I've got stamina

Too much time alone is not good. But it's the reality when you are a lone caregiver. See? Even the phrase " a lone caregiver" has the word "alone" in it.

It's hard being "it."

You wake up in the morning, sometimes ready to face the day. Other times, your brain and body are so overwhelmed you can't even put a sentence together. You're dizzy and not sure if it's because your blood pressure is so slow because you're a runner or so high because your head is out of control and  you're about to stroke out.

You gingerly put one foot forward, then the next,  and enter the kitchen, where you find the contents of the paper towel roll, which you forget to hide in the cabinet last night, ripped and scattered all over the floor. Kitten attacks.

You clean up the towels, feed the cats. Heat up old coffee. Gulp it down.

Go online because all you're thinking about is your work week, your loved ones' medical appointments, the free time you don't have any more.  Your hands are shaking and you're thinking about dark places like graveyards, obituaries.

The Facebook poem quiz gives you "Invictus."

"It matters not how strait the gate." That's a cemetery gate. The poet was picturing a cemetery gate, which is exactly what I was picturing, rusted, black-scrolled, abandoned. Me. 

You picture how running ten miles indoors today will be like torture but how it will help calm your racing pulse. You think maybe you should run first, then come home and shovel. That makes more sense. After that you'll check in with your loved ones, just a quick trip that you know will be about three hours long. Then you'll come home and write. Or more likely stare off into space, which is what writing time looks like these days. 

You jump when the phone rings. The visiting nurse tells you about some complications. Your voice is calm but every muscle in your body is quivering. Fight. Flight.

Is that ache in your chest that heart attack your therapist warns you're headed toward if you don't. . . What? Stop being there for the ones who raised me??? Seriously??

Like I would ever NOT be there for them???

I'm not THAT child.  

So. I write this. I read "Invictus" over and over.

I decide to post this, not because I need sympathy or help, but because I'm strong enough to show how weak I am, which is weird I know. Like I haven't been called that most of my life, weird I mean.

It's what works for me, letting folks see me working through my weakness: when I'm on the treadmill for forever and look like crap, drenched through, hair plastered to my neck, back fat wobbling, going slower than slow those last few miles. Or near the back of the pack during a long distance race.  Me the sloth, still strong enough to yell out "Thank you for being here" to onlookers and volunteers.

After the VNA  I called the one who knew me since my life began. Her voice shook like my hands. "I just don't know what to do." Her words tremble. I picture the orange pharmacy bottles piled all over the kitchen counter. The table where she sits is covered with her food for the day, all liquid, because it goes into a pump, into a g-tube, into her stomach.    

"It's okay. The nurse will be there soon. Me too. We'll all do our best to figure out how to control what we can. We'll take it from there. How does that sound?"

"Thank you. I'll see you soon."

The strength in her voice surprised me.

The strength in mine surprised me too. 

Gotta run. No rest for the weary. 

 





  

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.

Chicago Marathon: I do believe in you, and I know you believe in me

Oh yeah.

Thank you Chicago, for welcoming me, my daughter and all the other 44, 998 dreamers and doers to your epic skycraping, knee-shaking, heart-quaking, endorphin-making runnerfest. 

It’s been two weeks since the marathon, but that’s not why I’m having trouble writing this post on my experiences.  The fact is, when I wasn’t spending my time watching my footing and trying to maneuver my way over the course, I was mainly looking up. After all, this is the city that put American architecture on the map: Frank Lloyd Wright, Mies van der Rohe, Frank Gehry, Charles Atwood, Daniel Burnham, John Mead Howells, Louis Sullivan and on and on.  Geez. 

My only regret going into the race in addition to the usuals --  wishing I’d trained more, lost that extra ten pounds – is that I didn’t bone up on my architecture history. I have the books at home and everything, ancient, dog-eared relics from way back in college when I was obsessed with learning everything I could about art and architecture.  

During the marathon, I’d be trotting along thinking,  “Gee I’m tired. Wow those marathon fans are awesome. Ugh. Why do these runners insist on stopping suddenly and walking four across, right in front of me? The heat is killing me. This sucks. I will never qualify for Boston at this rate (quick chuckle, dripping with sarcasm).”

Then I randomly look up and BAM, it’s 8:30 Friday morning  1981, O’Kane Hall. I’m in Professor Kurneta’s Architectural History Part 2 class, and I’m taking notes on that very same building I’m running by in present time, only in my head it’s shining in all its glory on that movie screen right in front of hung over, overly caffeinated  twenty-year old me.  

During this latest 26.2 mile trek, I didn't spend as much time noticing the crowds and the course as I did trying to remember architectural facts.  So please forgive me if my info on the marathon goes slightly astray. The Willis Tower made me do it. 

First, just getting into the Chicago Marathon was a stroke of incredible luck. Because so many folks want to take part in this world-renowned event, one of the top marathons in the world, a raffle application system had to be instituted several years ago.  Last spring, I entered both myself and my daughter and – lo and behold! – we both got in. What are the odds, right?

As soon I got word we’d been accepted, I booked a room at one of the marathon-sponsored hotels, located just ten minutes from the Grant Park start and finish.  The hotel also offered a free shuttle to the marathon expo, and hosted a pre-marathon buffet dinner. Perfect.

The morning of the race, the kid and I threw on our running gear and topped that with matching vanilla-scented garbage bags.  The day was supposed to warm up to high seventies -- terribly warm for running marathons, but it was still just in the 50s when we left the hotel. Garbage bags, by the way, are standard pre-start gear.  They keep out the wind and provide a bit of warmth. You toss them away when you’re ready to run. The scent? An extra bonus. I’d forgotten to bring bags from home. My daughter remembered and brought an extra for me. Apparently she likes her garbage to smell sweet.

The kid and I had scoped out the five marathon entrance gates the evening before, while taking an after-dinner stroll down Michigan Ave, one of the park boundaries.  Bridget needed to enter Gate 3. I would be entering Gate 4. 

Like any good mom sending their child off to preschool, first grade, high school, college,  I walked the kid to her gate on race morning and took some photos of her wearing her standard race gear, her hallmark marathon outfit: faded blue-checked Race Ready shorts, torn Run for Research Boston Marathon singlet. 

Then I walked a few steps to my gate and waited in line with a bunch of similarly tired-looking folks, with the exception of one: a tall runner wearing a Tom Brady face mask and a Brady Patriot’s jersey.  Taped to the front of the jersey, under his bib, was a paper with “Deflated?” scrawled across it in black magic marker. He juggled three slightly deflated footballs.  We got to talking. Yes, he was from Massachusetts. Yes, he was planning on juggling the footballs while he ran the entire 26.2 miles. 

Once through the security chute I started looking for a bathroom. Not that I needed it right then. It’s just that I know enough about the process by now to know that it’s never  a bad idea to find a spot  in a long port-a-potty line a half hour or more before a marathon starts. 

In line I had the pleasure of meeting up with Claude from Oregon, a fellow Marathon Maniac. He was running his 37^th marathon and his first Chicago. We spent nearly the entire twenty minutes in line comparing notes about where we’d run and where we were heading next.  He mentioned he hoped to run some marathons in a kilt, and asked me where I got my running skirt, which is a yellow, black, red Marathon Maniac plaid. He said he wanted one and I believed him. There was no joking in his voice.

By the time I got to my corral it had filled up, so I lined up in the back with a bunch of wicked  neat people. Irene from North Carolina was running marathon #155. The college kid next to her, Chris from Chicago, was running his first marathon and was nervous because he was injured.

“My training didn’t go as well as I planned,” he said. 

Irene and I looked at each other and smiled. “Does it ever?” I said.

Irene, who looked to be at least ten years older than me so she had to have at least three decades on this nice kid, patted him on the back. “You’re going to be just fine,” she said.   

I got talking with a woman my age from Washington state, who was running her first marathon and was already limping even though we had yet to cross the start line. I met a kind 80-year-old experienced runner who was initiating his granddaughter, age 30, into the marathon cult. 

I got a great photo of a seven-foot tall Team in Training Coach in a tutu and wig who’d dressed up like that to inspire his team.  As I reached out to take our photo he took the phone from my hand and pointing to his long arms said, “I have built-in selfie sticks.”

I met Alan from Colorado, who introduced himself as “The Sweeper,” because he fully expected to be the last runner out there. Chicago was his 29^th marathon.  He’s run some of the most difficult terrain around and completed the Pikes Peak marathon three times.  “I was in better shape then,” he said. “But I’ll finish today. I know I will.” 

I nodded. I understood where he was coming from. I may not be as fast as I once was, but there’s a lot to be said for still being out there, and continuing to plug away at your dreams, one slow, steady step at a time. 

“Born to Run” started playing over the loudspeakers as we slowly shifted forward. I don’t know what it is about that song. I hear it on the radio and I turn to another station because I’m just plain sick of it. But when it comes over the speakers at the start of a race, my heart starts thumping and all I can think is, “Yes. This is exactly where I am supposed to be.”

By the time we started running, sixty-six minutes after the initial starting gun, the front-runners were already at mile 13. Thank goodness for computerized timing chips.

I ran into trouble right away. Like, scary trouble. My nearly new running skirt fell off. Well, almost fell off. I’d taken it out for a test run on my final long run of twenty miles, three weeks earlier. I’d had no problems then. But boy oh boy, did I have problems that first mile. As soon as I started running, the skirt slid down my waist to my hips and kept trying to travel farther south. I grabbed the waistband and wrenched the skirt up as high as I could, which was pretty high and probably made me look like a real nutcase to the runners at my back. As soon as I let the skirt go, down it slid again. Yikes!

I started to panic. I wondered if I’d have to drop out. The idea of traveling all this way, putting in all that training, and then having to DNF because of an issue with an article of clothing? I was not happy. I yanked the skirt up again, and again, and again. For close to a mile I pulled on that stubborn fabric, to try to get it to stay in place, sometimes with one hand, sometimes with both. Just as I had resigned myself to the fact that I’d be spending the entire race yanking at plaid, the skirt settled at my hip and stayed. I have no idea why. (The skirt company says that maybe I was sweating by then and the sweat caused the skirt to stick. I emailed them the day after the race to let them know I was not happy.)

I was just glad the skirt wasn’t falling off anymore. I had no problems with it the rest of the race and was able to spend more time focusing on the city, the crowds, the course.

Spectators lined both sides of the streets the whole way. Bands played. Cheerleaders cheered.  I ran with an experienced marathoner – Chicago was #28, who’d recently had back surgery. Drafted for a bit in the hunky shadow of Firefighter Joe, a young guy running the entire race in full hero gear, oxygen tank and all. Passed around mile three a couple of Chicago’s finest, decked out in dress uniforms, including shiny leather Oxfords.

At around the 10k mark, witnessed a sobering sight, an older runner on a gurney, oxygen mask strapped to his face.  I read later that he’d had a heart attack on the course and had bypass surgery the day after the marathon. He’s alive and recovering, thank goodness. 

The Chicago Marathon takes runners through twenty-nine Chicago neighborhoods. The one that stands out most in my memory is Boystown, from around mile eight to ten. Also known as East Lakeview, Boystown is the first officially recognized gay village in the United States, according to www.chicagopride.com. The entire way, there was non-stop singing, dancing, bands, and goodwill to all.

The landmark that stands out more than any other? Has to be the Willis Tower, which watched us no matter where we were, welcoming us when we ran near its base in the first few miles, and taunting us when we were far from downtown.

I was on course to finally finish in a time somewhat close to the marathon times I'd hit when I was in my forties. But around mile 18, the heat just plain got to me. The temps were close to 80, not a cloud in the sky. I started getting dizzy and nauseous. I had to stop and walk a bit. I took a potty break. I wasn't experiencing anything different from those around me. The heat was getting to all of us, but we ran when we could, walked when had to. Smiling fans lined the course with hoses. There were sponges every couple of miles for our sunburned necks and sweaty backs. The yells of encouragement were constant. The support was phenomenal.

As I took the turn at Michigan to enter the park, I heard my name. I tried to locate the kid but couldn’t find her in the crowds, though she swore later on that I looked right at her and smiled, or maybe grimaced. 

As with all marathons, the last .2 passed much too swiftly. You’d think that after 26 miles, a runner would be glad to be done at that point. But with the crowds cheering me on and those endorphins coursing through my blood, I was genuinely sad to end my run, though my tired legs and feet were more than appreciative.

A lovely Goose Island brew settled my stomach, which was roiling from the heat and the hours of Gu and Gatorade. I got my medal from the sweetest volunteer ever. I confess that even after all these races, I still get teary-eyed and my “thank you” comes out all wobbly  as the volunteer puts the ribbon over my head. 

The kid and I found each other. She had yet another terrific race. Marathon # 18 for her. Wow!

We showered, changed, and found a great spot for deep dish pizza. Then we wandered up and down Michigan Ave. congratulating all the other folks like us who were walking stiffly, sporting silver medals and who were congratulating us too.

My kind of town, Chicago is.  Feeling stronger every day. 

Marathon: #20

State: #11

World Marathon Majors: #3. 

The other side of normal

I did two seventeen-mile runs in less than a week. Within six days, to be exact.

Covering that amount of distance in such a small amount of time is usually a no-no for me. When I'm in marathon training mode, I normally alternate weeks. One Sunday I might run fifteen. The next Sunday I'll run ten or twelve.  Many endurance athletes, especially us older ones, operate this way. We still build stamina, but we also give our muscles and joints the recovery time they need.

That's how I normally operate. But normal went out the window last weekend, when my daughters' cousin died suddenly, unexpectedly.

Divorce changes everything. Family interactions sometimes end. Vocabulary shifts. Hence, "daughters' cousin," not niece. I hadn’t seen this beautiful child since she was a kindergartner.  But I knew of her from my daughters because they'd see her at certain holidays and kept in touch with her online. They knew her and loved her. 
  

The first of my two seventeen-milers was the day after we learned about the death. The run did not go as planned. My brain and legs weren't communicating. Or maybe they were communicating too well. My head was back in the 1980s, when all the children were young and we were all still connected. My legs wanted to stay close to home. Running was the last thing I wanted to be doing. I wanted to be with my daughters, but that was impossible. The one most deeply affected was coping by working. The other is off in the Midwest. We talked a ton on the phone but you can’t spend all day on the phone. So I ran. 

Sometimes running heals. Sometimes it doesn't. That day, I walked for the first time at mile one, for a few seconds on some flat stuff. I walked for the second time at mile four, a no-brainer hill which I always manage slowly, steadily, easily.  Mile five I walked again and thought about turning around and heading home. But I convinced myself to keep going. Reminded myself that sometimes things get tough, but if you just hold on, things usually get better again. 

I was run/ walking on the rail trail at mile eight when I saw a young gym friend, S. She’s about the age of my older daughter.  S is a swift and elegant runner who just returned to running distances about six months ago, after a half year off. Last summer she had a stroke. She was in a rehab facility for awhile, relearning how to walk and talk. For awhile, things were bad. Then things got better.  In October, we’ll be running the same marathon together, though she’ll finish at least an hour ahead of me. 

From mile ten on, I mainly walked. I cried a lot and thought a ton of sad thoughts. I mentally rescheduled the next weekend, a weekend already chock full. I’d have to somehow get that seventeen in. The usual reel of inspiring running quotes spooled through my head, but sad phrases seeped in too: The will to win is nothing without the will to prepare.  Fall seven, rise eight.  No one ever said it would be easy. Addiction affects the whole family. Why did this child have to die? There but for the grace of God. . .

  

The funeral was at the end of the week, Friday. The priest talked about lots of things related to losing someone so vibrant and beautiful, so hell bent on living. He talked about the Mass being a celebration of Christ’s resurrection. He talked about learning lessons. He talked about anger. 

I sat in the back, an outsider to all but a few, and kept my eyes focused on certain beloved family members near the front of the church who could write books on the Herculean struggles of getting clean and staying sober. See, there's a bigger story here to tell, but it's not mine. So I have to write in generalities to show love, honor, respect, support. Certain ties -- memories, genetics -- run tangled, dark, deep. 

  

As the crowd dispersed I was approached by another ex family member.  “I can tell you feel the same way as me,” she said. I kept my mouth shut because, as with other things, she had no idea. She hadn’t known the child during the newborn, toddler, protected years. She doesn't know what I know about some of the others.

I said I was angry. I could see my response surprised this woman. I said I was angry like I couldn’t even believe. 

People sometimes assume roles in tragic times. This woman seemed to want to take on the role of counselor with me right then, right there, in the church. 

She glanced over at the procession of mourners, standing in the center aisle, right behind the coffin, and started in with “there but for the grace of God.”

I finished the sentence for her and said, "Yes I know: Go I. Go we."


I wanted to add: “I am not an idiot. I know how addiction works. I know how genetics works. I know how depression works. I know how compassion works. I know about accidents of circumstance. I know that you don’t ever ever dare judge someone else until you walk in their exact, specific shoes and so the truth is you can’t judge. Ever. That doesn’t mean I can’t be angry. I absolutely am allowed to be angry. It’s part of my process. “

In truth, the sights and sounds of those mourners knee-quaking stomach-shaking terrified me.

I ran my seventeen miles yesterday. It was not as disastrous a run as I expected. Considering I’d covered the same distance a scant six days earlier, though much of it walking, it went pretty well. I was slow, but steady. Sometimes I walked and cried a little.

On my run, I thought of what it means to be resurrected.  I thought of loved ones, genetics, sobriety, accidents of circumstance and that horrific phrase that starts with there but for the grace of God. I thought about the nature of perseverance, of getting up that eighth ninth, fifteenth time and trying again. But here’s the thing. Today, though I’m tired to the core, the anger is still there. The fear that's stoking it just won't subside. Hopefully, some day it will.

Never give up.