Bunny. Rabbit.

Like most little girls, growing up I had a we’re-stuck-together-with-glue best friend named Lissa. She lived around the corner from me and we were inseparable.

We spent most nights having rotating sleepovers at each other’s houses and on one of the sleepovers at Lissa’s house, it happened to be the last day of February.

We had started to wind down, as little girls eventually do, and as much as we promised each other that we would stay up all night long, our eyes were heavy and sleep was inevitable.

“We have to say Bunny before we go to bed.” Lissa sleepily whispered across our sleeping bags.

“What? Bunny? Why?” I whispered back.

“On the last day of the month, the last thing you have to say before you go to sleep is Bunny. Then the first thing when you wake up, the first thing you have to say is Rabbit. Get it—Bunny Rabbit. My mom told me.”

“But why?” I asked. And in her infinite six or seven year old wisdom, Lissa gave me the most appropriate answer. “Because my mom said so.”

‘Nuff said.

Perfect Imperfection. Again.

Mr. Shortpants and I just got back from a snowboarding trip this weekend. It was a Christmas gift from his dad, but it had to be rescheduled because of bad roads in December.

 

For some reason, I wasn’t looking forward to the trip. I think it had something to do with the 85 degree weather last week. 85 degrees makes it hard to imagine snow when I was pulling on shorts and working out in the mornings again to beat the heat.

 

But I packed our bags anyway and begrudgingly pulled our winter clothes out of the garage. I put our snowboards in the car and off we went.

 

As you might suspect, the minute we got on the road, I felt fantastic.

 

Let’s face it, Mr. S and I have needed to get away for quite some time. This weekend couldn’t have been better planned.

But I have to wash my hair.

I find that if in the morning I’m trying to convince myself that I should put off my workout until the afternoon for any number of impossible reasons, I should probably put my shoes on right this minute and do my workout.

 

Because let’s face it, I rarely follow through. The afternoon turns into evening and evening turns into dinner and dinner turns into bedtime.

 

And isn’t it better to set myself up for success rather than failure?

 

Alright, I’ll go put my shoes on.

Walk this way.

Tonight I felt inspired. I felt that go get ‘em kind of surge in my gut.

 

So I decided to walk to my Weight Watchers meeting.

 

I already did my morning walk, 55 minutes, or 4.58 miles to be precise, but I still had a lot of energy. (The giganto cup of coffee I had earlier really helped with that.)

 

Anyways, Mr. S was meeting me directly at the meeting, so I decided to save on gas and walk.

 

And after all, I’m walking now. Not just walking mind you, but training for a marathon, amongst other things.

 

So I laced up my sneakers, put on some light colored warm clothing, strapped on my Nike+ and my headlamp and off I went.

 

I forgot how much I love to walk at night. It is really empowering. Mr. S and I used to night hike all the time. There is calm at night that can’t be replicated during the day. There are noises that keep your senses alert. You can’t get lazy and apathetic on a night hike, you have to pay keen attention to everything. It is wonderful.

 

I was about halfway to my meeting when someone pulled off the road and rolled down their window.

 

“Are you OK?” The lady in the car yelled at me.

 

“Yep.” I said with a smile.

 

“Are you sure, cause I could give you a ride if you needed.”

 

“Nope, I’m just out for a walk.”

 

“Are you sure you are OK?”

 

“Absolutely. I’m just walking.”

 

“Walking? At night?”

 

“Yep. Walking. Thanks, though.”

 

While I appreciate her concern, it really shocked me that she was in such disbelief that someone, namely a woman, could be out walking.

 

About five minutes later, a second car called off the road and we basically repeated the same conversation.

 

No I know that safety is a huge priority for any person out alone night. But I took necessary precautions and frankly, I don’t plan on making walking at night on roads a regular occurrence.

 

Besides their safety concerns, what really bothered me is that people didn’t seem to understand just going out for a walk. For the sake of walking.

 

About five minutes after the second car pulled off the road, I heard a crinkling of leaves in a bush about ten feet in front of the path I was on. I was on a side street now, not a major road, so the light was dim and traffic was less intense. I stopped, being well trained to know that it was either something I didn’t want to meet or something that didn’t want to meet me.

 

I craned my headlamp down a notch and waited.

 

A nose popped out of the bush. I heard a whimper coming from the same bush. Not a cry but more like a whining. A coyote stepped onto the street. She turned to look at the bush and waited. Out popped a smaller coyote. The bigger one turned around and proceeded to trot across the street, little one in tow.

 

The bigger coyote did look in my direction, but she must have decided I wasn’t a threat because she didn’t stop or even start running. She just trotted to the other side of the road and disappeared into the darkness.

 

I’m really glad that I decided to walk to program tonight. I’m really glad I walked for the sake of walking.

 

 

 

 

You should know that I’m quite safe. I carry a cell phone, I walk with a big stick, I don’t wear both headphones, I walk against traffic and I always wear light colors and my headlamp if I’m out at night, I wear an ID bracelet and I always make sure more that one person knows my planned path and intended timeframes. Don’t worry too much, Mom. Oh and I almost forgot, Weight Watchers and all its known names and trademarks belong to them and only them. I do not work for them, nor can I answer questions about their trademarks. No coyotes were harmed in the making of this post.

What if I miss the blimp?

My grandpa, or Pop, as I called him, died when I was in high school.

 

It is weird that I don’t remember exactly what age I was when he died. In movies, it seems like that is what people remember. Instead of remembering dates or ages, I remember specifics as they unfolded around my Pop’s death.

 

My mom told me, that part I remember very clearly. For some reason, I was in the bathroom when she told me. Not actually using the bathroom, but just hanging out in there.

 

My dad cried at the dinner table that night. It was one of the few times I’ve seen my dad cry, and he cried those kinds of tears that are filled with raw, pure emotion. The kind of tears that make those who witness them cry, too.

 

After dinner that night, my older brothers and I hung out in their upstairs apartment. We just laughed. Were we laughing because we thought my Pop’s death was funny? Nope. More like we were laughing so we wouldn’t cry.

 

I remember reading at my Pop’s funeral, but don’t ask me what I read. I do remember crying unintelligibly while I was reading, so probably no one else knows either.

 

I do remember seeing my aunt in the front row, or near the front row, and I remember her hair being really bright red and I remember thinking that was strange. And I remember seeing her cry, something I had never seen her do and thinking that someone needed to hug her.

 

I remember stealing Pop’s usher nametag off the wall in the church foyer. I don’t have any idea where the nametag is now, but at the time, the act felt really important. I felt like we, his family, should have special rights to everything he touched, everything that was his.

 

I remember my aunt spiking the punch at the wake. My cousin and my brothers and me sitting out on the front porch and all of us laughing. I have no recollection of my grandma, or how we got home, or even who else was at the funeral.

 

I was really close with my Pop. Even when my family lived 3,000 miles away from him, he always made the effort to make a visit. Some of my fondest memories from those years in Rochester are actually of him reading me stories on his visits, or taking me to the pet store, or going on long car rides we affectionately dubbed “Pop Rides.”

 

My Pop wrote me letters, and sent me tapes with him and my grandma reading to me. When we visited him, he always talked to me. He asked me meaningful questions and he listened to my answers. He was what every parent hopes their parents will be when they become grandparents. He was the best.

 

But he wasn’t always the best. He was not the best father that ever existed.

 

And while I think my dad was thankful that Pop was a devoted grandfather, as an adult I understand how hard it must’ve have been for my dad to see his father giving everything my dad deserved as a kid to someone else.

 

Aside from his misgivings as a father, my Pop was a fantastic grandfather. He was also fortunate in his life to have had some interesting life experiences.

 

He was a paratrooper who jumped at the beach in Normandy during World War II. He worked as a butcher for many years. Later he worked as an ESL teacher. He had some really good friends. He did some traveling. He lived a little.

 

But my Pop always talked about one thing. He talked about wanting to ride in a blimp. This memory is so strong that I remember him talking about it more than one time. But it was the way he said it that strikes me in my memories.

 

“All I want to do before I die is ride in a blimp.”

 

The way he said it made me think that he would ride in a blimp before he died. His conviction was that convincing.

 

But Pop never did ride in a blimp. He died before he had the opportunity. Isn’t that a shame? The one thing I remember him longing to do before he died, he never actually did.

 

This is a really nice story, HMM, but where the heck are you going with it?

 

I knew you would say that.

 

So last week, I was sitting on a curb in front of a restaurant, waiting for a friend. While I’m waiting, I spy a giant blimp buzzing along the horizon. All those memories came flooding back to me. All I kept thinking was that he never did it. He never rode in a blimp.

 

Since seeing the blimp, I keep thinking that maybe I should find a blimp and ride in it to honor my Pop. Maybe posthumous vicariousness is better than nothing.

 

But maybe my Pop is sending me a bigger message, I keep thinking.

 

Maybe seeing the blimp means that I’m not doing everything I should be doing. Maybe I’m spending too much time waiting for permission, waiting to be thinner, waiting to have more money, waiting until things are more convenient, waiting until things are perfect.

 

What happens if my grandchildren hear the conviction in my voice, but never actually see me act before I kick on?

 

What if I miss my blimp?

 

And I think my blimp is more than just actually riding in a blimp. I think it also has to do with being totally and completely honest.

 

So I’m here to come clean.

 

My tendonitis is back and back with a vengeance. I found myself crawling after less than ten minutes one run a few weeks back.

 

But in light of my new found desire to let the guilt go, I’ve been walking instead of running until I recover. I have to admit, I’ve been enjoying walking.

 

Of course, I have my moments where I start to feel guilty, because god forbid I walk instead of run, but then Mr. Shortpants looks at my workout log and says, “Yeah, but you walked 30 miles this week. Or you burned 7,000 calories this week. So who cares how you did it? You’re still out there.”

 

Bless Mr. Shortpants, for he always has the simple logic that I seem to gloss over.

 

But here is where the blimp part comes in. I had big plans at the end of December. Big plans. In my infinite wisdom, I thought a plan would further assist with the loss of the baby, help me shed some weight, and run more. All good things, right? Right.

 

So I did what I have been doing that last couple of years—I found some races to run. I made a plan to run the Rock N Roll Marathon in Seattle, which happens in June. Next on the list was the race my brother is arranging, the 12 hour Fun Run in Aptos. Finally, I put the Tucson Marathon on my list, too, after missing it this year. I sprinkled in some local 5k races, too, just for good measure.

 

December came and went with lots of running under my belt. January came and I logged more miles. And then came the tendonitis.

 

Stupid tendonitis.

 

While I’m crawling that day, that wretched day that the tendonitis hit me like a bag of bricks, I’m thinking to myself that all my plans are dashed. Bye-bye Seattle Marathon! Adios Fun Run! See you later Tucson Marathon! Nice knowing you 5ks!

 

I. Am. So. Dramatic.

 

Of course, it is hard to not be dramatic when one is dragging oneself through the dirt and rocks, crying big blubbery alligator tears, seeing all those positive plans going poof! down the toilet, all while in major pain.

 

And while it is entirely possible that I will be running by those events, I don’t have any desire to push it and will allow myself to heal properly. Which means, of course, that I must start from scratch once I can run again.

 

That phrase, starting from scratch, even as I write it here, makes me feel like I’m strapped onto a piece of spinning plywood and have become the sideshow, where the magician hurls razor sharp buck knifes at me, narrowly missing my eyes, my heart, my stomach, all while the plywood starts spinning faster and faster and faster. It’s not a pretty scene.

 

Which brings me back to the curb.

 

There it is, that nagging blimp, floating so carelessly on the horizon. It is slow, as blimps presumably are, making me think that maybe my Pop knows just how stubborn and thick-headed I can be and is trying to get the point across, even from the beyond.

 

I just stare at the blimp. I’m really early to my lunch date, so I’ve got nothing else to do. I wonder how many people are riding on it. I wonder if they serve lunch and highballs, like in the Indiana Jones movie. I wonder about the difference between a blimp and a zeppelin. I wonder how you get on a blimp anyways. I think about the pace of the blimp, just how slow they are, and how the shape of this particular blimp is so round, so plump, like a juicy watermelon.

 

Basically, I think about everything except the point that Pop is trying to make. That is, until the blimp disappears from sight. It’s gone. Just moved on really, out of my field of vision. But that seems to hit the message home for me.

 

I see, Pop. I got it. Message read loud and clear.

 

Who says that I have to run those events? I checked. As long as I stay within the window of time for the major races, I’m fine. And I checked with my brother, he says he has no problem with me walking, if necessary.

 

Because let’s face it, if I wrote off the events, I’d be far more pissed off at myself later, right?

 

Oh, I’m just a walker; I can’t participate in those events. They are only for runners.

 

 Pshaw. I’d like someone to tell me I can’t do it, because then I’d tell them, “Watch me.” But I’m always the one who needs the most convincing, I guess. I needed someone to tell me to keep the plan. It is a good plan. I needed someone to tell me I’d regret it more if I wrote off the plan.

 

Apparently my Pop was chosen for such a job.

 

So the plan remains in effect. Seattle Marathon—check. 12 hour Fun Run—check. Tucson Marathon—check. Other local races—check.

 

This way, I won’t miss my blimp. I think Pop would be proud.

It’s Raining, It’s Pouring.

What is it about running in the rain that makes me feel all wild-woman-hear-me-roar strong? Is it the primal connection to nature? Toughing out the elements? Laughing in the face of danger? 

The bigger the puddles, the stronger I feel.
The less people I see on the trail, the more kick-ass I feel.
Just how muddy and wet I come home, indicates just how much I rock.

It has been raining all day. But right now, it is pouring.

I’m going for a run.

Hell, yeah.

One clicker short.

A little over a year ago, Mr. Shortpants and I moved into our new house. Moving into a new house comes with all sorts of responsibilities; some are good, some are just awful.

 

On my list of awful responsibilities are most kinds of yard work and any kind scorpion interaction, as you may recall.

 

Sometimes though, the things that I deem to be awful are really just things I think are going to be awful.

 

For example, the garage.

 

We have a garage, fortunately, but the garage only came with one door clicker. It all didn’t really matter, because for a while our garage was merely a staging area as we unpacked and moved in for boxes and other junk. We couldn’t put one car in the garage let alone two.

 

So a year rolls by and the garage is still a dump. After one of those days, you know the kind, we, or just me, I can’t remember, got a bug up our butt and decided to organize the garage. The boxes went on the shelves, the bikes got hung on hooks, and the stuff to donate went to the donation place.

 

Later that day, Mr. Shortpants and I surveyed our hard work from the driveway like proud parents. There it was. A garage. With space for cars. Imagine.

 

“We should park the cars in the garage.” Mr. Shortpants said.

 

“But we only have one clicker.” I exclaimed.

 

In our old house, the garage door broke. Not the actual door, but the mechanical bits that make the door go up and down.

 

It was a very complicated process getting the door fixed. Not only complicated, but expensive. To be honest with you, I’m not sure why it was complicated. It seems like it would be relatively easy—call the repair people, give them money, get fixed garage door. But it was complicated, so now, the task of getting a second clicker seemed impossible.

 

Months and months went by without a second clicker. We tried to work off one clicker, but let’s face it, one clicker isn’t enough. Inevitably the clicker gets left in the car, or in the house, or the other person winds up being out when you thought they would be home. It’s tricky business, this sharing thing.

 

At the beginning of December, I went to Rochester to see my family and to do some work. Of course, while I was there, I had to visit the local Fleet Feet. My dad tried on running tights while I perused the snowshoes and wished I lived somewhere cold.

 

I found this cool journal at Fleet Feet. It is basically just a running log, but it is fancy. Plenty of room to write in, lots of pages, inspirational quotes and the whole bit. It is awesome.

 

I struggle with logging my running. I’ve tried just letting my nike+ keep track, I’ve tried Mr. Shortpants created spread sheets, I’ve tried old fashioned pen and paper and nothing seems to stick. I’d like to implement a method, so this cool Fleet Feet journal seemed as good as any. So I bought one, and with hope I tucked it away in my suitcase and decided to start using as soon as I got home.

 

And, as you might suspect, I started out strong.

 

This is the story of my life, I think.

 

She started off strong, that How Many Miles, she did. But no one knows where she is at.

 

I dutifully recorded my workouts. I filled in the careful spaces with times, dates, mileage. I even flipped a few weeks ahead and created workout goals for myself. I felt proud, of course. I was sticking to it.

 

But then, life happened. I got sick and missed a bunch of workouts. We had out of town guests. I had to travel for business.

 

But my journal sat on my desk. Taunting me. Laughing at me. Daring me to crack it open. Whispering to me as I walked down the hallway.

 

Good intentions, HMM. They pave the road to hell. But you already knew that, right?

 

Of course, after awhile, the pressure is too great. All those missed workouts. All those forgotten goals. It is really stressful.

 

Before I know it, the journal has spring boarded into other areas of my life.

 

I can’t sign up for another marathon.

I can’t run.

I can’t write.

I can’t workout.

 

I’m paralyzed with this fear. Fear of failure.

 

Stupid journal. Stupid running. Stupid goals. Stupid fear of failure.

 

A few weeks back, Mr. Shortpants dropped me off for an appointment and went off to run errands while he waited. When he picked me up, there was a bag on the floor by my feet.

 

“What is in the bag?” I asked.

 

“The new clicker.” Mr. Shortpants said nonchalantly.

 

“What?”

 

“The new clicker. For the garage.”

 

“For the garage?”

 

“Yep. You just have to program it.”

 

“What?”

 

Without hesitation, I ripped open the package and inspected it. I casually read the instructions looking for the complicated caveat. I programmed the new clicker right there in the car. When we got home, I jumped out of the car and pressed the new clicker.

 

Garage door opened. I pressed the new clicker again. The garage door shut.

 

I was amazed.

 

As if there might be some hole in the universe, I pushed the old clicker and waited for it to fail. It didn’t. The garage door opened without error. I pushed the old clicker again. The garage door promptly closed.

 

I must’ve stood out there for 10 minutes opening and closing the garage door.

 

It wasn’t complicated at all. We could have had a second garage door clicker months and months ago.

 

All that pressure, for nothing.

 

I went in the house, grabbed the running journal and scratched out the pages that had missing workouts or unfulfilled goals.

 

Why should I let something so simple stop me from achieving my goals? Even better, why should I let something so small snowball into something that cripples me?

 

Instead I’m taking one day at a time. I know that sentiment is thrown around a lot, but it really does ring true.

 

Instead of filling out the journal weeks in advance with goals that are surely setting me up to fail, I do it the night before. No pressure. And when I do miss a workout, because life happens, I let it go. Without inflicting self punishment. Without excess guilt. I let it go.

 

Because sometimes things are really as simple as going to the store, buying the second clicker, programming the second clicker, and opening the garage door.

How much wood would a wood chuck chop, if a wood chuck could chop wood?

Something put me in a real crabby mood today.

 

I think it has something to do with this nasty cold I’m fighting, which caused me to miss my last four workouts.

 

And we all know what happens when I miss four workouts, in a row.

 

Back to the crabby mood—I’m storming around the house, cursing the snot and the hacking cough, trying to cause a fight with Mr. Shortpants, sitting down, standing up, walking around and cursing. It is not a pretty sight.

 

I decide to go grocery shopping. I’m not sure what possessed me to go grocery shopping, and I am definitely not sure what made me think that grocery shopping would be the answer to missing four workouts because I’m feeling so sick, but off I went.

 

I should have just put on my running shoes and gone for an easy walk around the block.

 

As you can assume, the grocery store was not the answer.

 

But it is funny—two years ago, I would have smoked a cigarette or had a couple of drinks to soothe my crabby mood. Today, while walking the aisles of the grocery store, I imagined myself chopping wood.

 

I haven’t done a lot of wood chopping in my life but it seemed to be one of the most physical activities that I could think of in that moment.

 

It seems odd that I didn’t think of mile 18 in the marathon, doesn’t it? But I went with the wood chopping. And there in the card aisle, my pulse actually went from 110 beats per minute (hyper-crabby, you might say) to a respectable 67 beats per minutes.

 

Two years ago I don’t think I would have guessed that exercise would be such an important character in my life. And I definitely wouldn’t have thought that visualizing wood chopping would calm my crabbies.  

 

Visualizing wood chopping, however, did not prevent me from buying fancy licorice and sugar cookies at the grocery store, both of which were not on my grocery list.

 

All the more reason to run tomorrow.

Keep it going.

“The battles that count aren’t the ones for gold medals. The struggles within yourself – the invisible, inevitable battles inside all of us – that’s where it’s at.”  

–Jesse Owens

 

The tears are always there. They are painful, these tears. Trying to hold them in is physically painful. And it is always a surprise at what causes them to spring forward.

 

One day, it is the commercial about hair products. Another day, it is an email some thoughtful soul forwarded to me with an extremely moving video about a family and their lost baby. On the airplane, it is the woman who is showing off pictures of her dog. In the booth, it is when my sister tells the story of Jukebox, a game we used to play as kids.

 

I’m crying for more than just the loss of the baby. I’m crying because my body is still at odds with the miscarriage. I’ve been bleeding off and on for a little over two months and now I’m crying on the phone to the midwife, because it seems like each time I start bleeding, I have to start the whole grief process over again and I’m thinking something is wrong.

 

After I speak with the midwife, I’m crying on the phone to my therapist, because I’m afraid I’m falling into some sort of depression from all the bleeding.

 

And just when it seems like it is all over and healing can begin, that blood, red and angry and punctual, starts all over again and reminds me exactly where I am.

 

And that is when the tears start all over again.

 

**********

 

I’m ordered to get an ultrasound to determine if any products of conception remain.

 

Products of conception, if you were wondering, is what the medical professionals deem to be the least threatening way to say dead baby. I wish they would just say it. Dead baby. Without life. Gone. Empty.

 

On the phone, while waiting for the ultrasound orders, I will the nurse to say anything other than products of conception. Products of conception. I hear those words, with their sharp edges and fingernails-on-the-chalkboard tips, before she even says them. They ring in my ears. Shake my core. Peel my skin back. It is inevitable that these words will bring forth the tears that I’m so desperately trying to hold back while nonchalantly pushing my cart through the grocery store. Inevitable.

 

No one can go with me to the ultrasound appointment. This is largely my fault. I’ve pushed myself so far away from anyone, with the exception of Mr. Shortpants, that he is the only one who even knows I have to go for this ultrasound. He is the only one who even knows that there are complications. He is the only one who knows about the remaining products of conception.

 

I sit cross legged on the only non-sticky seat in the ultrasound department. I’m trying to be breezy so that I don’t wind up lying on the floor because I know there are disgusting germs on the floor. Emphasis on disgusting.

 

The nurse told me to drink eight glasses of fluid before my appointment, so I drank twelve glasses, just to be safe. But now, my bladder is about to burst, no one has called my name, and it is exactly thirteen minutes past my scheduled appointment time, which I was fifteen minutes early for.

 

I hate the number thirteen.

 

So I close my eyes until it is fourteen past the scheduled appointment time. When I open them, to check the clock, Mrs. Huxtable is sitting next to me.

 

“That seat is sticky.” I say to her without flinching.

 

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed. What is going on, dear?” She says as she reaches out and touches my arm with her perfectly manicured nails.

 

“No one could come with me today.”

 

“Who did you ask to come with you?”

 

“No one. I told Mr. Shortpants that I didn’t need him to come even though he offered to come with me.”

 

“Then you can really be mad at anyone, can you?”

 

“No, I suppose not. But I really want to be mad at someone.”

 

“I know you do. Be mad at me, dear. I’m alright with that. It is not really fair to be mad at people who don’t even know what is going on.”

 

“I don’t think I can be mad at you. I’m glad you are here.”

 

“We’ll go get sandwiches after this. Now, how about a hug, dear, before you go in?”

 

“How Many Miles? Are you ready to come back?” The technician shouts across the room. I wonder what she will do if I say, “No, I’m not quite ready to come back, I’m having an imaginary hug and conversation with Mrs. Huxtable, I’ll just be a moment.”

 

I decide it will be better if I just go in.

 

**********

 

The ultrasound people can give me no definitive answer about anything, so they tell me to make an appointment with the midwife, which I do, and then I promptly forget about it as I’m heading off to the national conference in Dallas for work.

 

I probably would have cancelled this work trip if I didn’t think working would help me get my head in a different place.

 

I needed to be somewhere where no one really knew me, no one expected me to be full of grief, somewhere I could be fully immersed in work.

 

Of course, I cry on the plane to Dallas because I’m filled with so much hope (I flew to Dallas on Election Day). But I take this as a sign and go for a run when I get to the hotel.

 

And I was right about this trip.

 

I needed it.

 

Even though I spent the week someplace between grief and hope, I manage to spend a lot of time laughing, seeing some friends I’ve befriended on the road, hearing some messages I never heard before in my sister’s workshops, eating some great food, dancing in the booth, and overall losing myself, in a totally healthy, productive kind of way.

 

And most importantly, I run. I do all my workouts that week and admittedly, it was my first dedicated hardcore week back to running since losing the baby. It was the first week I pushed.

 

Even when I start crying in the gym while listening to Barack Obama’s acceptance speech, I feel like my tears are filled with hope and possibilities, rather than grief and anger. And when the treadmills are all occupied one morning, I run up and down eleven flights of stairs.

 

I feel strong. I feel like parts of me are coming back, a little bit at a time. Muscles I haven’t used are stretched and flexed. The old How Many Miles commands me to run those stairs. The old How Many Miles stands with her fists firmly planted on her hips and barks in my ear while running those stairs. She can be a bitch, that How Many Miles, and I never needed her to be a bitch more than I did that morning.

 

On that trip, my hair stops falling out. The pregnancy mask that was developing on my face fades. The intense pain ceases without the help of painkillers. The mood swings start to level off. And best of all, the bleeding stops.

 

Because that is the shit off this whole miscarriage thing, isn’t it? All the symptoms of post-partum without anything to show for it. A childless mother. And that what was really pissing me off more than anything else.

 

At least if I had a tiny life in my arms, I could have managed the mood swings, the bleeding, the mask, the hair loss, the pain. But all I have cradled in my arms is grief.

 

**********

 

Dallas.

 

Dallas is big hair. Dallas is the place to buy cowboy boots. Dallas is where Kennedy was assassinated. Dallas is surprising. Dallas has some of the friendliest people; they even love this gum-snaping, liberal Yankee who has a California accent and an obsession with cutesy skulls.

 

When I lived in Austin, Dallas was the stiff upper-lip older brother. Dallas had extra starch in the collar. Dallas wore crisp white gloves and pleated skirts to lunch.

 

But Dallas surprised me.

 

Dallas helped heal.

 

***********

 

 

Part of my job when I’m on the road is to be the entourage of sorts after the actual gig. I go to functions with my sister to remember names, take notes, drive, and to watch the clock. I go shopping for the stuff that makes her tick, I load the luggage, I scope out dinner places. I’m the assistant. And you know what; I’m really good at it, too. I can anticipate things.

 

So in Dallas, when Lisa said she was going to a memorial for a colleague who passed away last spring, I knew I would be going along. I didn’t mind either, even though I knew two things for sure.

 

A)    I never met this colleague so I knew it had the potential to create some awkward situations. 

B)     I was tettering very precariously on the ship plank of grief and could tumble into the sea at any moment.

 

The memorial was for Tom Hunter, a singer, song writer and educator. Tom Hunter was diagnosed in May 2008 with Creutzfeldt-Jacob Disease and died from this disease on June 20th.

 

I never met Tom. I do know that he touched a lot of people’s lives, as was evident from the turnout at the memorial, but also because my sister talks a lot about how amazing he was.

 

I do know that he looks a lot like my grandpa who passed away when I was sixteen, and with whom I was extremely close, so I feel a strange akin to Tom even though we never met.

 

The memorial started with music, as well it should. Many musicians who are educators themselves paid tribute to Tom this way, including Bev Bos, Hugh Hanley, Michael Leeman and others.

 

What I didn’t realize is that I grew up with this music. I remember my mom playing the tapes for me and the daycare kids. We played them so much we wore them out.

 

I knew all the words to all the songs they sang.

 

I knew what was going to happen. I looked around the room for Mrs. Huxtable. She was nowhere in sight. Darn her.

 

A lot of people told stories about how Tom touched and changed their lives. A wonderful slideshow was prepared, and in the background, Tom’s music played.

 

While listening to this music and looking around the room, something reached inside of me and shook me a little bit. Something poked all those raw emotions that I had been trying to avoid and deal with all at the same time.

 

And then someone told a story about a dog that knew Tom.

 

My grandpa used to say that the source of all sadness comes from stories that involve animals. I couldn’t agree more. This story made me thankful I had a hanky in my back pocket.

 

The dog is an assistant dog and her owner is blind. The dog apparently loved Tom immensely and at one conference, after Tom’s passing, someone was playing a copy of the tribute DVD, and the dog heard Tom’s music playing.

 

She pulled her owner over to the sound of Tom’s voice and the owner asked where Tom was. The owner and the dog did not know that Tom had passed.

 

I might as well have jumped off the plank right then. And Mrs. Huxtable was still nowhere in sight.

 

**********

 

Do you know what Tom’s last words were?

 

Keep it going.

 

Those are some powerful last words. Keep it going. They are powerful because they can be applied to so many amazing things.

 

Of course, they apply to the work Tom did for the education of young children.

 

But those words, Keep it going, struck me in a different and yet still powerful way.

 

And then they sang a song that pushed me right over the edge. A song that I haven’t heard in a long time but that pushes me right onto my knees every time I hear it.

ROCK ME TO SLEEP (Tom Hunter)

All I can hear are the crickets
And the whistle from some lonely freight
I’ve been working so hard to make everything right
But for now it’ll just have to wait

CHORUS
`Cause tonight I’d like you to rock me to sleep
I’d like you to sing me a song’
I’m tired of trying to figure things out
And I’m tired of being so strong

I’ve never been too good at asking
I’m more apt to do it alone
And it’s strange how a lot of us think something’s wrong
If we can’t do it all on our own

It’s funny how times when you’re hurting
Make what’s so familiar seem strange
So when you need help, it’s hardest to ask
And it always takes so long to change

 

 

Suddenly my tears seemed natural. There I was, in a room of strangers, and yet I felt totally in place. I told my heart to open like a flower blossom, and let the light in.

 

And then, I cried.

 

I cried for Tom, a man who I never met but who pushed me out of the darkness. I cried for the loss of Caleb. I cried for loss in general. I cried for pushing myself so far away from everyone. I. just. cried.

 

I’m not sure if I even heard what was happening around me. All I know is that I was wrapped up in infinite love and felt totally safe to submit to my feelings. And I felt things change.

 

But then what I did hear was someone, I don’t even know who or in regards to what, say: “Someone asked her how she was, like grief was something bad. Like grief was something to carry and then put away. But in reality grief is something that becomes a part of you. Part of the process. Makes you a more complex human being. Makes you more rich.”

 

Sometimes I get caught up in what the process should be that I forget to let things happen. I hold on to things really tight, my poor hands getting all raw and scratched in the process.

 

Then someone asked us to write down how we would keep it going in our lives.

 

I wrote that I would sing all of Tom’s songs to my babies and to anyone who would listen. I also wrote how I would melt the grief into a part of me instead of carrying it as a separate piece of luggage. And then I folded up the little piece of paper with love and light and gave it away.

 

**********

 

Does it mean that I’m miraculously healed?

 

Of course not.

 

I know this because I stood in the parking lot at the birthing center for my appointment with the midwife for the better part of an hour trying to come up with a good reason to not go in.

 

The only thing I could come up with is, “I don’t want to” and I’m pretty sure no one would buy it.

 

When I finally did walk into the center, there were probably a dozen or more mamas with their babies attending a new mama class. The babies were all round and laughing and, of course, adorable. Some were probably no more than a few weeks old; some were on the edge of six months or so.

 

As I stood there, feeling really out of place and yet totally comfortable, I realized I was not crying, freaking out, or making a scene, all of which have been regular practice for me prior to the national conference.

 

I was progressing.

 

Of course, it helps that the midwife told me that there were no problems, no products of conception remaining. The bleeding was part of my body’s process of healing, not the result of some terrible problem. She gave me a thorough check-up, just to be thorough, which I can get behind, and then sent me on my way with a hug and advice, for the future.

 

**********

 

So there we have it.

 

Like I said, this is not some miraculous story of healing.

 

I spent most of December feeling fairly Grinch-like. I didn’t put up my tree or the normal decorations. I decided not to send out a card this year. I ostracized most of my friends.  I worked very little. I got mad at people for tip-toeing around me. I got mad at people for not tip-toeing around me. I got mad at myself for crying. I got mad at myself on days when I did get a lot of work done.

 

The one constant, other than Mr. Shortpants?

 

Running.

 

Running is always there for me. I can always put on my shoes and go. Running loves me even if I curse it. Running never asks why I’m crying. Running is there even after I avoid it for days on end. Running holds my hand, tells me to cry if I like, coaxes me out of my hole.

 

I ran on days when I felt like crawling back into my hole of depression. I ran on days when I felt entirely happy and like the old HMM. I ran on days of indifference.

 

I ran. Just ran. For the hell of it.

 

I do feel more like my old self. I feel strong. I set new time records on days when I thought things were really shitty.

 

And now, I can’t help but feel how fitting it is that I’ve been given a fresh start with the New Year. Cause isn’t that what the New Year is about? Fresh starts, second chances, hope eternal.

 

And I feel hopeful. Hopeful about running, babies, work, love, relationships and life. I feel so hopeful that it is sort of pitiful actually, because the hope brings those old familiar tears to my eyes and I have to choke them back.

 

Hello, 2009. I’m How Many Miles. I’m full of hope when I think of you. So full I’m about to burst. You should know, I’m different now than I was in 2008. I’ve grown. I want to keep it going, 2009. I want to keep it going. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention: I’ll be kicking ass, 2009. Kicking ass and taking names while keeping it going.

 

Hell, yeah.  

 

 

Please visit http://www.tomhunter.com/ and http://www.tomhunterblog.blogspot.com/ for more information about Tom Hunter. Keep it going, whatever that means to you, with Tom in mind.

Happy Anniversary, How Many Miles!

Today is the second anniversary of me quitting smoking!

That is two years without quitting smoking. Two whole years. This is by far the longest I’ve ever been quit. I think it is permanent. No, scratch that, I know it is permanent.

I can proudly say that I’ve been smoke-free for two years today and that makes me infinitely proud.

QuitMeter Counter courtesy of www.quitmeter.com.