Maybe it came from this thought that sprung up yesterday while running, which was something like: "The best part of being out of shape, is the sky is the limit in terms of improvement." Seriously, it is like a clean slate. When you are in top form, it is difficult to improve. When you are a jiggly sloth with those little stir straws for bronchial tubes, well, look out world! Obviously, being a jiggly sloth precludes any thoughts of running in the upcoming local marathon. But the next big race, in October? For sure.
Unless jiggliness turns into waddliness in which case I may take up being a professional lounger.
I ran in Tahoe last weekend, and the air was thin. It also snowed. I had a blast, but who forgot the air? I was hoping to come back to sea level with a new pair of lungs but my short time at altitude did not quite do the trick.
How did this happen, this state of sloth, this foreign body attached to my brain which still sees me as a real runner?
Doesn't matter. The best part now is starting over. My teens were bemoaning teendom yesterday. One of them was also overheard saying "once you get past 30, you can't do anything anymore." Bullshit says I!
The best part of aging is you pay better attention. To your body (what is that little nagging pain? serious? no, it'll pass, back to it now….). To pretty things. To goofy things. To the suffering of others, not just yourself. To how the coffee tastes and how nice it feels to have your beloved up against you.
I have always wanted to be in Runner's World magazine. It has become fairly clear to me that the only hope of that at this point is keep running till I am 105. I am thinking I can demand some space in that magazine if I succeed. The fastest 105 year old ever. What's her secret? Read all about it, page 72.
In my work now, I am focusing much more on seniors. This I have learned:
The best part of growing older? More appreciation for how good it feels to kick ass.
More appreciation.
Chickens. Also organ music. Chorale Preludes and some stuff with a brass choir. Daily runs. That Edward Gorey puzzle. House cleaning. Perhaps meeting my friend's newborn son, if he decides to arrive. Listening to my playlist, compliments of Martha. Learning a new job or two. Buying new organ shoes. Yes, organ shoes exist.
Daily runs, to be recorded with pictures or sketches and something memorably descriptive. I am not traditionally a diarist but I am a letter writer, and apparently I write this blog. I have this book that is blank and in it will go my daily run.
Daily runs, rain or shine, with dog or without. Today was: Miles and I on the Hammond Trail, and he was mostly a perfect gentleman, even when some wacko lab came viciously running at him headlong. Poodles, they don't like surprises, but Miles is learning that as a team we can deal with pretty much everything.
Teams. That will be the theme of my new work. My old work (which ended yesterday, except for the fact I had to go in this morning and help them with some stuff unexpectedly, but I swear that was the last time! I swear!) also had teams. Like the nurses and the other doctors, when things were working the way they should, would all be on a team to care for the unbelievably ill on our wards. It seemed fitting this week be my last, as I felt shot through and hollowed out by the loss of Steve,whose voice was like he had a microphone in hand at every second and truly drove me insane but also made me feel like I was in a familiar place, and I knew he cared and he also made me feel special. He did not lie, once ever, as far as I could tell. And he filled the ward with A Voice that must have certainly made his higher ups quake in their boots. Some of us whisper and find other ways of making our presence known. But he exuded joy and an absolute lack of bull shit. This, I might add, is depressingly lacking in most workplaces.
It is amazing that any of us get out of bed in the morning. I can think of a half a dozen things that could kill you before you even get your first cup of coffee. Not to mention the terror and embarrassment of failure and being judged. I was thinking, as I ran today, that I am as slow as molasses right now and God forbid any of my athletic friends see me sucking air. But Miles was fairly content, tongue lolling to the west and taking in the smells of the ocean air, the fumes of 101 next to the trail and the horse poop on the rabbit trail begging to be devoured. Why worry?
This week, I am starting anew, but also really just continuing on my path. I plan to raise some chickens, and had a fairly amazing tutorial in the step down unit at the hospital the other day with one of my favorite neurologists regarding the best breeds to choose. Ameraucana is on my list, because who doesn't need blue eggs? Barred Rocks too. Among others.
Chickens, organ (the instrument, not the innards), the puzzle I bought in San Francisco, a finally clean room and childbirth. That is all I need. Also the playlist. I have a friend who has sent me at least a song a day for a few months now, to help me cope with this transition and the incredible hours I have been working. Why am I so blessed? And my other dear friend, so soon to start on being a Mom. And my oldest daughter, about to turn 18.
18 years ago, surrounded by friends and my doula and my husband, Vera arrived. I remember that day, when my medical school professor was quite miffed that I called to cancel my OSCE. "No really, I will not be there today." said I. Their disbelief should've been my first red flag regarding the priorities of the medical world. WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU WILL NOT BE WORKING WHILE GIVING BIRTH???????????
Despite all that, I do like doctoring. One of my patients this past week called me Dr Sweet Potato. When they found out my last day ("no actually my LAST day") was yesterday, they burst into tears. I do enjoy connecting with people. It is just time to reconnect with my own, including the OSCE crasher, the Boy with curl in the middle of his forehead and the dancing Dragon. And the Man who is already plotting my chicken coop and run. And my legs, which, come hell or high water, will break a 3 in the marathon. Unless something kills me before that, in which case, I will die happy and knowing I tried my best to engage with This Life.
Joan Benoit Samuelson. They said:
a month out from knee surgery, no way
let her go, she will never keep up that pace
women running marathons?
Mostly things conspire to make one feel small. This is especially true if you are any of the following:
a child
an orphan
a teenager
a woman
not rich
not white
not in charge
fat
stupid
a stay at home parent
a working mother
nice
too short
too tall
eccentric
trusting
The list is probably nearly infinite. I suppose every person has felt small at some point. Even Charles Foster Kane was heartbroken.
In general, I believe power is dangerous (corrupts, absolutely, yada yada). However, I also believe power is essential. I was trying to explain this to one of my teenagers in the middle of the night last night, a teenager who sees no power within and sees the world as enemy territory. Everything that goes wrong is someone else's fault. Disempowerment is not always a choice, but sometimes it is, and here are a few good ways to become disempowered:
do not read books
believe everything on TV, the internet and Fox News
do drugs
blame someone else
let more powerful people do harmful things to less powerful people
never exercise
complain but don't change your circumstances
be influenced by what other people think is cool
take Facebook at Face Value
allow "friends" to treat you poorly
allow anger to guide your response to those "friends"
give up on your dreams
lose track of the beauty in the world
When I left high school without graduating and went to college, I was told I was not going to make it. When I left music to become a doctor, I was told I was not going to make it. When I had a baby during medical school, I was told I was not going to make it. When I adopted a child with "special needs" I was told I was not going to make it. When I adopted a 6 year child who spoke no English, I was told I was not going to make it. When I decided to run a marathon, I was told I was not a real athlete. When I left outpatient medicine to be a hospitalist, I was told I was too meticulous (AKA anal) to survive it. And now, as I leave hospital medicine to become a palliative care and geriatric specialist, once again there is the general opinion that what I am doing is meant to be an "escape", a "break", and for some, a job that will make me "lose my skills".
I dreamt the other night that my piano tuner came over and was looking at my Bach piano books. They were all so covered in mold that the music was unreadable. My piano tuner was upset. I was upset. I get that I haven't played my instrument much, because I am working as much as I can to make money to pay for my medical training and my house and my bills left over from a residency at one of the finest hospitals in America, unfortunately also in one of the most expensive cities in which to live in America. Where I gained my skills. Where one mentor said I was "a natural palliative care physician." But, for those in power (not me), I am just a middle aged chick with absolutely no power.
And what does this have to do with running? Well, I can still run. I am not the fastest. I am certainly not the cutest. But I know how to dig down deep and find my inner strength. Tomorrow is the beginning of my 12 day count down as a hospitalist. Twelve 12-15 hour days, where I am looked down upon by a system that sees me as less than (fill in the blank):
Less than the specialist
Less than the man doctor
Less than the righteous stay-at-home-mother
Less than.
I am not rich. I am not young. I am not sexy. I am not a perfect mother. I am not a perfect wife.
But I do care, and I do have some skills which even those who see me as small can not take away from me. Hey! Psst: if you are sick, you want me at your side. I show up and I study hard and I am a powerful advocate for you.
Here's the thing. Power resides in supporting others. Even when they treat you like shit in return. Power resides in loving others. Power resides in forgiveness. It resides in that feeling when you are rounding the 3rd turn on the oval of the track and your lungs are exploding, but you push on. It resides in reading. Learning. And opening your heart. It resides in recognizing the need for a change. Humor and self doubt peppered with an occasional fuck you helps too. There is a reason Frozen is so freaking popular.
Twelve more days.
"I have power. They don't. This bothers them."
-Buffy the Vampire Slayer
The Master doesn't try to be powerful;
thus he is truly powerful.
The ordinary man keeps reaching for power;
thus he never has enough.
The Master does nothing,
yet he leaves nothing undone.
The ordinary man is always doing things,
yet many more are left to be done.
The kind man does something,
yet something remains undone.
The just man does something,
and leaves many things to be done.
The moral man does something,
and when no one responds
he rolls up his sleeves and uses force.
When the Tao is lost, there is goodness.
When goodness is lost, there is morality.
When morality is lost, there is ritual.
Ritual is the husk of true faith,
the beginning of chaos.
Therefore the Master concerns himself
with the depths and not the surface,
with the fruit and not the flower.
He has no will of his own.
He dwells in reality,
and lets all illusions go.
It is best to have a goal which puts you solidly in control of your days and minutes and longterm future. It is best to aim high and to just smile and look away when people doubt you and make you wonder whether you should even try. Look up at the ceiling like something is interesting there and sigh. I used to believe this and without it might not be a doctor or marathoner or half decent pianist or be growing my hair long again. Maybe I still do believe it except I know now that control is remote at best and I pine away for the days when one had to get up out of their chair and change the channel, with a finality and commitment that is foreign to modern times. We think we are aware like we invented Zen and with regular runs everything can be right again and we won't need to buy new jeans for an expanding waist line or start lipitor. We go to the gym to strengthen our core.
Goals can change, but mine remain a sub 3 marathon and memorizing and performing the entire Well Tempered Clavier, though I cannot imagine who would want to sit and listen to all of that. I might have a recital where beer is served and people can chat during the boring moments. I could finish with some Liszt or Rachmaninoff or finally learn to play jazz and people could dance to stretch their legs after the long night of fugues. My kids walk by when I am playing impossibly magnificent passages on my piano and don't really even notice or so it seems. One woman said to me she remembers her concert pianist mother playing all the time and it is a source of inner comfort, that memory. Mostly though I think they see it as a bother or distraction. Except the one time my little Dragon was suddenly behind me while I played, thin arms wrapped around my waist and her face nestled by my ear, whispering "Mom, you are really good." I will take that to my grave.
To reach a goal once seemed a linear path of fighting resistance when it threatened progress. I did this with mathematics which I had to do to become a medical doctor, for some reason I will never understand. I did this with birth and adoption which both require strength and tenacity and ignoring the noise which gets in the way of your purpose: to love and hold your child. To love and hold your children who eventually leave and live their own lives, with their own goals, and their own beautifully delusional sense of control. I dream of my eldest who is off to college all too soon, and in my dreams she keeps disappearing and I cannot find her, but she is small and vulnerable. Now she is a young woman and astounding in her presence and gifts. She will write her way into the future and she will not disappear so much as reappear at my side as a woman and not the newly-minted toddler who needed to be walked with two hands in a back-breaking several weeks of bent-over mothering. Linearity is rare, and I am glad I took algebra, when all is said and done.
Physics I am less certain about and as I watch my body age I sometimes fill with a certain rage I cannot explain. If I had it to do over, I would've tried for that sub 3 marathon in my 20's, but was too busy planning my longterm future. I tolerate less now, physically anyway. I tolerate much more in terms of disappointment and surprise. I am lucky to have a wise husband who makes me my PB & J for my long work day and a son who constantly makes me feel alive. With worry, with wonder, with anticipation. What will he be? No hurry to answer that because he already is and I love him for it. What will any of us be after all? When you hit the wall in a marathon or life, nothing else exists. It is the most Zen place to be, because you cannot be bothered with thoughts of anything else. Your mind is clear. Shot through with pain and certain failure. But failure is my favorite motivational speech, "nowhere to go but up from here", and it is the best catapult into the next moment when hope sneaks under your skin and makes you tingle with power. This. I. Can. Do.
I ran in the near dark in my woods after a long day and week treating patients who hit the wall. In my experience, one either gets smushed and slides in a cartoon heap to the floor, or stops and is still for a moment, says some choice words, then sees the wall for what it really is: a facade that one can simply walk right through. On the other side is some more living or perhaps some dying. It might be birthing or it might be a trip to the ICU. Chemotherapy or hospice or an earnest hospitalist hovering over you. My run in the dark after my long day and week was with JS Bach plugged into my ears. The Well Tempered Clavier, book I, Glenn Gould's young years. I ran in the dusk in my redwood temple, and the walls came tumbling down.
I can do this. Sub 3, maybe, but to try is where life is. And Bach? Well every self-respecting pianist knows the WTC like the back of their hand. The answers reside within preludes and fugues and the creepy sounds of Glenn Gould humming along to his singular interpretation. He brings out voices from dead Baroque notes on a page. His choices are not always appreciated by the mainstream musicologist.
Run in the woods in the near-dark. Play Bach so people listen. Fuck the critics. Look at the ceiling and smile.
When running in my woods, I sometimes wonder why a path rarely taken seems more dangerous than a path I have run hundreds of times. Are the mountain lions and creeps more likely to lurk on a path just because I don't use it regularly? Is it because I do not know every detail of its switchbacks, roots and shadowy sections?
Do not worry, I will not be quoting Frost here. I have been thinking a lot lately about life choices, though. For one thing, I have three teenagers, and they are getting to that point where their choices can make a real difference. I fear they look at me, ragged with so much work, and wonder what the point of excelling might be. I push myself hard, and that has just always been my personality. But now that I have arrived (family I love, a nest we built, a career that matters), I feel unsettled. I am sure they notice this. I think kids with parents who are still struggling just to get by have more motivation to do well in the world. Kids who have grown up in a comfortable nest with a constantly fretting mother bird probably wonder if such a nest is worth all the fuss.
I actually love medicine. I despise our healthcare system. I think a lot of what we do is dubious at best, and harmful at worst. But the act of being a healer--that is right livelihood. Over the years since I finished my training, I have had multiple job offers to change my path, even to move away from the cherished nest. Each time, I have pulled back and gathered my chicks to me. I hate change.
Not running has pushed me to look change in the eye. That is, months of barely having the energy to do what I love: run, see my kids, play piano, cook a meal, shove my hands into my garden's dirt, these things are part of right living. And right livelihood without right living is a German-Irish-English-Lutheran-Buddhist-wanna-be-girl-from-the-midwest's worst nightmare. My Dad, who died fifteen years ago today, said many things to me in his last days. One of them was: make the word a better place than you found it. He was serious about this. But he also was a man who met each day (literally) with a song. Which, as a teenager I found highly annoying. But now as an adult I see it as the miracle it was.
Recently, I saw a friend/patient have a stroke. I see this often, strokes. Heart attacks. Cancer. Bad infections. Horrible accidents. What struck me about this particular stroke though, was the mixture of love, strength and laughter that surrounded this person. And emanated from this person. I've witnessed this before, like with my cousin (now gone a year). A few other patients here and there. My parents.
When you see this, or experience it, you are forced to consider what matters.
For my teenagers in the nest: what matters is loving others and making the world a better place. Also carving out time to enjoy the gifts of life. It is not always easy or fun, but it should never be a constant struggle. When your path feels toxic, change it. The firm hand of familiarity is not necessarily the best guide though life.
Dear inner hospitalist, I am not exactly abandoning you. But in 48 days I will be shoving you aside to try something new as a healer. I have sometimes enjoyed our time in the trenches. But being a pacifist, I am tired of having to use war analogies every time I put on my white coat. I think the hospital will miss you, but then again it might forget about you instantly and find another hospitalist to lure with its adrenaline highs and doctor's lounge donut lows. Its been a crazy ride. Love you.
"I didn't go out looking for negative characters; I went out looking for people who have a struggle and a fight to tackle. That's what interests me."
-Philip Seymour Hoffman
Training for a marathon is about paying attention to yourself. It presses you into a small, pure space in your body and mind that can be otherwise lost in a world of sedentary living and shocking headlines. Though your training is expansive, this space is focused. It demands your whole presence. It feeds you with endorphins, it settles inner debates about what matters, it tightens your ass for your favorite pair of jeans. It is existential and physiological. It fills you with delusions of grandeur and a mundane sense of having something important to do. It is painted in colors of pleasure and pain. When everything else is uncertain, I like to go to this space.
I could easily substitute "heroin" or a multitude of other evil things for "training for a marathon"in that paragraph. Heroin took the life of Philip Seymour Hoffman today.
I do not think marathon training is like addiction though. True, endorphins are nice. And the fitting into jeans can be good too, though superficial of course. But really what marathons represent is tackling something difficult that also gives pleasure and purpose to what for most of us is an unfocused existence. Or perhaps an existence focused on things that make us feel toxic and ungrounded.
Today I took a traditional Sunday long run with a friend who is faster than I. My role in this was tortoise to his hare. His role, I suppose, was to make me a faster marathoner.
I do wonder though, with all the swirling hullabaloo surrounding life as a parent of teenagers and a doctor of patients, if marathon training is sensible. Why not just run 6 miles a few times a week and leave it at that? I have certainly had that question posed to me many a time. Is there not struggle enough?
People need a focused space for healing, gratitude, escape, wonderment, and for paying complete attention to the body and soul they possess. At least I do. I have found that in other places besides marathon preparation. Being on the outside, sitting on a surfboard, waiting. Getting completely dissolved into the playing of music. Sex, of course. And birthing.
What is different about marathons is the process of preparation. If wise, you are given a four month task with something assigned each day. Life will try to derail you, but in the process you learn to listen to what your body needs and you learn to love the very act of that listening. So, it is not actually an escape, or a delusion. It is not an opiate to the spandex enwrapped masses. It is a struggle. It is the key to your own heart's contentment. It is as mundane as bread and butter. It is a way out of the darkness.
I was almost done working and came across a very sweet patient of mine who was going home soon, and doing laps with his walker in the hallway as I had asked him to do. I came alongside him and said, "Wanna race?" He proceeds to bolt down the hallway and let me tell you I almost had a heart attack. But I also had the first good laugh for a long while.
I like to write about running. Running in the redwoods, on the beach, through the marsh and even on the track, as I am a fool for a good interval workout. But if you are not running, you cannot really write about running. The brief, panic-stricken jog down the hallway of the hospital with my walker-driving opponent is as about as close to a real run I have had for awhile.
It is not that I cannot run. I am not (knock on wood) injured. I am packing extra pounds for sure, from lack of activity, lack of sleep, and too much snack-scrounging from the despicably unhealthy doctor lounge. It is just that a 150 hour work week sort of takes the wind out of my sails. Plus, my community has become so laden with crime (methamphetamines, heroin, methamphetamines, pot, methamphetamines, poverty) that running in the dark seems a lot scarier than it used to. In my town, a gentle priest is not even safe from the violence. And when I now realize it is necessary to ask even the septuagenarians about their meth use, because apparently there is no age limit to this shit, my illusion of a sort of peacefulness in rural living is shot quite dead.
I will run this weekend. 13.1 miles with my eldest kid. Her first half and my first half where I am not trying to break any records and just hope to God I can finish the thing. The course is described as "one of the fastest in the San Diego area and the US", which makes me picture one of those moving walkways like in airports, but instead a moving half marathon course and man does it move fast.
I mean, doesn't the runner do the fast part? What exactly does the COURSE have to do with being fast? Yeah, sure, it is flat or lacks wind or whatever. But really, fast runners run fast wherever. This weekend, I will not be among them. I shall be very happy and content though for two reasons:
1) not at work
2) with my daughter
Running is not just about not being the blob I have become in recent weeks, thanks to work.
Running is not just about winning races or being a fasty.
Running, like Beethoven and sleep, is about survival. And I have not had any Beethoven, decent sleep or running since
since
I cannot actually really remember when.
Also, Buster died. Just a dog. But the grief is heavy.
