There are a few days that incite happiness for baseball fans. For some, it’s opening day. For others, it’s truck day or when pitchers and catchers report to spring training. This is my favorite week of baseball for two reasons: the Home-Run Derby and the MLB Draft.
To most, the MLB Draft is not newsworthy. For people who closely follow collegiate baseball, it’s huge! Every year, players we’ve watched grow during their college years get the call that will change their lives. Last year, Kolton Ledbetter, who coached Michael during camp sessions at the Newport Gulls, was drafted by the Rays. This week, the Oriels drafted Ethan Anderson, a player we watched during his first year of college. Collegiate players have changed Michael’s view of baseball. He interacts with and watches them intently, observing how they interact with each other and handle errors- their own and their teammates. He watches them eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the dugout, cheers for them as they play in holey baseball pants, and talks to them about their experiences, taking in any advice they offer him applicable to his journey. He brings them packages of cookies so they have treats before the game. Watching players we’ve known get the call that will change their lives forever is beyond exciting. The draft represents the opportunity to make your wildest dreams come true. It’s the reward for the years of practice, dedication, and sacrifice.
Honestly, the All-Star Game doesn’t matter to me. I’ll watch it, but I don’t follow it closely. For me, the magic happens the night before the All-Star Game in the Home Run Derby. Watching the Home Run Derby while the draft is still in progress makes it even better. These players swinging for the rafters were, not too long ago, players getting the call explaining they had the opportunity to achieve their wildest dreams. Being selected for the home run derby signifies reaching the highest performance level of the few people provided the opportunity to play in the MLB.
As much as I enjoy the first spring training games and the playoffs, this is my favorite week of the baseball season. I love hearing news of collegiate players earning an opportunity to make it to the show and watching our favorite MLB players show the height of their talents. This week represents everything we try to teach Michael about life: work hard, learn from mistakes, and strive to improve.
This surgery was much easier than my Achilles. It was not nearly as painful. I had one rough day, but that was it.
However, this surgery, like the injury itself, delays the pain from too much movement until after the fact. I joked with my PT that it was like tequila, letting you know you’ve done too many hours later. I pay for it later if I move too much and jostle my foot in my cast.
Michael is a huge help. The surgery was on a Friday. On Tuesday, after helping with laundry, cooking, and vacuuming, Michael commented, “Mom does a lot.” He asks if I need help several times each day. I hate asking for help, but I’m getting better at it.
My kid is the most understanding teenager I’ve ever met. He didn’t complain when we canceled our vacation and gave up tickets to two new MLB stadiums and Green Day tickets. The kid is remarkably kind.
The timing of my last surgery was much easier for Michael. It was performed a week and a half before he went back to school. This time, surgery occurred the day after he got out for the summer. He’s stuck home with me.
Thank goodness I can drive this time.
The location of this surgery is different. The incision is on the outside of my foot. When it gets warm, which it has been, my foot sweats. When sweat hits the incision, it’s excruciating.
Mike has been a fucking rock star. He works an hour away from home. After working all day, he’s been taking Michael to the fields to practice baseball. Today, he got to work before 6:30 to leave early and take Michael to practice.
Getting outside each day is huge for my mental health.
Getting dressed in real clothes is also huge for my mental health.
There’s a lot of screen time, but I’m consciously staying on Apple News as much as possible rather than scrolling social media. I still manage to go days without opening Instagram.
Telling as few people as possible has been better for my mental health. I’m not concerned about who is or isn’t checking in. The people I know are in my closest circle, and they’re checking on me perfectly. I posted a story about my cast foot at the beach and deleted it twenty minutes later. I like being in my recovery bubble.
Kindles and Libby have made it overwhelming to select which book to read next.
We have almost every streaming service, but the TV stays on TBS most of the time. It’s easier than trying to pick out movies we will both want to watch. (While recovering from Achilles surgery, I watched every cheesy Rom-Com on Netflix.)
My backyard is beautiful. I’m so thankful that the previous owner created flowerbeds that we just need to maintain. And I’m sorry for anything we accidentally killed trying to figure out which plants were weeds and which were supposed to be there.
There’s a bone spur on the back of my left foot, almost as big as the one removed from my right (after it dug into and tore my Achilles). I know others have much worse problems, but I don’t want to do this a third time.
Despite my best efforts, I’ve gained five pounds since surgery. Add that to the five I’ve gained since my injury, and I’ve got my work ahead of me when I can start moving. I’m aware that the extra weight puts more stress on my body.
The AeroGarden I found at Savers for $6 last year has given me so much entertainment. I give poor Mike daily updates on my tomato babies. He’s the best and humors me with matched excitement.
I want to live my dog’s life. Banjo has it made and is always happy.
At this point, I’ve become an emotional houseplant; I move into and out of the sun and drink plenty of water.
Am I really postponing surgery for two weeks to take Michael to Fenway in hopes of meeting Bryce Harper? Hell, yeah, I am! And I hope it’s worth it!
Poor Mike will have to take care of everything for an entire summer (again).
Poor Michael will not have the summer we planned, even though we can have a few of our planned adventures.
How the hell did I get back here? I already recovered from this surgery, did all the PT, and worked to get back to normal. (insert pout here)
It’s my ankle. I will have pain for a few months, work through it, and move on with my life. It could be much worse. Remember how lucky I am.
After a few callbacks and biopsies, I’ve had three clear breast scans. Needing surgery on my ankle is the least scary outcome of this week’s doctor’s appointments and tests. I have no right to complain about having to have a tendon surgically repaired.
I’m going to watch so much television!
This time, while I’m recovering, I will read more books.
Even two and a half years post-surgery, my right leg is still skinnier than the left. At least the left will shrink while in a cast for six weeks.
I don’t want to start over again… I already did this work.
I’m almost positive this injury happened during a long run while training for NYC. Five miles into one of my best runs, I felt a pop and had to call Mike to get me. It was sore afterward, cramping if I pushed too far, making me scared to do more than a fast walk or slow jog so I could ensure I made it through the marathon.
My pain is real. Whenever I have such injuries, there is the fear of surgery and complications, but there is also the fear that there is nothing there and that this pain is something I’m exaggerating or imagining.
At least I already have the boot, so I don’t have to pay for another one.
Since I won’t be able to for the rest of the summer, I’m going to the beach as much as I can over the next three weeks.
Should I give up running? Do I want to go through surgery and rehabilitation and start over only to get hurt again?
First of all, I’m hoping people see the play of Tolstoy’s “How Much Land Does a Man.
Need?”
I recently discovered the term “de-influencing,” the idea of people encouraging others to live with less. In our materialistic society, this stuck with me. As much as I try not to get bogged down by “stuff,” especially in our tiny house, we are bogged down by stuff. Every few months, I sort through various sections of my house, looking for things we no longer use that I can donate. I love the feeling of dropping off bags of clothes or other various items at our local resale shops and donation centers.
De-influencing struck a chord. I buy things to try them, then refuse to get rid of them because I spent money on them. This is especially true with beauty products. Reels demonstrating the latest eye cream, wrinkle reducer, primer, or hair serum almost always convince me to purchase them eventually, especially if there’s a sale.
Over February break, I looked through the bathroom to inventory my stash. I had six different face lotions and five different eye creams. In the shower, I had four other face scrubs. Why do I need so many? The hoarding didn’t stop in the bathroom. I found a dozen water bottles in the pantry, demonstrating a time capsule of a decade of water bottle trends: Nalgene, Hydroflask, Yeti, and the Stanley Cup. (I am currently using the Owala and cannot oversell it!) We have squeeze-top water bottles that we bring to the gym or practice. We have water bottles designed to fit in the bike holder. I have dresses and skirts that I love but never wear because I’ve grown accustomed to wearing clothing with pockets and don’t want to wear these older pieces and worry all day that I’ve left my phone or my keys in a place where they will be misplaced. I sorted through my giant Caboodle, realizing that pairing down my products allows me to toss my beloved organizer.
While my house looks neat and orderly, we are full of stuff. I noticed this around Lent. So, even though I have not given up anything for Lent in four decades, I decided to give up superfluous spending for forty days just to see if I could. It started challenging- who knew how much your mind could focus on sales? I am a case study in marketing strategies. I unsubscribed from all promotional emails. When I went to CVS for a prescription, I skipped my usual detour up the cosmetics aisle to see if anything was on sale. I do not need to add to it when trying to lessen the abundance of lipsticks and eyeshadows cluttering my bathroom. I also went through my large Caboodle makeup organizer, discarding anything I hadn’t used in a year, even the expensive products I kept saving for a rare night out. I need to realize that, at this stage of life, I have no important events to save a fancy lipstick or perfume for; I just need to wear the four-year-old Urban Decay lipstick I just threw away.
I didn’t realize how much I was a marketer’s dream until I actively tried to reset my brain. One of my favorite old bands rereleased baseball t-shirts from their hit nineties album. I am a sucker for a baseball T-shirt! They were selling the shirts via Amazon, throwing free shipping into the deal! I quickly added a baseball shirt to my cart but caught myself while checking out. Did I need this? How much would I wear it? Was it different from the countless band T-shirts I try to rotate and wear enough to justify keeping?
Much like anything, the more you do it, the more it becomes a habit. I now delete and unsubscribe to marketing emails without opening them. As a result, I’m receiving fewer and fewer emails. On my last trip to Target, I did not spend extra time exploring the endcaps for clearance finds. When relaxing, I played word games on my phone rather than searching Amazon, Target, and other discount sites. It did seem weird not to have packages arrive almost daily, but I quickly adjusted.
This experience taught me that I am not only okay with less “stuff,” but the shift was more than I expected. I consider myself pretty good with money and was shocked by how much mindless spending I was guilty of. I appreciate not digging through my closet or drawers to get the items I love and wear most frequently. I like looking at our living room bookshelf, with fewer books and board games crammed into every space. These few weeks have helped me grow and understand the power “stuff” has over us. I’ve enjoyed the relief from removing items that no longer serve us.
A few weeks ago, we went to see Stephen Kellogg’s “Stand Up and Sit Down” show, in which he combines stand-up and musical performances. You are missing out if you have never attended a Stephen Kellogg show; his lyrics are profound, and he seems genuinely lovely. Michael put it best when he said, “He seems like someone you would invite to sit around the fire and drink White Claws with you and Dad.” (We are now White Claw people because our middle-aged stomachs no longer tolerate good craft beers.) That night was our fifth Stephen Kellogg show. We made a night of it, visiting a local brewery for beer and BBQ before the show. When we arrived, we were overjoyed to see chairs; we would not need to stand all night! At the show’s beginning, SK assured us, “I’ll have you back on your couches, watching Netflix and scrolling your phones before you know it.” His shows begin with a montage of clips, one from a TED Talk he delivered years ago describing his desire to pursue music. During the talk, he quoted The Office: “It’s better to be at the bottom of a ladder you want to climb than at the top of a ladder you don’t.” I could see Michael, who referred to SK as the “lovesick guy with a guitar,” sitting up a little straighter and paying attention.
As always, the show was terrific. Mike and I noted that he played a few of our favorite songs, including “Thanksgiving,” harder than usual. On the ride home, we talked to Michael about the show. Michael, who had made fun of SK’s lyrics about love, is coming around. A few things have changed his mind, including an observation a few weeks earlier: While driving home from Thanksgiving weekend in Maine, we stopped for gas. Two cars were clearly doing the split custody child hand-off in the corner of the parking lot. Michael has friends whose parents are divorced and is familiar with “at my dad’s” or “at my mom’s,” but this was the first time he witnessed the switch in real life. He sat, speechless. “Are you glad you have parents who still go to Smoochville?” I asked, referring to Michael’s teasing when Mike and I kissed. Michael was affected by witnessing this interaction, mentioning it a few times over the next few days. This brings us back to the latest show we attended. SK talked about success and family at length. I could see Michael absorbing his words. SK’s words about success and following dreams struck a chord with Michael. We’ve talked to Michael about high school for the past few months. His district offers several career paths. While Michael’s top dream is to replace Bryce Harper on the Phillies, he is also realistically interested in business. He’s currently taking a business elective and is enjoying every aspect of it. He talks about starting his own business or working in marketing or promotion for a company, preferably in a sports-related field. I am a teacher. In seventh grade, I knew I wanted to spend my days surrounded by words. I (usually) love my job and cannot imagine doing anything else. I am also aware that if I did not marry an engineer, I would not have enough money to pay for the equipment and lessons that allow Michael to follow his aspirations. After twenty years of teaching, I know I make less money than an engineer fresh out of college. Mike is an engineer. When he was unsure what he wanted to study, he spoke to a family friend, a bachelor who had all sorts of free time and “toys” (a plane, sports car, etc.). Mike decided on a major based on the projected earnings. He doesn’t dislike his job, but he is not always passionate about it. While we chose our selected careers for different reasons, both offer stability and safety. We know what our days look like, when we will be working, what our days will look like, how much we will earn, etc. We have spreadsheets mapping out our retirement goals. We plan vacations based on visiting new baseball stadiums each summer. We selected fulfilling but safe pathways and are forever in awe of people who, like Stephen Kellogg, pursued his passions. So here lies the dilemma as a parent: how much do we support an unrealistic dream? Yes, Michael is a talented player. He’s passionate, hardworking, and blessed with a build that supports hitting dingers. He studies stats and players, genuinely appreciating the art of playing baseball. He joined cross country to get faster, hoping he could progress from leading his team in doubles to leading his team in triples and home runs. At thirteen, he is hitting with the exit velocity of a sixteen-year-old. Do we encourage Michael to take the safe route and focus on business? Or do we encourage him to pursue his dream of being a homerun hitter for the Phillies, knowing the odds are not in his favor? On the ride home from the show and throughout the rest of the evening, Michael continued to digest the words of the “lovesick guy with a guitar.” “Did you hear what he said about the ladder?” “Do you think I can play for a D1 school?” “Do you think I could play for a collegiate team, even for a summer?”
He’s a talented player in a sea of gifted players. And right now, he’s a talented player who will give his all for the chance to make it to the show… while working on a degree in management or marketing. And, yes, Stephen Kellogg does appear to be someone we’d love to invite over to sit around the fire and drink White Claws; he’s also the person who convinced my son not to play it safe. He convinced Michael to pursue his dreams and climb the ladder he wants to climb. While we try to be realistic, we also entertain his conversations regarding selecting a walk-up song. He is completely confident about this, too. (His choice? Butter, by A Tribe Called Quest, a decision that also brings much pride.)
Running a major marathon was something I never envisioned doing, but I have a medal to prove I did!
For years, I swore the universe would tell me when it was time to run the NYC Marathon. Each year, I would register for the lottery. Each year, I felt relief and disappointment when I was not selected.
I remembered about the selection this year when someone posted about it online. I checked my credit card throughout the day. Nothing. I was home with Covid and spent most of the day on the couch, idly surfing my phone. When I checked it one last time, there was a charge.
Holy crap! This was happening!
My first steps allowed me to shine where my strengths lie- certainly nothing involving running. Running the New York City Marathon requires so much planning. The race starts on Staten Island, so the first decision involves how to get there, either by bus or ferry. After reading blogs and learning that the ferry situation was a disaster the past few years, I decided to take the 6 am bus, even though it would get me there with hours to spare. I’d rather be early and find a spot to read a paperback than stress about being late.
My most challenging part of training was not the long runs, which is what you would expect to be difficult. My biggest struggle involved the short weekday runs. Michael is involved in cross country and baseball. He is also still attending physical therapy. So he had an activity every weekday. Although training was supposed to include multiple runs during the week, my training mainly consisted of long weekend runs.
My next situation involved where to stay. Since deciding to take the bus, staying near the New York Public Library bus pickup made sense. I found a small hotel and booked it immediately before prices increased due to demand.
I went into this marathon with one goal: to finish upright and uninjured.
The actual event exceeded all of my expectations. We arrived in the city Saturday around one and decided to divide and conquer. Mike and Michael went to the hotel to check in; I headed to the expo so that we were not lugging suitcases through the crowded expo. I refused to buy any finisher gear ahead of time and risk jinxing myself, so I purchased one T-shirt and headed out to look around. I refused to wait in the long lines; patience is not my strength. So, I did not get my picture taken with Elmo, in the NYRR props, or a few other cool opportunities. I did find my name on the wall. Like me, it was introverted and chose to hang out in the corner. My favorite moment was getting to meet Latoya Snell and Martinus Evans. I teared up a little.
I met up with the boys at the MLB Flagship Store. Seeing how Michael has grown since last visiting the city is funny. At our previous visit, he was all about the Nintendo Store. They spent over an hour scouring the jerseys, shirts, and hats. They found a hat representing the Salem Red Sox. Before heading to the city, the boys bought me a Mets hat to replace the Red Sox hat I usually wear while running. This hat, worn by my cousin’s son, seemed fitting. I was thankful they discovered it and hoped it would bring me good luck.
I had not made plans to eat anywhere in particular, so the next task was to find a good meal. Yelp directed us to Jackson Hole, which claimed to sell the best burgers in the city. (Cue the reference to How I Met Your Mother. “The best burger in New York comes from a place with a green booth and a picture of Regis Philbin.”) Jackson Hole did not disappoint! The burgers were huge. The fries were perfect. We ordered a deep cookie sundae for dessert. It was a perfect last dinner before the race.
I was terrified that I would not sleep, but sleep came easily. Daylight savings time ended that evening, which gave us an extra hour of sleep. It was interesting to hear people from other countries speak hesitantly about the time change as it is not recognized worldwide. It reminded me of high school seniors who attempt to sell first-year students rooftop pool passes. In all honestly, the concept does sound ridiculous.
Being me, I made sure to be out of the house early. My bus was supposed to pick me up at 6, so I ensured I was there at 5:40. I was quickly yelled at to get in the correct line. The right line spanned three city blocks! When it started moving, the line also wrapped around a building. After waiting for over an hour, I was on a bus. My first instinct was to panic that I wouldn’t make it to the bus on time, but no one else seemed concerned.
My bus arrived on Staten Island around 8:00. The village was vast and confusing, so I stayed where I felt comfortable. I had heard they offered Dunkin coffee and bagels and set out to find caffeine. I’d also been told about the beanies Dunkin gives out and that they are a small, silly souvenir. I attached mine to the elastic strings that were supposed to hold gels.
The waiting was better than I hoped. I had three and a half hours to kill before I started running. I’d picked up a paperback, intending to donate it before entering the start. When I arrived, prime space was limited, but I could secure a spot by the ledge of a parking lot. I waited until the bathroom lines died down before attempting them. So, I had plenty of time to sit, eat a bagel, and read. After a while, I could even upgrade to a grassy spot leaning against a tree. Being me, I did not attempt small talk.
I was concerned about my old, cracked phone running out of battery, especially in the city, and had packed several portable batteries. I brought the paperback book to ensure I was not tempted to play on my phone for several hours and drain the battery. This was not an issue because there was so little service in the village that I put my phone on airplane mode. Just trying to send Mike a text would use several percentages of battery. I was able to call him to explain the situation quickly.
After several hours of waiting, I almost lost my motivation to run. By the time I was running, I’d been up for seven hours and out of the hotel for six! I also nearly had my steps in for the day- just over 9,000. I had already experienced a day’s worth of excitement! However, it was finally time to line up and get ready to run.
The bridge was everything I’d hoped it would be. It was fantastic and beautiful. I was fortunate enough to start on the top of the bridge. The views were spectacular! I do kind of wish I had bothered to place myself better in front of the cameras when passing the photographers. Seeing other peoples’ bridge photos makes me wish I had better ones and had shamelessly jumped in front of the camera and posed like the people around me did.
I’ve never experienced crowd support like I did at this race. It was overwhelming at times and made using headphones impossible and useless. Some people complained about spectators pulling down the blue tape and spilling onto the street, but I loved it. Seeing people treat you like a star was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. It motivated me to run faster. By the time I went through Brooklyn, I had established myself as a back of the packer, so there weren’t too many of us trying to get through at once. When I see footage of faster waves, I can understand why people running with a particular time goal were frustrated.
The New York City Marathon requires running over five bridges; the bridges also allow quiet breaks to reflect before returning to the crowds, creating the perfect balance for reflection and excitement.
There was a November Project group at mile 14. I was emotional and drained, so seeing my friend Kerri at the moment was everything! I don’t know her very well, but I grabbed onto her and almost sobbed. As a fellow runner, she was pretty understanding. I saw my old friend Liz at mile 16 and a dear friend, Maria, right after. Knowing that they waited for me meant the world to me.
As always, the hardest part of the race came around mile 18, when you’re exhausted but still have many miles ahead of you. Surprisingly, they went by pretty quickly. Runners go through the Bronx and Queens at the end of the race. The energy was contagious and well-needed in the home stretch. Finally, I reached Central Park. I saw Michael and Mike at the last corner. By this point, I just focused on finishing the last bit of distance.
Crossing the finish line felt like everything I imagined. I’ve seen so many pictures of the area. I received my medal, then a cover-up jacket. As we wrapped up, my fellow finishers and I looked like a strange tribe of orange zombies. I wish I had the energy to take a picture; we were a sight!
My only hiccup came when trying to meet Michael and Mike. I knew the race sold spectator tickets but didn’t realize that the finisher’s area was closed, so they couldn’t get into Central Park. We tried to find each other, with Mike finally seeing my location from my phone and telling me to stay put. I leaned against a barrier. When I saw them, I stood up and passed out. Thankfully, Mike was there to make sure I was okay and get me back to my hotel.
I can now say that I have run a major marathon. I was not fast. I did not PR. But I set a goal and conquered it. Sometimes, getting through is the goal. And I reached my goal!
Recently, Mike and I celebrated our fourteenth wedding anniversary. We often joke that we are romantic by doing the most unromantic things. For example, he unloads the dishwasher for me, and I often clean Banjo’s poop off the lawn in the backyard. While these seem like very unromantic gestures, the “romance” lies in that we find ways to show our love by making our partner’s life easier. We don’t just show our love by huge efforts a few times year; instead, we find smaller ways to show our affection throughout the year. The night before our anniversary, Mike and I sat on our backyard swing. “We’re not buying cards tomorrow, right?” he asked me as Banjo tried to convince us to throw a tennis ball for him. “I’m not buying shit,” I assured him. Because Mike’s company just switched to working four ten-hour days to allow employees to take three-day weekends, we decided to go to a local eatery for a quick dinner instead of our usual drive to the Ocean Mist, a restaurant almost an hour away from our house. On the morning of our anniversary, our favorite local brewery announced the release of a new beer, appropriately titled “Make This Romance Last.” I had to pick this up! At the brewery, I told the clerk why I was so excited for this beer. When he offered to enter our phone number for their rewards program, he offered to enter the purchase in a few hours. “It’ll send your husband a text letting him know he earned points.” I offered to skip the points, explaining that the “What the f**k, I thought we weren’t doing anything” dance was best enjoyed in person rather than over the phone.
We were babies when we went to a Paw Sox game for Mike’s 27th birthday!
That afternoon, Michael had his first Chili’s experience. We don’t often eat out, and when we do, we rarely go to chains, choosing instead to support local businesses. Somehow, Chilli’s chicken fingers had come up in conversation. On our way home from his baseball camp, we passed a Chilis. Being starving, Michael worked his magic. “You know, Mom, you did say that Chili’s has the best chicken fingers.” Being ravenous myself, I turned into the parking lot. Chili’s is like a time capsule. While the mosaic-tiled tables I remembered were replaced by chairs with a chili cut out of the back, Chili’s hadn’t changed. Our hostess seated us in the bar area behind a very dusty display area. She asked us about the rewards program. Since I don’t think I had visited a Chili’s since Mike and I were dating, she had to walk me through signing up so we could receive free chips and salsa. The menu had barely changed. Michael ordered a combo that included ribs and the infamous chicken fingers. Though he admitted that the ribs were not as good as the ones Mike made, the chicken fingers lived up to the hype. “You don’t even need ketchup.” That night, we drove to the lovely little eatery near our house. Michael talked insistently about Chili’s. “The chicken fingers were so good… And, if you’re a member, the chips and salsa are free… Have you ever had the fajitas, Dad? We should go to Chilis. When was the last time you went to Chili’s, Dad?” Finally, thoughts of chips, salsa, and fajitas won. We drove to the other side of the city to go to Chili’s… on our anniversary. Our waiter, Nate, humored Michael as he requested chips and salsa, explaining, “We’re members here,” with pride usually reserved for professional all-star athletes and Mensa members. Nate graciously humored him with the “members only” chips as Michael proceeded to order the same meal he had for lunch. “Happy anniversary,” Mike and I said to each other too many times while we hovered warms chips and enjoyed draft beers. On our way out, I insisted we snap a picture. We tried several times as we kept moving to allow cars to drive through. “It’s our anniversary!” I exclaimed to a passing minivan, whose driver waved and gave us a thumbs up. I have to admit that Chili’s was as good as it was in the 90s. Michael loved the attention that came when Nate brought Mike his sizzling fajitas. On the way home, I showed him the video of Cody Rigsby’s pep talk involving Chili’s fajitas. “I’m going to watch this every single morning,” he promised. While the local restaurant offers food similar to Chili’s, our priority is to support the local businesses benefiting our neighbors, sponsoring local baseball teams, and driving the local economy. And here’s my takeaway about a wedding anniversary spent eating warm chips and salsa at Chili’s: I cannot think of a better way to celebrate fourteen years of marriage with Mike. We don’t prove our love through big gestures. Rather, we show our love via quick texts throughout the day, emptying the dishwasher because our partner hates to do it, and all of the little gestures that indicate we love each other enough to work as a team and want to make life kinder and more enjoyable for our partner and our child.
It’s been eight weeks since I had surgery to fix two bone spurs and a torn Achilles tendon. It feels like it was years ago and a blink at the same time. It’s been eight weeks of books, bad TV, and sitting around. Getting injured during a pandemic means more time by myself than I’ve ever spent. It’s reassuring that I can do so but makes me fearful to return to work and real life. Because I’ve always been awkward in social situations and tend to avoid them, the pandemic and the injury were not terrible for me.
Two weeks ago, I was cleared to begin putting weight on my foot. After six weeks on crutches, this was a huge step! While I was afraid of overdoing it and causing more damage, my foot is kind enough to let me know exactly when it is done, almost like flipping a switch. Eager to get back to normal, I’ve been doing my exercises every day. Since I’ve been fighting this injury for seven months, I’m familiar with which moves increase strength and flexibility. While being unable to run, I focused on yoga, earning my 200-hour yoga certification. Resuming physical therapy is strange and humbling.
My body can do some things as nothing happens but flat out refuses to do something I never considered difficult. For example, I couldn’t step on my tiptoes. After a few days, I could stand on tiptoes using both feet, but my right foot refused to lift independently.
This week, I attempted a twenty-minute yoga session via the Peloton app. Downward dog, considered a resting pose, made my legs burn. It felt good to stretch. Banjo was disappointed that I laid my mat in his prime morning sunbeam, disrupting peak napping.
Through this entire process, Mike has been patient and amazing. He took care of Michael, me, and the house. He took Michael to practice baseball a few times a week, walked Banjo, and took care of every household chore. As I’m starting to get stronger, our exchange has become a mantra, “Look at me go!” followed by “Look at you go!”
I can stumble to the kitchen to get my own Cheerios. “Look at me go!” “Look at you go!” I can get upstairs to bed on my feet instead of crawling. “Look at me go!” “Look at you go!” I can walk around the block. “Look at me go!” “Look at you go!”
I have big plans as I continue to recover. They begin small, such as walking Banjo. I’m going to complete the virtual Boston Marathon, even if I had to walk it solo as I did for the NYC Marathon. I contacted Rhode Races to get my comp code for volunteering at the Newport Marathon. I will be signing up for next year’s Narragansett Half-Marathon.
Be prepared for many more cries of, “Look at me go!”
If I can be honest, I am fully aware of my need to only post positively on social media. I have never mentioned the death of a loved one, accidents, or illnesses. Call me old-fashioned, but I believe in delivering such news person to person. That being said, I am always thankful when others post about the passing of people close to them so I can attend arrangements and pay my respects. So this is a weird double standard I’ve created for myself.
Anyway, I’ve been trying to be positive and keep things in perspective, but it is hard. I’ve spent five weeks sitting on my butt, watching documentaries, mind-numbing movies, rewatching my favorite TV series, and reading books. I’ve cleaned the photos from my phone and spent an embarrassing amount of time on my phone. I’ve attempted upper body exercises while watching reruns.
Here are my biggest takeaways:
We will be back!
I need to get dressed each day, which was challenging initially, but I feel better when I do so.
I need to make myself go outside, which is also challenging, but my mental health benefits from sitting outside rather than on the couch in the living room. I ordered an outdoor swing, which Mike put together last weekend, and make myself get out there, even when I think I’m content on the couch watching Friends reruns (again).
People who check in on me are excellent. I fall into a funk, but people reach out, which makes my day.
When I fall into my funks, I genuinely fear that I have forgotten how to be social. I also fear that people have completely forgotten about me. When much of your social interactions involve physical activity, getting injured just as we returned to normal after Covid fosters more loneliness. While I fear that I will never return to the level of activity from which I was once capable, my mind also creates a fear that I will never return to the social interactions that were crucial to achieving milestones pre-injury. (Does that make any sense? TLDR: I’m afraid that my running and NP friends have forgotten me or will not at all care when I can resume activities.)
As the weeks go by, I need to let go of things that used to seem important. Mike and Liam have been amazing. But since everything falls on them, not everything gets done. And that is okay, even if the entertainment stand is covered in dust.
Progress is progress. In the past five weeks, I’ve gone through two casts and a boot. Progress is happening, and it is mine to observe. Seemingly simple tasks, such as taking a shower or going upstairs, are now victories. I need to recognize and celebrate them.
Diet is so important to health. I’d been eating as healthily as I can but miscalculated how many calories sedentary me required by 200 a day, resulting in even more weight gain. I’m up twenty-five pounds from my marathon weight and look forward to being active again and getting rid of the extra weight, which will further aid recovery.
In the past five weeks, I’ve seen a lot of progress, even if it comes in the form of moving my foot side to side. There will be a lot more progress in the next few weeks and months!
When teaching The Catcher in the Rye, I ask my students to write an essay about explaining that Holden was either psychologically damaged or just a kid going through a tough time. While debating the character, a student, one who suffered from bouts of mania, said one of the most profound observations:
“Everyone is psychologically damaged. What makes some people seem insane is their inability to hide it.”
I’ve carried his words with me for over a decade, reminding myself to “hide my insanity” when it might be showing.
I have struggled with anxiety for as long as I can remember. I remember creating escape plans to get out of my classroom if various catastrophes arose. It has taken me over forty years, but I have learned to live with and manage my anxiety. I do not talk about it; talking about it makes it available to creep into my head. I greatly admire people who are open with their struggles, but my journey just isn’t something I am comfortable sharing with the world.
The silver lining to managing my own anxiety is that I am equipped to help Liam manage his anxiety. He’s learned breathing and grounding techniques and I encourage him to talk about things that worry him. We create plans to help him cope and discuss strategies to keep his anxiety from taking over his mind.
For the past few weeks, my anxiety has been creeping back onto the scene. We’ve had a bunch of small, first-world type issues come up that have required hours of attention at a time. It started around Christmas, when my car broke down, forcing me to purchase a new one on Christmas Eve. This spiraled into me not being at all ready for the holiday, a holiday I wanted to be as great as possible since it was most likely the last Christmas that Liam will believe.
Those few days reminded me of my need to be a “precrastinator,” or someone who gets things done early. Interestingly, Liam follows this trait, getting his homework done immediately after school. I have suggested that he spend time at afterschool care playing with his friends. He explains that his brain won’t let him do that; he cannot relax and play until he knows his homework is completed. Since his mom has lesson plans done at least six weeks ahead of time, I totally understand where that comes from. If skipping an after school round of four square is what he needs, then I support that.
I’ve been focusing on helping Liam learn to live in his head.
I try to pretend that my head is perfectly fine. I try to pretend I have it all together. My need to keep everything organized and orderly may seem like my perfectionism at play, but it is something my mind needs to stay calm.
Yesterday, after a few weeks of first-world problems eating a lot of my energy, I felt a panic attack coming on. It has been years since one managed to surface. I was supposed to stay after school for curriculum building, but I canceled, explaining that I needed to leave for my own well-being. (I am beyond blessed to work with people who understand this is important.)
Here’s what I did to get myself back on track:
Picked Liam up earlier than usual from afterschool care
Played with he and Banjo until Banjo was too tired to chase the ball
Made dinner with Liam- and let him make garlic bread
Went for a run while listening to Mumford and Sons
Put together my new lid organizer, which will help me avoid frustration every time I go into that cabinet
Checked to see how many animal crackers Banjo could catch in a row
Watched the latest Young Sheldon with Liam
After he went to bed, Banjo and I watched This is Us
Tried to put my thoughts into words
I’ve worked so hard to manage it, but my anxiety is not something I should feel I have to hide. As someone who tries to look like I have everything together, this is sometimes hard to accept. The truth is, my need to have everything organized and prepared is a small part of my plan to keep my mind at bay. Running and staying active is another piece of the puzzle. The best I can do is try to better myself, allow myself to struggle and do things that scare me, continue the quirky habits that keep my mind calm, and try to make others feel loved and supported.
Keise Laymon said it best in his memoir Heavy:
“Some broken folk do whatever they can to break other folk. If we’re gon be broken, I wonder if we can be those other kind of broken folk from now on. I think it’s possible to be broken and ask for help without breaking other people.”
World's Okayest Runner 