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.
