Sunday, August 26, 2007

Day before school

It's Sunday night, right before the first day of school. And I'm ready. It's been a difficult week, and I need to focus on something else other than my personal woes.

I completed 21 of a 23-mile run today, mostly due to a lack of fuel in my tank. Christine motored the entire run in a most impressive fashion. Somewhere along mile 17, another woman tagged along on her 14-mile run and eventually left us. It was kind of painful watching her go ahead, considering that she appeared to have, oh, 20 pounds on us. Ugh.

The run may've been more difficult because I just ended a tough week. I finally had my follow-up mammogram, which turned out to be OK.

The anticipation of undergoing the mammogram truly gnawed at me. I've always had my exams in the evening, so I'm generally the only person in the waiting area. This time, I sat with four other women, each of us donning the white capes. If only the capes allowed us to have some superpower, to prevent something bad from harming us, to allow us to fly away and escape the pressure of what was to come, the fear of the unknown. Each woman I saw was able to go in and fly away. I had to return after my mammogram because of the irregularity. My cape and I returned to wait for the ultrasound. We got called back. As I laid on the examination table, I felt the tears stream down my face, even before the ultrasound began. I wondered what would happen to my girls, to my husband, to my family. Within 10 minutes, the radiologist arrived to tell me that I have a depression in the right side. It'll be OK. For now, I hope. I wish. I pray.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

Sunday, Rainy Sunday

A steady downpour is tapping on the sunlight in the kitchen, and I have to leave in an hour for a speed workout that I chose in favor of sitting after school for some diatribe on standardized testing.

I thought this would be a wiser choice for my training, my body, my spirit. At this moment, I'm thinking PSSA. Running in circles for an hour does not seem preferable.

Today Mark agreed to come to noon Mass. I told him I wanted the girls there with me, and he realized that it was important to me. His legs were tired due to his 15-mile run in the Parkway, so I was thankful he managed to get through the hour of sit, stand, sit, stand, sit, kneel, sit, kneel, stand, kneel, sit. (I think I got most of them in there.) Anyway, the girls were great. I felt some sense of peace by going, although it seems almost selfish to pray for yourself when you're accustomed to praying for other people. But if no one else prays for you, maybe it's not too egocentric. Perhaps.

After yesterday's illness, I feel mostly recovered (as I sit here donning a Blue Clue's headband that Grace wants me to wear.) Let's throw in a shout-out to Grace for her uncanny mastering of the porcelain shrine. Yesterday Mark tried to get her to do a Number Two. She balked, cranked a bit, but produced nothing.

Mark asked: No poop?

"Nope," she said, "my heiney's not working."

This morning? She headed off to the head on her own and dropped three impressive turds into the pond. She bellowed for me to run in so she could proudly brandish her accomplishment. Atta girl.

Keni, who's currenly in the midst of a two-hour nap, ended up being quite the card at Mass. She "read" the songbook for most of the service, even holding it correctly as we either sang or listened to Monsignor Hoban. Maybe she's training for the Little Sisterhood. It's been a long time since we've had a nun in the family. I don't know if the Mother Superior can handle her.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

Fall approaches

You can feel it in the air. The crispness envelopes you, and the breeze slowly sways the trees. As you run, the fresh air whips you in the face, and it is cool. So cool that you wish you were beneath a comforter with the windows open, your face relishing the wind as it pushes through your bedroom.

Fall lurks.

And you welcome it.

I'm hitting fall. In fact, it's more like I'm diving into fall--the season of my life. Although, it is difficult to welcome it. I view life as the four seasons. My babies are in spring; my teenager is entering summer. And I am in fall, and I am scared. Scared that I may never experience winter.

Today I ran an 18-miler and have never felt better on a long run, runs that I generally dread. But today my legs carried me through with very little pain; my stomach felt otherwise. I had to stop once with the trots, and I hardly made it home before bolting to the bathroom. And then for the next five hours, I went. And went. And went some more. I could hardly eat. I developed a fever that lasted for two hours. And I dreamt about my impending ultrasound. I am scared of the fall. I am afraid that something terrible will be delivered to me on Wednesday, and I worry that I will not see my babies grow up. I wonder why I waited so long to have these girls, and I know I really did not have a choice if I wanted a family with my husband.

But the grief is enveloping me like the crisp wind that so took my breath away this morning at 5:30, when I watched black clouds skate across an orange sky and heard the wind as it whipped our bodies.

I am not sad at the prospect of losing a breast. If I do, it is God's will. But I pray that it not God's will to rob me of the golden opportunity to run with my friends, to share the love of my husband, to witness the growth of my baby girls from spring and into summer. Autumn has always been my favorite season; right now, it's not.

Summer's end approaches

You can feel it in the air. The crispness envelopes you, and the breeze slowly sways the trees. As you run, the fresh air whips you in the face, and it is cool. So cool that you wish you were beneath a comforter with the windows open, your face relishing the wind as it pushes through your bedroom.

Fall lurks.

And you welcome it.

I'm hitting fall. In fact, it's more like I'm diving into fall. Although, it is difficult to welcome it. My babies are in spring; my teenager is entering summer. And I am in fall, and I am scared.

Today I ran an 18-miler and have never felt better on a long run, runs that I generally dread. But today my legs carried me through with very little pain; my stomach felt otherwise. I had to stop once with the trots, and I hardly made it home before bolting to the bathroom. And then for the next five hours, I went. And went. And went some more. I could hardly eat. I developed a fever that lasted for two hours. And I dreamt about my impending ultrasound. I am scared of the fall. I am afraid that something terrible will be delivered to me on Wednesday, and I worry that I will not see my babies grow up. I wonder why I waited so long to have these girls, and I know I really did not have a choice if I wanted a family with my husband.

But the grief is enveloping me like the crisp wind that so took my breath away this morning at 5:30, when I watched black clouds skate across an orange sky and heard the wind as it whipped our bodies.

I am not sad at the prospect of losing a breast. If I do, it is God's will. But I pray that it not God's will to rob me of the golden opportunity to run with my friends, to share the love of my husband, to witness the growth of my baby girls from spring and into summer.

Sunday, August 5, 2007

Sunday, August 5

Today I logged six miles with Kathy P in the Parkway; in the evening, I ran down the South Mountain twice, with Mark and the girls following me in the truck. We drove to the tippety top where he promptly kicked me out the door. You have to go several hundred yards before you begin the first descent. As the drop began, I could feel myself pulling back so that I would go too fast. As cars would approach from behind, Mark would toot the horn. The neat part of the run was that I could hear my girls in the car: "Go, Mommy, go" and "Run fast, Mommy." Their shreiks made me smile--more than any bowl of Moose Tracks could muster.

We also went out for an early dinner to celebrate Annie's 17th birthday. Fine dining, at its best--Red Lobster! Her choice. Why does it seem that so many large people eat there? I swear, there was a pair of two women across from us. Together they probably tipped in at 450. At least. One of them was on oxygen, and you could hear the tank pumping air as she shoved fried shrimp down her throat. There's something sad about it. On our way out, I counted two wheelchairs, one walker, and a little nun. It's almost like Old Country Buffer for fish eaters.

Afterward, we swam with the girls and Andrew while Ann sat on the sidelines. I wish she felt more like a player on our team. How do you get someone to join the game when they don't want to play? Even when they're an integral part of the line-up?

Saturday, August 4, 2007

Saturday, August 4

Despite the heat, we managed 18 miles in 3.5 hours. OK, so we're not going to qualify for Boston. But I'm pleased, especially considering that I felt as though I was suffering some heat stroke or an angina attack by mile 3. I ended up crying for about minute or more, mostly because I was in pain but also because I cannot stand the idea of not finishing a long run. I fear that quitting early will foreshadow a poor performance in the marathon.

Anyway, we were at mile 16 on Gehman Road, which has no shoulder, when a man who looks as though he never misses a meal flies by in a conversion van with the windows up (suggesting, of course, air conditioning). Well, it was probably 85 degrees at this point, and we're sweaty Betties who are cruising on the white line. As he passes us, the old bastard starts mouthing curse words at us and gestures for us to get off the road. Of course, no one was coming down the other lane. He just didn't want bother moving toward the center line and expected us to jump from his path.

Christine used some of her truck-driver phrases as I just tried to laugh him off. It was reminiscent of the ice-pop guy incident two weeks prior. At that time, we had finiished another 18-miler and wound up clocking in at Wawa. We planned to make it our end point so we could walk the mile back to my house. Again, it was another scorcher of a day, so we ran in and each bought a 99-cent ice pop, the kind the changes colors as you eat it. We were like two schoolgirls--allright, not physically, but spiritually--as we raced to rip off the paper. It was a form of oral sex. Pleasure. Ecstasy. We were practically moaning. That is until a mini bus pulls up. The driver, another guy swimming in the obese zone, pulls the door open. "Hey girls, eating that ice cream is only going to ruin your workout."

I just smiled. Christine, on the other hand, says: "Hey, we just ran 18 miles. We're entitled." After all it was a mere 90 calories. His face just kind of sank into his lap and he pulled off.

For some reason, people seem to get angry or bitter when they see other people working out. Is it envy, jealousy, or simple guilt for allowing their own gut to rest on their thighs?

On a kid note: Grace ended her four-day cessation of pooping. For two days I worried that she'd take another BM in my mother's pool. But today when we got home from swimming, she ran to the bathroom with a fear in her eyes, knowing she was about to produce a monstrous waste.

That's my girl!

Thursday, August 2

Today I logged 7 miles, which weren't too bad save for the fact that Christine hauled major ars on the final leg. It was enough of a workout to allow me to continue my illicit affair with Mr. Moose Tracks this evening. Hell, we may even invited Mr. Peanut Butter to spooon with us for a few minutes of naughty fun.

Last night Grace made a new friend. I had the radio playing in our room where she was bouncing on our bed. A commercial came on and a woman started speaking in a conversational voice. "Hello, I'm Kathy Bortz, assistant director of admissions at DeSales University, and I blah blah blah..." Well, Kathy had Grace at "hello." Grace immediately stopped jumping and walked over to the radio and responds, "Oh, hello." She continues to listen to Kathy. Kendall kept jumping, and Grace says: "Kendall, be quiet. I'm listening to my friend." Grace stares at the radio, hanging on to Kathy's words. She wears this perplexed look and even looks behind the radio. Finally, the commercial ends and a song starts. Grace says: "Oh, my friend is singing now!" With that, she jumped back on the bed and bounced on. If only Ric Ocasek from the Cars knew he was mistaken for Kathy Bortz of DeSales, Grace's new friend who lives in the radio.