symbol--it meant you could afford to work inside (or not work at all).  I'm not saying that is right by any stretch, but my oh my how far we have gone in the other direction from that perspective, huh?  Now, with all of the info on the dangers of the sun, why can't we embrace the fact that some people are just pale and that should be beautiful, too--it's HEALTHY.  And even if you are outdoorsy, you now have the option to protect your skin. This is good.

If you have read my blog, you know I am not a fashonista by any stretch of the imagination.  I don't "do" trends and I'm generally not "in" on anything except what is on sale.  And don't even get me started on my hair.  Other than being relatively thin, I don't have much in common with those ladies in the magazines or on tv.  Nope.  I used to be embarrassed, but I got over that for the most part.  My hair is big and curly (frizzy) and my clothes may be from 5 (or more) seasons (or years) ago.  No big deal in my book.  But I can't move past the tan-thing.  I've tried the bronzers--I guess I do something wrong because I end up streaky, splotchy, and/or some unnatural shade of orange-ish.  Not good--I prefer the paleness to the obvious fakeness.  I would go to those spray-tan places that are supposedly not so obviously fake but those things cost a pretty penny that I am not willing to fork out.

So, I am just going to social-psychologically construct my own reality and say that white IS the new tan.  I'm going to just run with it.  And while I'm running, if you see me coming, slip on the shades to protect YOUR EYES from the rays my pasty, sunscreen-covered legs may reflect in your direction.