Escape is only temporary

Last week I decided I had to walk away and escape for a while. I knew I couldn't take another day of turmoil. We planned to go camping Friday-Sunday, but the weather was not cooperating. When the A-E video was released on Wednesday, I knew I could not walk back in the door of my school building on Thursday. We decided spur-of-the-moment to check the campground, found a site that was open Thursday and Friday nights, and I took an additional day off to care for my own mental health and well-being. I hurried to pack and prepare, and when the girls came home early Thursday, we took off for Cades Cove - just the three of us. The boys and Don planned to come down Friday after the boys completed their English and Geometry quizzes. 

It took a while to set up camp - definitely longer than normal - but we brought a few more things than usual to spoil ourselves with some luxury and relaxation, while also preparing for a sub-freezing night. Don came with us to help set up camp, and then left to head home to get dinner to the boys and get a good, warm night of sleep. 

After Don left, the girls and I ate smores for dinner (yep - mom of the year right here) and then went on a drive around the loop. We didn't even get a 1/2 mile in before seeing a bear beside the road. We pulled over, stopped and got out to take pictures from a safe distance. Then back on our way. Abby kept count - we saw 32 deer, 4 bears, 9 turkeys, and a coyote. It was one of the best trips around the loop ever. 

We got back to camp, made a fire, bundled up and just sat there talking. Around 10 PM the girls started getting tired and crawled into the tent. I sat quietly by the fire a bit longer and then settled in for the night as well. It was COLD. I was so worried about the girls staying warm that I struggled to stay asleep. They were fine. I knew I was prepared, and all of my many years of outdoor experience proved useful, but a mom is just going to worry. 

I was up at 4:30 AM, and cold. I started a fire, made myself some hot chocolate, and sat staring at the flames. I refused to let my thoughts wander, and just stared as the flames danced. I watched and listened as the campground began to stir. Emma finally rolled out of the tent around 9:00. At 9:45 I started dragging Abby out of her bed. We grabbed some muffins and set out around the loop again. After 20 more deer, a dozen turkeys and a bear, we headed back to camp. We made another fire because it was still so cold, and settled in to wait on Don and the boys, who we thought would already be there by then. I laid down in my hammock and the next thing I knew it was 1:30 PM and I was waking up. The girls had sat chatting in their chairs and let me sleep. I felt so much better. 

Just after waking up, Don and the boys arrived. It was drizzling and still very chilly. We took another drive around the loop and decided with the weather, we would just go back to camp, pack up and head home. It took forever to get everything back in the cars, but we finally left and headed back to Knoxville. We stopped in Alcoa to eat dinner at 9 PM. We stumbled into the house at 10PM and by 10:30 it was silent. I woke up at 11:30 Saturday morning. I felt like a brand new person. 

We spent the rest of Saturday lounging around. On Sunday I worked on lesson plans for the week, helped my kids catch up on work, and tackled the mountain of laundry. I slept decently on Sunday night, and finally felt ready to go back to work on Monday morning. 

Within a few minutes of arriving, I was second-guessing myself. First class went well, testing went well, and then the unthinkable. One of my kids came in and said "Where WERE you last week? I NEEDED YOU, and you WEREN'T here." He was obviously upset. I apologized and tried to figure out what was going on. Turns out, he had a very direct connection to the AE shooting, which we had discussed the day after the shooting, but he had not handled all of the press coverage on Wednesday and Thursday well. He was scared, he needed reassurance, and I wasn't there. Thankfully, one of my coteachers is used to seeing this kid come to my room for snacks or to just take a breather, and she knew something was up when he came in upset. She got him into some really good hands in the counseling office and the counselor spent hours with him. Once I spent some time talking with him today, I sought out the counselor and my coteacher. I got the rest of the story from Thursday and Friday, and then went to fill in admin. Afterwards, I went to one of our only black teachers in the school and told her I needed her. I am again SO thankful for the relationships developed over my 5 years at my school. I can be there for my student, I can let them talk, I can listen, I can offer reassurance, but as a white woman, there is only so much I can say that will matter in this situation. I knew this kid needed someone who understood where he was coming from. After speaking to her and hearing her "I got him" statement, I went back to my classroom and let tears fall again. I knew if I had been at school Thursday and Friday, I would not have been okay if I had talked to him and tried to be there for him then. It was a really good thing for me that I wasn't there, but I felt incredibly guilty that I wasn't there when one of my students needed me most. No matter how many days I escape and how far I distance myself, when I come back, reality is there to smack me in the face. The escapes are much needed, but they are also so very temporary. 

Our kids are hurting. Our schools and communities are hurting. Our teachers are hurting. But while we are hurting, the power that be have us testing, scrambling to make decisions for next year, throwing a dozen new things our way, grades are due, progress reports are due. there are meetings scheduled, evaluations are happening, and we still have to teach. This has been, by far, the most difficult, heart-wrenching year of teaching ever. Summer cannot come soon enough. At least that escape will last two full months. 

The 20 Year Shadow

Some days I wonder how I got here. How this winding, uphill, twisted, rocky path led me to this place. Most days when I look in the mirror, I don't recognize the reflection. A gray hair here, wrinkles there, a vacant stare from eyes filled with hurt and distrust, hidden by the smile on my face. I go to work, go through the motions of daily life, and keep the swirling thoughts tucked safely away in the dark corners of my brain, but the words scream at me continuously, deafening reminders of unimaginable things I can't unsee or unhear. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm normally happy, content and at peace these days. I have moved forward with life and found joy again. I have never forgotten, but I have found a way to live and move forward. Time and God have helped heal some of the deepest hurts. But on the days I'm not okay, those words seem so foreign. Peace and happiness seem unreachable. The thing is, I never know when those "I'm not okay" days will show up, or how long they will last, nor do I know what will cause them. 

Often I collapse in to bed so exhausted after the craziness of daily life, too exhausted to think or do anything but sleep. Occasionally I lay there and just cry. Sometimes I dare to let myself think. Most of the time I just distract myself again. If anyone asked on any given night what was wrong or what caused the tears, I couldn't answer. Thankfully those nights have been so much fewer and further between in the past several years. 

A noticeable change is that I don't typically feel unsafe anymore. I am more relaxed than I have been in years. If you read my medical charts, though, they don't agree with that statement. I still hold tension and remain in fight-or-flight almost 24-7, 365. It's exhausting. Even when I conscientiously work to relax the tension, rest, and breathe deeply, tightness remains. I'm still ever-ready for danger. I've learned to go hike and run solo again, though I sometimes get startled or find myself engaging in the familiar hypervigilance. Baby steps, but definite progress. 

Someone asked me recently, "What's your story?" I flippantly replied that there are not enough hours in the day to go there. Ever. They said to just give them the highlights reel, the key events, the highs and lows. Even that is too complicated. "Have you ever told anyone your story? Your whole story?" 

No. 

No, I haven't. Nor do I think I ever could. 

Yet I find myself thanking a soldier for sharing HIS story, because it was the first time I had ever heard someone who traveled down the same difficult path I was on for a while. It was the first time I realized I truly was not alone. Someone out there gets it. Someone understands. Someone else has been there.

People have seen glimpses. People have heard pieces of my story. No one has ever read the whole book. No one ever will. 

Why is it so difficult to let people see me? The real me. The me before 9/11. The me during the aftermath. The me now. 

Because I don't know where the real me is anymore. Part of me was left in a puddle of tears on a platform on the west side of the WTC pile. Part of me was left in a clump of dust and dirt on a church pew where I took a nap after an exhausting 16 hours of listening to hurting responders just talk and tell their story. Part of me walked away with each of those responders I counseled over a period of 8 months. Part of me was buried in a casket of bones and an empty uniformed that was lowered in to a hole in a cemetery among thousands of others. A week later, more of me was buried with another. Twenty years later, pieces of me are buried in cemeteries from coast to coast, held in framed photos and creased snapshots that never made it to a frame. Pieces of me fall in tears from weathered faces overcome with grief that won't leave us alone. Pieces of me walk around in various cities in the lives of once-Tuesday's kids who are now adults and doing amazing things in this world. Part of me lives permanently in lower Manhattan. Part of me remains in southwest Virginia. Some of me is in Tahoe. Some in LA. Part of my heart is buried in the Black Hills of South Dakota. One hand is still holding the pen at the foreign condolence wall next to Bush's and Putin's signatures on the long-forgotten panel, and the other is holding the hand of a child that wouldn't exist if 9/11 never happened. Part of me is celebrating the marriage of a responder friend while another part wonders who is next in the ongoing funeral that is over 16,000 souls long now. Part of me stands in front of a class of seniors who weren't alive on 9/11 while the other remembers standing and looking in the eyes of an 8 year old boy asking which floor his dad was on when the plane hit the tower he was in saving lives. I live in multiple worlds simultaneously. None of them fit with each other, and I can't ever let the worlds collide. 

I didn't see the pieces of me being ripped away from my body as I was serving. I certainly didn't feel the pain then. I did what I was trained to do, what I loved to do, and what fulfilled me as a person. I knew I served a purpose. I did a lot of good and brought a lot of comfort in a time when so many needed a beacon of hope. I had every right to be proud of that service, yet all I have ever felt is an unexplainable shame of failure associated with it. I lost my sense of self sometime between my first step on a Manhattan street in 2001 and my last time getting in a car to leave the city behind in 2014, with a vow to never return. People tell me how brave I was, how selfless, how strong, how courageous, how incredible, how inspiring. I don't see any of that. In fact, I detest hearing those things. All I see is the shell of what remains, filled with anger, grief, uncertainty, stress, worry, sadness, heartache, uncontrollable tears that spill at the worst of times, and the nagging feeling that nothing I ever did would ever be enough. I was a drop of water in a vast ocean, and I can't see the ripple that drop caused, because I'm too busy drowning in the sea. 

People assume when I say I have PTSD that it came from my work in NY after 9/11. The truth is, I had PTSD for a couple of years prior to 9/11. I was first diagnosed with PTSD in late fall 1998 after an incident I'm not ready to share. When I was diagnosed, I was told that it was actually not a new thing, and that likely been dealing with it since an incident several years prior to that. The doctor bluntly told me that my PTSD, coupled with abandonment issues and an eating disorder put me in a very dangerous place. So I did what I had always done - I hid it, I dealt with it silently, and I moved forward. Only the two incidents that created the original diagnosis of PTSD got compounded by September 11, 2001. On top of the then 3 major incidents, numerous other things spiraled at the same time, creating a firestorm. Every time I got my footing back on solid ground, it seemed I got hit from another direction. My life then changed drastically in a very short amount of time. From moving and marriage in 2004 to the birth of twins and death of a parent in 2005, while also facing two other seriously ill family members, a steady stream of 9/11 deaths, an unexpected financial blow, and the death of a very close friend, the complex PTSD was never fully addressed. Life calmed down slightly and then it seemed the next wave hit. More deaths, more changes, more struggles, health scares and changes, a new baby, more health issues and another baby, all while trying to work through all of the previous things that time never allowed me to process. I found a refuge in an equine therapy, but then we left. Moving away from NY and settling in a town where we knew no one was supposed to help us both physically create a barrier that would enable us to focus on ourselves and create a new, calmer normal. Then the first 3 people we met in the new town were all associated with 9/11. There was no escape. But we eventually found a new normal and tried to gain our footing once again. 

Ironically, we found that the pandemic last year brought the craziness in our lives to a screeching halt. While most of the world was in a state of panic and freaking out over having to stay home and not socialize, it provided us exactly what we needed at exactly the perfect time. For the first time in my life, I had time. Time to rest. Time to do things I loved. Time to just be with my family with no stress or schedule. 2020 was one of the best years we have had since before 2001. I know that sounds crazy, but it was. We found ourselves steadied and stronger than ever. Even with some additional punches from life, we were in calm waters. We were able to accomplish so much in the months of being at home. Then, I went back to work and it seems like nothing has been calm since. I handled it fairly well at first, but by December, I was in a very dangerous place again, for the first time in years. I went from those calm waters to a category 5 hurricane hitting at the same time as an 8.0 earthquake, an F5 tornado and a tsunami. About the time I was going to crash and burn, we went on winter break. I recovered and went back in January, ready to face 5 more months and then take another 2 month breather. I was convinced I could do it. Then, I got really sick. I was too sick to process the emotional impact it had on me, though I could tell it was affecting my kids greatly. As I finally started recovering from the pneumonia but then got diagnosed with CoVid, I felt myself losing ground quickly again. I fought it and struggled to stay firmly planted on the solid ground, but then we got pummeled again and again. I somehow made it to spring break, and almost didn't return after the break. I knew I was in a bad place, and desperately needed a longer break to take care of myself, but there was nothing I could do about it. All of my sick days had been used, plus 2 unpaid days had already been taken, and I still had several weeks to go. I simply could not afford to stay home. 

A series of seemingly insignificant and incidental things happened in a row, and I found myself not able to sleep, not able to eat, not able to relax, not able to breathe, and not able to think. I truly felt I was still in a CoVid state of exhaustion and brain fog, but someone told me my PTSD was getting ready to slam into me. I thought they were crazy - I hadn't dealt with any PTSD episodes in years. A week later I realized they were right. I couldn't figure out what was going on. Then someone pointed out the dates. A year since life changed. 5 years since learning some scary news. Anniversaries. Oklahoma City. Columbine. Virginia Tech. Morgan. Kara. They pointed out events that I had shrugged off and stated the obvious-to-them that I had ignored. It's 2021. September is coming fast. Somehow my subconscious knew long before the rest of me that this is THAT year. The year I promised I'd be back to see the colleagues who are still around and haven't succumbed to the multitude of fatal diseases and illnesses caused by the time we spent working side by side. The year I'd dreaded and looked forward to in the same breath. I'm not ready. I find myself shaking at the thought of returning, yet longing to be held by familiar arms, embraced by my extended family of brothers and sisters and their families. I find myself aching for the comfort of the 4 walls of St Paul's, the familiar sights and sounds of the city I couldn't wait to get away from, the tangible memory of the people we lost and the water falling, carrying the grief and pain deep down into the pit where so many left together. I find myself wanting to run away from the tears and pain it will inevitably bring to rip those Band-Aids off and face those old wounds. I want to hide from the eyes who haven't seen the impact 12 years of autoimmune neurological issues and other medial problems have had on my body. I don't want to talk about it or relive any of it, but I want to be back with the only other people on the planet who get it. Who lived it with me. Who were there for the most difficult chapters of my story. One foot here. One foot there. Torn between two worlds. Again. 

Now that I can see what's causing the sudden resurgence of the PTSD, I can work with it, face it, deal with it, get through it and overcome it. I'm tired. I'm struggling. I'm still feeling completely isolated and alone in a world no one understands. I still feel like I'm screaming and no one can hear me. I still feel invisible. I still feel like I'm carrying the weight of the world. But I'm finding myself taking little steps and then bigger steps. I'm still learning and still moving forward. I'm growing. I'm evolving. I'm improving. There is progress. It feels incredibly slow and uncertain at times, but it's there and I can see it. I've been through the worst of days and made it before, stronger and wiser on the other side. I know I can do it again. 

Maybe this is the year I share more of my story. Maybe it's the time I step further out of my comfort zone and let more people in. Maybe it's not - and I know that's okay too. For now, I'm just going to shine a little light into the shadow of the 20 year anniversary that is looming and try to keep the monsters at bay. I'm going to keep taking those little steps and hope they eventually bring me back to the hallowed ground where it all began. Maybe by returning I can reclaim some of the lost pieces of myself and find a newer, better version of me. Maybe by then I'll be ready to share my story. Maybe my story, like the soldier's story, can help just one person know they are not alone. 

I never decided on a word of the year for 2021. I thought "survival" might be fitting by the way it started. But now, I think my word of the year is "maybe." Because for the first time ever, I know "maybe" is just as okay as "yes" and "no." I don't have to have the answers. I don't have to know which way to go yet. It may have been 20 long years, but it's only been 20 years. We still have a long way to go. 

Hear Them

This morning has been rough. I'm frustrated. I'm hurting. I'm scared. Most of all, I'm ANGRY. 

Saturday, one of our students took her own life. She had been struggling with online school and was coming back to in-person instruction. She was a beautiful girl - huge smile, big personality, great volleyball player, headed to college in California. By all outward appearances, she was doing great. Most people had no idea there was any chance this could happen. A few DID know. They were trying to get help to her. Now they are left thinking about how it was too little too late. 

A couple of weeks ago I told my coteacher that I was afraid we were going to see a string of suicides, and soon. Our students and teachers (parents too) are hurting, feeling isolated and alone, feeling overwhelmed, and are talking about giving up. I have had to make more referrals to the school counselors about what the kids are saying in emails and in classes in the past 2 months than I have in my 16 years of teaching. It's bad. It's really bad. 

I told our administrators our kids, especially the online ones, were struggling. I told them how they were overwhelmed with the volume of work, the lack of communication and the drastic changes. I told them how our in-person kids are still feeling isolated, even in a room full of their peers. I feel like my words and warnings fell on deaf ears. 

I went to Facebook and posted in parent groups and on my page - TALK TO YOUR KIDS. They are hurting. They are struggling. Please hear them. 

This morning, as someone talked about what a tragedy this was, I just wanted to stand up and shout, 'YES - one that COULD HAVE BEEN AVOIDED!!!!" The longer I sat there listening to what we were and were not allowed to say or talk about with our students, the angrier I became. LET THEM TALK. HEAR THEM. Don't hush things. Don't hide things. Talk about it. Let them see the tears. Let them see you are hurting and struggling too. Take a step back from the academics and workload and just spend time with the students. They are trying to talk to you. They are trying to tell you how they feel. Are you listening? Are you really hearing them out? 

Do I know that Elise would still be here if anyone had done something sooner or if things had been handled differently? No. Could it truly have been avoided? I don't know. What I do know is this - unless we do something and do it soon, we are going to lose more students. We have to find a way to reach them before that happens. 

Just be there for kids. Hug them. Hold their hand. Listen to them. Truly HEAR THEM. 

Medical Update

Thank you for all of the messages asking for an update. Sorry it was so long coming. 

First of all, I'm fine. Breathe.

Over the weekend following my visit with the oncologist, they emailed my lab results to me. I immediately dissected it and called my doctor with questions. She gave some thoughts but wanted to let the oncologist have his say and get his thoughts on it before we decided anything. LONGEST WAIT EVER.

I finally had the follow up appointment this past Tuesday. The oncologist video conferenced the meeting with my immunoneurologist in Nashville. They both agreed my issue was not a cancer issue, but was an acute reactive immune response caused by the neurotoxin and flared up by higher intensity runs and workouts. They explained how some of the abnormal levels were actually not too concerning and why. They explained what they were looking for specifically and how they interpreted some of the abnormalities. They discussed what we were doing right and what needs to be more carefully monitored. They really liked that my coach and I had been noticing patterns of when the responses were occurring and asked that we start tracking the reactive days in our training plan calendar for them to look at more closely. They gave me a few more guidelines to follow and changed my follow up timeframe to more frequent lab checks for a while, but I'm still good to go with waiting 6 months before next doctor visit. They gave their full blessing to continue running and working out, including the high intensity things. They feel we are still tackling it better than any of their other patients and that we're giving them a lot of good information. The downside is that this is going to continue to be a daily thing for me. Forever. But, the responses are fewer and further between, and are not as bad when they are happening, and are not lasting as long (when I cooperate and give my body the rest it needs to stop the overreactive response).

So, in a nutshell, the neurotoxin continues to fight and try to win, but we are continuing to gain ground on it and I keep getting better, despite some really rough days and weeks. I have to do a better job of some daily decision making in regards to running and working out (and that's on me - not my coach), but I can also breathe a little easier without the cancer word being held over my head. In order to stop the responses when they happen, I have to stop and completely rest for a day or more, depending on how severe the response is.

This week has been really rough, with the change in schedule, addition of long work days, and high stress with Don being gone, back to school chaos, and doctor visits, among other things. I've been dealing with some random sore spots and spells of nausea. Some of my labs are still out of whack and I'm feeling it. The lack of sleep, high levels of stress/anxiety, and not feeling great have led to some irritability and over-sensitivity, which has led to some strains in communications, leading to some friction in some relationships. Those situations are now (unintentionally) adding to the stress, despite my best efforts to just keep breathing through it and stay calm. If you are someone who has been affected by this - I'm sorry. I'm doing my absolute best and I truly am trying. Please be patient and understanding. I know it's me and not you. Just bear with me. But, please also remember that if I have to stop talking and walk away - it's to keep me from getting overly upset or emotional and then being thrown further into another reactive response. I'm not trying to be rude or disrespectful. I'm trying to survive.

I have a race tomorrow that I'm not feeling extremely confident about, mainly due to the rough week I've had. I'm hoping to get some sleep tonight before the race, and maybe sleeping in a bit Sunday morning to try to minimize the stress responses. But, Monday is coming, with all 55 teenagers in my classes and the other 2000+ in the school. This is, by far, the toughest time I've had going back to work, and while my admin team is aware of what's been going on and has my back, there is nothing, absolutely NOTHING, anyone can do to stop my body from reacting to the overload of noise and activity that is about to assault it in the coming week. I've already been informed by both specialists that this year may involved taking a lot of sick days, and that I'm going to have to play each day by ear. One day at a time. For the next 200 days. This should be interesting.

But, again, I'm fine. Thank you for the continuous messages and concern. We're still moving forward.

Challenge Accepted

We've had a new program at the gym this summer - OCR training - started by our running coach as a means to train people for mud runs, Spartan races, and other obstacle type events. Now, most of you know I LOVE obstacle racing and have been doing it for over a dozen years, even before I began distance running... long before I met my coach and heard him talking about it. But as soon as he put it out there, I was in. The first couple of workouts I was thinking "this is too easy." And THEN he hit me with one that left me feeling like I'd just climbed Mount Everest, using only my arms. It was an awesome, challenging workout. I loved it. Even though it kicked my butt and left me unable to lift my arms over my head. Or sit down normally. It was the best.  

Well, last night, OCR almost did me in. I wasn't about to tell anyone, but every single thing we did was something I probably shouldn't have been doing, and I was hurting. A lot. I was not about to quit though. Especially with the week I'd had, especially with the fact I'd basically had to beg to be allowed to participate on a Thursday evening before a race weekend, especially because there were two people there I didn't know, and especially because of the personal goals in the back of my mind reminding me I had work to do. I pushed through, knowing I was going to regret it later, and wondering if I'd have to bail on my race on Saturday because this was an intensity that was going to send my body into chaos. It wasn't so much a leg thing, so there's that hope. But, I desperately needed that intensity and outlet for the frustrations and irritations of the week, and I knew I needed it to stay on track if I had any hope of accomplishing what I was setting out to do. 

I woke up this morning and felt every single thing I knew was going to hurt, plus some I didn't realize I'd worked on. I have a huge bruise on my wrist that is totally grossing my boys out. It's gnarly. My wrist is also rock hard and stiff. The tendon is locked as tight as it can possibly be. It looks and feels pretty bad. My neck and shoulders are stiff and sore, and my butt is on fire. Talk about working some glutes. I'm telling you - these OCR workouts are for real. They are tough. They are unconventional. They are fun. But they are probably not the best thing to do before a long work day or race. 

There is also one problem I've seen coming for a while that blew up this morning - I can barely walk. It's not the nerve stuff. I stepped wrong earlier this week and felt like I had pulled or strained something in the arch of my left foot. I felt it every time I tried to sprint in last night's OCR. I knew I shouldn't be running on it, but I wasn't stopping. This morning, I couldn't walk. At all. Once I got shoes on I was able to, but it hurt. Stairs are still impossible. Especially coming down them. Running tomorrow morning may be impossible. I've been trying to ice and stretch and do range of motion stuff, but it's definitely not helping, and having to walk all over our building is making it worse. I'm going to do the high dose of Naproxen today and tonight, and hope it gets me through the race. Then, I'm actually going to listen and take a full rest day. Or two.  

So why the drive to do it no matter what? I had decided in really late spring or early summer to sign up for the mud run in my hometown and an obstacle race out of town my boys & I had done before. I was also looking for trail races and toying with the idea of going back to Spartan next year. Then, my run coach mentioned he was starting the OCR training at the gym. I was really excited and fully on board. What I didn't say was that I had already signed up for the Knoxville Mud Run, with the goal of placing. Obstacle races and trail races were something I was always good at and placed high in. It is the only run-related events I have ever been able to excel at. I knew if I had been able to actually RUN at the Mudder's Day race, our team would have been in the top 3. The obstacles have never been a problem for me. Even in Spartan, I was able to successfully nail every obstacle along the course until the final 5 - and they were ALL upper body. My arms were shot by then and there was no way I could do them. I swore I'd never do another Spartan until my upper body strength was on par with the rest of my body. But for the local, fun, mud runs and obstacle races, if I can just get back to running at a good pace, I can do really well on them. For trail racing, it just means getting back out there and gaining confidence again. I'm working on that. I would love nothing more than to go back to the Mudders Day race in May and win - or at least place. It's the perfect race for me. I know I can do it - if I can just get all of the pieces of the puzzle to fit together at the right time. 

There's just one problem with this area of goals and races I've kept to myself - no one else believes I can do it. I've heard others saying how "he said he thinks I can win it" or "he thinks I'm going to place or win." Well, for certain, that has never been said to me. Not even anything remotely close to it. No one has said anything more than "I know you can finish it." No one here knows how good I used to be at them. No one knew this was my area of expertise. I used to be the adventure programmer who came up with the obstacles to challenge groups with and teach others how to successfully complete various obstacles. No one here gets it. But, that's okay. It was a long time ago. I have a long way to get back to where I was. But, the trail race on Saturday showed me that I was much closer than I thought I was. As bad as the Mudders Day race was on the running side - the obstacles there showed me I still had it too. Last Saturday on the trail, I was within the same pace where I was 10 years ago when I was consistently placing in the top 5. Granted, that was in NYC and not east TN. But, I'm close to where I was, and closer to where I want to be than I thought I was before Saturday. 

Unfortunately, I feel like I'm being set up for failure. It's a hard pill to swallow that I'm not expected to be able to perform as well as others and that the goals for me are to "just finish." Not just with runs and obstacle races, but trail races too. That goes against everything I've ever known. It's always considered a success if I just make it to the finish line in one piece. Since when am I content to just finish and not reach for a higher goal? Oh, that's right. I'm NOT content with that. But others are. It's like that's all anyone thinks I'm capable of. I know I'm not a runner who is going to win or place in a road race. I'm not a speed runner. But when it comes to trail races or obstacle races, it evens the playing field for me. That's where I'm at home. I'm still not going to cause waves there - but I can accomplish more than "just finishing." When your coach is winning the longer distances by margins of 10-15 minutes, it's a little overshadowing. He's phenomenal. I'll never be to that level - but that's okay too. That's not my goal or the path I'm on. I love watching him run, win, and do his thing. It's inspiring. What I don't love is constant reminders around me about me how they are expected to win or place, and how they are working so hard to live up to that expectation, or how they've done something for the first time and get loads of praise and tell me "you'll get it one day" - when I've already been there-done that YEARS ago. I hate being reminded that the medical crap has kept me from a lot. I hate that it completely changed my body and added a new obstacle to every challenge. I never react or respond to the constant comments, but in my mind, it just adds more fuel to the competitive fire that was finally reignited. I do LOVE that now I have a renewed passion for something I'd once thought I'd have to give up on forever. I'm loving having something that gets me fired up and competitive again. I'm finding myself working 10 times harder and pushing myself a lot more, knowing that if I am going to reach my goals, I've got to keep up with my own teammates who have the added advantage of someone believing in them. I'm having to dig deeper and remind myself that YES, I CAN, and find a way to keep believing in myself and not give up before we ever get there. Every run, every OCR training, every swim, every workout at home, every race - it's all become very, very important. Every medical appointment has become important too. I know I HAVE to stay on top of some issues to stand a chance. I know I HAVE to do things the right way and take care of myself to make it possible. With that comes old struggles of working out too much, not eating enough, trying to lose weight faster, letting the competitive drive push me to keep going no matter what, even when I know my body needs a break. It's hard to keep everything balanced. Especially now that I'm adding full time work to my schedule. One more advantage for the stay-at-home peeps. I wish I had more time to work out and keep up. I'm making it work in the limited time I have. I know I am fighting an uphill battle and my chances are slim. But once, just once, I'd like to have my time and place to shine again, doing something that I love, and I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get there, whether anyone else believes in me or not. 

Not the Answers we were Hoping For

I don't even know where to start this blog entry. My mind is going a thousand different directions and I'm still not sure how to put into words what I'm thinking or feeling. 

My doctor called as soon as her office opened on Friday morning. I knew when the phone rang it was going to be her. I knew she was going to tell me my labs were wonky. I was not wrong, though I really wished I was.

To her credit, she started the conversation asking about my leg and the race Wednesday evening. I knew that was not why she was calling, but I did appreciate her showing she cared about what she knew was important to me. 

Yes. My labs were all over the place again. A couple of things are easy fixes. Where some levels were really low before and we added vitamins/supplements - some of those were off the charts sky-high now and supplements need to be stopped immediately. Okay. Great. One of them is my B12. Apparently it's so high that it is likely the cause of the intense nerve pain - as it will bind to the nerves and cause a lot of issues. It should take less than a week for it to regulate, and hopefully ease some of the intense pain soon. That's a relief. I can keep running, even though the next few days may still be a bit painful. 

She took a deep breath and my heart jumped. I know I ended up holding my breath. She said the other bigger concern is that my serum ferritin is high. Where we thought I was anemic and my iron was low - I'm actually not. My iron level was fine. The problem is it's being mismanaged by my body, and stored and dispersed improperly. If this causes the iron to go into the brain, it can cause some symptoms like irritability, mood swings, headaches/migraines, unexplained fatigue, leg pain, unexplained weakness, and ringing in the ears.... everything I was experiencing just before, during, and after Tahoe. When I asked her what would cause this spike in the ferritin level, she hesitated before answering. 

I knew instantly what was coming. I'd been expecting this for weeks, though I'd never said anything to anyone about it. When my brother, my mom, my husband's sister, and my friend were all diagnosed with blood cancers... the symptoms were very similar. It's always in the back of my mind when I experience the leg pain and the fatigue beyond comprehension. 

When she finally spoke, she told me she did not want to jump to any conclusions or give me any type of diagnosis. She mentioned hemochromitosis, a hereditary condition that can cause ferritin levels to spike, and then she mentioned that it could also be nothing, just another random immune response to the neurotoxin causing crazy things to happen in my body. However, to get a better idea about what was going on and what was causing it, she wanted to send me to a blood specialist who would be able to diagnose it better. With my history of family members with blood cancers, my own medical history including the exposures at Ground Zero, my symptoms, and my labs, she thought it was a good idea to go be seen by the specialist right away. What reminded me of how great a person she is, and not just a great doctor, is that she said, "Kristi, I'm so sorry. I know you've had a rough year with doctor appointments and tests, and I know you wanted and needed a break, and I'd be totally okay with you putting this off and waiting a few months, but if it were me, I'd go ahead and talk to the specialist now, and even if it's just a conversation to get more information for now, I wouldn't put it off." I quickly and calmly agreed to go immediately, and she said they'd get it scheduled and I'd get a call from the specialist's office. I was so calm through the whole conversation and even asked a few questions, that she got worried about me. I'm sure she was expecting a meltdown. But it never came. She made sure I was good to go and then we hung up. 

I was running late for my run class because of the call, so I quickly threw together my swim lessons work bag, my workout bag, and my change of clothes for afterwards. I grabbed my water and headed out the door. On the drive to the gym, I went over the conversation again, and knew I had to tell my coach. I didn't want to tell anyone else, but I knew he needed to know. I also needed him to know - because no one else on the planet could help me keep it together after that was thrown at me. I was SO glad it was a Friday and run class day. I was so glad that the first person I'd be interacting with after that phone call was my coach. I was not looking forward to interacting with my teammates, though, which is really unusual. I just didn't want to talk about it and didn't want them to know yet. 

I went through the normal motions of arrival at the gym - threw stuff in my locker, got what I needed to run, headed upstairs... but my mind was far from there. I didn't want anyone to know anything was going on, so I quickly put the "I'm fine" mask in place and walked across the fitness floor to the trainer workstation. Of course there were several people standing there. It couldn't have been a quiet morning with just 1 or 2 staff members hanging around. I said hi to everyone and I could tell that my coach immediately zeroed in on "something's off," despite my best attempts to avoid eye contact. Sometimes he knows me TOO well. I quietly explained I'd just gotten off the phone with my doctor and I literally felt his heart skip a beat at the words. To his credit, he didn't call any attention to our hushed conversation. I told him we at least had confirmation that it's all been nerve stuff and explained the B12 thing. I let him know the other parts as I kept a smile on my face so no one else realized anything was up. By all outward appearances to everyone but my coach, everything was just fine. But, inside, there was an F-5 tornado ripping my heart apart. 

The funniest thing after that was that I was the only one who came to run class. So it was just my coach and me. He wasn't prepared to run, he didn't really want me running unless it was an easy couple of loops, and we went back and forth about what to do. Finally I said, "how about just a walk and talk?" He jumped at that and we went out to the track. The timing of this was indescribably perfect. Of all days to end up with just me at the class and time to talk... it was just perfect and exactly what I needed. We were able to discuss the doctor's call in more detail and discuss impact on running and work. We were able to talk about the race Wednesday, and other run stuff, along with just  life stuff. It was a much-needed breath of air for me. I was still amazingly calm at this point. I went from the walk to my swim lessons, calm as could be, and made it back to the car without any trouble.

As soon as I sat in my car, my phone rang. I answered and heard, "This is the Tennessee Cancer Specialists" telling me my doctor had asked to set up an appoitment for me as soon as possible. They had me scheduled for July 16th and would be sending me a new patient packet and more information. They asked me if I had any questions. I couldn't think. My mind was still stuck on the first 6 words they'd said. I was trapped in that 10 seconds of the conversation and could not find my way out. I don't remember what I answered (or how), and don't remember hanging up. I do remember messaging my coach to tell him these thoughts. Somehow I drove home and made it in one piece. 

When I got home, I was determined not to say anything to anyone until after the 16th when we knew more and had a better idead of what was going on. After all, my coach knew, and for now, that was all I needed. I know for sure I can't tell Don - it would send him over the edge with his PTSD and depression. And there's certainly no way I'm telling my kids. They've been through enough already and there's no sense upsetting them now, when it could turn out to be nothing at all. The other reason not to tell Don - is he would immediately say something in front of the kids. I couldn't handle telling any friends because 1 - I didn't want anyone to get upset, worried, or stressed, and 2 - I could not handle any of the social norm sympathy responses of "I'm so sorry - what can I do?" It's just not something I deal with very well, and I was definitely NOT in the mood. But, over the past couple of days I've talked to a very small handful of people about it - the friend who has gone through it before, the teammate who went through something similar, another teammate who has been an absolute rock and by my side through both of our medical ups and downs in the past couple of years, my academy principal so he didn't get blindsided later if this turns into the worst case scenario, two co-teachers who I knew would not respond emotionally but are my go-to people at work, and a hometown high school friend who always knows just what to say and when to say it. I've put certain people into certain places in the support network intentionally, based on what I know I need and how each fits into that system. Some can provide answers because they have been there, some have to know for logistical purposes, and some are just the personality I need to face it matter-of-factly, without emotion or sympathy, and who can get me through the appointment on the 16th without falling apart. Please don't be offended if you weren't one of those people. You may be one who gets the first call or message after the appointment on the 16th or in the future with something else. Please understand I still can't talk about it and really don't want to. I'm begging all of you to avoid commenting on this until after the 16th. I just wanted to fill you in and update you all since I had posted about having the lab work done and not provided a follow-up. I cannot handle texts, messages, calls, or comments right now about it. It is what it is and we'll find out soon enough if it's more. Until then, just know it's there and going on, and be patient with me if I appear to be distant or aloof. It's not you. I just need some space. From everyone. 

For now, I'm continuing to run and working out like crazy to stay distracted. I managed to go 4.3 this morning. Only the last 0.3 of it actually stunk. The rest felt good. I could feel the areas where the nerve pain had been, but it was more of a leg tightness and dull ache than anything else. I was able to hold a decent pace for the whole run, even with some hills. When I started getting tired and feeling pain after 4 miles, I decided to call it and walk the rest of the way home. The walk hurt worse than the run, but once I got home and ate/drank something, I felt better. 

Tomorrow we are taking a family day and going to Dollywood. When we get home I have a volleyball game. Tuesday I'll have run class and swim lessons to keep me busy. Wednesday we're going back to Splash Country, plus I'm doing OCR that morning and have run group that evening. Thursday we have a swim meet. Friday I have a non-run-class run class (day before race means no intense workout), followed by swim lessons. Saturday we have a race in Kingsport that several teammates are going to. I'll have a busy week ahead to keep me distracted. It helps. I'm not sure if I will be updating again this week with all of the craziness of activity, but I will be back to share at the latest after the race on Saturday. 

Thank you all for your continued support and encouragement. It's been awesome. Again, please refrain from commenting on this post or sending messages regarding it. At least for now. Please. Thanks for understanding. 

Doctor Chaos

I am very thankful for doctors who don't hesitate to say "just come in now" or work me in as soon as possible on the same day I call, with no hesitation or questions asked. But, today, when I was told to come in right away for lab work and x-rays, I just wasn't a happy camper. So much for the reprieve.

I got ushered right in as soon as I got to my primary, despite a couple of others in the waiting room. She took a few minutes to run through everything again face-to-face, to make sure we were on the same page and she had all of the info she needed. For the leg pain, her initial thought was shin splints that just weren't responding to the normal recovery methods I use. We talked about the impact of running in the past 6 months and how it's done more good than bad, so we'd just have to find a new way to deal with the pain if it was just shin splints again, but she was confident I'd be fine to run my race Wednesday evening.

Off I went with the nurse for the x-rays, then back to wait a few minutes longer. As soon as she walked in, my doctor had this look of "I'm SO sorry on her face" and said, "Well, I have good news and I have bad news. The good news is your tibia and fibula are solid. Nothing there. The bad news is, you do have two tiny stress fractures. But, they ARE tiny, and they look like they are already healing." I took a deep breath. She sat down. She said, "No race Wednesday evening." I took another deep breath. She looked like she was just waiting on the meltdown. It never came. I handled it fine. I asked how long. She said we'd estimate about 3 weeks. Normally it'd be 6-8, but since they were so small and already looked like they were healing, she thought I'd be good to go in 3. Another deep breath.

Then she said, "Do you have a boot?" I immediately perked up because I saw where she was going with this. Somethings, only runners understand. I didn't have a boot. She asked me if I thought I could get in to the ortho surgeon today, have him look at the x-rays to confirm, and, if she was right, get in the boot. She said, "Then you can go to the race." Note, she did not say I could run the race, but she also said she knew me and knew I'd go anyway, so as long as I went, I should wear the boot. But she also said she could not condone nor encourage me to run in the boot for the race, but, again, she knew me. She also said, I hope he tells you I'm crazy and he doesn't see anything. But, let me know either way.

Before I went, we discussed the other issue. I knew before Tahoe my eating was off. Then, when we got to Tahoe and I stayed nauseous for days, I knew something was up. When I felt sick during the run, I knew something was up. After the run, still knew it. When I got home and spent a week doing nothing more than sleeping, working, surviving runs, and sleeping more, I was certain I knew what was going on. But I kept saying I'd be fine and ignoring it. One of the biggest things I picked up on was that I was likely anemic again. It's something I've dealt with off and on for decades. I recognize it almost immediately. Most of the time I just adjust the diet and it goes away on its own and I'm fine. Well, I knew a week after Tahoe that it had not gone away and was worse. I filled the doctor in on all of this. She enlightened me that between the lack of eating and the anemia, it was highly probable that I ended up with altitude sickness, even though I've NEVER had an issue with it before, in any of my numerous trips above 7000 feet. She explained that if I was already anemic when I went, it would make me even more susceptible to the altitude sickness, which in turn, could also be affecting my legs with the lack of oxygen-rich blood circulating. We talked diet/intake (again) and how important and essential rest was. Then she sent me in for the lab work.

After they took way too many vials of blood, she sent me on my way to the ortho. I called at 10:15. They said to be there by 11:10. That's how fast and awesome they were.

Arrived at ortho with copies of x-rays in my hands. Explained everything to the nurse. She went to get the ortho. He comes in with a new PA. He says hello, turns to the PA and says, "Kristi here has a whole lot of unusual stuff going on and is NOT your typical patient." I didn't know whether to be flattered or feel like a freak show act. But, the doctor is awesome. He really is. So, he explained why things were anything but textbook with me, and the PA look mesmerized. I told the ortho my doc had said he could call her crazy. He said, "Well, if I tell you she's crazy and I don't see anything to stop you, are you going to be able to go run?" I stared at him for a minute, felt hope rising, and said, "well, it hurts." So we talked. He showed me the x-rays. He said, "it's still the same nerve stuff - there is nothing here that shows me that you need to stop doing what you are doing. I want you to continue running. Plus, you eliminated the possibility of the compartmental syndrome we discussed. If you ran a half-marathon with no nerve pain, you're doing something right. Keep going." I asked if I could have it in writing. I knew my coach was going to think, "there's no way" after all of the back-and-forth texting all morning going from "shin splints not responding to the norm" to "oh no - not 1 but 2 stress fractures" to "you are clear to keep running." It just was completely insane.

So, after all of that, I was told I could continue running with the only limitation being my pain. So let's discuss that for a moment. I tried to run this morning. I walked half a block to warm up. Then took 2 strides running - and immediately stopped. The pain was like a 25 on a scale of 1-10. For me, that's pretty significant. I can normally run through most of the nerve pain I experience. Not lately. It's been super high impact. When the doctor said I could run through the pain as long as I could tolerate it, I hesitated, though I wasn't about to let anyone know it. My initial thought was, "but it hurts so much worse now than before" and "am I really getting that soft that I can't just run through it anymore?" I wrestled most of the afternoon with it. The ortho did also point out that there really was no point whatsoever in me trying to push through the pain to do a 5K that wasn't on my priority list just to say I did it, and said to think about it before I attempted it Wednesday night. He also admonished me to follow my coach's instructions - even when I felt like he was holding me back and I wanted to do more. It's that slow progressive overload (yes - I used the words) that is working and that I need. When I try to go beyond that and do too much too soon - my nerves overreact. When we gradually train them to take on a higher impact in speed or distance or duration - it works. What stinks about that is that it means progression moves forward way too slow in my mind. I want to do it and do it NOW - not work towards it for months. But - I get it and I am (for the most part) complying with it.

My girls asked to go walk this evening. There was no way I was saying no. They've been in NYC for almost 3 weeks and it's their first evening home. We grabbed their scooters and set off towards their favorite path. As I was walking it dawned on me that I really needed to get a grasp of where I was in terms of pain level and ability - BEFORE I get to Wednesday's race. I know me - if I just show up cold turkey and run, I'm going to ignore all of the pain and regret it later, or end up injured again. I need to know how far I can push it and when/where I need to limit myself. The best way for me to do that is tomorrow during the group run class - but I can already hear my coach's reaction to that now. Especially since he already told us he didn't want to see any of us there doing a hard workout with the race the next evening. I  may need to think about how to approach this one.

The funny thing about today is how stinking CALM I was through the whole ordeal. I don't know how, but getting the news I was out for 3 weeks, and then an hour later being cleared to run that day did nothing to me emotionally. I just accepted it all as it came. Totally out of the norm. In fact, my doctor was asking if I was okay - BECAUSE I was so calm. Maybe I've learned to just deal with things as they come? Or maybe I already knew the worst was inevitable and expected things to be far worse than what they were saying? Who knows. But, I'm just really glad this day is over and I'm allowed to run. At least by the doctor. I'm really hoping it doesn't make my coach over cautious and hesitant to let me loose again.

Too Perfect to Last?

Remember how excited I was to be turned loose and not have to go to any doctor appointments or tests for a whole year?

Yeah. Well, we knew that was too good to be true.

Heading in for both complete labs and x-rays this morning. This, after a couple of weeks of dealing with some pain in my leg that we went back and forth on about whether it was shin splints, a stress fracture, or just the nerve stuff doing what it does, and after 2 1/2 weeks of not feeling well, despite my best efforts to ignore it. My frustration level, with both running and my body's lack of cooperation, is at an all-time high. Right when things start going really well and I'm scheduled for a ton of races... I should have known better.

I know I shouldn't complain. I had a solid month of freedom. But, still, I'm left feeling defeated and angry. Normally, I'd go for a run and work those feelings out, but since that's not an option...

Six Months

Six months ago today I was released to begin running and working out again. I just went back to those first few journal entries since then and read them again. It's amazing how far I've come since December 28th.

There are a few things that have remained constant during these 6 months.

The first, obviously, is the determination. There were bad days in the beginning, and there are still bad days now. There were good days in the beginning, and there are still good days now. No matter what kind of day it is right now, they are all better than what they were prior to December 28th. On the tough days, I still find myself pushing through with more determination than ever. On the good days, I find myself fighting to push forward faster. Which brings me to another constant during these 6 months... my coach.

When I was little, one of my coach's used to say "she's a coach's dream" all the time when describing me to other coaches. I'm 99.9% certain that my current coach would not agree with that statement. Let me explain. My coach is, by far, the absolute best, and I could not ask for a better coach for me - in terms of running & coaching knowledge, personality, patience, or flexibility. He gets me. That, in and of itself, is HUGE. He has the patience of a saint. I have rarely seen him without a huge smile on his face, and have never seen him get frustrated, despite the number of times that I have pushed back or challenged something. However, something I have found in these 6 months that I did not have as a child athlete, is my voice. I was always a compliant athlete, and never a complainer. A workout was posted - I did it - no questions asked. An order was given - I followed it - no questions asked. That's why I always got the coach's award or a thousand compliments about my coachability. I just did what I was told and never gave even the slightest attitude about it. Well... I have learned to ask questions. I have also learned to ask for more and push boundaries. I know that sounds horrible - but in this case, it's actually been a good thing. Thankfully, my coach understands me enough to know that when I'm pushing back and asking why, it's not because I don't trust him to know what's best or respect him as a coach, it's because I truly want to know WHY and HOW. Why aren't you letting me go faster on this when I know I can? How is this supposed to help me? I'm not questioning his authority at all, simply trying to figure out what on earth he's doing half the time. I've become impatient at times - wanting to do more sooner than I really should. Most of the time, once I've asked the why and how (and probably whined a little bit), I end up following his directive - because he knows his stuff and I truly believe he has my success and my health at the forefront of every training decision he's ever made. That is an absolute gift to be able to say that. I have never trusted someone so much. He could sign me up for a full marathon, and after balking and asking him if he has truly lost his mind, I'd go do it - because I'd know if he'd decided I was ready and prepared to do it - I was. In 6 months time we went from "I can't even run an entire mile" to "I just ran a half-marathon with either a PR or 2nd best time on every single distance but the mile." That doesn't just happen. Yes, I worked my butt off. I put in the miles. I followed the plan as best as I could. But I also had this amazing coach giving me guidance and even holding me back at times. Through every awesome workout, horrible run, week off for injury, PR race and everything in between - he's been a constant. I never imagined when I started running 14 years ago that I'd have a run coach. I also never imagined accomplishing what I'm accomplishing, especially after the past 7 1/2 years of medical chaos. Now, I can't imagine going forward a single month without a run coach, especially this one. It has not been perfect. There have been some tears and frustrations - as with any relationship. However, we have a strong level of communication between us, and our personalities are complimentary enough, which together allows us to stay on the same page, even when we disagree, and keep us moving forward.

One of the other constants, since about mid-March, has been this crazy-fun, odd assortment of runners that form our run group. Somehow, we are so very different that we blend perfectly together and have a blast. I'd never wanted to be a part of a run group before, and I now I never want to lose this group. If something happens and I can't make a Wednesday night group run, it's miserable. Not only do I enjoy suffering through runs & workouts with them, I love that social interaction with people who understand why I'm pushing myself so hard through painful runs & workouts and encourage me to keep pushing. It's been an absolute blessing to become a part of this team.

With all of the constants have come many changes. My coach looked at me the other day and said, "You are a totally different person today than the one I met 6 months ago." It's true. It's too complicated to go into detail, but I'm just not the same person I was. On the other hand, my coach also entered the picture in one of the worst possible times in my life - but, as someone reminded me, that was for a reason and God's perfect timing. I'm just glad he isn't judgmental and didn't run for the hills in those first two months.

One of the most difficult changes that has happened in the past 6 months is the gradual shift away from CareRunners and experiencing changes in friendships. To everything there is a season - and we had a great 10 year stretch of CareRunners. I loved it. I really did. But, I'm happy to be moving on from it. Kara and "her team" will always be a part of me. Being in Tahoe and getting to see Jared and his parents reminded me that no matter where we live or how far we travel, no matter how much time elapses between visits, and no matter how often or how little we keep in touch, we're still family and we will always be able to pick up just where we left off. We had some great conversations in Tahoe and we made some great memories. But we also found ourselves turning a page in the book to start a new chapter - and we are all at peace with that. In October, I will run my last race as a part of the CareRunners team, and then the team itself will become a memory. All of us have moved on to local run groups/clubs or have moved on from running altogether. It's time to let it go. But change is hard.



I've been procrastinating and debating whether to share this part or not. It's not something I've talked about with anyone, and it's both really deep and extremely heart-wrenching. But it's something that has been weighing on me and tugging at me for a couple of weeks.

18.

18 is the number of responders I knew personally who have taken their own lives since September 11, 2001. 3 were in the past month alone. At least 4 of these never made the news. Just an obituary to say they died, but no mention of how.

18 people who gave their all at Ground Zero and spent countless hours serving this country in a time when most people wanted to run away, turn off the news so they didn't have to keep seeing the horrible images, and ignore what was going on in lower Manhattan. 18 people who had families who loved them. Moms, Dads, brothers, sisters, sons and daughters were all left behind to grieve and wonder what they could have done to stop it and how they could have missed it. 18 people who had teammates and friends who had to bury yet another coworker. 18 people added to the list of names of those who died because of 9/11. Yes, even though they did not die from the cancers or the other debilitating diseases affecting all of us, 9/11 is what took them from us.

You see, we have all of these 9/11 health programs in place. But they are FAILING US. We have a Victim's Compensation Fund in place. But it is FAILING US. We have a few support groups around. But they are FAILING US. Only certain cancers and disorders are covered by the WTC Health Programs. The rest of us who have things that aren't covered are having to pay out-of-pocket for those medical expenses, which pile up quickly. One of my teammates currently owes $836,000 in medical bills, because "that's not one of the cancers we cover yet at WTC Health" and her personal insurance views it as a pre-existing condition. When you are a mom with 3 kids, are too sick to work a full time job, and your husband is overseas serving in the military, and you are told you are going to lose your house and car because you can't pay medical bills from a condition you got after serving your country as a first responder at Ground Zero - it's a pretty desperate feeling. When you are told to apply for the VCF because you are eligible and could get financial help from it to pay off those medical bills, and then you apply and several months later get a letter that says they are sorry, but you didn't file the paperwork in a timely enough fashion, so your claim is denied - it's beyond frustrating. When you are told your PTSD is so severe you should be hospitalized, but you'll have to use your own insurance and won't get a leave of absence from work, so you'll miss your paycheck too - you refuse the hospitalization and try to push through self-medicating and just dealing with the symptoms. Each of the 18 people who took their own life had a simliar story.

Suicide is never a solution I could entertain. I had a close friend I loved dearly take his own life my freshman year of high school. I saw the turmoil and pain in caused in the lives of those left behind to grieve. I could never inflict that kind of suffering on another human, especially not my own children. It's not something I could or would ever consider. However, I completely get why those 18 took that route. Just over a week ago, I started having some of the same symptoms and seeing some of the same signs - and knew there was a possibility I was getting sick again. I went into a complete state of denial. I refused to believe it. Refused to accept it. Absolutely refused to tell anyone or say anything. My coach picked up on a couple of things, and my doctor knew enough about those to put it on her radar - but I've downplayed it as much as I can. Why? I simply could not bear the thought of going through another 7 years of hell. The treatments, the doctor visits, the constant labwork, the constant monitoring and tests, the pain, the misery - I just CANNOT face that again. It's in that exact moment of realization that I understood why those 18 did what they did. Again, it's not a choice I could or would ever make, but I do get why they made that choice. I know I don't really have a choice. I'd have to face it and deal with it, and find a way to get through it and just hope and pray it wasn't as bad this time. I'd have to. Somehow. If not for myself, then for the four little faces that look up at me and call me Mom. Thankfully, now, I realize I have more of a support network surrounding me than I've ever had, and I wouldn't have to face this round of things on my own. Accepting that and utilizing that may be a bit hard - just because I'm not used to it. But, I would get through whatever hit me. It's just what I do. But what about the others? What about my fellow responders who don't have that support network and don't think they have reasons to keep fighting?

Our 9/11 responders need HELP. Physically with medical issues that are not getting treated. Mentally with the PTSD that is not getting treated effectively. Financially with the VCF funds that are not getting renewed by Congress and are not being awarded to those who justly deserve them. Our 9/11 responders are dying at a very rapid rate - many by the cancers and diseases wreaking havoc on our bodies, and others by their own hand because they cannot face another day of dealing with it - because they are given not even a glimmer of hope that things will get better, and because they feel alone, forgotten and uncared for. How many more have to die before someone realizes the system is failing us? How many more have to lose everything before someone notices them? With every death notification that I receive from our 9/11 family - sometimes 4-5 a week - I'm left wondering what more I can possibly do to stop this. When I heard of the latest suicide I just sat and cried. How can we stop this before one more responder takes their own life? It's completely and totally overwhelming and devastating. It has knocked my feet out from under me and ripped my heart to shreds. But, what can I do besides sit and wait for the next notification?

The only thing I can do right now is keep fighting my own fight, keep running as long as I can, and keep blogging about it, hoping that it inspires someone else to keep fighting and keep pushing forward too. I can keep posting and sharing about the responders and hoping that the right person sees it and is spurred into action. I can keep sharing about people like John Feal and his team who are fighting for all of us in DC. And, on a more personal level, I can keep letting my team know that I'm here and they aren't alone. It feels like I'm doing nothing that has an impact most of the time, but if my words and actions can keep just one responder from giving up, I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing for as long as I can.

Dawn Running

What do you do when the whole house is sleeping and you are wired? Go for a run at first light. Dressed like an Eskimo. While it's a balmy 62 degrees back home, it was 23 here and felt like 18 when I headed out the door. Brr..

I headed out the bike path next to our house. It was dark. Not dark enough for a flashlight, but dark enough that I was a tiny bit concerned. More about human animals than the four-legged kind, but I was alert and aware, and was pretty certain most people - even the crazy ones - were not insane enough to be out at 6 AM in the dark when it was 23 degrees. Off I went towards Pope Beach.

At first, I was too cold to run and didn't want to trigger my asthma. As I walked really fast (hey - you know - it was dark and there COULD be bears out), I found myself warming up quickly and began running. I LOVED IT. It was so awesome to be out there in the quiet, still, pre-sunrise morning. It was breathtakingly beautiful. I knew I could not possibly capture the moment with pictures - but I tried anyway.

I made it over to Pope Beach and just kept catching my breath thinking how incredible it was to be back home in Tahoe. No matter where I live or wander, I will forever and always consider this where I belong. At least until Earth is no more and we go to our forever home. There is not a place on this planet where I feel so comfortable, so at peace, so happy or filled with joy, or so absolutely calm and centered. I couldn't stop thanking God for allowing me to come back.

I took some photos as I trekked out onto the sand. Again - the pictures do not do the view justice at all.

Right after I posted, I turned to walk up the beach a little further. I saw something out of the corner and turned to look. At first, I wasn't quite sure I was seeing correctly. There, staring at me from the path, was the most absolutely beautiful wolf I have ever seen - in the wild or in captivity. She just stared at me for a moment while I stared at her in disbelief. Then, she turned and trotted on her way. I tried to snap a quick photo but wasn't quick enough. I just said out loud, "Oh Lord, she was beautiful. Thank you."

The only sound I could hear were geese flying around. It was just pristine. I wished I could stay there in that moment forever. I can't remember the last time I was able to enjoy so much peace and quiet for an extended time. Despite the cold, I stayed for an hour on the beach, just soaking it in.

Finally, realizing my team was probably going to start worrying about me, I headed back towards the cabin. I was trying my best to hold onto every single moment. I began seeing other humans out enjoying the morning but refrained from disrupting their quiet, even for a hello. I just smiled and kept going.

I made it back to the cabin, walked in and my boys asked if I was frozen. I said I was a walking, talking popsicle and went to grab some breakfast. After I ate, I was still chilled, so I decided to take a quick shower. I told everyone to be thinking about what they wanted to do today, since we didn't have to be back to the expo until 4:30.

It was decided that we were heading to mini golf. This should prove very entertaining...

*** Update note - a wildlife specialist in the area confirmed several months after this post that the wolf I had seen was indeed a wolf, and she was OR-54. Probably the most incredible wildlife encounter I will ever have in my life. ***

WHY?

I wish I had a dollar for every time I have been asked the question "WHY?" in the past 9 months.

"You're crazy! Why would you want to put yourself through that?"

"Why? Didn't the doctors tell you not to?"

"Why do it for someone else?"

"Why run? Can't you just do something easier?"

"Why would you fly 2000 miles to run a race?"

"Why do what they say is impossible?"

"Why would you risk making things worse?"

"Why a half-marathon? Couldn't you just do another 10K?"


I don't expect anyone to understand. I have explained it before and I know people just don't get it. But, I have been asked several times to explain why I am attempting a half-marathon again after 4 years of "retirement" from them and why this particular race for this particular reason. So, I will try to explain.

Meet Jason.

Jason is the director of Epic Tahoe Adventures and someone who was just plain awesome to our team when we were in Tahoe 3 years ago for race weekend. Jason and his team have been asking since then for our group to come and run their Rock Tahoe race in June. Each year I answered with the same response - I'd love to, but I'm not allowed to run half-marathons anymore. If you add a 10K, I'm there. But I can't do a half. Each year I watch race weekend news get posted with amazing photos and wish I could be there.

Last September, Jason and his crew held a test run for a future race. He invited a couple of our team members to apply to be a part. I knew I couldn't even try, with the dates and the finances involved. But, one of our girls was selected to go, and we were all so excited about it. We were hanging onto every detail, and couldn't wait to see pictures and hear more. Our first update once the event began was NOT what we expected. We learned there had been a serious accident involving one of the RVs and that Jason and Natalie, along with a couple of others, were injured. When a friend who lived in Tahoe sent me photos from the news, I was horrified. It still isn't easy to look at.

Article about the accident:
http://www.tahoedailytribune.com/news/crime-fire/five-injured-in-car-accident-down-kingsbury-grade/

I spent a long time emailing back and forth with friends in the area and our runner who was there. My heart was heavy and I wasn't sure what I could do, other than pray.

I followed the news updates on Facebook, and checked in with Jess from Epic Tahoe when I could.

September 24, 2016:
We are heartbroken to confirm, as many of you may have heard, that a number of ETA runners and staff, including our Chief Officer of Awesomeness Jason Collin and his wife Natalie, were testing the running route for an upcoming event yesterday when the RV in which they were traveling was involved in a serious accident on Kingsbury Grade. Our hearts, minds, and entire focus continues to be with those involved or injured. We will be posting further information on the condition of Jason and the others as soon as it becomes available.

Update on Jason Collin:

Jason sustained serious injuries in the crash yesterday resulting in both legs being broken and shattered in various places from the knee down. He has had 2 successful surgeries so far and has one more scheduled for Monday. He is in excellent spirits and is recovering well and will hopefully be released next week. His wife Natalie also broke a finger in the accident but was treated and released yesterday, and is by Jason's side. The Collin family appreciates the outpouring of support and love the community has shown.

Four days after the accident, I had a huge relief when I checked in on Facebook.

September 28, 2016:

We are so excited that Jason is headed home from the hospital today!

Around that same time, I felt a nagging about the number of times I'd told Jason I couldn't run a half anymore. I realized he could have been injured so badly that running would never be possible again for him. I also knew I had been letting others dictate what was and was not possible for me again. I knew at that moment, while I was continuing to pray for his full recovery, I was going to find a way to run a half again - for him. If he could walk and then run again after this, I was going to prove the doctors wrong yet again and do what they told me was impossible. I knew my God was greater than any diagnosis or doctor's prediction and that there was nothing impossible in my life. I was going to run a half again. I knew in all reality, even with a miracle, there was no way I could be ready by the June Rock Tahoe date, and I was already committed to the Lake Tahoe Marathon Weekend for 2017. Financially, I couldn't do both. I desperately wanted my first half back to be in Tahoe, for numerous reasons. I just couldn't make it work so that it ended up being the Rock Tahoe event. So, I decided I would change my LTM registration from the 10K to the half, and set out to do what I'd been told couldn't be done.

It was rough going. My fall races were not easy. I was struggling to do 5Ks. I was having issue after issue with my medical problems. I was questioning my sanity about committing to a half-marathon again after swearing I never would after the last one almost killed me. I knew the doctors had a point. I knew I was pushing it and putting myself at risk. But, I had to keep trying. I had the support of my incredible teammates and was standing on my faith and my God to get me through. When the doubts rushed in, all I had to do is look at that photo of the accident last September and knew that I had to do this.

We all got an early Christmas present from Jason on the Epic Tahoe Facebook page. This video turned me into a mess of a puddle crying, but it also put a huge smile on my face and rekindled the determination and motivation. Again, I had to.

December 22, 2016:

https://www.facebook.com/EpicTahoeAdventures/videos/1154674281306504/

Those first steps also made me realize one thing - even though he knew nothing about what I was doing, I had to keep my end of the bargain. I had to do the half. There was no option to quit or give up.

By March 2017, I knew Jason was going to be fine. But, it wasn't an excuse to not finish what I started. I heard from Jason in June, and let him know that I was going to be in Tahoe for the race weekend in October, and said I hoped to catch up with Natalie and him while I was in town, but didn't really go into detail about the race plans.

My closest friend/coach and my boys have all asked me why I haven't told Jason what I was doing or why I was doing it. It's hard to explain and it's difficult for me to open up and say this. I know and have known that this very well could be impossible for me. I could be really sick again the week of or the morning of the race. I could have a relapse and be unable to run or even walk. I could start the race and end up causing things to be much worse and end up not being able to finish. Or worse. I don't want to ever get anyone's hopes up and then disappoint them or let them down. If I told him what I was doing and then on race day couldn't do it - I'd feel horrible. So, in my mind, right or wrong, it's best to just not say anything until afterwards, if at all.

On top of that, I have never and still never want anyone to feel sorry for me or show me any sympathy. I am here and alive - which is far more than many of my friends from Ground Zero can say. I am walking and running - which is far more than some of my friends battling terminal illnesses or lifelong disabilities can say. I am healthy enough to be able to go out and do something - which is more than my friends battling cancer can say right now. I cannot and will not complain. When I do - my friends who know the details of my life refuse to let me stay there and refuse to let me continue on the complaint train. I appreciate their toughness more than I could ever express. With their help - I will not refuse to do what I can do to bring awareness and support to the charities I run for. I will not stop. I can't stop.

I'm also very aware of the fact that one day I may be one of those people who can't run another step. But until that day comes, I refuse to say I can't anymore. I refuse to not try. I'm very afraid that the day I give up and stop running is the day my medical issues win and the day I lose more than just the ability to run. It takes people like Jason who have that never give up, positive attitude to inspire me sometimes. Life knocks you down? Get up and fight back. It takes watching people who are at their lowest never blink in despair, but just get out there and do what needs to be done, to get me past the doubts and fears that creep into my life. I need these people in my life and am incredibly thankful for them. I wish I could take all of their hurts and heartaches out there with me and pound them into the pavement as I run, to make things easier for them. While I can't "fix" any of their situations, I can use my situation to bring light and help to them. I can use my running to be a light in the dark times. I can use these races to show God's love, grace, and mercy to hurting people. As long as I can take a step, I will keep going. For Jason, Morgan E, Kristan & Jay, Melissa, Deon & his siblings, Heidi, Barbara, Shelley & her daughter, Nancy, RC, Crystal, Corinne, Sandy's family, Tina and her daughter Katelyn, Janet's granddaughter, my students, family and friends of Morgan H and others who never came home, and many more friends battling demons bigger than mine. Thank you all for inspiring me and keeping me going.