I Know the Way Out

Lately, the universe has been dropping some hints that it's time to tell this story. I met an amazing woman during my last marathon who was running in memory of her brother who committed suicide, and I believe we were meant to meet. I am drawn to these stories, and I feel like I might be able to make a difference, but I'm not sure how just yet. Maybe this is it. 

I've always had anxiety with a probable side of depression. I didn't understand it when I was a kid, hell, I don't totally understand it at 41. But I do know that what my parents called "worrying" back in the 70s was really a bigger thing. Everyone worries. Most kids don't agonize over and replay every single interaction, have insomnia, make themselves sick, and isolate themselves. 

I've talked about this in other blog posts, so I'm just going to quote myself when I describe how anxiety feels: 

"The best way to describe what anxiety feels like is to tell someone to imagine standing in a crowded room, screaming at the gunman in the corner while everyone else politely sips their tea. They look at you like you're crazy. You point at the gunman, and they don't see him. You're pumping more adrenaline through your body than your heart can handle and they say "please pass the sugar."

After I had my daughter in 2008, I was diagnosed with postpartum depression. Only it didn't feel like postpartum depression. It felt like how I always felt when big changes happened, like the roller coaster was coming off the rails. I've always had difficulty adjusting and coping with change, and bringing a colicky baby who wouldn't eat into a house I'd shared alone with my husband for 10 years was a big adjustment to cope with.

This time, this feeling I was having was given a name. And a drug. I was given anti-depressants and some Xanax and told that this was a hormonal thing that would likely level out over my child's first year. It didn't. Oh, I got better at being a mom, and Claire and I figured each other out. Yet, I still had panic attacks that were directly related to my insecurities as her mother, and actually felt even less like myself on the drugs, which I didn't connect to the pharmaceuticals. I just thought I was losing my mind. I didn't level out. 

In 2010, when my child was two, I was alone with her and had such a severe panic attack that I had to run outside and throw up. I've shared that before on this blog, but I didn't share how serious it was. I was convinced that I was going to have a panic attack every time I was alone with my child, and I didn't want to live if that was true. She's my light in this world, and if I couldn't be her mother, I didn't want to be. 

So, what do you do when you're sick and you're worried about your safety? Both of these things were true, it doesn't matter that I was the danger to myself. You go to the doctor. I went to the emergency room. This was life or death, and I even called my nurse sister who agreed: get there fast and get help.

At the time, I worked for the hospital I drove myself to, and I knew that going there meant I was going to see people I worked with. 

I walked up to the desk and told the woman through tears that I was a danger to myself. I was put in a room in the emergency department. I was given a cup with pills and water to take them with. I asked what the pills were and I was told they would calm me down. I was left alone for a while. I was wheeled up to the locked behavioral health unit. I was given more medication. I was asked to hand over the string from my sweatshirt and sweatpants. I was left alone again. I went through an intake procedure. I was put in a room and told that I would be seen by a psychiatrist the next day. Until then, I was staying there.

I cried myself to sleep to the sounds of other screaming patients in the unit. I woke up and was told I had to attend group therapy. I went and listened to stories of severely mentally ill people who made my problems look like an episode of Little House on the Prairie. Soon, the psychiatrist came and told me she didn't think I needed to be there anymore, and, even if she did, it would only be for 72 hours. I couldn't imagine spending 72 hours in that place, so she sent me to a group home. I lasted 2 hours there. It wasn't the right place for me either.

So I went home 24 hours later with a follow-up appointment with a therapist for a week later. Only nothing changed. I actually felt worse about myself. I still didn't know how to be a mother. I still didn't want to be alive if I couldn't be a mother. I felt, again, like I was screaming for help and no one could hear me. 

Thus began the most self-destructive period of my life. I stopped taking anti-depressants, and I lost my trust in the medical system. By the end of the following year, I was separated from my husband, and I had split custody of my daughter. The worst thing I could imagine had happened. I had pushed everyone away, I was living in an apartment alone, and I hated myself. My decisions reflected my self loathing. I didn't deserve happiness, or a husband who loved me, or to see my child every day. I didn't feel like I deserved love.

I was at rock bottom, right? This is the cliche. So, how did I get out? It was a recipe of ingredients, not just one thing. I took a new job (because the rest of the stress in my life paled in comparison) that introduced me to some people who made me feel like I wasn't worthless. I traveled for that job, I stayed busy, and I let it distract me when I didn't have my kid with me. When I did have my kid, I spent a ton of time with JUST HER and figured something out: I'm kind of good at being her mother.

I started to feel like myself again. Sometimes I had anxiety, but I didn't feel like it was out of my control. It felt like ME. I now know that it's likely the anti-depressant combo I was on was making me feel worse, not better. I do not blame this for all of my actions, and I'm going to say this: do NOT go off any prescribed drugs without consulting multiple doctors. I very nearly lost my life during the time I was adjusting to being drug free. But one day, the sun came back out. I remember going to the doctor for a check up around this time and they said I should go back on anti-depressants to deal with my life stress. I looked at them and said: "It's time for me to feel again. I'm going through some tough times, but this is life. This is me." They prescribed them anyway. I didn't take them.

It was around this time that I signed up for my first half marathon, and training for it changed my life. I found out that eating well, staying busy, and working out made me less likely to have anxiety. I found out so much about me. I have depression and anxiety, and I always will. I just accept these things as part of what makes me ME. And all this running. Yes, all this running is now a part of me. It has to be. That's the secret: most runners I meet have found their peace out on the road, running at dawn. 

By 2013, I had my husband back, a home again, and a life that I now felt I deserved. There was no secret recipe. It was hard work. It was marriage counseling. It was therapy. It was learning about me. I'm not perfect, and I'll never be, but I'm here, and I'm worthy of being here. I fought hard for my relationship and my family.

There's a story in a scene from one of my favorite TV shows, The West Wing, that I will link to below, but here's a quick summary: a guy is in a hole and can't get out. A priest walks by and says a prayer, keeps going. A doctor walks by, writes a prescription, keeps going. His friend walks by, jumps in the hole. The guy in the hole says "what the hell are you doing? now we are both stuck down here." The friend says "yeah, but I've been down here before. I know the way out." 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZQJ6yqQRAQs

I know the way out, but it's not the same for everyone. And I'm sad to say the cure doesn't exist in the hospital. It can be a beginning though. They will keep you safe from yourself for a short time, but the work will begin when you leave. Every time I hear about suicide, I think about that person and how they probably looked for help and didn't find it. I think about leaving the place that was supposed to help me, feeling worse than I did before. I think about how it could have been me. I think about how I have more to do to help change that experience for someone. 

I promise to be that friend to you, to help you find your way out. What I know now, what worked for me, it might not work for you, but I'll hold the flashlight. 


"Even the darkest night will end, and the sun will rise."
- Victor Hugo

There's Beauty in the Breakdown

I quit my job recently. It seems simple enough. You aren't all that satisfied with your job, you dream of doing something else, you find that something else, you're pleased, you leave, you start the new job. I was ecstatic about the new opportunity. It was everything I wanted. 

Except I tend to struggle with change. And forget that I struggle with change. Struggle is probably a bad word for it, because only recently have I come to realize that I have an acute biological reaction to situations like this. Even as it's happening, I can look at it and say "that's my body reacting to this change, the world is not exploding" but I can't stop it. It's like having an allergic reaction, looking at it and saying "those are hives" and then thinking you can stop it with your brain.

I left my old job with no regrets, took a few days off, ran a fun race with friends and I wasn't even anxious on my first day. About a week later, the small nagging feeling started in the pit of my stomach. Did I make a mistake or was this just that part of me that I forgot about? The part of me that reacts to change? What if this feeling wasn't just an allergic reaction? What if it was a sign that I had done something wrong, that I had made the wrong choice? 

I kept asking my family and friends to reassure me. I stopped sleeping. I tried to think of other things. I exercised, I read books, I tried to distract myself but only succeeded in exhausting myself. 

I have always been this way. Growing up, I rarely slept the night before a new school year. I made myself sick worrying about a small slight from a  friend and stayed home a lot just out of fear. 

After I had my daughter, I experienced horrible postpartum depression that led to me having panic attacks when I was alone with her. I was convinced that something was going to happen to her and that I was going to be unable to stop it. I was convinced that I was the crazy one, that I might be the thing that was going to happen to her. Once, I had such a fierce panic attack, I had to run out of the house into frigid winter temperatures to throw up, hyperventilating and then checking myself into the hospital. I had never loved anyone so much, and I was so fearful of that. My mind is trained to go to the worst possible scenario, and when you're a mother, that scenario becomes a house of horror. 

The best way to describe what anxiety feels like is to tell someone to imagine standing in a crowded room, screaming at the gunman in the corner while everyone else politely sips their tea. They look at you like you're crazy. You point at the gunman, and they don't see him. You're pumping more adrenaline through your body than your heart can handle and they say "please pass the sugar."

The next several weeks, I was on a roller coaster. I'd feel great, love the work I was doing, and then I'd wake up in the middle of the night feeling like I was on an island where nothing was familiar. All the while, no one but those closest to me knew I was struggling. That's the thing: most people with anxiety problems are funny, high-functioning, rational, creative beings. You can't see the hives.

I had a particularly rough weekend, and I found myself sitting in my neighbor's backyard watching several children jump from a tree fort onto a trampoline. Several Skyline kids were doing it, just hopping over the railing and taking the plunge with glee, disappearing into a pile of leaves someone had gathered inside the trampoline. 

My daughter watched for a while and then walked over to try it. Then walked away. Then walked back over. Struggled. Began to cry. She asked my husband to go up there and help her get over the railing, but when he climbed up, she didn't want to go over the railing. She cried, she yelled at herself. She finally got over the railing, and then just stood there. Suspended in pain and fear. She climbed back over the railing and let other kids jump. She tried again. And again. Through tears, anger at herself and panic. 

When she finally jumped, I cried. The other kids kept jumping. She went back up and did it again, still crying. Forcing herself to do it over and over again. The littlest of the group, a four year old, finally got permission from her parents and jumped without hesitation. Claire kept having to push herself, but she jumped more than any other kid there.

Later, I asked her if it was fun once she tried it. She said "Not really, but I had to keep going so I wouldn't be scared anymore." She  cried when she recalled how hard it was for her to jump, and yet a four year old could do it without blinking. I told her she was brave, she was fierce. To jump was so much harder for her, the fear so much bigger. Her body telling her so much. But she did it anyway. She overcame that fear and kept pushing through it. I was so proud of her, because I know how that feels. The monster lurking at the bottom of the trampoline that no one can see.

I told myself to give it time, that reaching the peak of this roller coaster meant that it was coming to an end. Sure enough, my body has let up on the proverbial hives. I love my new job and it was the right decision. When I start to falter, I remember that little girl jumping. I give myself permission to take some time, take a deep breath. Keep jumping. Let go.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=13WAhlE02ew

Mankato Magazine

Just wanted to post a link to an essay I wrote for the Mankato Magazine that is based on my last post. I am proud of myself for letting this one out into the world.

It is missing the last few lines: The difference with this race is that I’m finally realizing that it’s ok to feel that way. Not everyone loves races. But I am still a runner. And I am still strong.

And I am.

Check it out, starting on page 22. Also, the editor's note on page 6.
https://issuu.com/dhabrat/docs/katomag_10_16

For Those Who Don't Enjoy the Race

That's me in the back. Hating life. It is not a moment I want to remember, nor is it a moment I want to repeat. The photo was posted on Facebook by the race. I tagged myself and saved the photo because I figured I'd have to face this and write about it eventually.

About a year and a half ago, after finishing my second half marathon, I decided to have surgery on my foot to repair several issues. Whether this was a good decision or not is now up for debate, I had a doctor that I no longer trust telling me it was. That's a different blog post for a different time. The point is, I took last year off from signing up for official races so I could give the foot a year to heal.

Beginning in January, I decided it was game on. I signed up for my third half marathon in June, started working out almost every day, and found a few wackos to sign up with me to ensure that I would stick to a  rigorous training schedule. I was feeling great. I had never felt better and more in shape. I was digging our training runs and the camaraderie I felt with the girls I ran with all the time. Note the past tense. (That's called foreshadowing.)

Part of our training included a small fundraiser 10K on Memorial Day. I really didn't think much of it. Sure, I have a track record of choking during these things and I hadn't participated in an official race in more than a year, but the weekend before, we did 15 miles. I thought it would be just like a training run. Sure, I was coming off a week of work travel and a crappy long run the day before, but I would have my buddies with me and it wouldn't be so bad. I went to bed pretty cranky and upset. (That's also called foreshadowing.)

When the race began, my competitive running buddies happily sprinted off (why were they so excited?) and I was paralyzed. I tried to keep up for a while but they were lost in competition land going 2 minutes/mile faster than I had planned. I'm happy for them, I'm glad they felt great, I love them with all of my heart. I wish I could bottle their race day enthusiasm and shoot it into my veins like the heroin it most certainly is.

I don't like to compete. I don't like crowds. I don't even like sports. I don't get the "race-day adrenaline rush." I don't know if you understand yet, so I'll say it: I HATE OFFICIAL RACES. My race day "plan" was to pretend like we weren't really in a race. I was just going to pretend like the trails were crowded that day! BECAUSE I HATE OFFICIAL RACES.

I run alone often, in fact, until this year, I ran almost every training run alone. However, I prep for it. I listen to music, podcasts, plan my route, stick to a pace based on how I feel, and tune out the world. I didn't even have my headphones with me yesterday. This was going to be 6 hot miles of me and my self-defeating thoughts.

First, my watch didn't start when it was supposed to, so I never really knew where I was on the route, which those who do these stupid things understand will kill you. Next, I got to the second mile and my brain told me I had to walk. And cry. Really, I was crying after 2 miles. Why was I crying?! This is the chick who did 15 miles the week before. This was not a good omen. I had to push myself through every 1/10 of a mile for the entire race. I would find a decent pace, pass someone, and then end up walking, only to have them pass me later.

I saw my friends at the end cheering for me and I wanted to hide. They came over and I dissolved into a puddle of tears. I told them I never want do this again, and I left. And I cried in my room for hours. Right now I'm trying to convince myself to even run the race I signed up for so many months ago, the one that I did all of this for, the one that I felt so prepared for. The one I know I'm physically prepared for.

I finished the race at about 1:03, a time that I wouldn't have been ashamed of a few months ago, but I know I had it in me to do so much better if it hadn't been for my struggle with myself.

So what happened? Why am I telling this personal story to strangers? Why did I save that stupid photo? I don't know, I'm just writing this to get it off my mind. I don't have the answers. It has been 24 hours and I can't even talk about it without crying. My running buddies asked me to do 4-5 miles this morning and I COULDN'T EVEN RESPOND. I don't know why I feel like this and I don't know how I'm going to get over it. I can't believe I'm sharing my humiliation on the interwebs without even knowing why I'm humiliated. It comes down to this: I am scared to run.

For now, what I can do is list the reasons why I sign up for these damn things if I hate them so much in the hopes that I can find my way back to the love I have for running before June 18.

1) Fitness. This is really the least important one on the list but I thought I'd get it out of the way. Signing up for official races that I DREAD MORE THAN DEATH keeps me motivated to do the training runs that keep me semi- in shape. Period.

2) Chasing the dragon. That I just used a drug reference is not an accident. I love how (sometimes) I feel like I could run forever like Forrest Gump. I hate getting out of bed to do it, but I always love how I feel when training runs are over. I feel accomplished, happy, and unable to conjure feelings of anger and anxiety. That's the dragon I chase. It's cheaper than anti-depressants, and I like the side effects a lot more.

3) Friends. I have made some really great friends and have had the opportunity to see my already great friends much more often as a result of the grueling training schedule we put ourselves on. We hold each other accountable, we push each other when we don't want to go anymore and we laugh while we're doing it. There is really no better way to start my day than with these people and that feeling.

4) I can. Many people I love can't run. They don't have to worry about stupid race day anxiety because they don't have limbs or they have bad hearts or they have cancer. Or they are dead. It's morbid, but come on. The only thing keeping me from running is my...brain? I feel like such a whiner.

Journalism, Law, and Adnan Syed

I double majored in English and Journalism in college and my favorite class was Mass Communications Law, hands down. I have a deep fascination with the way the law has shaped journalism and the way journalism has shaped law.

True crime has always intrigued me. I don't like scary movies and I often become fearful when reading about true crime stories, but I can't look away. When I started listening to Serial during season one, I couldn't tear my ear buds away from my head. It wasn't just because I was intrigued by the case, it was because this was a totally new way to be a journalist.

Unlike many of my fellow soldiers in the Serial army, I was not new to This American Life or podcasts. I love music, but on monotonous long runs training for a couple of races I stupidly signed up for, I would get bored of my playlists and turn to audio books or This American Life.

There's something about the podcast movement and Serial's epic rise that says so much about how things have changed and stayed the same. It was like we had all been transported back to the early days of radio. Its simplicity as a medium combined with the technology used to deliver it to 5 million people per week was a game changer. I'm thankful to Sarah Koenig for that, although I know it wasn't on purpose. She had no idea this was going to happen.

Fast forward to last week when the post-conviction relief (PCR) hearing to determine if there is enough evidence to grant Syed a new trial begins. Since Serial ended, I have done what I always do when I become intrigued by something: I read EVERYTHING, watch EVERYTHING and listen to EVERYTHING that I can find on the subject. I assumed that a good portion of the Serial army did as well.

They didn't. I wasn't the only one listening to Undisclosed, the podcast started by family friend Rabia Chaudry (the one who begged Sarah Koenig to take on this case) and two other lawyers, Susan Simpson and Colin Miller, who got sucked in by Serial and couldn't stop researching it (just like me, only smarter) and Truth and Justice, another podcast started by fan Bob Ruff, but there certainly weren't 5 million of us listening.

Going from Serial to Undisclosed and Truth and Justice was like going from elementary school to graduate school in one leap. Much of what Sarah uncovered or took for granted was called into question and, often, disproved. It's not that Sarah didn't work to uncover new information, it's that she a) isn't a lawyer and b) didn't get to benefit from the massive attention her podcast had on the rest of the world and, amazingly, potential alibi witnesses. That being said, there really is no excuse for her elementary-level coverage of the PCR hearing.

As someone who donated money to Serial to keep it going because I believed that they were bringing justice to Hae's family (because justice for Hae does not involve convicting the wrong person with no physical evidence) and that Serial would continue to do this important work to fight the radical indifference problem we have in this country: I am disappointed.

I now know more about the case than Sarah does, and her coverage of the PCR hearing was, in a word: embarrassing. Still, it didn't bother me too much until I realized how many people were relying on her to deliver the ending they so desperately wanted. The dream we all hope for, the happy ending. The 5 million plus people who listened and waited for Thursday mornings every week were now waiting for her to provide closure. They felt that if there was more information to share, they would get it from the person who seemed so addicted to finding the truth. Unfortunately, it seems as if she stopped caring about Adnan the minute she posted the final installment. Her clueless calls to Dana from the closet in her hotel room were filled with the indifference that I hoped she would eradicate.

Sarah did a lot for Adnan's case, so I'm not going to continue to harp on her current lack of interest, because I also think we are seeing yet another evolution in the way this PCR hearing is being covered. There are multiple amazing sources "live tweeting" from the hallways of the courthouse, feeding the hungry masses who haven't hid their heads in the sand since Serial ended. There is still an army out there, and they are anything but indifferent.

Lawyers from all over the country providing background on PCR hearings via Twitter and their blogs, journalists suddenly doubling and tripling their followers on Twitter because they are covering the case, podcasters and random lawyers from Minnesota using Periscope to recap the day's testimony and average Joes like me getting likes from Rabia and her brother. This is a movement of the people, for the people. This is a drastic shift in the way journalism can bend and shape itself to continue to be not only relevant, but integral to providing justice. This is a new case to be covered in that Mass Communications Law class, and we are making history.

#AdnanSyed #JusticeforHae #FreeAdnan

Ragnar Great River, a.k.a. The Race That Must Not Be Named

 

That is me on the left and Suzi on the right, sporting our hard-earned Ragnar medals.

 



I have a complete Ragnover, which is Ragnar for Ragnar hangover. However, I promised my van mates I would write a blog post about our Ragnar experience before I forget everything. For those who don't know, Ragnar is "an overnight running relay race that makes testing your limits a team sport." This is according to their very cheerful website, www.ragnarrelay.com. And how. You run 200 miles with a 12-person team by doing 3 runs in a 36-hour period.

This was the most challenging race any of us had ever participated in. So much so that we started calling it "The Race That Must Not Be Named" in homage to Voledemort from the Harry Potter series. We are the girls who lived.

Most of you are reading this for Ragnar tips and tricks, so I'll start with that list and then give you my full Ragnar story. In addition, you can see my Twitter feed with fun quotes and more photos from the road at: https://twitter.com/BeTheFern

My advice to future Ragnar runners:

• Get one of those water coolers with a spigot that they usually have at water stops to put in the back of your van. You will often not have water stops and there is no room for a bunch of disposable water bottles. Buy gallons of water and ice when you can so you can support your runners.
• Decorate your van! Pick a fun team name that lends itself to a theme for your van. Get crazy. Ragnar is a tough race and this is part of the fun. Seeing all the vans and fun people out there makes you feel like you're not alone in your insanity.
• Get something to "tag" other vans with your team name. We had everything from magnets stuck to our vehicle to penises drawn on our windows. It's like the Ragnar equivalent of a dog marking their territory.
• Find some battery operated holiday lights or some way to decorate your van for the night runs and get creative with your night time attire: bring glow sticks and silly lighted wearables. It is very cool to see glowing runners all over the place.
• Don't try to shove everyone in an SUV or minivan. Get a big passenger van so you all have room to sleep occasionally. We didn't do this and our vehicle was cramped and cluttered.
• Bring a mat to sleep on. You will want to stretch and get out of the vehicle occasionally, and your only option might be the ground.
• Cheer for every runner you see. Pull over, blast music and encourage people. I had the most fun standing on a dirt road in my sweatpants screaming my head off and ringing a cowbell for my team and people I didn't know.
• You'll find many blogs telling you to bring 3 sets of clothes in Ziploc bags ready to go. I agree wholeheartedly. The more organized you can be the better. Put your gross clothes back in the Ziploc bags when you're done and contain the stink.
• Eat food that you normally would eat before a run. It's tempting to get crazy when you have a break, but like that big clock in the second Hunger Games book, you're never far from another run. And trust me, you don't want to have a stomach problem during this race.
• One van had a bullhorn and a PA system so they could yell out hilarious things as they rode around. "Are you here for the Ragnar?" was shouted from that van often and never failed to make me smile.
• Use the Road ID app so you can keep track of your runner. In this race, you're in charge of keeping yourself and your runners safe and it also helps you time when to get to the exchange.
• Don't pay too much attention to the rankings Ragnar publishes for the runs. They are ALL HARD. This is not for the faint of heart. Don't compare your legs to other runners on your team. You are all in this together. Everyone is struggling. Everyone is sleep deprived and tired. You're either all in it for the team or you aren't.
• In short, have fun. Train. And train some more. Drink water. Bond with your team. Kick ass.

My Ragnar Story:

I am what I like to call a reluctant runner. I like running when I like running. Running is very therapeutic for people like me who are cursed with brains that don't shut off. Sometimes I feel like I could run forever. Sometimes I feel like I have super powers. However, sometimes it really hurts. Sometimes it's really hard.

Two years ago, I trained and did a half marathon at a 10-minute pace. I was really proud of that because although I have been running on my own for years, I have largely shunned large running events. I like to run alone, I've never considered myself an athlete and it makes me nervous to compete. And not a good kind of nervous. An "I'd really rather be doing anything else" nervous. I did a few 5k races, a 10k race and ran my butt off to train for the half marathon and felt really good about my time.

Then I stopped running. I obviously needed a break from my strict training schedule and I hibernated all winter. I did some races that summer (short ones) and a marathon relay that fall but I wasn't strict about my training and I hurt my back. So I decided to use the winter to strength train and I really started to feel strong. When February rolled around and my friend Brenda asked if I wanted to be a part of a Ragnar team, I said yes. I was excited to get back to a strict training schedule and feel that super power feeling again!

And then, I got a stress fracture in my foot. And my podiatrist told me I needed surgery immediately if I planned to participate in the race. I refused, wore a walking boot for a week, and tried to plow through it. I didn't feel great and had to take everything slow, but I wasn't into the thick of training yet.

And then, when my foot started to function enough to get my shoes on, I felt like I couldn't breathe when I ran. I went to the doctor and found out I have asthma, likely allergy induced (we will see if I still have problems when the pollen is frozen by the Minnesota winters). So here I was, struggling through pain in my foot and with my breathing and this Ragnar race was 2 months away.

Training wasn't fun. I had very few of the positive running experiences I'd had before. My normal 10-minute mile turned into a 12-minute mile. I had to get more than one kind of inhaler. I did a 10k and barely made it through. But I got a few good 7 and 8 mile training runs in and decided to put my big girl panties on and go for it.

Why did I Ragnar if I had asthma and stress fractures and allergies that were making it hard to breathe? The reasons are numerous, but the loudest voice was for the team. Me, someone who shunned teams and doesn't like organized races, did this for some really amazing people who happened to be on my team.

My friend Brenda is selfless and is the fairest person I know. She is a peacemaker and a rock. She runs for the same reasons I do, but she likes to compete. My friend Suzanne, who I met through my sister and is an honorary family member, was flying in from L.A. and loves to run these things. Ruth used to be in my book club and had moved away to get married (next weekend, hello Ragnar bachelorette!). I really wanted to run with her again after she ran her leg and mine in the relay we did last fall just because she wanted to support me with my back issue. These ladies would never let me down and I wasn't about to let them down either.

This is how I found myself in La Crosse, WI, on a Thursday night sleeping in a crappy hotel room before our alarm went off at 3:35 a.m. Our start time was at 5:45 in Winona, MN, but we needed to be there an hour early to check in, get our race packet and attend a mandatory safety meeting. Ragnar asks you to submit your 10k pace in order to get an average pace for your 12-person team and uses that info to give you a start time. The teams start anywhere from 5:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m., because they want everyone to finish in the same several hour window.

 

Ruth at the start at 5:45 a.m.

We were tired (well we thought we were tired, but we had no idea) but excited. Ruth was first in the rotation and we cheered as she took off while the sun came up over the Mississippi. We loaded up on Ragnar merchandise and climbed into the Suburban we were about to live in for 2 days to head to exchanges and change runners after each leg. We were having fun cheering on our runners along their routes, stopping to blare music and dance in fields and seeing our fellow Ragnarians troll back roads searching for their teammates. Most people rent white Ford passenger vans, so it was a boxy, smelly convoy of decorated silliness.

The day started to get warm, really warm. I started to get nervous, really nervous. I was the 6th runner in our rotation, which means I was going to hand the slap bracelet we used to change runners off to the 7th runner, or the first runner in the second van. Ragnar classifies every leg by difficulty, these categories are based on distance, availability of support and elevation. My first run was 7.5 miles and classified as Very Hard. And how. Heat, humidity, hills...this leg had it all. I struggled through it and felt pretty horrible when it was over, but I recovered quickly and we passed the slap bracelet on to the first runner from van 2.

It was early afternoon, so we found a restaurant and got some grub before heading to the next big exchange point, which was in a campground by a very loud train. The white passenger van convoy was parked in a grass field and we were all trying to sleep on the ground in the heat of the afternoon, unsuccessfully. A baby wipe shower followed and Ruth started her second leg as the sun was going down.

The next 6 legs were done in the dark. This was the leg I was dreading all along but once the time arrived, I found the energy somewhere. It was around 1:30 a.m., clear, cool and dark. I could only see a few feet in front of me with the required headlamp I was wearing, in addition to the blinky lights of other runners in front of me. I enjoyed that run the most and felt pretty good through the entire thing. It seems I am less scared of hills when I can't see them coming!

Once I was done, we passed it on to van 2 to keep running through the night and headed off to our next exchange where we got a shower in a junior high locker room and tried to sleep. Brenda and I slept (kind of) on the grass in the baseball field and the rest of our van tried to sleep in the vehicle.

That's me on the left and Brenda on the right after my night run.

Yes, that's an inhaler in my sports bra. No, I have no idea where we are.

 



My bed for 3 hours. Only at Ragnar!

 

 

We woke up and started all over again. Van 2 showed up and Ruth started running again, setting us off on our van's 3rd rotation. By now, we were running on very little sleep and the thought of one more run was sounding just slightly more insane than throwing ourselves off a cliff. We all talked about what would happen if we couldn't finish on time, decided we were here to run, and we got our minds where they needed to be. It was hot, every leg seemed to be harder than advertised, and we got silly stupid.

 

 

Marking my last leg off the list on our Suburban.

 

 



My last leg is not very clear to me, but something other than my body got me through it. I went to a place in my brain that is stubborn and really wanted that medal. And a medal I got. We went to the finish and waited for van 2 to complete their legs. Once the last runner arrived, we all crossed the finish together and donned our coveted bottle opener/medals.

 

The women I shared a Suburban with for 2 days are amazing and friends for life now. We supported each other, screamed for each other, dumped water on each other's heads in the heat and fought for every single mile. It was a long, strange trip and for now, as I fight fatigue, allergies and breathing issues, I think once was enough. But you never know. We runners are crazy.



Pray for Mayo Clinic

My mom had surgery yesterday, a Carotid Endarterectomy. This is a procedure where a surgeon opens the carotid artery and removes plaque that has blocked it. In her case, this particular artery, which carries blood from the heart to the brain, was 90% blocked. It was a relatively quick thing and she was only in the hospital overnight.

Think about that. They cut open my mom's neck, clamped the artery that supplies blood to the brain, cut that open, cleaned it out, patched it up, sewed her up and sent her home the next day. She was up walking around today and is now at home sleeping next to me.

Not long ago, her first symptom from this aspect of the disease would have been a stroke. Because my mom went to the doctor when she was 46 and discovered, through things like ultrasound and advanced x-rays, that she had this issue, she was able to break the cycle in our family history. Heart disease is far too common in our family tree, see previous blog entry titled "Pink is for Boobies" for more info. For almost 20 years after the first diagnosis, she was closely monitored at one of, I would argue THE most, prestigious medical facilities in the world, which happens to be 40 minutes from her house. Earlier this year, they decided it was time to remove this obstruction. A few years ago, they did a similar procedure to restore the blood flow to her leg, giving her the ability to walk my daughter to the park again.

I always say one of my biggest Facebook peeves is when someone says something like "at the hospital, pray for mom," with zero other details. This is partly because of the "look at me, I need attention" aspect of this tactic, but it's also for the easy out people get with this method of helping. Yes, pray for my mom if praying is what you do. But also pray for places like Mayo Clinic and pray for the people who provided such compassionate, human, unique, moving and miraculous care to my
mom. Pray for continued medical advances that let grandmothers watch their grandchildren grow up. Even more than that, donate your time and money to the places that do the research that changes family trees. Might want to think twice about that cheeseburger too, but bygones.