I ran three marathons last year, 2016. All of them faster than I'd run in several years. Why? I was consistent. Last year's goal was the Big C -- consistency, especially with my running. I set a goal to run 1,000 miles. For most of the year I was on track to run 1,200 and for most of the year I felt confident I'd reach that mark.
Then in October, I hit a wall. Not one made of bricks or funded by American taxpayers. Not the 20-mile mark during a marathon either, where your legs stop listening to you and you walk/ slog to the finish line. My wall was made of scarier stuff: spiraling family health issues. Our family's finish line is still up ahead. I predict plenty more walls. The October one is where my head is now. So back to spring, where it started, then onto what lies ahead.
The marathon I ran in the spring was spur of the moment. I didn't train. My longest runs were twelve-milers, and those were just a few times a few weeks earlier. I wasn't sleeping at night, had no appetite. Most days my hands and stomach wouldn't stop shaking, even though the anxiety meds I was taking should have kicked in, unless I ran six, seven, or eight miles. There was no time to run more and most of those runs were interrupted and/or shortened by phone calls from my loved ones, doctors, nurses.
Signed up for the marathon three days before. Race number: 666. Laughed to a nun volunteer at the nursing home where my mom was recuperating from her latest surgery that this meant I was going to run like the devil was chasing me. Joked that the last few years -- last few months in particular were like running to hell and back so I had more than enough training to probably win this race.
In a manner of speaking, I did. Finished faster than any of the last ten marathons for which I'd actually trained. Even crazier, I ran my second half of that race in negative splits. I ran the last 13. 1 miles 11 seconds FASTER than the first 13.1. For back-of-the packers like me, the generally accepted rule when it comes to predicting your marathon finish is that you add anywhere from ten to twenty minutes on to your half marathon time. So this was huge.
That's what muscle memory combined with adrenaline rushes from stress and anxiety will do to you, I guess. When I told my doctor this story a few days later, rather than congratulate me, she upped my meds, and told me to keep running. My therapist did congratulate me, and seconded the med and exercise recommendations.
The summer marathon was all downhill, literally, except for a cruel one mile jug handle at mile 12. I walked part of that and worried I was going to faint because the dizziness was so intense. Could have been due to suddenly going from running to walking and a resultant drop in blood pressure. Or a panic attack -- my most faithful of friends this last year. Or most likely a combination of both, dizziness begets panic which begets dizziness begets panic and so on.
Somehow got through all that and got back on track. Even though I walked about a half mile of the last half of the race due to aching quads from the constant decline, I finished in my second fastest time ever. And when I say ever I mean of twenty-two marathons over the last sixteen years. This was huge. The perfect storm. A magically perfect combination of anxiety, good training, and downhills.
Then came the end of summer and escalating illnesses on the home front. The escalating began the day before my return to work, and has yet to let up.
There have been major operations, long talks with oncologists, cardiologists, surgeons, loved ones. There have been too many tears, the filling out of DNR forms, note-taking on obituary info, hospital stays of weeks not days, many 911 calls and one crazy 90 mph highway drive (me from work to my parents' house to meet the ambulance), too many ER visits, two ICU stays, and doctor appointments nearly every day since.
In the midst of this, I ran the third marathon.
Three days before the marathon, was the first of the many 911 calls. The day before that fall race, the other loved one was unexpectedly granted release from six weeks of hospitalization and rehab. Hours before I went to bed the night before the race, a doctor called with bad news on the other loved one.
The morning of the marathon, both loved ones were stable and safe. I had solid medical assurance of this. I figured, I might as well run because otherwise I'd just be sitting around worrying. Plus, I still had trouble with constant shaking, even with the upped anxiety meds.
Needless to say, I hadn't slept in days, and had been so busy with my family, I'd barely eaten. No sleep. No carbs. All no-nos as far as running marathons goes.
I'd gotten in the habit of bringing my phone on runs with me these last few months, in case loved ones needed me. For this race, I left the phone in the car. There was no point in bringing it. My daughter was watching out for my dad, and my mom was stable in the hospital. With all the technology she was hooked up to and all the eyes watching her, there wasn't much I could do anyhow.
If I never see Hartford again, it will be too soon. I'd joked with my dad that because my race number was almost half my 666 number -- 334 -- I'd be doing the race in half the time. The truth is I finished it almost an hour after my spring time.
Every second of that marathon sucked. My quads were still tender from the downhill race over the summer. Almost every inch of the course was on heavy-duty pavement meant to last for eternities. Just keep smashing your foot onto a concrete highway for five-plus hours, and you'll understand the agony. By the halfway point I was walking, and wondering if I had a stress fracture in my right foot, each strike to the ground ached and reverberated up my leg so strongly.
There were lots of u-turns where, as you run forward the faster runners head back your way. Most races, I love these sections. I get a runner's high from cheering on my speedier and slower marathon friends. But this race my own misery, physical and mental, was overwhelming.
Nearing the final u-turn, still at least eight miles from the finish, I saw a runner wearing something that honest-to-god stopped me in my tracks. On the front of his optic yellow T-shirt, scrawled in huge black marker letters: "Ampullary Cancer Survivor."
I yelled to him. The words I cried made him turn around. .
"My mom has that cancer."
He ran back and hugged me.
He told me I was the first person outside his family and medical professionals who knew about this cancer. Ampullary cancer is a type of pancreatic cancer. It is extremely rare and so far, always deadly.
He promised to wait for me at the finish so we could talk more.
He ran one way, I slogged the other.
For the rest of the race, I mostly ran. I did my best to ignore the foot pain. It didn't hurt so much when I ran on grass or sand, both in abundance at this point in the race. While I can't say a cloud had lifted when I met that gentleman, and that's why I was able to hold my head high and mostly run, this coincidental meeting did serve a purpose that carried me forward. It reminded me that marathons always give me something. I just need to remember to always look for the lesson.
John from Maryland made good on his promise. He and his wife and two kids met me at the finish line. They waited a whole half hour. I learned John was diagnosed three years ago. Luckily, he was a healthy enough candidate for the intensely grueling Whipple surgery my mother didn't couldn't have. Whipple surgery digs into several vital organs, ducts, blood vessels. The recovery time is gargantuan, several months in a rehab facility. A year after the surgery, John was given the okay to resume a normal life.
But he didn't. Instead, he decided to start running marathons. He'd never been more than a once-in a while runner. He wanted to run marathons to prove to his loved ones and to himself that he was healthy.
Now John runs all the time. During races he always wears the ampullary cancer survivor message on his shirt. Of his thirteen marathons in the last two years, I was the first person to ever stop him.
Briefly, I told him my mother's story and how the night before we'd gotten news about a serious blockage in her intestines. He hugged me hard and said he'd pray for us. Of all people, he understood better than anyone other than my mom's oncologist what this development meant.
We talked about his survival odds and my mother's odds. The fact my mother is still alive, five years from being told she had two years left, at best? We both agreed her survival is beyond miraculous.
For him too, every day is heavenly. The average survival rate for ampullary cancer, even with the god-awful Whipple procedure, is only five years.
Why do I mention all this now? It's ancient history, right? The first two races were in the spring and summer. The Hartford race was months ago, Columbus Day weekend. .
I mention all this to remind me to stay strong and to remind me to get help when I need it. This week, I faltered. I started off strong with big plans to run 1,200 miles this year. In fact, I ran 35.5 miles the first week of January. But I'm nearing the month's halfway mark and still need another 64.5 miles to reach this month's 100-mile goal.
I know. You're going to say I can do it. But really, can I?
This week was hell. Every day after work meant a medical appointment. We're not leaving these appointments with great news. Sure, one loved one gained a couple of pounds, but there's still another thirty to go, and there's still the fact she hasn't regained all of the seven she lost the month before. Then there was the other one and the new cardiology and limb amputation concerns.
How to cope with all this?
My mother put it best. "Things are still normal. It's just that we're always lowering to new normals." In other words, we adjust to new norms, then there's more bad news or another crisis -- another ER visit, hospital stay, new medication, new home medical equipment, new schedules for visiting nurses, more doctor visits, new doctor visits. Finally, the dust settles and we adapt yet again. .
We re-think goals. Alter plans.Shift expectations.
I have to take at least this year off from my grad school program. I don't have the time available to do what I want to do with my writing and readings. If I sign up for any marathons this year, it will likely be spur-of-the-moment. I'm needed here at home. Family first. Always. Plus, in the grand scheme of things, both my writing and running dreams are minor, not life and death.
My loved ones? How well they're adjusting to their infirmities is beyond my understanding. They're my superheroes as they cope with the realities of life and death.
We all have our down moments. Sometimes we give up. Most times, I don't. But this week, I did.
I know I need to take care of myself, yet I haven't run since Sunday. I have the best of excuses. From work, I went right to my parents' house every day. I didn't get home before 8 p.m., except for one day.
Still, I know how to schedule. I could run before work. Or go to the gym in the evening. During my first ten years of religiously training for and running marathons, I worked at least two jobs. Four of those years, I worked three. All that, in addition to raising two daughters totally on my own. I know I could be doing better at scheduling in some gym time.
But I'm not sure I want to. I'm not sure if mileage this year means as much to me as other things. I have so much else on my plate, including soaking up and treasuring every second of the time that my loved ones have left.
So I'm here to say that for 2017, I'm going to do my best to get in 1,200 miles of running.
In fact, in all things I will try to do my best.
Ultimately, do my best is my goal this year.
Doing my best will look different every day. Isn't that true for all of us? With running, there are tangibles. For everything else, I need to trust my instincts. My plan when it comes to determining my best: Control what I can, accept what I can't. Remind myself that every day, no matter how crazy or dull, is a gift.
2017, already you are a beast.
Ready. Set. Cope.
PS. Managed to get in 100 miles in both January and February. Don't know how I did it.
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