I fell in love the minute I met her, and 27 years later, I’m still gaga over my baby girl.
Carlene was here waiting when I got home from the hospital on Saturday, and except to run out for an oil change and car wash today, she has not NOT taken care of me ever since.
On Sunday night, she and Larry and I were watching “It’s Complicated” (highly recommend!) as my knee got redder and tighter. It had been a warm day – the high had been 87 – and it was still humid, so I thought maybe that was the reason. When it got worse, I scoured my discharge papers for instructions on what abnormalities I was supposed to let my doctor know about. “Excessive swelling and redness” were two of them, but how did they define “excessive”? I talked to an on-call nurse with my insurance company and she thought it would be a good idea to contact the resident on call at my doctor’s office in Pittsburgh. (For those of you new to my blog, I live about 70 miles north of Pittsburgh.)
The resident called me back and said she recommended I go to our local hospital to get checked out. Carlene drove me there me. It was 11:30. Four vials of blood, a shot of morphine and a chest x-ray later, I was strapped to a gurney and loaded in an ambulance. Carlene handed me my purse. I told her to go get some sleep and she said she’d be down in a few hours.
11 more vials of blood, two aspirations (to check for bacteria under my knee cap…oh yeah…THAT was fun), an ultrasound (to check for blood clots) and a shot of dilaudid later, Carlene arrived with a banana in her purse because she knew I wouldn’t have eaten for nearly 18 hours.
All my tests checked out and the docs guessed the swelling was in response to such a major debridement, so I was discharged. Carlene loaded me in the car, surrounded me with pillows, and drove us to Panera where she rolled down a window, locked me in the car, and got us some food.
Last night we watched “Connie and Carla” snuggled up on my twin bed.
I could list all the things Carlene’s done to help me, like getting me safely from point A to point B, and helping me eat right and stay clean, but I’d be typing all night. Besides, those things aren’t the most important components of my recovery. Carlene’s presence is better for my knee than any narcotic. She is soothing and loving, funny and kind. We’re on the same snark level, and we love to discuss books and history. She’s the kind of friend we all dream of, let alone child we hope to bear.
When I think of Carlene, I always get a sweet ache in my heart. I will miss her when she goes home Thursday, but I know with certainty that the next time I see her I will fall in love all over again. *********************************************** A quick note about my recent “theme” change to my blog. Those of you who use Firefox or a Mac computer have not been able to post comments or click through on links. I apologize for this. I tried to reset my theme to what it was before, but being the computer genius I’m not, I have been unsuccessful so far. So if you’re unable to leave a comments here and you’d like to contact me, feel free to send me an email at lynnbering@verizon.net.
The last time I was in the hospital overnight was when I gave birth to Cassie 25 years ago. In my room, I fed her, cleaned her up and took care of her. Wednesday night after surgery, Cassie stayed in my room and fed me, cleaned me up, and took care of me.
I think I have this surrendering thing down.
While there were a few rough spots in the hospital, mostly I was cared for by people who did their jobs as though I was a relative. Anesthesiologist Dr. “Mario” Montoya (“Just think of the video game,” he said) really tried to get my legs numb with a spinal block, but when they wouldn’t go to sleep fast enough he took my hand and looked me in the eyes, and explained he had to use general anesthesia. Even though my doctor was yelling, “Get her to sleep!” he made sure I understood what was happening. He even checked up on me three times in recovery.
Amanda the Amazing Nurse listened to me when I said I knew I had a higher fever than the 99 degrees the machine said I had. I knew because my eyes were watering (not from tears) and I had that overall “ugh” feeling, the one that tells me my temp is over 101. She retook it with a different thermometer and low and behold, it was 101.5! She gave me two Tylenol, two oxycodone, an Atavan and tucked me in for the night. I woke up the next morning cool and feeling good. When she came into my room to help me to the bathroom, I serenaded her with my rendition of “Dr. Feelgood.” I was afraid she’d drop my nerve block and hemo boxes from laughing so hard.
Coni the PCT held my hand as I bawled through the most intense pain of my life, worse than two rounds of 13 hours of natural labor. She distracted me with questions which led to a conversation about weight loss and how she recently lost 20 pounds, became a vegetarian, and is in the best shape of her life. And she’s close to my age!
Larry’s hyper vigilant about keeping the dogs away from me and didn’t mind a phone call at 3:30 when I needed another ice pack and some more drugs. Cassie, Carlene and Larry want me get better, just as I would if they were where I am. Old Lynn wouldn’t have felt worthy of that kind of love. I do now.
Remember how I was worried I’d wake up with an artificial knee instead of just a debridement and the bone growths removed? I found out why I woke up with my original parts. On rounds the day after surgery, my doctor told me my knee is shot. There is nothing else anyone can do to save it. However, he didn’t put a new knee in during surgery because he said, and I quote, “You had my full attention when I opened up your knee and saw what you were working with. You’re in such good shape that I thought if you can be as strong as you are given the condition of the knee as it was, you’ll do just fine for another five years or more with it cleaned out.”
But, he cautioned, the next surgery will be total knee replacement. I’m OK with that. He hoped to buy me a few years because I’m still pretty young for TKR and he has, so far as I can tell, done that.
BFF Chris (CrispyRice from the Weight Watchers 100+ discussion board – my lifeline as I was losing weight) – came to visit me in the hospital.
I came home to a dozen gerbera daisies from BFF Heather in Chicago. Shelley sent me this awesome magnet:
And the supportive posts and emails from my friends – both online and in “real” life – have helped make this recovery more than I ever expected. Thank you so very much for your kind thoughts, prayers, and concern.
Now it’s time to strap up and head to the bathroom. Never thought I’d be so happy to do that alone again.
(By the way, I took photos of the incision, but I thought I'd spare you. Looks like I'll have matching knees again! LOL)
Friday was the last day I felt oblivious about surgery. I dressed up and went to a university function with my husband.
Here we are in front of his new lab.
No one there knew how knobby my knees were or how the left one can’t bend more than 90 degrees. Nope. I was just Lynn in a dress and a great bra, and wearing a smile. I had a lot of fun forgetting.
But, it will happen, and it’s a good thing. It’s time to take care of this knee. So in light of surgery on Wednesday, I bought a few things to help make the everyday things we take for granted a little easier, and I did a few things to help me feel better all around.
First up, I bought myself the Cadillac of toilet seats. I mean this thing is large and in charge and has its own zip code. I’m a queen on a throne. My toes barely touch the floor and there’s very little bending of the knees required. I’m set.
Larry will install a hand-held shower head so I’m not wedded to sponge baths for six weeks, and his secretary’s mother had similar surgery 10 years ago and has a shower chair I can borrow. Yay!
Yesterday I made and froze several black bean burgers and a batch of red lentil tomato soup. I won’t be able to reach my toes for awhile, so today I had a pedicure, and since I’m carrying most of my worry in my neck and upper back, I had a massage. I also took another long walk – something I will do tomorrow, too. I’ll never take walking for granted again.
T minus 1.5 days.
The biggest change I made was moving a bed downstairs to my office. My office doubles as my workout room. It’s sacred space. A lot of things get thought in there. A lot of muscles get challenged in there. Years of myths I’ve believed about myself have been debunked in there. My office/workout room will prove to be a good space to rehab. It’s a room of energy and light. It is a refuge. Yes, I will be well there.
I woke up once last night wondering where I was, like when I stay in a hotel. Unlike a hotel, though, the bed is familiar, and like my new potty chair, it’s pimped out and comfy with a memory foam mattress topper, my favorite blanket and lots of pillows, my favorite being my water pillow. Best. Pillow. Ever.
Sleeping downstairs, while the sounds are familiar, they’re a lot closer. The neighbor’s dog was out for her last evening potty break, and her bark cut through the darkness like a warning – (Is there a bear out there? A skunk? A raccoon?) – unlike in the daylight when everything feels safe.
There were fireflies near my window, glowing and fading, glowing and fading. The half-moon lit up the pseudo nightstand where my computer table used to be. The moon doesn’t shine and fireflies don’t glow in my window upstairs. What a treat they were to observe.
In a week or so this differently-utilized space will feel normal, but like any change, it just takes some getting used to. Like this surgery, it’s an adventure.
This will be my last blog for a few days. I’ll be in touch when I can from the hospital on my Lynn’s Weigh Facebook page if you’d like to join us over there. In the meantime, I wish you all a good, on-plan week, and I thank you so very, very much for all of your kind support.
Half-way to Pittsburgh yesterday, there was an accident on one of the most treacherous stretches of Route 28/66 and the emergency response team was directing traffic off the main road and on to a small rural road I’d never been on. The road was narrow and the posted speed limit was never more than 40 mph. There were only a few cars meandering down the road and I lost site of them on several occasions. I had no idea where I was going or where the road would take me (I don’t have GPS), but I trusted I’d know where I was eventually.
Several miles later, two firemen directed me to veer right. A few more miles, another fireman directed me to the left. The road took me through a little village called Belknap, home of Belknap Livestock Auction, an adorable white church with a tall steeple and a small picnic facility tucked in the back, and...well...that’s about it. Further along, I passed a sign for a town called Echo which was two miles down another road (I imagine it’s no bigger than Belknap), and the sign I passed that said “Winding road next 2 miles” was an understatement.
But rather than worry too much about where I was, I took in the amazing beauty of the landscape and trusted I’d eventually know where I was.
Over on Lynn’s Weigh on Facebook the other day, we “discussed” goal weights and how most of us aren’t really sure when we start out losing weight – or even long after we’ve started – just where the end will be. The unknown is always, “Can I sustain ____ pounds?”
I remember well what a friend had dubbed “The Black Hole” of my journey. I was uncertain about what goal really was, especially since I’d changed it from a scale number to a waist size. MAJOR detour. Here’s what I wrote in Jan. 12, 2007, on my original website, Lynn’s Weight-Loss Journey:
“Happy new year! I’m just a few weeks from my 2-year anniversary on Weight Watchers. I can’t believe how the time has flown. I especially can’t wrap my brain around 152 pounds gone so far. My body has changed so much.
“It entered ‘familiar’ territory at around 180, a weight I’d been for several years. (At) 170 and 160, I was feeling great, liking what I saw, etc., and then I hit 155 and I didn’t recognize myself. I’d started working out at a gym (at) 168 and so this ‘new’ body was unfamiliar, even though I was 150 pounds for several years in my 20s and early 30s. (My body) was sculpting into something I didn’t recognize. I developed muscles I didn’t know I had. This was both exciting and terrifying.
“Now at 143.6, I’ve become highly critical of my flaws. I have loose skin under my arm pits, along my belly and my inner thighs. It’s not bad compared to what it could be, but I find myself getting mad at it, like it somehow chose to be there, like it has a mind of its own. Accepting these physical flaws is something I work on every day. I remind myself to not obsess and to love my body for all it is, both the good and the bad.
“My upper and lower hip bones are beginning to protrude, which looks kind of cool. My stomach, despite the skin, is shrinking nicely due to a solid 10-minute a day ab workout. The key for me is patience, something I have very little of. But I’m working on it.
“I don’t know when I’ll get to goal since that will happen when my waist measures 32 inches. That’s less than an inch away. I’m starting to worry now about maintenance. I know, why worry about something I’m not even doing yet, but it ekes into my mind quite often and so instead of ignore it, I try to learn what I can from it. I have to trust myself, trust my body.”
When I finally got to that 32-inch waist three months later, I declared goal like I was sliding into home. Safe at 138 pounds! That feeling lasted all of five minutes before I remembered I’d never been successful at maintenance before. But having learned so much from those who’d gone before me, I walked into maintenance in much the same way I turned on to that rural road yesterday. I had no idea where I was going, but I trusted I’d figure it out.
When you’re feeling most uncertain about your weight journey, remember that with most things in life, what makes us stronger are the detours that weave us through the unknown. Enjoy your weight-loss ride, take in the beauty of you, and trust that you’ll not only find guideposts along the way, but that eventually you’ll know where you are.
Brow and lip wax Hair color Pedicure (sans polish. The hospital frowns on that.) Massage
Hey, I have my priorities. Wonder if insurance will cover any of it?
I also have to get busy planning, preparing and freezing meals. I don’t wish my dietary quirks on anyone. However, daughter Carlene – the designated Lynnie sitter when I get home – and hubby Larry agreed to make me smoothies, egg-white omelets, roasted veggies and big-ass salads the way I like them as long as I don’t get mad if they’re not exactly the way I’d make them. I’ve assured them that I’ll hardly be in a position to be mad. Getting to the bathroom the first few days I’m home will be my main priority. They could feed me cold tofu on white bread and I wouldn’t complain. Much.
Since being penciled in on the surgeon’s calendar, I’ve done a lot of thinking/meditating about the upcoming unknown. When I feel a pang of fear or pain, I sit in it for a moment and play with it in my mind like Play Doh. What is it? Where is it coming from? This has led to some interesting observations, including shining a spotlight on my controlling nature.
That I’m a control freak isn’t a news flash to my family or anyone who has known me for longer than five minutes. But the degree to which it’s causing me trepidation about my upcoming surgery kind of surprised me.
There is certainly a time and place for control. Being in control is what keeps me in maintenance. There will be no regain. But in other areas of my life, I worry way too much about things I don’t know about and, more importantly, don’t have to know about.
Waxes, pedicures, losing weight, making doctor’s appointments…I’ve learned to care of myself, which is all well and good. God knows for years I neglected to take care of me. But I’ve gotten so good at taking care of myself that I’m afraid to let others take care of me. I need to trust that the people who do know the things I don’t know will do their job correctly and in my best interest.
I have 10 days to get comfortable with this. Hardly enough time to get through medical school.
So I’m starting small. I’m letting go of smoothies, or at least my rigid specifications. A Carlene smoothie and a Larry smoothie will be just fine.
I’m also going au naturel with the hair. I swear I was the butt of some cosmic joke when I was born a control freak with naturally curly hair. “She’s gonna HATE us!” laughed the gods the day I was made. But I’ll have more important battles to fight than my hair in the upcoming few weeks, so I’m surrendering the hair, too.
Smoothies and hair. It’s a start.
And this will be my theme song: “Surrender, surrender, but don’t give yourself away.”
I’m writing this from my perch of alternating ice and heat. The thing about a sore/non-functioning joint is that when it ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. A sore joint will do everything it can to not hurt, usually at the expense of other body parts.
It’s merely compensating for what it can’t do. And man-oh-man, do I know a thing or two about compensating.
What a thick, complicated, multi-faceted word: compensate. Compensation can cause harm and it can mean to make amends. It can be birthed from guilt or true compassion. Sometimes it’s subconscious, other times not.
Our bodies do it without our knowing. We do it without knowing.
Compensation is, literally, a pain in the ass. My left knee is compensating for its inability to function correctly by asking – or rather forcing – surrounding joints, namely my hip, to pick up its slack. This is causing a painful fight in my sacrum, to the point where I’m welcoming surgery in 12 days. Yes, welcoming. I just want relief from compensation.
Compensation is a pain in the ass figuratively because it’s what I’ve done throughout my life. All the times I made up to my kids for the things I didn’t/couldn’t do – obese or otherwise; all the times I made excuses to and faked feelings for people I didn’t really like or who treated me badly because I didn’t know how to live without them; all the times I accepted that which was not acceptable – from lousy service, sex or food to weighing 300 pounds…I’ve done a lot of compensating. Too much.
But what I realize is that since losing weight this way and this last time, I don’t compensate like I used to. I don’t accept as readily those things that don’t feel right. I don’t make up for or feel I need to offset those things that I don’t believe are my “fault.” On the flip side, I more readily compensate for the things I’m willing to own, mostly because I know or am at least more comfortable with owning what is mine to compensate for.
I wanted relief five years ago because I was tired of compensating. I still am. The surgery I’ll have in 12 days is in a way making up for the abuse I heaped on my knees when I was obese. I owe them. But I’m in a physically better place to rehab and not cause further injury. If I was 300 pounds and having this surgery, I’d be more afraid than I am right now (and trust me, I’m pretty scared). I’d be compensating and making all kinds of excuses, if I had the surgery at all.
Deep breath. I can do this. I can pay back and not accept, all at the same time. I can make friends with compensation and let it do its good work. My butt, at least, will certainly thank me!
In between writing this and making dinner, I heard this song on the radio. I loved this song when I was in high school. “Turn me loose, turn me loose, turn me loose…I gotta do it my way, or no way at all.” Fast forward 28 years and I finally am doing it my way.
Although I prefer this video from 1982, but it won’t let me embed. Check out the headbands and tight red pants! Loved the early 1980s....
I’m trying to do as many normal things as possible before rehabbing the summer away. Biking’s out, but I can still walk, so last Friday, the mister and I went to Jennings Environmental Education Center to hike and do a little bird watching.
I was thrilled/ecstatic/practicallywettingmyself when I saw that one of the Jennings trails is part of the North Country Trail. (Notice the little triangle on the right?) Oh North Country Trail, with your blue blazes, how I love thee! Remember when I first discovered that it ran almost through my back yard? (See “Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes”) Ah…good times.
Anyway, back to Jennings. I’ll let the photos tell the story.
Get ‘er done!
A cocoon condo
Muddy shoes
Why the muddy shoes
You don’t have to tell me twice!
Water snakes’ home on Big Run Creek
And so we moved quickly
Picnicking near a boat launch at Moraine State Park. The only picnic table was right next to the bathrooms, so we stayed in the Jeep.
Sandwiches (with tomatoes, lettuce and onions packed separately! Eating in the wild is no excuse for a soggy sandwich.), edamame crackers, almonds, carrots, an orange, cherries and two Dove dark chocolates: one for Larry and one for …oh wait…make that TWO for Larry and NONE for me. Urgh. That’ll teach me to take photos during a picnic.
View from the Jeep
Found these at a roadside stand on the way home. Mmmmm….
Nothing like a 90-minute hike to help you forget your troubles. Clears out the junk between the ears, you know? This weekend I’m doing a different type of hike: shopping at an outlet mall. Easily a 3-hour venture. I won’t be going with Larry, though. He’d rather surgically remove his own spleen than shop for 3 hours. I'll be going with my trusty sidekick, Daughter Carlene. ****** Congratulations to Ali, who won the book “Strength Training for Women,” and Julie, who won “Body for Life for Women.” I wish I had a book to give all of you who entered. Thanks so much for reading and posting and throwing your names in the hat. I’ll do another giveaway next week!
It feels like nesting, this indescribable urge to clean and organize my house. Part of it is the surgery looming in two weeks and another part is a need to declutter. Since losing weight, I’m no longer a pack rat and I don’t like stuff overstaying its welcome. If I’m no longer using it, maybe someone else can. (Which reminds me, you have until tomorrow night – Sunday, June 6 – to throw your name in the hat for my latest giveaway! Click here for more info.)
Nesting started last week when I pruned the heck out of the lilacs in the back, turned over the compost heap and spread it all along what I hope will be new garden beds next year, mulched, cleaned the bird bath and the bird feeders, vacuumed the porch, organized the linen closet, ripped up carpet, and painted the floor.
Today, I cleaned the basement. And when I say I basement, I mean quasi cellar.
Our house is nearly 100 years old. The foundation is stone and the floor is concrete, although clearly someone laid what looks like 1940s linoleum at some point – flooring that is now almost completely flaked off.
You get to the basement through a 4½-foot door located in the kitchen. (And yes, that's a YELLOW plastic cat door. It was my dad's idea. Swear.) Even my friend Shari – at barely 5’ tall – has to duck her head. The gas meter reader isn’t as fortunate. He’s 6’2”. My stepson, who is also over 6’ tall, calls our house a death trap for tall people.
I clean in a Z pattern: southwest corner to northwest corner to southeast corner to northeast corner, which is where the second exit is located, the one that takes you up a few stairs to the outside cellar door – the one Claire likes to hop down.
With my trusty old shop vac, I sucked up a year of cobwebs and dust bunnies, and I moved luggage and boxes and chairs around to make the space more spacious and user friendly, particularly around the washer and dryer. Surprisingly I only hauled out two 30-gallon garbage bags of trash and a box that was rotting. Unfortunately IN that box were the games Scrabble and Battleship which also suffered those funky water marks and odor. I thought I’d transferred everything to plastic bins, but obviously I overlooked the game box. Dang it.
In 90 minutes, the basement was no longer scary, and if you’re my height or shorter (5’5”), you can safely walk upright without getting creepy crawly sticky things in your hair.
The purge felt good, and afterwards, I celebrated with roasted Brussels sprouts and cauliflower (ate most of them before I thought to take a photo. Recipe to follow) and a glass of Fredonia.
18 days until surgery. Think I’ll tackle windows next. And maybe the Memory Box. You know the one – the thing in which you dump all your letters, homemade Mother’s Day cards, ticket stubs, photos, grade school report cards, and fat pants (yup, that’s where I keep the size 28 black stretch pants). It’s one of the last bastions of unorganization that I need to organize. But the Memory Box is a daunting place, not only from an organizational standpoint, but an emotional one, too. It’s like Pandora’s Box in reverse. Most of the stuff in there is good, but some of it is not. I might need a bit more Fredonia before I open that bad boy.
Anyhoo, here’s the Brussels sprouts recipe I promised. It took me nearly a year to finally make it the way I like it. I’m done experimenting!
Hope you’re having a productive weekend, too. If not, I hope it’s at least fun.
Roasted Brussels Sprouts and Cauliflower Serves 2 normal-sized servings or 1 Lynn serving
5-6 oz Brussels sprouts, trimmed, cleaned and cut in fourths 8 oz cauliflower, either cut or twisted off into small bite-sized portions. I prefer to twist. Non-stick spray 1/8 to ¼ t seasoned salt 1/8 to ¼ t other spices such as garlic powder, pepper, celery salt/powder…whatever floats your boat) 1-2 T veggie broth (any broth would work)
Place the veggies in a deep roasting pan sprayed with non-stick spray. Sprinkle the spices on, spray the veggies and mix with your hands. Roast in a 375 degree oven for 20 minutes. Pour in the broth and mix. Put back in the oven for another 20 minutes or until done the way you like it.
As many of you know, I’ve been clearing out and giving away some of the “tools” I’ve used to get in shape over the last five years. Today I’m offering the chance to win one of two of my favorite books on women’s health and strength training.
While I used the Weight Watchers Points system to lose weight, I combined what I learned there with solid, science-backed information on weight loss and nutrition from other sources, such as “Body for Life for Women” by Pamela Peeke, M.D. and Joan Pagano’s “Strength Training for Women.”
Because I’m heading out the door soon to go on a (flat) hike and do some bird watching, I cut and pasted portions of the books’ reviews from Amazon.com so you get an idea what each book is about and decide which one you’d like to throw your name in the hat for (you can choose both!).
“Body for Life for Women” “[Peeke’s] firm belief is, most women already know what they’re supposed to do: eat a balanced diet, ditch junk food, exercise, think positively. Peeke strives to show her “girlfriends” how to accomplish these tasks, customizing plans for young and old. Clients’ stories lend credence to Peeke's 12-week weight reduction plan; so do the wowsie before-and-after pictures.
“Gender-specific scientific evidence supports Peeke's premise that women's bodies require different care than men's. But she doesn't stop there. Peeke digs deeper for her audience, defining four hormonal milestones of a woman's life (menarche to beyond menopause) and customizing a physical and mental transformation plan to suit each.
“Easing off on strict calorie and weight guidelines, she focuses instead on serious fat reduction, muscle improvement, and practical suggestions for self-care. But for Peeke, weight reduction pales to bolstering a woman's self-worth through nurturing healthier habits.” (Review by Liane Thomas)
“Strength Training for Women” From Publishers Weekly: “A personal trainer in NYC’s Upper East Side, Pagano has dedicated the past 16 years of her life to passing her knowledge and passion for fitness on to other women in the hopes of helping them improve their lives and prevent common diseases like osteoporosis.
“Like a good personal trainer should, she begins with a three-part fitness test and questionnaire to assess whether the reader should consult a doctor before beginning her program. For true beginners, she provides an anatomy chart that depicts the major muscle groups and the exercises that are best suited to them. She dispels fitness myths like ‘lifting weights will bulk you up’ and ‘you can spot reduce,’ and talks about the risk factors, exercise guidelines and restrictions of osteoporosis.
“Best of all for novices, many of Pagnano’s beginner exercises require no special equipment, relying instead on everyday fixtures like chairs, walls and kitchen countertops. (More advanced exercises use free weights, stretch bands and stability balls.)
“The color photos, diagrams and clear explanations make the exercises easy to follow, and Pagano provides full training programs for improving posture and strengthening the lower, upper and core muscles of the body. This book may be one of the best substitutes for pricey gym memberships and personal trainers.”
If you've read and used one or both of these books, I'd love to read your review, too.
If you haven't and would like to win one of them, throw your name in the hat! The only catch is if you win, you agree to give the book away when you’re done, or if you can’t part with it, you’ll donate a healthy food item to your local food shelf. That’s it! So leave a comment or send an email to lynnbering@verizon.net and let me know which book you’d like to win. I’ll draw the winners on Sunday evening (June 6).
Thanks to MizFit’s post today, I learned it is National Running Day. So in honor of all of you crazies (and I love you!) who run for fitness, including those of you training ala C25K and on your own, I confess my running prejudice and reformation.
It’s our nature that when we’re told we can’t do something, we either try to do it anyway, or we convince ourselves that whatever we’re not supposed to do is stupid and we hate it, even though secretly we’re angry that we can’t do it. That’s how it was (PAST tense) with me and running (and skiing).
Since my first knee surgery in 1977 (I was 14), I’ve been told repeatedly to not run or ski. Ergo, I began to consider each of them a waste of time.
Yet some of my best friends are runners. Heck, my husband’s been running for 30+ years. But I never understood their passion. To me, running was nothing more than sending your knees and feet to an early grave.
But I changed my mind on a quiet Sunday morning a few years ago. I started out with my typical Sunday workout intention: to ride my bike up to the track, walk a few miles, then ride home. Like oatmeal or white bread, Sunday workouts are bland but familiar.
I got to the track and walked the first quarter mile, same as I always do. Then I remembered the dream I had the night before – a recurring dream I had every few weeks in which I ran around an obscure track, being timed by a coach. I thought about how as a kid I loved to run just for the sake of running, and how long it had been since I’d run anywhere, and how if this was thousands of years ago and I was one of the early humans who fell out of the trees and stood erect and went hunting, I’d have been one of the first ones eaten.
But on that Sunday morning, with no one was around to critique me and no predators to eat me, I…well…kinda decided to run. Not far – a quarter to a half mile tops, and only in 100-yard spurts – but it was far enough to make me completely change my opinion of running and runners.
I used to think that since I could walk a 12-minute mile, it was close enough to running. Man, was I wrong. Running is so much more than walking. It’s child-like! It’s a rush! The wind feels different, the air smells different, and all your body mechanics are in hyper mode. In just a few hundred yards, I had a small sense of what runner’s mean by a “runner’s high.”
Back in reality, I know I’ll never actually BE a runner, but I’m glad I tried it again. I appreciate my running friends that much more, and as for that recurring dream, I never had it again. Next up may not be skiing, but I am going to try snowshoeing this winter.
So to all my runner friends and runner bloggers and my daughter Cassie who recently became addicted to 5Ks, happy National Running Day! I love your stamina and enthusiasm. Long live your knees, hips, toes and lungs!
Sandy from Queensland sent me an email last week asking if I had any ideas on how to eat healthy during her 3-week trip to the west coast. I gave her a little of my own advice, but I thought I’d throw this out to all of you, too, because I KNOW you'll have some good, solid advice.
Here’s what Sandy wrote: “My husband and I are travelling to the US from here in Australia at the end of August. I am starting to become really anxious (read “freaked out!”) about being able to eat well while enjoying a driving holiday down the west coast.
“We’ll be travelling for 3 weeks and I won’t have things like my esky (cooler) to help me out. I was thinking of perhaps buying a small one upon arrival along with some disposable plates and the like. I suppose my biggest problem is knowing where to buy things. I've heard of Trader Joes and have found their locations online and have also chased down some farmer’s markets as a source of fresh produce, but storing and preparation may be a problem. Can you let me know of the name of some stores where I can buy fresh fruit and veggies, and do you have any advice for me on how to eat well with no kitchen, refrigeration or 'home' for 3 weeks? I would be so immensely grateful for any advice you can give me - this situation is starting to screw with my head.”
Sandy also started a blog called Belladonna’s Garden that, even with just three entries, I’ve enjoyed very much. I hope you’ll check it out.
If you have ideas for Sandy on how to eat healthy on the road, particularly without a kitchen, please leave a comment here or on her blog, or send me an email at lynnbering@verizon.net and I’ll forward it to my new Australian friend.
