Dear Framingham Heart Study -- Thanks!

One of the oldest members of the Framingham Heart Study died the other day at age 100. Newspaper accounts report that Ruth Ford Halloran was one of the 5,000 kind folks who joined the original study,  begun a lifetime ago, in 1948. The Framingham Heart Study, which looks at heart disease and its risk factors in generations of participants, was the first longitudinal study of its kind here in the United States.

Mrs. Halloran did unto others her whole life. She was a teacher then a volunteer for the Red Cross and other social service agencies while she raised her children. Following her example, her kids became a part of the second generation Heart Study.  Her charity continues even now. She donated her brain to the study, which means that because of her, humans may have greater potential for leading longer, healthier lives.   

I’d heard of the Framingham study way back in high school biology class. I never understood how important the study was until about twenty-four years ago, when, in the span of just five months, hidden heart ailments took two uncles decades before any of their loved ones were ready to say good-bye, and nearly took my dad too. 

I remember watching my dad from behind the emergency room’s glass wall. His face was colorless, his eyes wide, as doctors, who I always thought new everything, scrambled to find a clot buster remedy to keep my dad’s heart from drying out. I’d always assumed, from watching St, Elsewhere and other TV shows that patients like my dad, patients in the middle of massive heart attacks,  lay there unconscious and unaware, and, if they died, prettily drifted off to the great unknown. No pain. No suffering.  I wasn’t prepared for this messy reality, my dad alert, talking, sometimes shouting out in pain, answering every question asked of him, terrified, aware times two  that his heart was grabbing for blood that wasn’t there.  It’s been decades, but that scene is as clear to me now as this laptop screen. 

My dad just turned 87 and yesterday we were out shoveling snow together. What that looks like: He cleans every molecule of snow from his car until it gleams like it just came out of the showroom, while hollering to me about what section of the driveway to clear next and what to leave for melting. Since I was a little kid, this is how shoveling has worked. Yesterday, I remembered to thank my lucky stars for generous folks like Mrs. Halloran, who I’m sure played a role in helping my dad survive.

One of the many awesome things about having elderly parents is that they will, at odd moments, randomly share tidbits of their past with you, things that might not normally come up during those serious times – usually a bottle of wine is involved -- when they’re focused on imparting to you all the historical stuff about hardship and leaving Ireland that they want you to pass down to your descendants.

   

Here’s a random moment tidbit that I learned just a few weeks back: my mother’s father was part of the original Framingham Heart Study.  He signed on in 1948, when my mother was still in elementary school. He died just a few years later when my mother was sixteen.  Massive heart attack. My mother never got over the death. Who would?

 

A few years ago, I signed on to be part of a longitudinal study similar in scope to the Framingham Heart Study. This study is run by the American Cancer Society. It doesn’t involve much. Every few years they draw a couple of vials of blood. Once a year I fill out a survey. I hope that in some way I’m paying things forward. Perhaps my dad lived because of some info gleaned from some kind soul who took an hour out of their day once a year to take part in the Framingham Heart Study.

Last month I wrote about consistency in running and entitled the piece, “The Big C.” A friend wrote me privately and said when she first read the title she worried that I was going to reveal that I have cancer. I don’t, but I have a family member who does. My associating the phrase “the big C” with something I love – in this case running, is one of my coping mechanisms. Words matter, and when I think of the big C, I want the images in my head to be positive and life-affirming: the fans lining the streets on Patriot's Day, the buff soldiers manning the water stops at the Marine Corps run, the cheering Chicago folks who gave out tons of sponges the whole length of the marathon course.    

Gratitude matters too. I'm grateful to Mrs. Halloran, my grandfather, and all the other Framingham Heart Study folks who bit by bit are making the world a better place for me and my descendants. I hope someday my tiny bit of participation in the American Cancer Society study makes a difference too. Cancer sucks. Wouldn't it be great if one day it didn't exist at all?  

Truth.

2016: Hello, Big C

When I first began this blog, I’d just returned from a phenomenal writing workshop with the great John Dufresne, hometown hero and author of one of my all-time favorite books, Love Warps the Mind a Little. John gave us lots of great advice, and one particular piece that stuck with me was simple: Write every day.

I knew that if I kept the goal open-ended, I’d likely fail. Write every day for the rest of my life? I get the sentiment. I get that it’s true. But I wasn’t ready to accept it. Not sure I’m ready yet.  

I’m used to working best when I have a tangible deadline, like a semester end, or a marathon. I knew I needed to write more. I decided to jump start my practice by writing every day that summer until school started up again at the end of August. 

Some days, it was easy to fit in the writing.  I’d sit down first thing in the morning and before I knew it, it was mid afternoon, and I’d knocked out some decent pages. Other days, finding the time to write was difficult. There were lots of all-day hospital visits with certain family members that first summer that were mentally and physically draining.  There were fun distractions too, like day trips to the beach.

Through it all, I managed to rise to the challenge. I stayed consistent. I met my goal.

I know that consistency is the key to getting what you want out of life.  My proof: 20 marathons, countless half marathons, two kids with college degrees, the roof over my head.

Now we start 2016 and I call upon the Big C -- consistency -- again. What I need this year isn’t something tangible. It’s not a race medal, a new kitchen, a college degree. What I need is something you hold in your heart, not something you can touch or see. What I need this year is mental fortitude.

Consistency is job one. Consistency in thoughts: remembering gratitude, small steps, falling seven times and rising eight.

Consistency in action, too. I love running marathons. Two years ago, I set a long-term goal to run one in all fifty states. I only have thirty-nine states left to go. I was hoping to get in another half dozen this year. Right now, I’m not sure I’m able to sign up for any events that require travel, long-term planning, tons of preparation. I’m even holding off on signing up for the second semester of grad school.

While marathons and grad school are part of taking care of myself, both are stressful in their own ways. Right now, I'm full to the brim with quite enough stress. I do not need second and third helpings. 

I need to be mentally and physically present here at home. I need to be available. I’m not saying I won’t do a marathon or five this year. Not saying I won’t sign up for grad school either. Just saying that at this time, I'm not ready to make any decisions.  I’ll figure those other things out in time. I’ve done the research, and know my marathon and grad school deadlines. I’m good.  

Just because certain things in my life are on hold, that doesn’t mean I’m going to sit back and let my heart and head fall apart.  For me, physical and mental fortitude go hand in hand.  Every long run reminds me that I’ve got more in me, physically and mentally, than I ever thought possible. Every page I write reminds me that I’m on my way to being who I want to be.

Bottom line: mental fortitude. 

I’m taking on a new challenge: completing 1,000 running miles in 2016. This works out to be about twenty miles a week. 

No biggie for a marathoner, right? Actually, wrong.

When I set the goal, a few years back, to become a Marathon Maniac, I cut down on my running and upped my cross training. I deliberately did this to prevent the overuse injuries that plagued me most of my first dozen marathons. I haven’t run consistent weekly mileage in years. So this focus on twenty miles a week is truly a challenge. 

I plan on continuing to write too. If I don’t sign up for the next grad semester, I’ll probably start posting a lot more here. I’ll continue working on the umpteen first draft short stories I’ve created over the years. Right now, I have two that I’m in the process of re-working.

I know that part of mental fortitude is taking care of yourself. I need to write like I need to run. It’s part of what makes me whole.  You can’t take care of others if you don’t take care of yourself.

Back in 2012, a few months before I started this blog, my family got news about a loved one and an illness. Things stabilized, and even improved. Every day of the last four years has been a gift.

But the only constant in life is change. Funny, how consistent that is. And just as consistently, every day continues to be a gift.

Change. Challenge. Constant. Consistent.

2016, you promise to be a terrible, beautiful year.  I promise to do my best to meet you head on.   

New mantra.