Positive

From Sometime in September:

I stared at the little pink plus like it was an alien. 

Even though I already knew. 

What else could it be? 

I almost didn't do the test. Mr. Blue Eyes had been after me to take the test and call him all day. What kind of lunacy is that?! Take the test and call him? Seriously?! 

Sir, have we met?! Hells, no, I am not missing the expression on your face when I tell you that I am carrying your child! 

He was so ecstatic when I finally told him that I thought his face might break. 

So far, I haven't had any unusual food cravings. I have had plenty of repulsions. Oh, wait. Except for pepper. I can't stand pepper. Hate the stuff. Red pepper and especially cayenne pepper don't count because they are good. But black pepper.... I'm getting itchy thinking about it. Except that I'm not. I want it. Which is weird.

And my boobs are killing me. "Breast tenderness" was described by someone who has 

a) never had it or

b) wants to trick women into thinking that they can put up with the insanity of willingly having a parasite grow inside them for nine months. 

-PS- if you ever want to upset your baby's father, just call the mass of cells in your uterus a parasite. It works wonders. 

So yeah, my boobs hurt. And itch. And make me want to cry when I roll over in the middle of the night. 

And my pants don't fit the same. 

Who gains weight only in their stomach? oh... right. Gotcha. 

At this rate, I'll be packing a double-wide by the time this kid gets here.

We can skip the part where I am pretty sure my intestines have been replaced by a series of balloons tied in torturous knots as though they belong in the balloon animal freak show.

Also? How did I miss the part about being soooooooo tired?! 

This is not like normal tired. This is more like mono tired. 

This is more "I've been up four hours, now it is time for a two hour nap" tired. 

I am absolutely terrified as I have no idea how I will ever make it through my clinical rotation. Nights. That's when I, being a somewhat normal human, sleep. 

Not work. 

Sleep. 

I am so screwed!!

Bliss

We met on the track at the high school by my house. I was going for a "workout" (if anyone could call the way I slug around a workout!) on the track since it is flat. I totally forgot about the group that runs on Saturday mornings being there. David, the leader of the group, shouted at me from the track. As I made my way down the bleachers to greet him, I saw a man in a blue shirt that made his piercing eyes look even more stunning. He was laughing at something, and his eyes crinkled up in the corners. I quickly decided to ignore him as I was afraid I'd end up on my face.

David talked me into doing my "warm up" laps with him. "C'mon, we'll just do two laps" he said, probably not realizing that I was thinking two laps may be the extent of my workout. During our slow plod around the track, David filled me in on how everyone was running, and how this new guy came out and how great he was. After the two laps, I was seeing double and begged off. As I gasped for air, I caught sight of those eyes again, sitting on the bleachers. "Come meet Mike", said David, heading in their direction before I could respond.

The short story is that an hour and a half flew by faster than it should have.

An hour and a half. 

(A person can do a lot in an hour and half. Stuff like get a massage, wash and dry a load of laundry, play Scrabble, paint a room, clean the bathroom, visit a museum, take a bath, take a yoga class,change your oil, get a haircut...)

When I finally got home, I couldn't stop grinning.

When David mentioned Mr. Blue Eyes' name on bookface, my grin grew. When Mr. Blue eyes sent me a friend request, I about peed myself. When he sent me a message, I dropped my phone. When he asked me to dinner, I ran around the house screaming like a high school girl. And then I pulled myself together and met him for dinner in under 45 minutes. 

After the restaurant closed, we sat on the back of my truck, talking, until three in the morning. The only thing that caused me to go home was the promise of a date the following morning.

I have been stumbling around in a state of ridiculous bliss since that Saturday.

Holding Pattern (July 23)

For three days I couldn't concentrate on anything but the doctor's lips as the words "rule out tumor" repeated over and over in my head.

On day 2, something snapped. If this is a tumor, I'm not going down without a fight. I'm not going down like this. Sure, I'm bone tired, and tired of being tired. And tired of being lightheaded and short of breath while doing something I was able to do countless times only a few months ago.

So I did what I've always done when I get upset: I ran.

I ran and walked (no way I could run the whole time! I'm too out of shape!) for three miles.

And I am. SO. SORE.

I was sore Sunday and so decided to jog two miles, just to relieve the aching in my muscles.

The shock of actually running caused me to forget that fantastically lovely sensation of thighs rubbing together (Yes, they do that now. Le sigh.), the sound of my breath heaving mightily in my chest, and the odd everything-is-jiggling-to-its-own-beat/everything-is-out-of-rhythm sensation I get when I haven't run in a while.

I thought about running all week.

12 hour clinicals and tests prevented me from running again until Saturday, when I (on a whim) ran/walked the SheMoves 5K. 

It was awesome! I have bronchitis and was coughing, I was uncomfortable, and my thighs were relentless in their jiggling and my lungs screamed needily. But I did it.

I don't know exactly where to go from here. I mean, how to train. Do I do Couch to 5K? Do I jog when I can, as long as I can?

I really don't know. The lightheaded-ness seems worse on days I exercise. I go back to the cardiologist in 2 weeks and the endocrinologist in three. Do I wait for test results to make any plans? I've been in this holding pattern...

154 days

It's been approximately 154 days, six hours and forty- seven minutes since these shenanigans began.

I've had a CT of my head, more blood work than I can count, a tilt table test, a stress test, a Holter monitor, five visits to cardiology, two to the ER and one to endocrinology.

And no one knows what's wrong with me.

I want to scream until there's no air left.

I'd like to say that this surely means there's actually nothing wrong.

But I know there is.

I was hoping it was thyroid disease. Manageable, carry on with life, run of the mill, boring old thyroid disease. And today, when doctor #1 said my antibody count was over 400 (anything over 35 is diagnostic of thyroid disease), I thought I'd found my answer.

But doctor #2 said no. It was not thyroid disease.

Doctor #2 said the same thing all the others have said. 

"I don't know what's wrong with you; you're a medical mystery." 

(As though that would make me feel special. Or better.)

"I really don't know what's wrong with you." she said.

And when she said something to the effect of "rule out tumor" my head started spinning.


Let the screaming commence.

Scientific Process

From the part of the scientist, changing one variable in an equation is a logical, reasonable way of deducing an answer. My analytical mind totally understands this.

My human parts, the ones that are frustrated and scared and confused, wonder why this process is so slow and tedious and if there are viable alternatives.

When I started having these symptoms in February, the first doctor I went to suggested we rule out heart issues first. If that produced nothing, we'd look at neurological issues.

After yesterday's test, I can comfortably say there is nothing wrong with my heart.

I'm not sure what to think about this news.

I mean, I'm grateful to have a fully functioning heart. Very grateful.

I'm happy to know what the problem isn't.

But what the heck does that mean?

Like many people in their early twenties, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I used to joke that I was figuring out what I wanted to do by figuring out what I didn't want to do. I quickly realized that this was a very slow way to get nowhere.

I feel this whole experience is a bit like that philosophy. Isn't there a faster way to figure this out?

I feel like Frustrated Dwarf. 

Oh, wait. Maybe that was all the dwarfs when Snow White wouldn't give them the time of day.

I did learn something very valuable yesterday: the importance of being one's own advocate: I asked what my next steps should be while I was at the clinic yesterday. The nurses starred at me blankly.

The hospital staff does not live with my problem.

They don't feel the daily frustrations I do.

It's not that they don't care; it's that they have a zillion other things. 

This whole experience has been frustrating and exhausting and I'm thinking of finding someone to advocate for me because I'm sure I'm missing something. 

And frankly? I'm tired.

And I'm tired of being tired.

So I'm gonna call the doctor.

The Tilt Table Test

After months of not running exercising at all, I still have no real knowledge of what is happening to me.

I walk up steps, or across campus or into the kitchen, and get really light headed. Oh, and I can't breathe. Not in an asthma kind of way. It's more like an "I just ran really far really fast and now I'm out of breath" kind of way. And so I sit down and wait for it to pass. This happens every day. Sometimes several times a day. Fun, no?

I can't go back to boot camp until I get this figured out. I can't go to clinicals until I figure this out. And screw running. Sometimes I wonder if I'll ever run again.

(Although I've gotten very fast in my dreams. Which basically means I'm going to die when I can run again.)

Two weeks ago I returned to see the cardiologist for a tilt table test (the only thing I knew about it was that I'd be strapped to a table that moved; it didn't sound hard). A bunch of blue hairs eyeballed me repeatedly (I guess when you reach a certain age discretion goes out the window?) in the waiting room. I felt like raw meat.

Things didn't get better from the waiting room. A tech stuck an INT in my arm (basically, it's IV access with no IV attachment) and then left me alone with the door open while he went to find a tilt table. I could hear the nurse asking if the amiodarone was ready. Two minutes later she asked again. I wondered who else was here and what happened to them that caused a shock state. Two minutes later, the nurse asked again; this time she asked if it was ready for me.

 What the hell kind of test was this and why did they think my heart might stop!?!?!?

At the same moment, the tech came back with a portable EKG, strapped it to my chest and strapped me to the table. The table rose to a vertical position. 

Six sets of straps held me to the table. Wires cris-crossed my chest. A box that housed the wires was strapped to the center of my chest.

I stood there while a doctor, nurse and tech looked at me expectantly. It was awkward to say the least. For twenty minutes, they waited.

And then they remembered that I was a runner.

"Oh, she's not going to faint like this! She's a runner!" said the tech.

"Put this under your tongue and let it melt."said the doctor as she handed me a nitroglycerin tablet.

"Is anything happening yet?" asked the nurse.

"It should have by now..." replied the doctor.

"I'm fi..." my voice trailed off. 

My head exploded inside itself. 

"Heart rate 110" called the tech.

"150. Blood pressure 90 over 60."

"Now 70 over 50. Heart rate 170."

My heart felt like it was vibrating in my chest. I couldn't feel a single individual heartbeat.

I grimaced from the crushing pain in my head and started to feel bile rising in my throat.

"Heart rate 190. And BP.... 47/35... no... 42/33..."

"Stop the test!" cried the doctor.

As the table returned to a horizontal position, the crushing pain in my head subsided.

"Had we continued, you would definitely have fainted."

She continued, "The good news is that we can give you medications to keep your blood pressure up. I just want to see if Dr. Dollar wants to give them now or wait till after your stress test."

I wanted to cry.

42/33? So that's what the amiodarone was for...! 

42/33? That's not a blood pressure. That's more like a football score. No wonder I've felt so awful!

I go for the stress test Monday.

I'm kind of terrified.

Push

Holy hell.

My body hates me. (Not that that's the biggest surprise to anyone who has read this blog, ever.)

I returned to boot camp today since I have no real reason no to. And I miss it.

Yeah, I said that. No, I wasn't paid. No, there's not a gun to my head.

I actually (gulp!) like getting up at 5am to kick my own ass. And on days I don't feel like doing it, someone else will. All I have to do is show up.

So I showed up today, unsure of what to expect, unsure of what my body could handle.

Turns out, it could handle encouraging people. So thanks, M, for letting me push you. Thanks, D, for eye daggers. They helped me do more than I thought I could. 

See, in pushing you, I had to push myself. 

And I learned that I am totally out of shape!

All the hard work I've done over the last 9 months: gone! These exercises hurt!

I think I'll go cry now, if that's ok.

Best day ever. Not.

Why do people ask a million questions when they see you can't breathe?

I went to the ER Monday. 

After several hours of feeling lightheaded and being unable to breathe, I gave in. I walked my sorry butt into Grady Memorial Hospital. It was really more like two step, pause, hold on to wall step, pause, hold wall... And then I sat in the waiting room. FOR OVER TWELVE HOURS. I kid you not. I was there so long, my breathing returned to normal. I considered leaving, but figured it would eventually start again, and surely it wouldn't be much longer, right? Right?

I was all cracked out from not eating, sitting in a freezing room, and being force fed CNN. Which, by the way, plays the same crap. All. Day. Long. The same stories, every fifteen minutes. Different reporters, same stories. No changes. No new angle. No updates. What'd they do, film it all at once? If I had a long stick, I would have jabbed the tv's eyes out. Or just turned it off.

The ER waiting room is a strange place. There are no plugs in which to charge things that need charging. things like telephones. There were people in there for happy hour. Seriously. They were just socializing. 

Things I overheard:

"What are you in here for this week?"

"Girl, how you been? It has been a month of Sundays!"

A hacking sound, from the bathroom, followed by a plea for housekeeping. 

"Oh, yeah, I'm uh, at a restaurant around the corner from your house. Yeah, a Mexican restaurant. You know. Just down the street."

(Dooood! No, you are in the fucking ER at Grady. Why you wanna lie like that? No, don't look at me. I am soo not interested. I just heard you lie to a girl, remember?)

To girl sitting on the floor: "When are you having your baby?"

She was actually sitting on the floor. Which, if you don't know, hospital floors are about the most dirty thing. Ever. 

The entire thing was the strangest sociological phenomenon I've seen. 

Eventually, I was taken to the ninth circle of hell. I mean, a holding room, to wait for a stretcher. I froze there for another two hours before being escorted to a lovely stretcher along the hall. 

I never thought I'd be on a stretcher in the hall at Grady. 

See, the people that usually line the hall here are not, shall we say, the people you'd want to be your next door neighbor. They are off their meds, coming off whatever high they were on, and slightly drunk. They are in pain, dirty, and stinking of rotten body odor, blood, vomit, and piss. They yell. A lot.

I was wheeled into a room, attached to a telemetry unit and a blood pressure machine about 4:30 or 5 in the morning. The door was closed, and the lights were out. Suddenly, sleep seemed less like a far away dream and more like a real possibility. Until the blood pressure machine went off, squeezing my arm more than any spygmomanometer (You like that? Turns out, the blood pressure cuff has an actual name. Just don't ask me to say it.) ever has. Eventually, the pressure subsided and I slipped toward a much needed sleep. I was jolted awake moments later by the dang bp cuff. It released, and I slipped towards sleep. The shit of it is, it went off again five minutes later. The hour progressed like this. Every five minutes the machine would turn on with it's peculiar hum, the cuff would inflate beyond comfort, and release me to sleep. I thought about killing people.

And my sweet nurse. She is a new nurse (Yay! Someone got a job!) and she destroyed my arms. I had blood drawn once in the waiting room. She drew blood, realized she should have started an IV, blew two veins before jabbing me with the most painful IV ever- in the same place I'd previously been jabbed while in the waiting room. I look like a heroin addict. But only around my elbows.

I was warmly welcomed on the telemetry unit just before shift change at 7 in the morning. I waved maniacally to a fellow nursing student as I was rolled by the nursing station. He looked at me in confusion. 

The barrage of doctors, nurses, tests (more blood work/ pin cushioning, yay!) and meals prevented me from sleeping more than about two hours. And then, sometime after lunch, visitors! I surprised my self at how excited I was to see people. My people. Coach Awesome and my brother both came to see me. 

I learned more in this trip to the hospital than any clinical has taught me. I learned what my patients go through. And it isn't pretty. 

What I haven't learned is the thing I want to know most: 

What the crap is wrong with me??

The blood work, urinalysis, EKG, and echocardiogram all came back within normal limits. Sort of. My heart rate flip flops between normal speed and slow speed. But I'm into exercise and stuff, so that's maybe normal. And my thyroid. 

Oh, thyroid. You may be my nemesis.

My thyroid (TSH) level was 11. Normal is 0.5-3. Yeah, I'd say that's a little off. 

And then they tested it again a few hours later.

It was TOTALLY normal.

Lab mix up or bizarre case of hypothyroidism/ not?

So really, I have no answers. Just a slew of follow up appointments for more testing.

I left the hospital and went to get my car. Only it wasn't there.

It was towed!

This is the Best day ever. Not.

Something useful.

It has been weeks since I've run. 

Weeks.

I'm not sure what to do with myself anymore.

I walked around the block last week and thought I might die. I usually walk halfway across campus, stop to rest, and continue on my way to class. Whatever is going on with me, it is truly a pain in the ass.

I've been lost, depressed, and roaming. My advisor made me promise I'd do something useful for myself over spring break. 

And so I started baking. 

Well, really, I started baking sometime at the beginning of nursing school both as a necessity and as stress relief.  Cooking led me to a slightly unhealthy love of all things Anthony Bourdain. It borders on obsession, really. I love the snark. 

As it is spring break, and I promised my advisor I'd do something relaxing, and running (my go to relaxation) is out of the question, I've done some reading. Most recently, Medium Raw. 

It made me think of some of the most memorable meals I've ever eaten. 

When I was a toddler, we had blueberry bushes on the left side of the house. There were three of them. I think they were always taller than me. My mother used to send me out into the yard to pick blueberries in the summer. I remember always picking the largest berries off the bush and popping them directly into my mouth. I'd pluck the juicy berries, dropping them into the Budweiser bucket that my mother gave me to fill (it later held my father's wallet and loose change). I remember the how the array of colors provided a never ending surprise (who knew one fruit could look so different?!). I loved the way each fruit exploded in my mouth, as though it were totally different from the last. Indeed, they were. And for some reason, I could never leave a big one in the bucket. (Confession: I still have this problem.) I think I usually came back into the house with three or four berries and empty bushes.

The pea pods in the dark soil, tasting of green crunch and dirt also stand out as clearly as the sharp splinters of the sundeck.

I am in 9th grade. It is summer and I've spent the better part of a week re-roofing a house in the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia. I am in what my teenage suburban self thought was the middle of nowhere. I am dirty. Even after scrubbing, I have dirt in the cracks of my hands. I have a sense of fulfillment like no other I've ever known. I've met wonderful people. People who not only let strangers into their home, but also let strangers destroy part of their meager existence and actually trust that they will put it back together. They thank us for this. And not only this, but they fed us. 

It is more food than I remember at any Thanksgiving. Creamed corn, fresh tomatoes, raw pea pods, and greens fresh from the garden, a chicken from  the yard, gravy, canned beets and more tomatoes from the previous year. Piping hot biscuits slathered in butter and unsweet tea. I eat till my belly hurts.

Fast forward ten years to a little homemade food truck, parked on the corner of the street, with a line of people forming around it. Only instead of tall, complaining Americans, these are local people, just getting off work. Forgoing the bright lights of the nearby restaurant, I head directly to the line. On a paper thin plate, corn tortillas appear filled with beans, rice, fish, corn, cilantro, and a salsa so spicy my eyes water. Steam pours off the top of each taco, and I close my eyes to savor each bite.

I am still in Mexico, or at least I think I am. My head pounds angrily at the bright sun that even my dark sunglasses fail to shield me from. My feet seek out sure footing on the cobblestone street. I sink mericfuly into a chair, the metal cool on my back. Dark, acrid coffee appears, making everything a little less awful. Soon, plates of fruit join the coffee: pineapple, papaya, mango and coconut followed by eggs with a smoky salsa. After a few bites, I come to life enough to realize I can still hear the ocean. I close my eyes in bliss.

A little pub, tucked away in the corner of the bend, is home to more meat pies than I care to think about. After a long day of traveling, the green carpet, American music on the jukebox, and pint glasses of unfamiliar lagers and stouts call my name. We are boisterous, despite the 12 hour car ride. Though it is only 7:30, this pub is winding down, and our loud, American voices draw the looks of everyone in the place. Stringy chicken, a lamb from the farmer in the back yard, and fish from the day's catch are paired with vegetables. The comfort of the legendary English staples of bland potatoes and carrots, overcooked to mush, and saved by the familiarity of onion, pairs well with the drizzle outside. 

These meals stand out as much for the company and the locale as much as for the food itself and I wonder if it is possible to have such a great food experience when one is at home, stuck in familiarity.

And so I cook. I bake. I play with flours and recipes, trying to figure out just how weather effects gluten free flours. 

I make gluten free French bread. In a bread maker. And I come up with chocolate chocolate chip cookies. Light and fluffy, the batch I took to my co-workers was gone before I realized it. (Not that I am disappointed. This not working out thing has me feeling all kinds of fluffy.)

Also, in my time of not working out and therefore having a few moments that are not filled with sweat, I started playing the mandolin. 

I love the internets. I'm  starting to think it is possible to learn any and everything from YouTube. I'm still quite terrible and have no aspirations of being able to do anything more than strum a string of chords together without sounding too awful. Mostly because I am not willing to go through the pain. I discovered that for about an hour after playing, my nerves are scrambled and my phone is confused by them. As in, it doesn't work. At all.

So I'm baking cookies and sitting on my ass instead of working out.

I'm not sure how useful any of this is. 

In fact, I'm pretty sure this isn't going to end well.

happy hearts day

I had a scary thing happen this week. 

Actually, it was last week. Last week I did that one thing that no nursing student in his or her right mind would ever do (aside from pushing potassium. We know that'll kill someone faster than I can blink.). 

I did that thing reserved for those outside our profession, those who can't handle the stress, the blood, guts, and gore. 

I DFO'ed. 

I Done. Fell. Out.

I had an awesome morning in the nursery... Hold up. 

Some background: 

I think I officially hate this rotation. I'm not connecting with this clinical instructor and I can't seem to do anything right and pregnant ladies and babies have systems so foreign to me, it's almost like I don't have lady parts! 

Hate. 

To make matters worse, when a person says they hate ob, it automatically sounds like "I hate babies" which  equates to having some innate problem with humanity, or other serious, deep-seated issue. 

And that's exactly what I want to do: run around screaming "I have issues", 'cause that's sexy. Really. Happy valentine's day to me.

So, anyway, last week, without the worry of a postpartum mom bleeding out, I was actually enjoying myself. Within fifteen minutes of walking in to the nursery, I'd changed five diapers and had my fingers in twins' mouths trying to soothe them (their mom insisted on no pacifiers). 

I was happily rocking babies when we started the twins' assessments.

We'd gotten through assessing Twin B and were beginning Twin A when I had a horrible feeling of nausea. I was light headed, sweaty, and desperate to move from the heating lamp Twin A was under. 

I had to sit down.

The nurse looked at me and said "you're green!" 

A chair magically appeared under me. I remember being really tired. Like, unable to keep my eyes open tired. 

And then I remember someone calling my name just as I simultaneously peed myself and realized the nurse was straddling my leg. (Mom, I realize that your record of saying that I never peed myself after the day you told me about big girl underwear is now over. Sorry.)

"Do you know where you are?" 

I assured her I did. I was also probably looking at her like she had decided to shave half her head- in the middle of the day.

"You had a little seizure there, Sweetheart." 

Oh, boo.

So there I was, sitting in my own urine, feeling confused, nauseous, and mildly light headed, when my professor walked in. 

Awesome.

New scrubs appeared in a blink. I was whisked to the ER for further testing.

All of which came back negative. 

"We're calling this syncope", they say, which I like better than "you had a seizure". Follow up with your health care provider. Oh, and get an echocardiogram. 

I went to the doctor today as a valentine's gift to myself. A heart check up for valentine's, every girl's dream. The gal (ohmygawd, I'm 60) I see is an NP. She is also my future drinking buddy. She just doesn't know it yet. 

Today she discovered an aortic murmur. Today I came one step closer to figuring out why my heart rate falls suddenly, causing me to become dizzy and nauseated. Today I took a step away from being a statistic. 

The PSA part of this post: 

(Hey, I'm just doing my part, people)

Heart disease is responsible for 35% of deaths in women over age 20. It now kills more women than men each year. As I'm learning, it can affect people who otherwise seem healthy. 

So what I'm really saying is, go get your heart checked out. Every year. 

Evidently I'll be getting that echo after all.

High on RTR

I remember thinking last year that Red Top Rumble may just be my favorite race of all time.

I like the small (400 people) group, the winding trails that wrap around the lake, and that delicious single track. I like that I've gotten lucky with good weather. Glorious weather, really.

I like the raffle by race number tent where I won my first random drawing prize ever. Usually I'm lucky enough to be the "random" winner at the airport screening area (Yes, I'd love you to go through all my stuff and no you don't have to fold it back the way it was, thanks!) or police check point or some other un-fun thing. But RTR? They have fun stuff at their raffle. Stuff like massages, shirts, race belts, snacks... (who doesn't love snacks?!)

The other thing I love about Red Top is that I am always inspired to do more after the run.

Not just in a "wow, that was fun, let's do it again because I'm really sadistic" kind of way... 

But yeah, that's exactly what I mean, who am I kidding?!

'Cause that's what I will be doing October 14. 

My race bag had adverts for other races. 

When they are all trail based, I am inspired to believe that I, too, can do them. 

Even when they are of distances that make my eyes bleed.

Like the Mystery Mountain Marathon.

Which is what I've just signed up for.

As a cascade of "holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, holy shit this is a lot of shit, what am I thinking? Holy shits" screams in my brain, all I can do is giggle and think "Man, I love this race".

(Evidently the half life of Red Top Rumble is way over 36 hours.)

Talking dirty at RTR

My favorite part about riding to races with other people is that things that would not be permissible at the dinner table suddenly become common place. 

Like, "when I did my Ironman, one of the Port-o-potties had shit mounded up above the toilet seat". 

"I mean, can you imagine? It was dark. What if somebody really had to go and they sat down?"

Um, I don't care how badly you have to go; it is NEVER ok to sit on a port-o-pot seat. Just sayin'.

When we got to the race start: "Oh my gawd; that one has poo over the water line! Eeeew."

This is more proof that we runners are full of crap.

So, yeah. 

After crying about how awful I was feeling the other day, I got up and ran. And then because a friend made running sound like fun (and because I was trippin about running 12 miles next weekend at race pace, I figured I'd better get my ass in gear), I ran again that same day.

And I will do it again next week.

Not the two a day cause that makes me cry like a little girl.

The night run part.

And then I ran Red Top Rumble today.

11.5 miles of awesomeness through the woods.

I think it's my favorite trail race.

Except for the fact that the women's t shirts are wicked short. I should prolly wear mine with a pair of mom jeans and call it good. Or hope belly shirts come back. 

I don't mean like belly shirts for teeny teenagers. I mean belly shirts for people with real bellies; the ones that can't help but to show it off like plumber's crack.

Sexy time.

I made new friends on trail and in the car on the way up.

(My apologies to those of you wanting to enjoy quiet time in the woods today. I understand that I may have been a bit of a Chatty Cathy on trail...)

The boot camp instructors I rode with today are hilarious! I laughed SO hard. They talk a lot of shit, but it's all in good fun. They also talk a lot about shit. Which is just par for the course when running.

Case in point: we drove around for an hour looking for a Starbucks that was open. (Le mega sigh. We are ridiculous, yes.) We then realized that we may have to drink conservatively as race time was near, and we all know what happens with coffee...

And then jokingly asking if a latte of an americano would make a bigger mess.

The run was 11.5 scenic miles that I was thoroughly unprepared for.

But I finished. 

With a smile.

 Man, I love that run!

BTW, I doubt I'll be walking tomorrow, so when you see me crawl by at a snail's pace, just smile and wave.

Thank you.

The 29th Day

I was so revved up about the 30/30 plan a month ago.

And then January hit me. 

Like a ton of bricks.

Or books. Really, it's books.

I've hit the books. Big time.

I feel guilty when I'm not studying. Like I shouldn't be blogging. Or exercising. Or eating, sleeping, showering, working, or managing to (barely) hold the remnants of my life together.

And so I haven't posted.

I haven't told you about the way I count the laps in the hall at the hospital, or take the long way, just for more exercise. And I haven't told you about the most fun thing: ice skating. 

Coach Cheerleader and I bought cheap passes. we convinced (she did, really) a great guy, D, from boot camp to join us. We went last Friday, full on margaritas and tacos. D has passed the half century mark, so when he pulled out his ice skates, I cocked my head to the side, thinking how amazing it is to interpret age. He flew around the rink as though he skated every day, though he claimed it had been many years. 

Coach Cheerleader and I stared in amazement as we clumsily pushed our way around the rink.

I remember the first year my brother came down from Boston with roller blades "so he could practice skating in the summer", instead of gamely slapping the tennis ball against the side of the house with his hockey stick. I remember him showing me, in a rare moment that I allowed him to show me anything,  how to do crossovers. As I pushed my way around the rink, the memories came flooding back to me, and I picked one foot up over the other. 

And then I went backwards.

And then I taught other people how to go backwards. 

And everyone was smiling and laughing. 

It was magical.

Well, except for that dude who kept doing stupid shit that caused him to end up loudly landing on the ice. I don't know how he didn't break his face. And the one who was convinced he could skate (or was he trying to fly?) with his arms. He was a little scary.

This being the 29th day of the year (though not my 29th straight day of exercise. In fact, I did no real appreciative exercise today. I had a work meeting (with people who ran a 50k yesterday. That's five 10ks. Thirty miles. And I did nothing. Balls!) and I had lunch with my sisters (my sister flew in for her bff's birthday this weekend. Thankfully, I got to see her beautiful face for an all too brief second!). And then I read. And then I had a nap.), I figure that new beginnings are still being accepted.

This new beginning involves being honest.

So here goes:

I am scared. 

And lonely.

And I have no idea what I am doing with myself.

This is maybe the real reason I have been MIA over the last few weeks. 

Depression, that soul- sucking beast that it is, surely lives here. I don't really know for sure though, because I can't slow down enough to let it catch me.

I have too much to do. I can't stay in bed all day or drink my face off, even though I really want to. 

That would be letting it win.

Also: I am scared to run. 

Remember when I said I ran through my dad's death? Yeah, well, I ran. All. The. Time.

I skipped class to run. I skipped going out and meeting sane people because I had to run. I had to run until I had nothing left just so that I could sleep.

And I don't want to go back there.

I am scared.

I know it will go away; it always does. But right now? Right now is hard.

And that's why I need back up

I heard a friend once say that he didn't need a back up plan. He figured that as long as he had a Plan B, he wouldn't put as much energy into Plan A. 

The thought made sense to me. 

It worked for me for like, five minutes.

My need to plan and think things through prevented me from ever really letting go of plan B.

Except when it came to 30/30.

I had no back up plan.

I was just gonna do it, you know?

Despite living in my sister's house, AKA The Den Of Sickness, for over a week, I never thought about getting sick.

So, as you may imagine, I was totally unprepared for catching the plague. 

What started out as a runny nose quickly became a hoarse bark/ hacking cough/ I sounded like I was going to die. When I finally went to the doctor a week ago, determined to not be sick at the start of the semester, she laughed at me and told me I had at least five days till the barking stopped. 

My doctor laughed at me. I think we should be friends. Immediately. 

And that sexy post-nasal drip voice? It was going to be around awhile, so I may as well get used to it.

I asked her if she bought into the old runner's wisdom that if you had a head cold, go ahead and run. However, if it was in the lungs, take a rest day. 

She looked at me, really confused. 

You actually run? she asked.

Good luck with that. was the best advice she had to offer.

Best. Doctor. Ever.

As I walked back to the other end of campus, gasping for air, it did occur to me that running might not be possible, never mind not being the best idea.

So I took the day off. 

And the next day.

And then a week went by.

And then more.

And then I turned into a giant slug.

Which is clearly why I need a back up plan.

Ever so slowly, the need to gasp for air has decreased. My sexy voice has pretty much disappeared, and I'm now coughing every five minutes instead of every two.

Which tells me that it is time to get back to ass kicking mode. (This time I expect it to be a physical ass kicking instead of a mental one.)

When 5 o'clock came around this morning, I actually thought about crying.

It's so bloody early!

But I was able to drag my ass out of bed. And I actually got a good workout in, despite my lungs screaming at their inability to cough while running.

If you find a lung scrub brush, will you let me know?

Meanwhile, I am going to try to give this 30/30 thing a go.

Diet-schmiet

I spent a few hours today discussing diets with other boot camp instructors. 

I was prepared to hate it. As in, go head to head with the lead instructor, spitting fire. 

Call it my desire to give the middle finger to the establishment if you want, but I've been a non-meat eater for almost all of my adult life. I was a vegan for 3 years. I now eat fish, eggs and cheese in addition to plants. Oh, and honey. I love me some honey. I missed the shit out of honey when I was vegan.

Anyhow, three years ago I started having pain in my wrists. It varied from a dull ache to incapacitating. 

The pain started spreading to other joints while I was in Virginia for work camp in July. By the time I returned home in August, I was in constant pain. I was also going to the bathroom 15+ times a day. I had no idea it was possible to be so full of shit. My energy disappeared. As in, I had a hard time standing up.

I stopped eating.

I didn't have the energy to chew. After five days without food (I drank a lot of water), the trips to the bathroom decreased and I started craving apples. After biting into that first juicy apple, my appetite returned. Sort of.

I was happy eating fruit, and some vegetables. As I reached for my favorite comfort foods, though, I started feeling horrible all over again. 

And then my sister came across a quiz about being gluten free. 

It changed my life.

Going gluten free has meant that I can live without pain. I also can live outside of the bathroom, which is nice. I can't say exactly what my issue is, since I wasn't diagnosed by a physician (no health insurance, fear of pre-existing conditions... I realize I don't have to worry about that anymore (Thank you President Obama!)), but I do know that after about three weeks of feeling better, I went to church and had Communion. Within fifteen minutes, I had a fever and my joints were aching. I went home and slept it off. 

Several months later, I had lunch with a friend before going to my sister's house. In the car, the fever and joint pain returned. This time, though, I was confused. I couldn't figure out where my sister lived. It took forever to type her address into my phone, and then I still couldn't figure out which way to go. My heart was racing as my frustration level rose. I knew where I was, but couldn't follow a map. I finally ended up driving home (still don't know how I figured out how to get home!).

The next time my reaction happened, I was at a bowling alley with my siblings and our significant others. The fever, joint pain, and panic returned, along with a swollen tongue. I couldn't speak to explain what was happening to me. Not having a doctor to give me an epi pen, I did the next best thing: I started carrying Benadryl with me.

The most recent reaction was in Decatur, a year ago. I was having dinner with some friends and had to leave early because I couldn't breathe. Not gonna lie: it was scary. I didn't have the Benadryl with me. My reaction at this restaurant seemed to confirm my suspicion that I am allergic to wheat. Or something like it. Something commonly found alongside it.

(I totally cheat on this. After going two years without beer, I broke down. It was amazing. And I had no reaction. I also don't have a problem with soy sauce. Weird, right?)

So I'm gluten free (-ish).

The seminar today promised to go over the "fad" (Stupidest word ever. Say it five times fast. Stupid, yes?) of gluten free diets and the idiocy that is the Paleo diet. I was seriously ready to punch someone. 

Fad? Really? An average of 1 out of 133 people has a wheat problem. How is that a fad? 

And Paleo? People weren't even around during the paleolithic era. Stupid. (I choose not to go into this abyss right now because I fear I'll never come out. Stupid.)

I was very pleased to find that the leader had done some homework on diets. By this, I mean she came to the conclusion I did: diets are stupid. (And they don't work. Er, they do, but then we stop the diet, and go back to the way we were, and then get frustrated.)

And so I didn't have to cut anyone. Which was a good thing because I left my shiv at home.