Let's Not Talk About the Weight

 In the last couple of months I have had to find ways to reorient myself in a COVID riddled world.  As a nurse practitioner for 20 years, I thought I knew how to navigate medicine as a provider.  Yet, here we are.  Ever changing rules, guidance that becomes outdated almost immediately after it comes out, testing strategies, quarantine, on and on it goes until at times I find my head spinning just to negotiate it all.  My personal world was turned inside out as well as the kids are trying to adjust to remote learning and trying to understand what exactly has happened in the world and why we can't have a birthday party.  Personally, I had races cancelled, my gym was shut down for months and all of the events I trained for vanished one after another.  It's all just a bit heavy.  

As of late, I have tried a reboot of sorts.  I set big 2021 goals that honestly, seem a bit crazy, but in my mind, if it seems crazy it probably means I should do it.  That being said, I am learning to adapt to a whole new training strategy.  Said strategy is the transition from a solely group fitness type HIIT training to adding in targeted strength training with a trainer and some new training partners.  See, there was always something about group fitness.  My peeps at the usual 8:45, singing along to our favorite songs, teasing our trainers and just having a good time as we busted it out day after day.  However, as fun as that was, it didn't get me where I needed to be on the race course.  Nonetheless, I still go, but outside of there, in a gym across town, there's a guy with a clipboard counting every rep, correcting every miniscule break in form.  He even watches me breathe for God's sake.  Yet, I had to put my fitness in his hands if I am going to get anywhere in 2021. 

In one of our first sessions he pulled out these iron bars.  Apparently that day I was graduating from a kettle bell carry to whatever this thing was. I was pleased with my initial kettle bell carry the week before.  I easily carried 94 pounds 80 feet, not bad at all.  However, with this contraption, he instructed me to put ten pounds on every corner.  As he talked to me about gripping the handles, breathing, bracing, short steps, shoulders engaged, I found myself wanting him to cut to the chase.  How heavy was this?  What was I about to do?

"Let's not talk about weight.  Now, here's what you need to do....."

Ok, well he's the expert.  I did as I was told.  Pick it up, short quick steps to haul ass 40 feet, set down, deep breath, brace and haul ass back.  It was a challenge, but I got it done.  Only then he asked me,"How heavy do you think that was?"  I suspected somewhere where I had been last week.  It was heavy but I was able to do it.  Must be the same.  Right?  OK no.  It was 144, a full 50 pounds heavier.  He explained to me that in talking about weight we automatically put a limit on our capabilities as our preconceived notion of our own ability is always far below what we can actually do.  

Let's face it, COVID is heavy, life is heavy.  I wonder how often we focus on the weight of it all claiming defeat before we even get started, convinced we cannot handle that caliber of heavy lifting.  Maybe the better thing to do is to look for the proverbial guy with the clipboard who can help us grab hold of life's challenges, breathe, brace, stand tall and haul ass forward no matter what the weight is.  

Since that 144 pound day two weeks ago, I have progressed to 170 pound carries, and have come to learn that there is power in taking on the heavy and coming out the other side.  I have also located a tribe of like minded bad ass heavy lifting women who refuse to talk about weight and instead push me to be my best.  It is in this space I am reminded, no matter how heavy life is, the best is yet to come.  

True North

Over the weekend, I saw a news story about a Mount Rainier hiker who set out on a hike with a friend.  Near the end of the hike, this particular hiker planned to finish the rest on snowshoe, while his partner finished on skis and they were to meet up at the end.  As he set out on snowshoe, he would find himself caught in a sudden squall.  A blinding snowstorm would cause him to be less sure footed to where he took only baby steps as he was not entirely sure where he was headed.  He would be found a full day later, in the Nisqually River drainage, unconscious, hypothermic, covered in bruises, and ultimately would go into cardiac arrest for 45 minutes at the hospital.  Finally when nothing seemed to be working, as a Hail Mary, he was placed on a heart lung machine.  A week had passed by the time the story aired and here was this man, a little on the thin side, miraculously sitting on the side of his bed offering thanks to his rescuers, who spent 24 hours locating him, and his medical team that refused to give up on him. When asked what he thought he did wrong to get in the situation he replied,"I made a rookie mistake.  I failed to check the weather."

I suppose if I am really thinking about it, lost in an unexpected snow squall is a decent description of 2020.  Starting in March, I think I can truly say watching my fitness goals vanish one at a time with race cancellations, gym closures, and losing the time I had come to treasure with my tribe. I too had lost my way, to where at some point in August, I found myself at the bottom of my own proverbial Nisqually River drainage, completely lacking direction with no end to COVID in site.

Since that time, I started grasping at some attempt at normalcy.  I signed up for races that were actually available.  Therefore, to date I have done two socially distant Savage Races.  The first was in September.  That race was particularly challenging, as despite training at home and some in my regular gym after it reopened, I was still making up ground from months of lacking the formal training I had become accustomed to and it showed.  As my performance on the obstacles was a bit lack luster, I allowed fear of everything dictate the entire race.  I wasn't as strong as I had been.  Was I going to fall off the cargo net?  How was I going to get off the wall and not plunge 8 feet?  I had never been submerged into chest high mud, and the sudden confining feeling only fueled my fear to where, if I am being real here, ended up being six full miles of terror.  Even to look at that September medal reminded me of something I said out loud on the course,"I just hate being afraid.  I hate being like this." 

Left feeling like my racing life was on life support, plus a little encouragement from my team, pushed me to register for another Savage Race.  I was hoping this would give me a prayer of not leaving fear as my legacy of 2020.  I had 9 weeks.  Nine weeks to mentally and physically prepare for the race that took place this past weekend with my 1DOS Foundation leadership team.  My very own 2020 do over.  Out of the gate,  I began to dial in and train.  I started working with an actual OCR coach and amped up my upper body training at home with the addition of battle ropes and slam balls.  An entirely new training style than I was used to even in pre COVID times.  I'll even go out on a limb and share I did the mental work with guided imagery to start to put fear behind me on the course.  There were the regular check ins with my accountability partner as well as my son, both of whom constantly reminded me I am much more capable than I give myself credit for.  When I emerged Sunday with my son and partner by my side, my efforts showed.  I conquered obstacles I failed nine weeks prior and even came over the cargo net without the fear I had in September.  That may or may not have involved me saying out loud when I approached the obstacle and got a little nervous,"oh no.  I'm not fucking doing this today.  No way."  Head up keep climbing, over the A frame and back down.

We would cross the line and I knew damn well this time, I earned that medal fair and square. Even though this medal is exactly the same as the one from September, somehow it shines a little brighter as I know digging deep, putting the work in and discovering my own true north in the last nine weeks has put me right back in the game.  None of us could have checked the proverbial weather for 2020, and most of us have become lost in our own way from the pandemic.  However, as I celebrated my 51st birthday on race weekend, I find myself with a simple new piece of jewelry.  A sterling silver compass that I have no plans to take off any time soon.  A simple reminder that no matter how lost we are, true north can always be found when you take the chance to face the fear, identify new goals, not be afraid to let loose of old methods and work hard.  Probably even more important than those things is to surround yourself with the people willing to walk along side your journey, pushing you and believing in you even in the moments you are not so sure.  Those are the people who will always show us the best is yet to come.

From Finisher to Crusher

 Wow.  September 21.  Yep that's the date of my last blog post, more than a full month ago.  I guess you could say life got in the way.  Working in a leadership role in a rapidly growing urgent care that offers COVID testing during a pandemic has proven for long days, and lots of hours.  I suppose the sheer amount of work to be done has also put a damper on my creative juices to a degree as well, so there you have it. A month blog free.  However, tonight I find myself finally at my desk with a few hours off.  Admittedly, the craziness of the last month has left my desk in shambles.  There are scraps of papers left over from me working on schedules, lists of things for Foundation related activity  and in the far right corner a medal.  A Mileage Monsters 5K medal from last Saturday.  It was our second annual 5k fundraiser for my 1DOS Foundation.  All things considered, we had a good turn out of 110 socially distanced runners.  Everyone played by the rules, masks on, no gathering before or after, and courteous running.  In all, a fun time for all in one of the first live events of 2020.

But this medal....  my partner and I had a love/hate relationship with this medal.  Last year we set out to be creative.  Who needed another 5k medal anyway?  Oh no.  We had kick ass swag bags and awesome shirts.  Oh weren't we cool?  Apparently not.  The feedback we got from one runner in particular was she would never have run the race without earning a medal.  Several others were on the same page.  So, this year we had medals.  We had $300 worth of medals.  Granted they were pretty cool, but I have spent a long time trying to understand what it was about it that was so important about a medal coming from a small time inaugural 5k.  In fact, as I sit here, all of my medals hang to my right.  Spartans, marathons, half marathons, Disney medals.... now those were medals.  

Suddenly it dawned on me who it was last year that was so disappointed by her swag bag.  It was our last finisher.  She did not appear to be an athlete and our photographer explained she was part of a bigger 5k series where runners were to complete 20 5k's in a season.  This particular participant always managed to finish, albeit usually last. She appeared to be an unlikely candidate to finish 20 5k's and would guess maybe she had not done that before.  Gaining 19 medals instead of 20 perhaps destroyed the visual representation of the accomplishment of a bigger goal she set for herself.  

As I scan through my own medals now I see my very first Spartan medal.  The Fenway Sprint of 2016.  I was terrified at the start line.  I was surrounded by badass racers and here I was 46 years old, fresh off a lifetime of obesity, not totally sure I belonged there or that I could even finish.  The gun went off and we took off through the park.  People were faster than me.  Some did the obstacles better than I did.  My son had to constantly say,"just run your own race."  He was right.  In the end, I would finish and burst into tears on the infield. I had done it.  A year of training reflected in one hunk of medal on a colorful ribbon.   I'm quite certain if I looked at the medal closer there may in fact, be salt stains on said ribbon.  There was my first Spartan Beast ribbon from summer of 2017, where five of us took on my longest race at the time.  Twenty miles on the side of a mountain.  Physically and mentally taxing.  Yes, that medal meant a lot to me.  Still other medals reminded me of fun times spent with a race team I would describe as second to none.  There were Ragnars, half marathons, 10k's, and even two full sets of Dopey medals reminding me further what normal years look like for me.

However, this year, as we all know, racing is largely cancelled.  From my girls' weekend half marathon in the Hamptons, to the Boilermaker in Utica, to a Spartan Super in Denver, to what was to be the pinnacle race of the year for me, the Spartan Beast in Tahoe, all cancelled.  A veritable racing silence.  For as much as I miss racing the various events, in their absence I came to realize something.  I over commit.  I sign up for everything I can with my tribe, which is awesome, but I effectively have become the proverbial athletic Jack of all trades, master of none.  I'm not fast, I'm not the talented obstacle racer like you see on Ninja Warrior, I have stayed where I was planted after that first race.  I am a finisher.  I earned that first Spartan medal fair and square.  A year and a half of training, a lifetime of obesity and an epic finish.  Hell, I even earned that first trifecta medal fair and square, but what has happened since?

I have remained a finisher.  I have trained the same with an amazing gym family and have gone on to finish 15 other obstacle races, two Dopey Challenges, umpteen half marathons and a smattering of 5k's and 10k's, and have the medals to prove it, but here's the question.  What have I CRUSHED?  Crushing a race and completing a race are two different things, and as long as I am asking, what would it take to crush a course?  As I talked it all over with my accountability partner it became obvious.  Finishing a race for the first time was awesome, but by the 15th time I find myself now asking,"shouldn't I be better at this by now?" and better yet,"Do I want to be better at this?" 

As anyone with a good accountability partner will tell you, they always say the thing you think you don't want to hear, but is the best for you anyway.  Yes.  I should be better, but despite training hard, my training has not changed.  Stuck in my proverbial comfort zone maxing out my abilities within those confines.  As far as did I want to be better?  of course.  Who doesn't?  It's the bigger hurdle of what that is going to take.  That is something I am learning.  It's going to take dialing back the commitments, and changing what I normally do because,"if nothing changes, nothing changes."  So, today I took the plunge.  Stepped away from my usual workout for my first private session with an awesome tactical OCR coach.  I learned about breathing, bracing, grip strength and that I was way stronger than I gave myself credit for.  A little glimpse that with the right type of help, hard work and second to none training partners I will continue to take newbies to races as watching someone else find their own success is a passion of mine, but personally? It’s time to work my way past finisher and right into obstacle race CRUSHER next year, and no.  There better not be a bag of swag.  I will save a space for a kick ass medal that will remind me there is always something bigger to reach for and in doing so I will always see the best is yet to come.

 

Soul Sucking Swamp Ass

 I guess you could say in 2017, the Chicago Spartan Super became the iconic race for my race team.  We trained hard and reached our goal and crossed that finish.  The following year we attacked the same course only this time it was totally different.  We had not anticipated what was a dry hunting ground the year before, would now see rain for all the days leading into the race.  It was nine grueling miles in ankle deep thick mud. Oh we exited that race masters of the mud pit, or so we thought.  In fact, "remember all the mud in Chicago?" became a thing among us.  We'd laugh about losing shoes, or the spectacle we made of ourselves walking into the Marriott afterwards.  Oh yeah I knew all about mud.....only now I know I didn't.

Last week, I finally did what I thought was impossible.  I raced in 2020.  Spartan may have cancelled their season, but Savage did not.  I always considered myself a Spartan racer by trade, the iconic obstacle race after all.  I have done 14 of them with three trifectas under my belt, but with COVID I was now to a place where any race is better than no race.  So, I took off for Maryland for a new race with new obstacles, knowing I wasn't as prepared as I could have been.  The race was essentially late notice as we were not entirely sure it would go off as planned.  I had been training but even my own gym has not been open all that long.  The summer had been very hot, and I had broken my finger with a bulky splint which just made running rough.  Nonetheless, we were doing it.  As we arrived at the race, the sun was high, the air was cool, the racers socially distant and the music on point.  Ah yes.... race vibe.  Oh, how I have missed you.

The front part of the race went as expected, I panicked at the top of the cargo net, which is what I always do, but still managed to make it down.  I struggled with the hanging obstacles, because lets face it, grip strength training sucks and with no races to look forward to, it just may have fallen to the bottom of the training list this summer.  However, it was in the last mile and a half it happened.  The mud pit.  At the bottom of the embankment I saw it.  Racers stuck in the mud.  No, this was not the ankle deep mud in Chicago that was annoying and shoe sucking, this was hands and knees to the chest crawling because walking appeared to be impossible.  The racers in the pit needed bystanders with long tree branches to be helped out.  The scene was so difficult to see that  I feared we would not be able to get out of it.  We chalked it up to being late in the day and maybe this mud had evolved and become more difficult with time.  We made the decision to veer to the left where it was much shallower and honestly, a bit out of bounds.  It seemed to be the safer choice.  

As we entered the final mile, down another embankment there it was.  A sign that said,"Swamp Ass."  This mud pit was a clearly marked obstacle, with no way around, and the only way to finish was to go through.  This was not a late in the day change in mud, this was like this by design.  I would fearfully wade in and end up chest deep.  The mud pulled at my shoes, walking was next to impossible.  I was slugging away with my legs that didn't want to move, I was starting to panic that I would drown in mud.  I got to the place I was essentially paralyzed.  I couldn't move.  I don't recall all of my mutterings at the time but I'm pretty sure,"I can't get out!" was screamed irrationally over and over plus a tangled web of profanity that probably still hangs over that very mud pit in Maryland.  In the end, my race partner pushed me along on my left, a fellow racer helped on my right and a guy with a cool Australian accent pulled me mostly out by my arms from the other side.  I would crawl out physically taxed, coated in an inch of mud, emotionally drained and face to face with a race photographer who captured it all on film.  Nonetheless, we had to keep moving, as well you know, there's a medal at the end and I sure as hell was getting a medal for this.  

Less than a mile later, I would find myself at the top of the 24 foot obstacle named Collosus.  As always, the height got to me but the mud cleansing plunge down the backside, which was a water slide, was the most glorious rush I have had in a long time. A short time later, we would cross the finish, medals in hand, tired from a hard fought race and happy to finally have some straight up non COVID normalcy this year.

This whole experience has taught me something.  Sometimes you are faced with hard challenges to where it's easier to rationalize a short walk out of bounds, rather than get stuck, but those challenges will always be ahead, sometimes unavoidable and much more difficult than you thought.  The trick is to stay in bounds, jump into the proverbial mud, start slugging, and if you get stuck look for the people willing to push you along when you are not so sure you can do it by yourself.  As it's really only on the other side will you earn the glory of truly conquering the hard things.

I'd love to tell you I can retreat to my Spartan career for next year and get back into my wheelhouse, but I cannot.  I had a terrifying experience with Savage in the mud I thought I knew oh so well, but really had no clue.  Nonetheless, the motto of my race team has always been, if it excites you and scares the crap out of you, it probably means you should do it.  So, yep another Savage is in the books and a whole new training is underway.  Only this time it includes grip strength, because apparently the Grip Strength Fairy skipped me on her deliveries this year.  Otherwise, I am still working on my fear of heights, but I have committed to no more out of bounds so that I can jump in feet first for a fear busting soul sucking slug through the mud better known as Swamp Ass.  I am quite certain that in truly conquering that course to the best of my ability, I will be able to see the best is yet to come.

 

It's Not Whatcha Got, It's Whatcha Give

After three years and 140 blog posts, I suppose I owe my loyal audience a bit of an apology. Yes. I am aware I have put nothing new out in four weeks, when I am usually a faithful every two week poster.   Here’s the problem. Writer’s block. It’s a thing. To be honest, I have had many a night recently staring at my bloggers blank entry page for a time, ultimately giving up and ending up on Amazon. The problem may run a bit deeper than I imagined as my daughter commented today,"Boy Mom you sure get a lot of packages lately."  Trust me I truly needed a new dishwasher spray arm, but new shoes for every person under my roof may have been a bit over the top.

Oh I had a million different ideas, but none were fresh and new.  It all felt like ground I had covered before.  Overcoming this or that, but somehow none of it seemed to want to flow out of me in any reasonable manner.  To be honest, writer's block didn't make sense to me.  For months, all I wanted was a sense of normalcy.  In large part I had gotten it.  Back to my gym, back to my gym family, workouts every day with trainers who knew me best and even an obstacle race this coming Saturday, something I didn't think I would see this year.  All in, I should be excited and tap into my inner inspiration and share that with my loyal readers.  "Should" is the magic word here.  

As I rolled through the last few weeks, I can honestly say the return to normal was certainly welcome and a vast improvement over the last six months, but something was missing.  I was doing like I normally did, yet somehow it all felt a bit lack luster.  I suppose I accepted a thousand different excuses, like working out in a mask was not ideal or I have made a wee bit of backward process in my strength as my weights as home were not as heavy as the ones at the gym, but the reality is I simply did not know what was missing.

That is until a simple text from a friend came through proposing the most outlandish physical challenge that would take place a year from now.  It almost seemed ludicrous to consider.  I have done a lot of stuff, but this is much bigger than anything I have done before. I talked it over with my accountability partner and my favorite training partner, my son.  I would bargain with myself.  Was it ludicrous?  Yes.  It's crazy.  But... what if we did it?  This is going to require the hardest physical training I have ever done, and will take a year to prepare for.  

In the time that followed this simple proposal, my head spun with "what if's," and it even kept me up at night.  This week I put all that aside and committed to said challenge as did my son and my partner. Our quintessential 1DOS leadership team building activity.  Admittedly, I'm a little bit afraid, and a little bit excited, but mostly curious to see what version of myself  lives on the other side of this event's successful completion.  Today, I would go to the gym with my son, this notion fueled everything I did.  Suddenly, this event had taken hold of my psyche and told me I have 12 months and I damn well better get my ass in gear.  I pushed as hard as I could, and left the gym drenched, out of breath, sore and exhilarated.  What had started as a simple text between friends has now given me the fuel I didn't even know I was lacking with my prior return to "normal." 

 

                                                 It's not whatcha got, it's what you give,                                                                                                     It ain't the life you choose, its's the life you live                                                                                                                                         - Tesla

As I sat in the car cooling off listening to Tesla, it dawned on me.  My return to "normal" was a return to my normal day to day stuff.  No, there is nothing wrong with daily workouts, or mid range obstacle races like I will do on Saturday.  Those, in fact, are good albeit, great things, and I am stoked to crawl through the mud and jump off a 15 foot wall, well stoked about heights may not be quite accurate....  Anyway, for now It's what I got, but It's also what I have had for several years.  In fact, I would go so far as to say there is a certain level of complacency in this particular "normal."  This new goal has reminded me that I actually am always capable of giving myself so much more so I can take this thing called life for a ride. With this, it dawns on me, maybe the thing to do is to not shoot for a prepandemic return to normal.  Maybe the better thing to do is to locate that little voice, that friend who can push us just a bit to remind us that sometimes "normal," no matter how good it appears, can be code for complacency and we are actually always able to do more in order to lead our best lives. I have a feeling this is going to be quite a year, and in that amount of time I am sure I will learn as always, the best is yet to come.

                

Finding the Pandemic Fire

 She's living in a world, and it's on fire

Feeling the catastrophe, but she knows she can fly away...

                                                                                       - Alicia Keyes

I suppose you could say in the weeks, albeit months, that led into my vacation a few weeks ago it did feel a bit like the world on fire.  There were swarms of patients for COVID testing, navigating my way through virtual summer school for my youngest, all while trying to entertain kids who literally were tired of looking at the same walls of the house day in and day out since March.  Beyond all of that I was trying to hold my own feet to the fire as I fought to stay fit with races still on the books, without the help of my gym family and trainers.  For the kids as much as myself, I carefully announced the count down until we were leaving every day.  We marked the days off the calendar and somehow knew life would be just a little bit better flown away from here for a little bit.  

In the midst of all of this prevacation hubub, a crushing blow that Spartan cancelled the whole season.  Everything I worked so hard for suddenly erased in one email.  My foundation cofounder and my son, who is my social media director, had planned for the Tahoe Spartan Beast as our secret team bonding race for 2020.  The quintessential Spartan on rough terrain with the best of the best.  I had trained for a year for this, counting the months, training the inclines, lifting the weights, I was going to be ready pandemic or no pandemic.  As if COVID has not robbed society of enough, now even my personal goals were taken from me.  I suppose you could say this huge loss had me a little lost as to how to pick up and move forward.  

So, I did what I always do. I threw myself a big pity party with the only exercise being done the week I was gone was a 9 mile bike ride one time.  I whined and complained to my accountability partner.  You see it was hot where I was, so why run?    A few days off?  So what.  No races anyway.  Oh yes.  I had hit the mother load of negativity.  Which for someone who is a motivator by trade, is probably not the best head space to be in.  I fought hard to try to put that aside and spend my days on vacation with some much needed reconnection  time with my children.  We swam in the pool, watched the dolphins in the ocean and even played with a school of jellyfish.  All of this was well and good, but as the days wore on I knew where I was headed.  Right back into the fire.  

With an eleven hour car ride home, I had a lot of time to think about the roaring blaze that was coming at me faster than I wanted.  Something had to give.  No races.  No big hairy goals.  Crazy life.  What was I going to do?  My gym had just opened for outdoor workouts.  I was on the fence about paying for burpees on the pavement in scorching heat but a friend talked me into doing it anyway.  Well if she could, I could I guess.

Oh, we got our feet on the ground

And we're burning it down

Oh, got our head in the clouds and we're not coming down

Here I was one week ago.  It was 87 degrees and humid out. I was under a huge canopy which had converted a parking lot into a makeshift studio.  I was sitting on a piece of equipment  I have had a five year love/hate relationship with.  The rower.  Hello my old friend.  As I stared down at the familiar footplates and drum of water, suddenly, I had nothing but love for that thing.  There was one of my trainers, right there in person.  Another person I knew was across the way from me.  People.  My people.  There was music, familiar coaching, heavy weights and 45 minutes of the most normal thing I have experienced since March.  Oh yes.  Here's my spark, right where I left it.  I was drenched, tired and more excited than I have been in months.  Since that time, I have gone nearly every day.   I have open blisters on my hands from rowing, as my calluses that existed in March are long gone.  I have firm reminders that although I never stopped working out on my own, there were maybe some muscle groups that have had some neglect in these months making difficult this week to sit down at times or even lift my coffee.  One thing is for sure, I would not trade one single thing about it as I am suddenly fanning the flames of the old me that existed before the monster that is COVID sent the world into a tailspin. 

This girl is on fire,

This girl is on fire

This little tiny bit of normalcy has given me the opportunity to bust out of the oppressive pandemic mindset and begin to brightly look ahead in ways I have not been able to recently.  I suppose all of us got a little lost in the pandemic with the cancellations of major events, and the emotional battles over the goings on in the world.  However, I think the trick is to find that little spark.  That little speck of prepandemic normalcy, fan those flames and come back as the whole damn fire. Only in the glory of the giant blaze will we see the best is yet to come.

Life Lessons from the Mama Bird

Last night, I took my children to the beach as we are on our annual, albeit socially distant, vacation to the Outer Banks.  I assured them if they just sat still, they could watch the crabs run around as they tend to do at night.  Sure enough, when we got there, there were holes all over the place, with plenty of crab tracks.  However, as with most things, this advice was ineffective.  A crab would pop out of his hole and my youngest two would go running with excitement screaming,"Look!  I see one Mom!"  I reminded them over and over, sit still, be patient and you will see way more than one.  This was to no avail.  The excitement was too much and like most forms of wild life, the big bad humans were just too scary and it was time to flee.

With this in mind, imagine my surprise when we discovered a completely different scene when  we returned to the rental house.  A bird had formed a nest on the supports of the back patio and was patient and unwavering in her guarding of the eggs she was surely perched upon. It was not just any bird actually.  It was a dove. No amount of excited squeals or vibration from children on the patio caused her to do much more than blink.  It would seem that her concern for her babies far outweighed the big scary humans invading her space.

As a mom of five children of trauma adopted from various places in the world, I can honestly say, this simple mom instinct is one I know well.  It's the setting myself aside to champion the fight to have the outside world understand the unique make up of each of my children.  I was quick to take on teachers and school boards who could not understand how spending three years in abject poverty on the side of a mountain, with English not being their first language, could make for a very different kindergartner than the affluent children from the suburbs occupying the same classroom.  I took on friends who could not understand that various orphanage behaviors based on living in "fight or flight mode" in the early years did not constitute simple rebellion, it was a deeper seeded issue that needed understanding.  I disregarded even some family who were not so sure five adoptions, including children of color, was the greatest idea I ever had, but so be it.  I was the mama bird, strong and unwavering.  No amount of noise or discord would stand in the way of me championing the causes of my children.

As far as we know that bird has been there at least 48 hours without moving, anxiously awaiting the magical arrival of her babies.  Studying this aviary symbol of hope closely makes me wonder about how many times we stand in the way of our own fears for everyone else except ourselves.  How many times do we let the slightest vibration, the slightest set back, cause us to give up and flee?  How many times do we let comments or behavior of other big scary humans knock us right out of the nest before the magic happens?

Maybe instead we need to realize we all have a little mama bird in us.  We all possess the ability to look fear and past failures in the eye and peacefully stand our ground to cultivate our proverbial life goal eggs until they can burst open and we can witness the magic that lives inside.  How do we know?  We do it for everyone else.  It just may be time to give ourselves the same priority.  I have a feeling if we do that we will learn the best is yet to come.

Biting the Dust on Dog Water

Are you ready, hey, are you ready for this?

Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?

Out of the doorway the bullets rip

To the sound of the beat

Another one bites the dust

Another one bites the dust

It's fairly ironic that this would come on as I made my maiden voyage on the stepper today after being sidelined for a week.  As the song played I relived the reality of last Tuesday night.  Here I was fresh off my latest insane work jag, and crazy speed training schedule.  It was late and I was spinning around doing odds and ends in the house before finally calling it quits and attempted a simple trip from the kitchen across the tile headed to the bedroom.  I had missed the water that existed outside of the dog's dish, I remember the sensation of the slip, the slow motion loss of balance, the flash as my face hit the pantry door and the sickening sound of my left knee hitting the tile.  I would get up, pace around, try to inspect my lip in the bathroom mirror as I knew it was cut.  Shit.  Light burned out.  I would then walk around the dining room assuring myself my knee was ok and once again, try to cross the same damn floor, only slower this time to my own bathroom within the bedroom.  It was then I noticed it.  There was blood on the floor.  There was a lot of blood on the floor.  I felt my lip, cut but not bleeding, knee already turning purple, also not bleeding.  Hmmmm.... I slowly became aware, my left index finger hurt.  I looked at it and found it was bleeding, and surely the nailbed doesn't normally look like that.  I would wrap it up just as the 14 year old would come down and trace the trail of blood to me.  I assured him I was fine, just a little cut, no biggie.

When I got up in the morning it was clear it may be a bit worse than I thought.  A band aid was not going to do it.  It had bled all night until I found myself in the midst of training two people at work that morning, asking a colleague to look at it.  By the time he was done, I found myself having a small procedure I won't get into, as it made me a little queasy, and some xrays.  The reality was I had an open fracture courtesy of my pantry door.  I had a purple lip too but thanks to the magic of COVID, I am in a mask all the time and nobody could see it.  Honestly?  I wasn't sure if I should be sickened by all of it or downright pissed that I can manage to run 14 Spartans with no injury, but walking across the kitchen was clearly a problem.  Yep, I bit the dust on dog water.

Are you happy, are you satisfied?

How long can you stand the heat?

I guess you could say in the days that followed I would have a little PTSD, as I now refuse to walk on that floor barefoot and every now and then my mind wanders to the flash of my face hitting the door. Every day I find other splatters of blood in places I had missed with the initial clean up.  Today?  Said light switch in the bathroom where the bulbs had been burned out now replaced and illuminating my blood perfectly.  I further had cause to hit the pause button on my training schedule.  I was not going to run and risk elevating my heart rate as my finger already had it's own throbbing heart beat.  I put in 60 hours of work in the week that followed my tumble seeing crazy numbers of COVID patients which was completely annoying as my finger did not fit in a glove easily.  When I finally took a day off, I was completely overwhelmed with the things to do at home and was having anxiety over paused race training.

So I did what I always do, checked in with the accountability partner, and when I say check in, I mean whine about my finger and how it is getting in the way of everything.  I committed to walk that day to see how it went.  It was clunky with the bulky splint on my finger but I even managed a light jog.  Following that was a successful trip to the hand surgeon, and other household errands.  Then it happened  I got a difficult challenge.  As I was busy complaining about the million things that had piled up on me when I was busy with work, I was challenged to a night off.  No work, no bills, no blog, hence this is days late, just breathe.  Oh ok.  A night off?  I wasn't sure I could do it.  I had charts from my work days, I had bills to pay, taxes to prepare, a blog to write, business related things to do, get my kid ready for his summer school calls the next day, laundry......and, and, and.....  a night off?  Damn accountability partner was killing me, now I was just going to be further behind, but I was doing it.

I would find myself on my back patio talking to a friend, admiring my flowers, and enjoying the cool breeze with an adult beverage.  Yes.  I felt guilty.  Yes.  I had so many things undone, but to take the time to be present, I found I suddenly could breathe.  I would later go to bed and find myself getting a full night's rest that night which is definitely a rarity for this card carrying insomniac.  In the day that followed, yesterday, I would break company records in actual number of patient's seen, and not even miss a beat.

Today, my finger was settling down and my lip is nearly healed so I was back at it.  Three miles on the stepper at a sub 8 minute pace, renewed from the simple act of taking the night off.  It makes me wonder how many times its going to take for me to learn the lesson.  I tend to live life at 100 mph.  I am driven to be the best I can be at all times at home and at work often pushing so hard I forget there are cool breezes, good friends, pretty flowers and this crazy renewal thing called sleep.  I suppose I should be thankful for biting the dust on dog water because it helped me to see that sometimes pushing hard is simply too hard and if I am not willing to slow down, surely the universe will find a way.

As for tonight?  I think I'll go sit on my patio again.  I will take a second night off in the same week, crazy, I know.  I'm pretty sure out there I will begin to see that sometimes biting the dust on dog water clears the way to see that the best is yet to come.

Lessons from an Upside Down Turtle

I guess you could say the turtle was my mom's spirit animal.  She always loved the ocean, and living in Florida, she took the plight of turtle nesting season to heart.  She would send newspaper articles from the Florida newspapers outlining that season's plan to protect her favorite creature.  In fact, the last time I saw her she was excitedly showing me the turtle nest that had cropped up on her own lanai.  I believe she thought those eggs held her very own children.  Unfortunately, she would pass away suddenly shortly thereafter and miss the excitement of her brand new babies.  I suppose that is why running on the Mohawk Hudson Bike Trail these days is usually comforting.  That trail is lined with turtle nests this time of year and nearly every day I can spot turtles wandering around, or in the case of one particular turtle I see a lot, simply four turtle feet sticking straight up in the air out of a sea of mud.  It is truly a hilarious site.  In fact, I have seen that turtle enough that I am beginning to wonder if it can even survive like that.  Nonetheless, running right there is like having mom right there with me as I go.

Friday I decided to go hang with my turtle friends for a simple four miler.  I texted my accountability partner with the plan.  A simple,"two out, two back."  Yeah, I had that.  I set off on the trail feeling strong.  I had my virtual running coach coming through my headphones reminding me of my form, my breathing, my cadence.  I was in the zone, the sun was shining, and I even saw two friends I have dearly missed as I have not seen them since before the pandemic.  Oh yes, strong mile one.  Pretty soon the tide began to change.  Yes, the sun was out, in fact it was beating down on me.  It was 85 degrees and some obnoxiously high percentage of humidity.  I pushed through mile two trying desperately to maintain focus, but the reality was I was hot.  I was thirsty.  I was being dive bombed by these Kamikaze deer flies that seem to have taken a liking to me.  Not to mention the turtle nests that were normally so comforting, instead were reminding me that in a week it will be the three year anniversary of my mother's abrupt exit from this Earth.  

By mile 2.2 I would find myself walking.  I was no longer listening to the coach.  Instead, I was attending to the wave of grief that hit me all at once.  In fact, I found myself walking the remainder of the distance,  looking at the baby turtles along the way.  I was a bit relieved the deer flies were leaving me alone, as they are territorial and tend to attack when you are moving quickly. However, I was mostly wondering what life would be like if my mom was still here.    At the end of it all, I came to realize my head space had completely interrupted what I set out to do and I had to report the epic fail to my accountability partner who would assure me it was alright to grieve. 

Yesterday, I had to think long and hard about what it was my mom would have actually wanted from me in a time like this.  She was a strong independent woman who didn't take shit from anyone.  She would want me to pick my head up, take control and move ahead.  It seemed like a tall order, but as I often dish out the,"fake it til you make it advice" I supposed I had to get to it.    I was afraid I would let my accountability partner down again, so I didn't want to commit much there.  However, with that notion, I found myself asking a new question.  What if I made a promise to myself and followed through?  Historically I have not been good at this sort of thing, but what if I did it?  Seemed a bit on the terrifying side, but I was willing to try.  Besides, nobody would know if I failed but me, a free pass loophole from my usual commitment to accountability.

I ended up ghosting my accountability partner, committed to six miles on the stepper and got to work.  Point 4 mile intervals with heavy upper body weights in between.  Off I went, with the first few miles strong, and the last ones stronger.  Even the weights got heavier as I went.  When I hit mile six, I tossed in another .2, because 6 miles was just so damn close to a 10k, why not finish the job and be better than I planned?  I ended the workout with a PR, drenched, free of the grief that overtook me the day before and the air of a surprised satisfaction knowing I was much more capable of trusting myself than I ever thought.  

I ended up doing some reading on that crazy upside down turtle.  As it turns out, turtles do that to slow their metabolism down to barely existent, take on life giving oxygen from the surrounding water and simply recharge.  You know, I'm beginning to think those four feet sticking out of a sea of mud were not ridiculous after all.  Maybe that turtle had it right.  In fact, it is entirely possible my run on Friday was not the epic fail I made it out to be.  Maybe when life dive bombs you with the vengeance of a deer fly, the thing to do is slow down, stop the attack, lean into the hard stuff, trust your own abilities and don't forget to look for the turtles.  In the end, my mom may have missed her own baby turtles but it would seem she has sent plenty for me to enjoy to serve as a not so subtle reminder that the best is yet to come.

Speed Training Meets Old Demons

Anyone who knows anything about me and my wellness journey knows I come from a lifetime of obesity.  Honestly, the landscape was quite different growing up in the 70's and 80's.  There were no electronics until the advent of Atari. While we are on the subject, I was quite skilled at Donkey Kong,  there was something about smashing barrels with a large sledge that gave a certain satisfaction, ahhh.... I digress.  Anyway, as a result kids were healthier.  There was nothing to do but play outside until night fell in the summers.  Consequently, come school time, you would see the emergence of the token fat kid.  The one kid who stood out from the rest.  The one picked last in gym class, or if the gym teacher felt sorry for them, they were made team captain and did the picking.  Let's just say, I was that kid.  I remember the uncomfortable picking when I was made team captain.  The mutterings by the other kids just a bit too loud,"Not me.  Don't pick me."  There was the complete lack of eye contact as I stared down the row of children hoping someone wouldn't be angry with me because they wanted nothing more than to be on another team.

Following the school yard antics of elementary school, came the horrible timed runs of PE class in junior high and high school.  There was the Presidential Fitness mile run.  Each time I was forced to do this, it always ended the same way.  I attempted to run, where I never did outside of these godforsaken events. I wouldn't get far before  I would end up an obese, wheezy mess, finishing at a painful walk well behind everyone else, left with facing the rest of the class at the finish as I tried to just make it all go away. A humiliation I would not wish on anyone.

Oh, I have plenty of blog entries on this very subject.  I often talk about taking on this race or that, crossing a finish, getting a medal.....  oh yeah.  From obese bullied kid to Spartan racing badass.  Yes this is historic underdog crap.  I even have standard phrases I use when people talk about my racing, 14 Spartans, 2 Dopeys, 5 half marathons, countless10k's and 5k's....  People complement me and as I admittedly do not handle compliments well, I end up explaining,"I was obese my whole life.  I didn't start running until the age of 45.  I am 50 now.  So, yes, I have done a lot of races, but I'm slow.  I won't break any speed records, but can run a long time.  I'm just glad to be able to be out there at this age."

What follows this conversation is usually something on the order of,"if I can, you can," and yes.  I believe this is true with every fiber of my being, and inspiring others on their journeys is something that matters a whole lot to me.  However, there is something I must rat myself out on here.  "I'm just glad to be out there at this age."  That right there?  The biggest bullshit lie I have sold to myself in some time.  Yes, running at 50  That's cool and all, but you know what's cooler?  The thing I never would dare to think about?  Running fast.  Yet, I never seem to get all that much faster despite years of training, and as a result the,"I can't" on this subject is quite loud in my head.

 "I can't because I have never been a runner and at 5 ft 10 and large framed, I'm not built for it."

 "I can't because in a year I have put on 15 pounds of muscle and that will slow me down. "

"I have proven I can't because in years of training everyone else got faster but me, and I train hard."

"I can't"

"I can't"

"I can't"


And so it goes, the self rationalization that leads me back to,"hey, I'm just glad to be doing it."  Round and round it goes.  I suppose everyone on a journey like mine should have an accountability partner.  You know, the guy you love to hate.  The one you promise stupid crap to, hate him every moment of doing it, than appreciate it when the tasks are done.  I was talking about this very thing to him recently.  He kept saying,"you can run fast.  You just don't know you can run fast."  Again, that guy is full of crap, but let me prove to him how much.  He suggested a running coach.  Oh right.  That's what I need.  Someone to observe my slow running up close and personal to remind me how slow it actually is and telling me I am doing it all wrong.  Sure, that's a great idea, it's like junior high all over again.

As the discussion with any good accountability partner goes, the subject never seemed to die.  Over and over with the,"you can run faster.  You just don't know you can."  I decided I would show him he didn't know what he was talking about by hitting a happy medium.  I took on a speed training app with a virtual coach.  Saved the in person humiliation, and I didn't have to talk about it anymore.  I took on my first speed run a couple weeks ago. In trying to run fast for the first interval, I realized I was anxious.  I held my breath.  I couldn't breathe.  My chest felt tight.  I was moving my legs as fast as I could and it felt out of control.  It was all the things of the junior high mile, and my head screamed at me to stop.  It was then I realized I wasn't listening to the coaching at all.  I would take the first recovery to reset and vowed to be smarter for the second interval, as I had many more intervals to do.  Why did I do this?  This was going to be as awful as I thought, but then I started really focusing on what the coach was saying.  I needed to run relaxed and strong.  Control my breathing.  Yeah, none of that took place the first time.  I was sure I was slower but thought well, let me start someplace, and at least that didn't feel so bad.  The virtual coach repeatedly reminding me to relax, and each time he did, I realized the anxiety of it had crept back in.  This was going to be  a challenge for sure.  I couldn't see my interval paces while I was running, so it was a bit of a surprise when I was done and I would see I ran some of the intervals at a 9:30 pace.  I'll be damned.  I guess I could maybe be faster than I thought, as my last 10k was a 13 min pace and my last few 5k's at nearly a 12 min pace.

Since that time I have done a lot of other speed training runs, with my last PR of 7:22 for that same interval a mere two weeks later.  I guess the question is this.  Did I discover some miracle app that made me two minutes faster in two weeks?  If I did, I'd sure like a piece of that.....  No.  I had the realization that all those demons I so carefully thought I slayed along the way never totally went away.  In fact, if anything I had become firmly anchored to them, allowing them to dictate my speed to avoid the discomfort instead of learning what this new version of myself was actually capable of.  I have decided that 2020 will be my year of speed training.  Each run I get a little more confident, a little less anxious and faster than I ever thought I could be and, in case there was a question.  Yes, I did go back to my accountability partner with a cleansing post 7:22 pace,"I was wrong.  You were right.  I needed a coach and to believe I could be faster."  Damn that guy is annoying, and if I am truly being transparent, he's not the first guy to tell me I could run faster.  Off hand I count four others in recent years.  Anyway, this experience makes me wonder how many times do we unknowingly hold on to the things that slow us down, sugarcoating the contentment of the situation, and ignore the people in our lives who see our potential when we cannot see it ourselves, because let's face it, demon slaying is hard work, running slow is not.  I have a sneaking suspicion I will get faster this summer, and look out post pandemic racing.  My best is yet to come.

Learning Balance from the Stress of a Hibiscus

I suppose you could say COVID has changed even my daily life despite being a healthcare worker.  During the height of the pandemic something very unusual happened for me.  My urgent care was not busy.  Coverage was cut and I found myself with strings of days off.  Kids home.  No school.  Vacation cancelled.  No place to go.....  attacking the laundry list of home projects that had piled up during my year on the road for work it was.  I attacked these like I do anything else, 100 mph of throwing shit away, scrubbing nooks and crannies and replacing old broken crap.  I think I truly frightened the children, as they feared they would be tossed out next.  With the biggest of the projects finished it was time to turn my attention to my yard.  If I am being honest, my other half's heart surgery two years ago coupled with me on the road for a year for work, had left my yard in sorry shape.  With little else to do,a few weeks ago, I would find myself frequenting the garden center.  One trip adding lilies, another hanging baskets,  and multiple trips later to get a total of 82 bags of mulch to finally get my yard to be presentable.

I have to say, I don't really have all that much experience with this sort of thing.  In my adult life, if I had flowers it was two things.  It was typically something in the bulb family or hanging baskets.  I found bulbs to be simple plants that are fairly hardy, tough to screw up and come back year after year with very little effort.  Hanging baskets were similar.  Simply read the label, consider the placement and see how much sun they need..... and done. 

In the past couple of weeks, work has been very busy with the start COVID testing, so simple watering here and there was all I really needed to do to keep things going in my yard.  This week though, I took the leap.  I found myself with an unexpected few hours off.   A little time on my hands had  me wondering what I could put in on my newly appointed outdoor space brick patio (It had been power washed, redone and fire pit added on a previous pandemic boredom day).  A simple trip to the garden center and I would find myself with two braided hibiscus trees, a peach one and a pink one, well according to the label.  Neither had bloomed yet.  What exactly did I know about hibiscus trees?  Not a damn thing, but the braided trunks looked cool for sure. 

So, I did what I always do.  I bought some dirt designed for trees and shrubs and plopped them in that and watered.  Easy peasy.  Then it happened.  In the days that followed, the peach one would have a few leaves turn yellow.  Then they began to fall off.  I would pull off the dead stuff and the next day there would be more.  The pink one did not have that problem.  In fact, it had a bloom.  A simple consultation with Google would tell me my poor peach hibiscus tree was "stressed."  Ok.  A stressed tree?   It gave me multiple different explanations as to why.  Too much water, not enough water, too much sun, not enough sun, some variety of spider, the PH was wrong......  and go.  It was my job to figure it out.  Well crap.  I have clearly left the simplicity of bulbs and premade baskets and entered the deeply emotional world of the hibiscus.  However, I like a challenge and was not ready to let my little tree die. 

Multiple times a day I found myself babysitting my hibiscus tree as if it were my own child.  I test the soil.  No, it's moist.  I let it dry out a few days, as maybe it was too moist, no change.  Soil PH?  I got nothin'.  More leaves falling, no blooms.....  Now I'm stressed right along with my little tree.  Was my tree going to make it?  Yet here's the pink one on flower number three, with a few yellow leaves that were there when I planted it.  Yesterday, before my shift, I found myself just staring at the trees.  I was determined to figure this out.  What was the difference?  Same soil.  Same water.  Same flower food.  It was then I noticed it.  The peach one was placed in a corner.  It made sense to have one on either side of the patio door for the sake of symmetry.  Then I realized, that same symmtry meant far less sunlight, so  I moved it next to it's sibling.  This afternoon, just 24 hours later, I would walk out to no new yellow leaves and the most beautiful bloom I have ever seen, with new growth on all of the branches and my tree was back in the game. 

All of this shuffling around and concern for my stressed out tree has me thinking about how many times I take life at 100 mph.  I carefully balance working the long shift, taking on school for the kids, home obligations, running a business and race training.  Every minute of every day snatched up with a list of tasks so large I could never possibly get it all done in the time I have.  I'd love to say it doesn't end up for me the same way as it does for my stressed out tree.  I'd love to say I don't have insomnia or that there are not times that clumps of my hair come out in the shower much like my stressed out leaf shedding tree.  As my work hours have ramped up lately, I can neither confirm, nor deny that has been the case as of late.

However, this weekend I had on my list a virtual 5K.  A race put on by some friends who always support me, and as it was a good cause so I had registered twice.  So, yesterday, I found myself at the trail head staring down the 10k with a bit of anxiety as most of my long runs as of late have been cut short due to other obligations.  I would set out on the trail and run solid for an hour and 18 minutes.  Along the way, I found bright sunshine, cool temps, even splits and even saw a gigantic turtle.  At the end, I would see a good friend running the same race and she would cheer me on to the finish.  All of my other friends did the run as well and posted their results in a community effort that felt like the first normal thing this spring.  In the shower that followed, there were no hair clumps and last night, despite my mild sunburn from a glorious run,  I admittedly slept a bit better for the first time in a while.  I suppose we all need to pay better attention to the times our own proverbial leaves are falling off, and our blooms of progress are no longer present.  We need to see that at times, although the design of life appears to be logical and symmetrical, strictly adhering to it at 100 mph can leave us in the dark corners of stress actually achieving very little balance and stunting our own ability to move forward and grow.  Maybe the trick is to find those people in our lives who can help us to pump the brakes a bit, pull us from the dark to join them in the light so that we can once again find balance and  burst into full bloom just the way we were meant to.  It is only in those moments we will see the best is yet to come. 

Doing the Awful Thing

When I graduated from NP school, I had two jobs to pick from.  One offered to me in an elevator on the fly one evening as I headed to the ER for one of my last RN shifts, and the other a formal interview and vetting process.  Me, being me, went with the on the fly offer and hoped for the best.  It happened to be in neurosurgery with a doc I had done some stroke research with and was regarded as the greatest local surgeon of that time.  He was an iconic member of the medical community and the most well respected guy around.  I suppose that's why the late night elevator offer seemed perfectly reasonable.  Besides, I kinda knew the guy so that made it easier out of the gate.

I would start my eight years there with no idea what I was doing.  Dr. B patiently took me under his wing and taught me just about all there was to know about the nervous system and the various pathologies that existed under the realm of surgery.  There were disc herniations and brain tumors.  Hydrocephalus and traumatic bleeds.  As for me?  I grew to love every minute.  There is a certain order to the body's wiring that clicked perfectly with my fairly linear brain.  Besides, I had a mentor that had a love for fast cars, which went perfectly with his work life which was pedal to the metal, 100mph at all times.  Coming from an ER background, and a self proclaimed adrenaline junkie, this suited me just fine.

Over time we developed sort of a dance we did.  On surgery days, I handled the office, hospital rounds, and the ER, and he would catch up with me between cases to handle pressing things.  Those calls always went the same way.  I gave him the rundown of the day, and ultimately would present cases waiting in the ER.  Early on I tried so hard to be prepared, ready to answer any question, preferring not to get stumped by the master.  I had my facts straight, like "62 year old male anticoagulated on plavix with a right sided subdural hematoma with 4mm of shift...."

Oh yes.  I had this.  That is until he would stop me,"Amy...."

"Yes?"

He would ask,"Did you do that awful thing?"

"Um..."

He would then ever so gently say,"Go look at the patient."

I learned early on that he had been trained in an era there was no CT scan, no MRI, no fancy lasers or 3D imaging.  There was him and a patient.  Period.  He would teach me that your patient will always tell you what is wrong with them if you ask enough questions and do the right neurological exam.  The only reason to get imaging is to confirm what you already know. As he would say,"we don't treat films, we treat people."

I would come to learn that very often the patient did not look anything like the scan.  They were talking when they shouldn't be or unconscious when the studies did not necessarily support that and the studies we had were not capturing the problem.  I would also come to learn that his practice style was unique in an age where limitless imaging was available at our finger tips.  I would see other physicians ordering bunches of tests.  I asked him one time why they would do that.  He said this,"It's like this Amy.  If you fire a rifle into a tree full of birds, eventually you are going to hit something."  In other words, searching for a diagnosis without really listening to your patient.

I have been thinking a lot about this lately.  How many times do we look at our own health and get so desperate for an answer that we get wrapped up in the diet plan, the number on the scale, how fast our mile time is, counting macros and a million other measurements? I am wondering what would happen if we put down the proverbial rifle, walked away from the tree full of birds and did that awful thing of really spending time asking ourselves the hard questions to see where the root of our health failures lives.  Is it late night snacking?  Is it relying on past failures to hold us back from trying one more time?  Is it not trusting ourselves to be successful?  or a support system that really isn't all that supportive?  Only by working through these things are we able to systematically take control and figure out which of those birds in the tree it truly will take to make the changes lasting.

I have come to learn that Dr. B was right on a lot of things.  Nineteen years later I can honestly say he made me the provider I am today, and taught me a lot about life.  I was proud to call him mentor and friend.  Dr. B passed away today, leaving a hole in the hearts of thousands of patients and colleagues, not to mention his family.  Thank you for all that you taught me, RIP old friend, and I hope I continue to do you proud.  Don't forget to always drive fast and stay in your lane as the best is truly yet to come.

Roasting the Pandemic Marshmallow

Tonight I find myself sitting by my backyard fire pit, watching the kids use a "school night" to do an activity usually reserved for summer vacation, which is roasting marshmallows.  I am struck by just how different today actually is than what I envisioned four months ago.  It was then I secured a site for my 1DOS Albany 5k that was to be held on Saturday.  This was the week I was to be finalizing with sponsors, marking the course, picking up swag, welcoming my co-founder to Albany for the first time and admiring the cool ass shirts we designed.  However, like most things COVID related, my race has been postponed. 

Pressure:  pushing down on me,

Pressing down on you, no man ask for,

Under pressure that burns a building down

                                                                               - Queen and David Bowie

Longing for a sense of normalcy, I have been doing the Orangetheory at home workouts.  It isn't quite the same without my gym family around me, but I seem to be sticking with it and getting it done anyway.  However, I should probably apologize to  OTF corporate for muting their music and choosing instead the Bon Jovi station that today played this oh so appropriate song during a punishing core blast.  Now having the ability to do COVID testing is bringing with it a very busy season at work.  My time on my days off is largely being spent on the phone with nervous employees, arranging schedules and working on work flow.  Adding to this are my duties as elementary teacher, mom of stir crazy children and CEO of two businesses.  Tonight I find myself wishing for a normal day like the ones I had in February where my biggest frustrations were making sure the kids got up on time for the bus and repeating the speech that follows,"you have the flu" to patients dozens of times a day.  

That's the terror of knowing,

What this world is about.

Watching some good friends screaming,

"Let me out!"

With all these things running around my thoughts I am suddenly thinking about what an amazing thing it is to have my nine year old standing in front of me, barefoot, carefully roasting his marshmallow as he narrates the process as if he is the star of his own YouTube channel.....he wishes....  After weeks of horrible weather, being cooped up inside, and using the phrase,"I'm bored" like a comma, yes this was a welcome site.  

Insanity laughs under pressure

As I tuned into the commentary that followed, I couldn't help but smile, and eventually burst out laughing,"You have to turn it slowly.  Don't put it too close to the fire.  It's slow and steady rotation until it is the color of mom's arm.  Be sure it does not end up the color of my arm."  He is a very dark skinned Haitian.  In his mind a marshmallow that color is clearly ruined.  My daughter was commenting it would ok if it were her color, as she is lighter skinned, and so it went, until I had my 14 year old chiming in with his expertise.  The reality is all five of my children have a different approach to marshmallows, everything from the immediate jamming into the fire, lighting it up and waiting to eat it until it is a charred gooey mess, to slow roasting, to nearly raw, sparking an intelligent epic debate defending their point of view, which led to a full on fireside taste test, and a realization, there are other ways to approach the process that taste just as good and at times even better.

Having to adjust to this pandemic has been a challenge for sure, in fact I personally have had several runs at trying to establish a new "normal."  Some things have ended up a charred gooey mess, like when I tried to pluck my own eyebrows,  and others roasted perfection like realizing as much as I miss my gym family and cannot wait to work out with them again, I am more than capable of keeping myself going on my own workouts, a notion I never could have conceived of five years ago.  

This is our last dance,

This is our last dance,

This is ourselves

At the end of the day, I think the trick is to realize although we may have all been given the same pandemic marshmallow, it's all in the approach as to how we make it as palatable as it can be while not being afraid to change trajectory when the approach no longer tastes good.  As we begin to wind down with the corona pandemic and things begin to reopen, it is my hope that in final days of the last dance of isolation we take the time to try new things to help us find the best version of ourselves to launch into our new normal.  Only there we will be able to look ahead and see the best is yet to come.

Sisterhood

I suppose you could say, being the youngest of 3, and the only girl, growing up I really didn't know a whole lot about sisterhood.  I was the tomboy little sister who played basketball on the driveway, and chased fungos at the hand of my dad with my brothers on warm weekend afternoons.  Oh, I had friends who had sisters.  They shared sweaters and scrunchies.  They fought and they hugged.  Truly a culture I was really not all that well versed at, and didn't totally understand.  That is until I went to college. 

I found myself setting out for The University of Iowa in the fall of 1987, arriving a full week ahead of classes to go through the rush process.  My brother, two years my senior, had already attended that school for two years and was firmly entrenched in the Greek system and assured me this was the thing to do.  I had no idea really.  The only thing I did know was I was striking out alone for the first time in my life and launching myself into a sea of 24,000 strangers three hours from home and hoping for the best.  I guess I figured worst case, I would have a week ahead of most people, making it easier to navigate the sprawling campus when  classes actually started, and would likely get to know a friend or two.

I found the rush process to be a bit daunting.  I had grown up a fairly shy obese child who really wasn't sure of anything, and yet I was going to house after house, party after party, trying to put my best foot forward in 20 minute increments.  I'd watch skits, hear them sing, talk to a couple members and try to figure out where it was among these 14 houses I could actually fit in.  Each round cuts were made.  I was invited back to some houses, but not others, and by the end of the week, the field was narrowed to three, and eventually I got a bid for one.  Alpha Gamma Delta.  I called my brother to ask if this was a good thing.  His comment?  "I have several friends there.  They are a very diverse house."

I would find that to be true.  We all came from different places and liked a lot of different things.  Not quite the cookie cutter girls I had seen in the movies.  I would also learn what sisterhood was all about.  I would move into the house my junior year and live with 25 other girls.  Oh sweaters were shared, boys were snuck in, late night deep chats were had after a night out.  There were the formals with many pics of big hair and shoulder pads, and more laughs than I can even begin to describe.  We loved one another when tragedy hit, when there was the loss of a parent for one sister, divorcing parents for others,  not to mention all of the boyfriend related issues that ended with a bottle of Boone's Farm drank out of plastic cups, and a skilled game of quarters.  We had our rituals that bound us together, and an element of community I had never experienced before. Certainly the best years of my college life. 

Then as life has a way of doing, we all drifted off to our various corners of the world.  We got married, we had kids, we raised our families and grew in our careers.  There were Christmas cards, and sisters that remained closer than others, but this is the way life is.  Right?  That is until a little thing called COVID-19 entered the scene.  I suppose it is the dark reality of the body bags lining the New York City, or the eerie quiet of a surreal lockdown none of us could have ever imagined, that have us pausing a bit.  In the pause, for a lot of us, comes the realization of what really matters in the midst of an invisible demon that can claim whoever it wants. 

On Friday, I would find myself parked at  my urgent care, N95 and PPE at the ready seeing patients when a lull would allow me to join the newly appointed Zoom Happy Hour with my sisters.   Back in the day we called it "FAC", code for the pre-party known as "Friday Afternoon Club."  I would look at all of the virtual faces.  We are now scattered across the country in Georgia, Illinois, New York, Arizona, California and Iowa to name just a few of the places.  Yet here we are on the same screen Brady Bunch Style talking about old times, with my sisters in their respective homes, sipping higher end wine from real glasses and laughing.  Pictures were shared, scrunchies were donned, and someone even had a collection of our coveted mascot, the squirrel.

 Side note, I did not understand then, nor do I now, why with every animal in the world AGD would pick the squirrel, nonetheless, they did, and we now all have a weird appreciation for the bushy tailed nut gatherer. 

It is pretty safe to say COVID-19 has had a significant impact on me.  I have a certain amount of nervousness about going to work every day.  I have moved into my guest suite so my exposure will not get my family sick and I have all new precautions for decontam when I get home from work.  So, to take some time on a Friday night to remember a time when life was a bit simpler and laugh with a sisterhood I have loved for so many years was just what I needed, and I am reasonably sure they did too.  When I finally got home that night, I joined a second Zoom call with some of my 1DOS Sharks in Kansas City, only this time it was my turn for high end wine, and laugh a whole lot more with people who have always supported the dreams of my foundation and matter a whole lot to me.

I think in the end we will find that COVID-19 was a vicious monster that claimed a lot of lives, but we will also see it allowed us to resurrect those things in our lives that truly matter.  Going forward, my sisters and I will continue on with our Friday night Zoom happy hour and continue to reconnect after so many years.  As for me, I have made one small change to my office at home.  I needed a less than subtle reminder that in all of the darkness surrounding difficult times, we need to pause and take the time to seek out those in our lives that bring the light and allow us to laugh.  I suspect with a little bit more joy we will be able to see that there is life past COVID-19, and that the best is yet to come.