Sick Compositions

Today I played a composer named Jennifer. Not me, of course. I never composed anything I would admit to, and only what was required of me by my music theory professors, who understandably thought I was mentally deficient when it came to making up my own music. I so envy composers. And jazz musicians. I am so straight laced that I sometimes get mistaken for a girdle, which can be very uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Yesterday, it was Schumann. The coach, an intense but very kind piano professor, kept saying in her lovely eastern European accent, "Just relax, Jennifer!" Anyone who knows me at all is laughing their heads off. I'll wait a second while they compose themselves.

Jennifer Higdon was born in 1962. This makes her way older than me. So if we were, say, running a marathon, we'd be in totally different age groups. She certainly can compose music that requires pacing, rhythm, and endurance. I would like to think I could still beat her at a marathon, but if her musical qualities are any indication, I am not so sure.

After playing her, which sounds worse than I meant it to, I craved Beethoven. But the weirdest thing happened. I sat in front of Herr B, playing a trio I had once polished, back in the day, and I simply could not make my fingers and brain talk. It was like they were middle school girls who were total frenemies, and no matter what I said to cajole them, they just rolled their eyes at me and one went stomping off and the other was crying in the bathroom. So, I muddled through then came home and took a nap.

I am at music camp. Music camp for grown ups. It is, as they say (they being my children), sick. It strikes me though, speaking of children, that most of the participants are retirees. I am thinking this just indicates that they have the time for such things, and hoping it does not indicate that classical music is dying with the ozone layer. The camp, which I guess is really supposed to be called a  workshop, is the longest running one in California. Some people have been attending for decades. How sick is that?!

What has this to do with running? Well, I did run yesterday, after Schumann. It felt nice. Today I desperately needed that nap, and though I pondered running, nap brain won.

After napping, I returned to the bench. I sight read more music. I love sight reading. It is like having an entire universe at your fingertips. I am not sure exactly how much music there is out there for a pianist to tackle, but I suppose it is more than I can ever even imagine in my lifetime.

More compositions than I can play in a lifetime.

Sick.

Unfolding the Shadowy Time

When you see other people's children driving, the same children you remember toddling around the playground or climbing the tree at the farmer's market, it can be disconcerting. Is it that you are now that old(er) person you once associated with fat middles and embarrassing clothing combinations? Has time condensed and folded so that the part between then and now is in the shadow of years spent frantically getting things done, working, buying stuff for your home, attending school functions, and feeling inadequate next to all of the stay at home Moms and their high achieving youngsters? If you unfolded that shadowy time, would sunlight reveal it as worse than you imagine or not nearly as bad as what makes you stay up at night wishing you could redo it, only better?

When you see your own child driving, uncertainty and pride alternately make your head pop off and your heart burst. So, when not visiting the neurosurgeon or cardiologist to tend to these ailments, you sit back in the passenger seat and realize those people you wanted to punch out when they gazed longingly at your little muddy crazed toddler twerps saying "oh, savor this, it goes so fast"were not such the assholes you thought they were at the time.

Speaking of assholes, who really thinks it is OK to charge $30 for a single, often ugly, picture of yourself running a marathon? That being said, I want proof, dang it, so sue me.

Sue me.

Once someone asked me, existentially, in regards to my running habit:
"What are you running away from?"

This made me laugh and fume. First of all, being able to run away from things is an underrated skill. I rarely walk down a creepy street with some creepy lurking guy without being able to say to myself, I could outrun that creepy guy. Also, in terms of threatening wildlife, being fit is useful. Once my cross country team leaped over a rattlesnake on a single track trail, with high pitched screams, but not a single  bite. This was in the days before you had to sign a waiver for any activity even remotely involving potential bodily, emotional or self-esteem harm. I am fairly certain my parents never even knew about the snake leaping run. Nor the fact that 20 girls were unceremoniously hauled in the back of Coach's pickup truck to the woods for the run in the first place. Ah, the good old days. Outrunning a mountain lion or snarling dog is unlikely, but as a friend once said to me regarding such situations: you just have to be able to outrun the guy with you.
Second of all, just because I am plagued with uncertainty and anxiety regarding the lives of my children and my patients and my 15 year old border collie and my dusty piano keys and our unbelievably broken healthcare system and the 70 year old meth addicts in my community, why should I feel bad about coping by going for a run? As they say, it could be worse. I mean, I could be a triathlete.

When I ran today with my teenager, we saw seals. The ocean smelled nice. It rained a little. I was not sore. Three days after a marathon. Every other marathon I have done gifted me with at least a week of hobbling. Weird.

And the marathon itself was begun with such uncertainty that I went into it a little bemused and a lot discouraged by my lack of running for the few weeks prior. It started at 5:32 AM. The bomb squad was waiting by the start, looking bored. For which I was grateful. After the flashlight search of my Gu-filled fanny pack, I sat under the dawn, in the shadows, unfolding my sleepy body. The boys choir sang the anthem. The elites were off. Then my wave. I was, as I always seem to be in city marathons, surrounded by people speaking German. The sun came up. We ran over the Golden Gate and back again. And I just waited, certain that soon I would be seized by cramps or the complete inability to go on. We glided up and down the Richmond hills. Into the park. I got drunk on eucalyptus fumes, and I passed a guy dressed like Peter Pan who looked like he might cry. Still feeling good, but knowing that those last 6 miles are not merciful, I cautiously started pulling some negative splits. A cafe full of Haight-Ashburians screamed for us on the sidewalk. I passed 21 miles. I knew that this time I was not going to crash and burn. So then I smiled like a complete fool the rest of the way. People laughed at me for smiling.

It seems like German would be a tiring language to speak while running 26.2 miles.

I have absolutely no clue what happens next.

Countdown

How long do I have, doc?

Not an infrequent question. And one people of science strongly dislike to answer, because really, we cannot predict such things. We can give an educated guess, of course. And we do, as gently as we can. Hours to days. Days to weeks. Weeks to months. Months to Years.

Human beings do not like surprises. We like to have some idea what is coming. So things like earthquakes, tornadoes, cancer, and terrorist attacks can leave us untethered, floating in an expanse of internet news and Facebook posts which make us feel like we have something tangible to grab onto. I sometimes wonder if this world of readily available information and feedback makes us feel better or worse. No feedback makes it unbearable, I suppose. But shit just happens and somehow we go on. There isn't always a way to explain the why. Or the what happens next.

I am accustomed to disastrous things happening to people. It is the milieu in which I work. Tell someone they have a life threatening disease, eat lunch, respond to a code blue, figure out how to send the homeless, brittle diabetic out of the hospital safely, then take off the white coat and go home and hear about middle school and high school drama, toss the ball for the dogs, go for a run, eat dinner. Sleep. Repeat.

What I know for sure, is life is horrid and beautiful and unpredictable and that my garden always needs weeding. I also know that my marathon is coming up in 24 days. I have been trying to decide how many long ones to do before I taper. My last long run was not great. It turns out that weeding for 6 hours the day before a long run is not the best idea. At least not at my age. I wear my Garmin faithfully, and upload my workouts to Strava, without which it seems like I did not run at all. Strava is brilliant, but it is also a symptom of our general need to tether ourselves to something tangible. Like the tree falling without witness, if someone runs and doesn't record their route and miles, did they run at all?

I am not giving up Strava.

I do wish sometimes, in a vague and unreal sort of way, that I was independently wealthy. I could then just run and play piano and cook gourmet, healthy meals for my kids, not to mention keeping my garden well coiffed.

Truth be told, I would probably miss wearing my monkey suit and getting to meet all sorts of amazing folks, who have the singular misfortune of stepping foot (or rolling gurney, more likely) into one of America's fine hospitals.

Being a doctor really makes marathon training tricky. Trickier I should say, because the marathon thing is unpredictable no matter what. You can train perfectly and find yourself unable to run well on race day. You might not even finish. Or you might limp in to the end with your dreams of a personal best so out of touch with reality that you wonder if you've been possessed by some kind of alien who sucks the life soul out of human beings like yourself.

It is a funny thing to get upset about, not doing well in a marathon. I mean you are, after all, alive, able to run and likely to have scored some good booty in the expo bag you picked up prerace. It is not a tragedy.

24 days. That's a fact and it is indisputable. I may have a few bumps in the road along the way, but I suppose I will show up at the starting line just the same, shivering in the predawn air of San Francisco with a bunch of other loony tunes.

Till then, I will just keep following the path in front of me. Grateful. And be-Garmined, like a jeweled princess with a rapidly developing runner's tan.

The path in front of me, May 2013

Good Books and Frying Pans

A friend asked me if my legs were sore after yesterday's race.
Well, yes. And in addition to that, my entire body feels like it was beaten with a cast iron frying pan, said I.

Do you remember cast iron frying pans? This is something I remember because I am aging. Not yet aged, but definitely aging. My other proof of this is I am a few years into the "Masters" category at races. Once you get over the indignation of being a "master", it is pretty great. Because you get a special reward if you run well even if a bunch of under 40's kicked your ass. I mentioned to another friend that I had a good race as a master yesterday. She said, are we really masters? I am embracing it, I said.

Another award I recently received came when I tuned into the 3rd chapter of my 3rd book in 3 weeks on audible.com. My iPhone screen had a little message, actually literally in quotes, "you have just received the officially obsessed with audible award" or something along those lines. First, I was disconcerted by my phone making judgements about what I am and am not obsessed with, and second I felt that I probably earned that. Third, I do feel a might bit guilty as I have often preached the importance of the independent book seller. But fourth, I am also officially obsessed with paper books and am probably one of the reasons we have such a successful independent bookstore in my town. And every town I visit.

I listen to my books on my iPhone while driving (you put your phone in your cup holder and it augments the speaker sound. I learned this from Jesse. Thanks Jesse). I listen to books on my iPhone when walking my dogs. And I listen to books on my iPhone when running. A recent 20 mile run just flew by while listening to Water for Elephants. Prior to that it was Life of Pi.

What struck me about Life of Pi was how much I hated the ending. I really really did not like the fact that the author threw into question the veracity of the whole story. I choose to ignore that and just go with Pi's version. The other thing about that book is it very much reminds me of my home life. My husband and I are Pi. Our teenagers are Richard Parker. Our home is the life boat.

Which is another thing that proves I am aging. I used to watch movies and read books and totally identify with the misunderstood youngster. Now I see Rebel Without a Cause and I wonder what is wrong with James Dean's character? Just get a job and stop whining, kid! Sheesh.

I still have a crush on James Dean though. Because although I am aging, I am not yet so aged as to wish it was still appropriate to plaster my walls with posters of cute movie stars. To be fair, husband of mine, I would let you put up an equal number of posters in that alternate universe.

Yesterday's half marathon did leave me sore. It will take me a few days longer than it used to to recover from the frying pan effect. I have a few days off from work, so I think I shall lie around, swaddled in ice packs and heating pads, and listen to books on my iPhone. I will occasionally throw some meat to the Tiger on my life boat. Then, in a few days, pick myself up and get ready for the next event. Which, being twice 13.1, will likely leave me feeling beaten with two cast iron frying pans.

SWTFG

I actually jumped for joy in a patient's room the other day on rounds, because they informed me they had passed gas. And they found this not the least bit strange.

Something We Take For Granted: Passing gas.

Every day I watch my hospitalized patients struggle to do basic things. For instance, sitting up in bed can take an eternity and require the firing up of every mitochondria they possess. Getting from the bed to the commode or doing a lap around the medical floor block while the physical therapist walks alongside averting disaster brings us into superstar territory.

SWTFG: Being able to sit up, go to the toilet, and walk around the block.

This week, my family of 5 is without a washing machine. It died, as we all must some day. Sears will not be able to complete the cycle of life with a new machine for another week. Well hello, laundromat! First of all, when did it start costing $3.75 to do a load of wash? At least it gives us the opportunity to teach our oldest teenager, soon off to college, the logistics of coin-operated clothes washing. Her opinion thus far: "Fun! Like an arcade!"

SWTFG: Modern appliances.

I ran 12 miles fairly briskly today. I missed running the 2 days prior, due to unforeseen work stuff. Today felt good and bad. Good, because I was out there doing it, and got to see my old friend the Pacific Ocean. Bad, because I have been working a lot and therefore feeling a little tired and sorry for myself. Also cranky that my planned long run on Sunday was trumped by work.

SWTFG: Being able to run 12 miles by the ocean at a fairly brisk pace.
S else WTFG: Having gainful employment which is also interesting and often enjoyable.

The other day, my dog Miles discovered the birds in our yard. He has been with us for 2 years, and I am not exactly sure what took him so long, but it was a sweet moment for him. He spent an entire morning watching them, while also whining, crying and occasionally barking. He was obsessed and not unpleasantly so.

SWTFG: Our dogs' ability to find joy in almost anything at all.
S else WTFG: The birds in our yard.

Miles and Bird(s), March 2013

I have read about a doctor who gives his marathon medals to patients.. I get this, and have found myself giving my own patients pep talks when they are struggling and working so hard to get better. Especially when they are really downhearted about how hard it feels to sit up in bed, get to the commode, or to walk the block around the floor. "What you are doing is like running a marathon." Just take it a step at a time, and you will get there. One day at a time.

Not a minute taken for granted.

Pussy Cats, Herons and David Bowie

Pussy Willows, the Marsh, March 2013

My first memory of pussy willows is my childhood best friend's cat, with same name. Pussy Willow was an appropriately colored cat and I think she came after Josie (named after Josie and the Pussy Cats). Any way, I also have early memories of picking pussy willows in the woods near our home and enjoying the softness of their grey blossoms. It was less toxic for me than the cat version, being anaphylactically allergic to cats.

As Wendell Berry notes in his poem, it is best to go to the wild places when your life presents you with wild twists and turns. The meeting wild with wild thing is perhaps not very intuitive, but it works every time. Which is a very impressive success rate for any medication. Take one dose of night heron, and call me in the morning. I learned when running in the marsh the other day, followed by a long walk with a friend in the marsh (with closer attention to detail), that we are known for our night herons. Between the pussy willow and the night herons, it was a great dose of wildness. Not a bad run either. Though I could not get the theme song for "Josie and the Pussycats" out of my head.

Today I ventured out on a route I generally have been avoiding, due to traffic and tragedy. But the sun was out, and I just started out heading that direction and next thing I knew, there I was. I hugged the curb, scowled at speeding cars and listened to David Bowie's new album a little too loudly under headphones. This album is said to confront mortality, love and war so it seemed perfect for the occasion. Mostly though it has a good beat, and the song "Dancing out in Space" has a perfect running cadence. I was sub 7 by the last mile of the 10 that I ran today, and I owe it all to David.

I am feeling oddly hopeful about this year. I mean, everything is more or less in constant chaos, but I have a lovely family and I like doctoring so it could be worse. And I am super excited about these three things:
1) June 16: San Francisco Marathon
2) September: Running and Good Eats camp
3) December: 50 miles on trails

Ignore chaos. Set outrageous goals. Take a daily dose of wild. Keep running. And never forget the 1970's.

Wild Horses and Border Collies

It is not uncommon for people to get delirious while in the hospital (I am talking patients here, doctors and nurses hopefully stay oriented, for the most part). And a surprisingly common request occurs with the confusion colloquially known as sundowning: "Call The Sheriff!"

I sometimes wonder if my job would not be easier if I went to sheriff school and got to wear a gold star on the lapel of my white coat. Thus could I ride in on my white horse to the rescue. "Why I am the sheriff Ma'am. Now why don't you just take those antibiotics and get a good night's sleep?"

A good night's sleep. That is the key to everything that matters. It does worry me a bit that I have not had one for about 16 years (beginning of med school, first child).

I finally got my mileage up to around 60 miles/week. The running feels good, but then I hit this little snag called a 70 hour work week and man was I fried. I successfully ran in the morning before work the first few days, but then the fatigue kicked my ass and by Saturday, it was all I could do to get up and make coffee. Sunday though I started to feel alive, and ran. And find myself with 2 new aches in my foot.

Wow that was a lot of whining.

I bet the sheriff never whines. And, aside from my incredibly attentive husband, it has been a very long time since anyone has ridden in on a white horse to save me.

So what does one do to find balance, that peculiarly modern quest of the relatively well to do?
One could start by not running marathons and ultras. Ha.
One could start by choosing a less insane professional life. Ha ha.
Wild horses couldn't drag me away from either.

I just need to sleep more. And to ice my foot. And to eat better. And to cuddle my dogs. And to stop whining.

Buster says "Stop your whining and take me for a walk!"