Diving for Pearls

I love anatomy. Don't get creeped out. If you have a medical doctor who does not (to some degree) love anatomy, there is something wrong with them. I also love physiology. The science of how we function. The deep dive into the chemicals and salts and biological brilliance that helps us do everything from breathing to running to playing a Bach fugue. Having recently re-read A Wrinkle in Time, I must consider that the anatomical sinews and physiological perfections of the body well-studied may not be all there is to it. Maybe we have always existed and maybe we are existing in countless places at once. Maybe my perceptions blind me to the possibilities of wonder.

All that being said, I have this nagging injury that would go away if I stopped running for awhile but I am on a streak and it means something to me I cannot explain, so I just keep running. I try to compromise by taking slow days often. I vary terrain, shoes, pace, elevation. Today the weirdest thing happened, which I think even Charles Wallace Murry would have trouble understanding. I set off for an afternoon run after seeing patients. My legs were very sore (see above re injury). I decided to do a "rest run", which involves a very slow pace. Usually "rest runs" are emotionally challenging for me. But today, from the very first step, I was blissed out with a complete, full-on runner's high. I just felt like nothing was wrong in the world. That nothing else needed to be happening at that moment. This was weird, because simultaneously my hamstrings were so tightly wound that there was a real possibility I was going to get flung across town by them, slingshot style. My right sciatic nerve was screaming bloody murder. But my brain just floated up there and was like, wow this feels good, the flowers smell like ambrosia, the spring air is soft and gentle, that SUV who just cut me off is super nice, that escaped chihuahua running circles right in front of me on the trail is pretty cute.

I do not really like chihuahuas. Or being cut off by SUVs. So, what the heck?

Physiologically, it is serotonin and norepinephrine and such percolating around my brain cells and communicating with the system that is me. Spiritually, it is inexplicable. Psychologically, it made my day. Kinesiologically, I was a slug. Egotistically, this generally puts me in a foul mood. But today, my sluggish, athletically barren self was as happy as could be.

Maybe we can exist in two planes at once, one of suffering and one of bliss. Maybe the key to a well-lived, well-loved life is riding the curl of these extremes. Go too high and the wave of life tips you over, go to low and it crushes you while shoving salt water up your nose. When I surfed, I tended to go too high on the wave, and subsequently dive for pearls.

There was this fragrant shrub I ran past at the start and end of my run today that made me swoon. I think for once in my life, I was in the curl today. Getting all misty over chihuahuas and scrumptious blooms while my very real anatomically-based hamstring misery was something I just acknowledged.

A couple of patients I care for deeply will die this week. I find myself coming at this fact sideways, with my gaze softened and trained at some point just above the strong shoulders of the universe. Wiping the brow of someone in transition without losing oneself to sadness is tricky. Usually the act of dying is not transcendent for anyone involved (though I cannot speak for those that have died and what might happen then), but showing up is probably enough. Transcendence might be overrated. When I have saved up enough in my good vibes account to visit Transcendence, I will be sure to leave a review on Trip Advisor so everyone can know what I think about it.

I love anatomy and physiology, the way it all fits together. How we can run and dance and heal and sing and cry and surf and snuggle. How our chemistry sparks our electricity and our ability to love. How we will never have a shortage of mitochondrial power as long as we live. How after we die our bodies become part of the universe, one way or another. How we might all be connected and powerful and nothing at all, all at once and never before and sometime in the future.

It is possible my endorphins are still in excess. Because none of this makes sense. I should not have had a runner's high today. And beloved people should not get sick and die. It is possible my tendency to accidentally dive for pearls is just one more piece of my DNA, a wrinkle in some part of my mind. Written in my chemistry, just waiting there for the next grand experiment. I think it lives next to that part of my brain that still believes I could go sub 3 in the marathon.

Magical, obtuse, and just this side of possible.

Pushups in the Rain

I found a new use for coban. Rainy, busy day. Determined to get my run in around noon. Realized I had neglected to bring my running bra. After a moment of cursing under my breath, my wilderness medicine skills kicked in. Coban: truly versatile. I am thinking of starting a new line of running bras for emergencies, called "CoBras".

As I ran in the rain with my CoBra comfortable enough I forgot it was even there, I pondered the last few weeks. They have been defined by sore legs and a tight ass, compassion fatigue and a whole lot of injuries for Warrior's players.

My engine is all revved up in some ways, but the daily running for almost 200 days now does leave me with a bit of that exhaustion peculiar to marathon training. It goes into your bones, and drags you to the couch more often than usual. There are three spots, one on each leg plus a butt cheek, that are so tight that when I first start running I am fairly certain I look exactly like my father did when he moaned and groaned getting up from the sofa after a nap, walking like Frankenstein. Like with marathon training, I am acutely aware of injury risk, so I have been trying to tone down the pace and mileage a bit. Probably should stop for a few days but I am not yet ready to take orders from my butt. Rx: massage.

An occupational therapist I work with (incidentally, it is occupational therapy month, so go thank one) suggested a foam roller on steroids. Which is to say it has a rechargeable battery that allows it to vibrate, at three different speeds. It is magnificent. Though my IT band is still hiding under the bed.

Compassion fatigue is the buzz word of the early 21st century for those in the business of caring for others. When I run, I try to stop thinking about the suffering, except my own (see above, re tight ass). Still, my brain is like a spin cycle, all the tough stains of concern agitating around from lobe to lobe. Doctors like to fix stuff, but it turns out there is not a lot we can actually completely fix. Oh, we can comfort till the cows come home, and that is my best power, but comforting takes a lot more out of a person than, say, prescribing an ACE inhibitor or cutting out a stony gallbladder.

Last night I dreamed I accidentally left my hospital shift to go to a fundraiser at the mall, then got lost trying to find my way back, and was really stressed about getting my rounds done, then went for a run in the forest and found myself lost again on a snowy crag with mountains rising, and the thing that really got me was I did not have my Garmin on to record my run. I asked for directions back home, not remembering so many snow capped mountains in my redwood forest in the past. No one could help. A fair amount of brain energy was spent deciding how to describe this run on Strava, as it would not have the usual hard data. About how far did I go? What pace? I got a good picture of the mountains though, so there was that.

As I ran in the rain with my coban bra, I thought about kindness. When I have "compassion fatigue", I am less kind. Kindness is a superpower. It requires putting the ego under wraps, finding the beauty and humor in each interaction, absorbing anger that was never meant for you, then melting it with your strong, unflappable heart, beating warm and solid and bradycardic.

The Warriors have disappointed me in that respect in recent weeks. Their coach, Steve Kerr, is someone I deeply respect. For instance, he speaks honestly and openly about gun violence, and has some personal experience with this as his father was gunned down. He and his team usually model sportsmanship and joy in the game of basketball. Lately I have noticed more anger right on the surface. Anger about calls, technical fouls stacking up. Granted, it is not their responsibility to be nice. But I have a theory, and that is that kindness helps people win.

Handing the ball to your competitor would be stupid (hey, Warriors, enough with the turn overs!), letting someone elbow you out of your lane on the track foolish. But solidity of purpose, on a foundation of benevolence, with compassion to self and others, with unrelenting hard work, using actions to show prowess, not words of hate or boasting, and the ability to do joyful pushups when you fall in the rain steps before finishing a disappointing marathon? Superpowers.

As I ran in the rain, breasts cobaned, I wondered if I would ever see sub 7's again.

I don't really want to race again until I do.

Self kindness: a work in progress.

Meb always signs his autograph with the words "Run to win".
The kindness to self and others part? Super powerful. I don't really want to race again until I can do pushups in the rain.