Handkerchief memories and adobe kisses

I have been called upon lately to help with many little things. There have been no life-threatening situations. In fact, there has been a lot of pleasantness. But with each day comes a new chink in the armor, a gentle crumbling at the edges of our old reality. 

Sometimes, it comes in the form of an off-hand comment from my dad or mom. Sometimes I just notice that I’m comfortable with something ugly that didn’t exist even as a possibility in my mind at this time last year: ER visits, changing bandages, talking about futures that were once more certain.

I’m fine. Really. But I just wanted to acknowledge that that’s what’s happening. Little pieces are falling away. A new reality emerges.

One of my favorite books is Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech. It’s a middle school level book, a Newbery Medal winner, about missing moms.  It’s written as a story within a story and lo and behold there’s another story too. Each time I read it, I learn something new: about writing, about reading, about me. The story is about illness and fear, adapting and growing, appreciating. It’s sad but quite funny.

One of my favorite parts is in the chapter entitled Blackberry Kiss. The main character, dark-haired bug-loving Salamanca Tree Hiddle, is keeping a free write mini-journal at the behest of her new English teacher. First she writes a list of all the things that she likes. Here’s how that turned out: “It was a complete jumble of things, and when I tried to write about any one of those things, I ended up writing about my mother, because everything was connected to her.”

I understand.

In the end, Sal wrote about spying on her mother. Her mother was very pregnant at the time, and was walking through the fields, swinging her arms and singing. Salamanca watched as her mom plucked a few blackberries from a stray bush, and popped them into her mouth. Then her mom walked up to a maple tree, threw her arms around it, and kissed the trunk.

Salamanca later examined the tree and thought she found the stain from her mother’s blackberry kiss. In her journal she confessed that since then she has kissed many trees and “each family of trees – oaks, maples, elms, birches – had a special flavor all its own.”  Mixed in with each taste was the taste of blackberries.  Of course I interpret this to mean that she was searching for her mother, who loved trees,  and found her, metaphorically, in the blackberry taste.  I was an English major. I love pulling books apart in search of deeper meaning. 

    

Though I hadn’t read the book in more than two years, that chapter wouldn’t leave my brain the whole time I was in New Mexico. 

Here’s my interpretation of Sal’s tree-kissing journal entry.

What I like: gray green sage brush, smooth mountains, orange dirt, thick walls, rounded edges, striving art, incense.

What I remember: braided hair, patent leather shoes, Sunday dresses; my mother's pink lipstick, the sting of her White Rain, a pillbox hat, or handkerchief or bit of netting.

What I did in New Mexico: searched the eyes of contorted Christs, kissed adobe, listened for heartbeats.  

Maine: The way breathing should be

My aunt and uncle discovered Maine in the mid-1950s. They traveled to Ogunquit for their honeymoon and stayed in the then-sparkling new Town Line Motel on Route 1. When they returned from their odyssey to this northern wilderness, they told family members of their wondrous discovery: miles of empty beaches, dunes as high as three-deckers, cheap eats, copious quiet.

We started going to Maine in 1961, when I was just a baby.  For most of the next eighteen years, we spent one week every August in a two-bedroom cottage on Bourne Ave. in Moody. My parents rented it from a Swedish guy named Arvid Johnson who worked with another uncle at Wyman –Gordon, a company at the Worcester-Grafton line.  The fact that the man was a Swede fascinated me.  I didn’t know any Swedes. I knew Irish kids, Italians, and French kids.  For most of my childhood, I thought all houses in Maine were owned by people from Sweden.  Though I never met the guy, I imagined he looked like the Swedes pictured in my Scholastic Children’s Encyclopedia: tall, blonde, always wore bulky sweaters embroidered with snowflakes. 

The house looked like a normal house, though the front door was on the side, not the front.  Maybe that was a Swede thing. The cottage was white with pink shutters, had pine paneling inside, and had a kerosene stove that scared my parents.  

The night before our big annual week at the beach, my dad and I would drive to Cambridge Street and pick up our rented black and white television. When I think about it now, I don’t recall much vacation television-watching. One reason: reception was terrible. 

While my memory of television in Maine is as fuzzy as the screen was, I remember so many other things as though they just happened last week. 

My dad and I would walk to the general store every morning to buy our hometown newspaper, the Worcester Telegram. The store was a two-story farmhouse painted red with white trim. My mother would drive us down to Moody Beach, which was a three-minute ride, around 9:30. Then she’d go back to the cottage to make lunch. My mother would arrive several hours later, looking phenomenally well-rested despite her exhausting gourmet efforts. Here’s what would be in a typical lunch bag: four baloney sandwiches (each consisting of two pieces of bread, one piece of baloney, and a half gallon of French’s mustard); a cluster of green grapes; a few apples; a couple of Oreo cookies; a thermos of Kool-Aid, the red kind. Or maybe it was Hawaiian Punch. 

My mother would settle into her beach chair, a type that was low to the ground. She’d put a match book cover over her nose to protect it from sunburn, light up a Kent, and open a book. She’d spend the next few hours reading her book, or sleeping on the blanket, or chatting with her family. My cousins would rent the cottage behind us during the same week, and always showed up at the beach shortly after we did. We spent most of the week hanging around together. 

Back in the ‘60s, Moody was a kid paradise. When we weren’t body surfing in the chilly Atlantic, we were sliding down the dunes.  The dunes were so high and wide, it was possible to lose sight of your family blanket sometimes. Dune grass whipped our legs and crusty seaweed bruised our feet and we couldn't have cared less because one minute we were in the Himalayas, the next  trudging across the Sahara, or landing on the moon. 

When we got sick of the dunes, we’d do the castle thing, using buckets and cups to shape huge towers in the muddy valley left behind by the receding tides which lay a whole acre away from the dunes.  One summer, we got into building holes. There’s a whole photo album filled with us little kids digging a huge hole several feet wide and at least a fifth grader deep.

My dad, a former baseball player, always brought a ball to the beach.  Playing catch with my dad and the boy cousins was my favorite thing of all. As we got older, we walked more. Bunches of us would take long walks down to the Footbridge Beach. Sometimes we walked all the way down to Ogunquit.

  

At night and on rainy days we’d explore the little nearby towns. We’d visit Kennebunkport at least once each year. On rainy days, if the tide was in, we got a kick out of riding the shore route and watching for bits of ocean and pieces of seaweed to hit the windshield.   

 

We’d always find a great parking spot in the honor parking lot at Dock Square. Then we’d wander among the little shops. My parents’ favorite shop was I think called the Heather House, next to Dock Square Clothiers. They sold Irish and British imports: wool blankets, tartan plaid ties in scores of patterns, heraldic plaques, Waterford crystal, Royal Doulton Toby mugs, Belleek and Wedgewood china. This was the stuff my family was into. We’d always end our trip to Kennebunk with a drive past Walker Point.

Sometimes we’d go to the town of Ogunquit, but back then it wasn’t very built up. Other than a general store that sold Coppertone and water toys, there wasn’t much to see.  We’d usually drive straight through the town, up Israel Head Road to the little lighthouse at the Marginal Way, which was my father’s favorite place to take family photos. He liked the backdrop of rocks, splashing, and pretty ocean horizons. Sometimes we’d walk the Marginal Way to Perkins Cove, and sometimes we got in the car and drove. 

On the ride up to the Marginal Way, we’d always talk about the girl who went missing from The Lookout, a rickety old resort on our route.  She went missing in the early ‘70s I think. I believe eventually they’d found out she was murdered. On the way down from the Marginal Way, we’d always look for what we called the Mafia House, a solid brick armory of a structure with a huge columned porch enclosed in department store-sized windows. Massive iron gates surrounded the property, but you could still make out the expensive cushioned furniture and tall white sculptures behind the dark glass.

 

We all decided that the glass was bullet-proof and that the home was some scary gangster’s secret getaway.  My parents, who loved spy novels and murder stories, encouraged this. 

We had several jobs to fulfill in Perkins Cove as part of our vacation responsibilities. We had to go into ALL the gift stores. We had to stay with my mother in Swamp John’s and whine about being bored until she left without buying anything. We had to stop by the Finestkind and watch the fisherman bring in their catches. All of us, my parents included, had to make loud comments that everyone around us could hear about how gross the fish smelled and looked. We would all swear to never eat tuna again and of course the next day’s beach lunch was always tuna and it was delicious. 

We would have to watch Val McGann paint his pictures. McGann usually settled himself somewhere at the edge of the parking lot. Next to his easel was a big board to which was glued all kinds of newspaper stories featuring his work. Every time we went to Perkins Cove, we would read the newspaper clippings and my father would comment on how the artist's ocean storm scenes, the splashing, the rocks,  were so realistic. My mother would say that one day they would have to buy a painting. Then we would walk away.

 

No visit to the Cove was complete without setting foot on the drawbridge, which was a shaky contraption, I remember, before it was destroyed in the Blizzard of ’78 and then rebuilt into the sober structure that stands today. The little ones never ventured onto the bridge at all. I was somewhat brave, and usually my dad could coax me to walk all the way out to the middle.  I’m pretty sure the bridge swayed under our weight. Or maybe it was just my father putting ideas into my head. 

Today I went to Maine with my parents. I drove. Here’s what we did. 

We scooted straight up to Kennebunkport and squeezed into the honor parking lot. There were people and cars everywhere, even though it was a perfect beach day. I put three dollars in the pay slot, though my father said we weren’t going to be there very long and really it would be fine to leave a quarter.

I bought a Val McGann painting, an inexpensive miniature. The artist once known as JFK’s favorite seascapist according to all his newspaper stories, still paints every day, though he’s got to be eighty-five or more.  He’s gotten a little silly and now paints some seascapes with pears and apples sitting upright in the foreground. He calls these paintings “Beach Bums.” I like the idea of being silly at eighty-five, so I bought myself a tiny painting of two bare-bottomed pieces of fruit sunning on the beach.  

We mentioned how crowded the town was. The clerk at the painting store said it was actually a pretty slow day. “So, do you close for the winter or are you open all year-round?” My dad asked this. She said they closed in October. We window shopped, we walked through a few stores. My dad asked in every one if they closed for the winter or were open year-round. We got in the car and drove to Walker Point, passing a shingled house on the coast my mother always called the Hitchcock House, because it has a creepy profile. 

“Hey! There’s the Hitchcock House,” my dad said. 

“I’ve always loved that house,” my mother said. 

As we came upon the Bush compound, my dad made jokes about George Bush and wondered if we should pop in and say hello. My mother said she didn’t feel like visiting with them today and perhaps we should all duck as we drove by so they wouldn’t see us.

We drove to Wells and ate lobster rolls at Lord’s at the end of Harbor Road and got a fifteen percent discount because we’d ordered between two and four in the afternoon.  Nobody was mean to us. In the past, the skinny old lady hostess used to be quite stern, so we had certain expectations this visit. By the way, Lord's closes in October. 

We drove past Congdon’s, where we used to get breakfast every last morning in Maine. My dad always had blueberry pancakes. I liked the silver dollars. My mom couldn’t remember what she used to eat, but mentioned she was glad she’d just had a coffee at Lord’s.

  

We drove down Shore Road and meandered all the way to Moody but didn’t get out of the car because to pay for parking there you now need to take out a small mortgage first. Parking used to be free, my dad said. We found our old house on Bourne Ave. It’s been added to and covered in tan vinyl. There are no pink shutters. We passed the Town Line Motel. My mother noted that though it’s over fifty years old, it looks better than most of the new stuff that’s popped up the last few years. 

We passed the site of our favorite ice cream place, The Viking. It’s now a steakhouse. Like the world really needs another steakhouse. We all sighed and talked about how we used to fill our bowls to overflowing with marshmallow sauce, caramel and chocolate at the Viking's make your own sundae bar. Then we drove through Ogunquit and took Israel Head Road to the Marginal Way. The place was packed so we couldn’t park. On the way to Perkins Cove we passed the Mafia House. My parents agreed that it hadn’t changed a bit.

Perkins Cove was packed too, so we did a quick drive through then headed south. My dad snorted at the nerve some people had, charging twelve bucks for parking.

We took the back roads to York and pigged out at Brown’s ice cream stand, where a small cone is still larger than your head. We found a parking spot at Nubble Light and my parents observed that the water certainly looked blue today and the splashing of the waves was just lovely.  A soft wind had picked up and my mother remarked that the air was wonderful. 

“It’s always so easy to breathe in Maine,” she said. 

We inhaled deeply. We agreed. We talked about coming up again, maybe in September when the crowds thin. Then we headed home.

Dirty pool: Just deja vu again

Once upon a time I owned a built-in pool. It was so pretty: turquoise lining, wide white stairs at the shallow end. Glorious elms, oaks, and aspens bounded the area near the pool fence. The pool was set far back from the house and street and was a peaceful escape from work, responsibility, and of course hot, sticky summer.  The only thing I hated about the pool was maintaining it. I did everything humanly possible to avoid vacuuming my own house, and here I was cleaning an entire pool – sides, bottom, stairs, deck -- a couple of times a week. 

The only thing I hated more than maintaining the pool was opening it. 

Opening the pool meant cleaning off the cover first, a job I would wish only on my worst enemy. By spring, the cover was usually so full of waterlogged leaves that it sunk several feet in the middle. In order to get the cover off, I had to first remove all the leaves and water. To remove the water, I used a small electric pump, which slurped up the filthy wet and sent it through a long garden hose that snaked out the width of the yard and emptied into the street. Once enough water was gone and I could see the leaves, I’d scoop them out, using a big basket attached to a telescoping silver pole. I’d dump the leaves into a wheelbarrow then empty the contents in the backyard. 

Once the leaves were pretty much gone, I’d begin the tedious process of getting the last remaining bits of water off the cover. A tiny bit of water over a large area adds up to a ton – okay a little less – of weight. Once everything was off the cover, my kids and I would peel it back, in much the same way you might take a sheet off your bed, if your bed is the size of a small house and your sheet is filthy with dead bugs and decaying muck. We’d stand at either side of the deep end and walk toward the shallow part, lifting the cover, folding it over, lifting, folding. If we’d gotten almost all the water off, this process went so smoothly that we’d be able to transition the cover, which by then looked like a monstrous piece of rolled pastry and smelled like a swamp, from the pool area to the back yard. 

If we didn’t get all the water off the cover, the cover always ended up in the pool. It would just be too heavy and one of us would drop an end. Then we’d have to tug and drag the darn thing out of the water, and there would be yelling and swearing and crying, but mostly swearing. And that would be coming from me. All the muddy guck still sticking to the cover -- the transparent zombie leaves, the occasional frog carcass, headless chipmunks (I had a cat who liked to hunt), and whole families of spaghetti worms – would slide into the pool water. And guess who would get to clean all that? The pool boy I mean pool mother. Me.

Needless to say, I’d gotten pretty expert at getting that cover nearly Martha Stewart perfect. You spend a couple of days fishing dead stuff out of a pool, you figure out ways to avoid having to do that in the future. 

Over the twenty-four years or so that we had the pool, I’d worked out this system. As the pump slurped up the last drops of water from the middle, I’d lift up the pool cover at one corner, and make a little slope. The water from that end of the pool would slide down to the pump and get sucked up into the hose. I would keep going from corner to corner until I was satisfied that there was no way I could get the cover any drier. My fingers would bloody from scraping the rough tarp, and my knees would get bruised, but the pristine pool water was worth it. 

And then one day, the unexpected occurred.

  

It was about seven years ago, on an unseasonably cold May day. They were predicting a hot June, so I was working hard to get the pool ready, even though the weather this particular day was most definitely not anywhere near summery. I was wearing a wool sweater, jeans, and an old pair of running shoes. It was a cloudy day to start with and dusk was coming on fast. One child was away at college. The other was studying somewhere deep inside the house. It was a quiet night. No one was out and about. I was alone and obsessively doing my thing. 

  

I’d removed most of the long, balloon-like water weights that held the cover to the cement pool deck. I’d untied the twine that ran from the pool fence to the grommets at the corners of the cover. My fingers were stinging from the scraping of the tarp as I directed the water to the pump sucking away in the middle.

I was kneeling at one of the deep end corners when it happened. One minute I was holding the cover, and the next I was under water, choking. I’d been kneeling on part of the cover instead of on the solid pool deck. The cover gave way under my weight. I’d toppled over, then hit the water head first.

I was upside down in about six feet of nearly freezing water.  My legs were tangled in the pool cover. My clothes were weighing me down. The harder I tried to kick myself free, the more trapped I became.  My heart beat was out of control. I was swallowing water. I was inhaling water. I thought I was going to die.

Then out of nowhere, it hit me. I’d been in a situation somewhat similar to this twice before, minus the pool cover.

 

I’m a good swimmer. I won’t ever win awards for speed, but I can swim a smooth, slow mile. A few summers before this incident, I’d even done two triathlons. Sprint-sized: swim a half mile, bike twelve or so miles, finish up with a three mile run. At sign up time, I remember thinking it sounded like a lot of fun. 

And it would have been, if I'd been able to handle the swim portion. In a regular pool, I was just fine. I could paddle along in my lane like a happy little labrador. But in competition, I got massive panic attacks, probably the end result of a few things: the shock of cold lake water, the suffocating crowds, the random kicks to body parts. Tri one: panic attack, rapid heartbeat, inhaling water.  I thought maybe it was a fluke. A newbie thing. Nope. Tri two was just as bad. Both times, in order to bring myself to sanity, I had to swim off to the side and allow the crowds to pass me, then tread water until I calmed down.  

People told me I should get a wet suit. It would warm up my body. They said that the panicked breathing, the swallowing of water has a lot to do with the shock of the cold. It’s pretty common, they said.  I never bought the wet suit. While the idea of doing triathlons was fun, I’d had enough of that kind of fun anyhow. I decided to stick with plain old running. I’ve yet to get kicked in the face on a run. 

So, I’m in the cold pool, gagging on God only knows what, when suddenly I knew what to do because it was déjà vu all over again. I did the same thing I did during the swimming portion of the two tris. I stopped. I let my body loosen up. When I relaxed, the cover slid away from me. I rose to the surface. I spit out all the water I hadn’t swallowed. I went in the house. My daughter laughed at me. 

Today I was supposed to do a long run and some other things too. Instead, I was driving one of my parents to the ER. This time it wasn’t anything super serious. There was no drama. There was no life-death ruminating. It was something minor that involved a big band aid, lots of gauze, and a tetanus shot.

I’ll get what I need another day. I used to have to rearrange my schedule all the time when my kids were younger. I remember how to do it. It’s like riding a bike, running a couple of miles, or falling under a pool cover.

Calling on angels

I’ve been mulling over why I wrote what I wrote yesterday and why I thought what I thought the day before, on my hot failure of a run. On the surface, maybe it all appeared random. But I don’t think it was. Here’s why.   

First, I read over what I wrote and I realize now that I didn’t fail. In truth, deep down I knew that already. I figure putting that down in black and white will get it to hit home; make me realize that I do truly believe it. The fact that I was driven enough to get myself out to Newton, which is an hour from here, and then run is pretty remarkable. It was a huge step. Granted, it was followed by not as many smaller sweaty ones as I’d hoped for, but still, it was huge. Gargantuan. I know why I’ve had trouble running lately. I know why I watch the clock the whole time I’m at the gym, why my efforts are half-hearted and why I’m unfocused when it comes to getting going on my book. 

This whole cancer thing is killing me. Since this nightmare journey started back in March, I’ve struggled with coping. I’m afraid for my mother. I’m afraid for my father. I’m afraid for me. And this fear has manifested itself in an inability to move forward. I know sadness is part of it. I get that it’s depression. I see a therapist to work it all out, to harness that strength and resilience that I know I have inside me. 

Here’s another thing that plays into it all: My parents are depending on me. I am the sole caretaker. It’s usually unspoken, but it’s always understood. It leaks out sometimes, a cut that just won’t heal. Like the other day when my mother and I were talking about how I’d be teaching sixth grade again for my eighteenth year, even though I’d tried to get a position teaching a higher grade. When she said, “It’s just as well that it’s routine for you, you have a tough year coming up,” my knees buckled. I had to lean against the counter to hide the evidence of my distress.  I knew what she meant. I’m it. I will be getting phone calls I won’t want to get. I will be spending hours in medical offices and waiting rooms, possibly ERs. There could be more, worse things too.  

I accept it. I am glad to accept it. It’s my birthright. I’m the oldest. Plus, I’m the one who stayed; I’m the sibling who lives nearby. It is an honor to be called into this service. I really truly deeply believe that. They gave me life. I get to say thanks now. But I can’t deny the deep underlying resentment that simmers inside me sometimes. I’m not going to lie about its existence. Lies tend to fester and grow and infect and weaken. No way I’m going to lie. I need all the strength I can get. 

I pick at this resentment, this itchy scab that keeps opening. I study it with my therapist. We talk it out  so I can be strong for my mom and dad. I write this down now because admitting this is a sign of strength. I believe that.  I want to be able to look back at this and read it. I want others to be able to read it and see that it’s okay to acknowledge this. It helps to let it out. If you want to be the best you, you have no choice. You have to let it out. 

Don’t get me wrong. I’m not alone. I have cousins who I know will help me out when the time comes. I have good friends who will always be there for me. I have terrific support. Plus, I’ve got angels on my side. I don’t mean real angels. I mean the idea of what it is they represent. Sometimes I call upon Saint Michael, protector of innocents and La Conquistadora, Mary the Conqueror. 

Michael the Archangel:, protector of the innocent, ultimate bad ass

I lit a candle at the altar of La Conquistadora when I visited the Basilica of St. Francis in Santa Fe. I asked her for strength. I believe in good role models. I believe in strong women. I love saying that name, La Conquistadora: It starts off softly, builds to a tough harsh core, then ends in a trill that resonates and ripples. How can you not feel stronger when you let La Conquistadora roll off your tongue?  I say La Conqistadora and this is what I think: Go ahead punk. Make. My. Day.  I picture Saint Michael, Archangel bad ass with his muscular shoulders and oversized wings, and I think this: Vengeance is mine, saith ME. 

Don't mess with us small women. We're bad asses too.

Again, I’m not saying I believe in the existence of these supernatural celestial beings. First, I’m not nuts. Second, I tend toward the agnostic rather than the Catholic. I have way too many issues with the Catholic Church to buy into its beliefs hook, line and sinker. But I was raised Catholic and so angels, parables, scripture are all part of my collective consciousness and of course influence my thoughts. And maybe as part of my history with religion and with running long distances too, I believe in the power of positive thinking.   

It’s no accident that on my run Thursday I called upon my glorious memories of Cheryl, Anthony, S, B, and D. They’re all angels in their own way. They’re all bad asses too. Thinking of them makes me smile. Even today, they give me strength.

Lessons? Maybe.

It’s funny how the mind works. How, if you let it empty, it sometimes fills up with just what you need.  

As I started my run yesterday, I couldn’t help but recall the first time I ran parts of yesterday’s route. It was winter 2001. I was with my friend – I’ll call her Cheryl --  and two of her friends, men who had a few decades on us and were battle-scarred marathon pros.  We parked one car behind the shops at the corner of Centre Street and Commonwealth Ave., near the Boston Marathon 20-mile mark. 

The four of us piled into another car and drove the marathon route backwards: up and down the Newton Hills, left at the fire station, over Route 128, up through the heart of Wellesley and its pricey boutiques and coffee shops, past the pretty buildings of Wellesley College and through the red brick expanse of downtown Natick. We stopped a couple of times to hide gallons of water in bushes along the road.  I remember just one drop-off place with any accuracy: the big stone church in Wellesley near Marathon Sports. During the annual BAA charity training run at the end of March, Dana Farber always has a huge water stop there.  Whenever I see the DF stop, I always remember the first time I stopped there. 

We ended our drive in the parking lot of an industrial park near the Natick-Framingham line. I’m guessing this was around the eight-mile mark. Then we ran the course to mile 21 in Newton, which is where the Boston College campus begins.

When we were done, we walked back to the car for a mile or so I think. It’s all a little vague now. I don’t remember exactly where we started or ended. I don’t remember if it hurt or not, I don’t remember whether the air was cold or warm. I do remember chatting with Cheryl for most of the run and being so grateful for her company. I can recall this with some accuracy because we always chatted when we ran and I was always grateful for her company. I remember after the run we all ate Oreo cookies once we got into the car. I remember it was the first time the reality of it all hit me. After years of dreaming about doing it, I was really truly training for Boston. 

Thoughts of Cheryl and our first run on the course brought me to the more recent past, specifically April 18, 2012, Patriot’s Day . The Boston Marathon is run on Patriot’s Day and Cheryl’s son – I’ll call him Anthony – was running his first Boston Marathon, his first marathon ever. Anthony lives with an illness that lands him in the hospital every now and then. The illness is a dangerous one and the hospital stays are not pleasant. (Are illnesses ever pleasant? Are hospital stays?) Last year, 2011, he was in the hospital a lot. Still, he found the strength to train for Boston. 

Normally, mid-April temperatures in Massachusetts tend to stay in the fifties and sixties.  Most marathoners, me included,  consider temps in the sixties to be a little on the warm side. A few years ago, when I ran the Vermont City Marathon, the temps hovered close to seventy. I wanted to die.This year, Patriot’s Day was a sweat bath. Temperatures hit ninety by mid-morning. The sky was cloudless. There was no shade anywhere; no escape from the sun. 

I was captaining the mile thirteen hydration stop, which is on Route 135 in front of the Wellesley Public Library. We were dying just handing out water and Gatorade. One of our volunteers had to drop out. She was simply overcome by the heat. We passed out over 30,000 cups that day. How the assembled herd, nearly 25,000 runners, made it through those 26.2 miles still blows my mind.  

When Anthony showed up at the stop, he looked so fresh I couldn’t believe he’d just run 13 miles. His breathing was good, his form was flawless. He had enough energy to give me a hug and a huge smile. When he waved good-bye, I couldn't help but notice the easy bounce in his step. That day, I saw many runners shuffling and ready to keel over. Anthony was not one of them. I thought of him as I sweated yesterday. I was only at mile two and I was falling apart. I don’t know how he found the strength inside him. I wished yesterday that I had a little bit of it.  

Once I thought of Anthony and his brave run on that killer of an April day, the floodgates opened and before I knew it, there was orange everywhere. In my brain I mean, not on the pavement or lawns. As I plodded along so slowly, up and down my little hills, I pictured all the great runners I’ve gotten to know over the years. Most of them I picture in orange Run for Research singlets because I got to know them through the American Liver Foundation’s RFR charity running team.  

I pictured S, who ran her tenth straight Boston in 2012, for the same little guy I’ve run for only six times. I pictured B, the woman I was meeting for lunch soon. She’s vanquished more medical demons than any person should ever have to battle. My pesky tendinitis? My perpetually blistered foot? Mosquito bites in comparison to the scary stuff she's had to cope with. And yet, she runs Boston every year for our charity. 

And when I thought of B, and the great strength she always manages to muster every Patriot’s Day, I couldn’t help but call up the memory of D. At the same time as I was running my insignificant little course, she was attempting a feat accomplished by just a handful in history: a round-trip swim through the English Channel. A champion swimmer back in college, D ran for Liver for many years before returning to her home sport, distance swimming. Yesterday was her second attempt to swim the English Channel both ways, forty-two miles total, on behalf of Michael J. Fox’s Parkinson’s charity.  

What would make someone attempt such a robustly crazy feat? Well, she’s quite the athlete to begin with, and she’s already swum the English Channel once. I can see wanting more. Wanting to overcome new obstacles; maybe crush old records. But also, her mother has Parkinson’s. 

Two years ago, when D first attempted her round-trip swim, she had to drop out halfway through the last leg. She started having shoulder problems. Yesterday, she made it all the way to the five kilometer mark. She could see the lights of Dover in the distance. She swam in place for two whole hours, doing her best to overcome the relentless tides that wouldn’t let her move forward. Her crew finally pulled her out of the water.

When I started writing this today, I wasn’t sure how it would end up. I had a lot of false starts. Cut out one whole page and then another. I was trying to figure out the lesson from yesterday's run, because I have found that every long run, good or bad, teaches me something. I ended up here. 

Huh. 

Interesting.

How to run eleven miles, or not

First, prepare. 

The day before: eat right; sleep right; drink plenty of water until your pee is almost clear. (Runners talk about pee color all the time. It’s something you get used to.) 

If you haven’t run eleven miles in a while, take the day off from the gym. Walk a little. Rest.  Stretch.  

Check! 

Though in truth I didn’t walk or stretch. I barely got off my butt all day. I wrote until mid-afternoon then I read for several hours. Then I watched a couple of Modern Family and Mentalist repeats. Also, I had two helpings of Friendly’s mint chocolate chip ice cream. That’s a dishonest way of saying I ate a half of a half gallon. It was a perfect day.  

Ice cream may not be the ideal pre-run food, but isn't it our imperfections that make us human????

 

  

Second, plan your route.

Check! 

I had an excellent route, the best route ever: a loop around Boston College. About half the miles were on my much-beloved Boston Marathon course. I know. I’ve been running flat stuff lately, and this route is pretty hilly. I figured I’d go slowly. No big deal. I’ve done this loop dozens of times. And hills are good training, right? 

Third, check that you have all your supplies. 

Check! Oh. Wait.

When I was twenty-two, it took me ten minutes, tops, to get ready for a run: red cotton shorts; T-shirt with Maine in big blue letters and a lobster on the front; Walkman -- stuffed in waistband -- duct-taped at the bottom to hold in the batteries; peds on the feet, those little socks with pom poms; running shoes -- my awesome maroon-swooshed Pegasus Nikes.   

Today? It took me three trips to the car. Three! I needed: water – three frozen bottles, bananas, Body Glide, sunscreen, sunglasses, a change of clothes (I was meeting a friend after), a change of shoes, towel, deodorant. I got halfway down the driveway, which luckily is short, when I remembered I’d forgotten my shuffle, my phone and most importantly, my reading glasses. 

Already I was leaving twenty minutes later than planned. Channel 5 News had said the morning was supposed to be in the mid-70s. It was now 80. 

Fourth, warm up. 

Oh yeah.

 

I was plenty warmed up by the time I started running. It was 85 degrees and humid. Not a cloud in the sky. 

Fifth, start slowly. 

If there’s any other way to start, somebody needs to let me know. I’ve never NOT started slowly. 

Sixth, go! Adjust pace as needed. 

Check to infinity times infinity.

I not only adjusted pace, I also adjusted expectations, because within a half mile I wanted to die. The heat was relentless. The humidity was killer. I was a whiny baby.

What am I getting myself into? I thought, as I turned right off Centre Street and chugged uphill. Water was pouring off my back when I stopped at the 21 mile mark to take a picture. Ha. Truth here. I stopped to take a picture because I wanted an excuse to stop. Just a mile and a half into the run, and I wanted to stop.  Pathetic. 

I looked at my watch and realized there was no way I’d be able to run eleven miles at this pace and get to my lunch date on time. I would have to lop off some miles. The upside? Possibly I wouldn’t die out here.

Instead of continuing down to Cleveland Circle and up the backside of Boston College, I decided to turn around, jog west the three-plus miles to the fire station and then turn back and head east to the car. This would make the run closer to eight miles.  

It hit me then that maybe eleven miles was unrealistic anyhow. And too, I really needed to get to that fire station fast. There’s a nice bathroom at that fire station. 

Tar, it turns out, is an excellent cooking surface. Under the hot sun, I baked like a haddock, a white, tired haddock. But still, I continued forward. This was not due to any strength or tenacity on my part. This section of the run was mostly downhill. I let gravity do its thing. 

I took another photo at the Johnny Kelley statue. I rubbed the older Kelley’s shoe for good luck. Then I slogged forward. My only goal was to get to the fire station. My bladder was not happy with me. 

The Kelley statue: Young at Heart

At this point I started to see more runners. Like me, they looked like they wanted to kill themselves. We all looked worn out and grim. Still, we all smiled and said good morning as we met. When I reached Chestnut Street, I realized I had to turn around. I was still several blocks from the fire station and its wonderful rest room facility. However, if I didn’t turn around at that point I wouldn’t have enough time to get back and meet my friend.  

I’d like to say I was angry at myself for going so slowly I had to stop short. I’d like to say that I sprinted back up the hills of Newton and felt renewed and refreshed and excited about life and running. 

Not exactly. You can make the grandest running plans, but if you’re not ready for the course, or if the temps wear you out and you have to slow down or cut out miles, well, that’s just the way it goes.  And it wasn’t just the heat. My knees were aching, my hips were singing, my form was off. I’ve had way too many injuries because I’ve ignored my body’s signals and kept going when I should have stopped. I’ve learned to trust my running head. It was time to head back. 

After I turned around I walk for a bit. I got a second wind after a half mile or so, and jogged up Heartbreak Hill and back to Centre St. When I got to my car I poured water over my head. My eyes stung from all the salt I’d sweated out. I washed the grit off my face and body. I thought about finding a bathroom. I considered all that I’d done. 

It certainly had not been my best run. But at least I’d gotten out there. Somehow, I’d managed to cast off this dark anchor dragging me down the last few days.  With each step forward, I climbed further out of the fog and into sunlight. It was hot and I went slowly and got burned. But in truth it didn’t feel all that bad. It felt kind of good.

I hope to do some longer races this fall. I haven’t yet ruled out Boston in April. The dark stuff is still there waiting. I know that.  But I ran on my marathon route today and I remembered how strong I can be. I wonder if maybe I can get stronger still. 

Why I'm not drinking, for now

I stopped drinking five weeks ago on a Sunday night. I slipped once, twelve days later.

I was in New Mexico at the Taos Summer Writers' Conference, taking part in a week-long master novel class. There were six of us in the class, four men and two women, me included, plus the leader. It wasn’t in the class that I slipped. 

The conference started with a big dinner on a Sunday night, a week after my supposed last drink. There were hundreds of us, a wedding reception-sized crowd.  We sat at assigned tables according to workshop. Everyone at my table, except for me and one of the guys, had brought spouses. I really could have used a drink. Though I’ve attended hundreds of events on my own, though I’ve run many marathons without any company except for the hard breathing of strangers all around me, I still sometimes feel awkward when I go to social gatherings alone.  Especially when practically everyone else at the table has a partner, and when everyone else is drinking. One glass of wine is all I need.  My tongue loosens, my boundaries, thick-walled and spike-topped, crumble. 

But that night I didn’t have a drink.

Over the next four nights I didn’t drink either. There were many awkward moments when a cheap glass of cabernet would have greased the works and given me respite.  But I abstained.

Every night there were readings from the workshop leaders, who are all published authors or poets. The readings were given in a spacious conference room where scores of chairs were set up in rows. You could sneak in and sit where you wanted. Some people sat with friends, but many people, me included, sat alone. For the last night of readings, which happened to be the last night of the conference, we all met again in the big room and sat at our assigned tables. There were appetizers and a full cash bar. There were also margaritas, which were free.

This night was the last night all seven of us, we six participants and our fearless leader John Dufresne, would ever likely be together. The next morning I was leaving early. I had to be in Santa Fe for a 9 a.m.  poetry workshop. Most of the others were departing before breakfast for the Albuquerque airport, which is three hours south. One was driving north into the mountains that very evening, to his home in Angel Fire an hour away.

As I sat listening to the readings, I couldn’t help but reflect on the remarkable days that were ending. I was leaving with many, many solid ideas on how to improve my work. I felt affirmed and respected. I’d  made new friends with whom I now shared a strong bond. I was proud of the steps I’d taken to help myself. When I sent out my three hundred fifteen pages to everyone back in June, I was sending my baby, my hopes,my dreams, to perfect strangers. I’d risked everything and as a result I’d grown. I was in a new place.  

And as I thought about what that new place would bring, a sadness entered me that had nothing to do with leaving behind these kind good people and this magical place. The sadness had to do with what I was going home to. 

The reason I stopped drinking on Sunday July 8, is because the next day, Monday, July 9, my mother started chemotherapy. She loves her red wine. She and my dad have been drinking a half bottle or more a night for years now. Her oncologist had told her months back that once she started chemo she would have to cut out all alcohol. He told her that if she drinks, two things will happen: 1. She will end up in the intensive care unit. 2. He will refuse to continue treating her.  I know this is true because I was at that appointment. I heard her ask him, again and again, if she could drink. She wheedled. She begged. She told the truth: “Wine is the only thing getting me through this.”

Each time, his answer was a gentle shake of the head, a calm no, until finally he’d had enough and uttered those last definitive statements about intensive care and ending her treatment. That shut her up. 

We drank a lot of red wine the night before her treatment began. We toasted my mother multiple times. We raised our glass to the glorious grape. We blessed then cursed Dr. Bathini, then blessed him again. And that night we all gave up alcohol, a symbolic gesture to let her know we were in her corner. We were there for her. My mother said that was a silly thing for us to do. “Why should you suffer?” she said.

“Why not?” We said. 

We all figured that it’s the least that we could do. And personally, it’s not that big a deal for me. I’m not much of a drinker anyhow. Honestly, if I’d really wanted to feel suffering, I’d have given up chocolate. 

This is week five of my mother’s sixteen-week course of treatment.  In eleven weeks, if all goes well, my mother can have one glass of wine. That’s what the doctor said.  My mother is counting the hours.  

I had a free margarita – honesty here – TWO free margaritas, that last night in Taos, because when the sadness came on I didn’t want to face it. I needed a little escape, a break. I needed a good taste to hold on to, a memory to help me face the storms ahead.  I am not as strong as my mother. 

Oh how I miss you dear friend.

My mother started smoking fifty-nine years ago, when she was just sixteen. Dozens of times she has tried to quit. She’s gone cold turkey, she’s tried the patch. Once, my mother the cynic even tried a hypnotist. Two years ago, she watched her best friend succumb to cancer, and still she couldn’t give up that heinous addiction, though she found the strength somehow then to cut back to just seven cigarettes a day. She hated herself so much for even smoking that much.

The day she got her cancer diagnosis – it’s not one cancer but in fact TWO unrelated cancers -- she threw out all her butts.  Several months have passed in a blur of CT scans and x-rays. She’s been poked and prodded like a piece of meat. She’s undergone a month of radiation and now is coping with the cumulative effects of chemo building up in her system. She does all this knowing that it’s likely she will not be cured. We all know this. Dr. Bathini has been upfront from the start. 

We went out to eat the other night, just before the crazy pacemaker weekend. It was an Italian place my parents frequent. They used to love to savor a good glass of wine there before they ordered their meal. But now they order just a few minutes after they sit. We drink water with lemon. We munch on bread that we’ve dipped in olive oil. We wait. My mother says, “Jesus. Without the cigarettes and alcohol life isn’t worth living.”  Then she laughs. It’s a bitter laugh. But it’s a laugh and that counts for something. We laugh too. 

Take that!