One Year

We are rounding out a year of the Pandemic.

Tell me how you are doing. I’ll start. It’s been a rollercoaster. I’ve learned many things about myself and some of it with much resistance. I remember hugs, but have only had a few in the past 12 months. Those have been deeper, tighter, and longer than in the past. I’ve sat alone and watched my anxiety, and ADHD play out in front of me like a stage performance. I’ve laughed harder than I usually do and I’ve cried harder too. When there’s no where to go and no one to see, the redness and swelling of your eyes doesn’t have to be disguised or covered up. I’ve deepened relationships-rekindled some and forged new ones, all with the click of a key on a computer. I’ve slowed down. A TON.

My dogs get more walks. I hear the birds. I watch clouds.I traveled across the country during election week, and witnessed the extreme diversity of our country. I found most people willing to look me in the eyes and smile but for brief moments as we passed at rest stop. I stopped compulsively cleaning. Yeah, that was my jam. Always a perfectly spotless house. I’ve shopped more online than ever. It’s too easy not to. I should stop.

I learned that phone calls are a thing! Voices are gold. Walking with a masked friend while maintaining distance is a rare and luxuriously intimate experience. I learned that I prefer my own cooking. I spent a lifetime going out with friends and family, but it wasn’t the restaurant food or the bar drinks that I craved-it was the company.

I lost my high level of athletic fitness after a severe bout with Covid. This has been devastating to me as a person, an athlete, and a coach. Ten months later, and I still struggle with endurance or intensity. Depression slithered in. I gained weight. I drank more. I started having panic attacks again. I told myself it was ok. I stopped sleeping. I almost stopped caring. My inner badass, competitor self called a halt to that nonsense though and I got back on a new track. I’m been working out regularly again since November, and eating clean and healthy. My workouts are shorter and with less intensity as BC (before Covid) but they are consistent. Oh, yeah, and I take more rest days.

I’m doing dry January. Guess what? I’m sleeping again!

I’ve taken online classes in subjects I’d never otherwise allowed the time to pursue. Irish step dancing! Spiritual classes. I played around with a few online dating sites just for fun. Good Lord that’s quite the wormhole.I got certified to teach Gravity Yoga. This was a personal journey to heal my broken spine. It’s working more than I could have dreamed. Now I’m conducting Zoom classes for individuals and groups. WHO KNEW?

I bought some beautiful paint by number kits and started one 2 months ago. It triggered all my “perfectionistic” obsessions and it sits half done on my dining room table. If I never finish it, that’s ok. I’ve watched more TV this year than all the past 40 years of my life. Most of it isn’t memorable and I forgot the names of the shows and movies I watched. I have all but stopped watching the news this month. I can’t personally change anything happening in the world today, except for in my own little corner, so why ingest all that negative energy?

I have a new mantra, thanks to Russel Wilson, courtesy of his brother, Harry: ” I am made for this.” And thanks to Trevor Moawad, I’m working on keeping my mind neutral. When things are negative, and you can’t go to the positive, at least keep your mind neutral. I love that one.

I’m almost ready to donate most of my clothes. I dragged and shipped boxes of clothes, shoes, and boots across 3400 miles, just to set up a closet and take up space. Sure, some day I’ll wear them again, but the variety holds no allure to me now. Except for my running shoes. I can never have enough of those, don ‘t-cha know.

I don’t bother with makeup anymore. Once in a while, but not every day. Don’t get me wrong, I’l slather that shit on and don a glamorous dress and spike heels to celebrate the end of this nightmare pronto! I haven’t given up my love for all things sparkly that much.

Speaking of the end of this nightmare, I’m longing for that day. We will emerge different, but more aware. I believe we will have changed, but most of us will be more authentic. I hope. When we can safely discover the new normal, the new “free from the virus” normal, please don’t be shocked when I grab hold of you, squeeze you tightly, bury my head in your chest and bawl my eyes out. I love you all.

Until then…

She Speaks on Her Birthday

Posting a message of vulnerability on my 61st birthday. Life has flown by. The muscles are smaller and the wrinkles are deeper, but I am blessed. We all have our own unique journey and our bodies tell our stories. I’ve had challenges that have dragged me through the bowels of Hell, and still consume me, but I have life, family, and a few good genes that keep me going. I’ve lived with the old motto: “Never let them see you sweat.” (except when I’m racing in competition, that is)


I’d love to say that I don’t bruise easily, but I do. I take the high road when I can. I have a bit too much empathy at times and not enough at others. I start every day in gratitude, and smile at strangers. I’m fiercely protective of my family, friends, and clients. I never give up.


Some random facts. I break electronics. Computers hate me. I save clothes for years. I collect hot sauces. I can pick up dog poop all day long, but I threw away my babies clothes when I potty trained them, because I couldn’t deal. I might have a blanket hoarding problem. I once owned 5 dining sets and only had one dining room. At the start of every live stage performance, when the orchestra strikes the first cord, I cry. I was beaten up by girls when I was a child. I was raped by a man when I was an adult. I say “fuck” a lot. For a short time in college, I smoked 3 packs of cigarettes a day. I saved my best friend from drowning in 8th grade. I love Hello Kitty. I hate playing cards. I’ve never eaten an oyster. I have panic attacks. Babies are my favorite thing in the world.

I can’t say that I agree with the number 61. I feel 40. I think there’s a math mistake on the calendar. I have a lifetime ahead of me and wonder when I will feel old. Perhaps never? Oh there are days, but they don’t last. I won’t let them. I’ve endured two serious head on collisions, nearly severed my arm in one, and split my head open in the other, resulting in a three day coma. The physical damage to my spine is severe. My Chiropractor once told me he preferred I wear a neck collar if I ever go in the ocean. Right. Nope.

My advice? Wake up every day excited about the possibilities. Find beauty everywhere. Tell your family you love them often. Accept help. Kiss a dog. Stretch. Walk, run, jump, swim! Get out in nature as often as possible. Listen to water flowing. Meditate. Floss. And For Fuck’s sake, LAUGH A LOT. (Especially at yourself)

This passage showed up on my Facebook feed today. So fitting.


Silver~
“How many years of beauty do I have left?she asks me.How many more do you want?Here. Here is 34. Here is 50.
When you are 80 years old and your beauty rises in ways your cells cannot even imagine now and your wild bones grow luminous and ripe, having carried the weight of a passionate life.
When your hair is aflame with winter and you have decades of learning and leaving and loving sewn into the corners of your eyes and your children come home to find their own history in your face.
When you know what it feels like to fail ferociously and have gained the capacity to rise and rise and rise again.
When you can make your tea on a quiet and ridiculously lonely afternoon and still have a song in your heartQueen owl wings beating beneath the cotton of your sweater.
Because your beauty began there beneath the sweater and the skin, remember?
This is when I will take you into my arms and coo YOU BRAVE AND GLORIOUS THING you’ve come so far.
I see you.Your beauty is breathtaking.”
~ Jeannette Encinias

Be Who You Are

Be who you are, and don’t let someone else try to change you.

I wear multiple professional hats. I’m a coach, a realtor, and while living in Montauk, NY I also work in the restaurant industry. Currently I work at a restaurant an average 45 hours over 6 days per week and I track about 6.5 miles of walking per shift. Oh, and I also manage my Airbnb, which means that every week I clean and prepare for new guests. To say that I have time to do my normal workout routine of swim, bike, and run, would be a gross overstatement. I fit in what I can when my 60+ year old body allows. I love the pace of my life and the variety of things that I choose to do. You might find me on my computer at midnight constructing athlete schedules and reading logs. Or at 5am, preparing sale documents and repair negotiations for the properties I currently have under contract.

Three years ago I took a gamble and made a life changing decision to move my home base to NY. By the grace of God, the cooperation of a stellar business partner, and the most amazing clients in the world, I am able to successfully manage real estate sales in Portland, and keep my business going.

In the past year I have become a Certified Personal Trainer, in addition to my Running, Swimming, and Triathlon Certifications. I have taught group swim clinics around the US and in Canada as well.

Recently, someone I know called me lazy on FB. Here are the quotes aimed at me: “Sadly so many like yourself chose not to work hard” “You used to be a hard motivated worker” “please educate me with your vast knowledge of running a business.” I have thought about these words a lot.

Another person called me “Ignorant personified” “hypocritical”, and that I think the “world revolves around me” in one of three rabid emails after I blocked him on FB for saying horrible and untrue statements about me and my family.

This morning I went for a short run around the lake in front of my house. I felt energized and blissfully happy! I had no particular goal or focus for this run, other than to enjoy the slight cloud cover and the ocean breeze. To be able to live in the moment of this run was a bit out of the ordinary for me, because I am an extreme planner. GOALS,GOALS,GOALS!

During my run, the cruel (and completely false) words thrown at me by the two men came to mind. I got angry all over again. I am constantly telling my athletes that they have to “run their own race”, “don’t compare yourself to other people”, etc. I realized that these two people who happen to be men I’ve known for a long time, obviously didn’t agree that I should be who I am.

We all ride this giant ball around the sun together. There is beauty and there is ugliness. I’m an empath and an adventurer. It took me almost 55 years to shed some layers of damage and emerge to discover who I was as a woman. Those layers continue to break away and despite huge private challenges, I am absolutely in love with the woman that is emerging. I have energy, I have a family that gives me breath and love, and I have a body that is strong and resilient. If you can’t handle that, then bye bye. Nobody in this world has the right to demean other people for your own personal gain.

My message to anyone that cares to listen is this. Stop listening to the negative. Stop letting people bully you. Shut out the noise. Be vulnerable to yourself. Cling to your family. (Disclaimer-if you have a toxic family situation, this does not apply. Please find help) Spend time in quiet reflection. Ask your self ALL the questions. Allow fear to emerge. Find ways to tackle that fear. LAUGH AT YOURSELF. Get outside every day. Get in nature as often as possible. Sing. Stretch. Breathe. Reach out and tell someone your dreams. Listen to someone else’s dreams and fears. Be authentic. Look people square in the eye. Stand up tall. Believe in yourself and your journey. Get help to do the things you’ve always dreamed.

And for Heaven’s sake, if and when someone talks down to you, or belittles DON’T TAKE IT.

I Lied About Covid-19

Today marks 3 months since I considered myself “recovered from Covid-19”. But I am still not fully recovered. And here’s the truth. I lied about it. I’ve come to terms with the lie, and I know why I did it.

Oh, I don’t mean that I lied about HAVING the virus. I mean I lied about how it affected me. Surprised? Well if you follow me, know me, or are related to me, you might be able to figure it out.

Let’s face it. I’m a survivor. I’ve survived two near death head on car collisions. Two failed marriages. A huge financial loss. An Auto Immune Disease. An almost catastrophic health crisis in 2016. A 3,000 mile, cross country solo move in 2017. I’m a self professed Warrior Woman. A Honey Badger. “I don’t give a shit”, right? Well I’m also a motivator, caretaker, and empath. When I took a career evaluating personality test 25 years ago, the analyzer told me that I required multiple outlets of significance. That’s me! “Squirrel!” Where’s the next humungous challenge?

People applaud my strength, my tenacity, bravery, adventurous spirit, and fearlessness. I do too. I wear my accomplishments like badges. They hold me up and I can look to them when I feel vulnerable and weak, and they help me face another day.

But I lied about Covid. To my family. To my friends. To myself. I wanted so badly NOT to be a weak, vulnerable, sick person, that I downplayed it. I posted videos on social media, pretending all was well. I brushed it off as being allergies, or a sinus infection. I didn’t want anyone to worry about me. I didn’t want the attention. I wanted to be inspirational and motivating during the self quarantine. It worked for a while. People liked my videos and message. I felt a responsibility to hold my followers and family up while everyone was scared, bored, frustrated, and lonely. Until I couldn’t.

But the truth is, I was more sick than I admitted. And that made me angry, frustrated, and very frightened. I just didn’t want to admit it.

I’m the only one that I know of in my entire extended family that contracted the virus. My family is spread out in over 7 states. Each state has its own Covid numbers and stages of infection. Nobody knows where this thing is going and I’m concerned about losing a loved one.

I downplayed my illness because I have to be the rock. I’m the one that holds everything together. I can’t let anyone see the cracks. Let me tell you the truth and you will know why I will continue to lobby for masks, social distancing, and yes, even closures when it is necessary.

I wouldn’t wish this virus on another human being. I have children and grandchildren that give my life meaning, and if any of them got this virus, I actually don’t know what I would do. I was lucky. I was never hospitalized. Had I driven the 40 or so miles to the nearest hospital, however, I have no doubt that they would have admitted me. While I told my kids and siblings that I was miserable but fine, I was really terrified that I was going to die. During the throws of the high fever days-about a week, the misery I experienced caused me not to care whether I lived or died. I’m talking abut losing the will to live because the pain was so intense. With all I have been through, this was the first time I have experienced this sensation. I DIDN’T CARE IF I DIED.

Of course, the thing that kept those thoughts from fully surfacing was the all consuming love I have for my family. I truly credit them for giving me the strength to overcome this beast. I spent 17 days in Hell before there was any steady relief. Almost 10 of them were mostly in bed, except for the fact that I had 3 dogs that needed to be taken outside. The effort it took to get out of bed and walk out the door resulted in collapsing in bed for 3-4 hours of painful sleep. I was in so much pain, it felt like my bones were breaking. Breaking over and over again for almost a week. That kind of pain, where the skin on your abdomen screams for the mere fact that your shirt happens to be touching it, is indescribable. My cough was dry, constant, and rib rattling. It lasted a month. I pulled muscles from coughing. Each cough set my headache through the roof.

I experienced confusion to the point that I couldn’t watch TV, eat, read, or function. I was alone and didn’t eat for 5 days. I lost all desire to eat or drink anything, all the while experiencing incredible thirst. There was a metallic taste in my mouth and I was nauseous to the point of vomiting several times. The severe lower GI stress lasted 5 days. The headache and fever were fierce and relentless. I’d put the blanket over my eyes and stay as still as possible, hoping that would give me some relief. No amount of rest or Tylenol helped. In the midst of this, I also developed a sinus infection. My doctor called in a prescription, which took 8 days to give me relief. I forced myself to eat broth when I started taking the antibiotics, so that I wouldn’t have the side effects that are common with those meds.

The recovery began at day 17. It was slow. The cough lingered for another 2 weeks. The confusion- a little longer. My lungs are still not operating at capacity. I’m a multi marathon runner, Ironman, and distance swimmer. I can still barely run 4-5 miles or swim more than around 900 yards. I’m gasping for air after each 100 yard easy swim. THREE MONTHS LATER. I’m taking great care of myself these days and getting as much sleep as I can.

The lesson for me is that my ego is not bigger than this virus. It defeated me for while, even though I denied it the whole time. I lied about it. I’m not lying now. I was scared and afraid to go to sleep at night. I pray no one in my family gets this monster. When people talk about the relative low percentage of deaths, I wonder, what the heck is wrong with them? Are they forgetting about the one’s that have to live through it? Do people like me, or God forbid the unfortunate one’s that are put on ventilators, lose limbs, need dialysis, go blind, or any of the myriad other horrible effects matter? This is not an “all or nothing” virus. It is a cruel, ugly bastard that can take a healthy human being of any age, and completely ruin their life.

So when you mock me on social media and call me a “sheep” because I wear a mask in public, I don’t care. When I anger you because I push for mass testing, social distancing, and smart practices, now you know my motivation. Call me any name you want. I actually care about your health. I care about mine and my family’s. Wear the damned mask. Stop arguing with business owners who ask you to wear one. You have no idea who is vulnerable-and it could be YOU.

Would You Like to Talk to Mom?

There are subtle changes and then there are transitions. I call my folks just about every week at least once, and we catch up on the mundane and the milestones of life. In the past few years as mom’s Alzheimers has progressed, I call my dad. Mom’s cell phone was cancelled a few years ago. After chatting for how ever long we like, my dad always asks, “Would you like to talk to mom?”.

Until yesterday.

I called dad to wish him a happy birthday, knowing that he was preparing for hurricane Dorian. He is in his mid 80’s and the last thing he should be doing is installing hurricane shutters on his double wide, but that’s what he was doing. His normally strong, confident, baritone voice has taken on a slightly shaky, weaker, more defeated edge these days. He sounded tired. He sounded sad. He sounded worn out and fed up.

How do you wish a man a “HAPPY” birthday when his wife of over 62 years doesn’t recognize him, has become mean towards him, doesn’t bathe, doesn’t know how to take care of herself, and often won’t let him out of her sight? She’s either calling out to him constantly, or she’s yelling “What are you doing here-get out-my brother is coming to get me!” This is Alzheimers. This is marriage. This is letting go of every perception of life as they’ve lived.

“Would you like to talk to mom?”

He has said that every single time I’ve spoken to him, every single week, for as long as I’ve lived apart from them. EVERY SINGLE TIME. Until yesterday.

The question is always followed by a brief silence and then I’d hear him say, “It’s your daughter Patty. Say hello”. Mom would get on the phone and in her always upbeat, joyous voice-where you can SEE her smile bright and beautiful, she’d say “HI DARLING! HOW ARE YOU?” And then the conversation would continue with the same scripted questions…where do you live? Are you working, etc. We stopped talking about anything real a long time ago. With the progression of her disease, I’ve navigated the narrowing path of conversation by following her lead. She hasn’t known who she is talking to for some time. But she always sounded happy to talk, and always ended the call with “When are you coming to visit?”. This made me sad because I couldn’t just pop over to see her whenever I’d like. Plane tickets, work, life…..

But yesterday hurt. Hurt like a baseball hitting my chest at 90 miles per hour. Hurt like a crushing, suffocating weight, preventing my lungs from working. Dad didn’t ask “Would you like to talk to mom?” For the first time ever. Was he just too tired to put on the charade anymore? He told me they have decided to put her in a facility. He just has to decide which one he can afford. It hit me. He didn’t ask the question. And for all those times when he DID ask, and I kind of dreaded the ensuing empty conversation, I wanted to SCREAM, “YES! I WANT TO TALK TO MOM!!!!” I want to talk to my mother. My funny, beautiful, Irish, laughing, singing, costume making, compulsive cleaning, daily church going, family loving, caring, nutty, baby loving, lasagna making, perfect penmanship, beach loving, fucking amazing MOM. I fucking want to talk to mom.

You Matter

I recently started following Brandon Burchard, and am finding his books and podcasts to be a valuable source of inspiration and motivation. He has taught me three questions that I am now asking myself every day. Did I live? Did I love? Did I matter? I find that without some kind of daily self examination, I can drift through life without purpose and intent. My father would frame these questions differently. He would call it “Examining my conscience.” As athletes we might review our daily workout logs, look at our progress charts, do time trials, and check race data. Most everyone has some sort of evaluation system, whether it be personal or professional. Once in a while something happens that causes us to seek deeper meaning from our life experiences.

Tragedy struck this past weekend with the untimely death of someone close to my inner circle. This person fought the demons of depression and addiction for many years. The fight ended for her, but now the impact of her death is rippling through the community of people that knew and loved her. Did she live? Most definitely. Did she love? Yes, she did. Did she matter? Absolutely. So what happened? While we may never know the answer, as I grapple with the aftereffects. I have questions. I feel sadness. I feel anger. I feel compassion. I feel….I don’t know…

I find myself reflecting solidly on the third question: Did I matter? More importantly, I am wondering, did I make you feel like YOU matter? I have always made it a point to try and make someone smile everyday. I can’t remember when I started doing this, but it is a habit that is ingrained in me. Sure, I get some kind of gratification out of it; the recognition that I made someone feel good. But even more so, in these days where negativity rules our world and clogs our social media, our politics, our neighborhoods, and our news sources, I believe it is profoundly important to help people feel valued.

Did I make you feel like you mattered? I sure hope so, because you do matter. A lot.

Everything we do has an impact on the world. It’s been said that we never really appreciate something or someone , until we no longer have it, or them. People aren’t replace-able. EVERYONE has value. That smile you gave a random stranger might have been the only positive thing that happened to them today. When you praised that kid for their off-key flute performance, you might have started them on a life long love of music. When you high five’d the runner as he ran past you at that last race, you might have given them the strength to keep going when they didn’t think they could. When you gave moral support to someone going through a struggle, you might not know that years later, they credit you for keeping them going. That phone call you made to “just check in” with a friend or client might have come at a life saving moment. BE the person that makes those calls. KNOW that what you do in your life matters.

You matter to me. You matter to your friends. You matter to your families. You matter to your teachers. You matter to your co workers. You matter to your neighbors. You matter to your fellow athletes, to your classmates, to your baristas, to your clients, ,your Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Linkedin friends and contacts. You matter to your pets, your customers, your church. YOU FREAKING MATTER! Believe it.

Several New York Minutes

My three kids all live out of state, and while it  is heart wrenching to spend every day without them, we find ways to stay connected.

Enter “game changer”, Charlie Belle. Nobody told me about the feeling of complete and total NEED to be physically WITH one’s grandchild. When you have a grand daughter that lives three thousand miles away, your heart aches for her every day. I wake up craving photos of her on Facebook, or maybe a video text of her doing something silly. I laugh. I cry. I buy plane tickets.

Recently, my daughter-THE MOTHER of this gift from Heaven itself, deviously ramped up the frequency of posts, texts, and Instagram pictures of #mygirlchuck. I had no choice but to  get my butt back to NY for some “Charlie-fix” Oh, yeah, and to see Dede and Evan too.

Since I am in training for another Ironman, I naturally  had to plan ahead for my workouts. No problem!  With a free pass the the YMCA, a sweet rental bike, and the Central Park Half Marathon, I was set.

I arrived on a Thursday evening and navigated the AirTran to the subway, and then walked the last several blocks to my daughter’s apartment. I have finally figured out the subway. Well, almost. I have the E and F trains nailed! I couldn’t wait to see the little monkey, so I practically ran to the apartment.

Charlie was awake and she was so gracious, she didn’t even object when I made her wear the Cabbage Patch hat I had bought for her.

Seriously, woman!

Chuck is a great sport, and for the next 3 days, she put up with all of my smooches, cuddles, and squeals of delight. The weather in New York was perfect for getting out and seeing the sights. After my swim at the YMCA on Friday, Dede and I took the princess for a long walk around Manhattan. We met up with Evan after work and cut through Central Park on our way home.

Da girls

What’s up, Chuck?

This is me taking artistic photos

Poor little Charlie was teething while granny was visiting, so she had a few rough nights. Two teeth in one week is a lot for a little girl!

Saturday morning was incredible. The sun came out and temps got up to almost sixty degrees.  I rented a great bike and went for a nice 32 mile bike ride along the Hudson River Greenway.

George Washington Bridge!

New York City!

Riding a bike in New York is a little insane to say the least. Dodging taxis is a skill I never knew I needed. I’m fairly certain it is not one I hope to use often.

After my ride, and a much needed shower, Dede, Charlie and I walked to a place called Sweetgreen. OH MY FREAKING WORD!!! I ordered something called Spicy Sabzi, a cavernous bowl of spinach, kale, broccoli, raw beets, carrots, sprouts, basil, roasted tofu, quinoa, and some spicy dressing. I think it weighed 7 pounds. I ate the entire bowl. Burp.

Doin’ lunch NY style

We walked around for another hour or so, and then I decided I should get back, put my feet up, and rest for my half marathon the next morning. The weather report called for a chilly morning, so just to be on the safe side, we ducked into a Goodwill store, to buy a “throw-away” jacket, to get me through the start of the race. I would ditch it sometime early in the race.

The balmy weather changed overnight. Just my luck. I awoke to sub freezing temperatures and up to twenty five mph winds. Hahhaa, really? I did my normal morning routine-breakfast of hot tea, a banana with peanut butter and shredded coconut. The wheelbarrow of kale and raw veggies I had for lunch the day before started to feel like a bad idea. Let’s just say, I waited until the last minute to call an Uber.

I got dropped off on the West side of Central Park at W 96th. SWEET JESUS it was freaking COLD! Frost bite cold, and windy as ever. There was nowhere to hide from the arctic blast. People were gathering and jumping up and down, trying to keep warm. Where were the bathrooms? How can you have a race without porta potties???? I was told to walk North and I’d find them. They were about a half a mile away. The lines were typical for a race, and I feared being late for the starting gun. No worries, I made it in plenty of time. Gathering in a crowd with a few thousand people was the best part of the morning so far. At least in the pack, it got warmer! Thank God for Goodwill and the extra layer of HUGE men’s fleece that I bought.

Frostbite and a grimace for you

9am and we were off. I felt great! I guess Ironman training IS working. The West side of the park is the hilliest and that’s also where the wind was the strongest. This race course went 2.5 times around the upper end of the park, so we ran up  Harlem Hill twice. It’s a killer. The first lap was great except that at around mile two, the kale memory started to get stronger. Um. I’m a coach. I know better than to eat ninety seven pounds of  roughage the day before a race. I thought about a port potty stop, but the lines were long and I was making good time.  Passed another bathroom a mile later, but thought I could hang on. The third bathroom that I saw, I actually pulled over and got in line. Twenty seconds later, I abandoned the line and started running again. “I can hold on for another eight miles!” HELL no I can’t. Unfortunately, there were no more bathrooms until mile 8 or 9, so by the time I had no choice to but to stop, I was doubled over. SIX minutes of wait time before I got to enter the potty. I think I was in there for another six. Mother of MERCY!

I exited victoriously and got back in the race. Now I was freezing again, after having such a long break. I still had that ugly black jacket on, and was grateful for it! The rest of the race was non eventful, but overall, I felt pretty good. I worked hard and finished strong. Dede and Charlie were there to cheer me on at the finish line.

I opened the coat so my bib number would show and they could call my name at the finish. Vanity, I know.

Dede had dry clothes for me and we started walking home, looking for a place for me to change. I started shivering like crazy and finally I went into a hospital to get into warm, dry clothes. We walked back to the apartment, which is another mile and a half. Long day!

My sister Terie arrived in the afternoon, and all of us went out to a gluten free Italian restaurant called Senza Gluten that was incredible beyond words. Charlie even sat in a high chair for the first time!

Can’t get enough of this kid

The trip was molto bene. I flew home Monday morning, without any problems, and made lots of memories to hold me over until the next trip. Kids are awesome. Grand kids are the bomb. Life is good.

Like a Lion

Image

March is about to come in with it’s traditional “Like a lion” self, at least in the Portland area. I’m done with this crappy rain. I haven’t blogged in a while, because I’ve been too busy toweling off 3 soaking wet, muddy dogs. Just kidding.

SO! What’s been happening? Here’s my quick recap of  of 2016.

I had an interesting first half of the year with my Ironman training. I traveled to Phoenix for a triathlon camp and to train on the Ironman Arizona course. Two days into the 5 day trip, I was sick in bed with a high fever, sinus infection, and what ultimately morphed into Pneumonia. Needless to say, I spent the balance of the trip in bed with the curtains drawn. Sadly, Jeff also had the same illness. We were completely pathetic. The flight home was a painful blur, as was the next two weeks.

In June I had Endoscopic sinus surgery and a Septoplasty, to open up the passageways in my sinuses that were too small to function properly. After a lifetime of chronic sinus infections, it finally dawned on me to go to a specialist.

The surgery went well, and after a week I was able to start moderately working out. (I never told my Dr that I ran an 8k race less than 1 week post surgery-shhh)

Summer went well and I started catching up on training. I became a first time grandmother! I felt great, and competed in the Mighty Hampton’s Olympic Triathlon. The swim was crowded, and made for a slower time than usual, but I finished the race 2nd in my age group! The next day, at my house in Montauk, I held a garage sale. Feeling elated at my previous day’s success, and reveling in the visit with my daughter, son in law, and grand daughter, I made a monumentally stupid decision to hop on a balance board.

Nasty nasty balance board

I barely set my foot on it, when it shot out from under me, and down I went….right onto my wrist. Crunch. I don’t think there is a word in any dictionary or thesaurus that quite captures the pain I felt in the immediate moments following the crunch, or the several hours later, as the swelling increased.

I was alone outside, as Jeff was taking a nap (HE NEVER NAPS, but if you have ever been to Montauk, you know EVERYONE naps there) Dede and Evan were packing up the baby paraphernalia and planned on leaving within minutes. I was laying flat out on the ground.

I struggled to get up, and the pain shot through me so severely that halfway into a standing position, I fainted. Right down on the ground. I came to, stood up and tried to walk, and went down a second time. After that, I crawled up the front stairs, and managed to fall against the front door. (Did I? or did I open the door? I don’t remember) Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the entry bench holding my arm and Dede came running over. “Mom, are you ok?” Me-I couldn’t muster up more than a whisper: “I don’t know. It hurts. It hurst so bad” I was hyperventilating, and getting ready to pass out again and Dede put my head down between my knees. She looked at my wrist, against my will. (I was afraid to see it or show it to her, because if I saw it, the reality of the break would be revealed) She went to wake up Jeff and tell him what happened, and he bolted up. “SHE WHAT?” Dede- “I think she broke her wrist.”

IN the car we went- on our way to the closest Urgent care which was 15 miles away. I had ice on it by now, but the pain was intolerable, and I went into shock. The first Urgent Care didn’t have an Xray or doctor on sight, so we had to drive all the way to Southhampton Hospital, which was 32 miles away. In Sunday afternoon traffic. (New Yorkers will know what that means)

The wait in ER was unbearable, and I finally got put on a cot and left in a hallway. The Physician’s Assistant said “Oh yeah that’s a pretty good break you got there.” (Nice guy) And then he left me alone again.  Another 45 more minutes on the cot, I finally demanded something for the pain. The PA brought me 2 Tylenol. By now, my sweet, courteous demeanor had gone all to Hell and I screamed at him, “I don’t have a fucking hangnail! I need something much stronger than this for God’s sake.” I got 2 Percocet STAT.

Once the Xray and CT scan were taken, the break confirmed, they sent me on my way with a prescription and the advice to get back to Oregon asap,to get a follow up, because I probably needed surgery.

My vacation was cut short, and I flew home two days later, high as a kite. The next 5 weeks I had a cast, and learned all about how much we really do need both arms, wrists, and thumbs.

I did everything I could to continue my Ironman training. I swam with a waterproof cover, I rode my bike trainer, and I ran as best as I could.

The cast came off 2 weeks before my scheduled race, and after going for a terrifying outdoor bike ride, I made the difficult decision not to do IMAZ. I had no control over the bike, was completely off balance, and it wouldn’t be safe for me or the other participants if I tried to do that race.

Ironman is one of those goals that consumes your life for 6+ months. Once the training starts, it is a 7 day a week commitment. To have to bow out, for any reason can be devastating. It is easy to tell someone “There will be another one.” “You did the right things” “You’ll get over it.” But if you have never had this experience, you can’t know how it affects you. I didn’t realize how it would affect me until I found myself in a dark depression for several weeks. I finally pulled out of it just before Christmas, and started working out again, trying to gain back the muscle balance and strength that I lost while in the cast. Things were going well…….until I got sick with another sinus infection. BAM. Down again for a week.

There are many reasons that 2016 is a year to celebrate. I raced twice and got 2 triathlon podium spots, I became a grandmother for the first time, I got to see all of my out of state children several times, my Real Estate and athlete coaching businesses continued to grow, and I have the most perfect life partner I could ask for. BUT, I was pretty damned happy to say goodbye to the OTHER things that 2016 brought.

I’ll update you on this year soon. Life for me is one big fat, “second childhood” adventure, and I’m glad to share it with you. When you find yourself running in muck, tighten your shoe laces, and keep going. What other choice do you have?

Question Authority

question authorityI grew up in a small, sheltered town on Long Island, where families went to church, and had large gatherings around BBQ’s, pools, and at beaches. Kids rode bikes wherever they wanted, and I routinely stayed out after dark, without any fear. Our unincorporated village was “idyllic”, like most you see in old fashioned post cards, or in those corny black and white television shows from the 1950′ and ’60’s.

My family was Catholic. Some of my friends were “Public”. That’s how I saw it. The Publics were mostly Jewish and Protestant, but to me they were “Public” because they didn’t go to our church or school, and went to “Public” school. Oh, the simplicity of life and labels.

We were taught to respect authority. Authority was the teacher, parent, a nun, the policeman (we didn’t have any police women at that time) the priest, your boss, the store owner, etc. We said please and thank you, and never smart mouthed an adult. Sure, we got into trouble, and pushed boundaries once we got to a certain age, but that’s just called “growing up”.

If memory serves me right, there were only about 3 or 4 police officers employed by the village. I remember one of them, an attractive, dark haired guy, who used to patrol on foot up and down Main St. He flirted with me and my friends. Sometimes the flirtations made us uncomfortable. We were 13 or 14 years old. But, we were taught to respect our elders, so we never thought to complain about him.

There was another cop that sold pot to kids at the McDonald’s parking lot, just outside of the village, when I was in high school. Again, we wouldn’t have thought to report that to anyone.

I had a male teacher when I was in 7th grade, and all the girls fell in love with him. He was fresh out of college. While nothing ever happened in school, he did show up 4 years later, at the beach where I was a life guard, and ask me out. I went out with him twice, and wasn’t interested, but also felt like it was a little creepy that he wanted to date a girl that he taught when she was 13.

I was involved in a near fatal head on collision on Christmas Eve, my senior year of High School. I spent 2 weeks in the hospital with a serious head injury, in and out of consciousness. I remember being examined one time, but the Neurosurgeon, and he lifted my shirt, and fondled my breasts. There was no one else in the room. He was the doctor. He was supposed to know what he was doing. The authority. I didn’t report him. I told my parents that I didn’t like him  but didn’t go into details.

During college, I took some drama classes and managed to get the lead role in the Spring play. I poured myself into the role, and got several rave reviews from the college paper as well as the local town paper. The production was to count for a huge part of our grade, and I was confident that I would do well. I enjoyed the class, and got along with everyone, including the professor. When grades came out and I was given a “C” in the class, I was stunned. I went to the professor’s private office, to find out what had happened, and he told me in no uncertain terms, how I could get my grade up to an “A”. I could have done that right then, in his office. In the blink of an eye. I kept the “C”, and it forever affected my GPA. He was an authority figure. I was supposed to respect him. I didn’t report him. I hadn’t found my voice yet.

So many more experiences…some I don’t care to face, even in my own mind. Years have passed and I have stuffed those memories away in a safe place. Physical, sexual, and psychological abuse.

When my kids were in grade school, the priest scandal was exposed. I was sickened. Disgusted. Hurt. I found out that my Diocese assigned our then-Pastor to the Parish, after it was known that he was a child mollester. I finally found my voice and sent a scathing letter to the Archdiocese. He was removed, but I’m sure my letter had nothing to do with it. Those scandals continue. Men in authority, preying on innocents that are too afraid to speak. Like me.

Now this

#blacklivesmatter

Authority figures. Police. Respect them?

I don’t pretend to know all of the exact details in every case of these all-too-common altercations that are plastered all over the news and social media. I can’t fathom the intensity of the situations surrounding some of the incidents, and the “in the moment” decisions that forever change the lives of those involved. I am NOT the person to give judgement or advice, but I am the person who now has a voice.

I weep for the dead. I weep for the families on both sides. I weep for America, where it’s assumed that if you support ONE cause, you HATE another. I am angered that the color of your skin determines how you are treated. I hate that an innocent man, obeying the “rules” at a simple traffic stop, is shot at point blank range and dies in front of his girlfriend and a child, for simply reaching for his wallet. I hate that our black community has to  walk on eggshells and even when they do, they risk getting SHOT AT BY OUR WHITE COPS! Can I say that any louder?

To the black community: Please hear me. I am with you. Will you accept my support, even though I am what is considered to be a “Privileged white”?

To police officers everywhere: Please be careful. Please be well trained. Please be smart. Please DON’T BE RASIST! Please be the authority we can all respect, once again.

I am enraged that white police around the country are now targets for the mere fact that they are wearing a uniform. The police in Dallas had NOTHING to do with the events in Minnesota and Louisiana. The only thing they shared was a badge. And now 5 are dead. This is all wrong. WRONG! We live in America and for God’s sake, this is 2016! Why all the hate? Why all the racism? Why all the fear? STOP IT! You can’t justify ANY killing as retaliation for another.

I am sickened to my core that the world is full of hate and mistrust, and that people can’t walk safely down the streets of our cities, without the imminent threat of violence. I hate that people feel the need to carry guns on their bodies, to protect themselves. I hate that when I enter a building, I make sure to know where every possible exit is, in case some crazed person with a gun starts shooting. I hate that every time I enter a public place where there is a crowd, I fear that something terrible might happen.

How does this end? I don’t know. I can’t fix this. YOU can’t fix this. Authorities can’t fix this. I naively want to return to that corny post card time, and ride my bike wherever I want, without fear. Don’t you?

 

 

Well, What Are Ya Gonna Do?

My dogs look at me with distain every time I walk out the door without them. The huge (almost) floor to ceiling living room window frames them as they stare me down. It’s so pathetic, and while I love the living crap out of them, when they do this, I just think they are assholes. Trust me, they get lot’s of love, and lot’s of exercise.

This week, my workout gear, bike, and running shoes are harassing me even more than my dogs. There are 3 bikes in my house and every time I pass one, it hisses at me. My Cervelo may never speak to me again. I don’t even charge my Garmin anymore!

On Monday, June 27th, I had Endoscopic Sinus Surgery  and a Septoplasty. After years of of debilitating sinus issues, and way too many round of antibiotics, I sought expert help to find a solution. It was only a few weeks ago that I got word that my septum was deviated, and my sinuses were anatomically deficient. Well ain’t life grand?

After the diagnosis, and consultation, I decided on the recommended surgery, but because of my Ironman Arizona training schedule, I either had to do it NOW, or wait until after November. Luckily, there was an opening and I grabbed it. Now, I may seem like a badass and all, but the idea of surgery up my schnoz, close to my BRAIN, didn’t give me giggles. At my pre-op consultation 3 days before the procedure, my doctor asked me if I was ready. “No. I will NEVER be ready.” was my answer. He cocked his head, a little surprised, and asked, “What will it take for you to be ready?” My exact answer was, “I will only show up if you can guarantee me that the minute I am admitted, they will hook me up to an IV, and give me some kind of happy juice.” He laughed, and said he would make sure.

Not exactly an Ironman bracelet

Not exactly an Ironman bracelet

LIAR!!!! I checked into the hospital at the scheduled time, and after an hour delay, which I spent chewing off and spitting every fingernail , I was finally called in. They tell you not to wear lotion or deodorant before surgery. They may have regretted those instructions, once I polluted their sanitized air with my anxiety sweat stink.

My legs were shaking so hard, I had to hold them down.

My legs were shaking so hard, I had to hold them down.

I asked the nurse for my cocktail, and she looked at me like I belonged in the Psyche Ward. When she said there was no order for a sedative, I began shaking, screamed profanities, threw rubber gloves at her, and kicked the intern in the head. “PAGE DR SMITH NOW.” I took my gown and wrapped it around my head, climbed up on top of the computer table, and threatened to hang myself until they produced and anesthesiologist!

The page was sent, and my nurse, who undoubtedly had years of experience was so unsettled by my unearthly transformation, that she couldn’t get the IV in my arm, despite two tries. THAT’S TWO TRIES. Poking and twisting around inside my arm, while I held my non-sedated breath and called upon all that is holy to calm me down. I finally threw my shoes at her and bellowed, “I HAVE AN ANXIETY DISORDER!” She promptly left the room and sent in an older male nurse who most likely served on the front lines under General Patton. This guy zero’d in on my feral eyes, grabbed my other arm and said, “How about this arm?” With my best Lagertha Lothbrok stare, I told him, “Get it done.” Fearing for his life, he shoved that needle into the back of my hand, set the IV, and disappeared in seconds. A third attendee arrived and pushed the sweet “Mother’s Milk” into the tubing, and finally, the puffy, soft clouds and winged fairies floated into the room.

Who doesn't like a nifty accessory?

Who doesn’t like a nifty accessory?

The surgery went according to plan, and within a few hours, I was home, babbling non stop about everything and nothing, (a side effect of general anesthesia) and my darling friend Lauren settled me in and quietly escaped. I was so hopped up on whatever the hell they gave me, that I wandered around the house for several hours, slowly picking up stuff, doing laundry, and cleaning the bathrooms. Mind you, I was supposed to go to bed right away. Yeah, sure, like that was going to happen.

The first few nights I “slept” on the couch. There really wasn’t much sleep involved, because my head was so stuffed up, I couldn’t breathe through my nose.

I had the best nurses to tuck me in for naps

I had the best nurses to tuck me in for naps

I discovered this the day after surgery, when I took a shower.

A parting gift! I discovered this the day after surgery, when I took a shower.

Post op instructions called for complete rest for a few days, no lifting, or exertion for 7, and no working out at all for at least 14 days. Here’s how it went:

Day 1: Cleaned house, did yard work. (VERY slowly, mind you, with no bending over!)

Day 2: Met clients and gave keys to their new house. Went shopping at 4 different discount stores, and Home Depot, to buy stuff for the back yard and garden. Napped.

Day 3: More shopping, a walk, several hours working in the back yard. Showered with the dogs. Stopped in at the running store’s Thursday night beer run, to support the cause. Napped.

Day 4: A 2 mile walk to my office with the dogs, an hour or so of work, and another 2 mile walk home.

I have no pain, only discomfort. I’m not allowed to blow my nose and sneezing has taken on a whole new meaning. I am keeping my heart rate down as best as I can, and following the antibiotic and sinus rinse prescription. I refused to take the Prednisone they gave me, so that was a waste of money.

The fact that I am only on day 4 of a 14 day work out restriction gives me cause to panic. I am seriously not cut out for the sedentary life. When the Hell did that happen? My mind has the energy of a 10 year old with hypertension, and my body needs the rest, or at least a short nap. I crave a run in the forest.

For now, I have to feed the beast with small household projects and blogging. Well, rehabbing from an injury is why I started this blog, back in 2013. I guess this is just one more episode of life getting in the way. If you see me around town this next week, with wild eyes, and bad hair, clenching my teeth, you’ll know I am once again, runninginmuck!

I love that you chose to visit here and read my posts. I hope you can tell the difference between truth and fiction. HA!