Amy Lu's View

Today is a Rest Day Eve, and it feels glorious. Tomorrow is a day (1 of 2 per week) when my marathon training plan does NOT call for running, and this evening of anticipation of doing nothing feels so freeing.

I love being a runner (not always or necessarily running) and am so thankful that I can move and exert and challenge myself like this. But training and running and working so hard has made me appreciate the days off in a deep way I never thought possible.

If you’re thinking “Hmm, that sounds like saying you hit yourself in the face with a hammer so that it feels really good when you stop and aren’t hitting yourself in the face with a hammer,” I wouldn’t say you were entirely wrong.

I am in Week 12 of Marathon Training, smack dab in the middle of the hardest, craziest, most intense weeks of training. Last week I ran 8 hrs, this week I’m supposed to run only 7:30, and next week calls for 8:15 hrs and then tapering begins.

So I’m fluctuating wildly between “God, I hate this, I’m an idiot, I’m exhausted, why am I doing this AGAIN” and “I love throwing myself heart and soul into this and OMG I can’t believe this will be the last time I do this for…another year…or more?! WHEN is my next marathon?”

(And of course, woven through and underpinning both these extremes of the throught/emotional seesaw is I AM SO GRATEFUL THAT I DIDN’T HAVE TO STOP RUNNING BECAUSE OF ANY HEART DUMB ASSERY.)

The wonderful and awful thing about marathon training is it’s not just the time you actually spend running, but all the time you spend being exhausted from and obsessed with running. Hopeful about and nervous about running.

And all the time you (well, me) spends taking and posting highly unflattering selfies. Yes, my brain knows that the post-run photos where I’m all sweaty and red-faced/pasty are NOT attractive, but I’m just so proud to have survived I have to “brag.” And no matter how exhuasted I am, I can always find a little more energy to stop and take a selfie (or two or three or four) and look for the perfect filter/effect (why does the shocked cat have to stay in the left corner blocking my stats?)

For a little variety, today I decided to take selfies where I’m NOT all sweaty. Instead, I’m actually wearing makeup and sporting my ramen shirt dress, to convey how I will spend the next few days trying to eat as much ramen as possible for carbo loading without gaining too much weight. Okay, full disclosure, I may not strictly eat ramen…I may eat udon noodles or even gnocchi (all determined to have the most carb bang for the caloric buck). I will also not eat my ramen with pork, or other meat, as depicted on my dress, but hopefully with an egg.

 

I will wrestle with the great questions of the ages, including:

• Do I have the moral character to eat ramen noodles (udon noodles) for breakfast, lunch and dinner?
• If I eat ramen for breakfast, do I still want coffee?
• If I make a huge package of (insert pasta) will I be able to eat it all in the next few days? Will it go to waste?
• Why can’t I ever time my carb-loading with a meal out at a ramen restaurant? How do I keep missing this opportunity?
• And, back on the “I’m going ot miss this when it’s done” theme: I’ll never feel worthy of eating pasta again if I’m not marathon training. It’s all riced cauliflower for me after Oct. 7.

So Week 12 is an exciting, frightening, nebulous time in the boderlands between relief and regret. I’m not sure what post-marathon life wihout “A PLAN” is going to look like.

But I’m sure I’ll still have space in my life for goofy selfies and blog posts. And maybe even ramen in moderation.

 

I didn’t get it.

It pains me a little to say that, as the “it” in question is the Beatles “Yellow Submarine” movie, which I saw for the first time yesterday. For while there are many things in life that I don’t get, (including everything from instagram to instant pots), I’ve been a diehard Beatles fan for over 30 years. So I expected that groovin’ to the good-natured psychedelic shenanigans of “Yellow Submarine” would totally be in my wheelhouse (a phrase I just looked up to verify that it means what I think it means, and it does, just don’t ask me to literally define it).

I DID enjoy the artistry of the movie, and of course, the music. It was very clever and I’m glad I saw it. I’m sure the images will stay with me and percolate in my consciousness. My appreciation for “Yellow Submarine” is probably going to grow over time.

BUT…and I’m having to take a big breath to admit this… as I was watching it, I found it rather boring. A couple of times, I even almost fell asleep (although some of that was probably due to marathon training exhaustion).

It feels sacreligious to say that in public, but I’m trying to be more honest about my opinions and feeling as I get older, especially when it comes to art and culture. I don’t want to like things just because I feel I should, or judge other people because their tastes aren’t “cool” or “sophisticated.” (Of course, I will judge them, but  hopefully will at least call myself on it more). I’m trying to break free from the idea of “guilty pleasures” (unless the guilt makes the pleasure more exciting) and guilty displeasures, too.

Not loving “Yellow Submarine” makes me feel square and unimaginative (I’m a Blue Meanie), but there were so many psychedelic and whimsical images and characters that they started to lose their impact for me. To reference one of the movie’s songs, “it was all too much.” I think I would have been happier if there was more of a contrast between the real world and the fantasy realms of Pepperland and the various magical Seas. I also think I was a little letdown because the Beatles didn’t actually do very much except ride around in the Yellow Submarine and push buttons.

And yeah, I may have wanted a titch more of a plot. I might be too beholden to narrative structure.

I was completely sober when I saw the movie, so that may have had an impact, too. I’d probably appreciate “Yellow Submarine” more if I saw it with a glass (or two…) of red wine. Or, looping back to the beginning of this post (because I am just that talented of a writer) maybe if I had a different kind of pot (rather than an instant one. Which I still don’t get).

 

I like to think that as I’m growing older, I’m become a nicer person. Not nice, exactly, but nicER. A little more compassionate and empathetic, and less judgemental. I’m even more open to feeling some feels (and not just when I’ve been drinking).

I feel a little like Mr. Grinch. My heart hasn’t grown three sizes yet, but at least half a size. This is good thing.

However, when I faced the possibility this summer that my heart, or at least a part of it, was literally, physically, a little too big, it was freaky.

Before I got any further and cause any unecessary concern or drama, let me clearly state that MY HEART IS COMPLETELY FINE. NO NEED TO WORRY ABOUT THAT. YAY!!! I am extremely grateful and thankful.

But I can’t pass up the opportunity to make the most of some blog material, so I’m going to attempt to chronicle my adventures of trying to discover if there was anything wrong with my heart.

Again, let me say that there are NO PROBLEMS with my heart, and I never had (nor do I have) any symptoms. However, it was recently discovered that there is a heart abnormality that potentially runs in my family: a bicuspid valve (really, seriously, even though it sounds like it has to do with teeth).

So I had an EKG, even though it was assumed that really wouldn’t be able to determine much. But that is a test they can do a the doctor’s office and is apparently the first hurdle to jump through before any other tests can be done. And yes, it didn’t really show anything so I had an echocardiogram. (I’m actually not sure in what order I had these tests and I can’t decipher my online medical recorders, but the takeaway is the same).

This test revealed that I did NOT have the bicuspid valve (awesome!) but that my right atrium was possibly “moderately” enlarged. I needed to see a cardiologist to see if this was “significant.”

Oh yes, quotation marks are judiciously employed here, in an effort to be precise. In my normal world, “moderately” and “signficiant” aren’t really that signficiant. “I’m moderately hungover” or “I find it significant that you didn’t compliment me” don’t actually mean anything important. But how to make sense of these words when the stakes are higher?

The cardiologist I saw assured me that everything was likely fine, and I should pretend that I never heard about the possibility that I had a heart issue, and that I should just keep living my life normally (which meant that I could still keep running and marathon training which was what I was really worried about). BUT that I should have an MRI just to be sure.

WTF?

This seemed very contradictory and confusing to me. And, I kept coming back to the question of what could actually be done if I did have a moderately large atrium? Was getting an MRI just an annoying waste of time and an expensive waste of money? (Yes, luckily, I have insurance but there is still a co-pay, and I can buy a lot of bottles of moderately priced wine with that money).

I also was freaked out by the thought of having an MRI. Not to throw Chad under the bus, but for the almost 30 years we have been together, he has shuddered and muttered “Just shoot me if I ever need one” every time an MRI has been depicted on TV. That power of suggestion was bound to have an effect.

Eventually, though, I realized that although we share a lot, Chad’s fears are not always my fears (see zuchinni, artichoke hearts and the State Fair). For a more balanced perspective, I talked to some friends who had MRIs and thought they were no big whoo (some especially overworked friends thought it was even relaxing).

So after a fair amount of hemming and hawing, I DID have an MRI, and it wasn’t too unpleasant. I wouldn’t call it relaxing, more like annoying (I really got tired of having to hold my breath for the scans) but I didn’t feel claustrophobic and the noise didn’t bother me. The MRI was way less awful than a colonoscopy (yes, thank you, I didn’t blog about that).

And I was really proud of myself (and relieved) because I found the hospital at the University of MN all by myself, found a place to park, found the MRI place, AND found my car after the MRI.

So maybe getting the MRI wasn’t a good decision, and I was duped by the medical-industrial complex, but I’ll take a useless and annoying (and expensive) MRI any day over one where I got my money’s worth.

After months of indecision, ambiguity, and nagging worry (not a full-fledged breakdown or anything but defintiely a weight) I’d like to think I’m also a more grateful person than I used be. More appreciative of my good health and the preciousness of life and thankful that I get to keep marathon training (even while I curse myself for being an idiot).

Not sure there is a gratitude muscle—real or figurative—but hopefully it’s also grown at least half a size.

Now if only my bra size would grow, I’d be really thankful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

According to the theory of the multiverse, there is a reality somewhere in which my mother is alive and well and on Facebook.

Sadly, this is not that reality. My mom died in 2000, before the interwebs were widely adopted by middle-aged (okay, almost elderly) elementary school teachers from rural Wisconsin.

In this version of the multiverse, we will never be treated to my mom’s Facebook posts which would most likely alternate between “I live in a shitty shack,” “My son-in-law Chad is a genius” and “What is Amy’s work schedule?”

My mom never read a blog in her life. I can only imagine how she would have unintentionally misprounced “blog.” Plog? Blob? Gullag?

So it may be slightly ironic that I’ve turned to the interwebs and a blog to help me process my grief over my mom’s death and absence from my life. And it’s maybe rather meta that this is a blog about those blog posts.

Actually, it’s more a blog about the chance to read from my blog in-person, in front of real live people. I had the opportunity to do this recently and it was terrifying and exhilarating and humbling and beautiful.

It was such a powerful experience not because I’m all that as a writer or performer (although not being completely inept was a good baseline), but because there is such power in sharing and being open and taking a a risk. Oh, I definitely was seized by feelings of “WTF am I doing?!” and “This seemed like a good idea at the time I planned it!” and “Just how boring and self-indulgent am I?” and “Why didn’t I bother to see if I could actually pronounce all these words that I can type?”

And those feelings, like almost all feelings of self-doubt and inadequancy and questioning, never went away while I was reading. But as I looked out at the faces of my friends who came to hear and support me, they co-mingled with feelings of “Wow, how lucky am I that I get to do this” and “I think we’re all actually sharing a moment here. We have a connection.”

You can watch my reading (Blog reading) and/or read the blogs as I intended to present them (I did a little ad-libbing and introduced a prop glass of crappy blended red wine at the last minute. A prop, but real wine. I did agonize over if it was too embarassingly crappy but I was willing to suffer for my art.

My Dead Mom Blog Reading: 

March 21, 2014:  Say, This Is Amy Luedtke…and I miss my mom, due to the fact that, she is dead.

That may sound a little harsh, but that sentence actually makes me laugh. It combines two of my mom’s favorite sayings. Whenever she made a “business” call, mom always started it with “Say, This is Colleen Luedtke.” My older sister, Jenn, and I used to love to listen in on these calls while we imagined the person on the other end repeating, “This is Colleen Luedtke.” We don’t know how or why mom picked up this verbal quirk, but just thinking about it still makes me smile.

“Due to the fact that” was a favorite phrase of Colleen’s for written communication. Whenever I had missed school because I was sick (or pretending to be sick) the note my mom would write was a variation of “Amy missed school yesterday due to the fact that, she was ill.” Again, thinking of that one little (yet mysterious and completely unnecessary phrase) captures so much of my mom’s spirit.

On my mom’s birthday (which was St. Patrick’s Day), I had some aspirations of writing a blog post that would honor her and be a slightly profound reflection on life lessons learned. Or something like that. Something inspiring and poignant but not depressing. And while I certainly learned so much from my mom, I cannot put these things easily into words.

So for now, I just want to capture some of the little, unique things that I remember about my mom, things that live on in my memory (rather accurately or not) and my heart and keep her spirit alive for me. Perhaps these little, seemingly inconsequential quirks are the things that are the most important and precious pieces of any of us?

So, in no particular order:

• Mom was fanatical about doing laundry, and even insisted on doing Chad’s laundry on a weekly basis. She also regularly ironed everything, including t-shirts. She was actually very talented at “ironing out” t-shirts, and as a big lady, it was useful that they often ended up at least a size bigger than when she started.
• “They can’t take that away from you.” That was one of my mom’s favorite sayings. I wasn’t always sure who “they” were or what they wanted to take, but at least once it was meant as encouragement for the artsy fartsy liberal arts B.A. degree I was getting. As in, “you may never get a job, but at least you will have your education!”
• Mom was not a good driver. I offer this evidence: she hit a cow on two separate occasions, in the daytime. But she never admitted or recognized her driving deficiencies. Her biggest troubles were driving too slowly (so it was very ironic when she got stopped for speeding) and being distracted and flustered. One time when we made a field trip to the Cities to go to the Renaissance Fair, she accidentally turned her hazards on and drove around who knows how long with them on. It was actually a pretty good idea.
• If mom sat down for more than 10 minutes she fell asleep. And she moaned in her sleep. This could make church or movies a little embarrassing. She also never owned up to this, and would just say she was “resting her eyes.” She even started laughing in her sleep, to make it seem like she was awake and laughing about whatever television show we were watching. Again, this could be embarrassing at movies or church.
• Mom was a great storyteller. Some of her best stories included the time when she was a house cleaner for a professor and vacuumed up a Hummel figurine; when one of her high school teachers died during class while screaming at the students and they had to walk over her body to exit the classroom; and many tales about her high school days in Milwaukee where the girls fought with hat pins and they sent my mom to special ed because she came from the country. They also sent most of the black kids to special ed, just because they were black, and they looked out for my mom and watched over her at pot parties.
• Mispronouncing words and names was an art form for my mom. I can’t do her talent justice right now but sometime ask me what a “commune” is.
• Mom used to say sex only took 30 seconds. This wasn’t meant to instill me with a “why bother?” philosophy, but to support her position that teens will find a place and a time to have sex if they are really motivated. I always wondered but never had the courage to ask if the 30 seconds included foreplay.

*************************************************************************************

That was a post from my blog. My mom died before I had a blog, and I’m not sure she would have got the concept of a blog. She died before the internet was really an everyday thing, so I have a hard time imagining her living in the cyber-world. Thinking about her on Facebook is both hilarious and terrifying.

Anyway, I love to write. To illustrate: Here’s another snippet from my blog from a post on Feb 9, 2014: When I was in my mid-twenties (post-college) my mom told me she had run into Mike, a guy I had known (vaguely) from junior high. Reportedly, Mike had asked my mom what I was doing and if I was still writing, and mom said she told him, yes, I was a writer. I replied, “WHAT? Mom, what in the hell do I write?” (I was working retail at a now deceased mall bookstore at the time). And mom said, “Well, you write all the time. You write checks.” As often happened when my mom made (at least to me) nonsensical comments in her completely confident Colleen way, I was speechless.

I love this story, because it totally captures so much of my mom’s personality and her unabashed insistence of seeing the world her way. It also reminds me that I did want to be a writer from a very early age. I don’t know why my mom told Mike I was writer. I don’t think she was embarrassed that I was working retail, I think she just believed that I was happy and successful and that was her way of telling Mike that.

*********************************************************************************

And back to the present: blogging about my mom through the years has been a therapeutic way to process my memories of her and feelings about her death. When Suzanne proposed her cabaret about her experience of motherhood, I got inspired to share some of my blog for a different perspective of motherhood. This is an experiment that could fail spectacularly, as I’m not sure if what works—more or less—in print, will work when it’s read aloud, even though I do try to write in my speaking voice.

So thanks for taking this risk with me. I hope what I share with you tonight will make you smile and maybe even think fondly about a loved one you’re missing. And hey, even if this really sucks, my mom, with her superpower of overvaluing my talent, would consider this a resounding success.

And on to another blog post…

August 13, 2014

In the days following Robin Williams suicide, Facebook has exploded. I don’t have anything enlightening to add and I am in no way an expert on suicide or depression. But I would like to suggest that even a life that has such a tragic ending probably (hopefully) had moments of joy, love, and even just contentment and pleasure. After his death, Williams’ widow said: “As he is remembered, it is our hope the focus will not be on Robin’s death, but on the countless moment of joy and laughter he gave to millions.” No doubt that he gave those moments, but let’s not forget he experienced some of them, too.

Whether its a job or a relationship or a life, just because it ends in a spectacularly bad or painful way, the ending doesn’t negate the reality of the good or even mundane moments that happened. And again, not to minimize the suffering of depression or any illness, but just because a life has pain does not mean there isn’t any joy…sometimes occurring at the same time. I think one of my college professors would have called this the “coincidence of opposites.” We need to be creative enough to tell life stories for ourselves and each other that feel authentic but also aren’t too simplistic. People are rarely simply “good” or “bad,” “happy” or “sad.”

And yes, I am thinking a lot about my mom, and even my dad, as I write this. My parents certainly weren’t celebrities or comedians (or only for a very limited audience), but both their deaths have challenged me to tell their life stories in ways that are real and complex. After my mom’s death I was confronted with facts about her life that tempted me to despair it was all suffering and she was never really happy. But I now believe, and it is our unique human power to choose how we give meaning to our experiences, that the happy, funny, sassy, mom I knew was real, too.
It is a cliche to say you never know a whole person, or you never know what goes on behind closed doors. I agree, but also think that doesn’t mean that what you do know of a person isn’t real. We never see the whole picture, but that doesn’t mean the pieces we know are false. Human beings, and therefore human relationships, are extremely complex and multi-faceted, and so we will only know pieces of “the truth.” I think that just makes it all the more vital to pay attention to and really appreciate and value the pieces we do know and experience.

********************************************************************************

October 22, 2014

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what I keep and what I do with it, and what I try to let go of. This idea is a central theme of the one-act “Bird Icon” that Chad and I are in the midst of re-booting. The play opens with my character, Claire, going through her recently deceased father’s things and deciding what to keep or toss.

Claire is much more on the ball about such matters than I am. My mom died fourteen years ago today, and I finally took some time this afternoon to go through a stockpile of her jewelry. Although I didn’t specifically remember most of the pieces, it’s amazing how, after all this time, the jewelry reflected my mother’s tastes and personality and conjured her up in a way. These pieces were bold, colorful, and unique, just like my mom.
It’s hard to believe that I’ve put off looking at this jewelry for fourteen years, and even harder to believe my mom has been dead so long. Every year on the anniversary of her death I’m amazed another year without her has passed, and I’m sure I will continue to feel this for as long as I live. These death anniversaries are such strange milestones, mixing together how much I miss my mom with feeling old.

Or maybe “feeling old” is just a euphemism. I’m not really thinking about my age so much as my mortality. My mom was exactly twenty years older than I am now when she died.

The anniversary of my mom’s death is also a weird milestone because it highlights all the things, big and small, that have happened since my mom died that she never got to experience or be a part of. I also think about all the ways I’ve changed. It’s trivial, but way back in 2000, I didn’t drink coffee. Now I can’t imagine life without it. Somehow the fact that my mom never knew me as a coffee addict symbolizes many levels of loss.
Of course it’s not just about what physical things we have and keep, but what our possessions symbolize. All the intangible attributes, emotions, talents, passions, and whatnot that we inherit and accumulate are more crucial than any object.

I was motivated to go through my mother’s jewelry today, but I’m even more inspired to think about what intangible pieces my mother gave me (whether she intended to or not) and what I want to do with them. Some things are easy to identify, like the taste for loud jewelry that I inherited from my mom, or my willingness to put up with badly-behaved pets or my penchant for hyperbole. I would also like to say I’m as generous, compassionate, loyal and strong as my mother, but those are pieces I’m still aspiring to fully own.

What we toss can be just as important as what we keep. Again, sometimes these decisions are easy. I decided long ago that I don’t have to keep my mother’s love of cheap gas station donuts alive (although thinking of it always makes me smile). But what should I let go of? What don’t I even realize that I’m holding on to? I’m slowly letting go of the pain of my mother’s illness and death, but can I let go of some of the sadness and fear she carried her whole life?

I also worry about what I have unintentionally let go of and what is slipping away because of the effects of time. Worse yet I wonder what I don’t remember because I didn’t pay attention and notice in the first place. I find hope from the song “Home” by the band Field Report and the lyric “The body remembers what the mind forgets.” I know body memory is often seen as something of a curse, but if our bodies remember all our traumas, they should remember all the good things, too. I want my body to remember all the love I received, especially when I was too young to have any memory of it. I hope my body remembers all the hugs and all the spaghettios my mom ever gave me.

Our dog Olive doesn’t know that she looks pretty rough.

At least, I don’t think she does. I’m no expert on the inner life of dogs, but I’m pretty sure that she doesn’t know that her multiple skin cancer-caused bald spots (and the scabby scars that come with them) look pretty freaky. I also think (and our vet agrees) that she’s spared the existential angst of knowing she has terminal skin cancer and is in doggie hospice.

It gives Chad and me great comfort to know that she doesn’t know. (That sounds unintentionally Rumsfieldian…oh the good old days when we thought HE was a nut!) I think that’s one of the most beautiful things about animals is that they live totally in the moment without fear of the future.

Unfortunately, Chad and I do know about Olive’s prognosis, so we have to deal with the dread of facing her future. The benefit of this sad knowledge is that it does inspire us to appreciate her more, and to make sure we give her as many walks and treats and belly rubs as we can. (Okay, we may not appreciate her as much as we could when she wakes us up at 5:00 in the morning because she’s pissed at a cat).

We also know that we’re damn lucky that she’s made it this long. When she was diagnosed right before Christmas (around the time our other beloved dog, Oscar, died of old age) we were told her prognosis was not very good.

So now I present to you:

A very abbreviated version of the skin cancer saga of Olive (if I was a talented musician this could be a country song): Olive has a rare form of cancer that usually leads to death because it spreads to places like the mouth and paws and the sufferer can’t eat or walk. Olive does have it on her mouth but it isn’t affecting her ability or to desire to eat yet! And thankfully nothing on her paws. (It is also affecting her “privates”, which really makes this country song potential, but that also doesn’t seem to bother her. No she doesn’t do “yoga” anymore and sit on her haunches in a way that made it look like she was touching her privates and caused people to laugh hysterically but I think that is more due to old age). The spots she has on the rest of her body look nasty but she’s generally not irritated by them (in the winter we could have her wear jaunty jackets of denial that covered her cancerous spots and let us pretend they weren’t there but now it’s too hot).

We DID try chemo, but two rounds almost killed her (which was unexpected because usually chemo isn’t that traumatic for dogs) so now she is just being treated with prednizone and fish oil. Even if the chemo had been successful, it would have been amazing that she made it this long, so it’s pretty stunning that she is still alive. And, she is 15 years old (or so, we don’t really know because she was a stray we got her when she was about two) and 15 isn’t a bad run for a dog who doesn’t have cancer.

Plus, Olive almost died years ago when she was only around 8 and had the dreaded dachshund spinal paralysis malady (we learned that usually hits middle-aged, not elderly, dachshunds).

So we know we should we be grateful, and we are, but of course we still want her (and all our pets) to live forever. That day 13 or so years ago when she became part of our family seems like seconds ago. It was right after Christmas, and Chad surprised me one day by bringing Olive home (we had met her through the rescue organization but hadn’t officially decided to adopt her yet). We named her Olive after the book “Olive the Other Reindeer.” (Yes, there is a sequel “Olive My Love” also inspired by misheard lyrics).

There was some jostling for power between Olive and our resident dachshund Oscar (which involved a lot of humping which I found hilarious and Chad found mortally embarrassing, especially when conducted in front of guests) but they soon became deeply bonded. Olive loved “her boy” Oscar and was very possessive of him (AND didn’t think he should get too much attention from her people). While I do take comfort in thinking that Olive lives in the now, I do hope she has some sort of memory of her life with Oscar, a memory that causes her only happiness and not pain (okay, I’m probably living in unicorn and rainbow land now but still…)

Luckily for us this arranged marriage between Oscar and Olive worked out, because we soon realized that Olive has fear aggression and mostly wants to kill other dogs. She has definitely mellowed with age and maybe could even learn to love another dog in her household with enough time, but as it stands she could only abide being a “wife” for Oscar. (We used to call her “wife” as a nickname and I would often call for her out our backdoor by that moniker, which may have confused our neighbors).

I started this blog post positing that Olive doesn’t know that she is dying from cancer, but here are some things I think she does know:

• Treats are awesome. Meat is the best, but cheese and goldfish crackers are pretty good runners up.
• That Em human at Dad’s office is the best treat bestower ever.
• Mom must be followed at all times because she is the most likely household human to have food (sadly it’s usually vegetables but cauliflower is surprisingly good).
• Humans in general should be watched at all times.
• It’s good to be near humans and have them pet you and scratch your belly (and give you snacks, of course), but “cuddling” is weird and uncalled for and will only be tolerated for a few minutes.
• Parental band practice in your basement is awesome.
• There is one specific spot on the couch that belongs to you.
• CATS ARE ASSHOLES. AND STUPID. AND DO NOT REALIZE YOU DON’T WANT TO BE THEIR FRIEND. (Especially when you have ‘roid rage…okay, Olive probably doesn’t realize she has ‘roid rage).
• Even though you occasionally wag your tail when you go after aforementioned asshole cats, they are still assholes.
• You must sniff every. possible. thing. on a walk. (Why doesn’t mom realize this? But why does mom eat so many vegetables instead of meat? Why does mom let the cat live in the house? Sigh, mom must not be very smart).

Oh Olive, my love, it’s too soon, but yet we know we are so blessed. I don’t belive in people heaven, but I can’t help but dream about a pet heaven where you can hump your boy Oscar whenever you want and even glare at your cat sisters Rogue and Jubilee. You could even give your death snarl again to the family dog matriarch Poopie, whom you always seemed on verge of killing and eating in an effort to cull the herd.

But I must stop being sentimental and put the red wine down, because, for now at least, there is still a walk to be taken.

It’s been 4 weeks since I ran Grandma’s Marathon. According to popular running wisdom, it takes a day for each mile you run in a race to recover from a race, so I should now be officially recovered from Grandma’s.

Turns out, there isn’t much science behind this claim or research into marathon recovery. “Recovery” is also a complex and somewhat nebulous idea. Recovery does not mean that you don’t run at all, and it’s often compared to a period of tapering in reverse. I have been running these last four weeks, but not too much or too strenuously.

I’m not sure yet if I feel fully physically recovered from Grandma’s. I feel fine for all daily physical activities but I’m definitely running way more slowly that I was before Grandma’s. I just can’t tell if this is because I’m not recovered, or I’ve lost some running mo-jo over the last month, or because it’s been so damn hot (and I suck at getting up early to run).

My slowness is probably a perfectly normal combination of the above three factors, but it’s starting to freak me out a bit. Which leads me to ponder the more intangible aspects of recovery: the mental and emotional. This dimension of recovery is complicated by my plan to race the Twin Cities Marathon which is now twelve weeks away.

 

 

The good news is having this new goal lessens the post-Grandma’s letdown (that sadness that comes after the completion, no matter how successful, of any Big Thing). The bad news is that I am not on track with my training program for the TCM yet and I’m not sure when I should be concerned about that.

I’m trying to be patient and sensible and not push myself too soon. I’m trying to have faith in the process of training and recovery and believe that my body will get back to where I want it to be so that I can run a successful Twin Cities Marathon. And I’m trying to be open to redefining success in a year when I run two marathons.

Another component of emotional and mental, and even spiritual marathon recovery, is trying to fully process the lessons I learned from Grandma’s. Besides the “lessons” I previously explored about beating a fit young shirtless guy and post-race drinking and celebrating with Chad, I’ve been thinking about the lessons I learned about my race strategy.

The biggest difference between my first and second marathons is that with Grandma’s I didn’t worry as much about making sure I had enough energy to finish, so I ran faster during the first half of the race. I was still careful not to get out of control, but I was pretty confident that I would be able to finish so I didn’t worry about pace too much. I just made sure I didn’t let my heart rate get too high.

I think this approach accounted for my faster performance and most of the 13 minutes I shaved off from my Twin Cities completion time. (I was probably also in a little better shape and the course was a little easier). I did slow down significantly starting with mile 21 (no negative splits for me) but I wasn’t that much slower at the end of Grandma’s than I was at the end of the TCM. I think I felt more drained at the end of Grandma’s, (definitely more nauseous) but I didn’t have any injuries and my level of muscle fatigue was about the same.

I do need to give some serious thought to my fueling and hydrating strategy during a race. Unlike the rest of my life, I really hate taking in nourishment while running. Logistically, it’s just a pain the ass, as I hate carrying food and gels and whatnot and fumbling with them while running.  I also hate slowing down for and navigating water stops. (I wonder if this is how Chad feels about the need for daily nourishment?)

In addtion to the hassles, when I’ve been running for a long time, consuming water and gels, etc., starts making me feel queasy (yes, I’ve tried various different gels so I don’t think it’s because of any particular product). But part of my nausea and decreased speed are probably caused by not taking in enough water and calories earlier in the race. (Part of it is most definitely caused by running a stupid distance of miles).

As my official period of marathon recovery ends and I can no longer reasonably use recovery as an excuse for any poor physical, emotional, or intellectual performance, one thing is clear to me: it will be a long time before I recover from wanting to blog (and brag) about running.

Collaborating in the process of bringing a play to life on the stage always involves a journey of self-discovery.

During my involvement in Applause Community Theater’s recent production, “4 One-Act Plays by 3 Local Playwrights + One Guy From Montana,” I made this surprising, in fact I’ll go far as to say shocking, discovery: our blender doesn’t have a bottom.

Neither Chad or I have any idea what happened to the bottom of our blender and we’re still mystified about where it went. It seems highly unlikey that a thief would have broken into our home and only stolen the bottom of our blender. Although perhaps it is possible that said thief actually stole other very targeted objects that we just haven’t noticed are missing yet. Afterall, if the missing blender bottom escaped our attention, what other domestic appliance absences have we been oblivous to? Chad only noticed that the blender bottom was missing when I relocated it from our kitchen counter to the theater so it could be used as a prop. I suspect the blender bottom has been missing for years.

Clearly, we don’t use our blender very often. This isn’t surprising because I am morally opposed to drinking my calories unless they contain alcohol. And yes, I realize that there are many blended alcoholic drinks, but those are all sweet and high caloric drinks. I also realize you can make actual food in a blender (soups and whatnot) but I’m still dubious about how many calories are going to sneak up on me if there is no chewing involved.

And let’s face it, in my current manifestation of Amy-ness,  I am just not choosing to make the time or take the effort to use a blender. I’m not ruling out that this could change. I could shift my priorities, learn something new, let go of some old fears and neuroses.

I really didn’t intend this post to be all about blenders (sometimes you just have to follow your artistic muse where it leads you). I  still want to at least touch on another life-changing lesson I learned from the one-acts: It’s really fun playing a horrible person. Or more specifically, it’s extremely fun to play a horrible person who gets to wear a sexy red dress and act brazen and bold and flirt and fight on-stage with her husband who is playing an equally horrible person.

My character, Stacy, was such a terrible person that I got one of the best compliments about my acting ever:

“I didn’t like one single thing about you, except for how you looked in that red dress.”

I also learned that no matter how awful a character seems, you need to look below the surface and try to see things from their point of view. You have to try and understand and empathize with a character to convincingly play them as real and believable (even over-the-top characters). I’m sure this has merit in the real world, too…only through empathy can we have real interactions with other people.

And we can usually find some points of agreement, right? I didn’t spend too much time developing Stacy’s backstory, but I bet she would totally be with me on the blender issue.

 

….but it was mine! Yes mine, and the 6097 other people who ran Grandma’s Marathon from Two Harbors to Duluth on June 16. This was my first ever Grandma’s Marathon and my second marathon (my first was the Twin Cities Marathon in October of last year).

This morning I realized that one of those 6097 other Marathon participants was an extremely fit (and good-looking) young man and that I finished the marathon faster than he did. I promise I’m not trying to throw shade (as my brother would inappropriately say) on this young man, but just to bask in the glory of my accomplishment by using his performance as a measure.

I learned about this fellow-marathoner as I spent the morning looking through the official marathon photos and trying to decide if the photos of me were worth the outrageous price (yes, I know, professional marathon photographers gotta eat, too). I soon saw that another runner was prominently featured in many of my finish-line photos. Now, normally, I would be a little annoyed about other runners stealing my photo-thunder, but, well, this guy was pretty ripped (and shirtless).

Once I moved past that initial observation, I couldn’t imagine how he would have finished the marathon around the same time as me. So yeah, I looked up his results (I could see his bib number in the photos) and discovered I actually finished 5 minutes faster than he did.

(Big digression…if you’re wondering how we crossed the finish line at the same time but my completion time was faster, I started the marathon almost 9 minutes “late” because I had to wait so long for a port-a-potty. Yes, that’s my only complaint about Grandma’s Marathon…not enough port-a-potties! Luckily, the clock doesn’t start running on your time until you cross the start line. Still waiting for a port-a-potty was really stressful and not a great way to start a race. Luckily, I didn’t need a port-a-potty during the race).

Now Chad did explain to me that it actually made sense that I would run the marathon faster than a very muscular guy (who I also learned through my results-stalking is 23). Muscles simply weigh a lot, so this guy just had a lot more mass to move for 26.2 miles than I did. (And he may have been recovering from an injury or illness, or not have had much time for training, or a million other variables could have affected his performance).

I guess that illustrates the power of science: explaining how a moderately fit 48-year-old-lady can run a marathon faster than a really fit (and did I mention good-looking and shirtless) 23-year-old dude. And don’t get me wrong, still a wonderful accomplishment for both of us, and ALL the other 6096 finishers.

Perhaps it’s more inexplicable that I didn’t notice this guy during the race. Actually, that makes perfect sense, too…not only am I a pretty self-absorbed runner usually lost in my own head, I was quite spent by the end of the race. I didn’t have any specific pain or injuries, but I hit (or at least patted) “The Wall” at about mile 23. I finished Grandma’s in 4:02:48, about 13 minutes faster than it took me to run the Twin Cities Marathon (which, yes, I am extremely proud of and happy about) and I could definitely feel the difference between how tired I was at the end of each marathon.

So I was oblivious to the young hot shirtless guy I was running next to, but I did find the sexy, amazing man who was waiting for me at the finish line. Chad finished Grandma’s about half an hour before me (with an awesome time of 3:35:11) and gave me my medal.

The end of the race and the rest of the day is a blur of fuzzy but lovely memories. Chad and I hugged, I think we kissed, we had our photo taken, I complained about how I couldn’t use my hands because they were numb (cold? weird circulation? tension?) and I complained about how I felt like puking, we got some post-race food (bananas, bagels, etc.) and drinks (beer and cider), listened to the post-race band, spent way too much money on Grandma’s merchandise (including a super-cute stuffed hare…get it? we were fast!), and ended up at Vikre distillery to drink in earnest. (We didn’t eat real food until several hours later but, hey, priorities).

We were exhausted, and proud, and vulnerable, and teary, and beaming, and basking in the glow of the wonder of the day and each other. (And obviously, we were drunk).

And THAT was my Grandma’s Marathon.

 

 

When I first saw the phrase “Nevertheless, she persisted” floating around Facebook last year, I assumed it was a Jane Austen quote that I didn’t know. I’m sure there are many Jane Austen quotes I don’t know, as I don’t know any, but as a librarian, I have many literate Facebook friends who love Jane Austen so that’s the conclusion I jumped to.

Many months later, it’s become one of my favorite inspirational running quotes. Although I’m not trying to equate running a long distance race with being a U.S. Senator standing up for women’s rights, I don’t think Elizabeth Warren (or even Jane Austen) would mind.

Since it’s just a little over two days until Chad and I attempt to complete Grandma’s Marathon in Duluth and I’m riddled with anxieties, now seems like a good time to fall back on this cherished slogan.

Yes, I’m always nervous before a race, and that’s part of the fun, but this time I’m dealing with some unique concerns beyond the typical ones. (These include “Am I eating the right amount of carbs?” “Will I get enough sleep” and the classic, “Will I be able to poop at the right time, in the right place?”)

So what are the special 2018 Grandma’s Marathon fears that I must persist against/over/in spite of (geez, what is the proper prepositional phrase)?

Three special fears I have just for Grandma’s Marathon:

• We’re not properly trained. We trained for a marathon that was supposed to be 3 weeks ago, and ended up running a half marathon isntead. This means we’ve been in this weird half marathon recovery/marathon tapering phase for the last 3 weeks (we decided it was better to avoid overtraining and injury). This doesn’t mean that we haven’t been running, but by the time we start Grandman’s, there will be a 6 week gap between that and our last really long (22ish mile) run. We’re still in reasonably fine shape so maybe it won’t be a big deal, or maybe it will turn out that marathon training weeks are like dog years (or something) and 6 weeks is like 6 years. I know I’m definitely suffering from a lack of confidence because it feels like soo long since I did a really long run.
• We’re going to blow away in a storm during the marathon. Again, worrying about the weather is not unique (especially since the last marathon we attempted to do was cancelled because of extreme heat). But not only am I worried that it will rain during most, if not all of, the marathon (potentially causing slipping, chafing, and just overall miserableness) but the forecast actually calls for thunderstorms. I’m just a smidgen away from being terrified of storms, and it’s going to be hard to run if I’m hyperventilating or hiding in a ditch. It’s even possible that this marathon will get cancelled if the weather is deemed too dangerous.
• I’m going to be mentally and physically drained by my bouts of vertigo. In the last week, I’ve started experiencing vertigo. It’s completely benign, but extremely annoying (it presents as wicked bed spins—long, intense, and nausea-inducing—even worse than anything I experienced during my college days). I’m not (really) worried that I’m going to have vertigo during the marathon (I’ve only had 4 episodes) and when it’s done, it’s done, but it has disrupted my sleep and just general ability to get things done. How can I be mentally and spiritually prepared for the marathon if I’ve lost sleep and time that I needed to spend blogging and facebooking?

I don’t know how these fears compare to Mitch McConnell, but none of them are pretty. Nevertheless, I will persist! I will think positively and “enjoy” the marathon. And hey, if I’m picked up by a tornado, I probably won’t notice any vertigo and it could give me a hell of a tailwind. (Look at that positivity in action!)

It’s Global Running Day, and I’m not running today.

This feels a little wrong, but it’s my regularly scheduled rest and recovery day. I definitely need this respite between a half marathon and a an upcoming full marathon and after a night of a vertigo attack (yes, dramatic but I like it).

Plus, not running gives more time to think, and write, about running.

To misapproriate a quote, “All I Really Need to Know About Running I Learned in the Girls on the Run 5K.” I recently got to be an adult “running buddy” for Abby, an awesome 4th grader, and this experience certainly gave me much inspirational pondering and writing fodder.

Girls on the Run is an amazing organization that “…inspires girls to take charge of their lives and define the future on their terms” with an emphasis on healthy movement.

That’s pretty good advice for women, girls, and people, of all ages.

In regards to running, the philosophy of the 5K (I’m paraphrasing) was “Do your best, have fun, and feel good!” Also a really good perspective on life and running.  I especially need this perspective for the upcoming Grandma’s Marathon as I’m freaking out about my interupted training plan and possible vertigo episodes.

Of course, “best,” “fun” and “good” have layers of meaning and will look pretty different for me as a 48-year-old doing a marathon, but the underlying principles are the same. I need to keep the bigger picture in mind and be thankful for what I can do, appreciate the unique experience of the run, and not get too wrapped up in my performance stats.

The Girls on the Run 5K also gave me the most inspriational finishing line experience ever.

Abby ran (mostly walking with bouts of sprinting) the whole race with her friend, who started lagging at the finish. As we approached the finish, Abby ran back, grabbed her friend’s hand and my hand, and her friend grabbed her running buddy’s hand, and all four of us crossed the finish line together holding hands.

Yes, your heart should have just exploded in an overdose of inspirational cuteness.

And yes, I definitely have some room for growth when it comes to basking in the community of my fellow runners and celebrating the success of others. I may be a titch competitive, and can really learn from Abby’s example of friendship and support. I’m so thankful that I have my Facebook running group to let me bask in the inspiration and support of others and to practice my community-building muscles.

Chad and I actually did finish a half marathon (The Get in Gear) together holding hands…and a spectating dude yelled out, “You know, one of you is still going to win.”

We would definitely all win if we tried to live up to the example of 4th grade girls.