February

This is kind of a hard month for me. I am feeling a little broken.

February 15, 2011 was Huan's first seizure. I was bathing Grace after dinner. I guess she was nearly ten months old. I heard violent, loud, banging and thrashing. I ran in the direction of the noise. I had never seen a seizure before. I didn't know what was happening. I remember the begging and pleading in my voice when I asked, "Huan? HUAN?" I don't really know what I was asking, what implicit questions lay beneath the surface. Are you OK? Is that you? WHAT is happening??? I started to cry. And I remember being scared to approach him. He wasn't there. But he was violently jerking back and forth. For a split second, I thought he was being aggressive? (I can't even bear to end that sentence with a period.) Whatever he was being he was doing it at nearly 200 lbs. I was afraid. And I was alone.

I ran and got Grace (yes, I left her alone in her tub seat). I wrapped a towel around her and ran back to the living room. It was all only a matter of seconds probably, but it felt like years. There was water everywhere, some from my soaking wet baby, some from Huan. No more thrashing. Labored breathing. Lethargy. Failure to engage with me or even to recognize me.

I called David at work. He thought I said all of the aforementioned happened to Grace. I don't know why, actually. Maybe my thoughts and words were that jumbled. Maybe he couldn't understand me because I was that hysterical.

My cousin and his wife came to examine Huan. My mother-in law was on her way to watch Grace. I didn't even think to call her to cancel. I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee. I remember Jim's brown leather medical bag when he walked in. I remember Jenni saying it was like Dr. Doolittle's. I remember there was talk that maybe it was just an isolated incident, perhaps even unrelated to the nosebleeds. I remember wanting so badly to believe that. I remember my mother-in-law telling me to keep my coffee date and her getting Jim's cell phone number "just in case" before I left.

I met with my friend that night for coffee. I remember where we sat, what I drank, the stacks of essays at her table when I arrived. I apologized for being late. I am never, ever late. I remember every single thing we talked about. I remember standing at the back door with her still talking for a long time before we actually said goodbye. And I remember what we talked about there, too--as opposed to at our table, I mean.

It is so interesting how vividly one can remember specific moments, times, and occasions that center around some traumatic occurrence. 

I even remember David sent me a beautiful bouquet of red roses at work the day before for Valentine's Day. I took a pic of them on the 15th, the day of Huan's seizure, and posted it on Facebook. I remember looking at that picture after the seizure and thinking, "When I posted this, my world was so different. How can things change so drastically, so quickly?" Up to that point, he just had nosebleeds with an unknown cause. I mean, they were just nosebleeds.

I remember another friend texted me on the 15th during the day and asked me if I was interested in running a marathon relay in order to shed the last few baby pounds. I was sitting at my desk. I think it was right after I took the picture of my flowers on it, actually. I remember being really excited about the challenge. I told her, "Interested. Keep me posted." I remember when Huan died a month-ish later, she texted me to ask me if I still wanted to do it. I remember feeling conflicted, even angry, not at her, but at the mere fact that life was so different now without Huan, so much emptier.

I remember.

And so Project Shed Prego Weight turned into Project Cope with Grief--in a healthy and productive way (instead of curling up into a permanent fetal position). Coping via "grief running" became pretty habitual. Grief running turned into marathon training. Marathon training turned into hip problems and stress fractures. Hip problems and stress fractures meant half-marathon. That was September 24th, 2011.

It is now February, 2012.  I have followed every doctor's order. I didn't run until the first week of January, 2012. That's about 15 weeks of rest. 15 weeks, and even longer than what the doctor prescribed. My shins, particularly the one, is still pretty tender to the touch. Tonight, actually, I started feeling pain while dancing with my daughter. For the first time ever, I actually had pain while moving. I had my sights on another half in May. It is the same race, in fact, for which I trained to run relay one year ago after Huan died. I didn't actually get to run my leg, though, because my team fell apart last minute. I would love nothing more than to run that race this year "for Bubba," only 13 miles instead of 6. I can't imagine anything more fitting. But I don't know if it will be possible. I put in a call to sports med today, and I have a PT appointment next week. (Oh, I have a new knee issue to boot. And speaking of "boot," I may ultimately be confined to one.)

One year ago, almost to the day,was the beginning of Huan's end. The grief was consuming. So I ran. I know that probably doesn't make a whole lot of sense to most people, but I needed to literally move through the pain rather than become crippled by it. And that's the thing, really: it sucks to feel--or, worse, to be--crippled  by all of the same issues, by all of the same pain, one year later, when all I want to do is move. I know this is a particularly bad month. I know things will get better. Maybe this spring. Maybe even in May. Maybe.