Dear Running:

As I was driving to work in the early hours of the morning, Lady Gaga's "You and I" came on the radio, and I thought of you.

The song, for one, is such a good running song. In fact, I put it on my iPod right before my failed 8, our last date together, the abrupt ending of which left me in tears. And, this morning, it happened to come on when the sun was rising, when you and I would have been on our mile 5-ish--if we were still together, of course.

Before I knew it, I was wiping a tear from my eye and simultaneously chuckling aloud and shaking my head in nostalgic amusement. And that's when I knew it for certain:

We're not over.

You haven't always treated me well.  I'd even say you've hurt me pretty badly. I got caught up in the "chase," pursued you too earnestly, and you dumped me. Hard.


I don't know that I'd give "anything again to be your baby doll," but I know there is still "something" between us, something "about" us, and I think it's worth investigating. I really do.


I'll be seeing you soon. Count on it. 


Love,
Danielle

Somewhere between "Big" and "Home"

I don't really know where that is yet; but, more than likely, I will have to find that medium. (Whoever said mediums were "happy"???)

Doctor's report and prognosis:

I still have no idea what is happening with my hip (there was reference to two joints and possible eventual stress fractures), but I start physical therapy Tuesday for that issue--whatever it is.

Regarding my shins, the doctor explained a radiologist "may very well read stress fractures," but she didn't order an MRI because she doesn't "need an MRI to tell [her] what to do"--and that's to insist that I rest. And rest means do nothing. If I weren't training for a marathon, she would have told me to rest indefinitely, and that may be the eventual mandate anyway. Right now, it could be "the difference of one run." Because I am crazy (that's my word; she was nicer), she told me "technically," I could count from Friday, the day of the failed 8 (or .5), and not from yesterday--if I "wanted to justify that way" and rest for fewer days.   So...this weekend I can start with the recumbent bike. If that doesn't hurt, I can progress to the elliptical. If that doesn't hurt, I can do "light jogging." And NO pain allowed. Translation: Sayonara, Marathon. I just don't see how I could start jogging and progress to 26.2 by the end of October. In addition to the long runs, there are multiple "short" runs (e.g. 5-10 miles) weekly.

I just realized I left off with 16. I had only TWO long runs left before the marathon: an 18 and a 20. Damn.


I do get it. I did way too much, way too fast. As the doctor explained it to me, there are lifelong runners who train for 6 months-1 year to run a marathon. I have never been a runner and woke up one day and decided to run a marathon. I committed to an 18 week training program, and I refused to forego bootcamp and gym days to boot. As I said to her yesterday, "This is my fault. I own it."

I have had my tantrums and tears and meltdowns, and today I got choked up when a song that I listen to repeatedly on my runs came on the car radio. (It reminded me of being a teenager, and feeling all nostalgic and sappy, listening to Dave Matthews or Sarah McLachlan.) But now I have to stop feeling sorry for myself. Again, it's my fault, and self-pity is unattractive. So, the potential pluses:

1.  If I am being honest, as I said to one of my favorite friends and true champions of athleticism, I don't like running like this. The kind of running I have been doing for quite some time is the bad kind of everything: pain, fatigue, challenge, chore, etc. I am actually looking forward to healing, to being pain-free, and to loving exercise again.

2.  There is the half at the end of this month. It is probably out of my reach at this point. But there is always a possibility. Even if I lose some conditioning by then, if I miraculously feel pain-free, I really believe I have the mental fortitude and drive to pull it off. (Of course mental fortitude wouldn't carry me through 13 miles if I hadn't already completed months of long distance training.) And there is still October if miracles really do happen, and there is always the spring season, too.

3.  I am pretty confident now that I am one tough cookie. I am proud that I set out to achieve this goal of gargantuan proportions, and I fought tooth and nail to make it happen. I can look myself in the mirror and say that I never once slacked or cheated, that I never once failed to do my very best. That's all anyone can really do. And, in the end, I made it pretty far. 16 miles for a single run and an average of 20-30 miles of running per week are nothing to sneeze at.

4.  My bootcamp class just ended. I wasn't planning to register for the next session because my body could just no longer take that kind of hit while running that kind of distance. But if I am no longer running that kind of distance, maybe--maybe--I can resume bootcamp in three weeks when the next session starts. I love bootcamp, more than I have ever loved any fitness-related activity, including running.

5.  Now that I am a mom, I often think about how my daughter will one day judge my actions; in fact, the thought of her as a teenager thinking it was cool that her mom ran a marathon a year after she was born is what sustained me on many painful runs. Now, I hope that she will respect my effort more than she will judge my ultimate performance; that she will see this experience as a lesson about sometimes needing to appreciate life's journeys more than the destinations; and that she will admire my genuine desire to be a healthy, strong, fit woman and role model to her. At a recent bootcamp class when we were doing Spidermans, my instructor jokingly said to the class, comprised of all women, "Remember when you were a little girl and you used to dream of Spidermans..." A bunch of women joked, "Barbie didn't do this!" or "This was not what I dreamed about Spiderman." And my first thought was, "I hope my daughter dreams of doing exactly this one day."

So, in the end, maybe a medium can be happy. I may need a GPS to find it, but I am willing to try.

Of Mastiff and Marathon

I am having kind of a hard time lately. I miss Huan so much, more than I have in a long time. I don't know what else to say about that. He was extraordinary. I will never have another dog like him. I will never know another soul as gentle and gracious and humble and sweet and good and decent as he. Repeat.

I have been training for a marathon, for months actually. There. I said it. Only a few people, until now, have known that. I haven't even registered for it, but the registration screen has been minimized on my laptop for what feels like forever. I have been afraid of jinxing it, I guess, but it's too late for that.

Current status: my longest run to date is 16 miles. I have been running 3-4 times a week, all according to the guidelines of a free online training program. There is always one really long run (e.g. 15 miles), 1-2 shorter runs (e.g. 3-5 miles), and one long-ish run (e.g. 8-10 miles). My times have been pretty impressive for a rookie (9:30-40ish on long runs), though that may be because I am a total idiot and haven't stopped to rest or hydrate ever. (No, I am not kidding.) I have also maintained my bootcamp days, but had to drop my leg day at the gym. I have, until now, maintained my upper body weight training regimen. And now I am injured.

Injured?

For weeks, my shins have been very painful to the touch, and it has gotten increasingly more painful to run on them. I have also been suffering through hip pain that is now pretty unbearable. There have been a couple of times when my leg has gone numb, and I haven't been able to support my weight while running. This past Friday, I set out to do an 8 miler, and I didn't make it 1/2 mile before I had to stop, tears streaming down my face, and limp home. I remember thinking, "I don't even know how to distinguish anymore. What will I tell the doctor? Does the pain radiate up my legs or down them?"

I have an appointment with a sports medicine doctor tomorrow. I have an appointment with a podiatrist on Friday. I am icing and stretching and taking anti-inflammatories. And resting. For the first time EVER, I missed a run, a 12 miler yesterday. I have no idea how much more I will have to miss. I am scheduled for a half marathon at the end of the month, which is just part of my training for the full in October. I don't know that I will be able to do either now. And I can't even stomach the thought of that. I have given this everything I have to give. I have set my alarm at 4AM on long run days so I can be home in time to get the baby when she wakes and so Hubby can leave for work. I have run in South Carolina, while on vacation, down cobblestone streets in the midst of Hurricane Irene storms. I even set my alarm at God knows what time to fit in a 10 miler before our flight took off for South Carolina. And, to reiterate, it has really, really hurt most days, even to run one mile.

I began running a week after Huan died, and I haven't stopped since. I always wanted to run, to be a runner,  but never really had the kind of motivation that the loss of Huan inspired. (I often call it "grief running.") And I did  toy with the idea of training for just a half, but I tend to operate in extremes. I go big, or I go home. I go Mastiff. I go marathon. And I have to believe that, even if I can't physically cross the finish line, everything that has carried me to this moment in my training--the struggle, the love, the grief, the tenacity, even the dedication to get out of bed at 4AM for months on end--that's all big stuff--bigger, perhaps, than even 26.2 miles.

I really hope I can believe that.

Jenni

It has been awhile since I’ve posted. That’s partly because it’s summer, and life has been pretty busy; and it’s partly because I have been procrastinating. This post has been on my radar for months. I have drafts of it. I have walked away from it and come back to it so, so many times. I am a perfectionist, and I know there is no way to perfectly articulate my feelings about Jenni. But it’s time to say something, however inadequate my words will undoubtedly prove to be.

Jenni is Jim’s wife. She is a vet, too. She is an amazing vet. And she is my friend. She is my dear friend. I don’t have any idea what I would have done without her all of those months that Huan was sick. Jenni was with Jim just about every time he examined Huan, both at my house and at their clinic. She also independently examined him, ran cytology, came to my home by herself. One day, she spent at least an hour of her time calling specialists all over the state to consult on Huan's case and research prices for MRI scans—from my kitchen.

Those are the objective, quantifiable tangibles. The implicit, qualitative intangibles of Jenni’s goodness—well, that’s the stuff that is impossible to convey adequately with words.

I remember very distinctly, months and months ago, perhaps even before Huan got sick, Jenni told me in a casual conversation that: 1. She never cried in front of a client and 2. Whatever happens to an animal after it has been euthanized—I mean beyond carrying it out of the room—she can’t bring herself to do. (I don’t know exactly what that is, and I couldn’t bring myself to ask.) I was touched so deeply by that. I have had vets before Jenni, as I have had animals my whole life. I have always been a little unimpressed, even saddened, by the seeming lack of emotion and personal engagement. I mean, I understand that there is—even has to be—a degree of desensitization, but I often left the vet’s office thinking, “Didn’t you go into this profession because you loved animals?”  Every experience just felt sterile, overly scientific, clinical, routine, even rushed. What I love about Jenni, what I find so impressive and unique, is that she is as competent as she is compassionate. I mean, the girl knows her stuff. But she is never, ever showy or imposing or redundant. She doesn’t railroad people or rush them or raise her voice—or love the sound of it. And she is always professional. But she is always a person, too, a good person.

Case in point: Before Huan passed away, weeks before, when I knew death was imminent, I called her. I needed to brace myself. I didn’t want to go in cold. Through quiet sobs, I asked her a multitude of pretty graphic and specific questions about what would happen to Huan when he died. And she answered every single one--patiently, kindly, gently, truthfully. In fact, before Jim injected Huan with the anesthesia on the day he died, he went to explain the process to me, and I stopped him. I already knew. I am so grateful to Jenni for that. I don’t think there is any other person or professional with whom I would have felt more comfortable having that conversation.  She was the absolute best.

Another case in point: On the day that Huan died, Jenni was with Jim. She was so gentle with me and with Huan. And when it was all over, when she and Jim left the room to give David and me a chance to say our final goodbyes, I could hear her crying in the other room. As I write that, I, myself, am crying. I don’t think she knows I know she cried. It turns out she was true to her word: She didn’t cry in front of a client. But she did, in fact, cry. And that’s how I know there is such a thing as becoming too desensitized in this profession. Because Jenni is not. After countless euthanasias and years of experience, this vet, one who surely “got into this profession because she loves animals,” was moved to tears by the death of a Mastiff and the heartache of his owners--because she is a person still, one who understands a dog is more than its breed and scientific makeup and the owners more than mere clients. And I know she was uniquely connected to and involved in this case, but I also know she is remarkably compassionate and selfless with other clients. Once, for example, she took a dog to her own home, with its owners’ permission, because she was confident it would not survive the night alone in the clinic. She tended to that dog throughout the night--again, in her own home--forgoing sleep in order to ensure its survival.  One would be hard pressed to find a better vet--or a better person.

And, incidentally, Jenni is as creative as she is competent and compassionate.

In October, five months before Huan died, I told Jenni about a page in Grace’s baby book devoted to baby’s first animal and about how much it meant to me to make that page special with a meaningful picture so that Grace would, in some capacity, know Bubba. I told her, probably in another conversation, that Grace was going to be a giraffe for her first Halloween. And Jenni went to the store, bought fabric, and spent hours of her life making a lion’s mane for Huan so that he and Grace could have a properly themed Halloween, so that Grace could have a special page in her baby book. So that her mother's pain could be mitigated by the creation of a beautiful memory that would comfort her always.

Likewise, after Huan passed away, I asked her if she knew of anything I could do with Huan’s collar and tag as a way to memorialize him. She suggested a memory box. Within days, she texted me and told me she was at the arts and crafts store and told me she could pick up the box. “What color would you like?” turned into, “Danielle, would you mind if I did this for you as a surprise?” And, before I knew it, she was at my house sorting through pictures and storing them on a flash drive. She worked for days from her own home, and this beautiful creation is the final product. When I first saw it, I bawled. It hangs in my kitchen, above the spot where Huan’s food dishes used to be.

(In case it’s not totally clear, in addition to pictures, Huan's collar and tag, and some text and graphics, in the bottom left corner is Huan’s paw print, which Jenni and Jim took and preserved in clay after he passed away. This is something their clinic does for clients after every euthanasia, and I think it is just so, so special. And I know Jenni worked really hard to get the perfect imprint.) 

It has been almost a year to the day that Huan got sick, almost five months since he died. I have sent cards and notes of thanks and written a post about my cousin on this blog to express my gratitude for people's kindnesses to Huan, David, and me. Jenni is last on my list of people to thank, but certainly not least. In fact, the truth is I am most grateful to her, which is, again, why it has taken me so long to actually find the words to express my gratitude for all the things that are just so hard to quantify or qualify in a card, note, or blog post...for being an amazing vet to Huan and an even better person and friend to me. For comforting words and costumes and pictures and memory boxes. For all of the gestures and moments and conversations whose significance just can't be conveyed with words but which are felt and treasured so deeply in my heart.

So I say--however simply, inarticulately, and belatedly--thank you, Jenni, from the bottom of my heart. For everything. xx

Jim

I am, technically, an only child. But I rarely felt that way as a kid. My cousins, Jim and Jeff, who are the sons of my aunt and uncle referenced in my "Bitter Sweet" post, are brothers to me. My childhood is defined by summers of vacationing, camping, playing, swimming and catching toads, snakes, and crawfish with them. We fished and roasted marshmallows and sailed and suffered horrific sunburns and many bumps, bruises, even stitches and food poisoning. These are my most precious, fondest childhood memories. No, they are my childhood.

At one point, we all even lived together. We had chores, or "designated sponsibilities." We had movie nights with the kind of buttered popcorn that could clog your arteries before the first bite even made its way down. We were even punished together, like after a collective rebellious impulse that involved a closed closet door and whole lot of profanity shouted--loudly, proudly, defiantly--in a sudden fit of what can only be described as spontaneous Tourettes. We rode bikes and played games every day.  We had block parties and common friends. And we had animals, lots and lots of animals. There were Gizmo, Sadie, Max, Fritz...to name a few, and those were just the dogs. There were cats, too, and reptiles of all types and sizes.

I always knew one of us would be a vet. Jim, in fact, wanted to be a vet before he could ever even pronounce the word veterinarian. Fortunately for him, he had the math and science aptitude. I always was much more English-y.

Jim, DVM, got a phone call from me the first week of August, 2010. David, my husband, came home from work at 7AM and found the house covered in blood. (I still cannot imagine how frightening that must have been for him.) He ran to our bedroom and found me asleep, threw off the covers, and found my feet and PJ bottoms also covered in blood. (I still cannot imagine how frightening that must have been for him.) Apparently, delirious from having a new baby and not sleeping much at all, I didn't notice that, when I got up in the middle of the night to feed Grace and let Huan out, my house and I were covered in blood. We checked Grace. We checked the cats. We checked Huan, who was sleeping soundly beside our bed. And there was dried blood on his snout. And so it began...

Jim ran tests, X rays, cytology, so many, many times. He sedated Huan and flushed his nose more than once. He was thorough. Nothing showed cancer, and we could have done an MRI to know for sure. But we knew, after the seizures and weight loss and head muscle atrophy, that whatever this was was degenerative, that Huan was dying. And so Jim, DVM, was again, first and foremost, cousin, brother, friend. He was gentle. He called Huan "handsome" and patted his head and rubbed his ears every time he saw him. He knew--I know he knew--what an amazing dog Huan was and how very much I loved him. I saw and felt his pain every time he saw and felt mine.

One day in the fall, for example, I came home from work, and Huan was bleeding so, so, so badly, worse than any other time. It was, by far, one of the scariest things I have ever seen, second only to the eventual seizures. I called Jim, who was working--crying, frantic, desperate. He told me what to do to get the blood to stop. It didn't stop. He told us to bring him in, so David did. Huan bled all over, and I mean ALL over, the clinic. David apologized, and Jim said, "Better for it to happen here where Danielle doesn't have to see it." And that night, he brought him home to me, having somehow managed to get the blood to stop after he called me to tell me he didn't know if he could--and, incidentally, having assumed the inconvenience of chauffeuring a 200 lb bloody, drooly Mastiff on his own personal time, in his own personal car. He hugged me, kissed my swollen face, and offered to bring me dinner.

Flash forward to February. The seizures started. They happened daily, most often when I was home alone. David and I took Huan into the clinic for a routine exam. When Huan didn't react to another dog in the waiting room, which was very uncharacteristic of him, I lost it. By the time I made it back to the exam room, I was hysterical. I don't know why, but seeing Huan indifferent to another dog was my moment of clarity and resignation. I told Jim that Huan's dignity was my first priority, and when dog owners start talking dignity, death is imminent. The truth is, I even thought that night may have been the night, and if Jim would have told me it was time, I would have deferred to his judgment. Instead, Jim prescribed anti-seizure meds, gave Bubba valium to ensure he didn't seize on the way home, and said we would reassess in a month. He helped David carry Huan to the car while I dealt with the receptionists and paid the bill. Jim and I hugged in the parking lot, and as I was getting in the car to leave, I could see him walk back into the clinic past the receptionists, who were very clearly looking for some kind of exchange, some opportunity to offer words of comfort or sympathy, or maybe to inquire about Huan's status, especially given that they had just dealt with me, and there was no hiding my hysterics, despite my best efforts. But Jim ran his hand over his head, kind of the way you see doctors do in movies when they lose a patient or have to deliver really bad news; never looked up; and kept walking, right past them, out of my sight. I don't know why that single moment resonated with me so much. I think it's because I didn't realize how much the experience resonated with him at the time. In dealing with me that night, he was professional. He was composed. But in that moment, when he didn't know I could see, he was upset. And that touched me deeply. In that moment, I could see my loving cousin. In every moment prior to that one that night, I couldn't see my loving cousin, because he loved me enough to not show me. He loved me enough to be what I needed then: my vet.

That night, I wrote my first post on this blog.

March. Over half a year of running tests, taking frantic phone calls, hugging crying cousins, driving back and forth to my house and Jim's clinic, and the seizures had, in fact, stopped, at least temporarily. The last time Huan suffered a seizure was the last time Jim came to my house for a Huan related incident: Saturday, March 26th, 2011. He left our Nana's house, where he and his wife were eating dinner, after yet another emotional and unexpected phone call from me; went to his closed clinic to retrieve all necessary supplies; and came to my home to help us say our goodbyes to our sweet boy. As Huan lay in my lap on my kitchen floor, Jim injected the anesthesia into his leg and sat with us as he took his last breaths. In that single moment, the tender culmination of so many trying moments, Jim's presence was never more necessary or appreciated. My childhood companion, friend, brother, the source of so much joy in my life, was a source of such comfort when I needed it most, in what was, I think, the saddest moment of my life. How many people can say that about their cousins? Probably about as many as who could say it about their veterinarians.

I am grateful for you, Jim, DVM. And I love you very much.

Bitter Sweet

This is my daughter, Grace. And with her is Doe, my aunt and uncle's lab and Grace's new biggest fan.

On Memorial Day, after my run and a fun time at the zoo, we went to my aunt and uncle's for dinner. My aunt and uncle have about 46 dogs. OK, that's a gross exaggeration, obviously. But they never have fewer than 3. (I come from a long line of "animal people.") The other dogs were pretty indifferent to Grace. Doe, though, clearly, truly, genuinely had an obvious affinity for her. Doe followed Grace all over the house. At one point, they were even swapping and sharing their toys. 

Watching Grace and Doe together was poignant, in the truest sense of the word.  Sweet, for certain. But also bitter. Two months and three days prior, we lost Huan. And Grace was very much still a baby. But now she crawls, babbles, engages in meaningful ways, imitates, shows a sense of humor. She very much became a kid. I anticipated missing the opportunity to watch her relationship with Huan blossom as she matured. (See very first blog entry.) I just didn't realize I would literally miss it by such a narrow margin. Two months. Ouch. If only...

David and I have been struggling with this one ever since Memorial Day. Grace needs a dog. I just wish it could have been Huan. He would have loved her up but would have always respected her space and the boundaries we imposed--like, for example, not entering her room without invitation, a rule, incidentally, that he did observe since we brought her home from the hospital. He would have never, ever begged for her food, let alone taken it. Of course she would have offered it, and of course he would have barely grazed her fingers with his teeth as he took it. She would have toppled all over his ginormous body and tugged on his ears and stuck her hands in his food bowl and taken his bones, and he would have let her. He would have learned the command "Baby kiss," just as he knew "Mama kiss," and he would have happily obliged. He would have protected her. He would have been her best pal. They would have made some duo, my baby and my Bubba. I can't imagine anything sweeter, and I know that, someday, I won't feel so bitter about that. And maybe that will be the day Grace gets her dog.

Race Day

Well, I didn't formally "race." My relay fell apart last minute, but I ran my leg, nonetheless.

It was a hard run. It was super hot outside, and I traversed quite a few hills. My hamstrings were sore from my workout two days prior, my heart ached from the loss of Huan two months prior, and I didn't make it through without tears. But I finished.7.5 miles, 1:14:11.

Pre-run

Post-run

Hubby made me chocolate chip buckwheat pancakes, my FAV, to celebrate!

I am certain there are more runs in my future, and I am confident I will get stronger, better, faster over time. And as much as I feel inclined to beat myself up over a modest 10 minute mile, especially since I have pulled off much better times in training, I have to remind myself that this run wasn't about pace or performance, or even about running, really. This run was about a girl and her dog.

And nothing about that can be measured or quantified.