WOTY2.0: Phases

Liv and I went prom dress shopping last Saturday.  She had no idea what she wanted, but knew immediately what she didn’t like (zip it, please, I know).   After trying on what seemed like three dozen dresses, she announced, “This one is fine, it’ll work.”

A Mom knows when her kid is settling (yes, again, I know).  And while that dress looked okay, fit decently, and would have been fine, something was missing.  I ran into the back room – the one which by that point welcomed me like The Hatch on LOST – to find the one.  I was going to find it, because I knew it had to exist.

Exasperated, Liv grabbed the dress from behind the curtain and I sat down.  And waited.  And listened.  And wondered.  Nothing was happening, but I knew not to say a word.  The boutique owner walked along the creaky hardwood floor to the front door, flipped the old-fashioned sign to CLOSED and then - out of that dressing room she came, beaming with the biggest, brightest smile any Mom could ever hope to see.

Better late than never, as I like to say.  I know, I know, we ALL know… (It was a looong day, let me have this.)

The store takes what they call “once loved” wedding dresses, bridesmaid dresses, and prom dresses on consignment.  I wasn’t about to point out the irony in their nomenclature, but I will be dropping off two once loved dresses later this week when I am there picking up that perfect prom dress find.  And for those of you whispering right now, both are Liv's.

When I confirmed with her that it was alright to ditch them, I also asked what she thought of my super sweet red lace c.1987 prom dress.  “Think they’d want THIS once loved treasure?”  It horrified her so much she had no comment, even though her mouth was hanging wide open.

My point is this.  Time flies; yet, life is absolutely cyclical.  Proms have existed for as long as any of us can remember, and so has cancer.

But thankfully and mercifully, both look vastly different than they did years ago.

In the last 50 years, survival rates for blood cancer patients have doubled, tripled and in some cases, even quadrupled as a result of research and innovation.  We need to keep this trend on pace.  We need to fight harder than ever.  We need to never give up, because settling should never be an option.   

Why would it be?  Settling isn’t an answer, it’s merely a Band-Aid that keeps curling up on the ends, threatening to rip completely off the moment you stop trying to habitually and begrudgingly smooth it back down.

Our lives are a series of phases.  And while our cyclical experiences are each unique, each differing in terms of joys and pains, triumphs and tragedies, we are all interconnected. 

Woven in the beautiful tapestry of our lives are similar themes:  childhood in all its magical innocence, adolescence in all its ugly confusion, early, impetuous twenties and all of their prideful “I got this!” proclamations…

And sometimes cancer.

--------------------------

This is an email we received last Friday from Mel, our Campaign Director:

Candidates & Committee,

It was great to see so many of you at last night’s Halfway Happy Hour! I’m really glad Caleb and his family were able to join us. Seth and Andrea have said time and time again how much they are inspired by each of you and your dedication to our mission and our cause.

This morning, Andrea sent me an email with the attached picture, which she calls “Caleb’s Phases of Leukemia.”

 

 

-          Top left:
At Riley getting a blood transfusion to prepare for chemo

-          Top right:
At Riley for his first chemotherapy treatment

-          Bottom left:
Induction Phase, where he had to take steroids twice a day for a month. He couldn’t walk because he was so big and Seth & Andrea had to re-teach him how to walk.

-          Bottom right:
3 months before his 2^nd birthday he lost all his hair

 

She closed the email by saying, “2 years down, 15 months to go!”

This MWOY journey certainly isn’t always easy, but I think that’s enough to keep us all going…

Thanks for ALL you do – it can never be said enough!

Enjoy the weekend,

Melanie

---------------------------------------

Anything short of a cure is like walking into a high school gymnasium wearing the wrong dress on the arm of the wrong guy.

Refuse to settle.

One month to go.

Post-Boston

I really only have two things to say before I copy and paste the article the Journal Gazette (pre-editing edition) asked me to write:

1.  I am beyond humbled by the whole stinkin' thing.  It was and will forever be an unforgettable life event. 
2.  To the person who actually read this article before its final submission, thank you for doing so.  I think you are beautiful, too.

----------------------------------------------------

WeRunTogether

By:  Beth Schrader

After loading the suitcase into the car last Saturday morning, I ran back into the house to grab my iPhone.  Completely apropos, Boston’s “More Than A Feeling” was blaring through the speakers, the perfect send-off to a long awaited trip.

I was seated in between a fellow runner and her husband (“No, it’s ok, don’t move, we’ve been together forever…”) on the flight from Indy to Charlotte.  She had run Boston before and was giving me the lowdown on how to approach the course.

Really hold back the first four miles.  It’s all downhill, it’s early, the adrenaline will be on overload and you’ll want to fly, but don’t because you’ll pay for it on the back half.

This sound advice echoed what my running buddies had already told me, so I shook my head as if I knew.  I had no idea.

When we landed in Charlotte, we bid each other farewell and good luck, and continued on our respective treks into the city which has eluded me for the last 4 years.  I had zero intention of ever visiting “just because.”  I was ONLY going to make the trip through one means:  qualifying.

After arriving and settling into The Westin, one block from Boylston and the finish line, I met my good friend and co-hort, Angela, for dinner.  If you knew her, this would be even more exceptional of a story because, by her own admission, she’s “not thoughtful” nor does she “ever do things like this.”  She’s also a good liar, because I find her incredibly thoughtful for making this trip with me, kind of last minute to boot.  I’m not sure I can ever properly repay her for all she did to get me through the weekend – from making sure we knew where we had to be and when -  to calming my nerves through her precision timing of comedic sarcasm (“I found the perfect guy for you.  Four words:  lime green pajama pants.”).

Her selflessness not only will always be remembered, but was in very good company in Boston.  The vibe everywhere was one of constant emotion:  resilience, catharsis, healing, closure, companionship, and camaraderie.  Everyone was incredibly welcoming, from the stereotypical  Bostonian Super Shuttle guy in all his thick-accented glory (“Welcome to Bah-stun”), to the folks lining the jam-packed streets.  People would smile and take the time to thank individuals for coming back to their city, or showing up at all on the heels of last year’s tragedy.

On the ride into the City from the airport, I was sitting next to a woman who ran in 2013 and had just finished when the bombs went off.  She told me she had contemplated whether or not to return, as it was scary and not something she was quite over yet. 

“Thank you for coming back to Bah-stun,” the driver with bat-like hearing yelled gruffly from the front seat.  “This is OUR city, and people like you being here are helping us take it back.”

After a late dinner on a dicey back alley road Saturday night (our favorite kind of place), I walked back to my hotel.  I purposely took Boylston, where the Finish Line was brightly illuminated.  It was the first time I had seen it in person.  As I slowly approached, I could sense the respect of everyone in the vicinity.  While there were lots and lots of people there, it was eerily quiet.  People were taking photographs, but mostly, we all just stood in disbelief, and in deference.

There was a memorial erected for the people who lost their lives last year.  And as you stood there looking at it, the only thing you could do is begin shake your head as tears streamed down your face.  By all intents and purposes, it was a “normal” street.  Same pavement we have in Fort Wayne, same sidewalks, same kinds of stores and restaurants.  The whole scene was simply surreal.  To think that one minute you could be standing, sitting, or running right there…right there…and then, your world changes in an instant.  It was a lot to take in and even harder to try and process.

On Sunday, we went to the Convention Center.   The logistics which must go into providing 36,000 runners with everything they need prior to the race is incredible.  And man, they nail it in Boston.  As we arrived, I walked immediately to the appropriate section of bib numbers to receive my packet.  Another proud and smiling Bostonian greeted us, thanked us for being there, and wished me luck on the course.  The sense of communal pride continued to be evident.

Angela and I checked out the expo which was wall to wall people, bought a few things, and hit the streets of downtown.  The history is rich; the buildings architecturally interesting.  We walked to Boston Common so we would know where I needed to go in the morning to load the bus for the drive to Hopkinton. 

It was a beautiful, sunny day out so I detoured on the way back to my hotel and sat on some steps people watching.  Everyone was smiling and many people were wearing their Boston Marathon jackets or other attire from years past.  Many others still were adorned with “Boston Strong” hats, T-shirts, and bracelets.  It was a peaceful hour or so, as I felt connected to this group of strangers in a very meaningful and intense way.

The day had finally come….BOSTON.  The alarm never needs to wake me on race morning.  I awakened at 5:30am and looked out my window at Boylston Street.  It was beginning to come alive, with people walking to and fro as final preparations for such an historic day were being made.  Patriot’s Day in Boston is an historic day; but today was even more profound, even more sentimental.

As we stood on the back side of Boston Common staring at a continual line of school buses waiting to transport runners over 26 miles into Hopkinton, I saw him.  Well, actually I saw the CBS News Anchor holding a microphone in front of his happy face – a man wearing the bright orange 2014 Boston Marathon jacket, a ravishing smile, and one shoe.  He was clearly a survivor, and he was clearly getting ready to run this race with his prosthetic leg.

That moment, along with the seemingly endless bus ride to Hopkinton, turned me into contemplative and emotional mush.  How could this have happened here last year?  The bus was noisy.  Runners were chatting each other up asking one another how many Boston’s they had run before, what their goals were for the day, and mostly, if they were here last year.  Some runners were traveling and running together in packs; most, however, were total strangers like the woman sitting next to me from Laguna Beach, CA. 

And yet, we were united in a way which is almost inexplicable.  The level of true camaraderie was not only felt, it was seen – from the bibs adorning our torsos, to the bagels and protein bars being scarfed down, to the matching “Boston 2014” bracelets we had all been given – the ones made from last year’s banners which we wore as proud badges of honor.

We arrived to Athlete’s Village, which was a scene straight out of Lollapalooza.  There were jumbotrons, announcers, blankets, food, and rows and rows of port-o-potties with lines as far as the eye could see.  Oh, and runners.  Lots and lots of runners.

When it was finally time for Wave 3 to leave and walk to the starting corrals, I made my way alongside others who were equally as overwhelmed with the whole production – the whole day – the whole sense of what was about to go down.  The fly over had just occurred, and we now bowed our collective heads in a moment of silence.

And then?  A starting gun signaled it was time to start THE BOSTON MARATHON.  It was surreal, it was fun, it was hot, and it was a beast.  That course is literally the toughest one I’ve ever run. 

People much better and faster than I had warned me to be conservative the first four miles, which are all downhill.  I listened as well as I ever do, and by mile 9, I started doing the math:  26 minus 9 = how much farther?  This can’t be good.

My quads were a wreck, but my feelings were not.  For once in my life, I was actually enjoying the journey and not the destination.  Now, mind you, the destination of Boston WAS GOING TO HAPPEN no matter what.  I just knew it wasn’t going to happen nearly as fast as I had hoped.  And I was ok with that.

I was still hanging in as I approached mile 11.  I began to climb yet another ascent and noticed a woman walking off to the side.  It wasn’t all that uncommon, in and of itself, but she was crying a cry of emotional pain rather than physical.  I did the “Hey, let’s run together!” thing as I went by, but then I heard what she uttered through tears and heavy breathing and I stopped.

I’m scared to finish by myself.  There were thousands of people in front of us, beside us, and behind us, so I had no idea what she meant.  Until she told me she was a survivor from last year who had been stopped by the bombs at mile 25.5. 

Even though I’m quite sure my brain wasn’t functioning fully, it didn’t take long for me to tell her we’d finish together…if she wanted.  Luckily, she did.  We ran together from 11-23 until the last stretch narrowed and we lost each other at a water stop. 

We talked about family, friends, stupid hills, and an obscene craving for bananas.  We shared the pain, we shared those hills, and we shared a pretty big moment in both of our lives – lives which until now had been completely unknown to one another. 

And much like Boston itself, she and I will be forever connected through tears of pain and tears of joy.  To Michelle from Texas…thank you, my friend. 

As I turned left onto Boylston Street, I could see the waves of arms in the air.  I could hear the loud screams of cheer, elation, and pride for a city which was being healed.  And I remembered to throw my own limp and sunburned arms up in the air and smile as I FINALLY crossed that finish line.

It was everything I had hoped it would be.  More Than A Feeling, indeed.

 

 

 

WeRunTogether

(Written yesterday, posting today... "Really, Westin, $40 bucks for wireless from the already overpriced rooms?")

It's here.  And right now, the only place I know where to start is on Monday at 11:00am. 

The full-on emotion began first thing yesterday morning.  First cup of coffee in hand, I opened the sliding door, walked onto the deck and just took it all in.  The crisp air, the beautiful skyline, the simple serenity and peace in that moment – the upcoming moments I knew (know) would be a once in a lifetime experience.  And yes, I started to tear up, followed immediately by a laughter filled soliloquy which I very much hoped the neighbors would not witness.  I have zero time to be brought up on crazy charges.  This whole thing is crazy enough. 

I dialed the number.  The day before, I listened to a voice mail from Becky (always "Beck") - my very first girlfriend in life.  We met in Mrs. Mudrack's 2nd grade class; her in the ridiculously oversized circular glasses and me in the ridiculously unfashionable jeans with an embroidered roller skate on the back pocket.  That was 35 years ago... 

"What are you doin'?" she asked as she picked up the phone, no other greeting necessary.  (Mind you, it's been 8+ months since we've spoken). 

"Hey!  Got your message yesterday.  Having my morning coffee; where are you?" 

"Wal-Mart.  Shampoo aisle." 

"Yuck. You cracked me up in your message; I do NOT plan to pack my concealed carry for the trip." 

"Yeah, well...people are nuts.  THIS is nuts!  I can't believe you did it; you're going…you're almost there.  You did it, Nap." 

(welling up, but trying to remain stoic):  "Thanks, Beck.  Definitely ready to be there." 

"Remember when you first found out you were sick?  You almost died." (stoic wasn’t working and I couldn't shut it down because I was choking up)

"You know, you really are amazing.  You don't have to prove a thing to anyone, well, maybe yourself…is that who you’ve always been trying to prove something to?”

My stomach felt exactly like I know it’s going to feel at the start line on Monday.  She’s asking me this from our hometown, the one with a population roughly 1/7 of the number of runners who will be on the course Monday.  Thankfully, she didn’t really want an answer.

It went on like this for a while, seemingly out of nowhere.  She was pep talking me in a manner that only certain people have the authority or wherewithal to do.  I can't quite explain it, but to hear those words out of the mouth of someone who has known you - really known you - for your entire life is paralyzing.  Like, you kind of have to believe it...you want to believe it...but you have spent an entire lifetime pretty much not believing it.  Maybe out of disbelief; maybe out of fear; maybe out of one too many (of the wrong) silly boys telling you differently as they walk out the door in search of someone who isn’t always on a mission.  (Side note: my partner in crime on this Boston adventure told me she is going to make me wear a shirt emblazoned with “I LIKE BOYS” on the front, just in case anyone thought I gave up.)

Beck wished me luck, made me swear to text her my bib number so she could track me, and we hung up – right after the “love you’s” were said in all their soothing familiarity.

History.  Roots.  Friendship.  People who have stood by you through thick and thin, watched you fall, and are now genuinely happy that you’re standing again, as the person God designed you to be – those people I will love and cherish until the end of time. 

Speaking of the end of time, after composing myself from that conversation, I readied myself for Good Friday service.  Purposely arriving early, I grabbed an aisle seat, turned off my phone, closed my eyes, and became still.  I was physically still, but even more importantly, my mind was still.  The only thing I focused on in that moment was the reason I was there.  The reason we were there as a church body…the reason any of us are here at all.

And I started to cry all over again.

You know, when I qualified for this marathon last February, it was in the midst of a campaign supporting a 4 year-old boy with leukemia.  Every step I took, I thought of him and not only the cancer struggle before him, but the general struggle of “life” he will have after that.  The same one we ALL have.  The ups, the downs, the fears, the failures, the heartaches…God did not promise us it will be easy.  He did, however, promise to save us in the end if we just believe.

We must believe in something greater than ourselves.  Sure, sounds easy when you read it, but if you truly ponder it, what does it actually mean?  What does it actually take? 

When you qualify for Boston, you are not automatically just “in.”  You do it, you sign up with the hopes that not too many other faster runners either want in or will remember to sign up, and then you go on living your daily life as you always do until registration officially opens some 5 months later.  The excitement is instantly followed by anxiously waiting for the unknown, which is completely out of your hands.

The parallels are astounding.  As Jesus was walking that heart wrenching trail along the Via Dolorosa after everyone, including his best friend, had renounced him – He never looked back.  In physical pain more excruciating than any of us can fathom, on His way to bear even MORE pain on our behalf, He was the picture of selflessness.

As a man, He did nothing wrong.  Never.  Not once.  He was absolutely sinless.  But He also knew this day was coming; the day he had to anxiously await, for the sole reason of fulfilling the purpose for which He was sent.

There will be 36,000 runners lined up on Monday morning.  They all have stories.  They all have past hurts for which only they can understand the initial piercing, the subsequent scars, and the ongoing depth.  Indeed, they all have their own crosses to bear.  Some will be running in remembrance of someone.  Some will be running to take back what was stolen from them at one point in their life, including and especially last year.  Some will be running for closure.  Some will be running for hope.  I will be running for all those things and one thing is for sure:  Just as we are all in this thing called life together, we all run Boston on Monday together. 

We will be running as sinful, broken, and selfish people.  We won’t know the outcome until we cross that finish line on Boylston Street.  And all I can say, 2 days before that time comes, is I am incredibly thankful.  Never, especially on exactly race day 15 years ago, did I think I’d be crossing that finish line.  It would have been incomprehensible for me to imagine.  It still kind of is, actually.

Today, as I sit here in the grand old Charlotte airport waiting for my connection into Boston, I continue to think of one other finish line that matters even more.  THAT one will not greet me with a postcard saying “Confirmation of Acceptance” (loved the irony when it arrived in the mail, by the way).  THAT one awaits us all with outstretched arms…if we only believe.

There will be no giving up on Monday and no looking back.  For 26.2 solid miles, I plan to give nothing less than my every physical and mental all in a 3:39 culmination of everything I’ve been through over my own 40 year course.  I’m going to believe.

All this while having the honor and privilege of running alongside those who are also standing up again.  Thank you, God.

I (will) have fought the good fight, I (will) have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

-2 Tim 4:7

 

 

 

 

WOTY2.0: Fearless

Campaign update in one word?  Wow.

Sure, I know what you're thinking.  "Wow, she never just says ONE WORD about anything."  And you would be correct.  But in my defense, this is an important subject matter and I don't think any of us should ever stop talking about it until cancer is no more.  Eradicated.  Obliterated.  Kiboshed.  Kaput, 86'd, ixnayed...oh, right.  Less words. Got it.

So here's the deal.  People have been working non-stop.  Events are in full swing (thank you, James Ball and Peter Franklin Jewelers for last week), the asks continue every day, and there's no sleep till May 31st, or, Brooklyn for all you fans.

To date, the Fort Wayne team total is:  $45,000 and counting!

Over the course of the last two weeks, I have been continually reminded what a difference their collective effort is making.  Olivia and I attended the Boy and Girl Brunch at SweetCars Saturday morning.  While there were scores of people and really cool cars (think Cobra II driven by Jill Munroe, my least favorite Angel of Charlie's), something was noticeably absent:  The Boy and Girl of the Year.

Caleb is sick.  It's not uncommon to go through peaks and valleys during the course of treatment.  But when that happens, you are instantly put on high alert.  Fighting infections becomes exponentially more difficult.  Your body is busy trying to fight the cancer and has zero time or ability to fight things like a cold.  And as we all know, we can literally only take so much at once.

That's when it's time to send in the cavalry.

Gianna's cavalry arrived at Bishop Dwenger High School on Saturday afternoon.  Cancer invades not just the body.  It simultaneously invades, and pervades, every aspect of people's lives in one fell swoop.  It does not ask for permission; it does not ask for forgiveness.  It just shows up, unannounced and unwanted. And it is our job and duty as members of one big, crazy, intertwined family, to help.

Friends, family, neighbors, and strangers attended Gianna's benefit to supplement the mounting costs of her treatment, much like the overall mission of LLS.  Every effort matters.  I think sometimes people make the mistake of saying, "I can't do very much so what's the point?"  The point is this:  it's cumulative.  It adds up.  Doing something is always better than doing nothing.

Just ask Erin.  I was scrolling through Facebook before I logged on to write this and there she was!:

Erin is the daughter of great friends of mine, and a classmate of Gianna's.  To see this 9-year old sitting there in support of her same-aged friend who is in the middle of a fierce battle, reminds me just how short and sweet this life is.  Quotes about friendship immediately flooded my brain...a good friend will bail you out but a true friend will be right there, sitting next to you... 

Chances are afforded to us every so often in this lifetime.  A chance to forgive, to forget, to move on.  A chance to apologize, right a wrong, and become a better version of you in spite of yourself.  A chance to ignore fear and surpass last time performances solely on the basis of you know you can; like taking that shot at the buzzer, throwing that Hail Mary, or nailing that first kiss.  Fearless do-overs are a beautiful thing.

I want these kids to have their own firsts.  I want them to have their own learning experiences and their own do-overs because that's what life is all about.  We course correct along the way.  And it's high time cancer is off the course and out of the way. 

So while the effort of one five or ten dollar donation might not seem like much, what if EVERYONE YOU KNOW AND I KNOW AND WE ALL KNOW did that?  I may have pretended to hate math in high school, but it's that whole power of numbers thing.  Addition, I believe it's called... Speaking of numbers, if there is only six degrees of separation between any of us and Kevin Bacon, I think that dude should donate.  Who's on it?

Nothing happens if we don't try.

http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm

WOTY2.0 and Spring Break: Week 3

"Is this it, Mom?"

Feeling like Mother of the Year, I reluctantly answered my sweet, yet apparently-I-like-to-forget-she's-seventeen year old:  "Yep, pretty much."

"But does it like, DO anything?"

"You mean other than being one of the world's seven natural wonders?"

Clearly I've forgotten what it's like to be a seventeen year old girl.  Back in the day, if my mom had announced we were going to the Grand Canyon on Spring Break, I would have politely declined in favor of, I gotta practice my free throws, Mom.  Or watch paint dry.

To her credit, Liv is still very much appreciative of the last 5 days.  I tempered my excitement at the "big rocky thing that looks the same from all directions" as she shivered, threw an arm around her, smiled, and said...Ok, let's roll.  You've officially been to the Grand Canyon.

I may not have had that kind of reaction if our drive there had not been its own debacle.  After leaving our hotel in beautiful Sedona we started the trek north, on a road which instantly causes you to wonder aloud if your affairs are in order.  About half-way there, it happens.  A gust of air and a lot of noise...

When we landed in Phoenix two days prior, I quickly realized it was going to take a lot of extra effort to make this trip fun for Liv.  The weather was better than Fort Wayne but hey, so is Antarctica's lately.  It was not conducive, however, to anything which remotely resembled the possibility of her returning to school with a tan. 

So at the rental car counter, I asked if there were any convertibles available.  I'm all about multi-tasking.  We could have fun, rock out, AND she could catch some rays on the way to our destinations.  Big 'ol Mother's Day card that plays Christina Aguilera's I Turn To You...here I come.

"We have convertible Camaro's."

Instantly transported back to circa 1989 prom:  "Perfect."

(Actually I think it was a Trans Am with T-tops.  And this I only remember because it rendered the Aqua Net hair in danger of reaching neighboring states complete with the obligatory penny roll bangs a total wreck by the time we got there.)

After finding out that the upcharge was the equivalent of Liv's first year college tuition, I opted instead for an even better choice: a soft top Jeep.  Much more me; much more we're going to the Grand Canyon!

Ok, I've always wanted a Jeep but I may have seen the error of my ways even before leaving the underground parking garage at the Phoenix airport.  Not only is unzipping that thing very Middle-East in all its revelry (writer's license, people; don't hit me up with the anti-Semitic anything or I'll send you Chels' contact info and she's a feisty Jew of a best friend) but it's kind of like when you're on a really cool road trip to nowhere, a sign appears, and instantly you scream, "Hey!  Let's go to L.A.!"  only to be bored and tired two exits later.  Brilliant in theory; total time suck in practice.

It was too chilly to go open air on the drive to the Canyon.  My unbelievably gracious, hospitable, and forever friend with whom we're staying in Scottsdale had put everything back together like a neat little puzzle.  Except half-way there, it decides to come undone. 

"Grab that thing, Liv!  Before it flies away and starts rolling around like those desert cacti!"

The entire thing looked as if it was going to be uprooted like a mighty oak and land in Kansas next to some red shoes and a scarecrow.

"Mom!  I can't hold onto this thing any longer!  My arm hurts!"

Part of me wanted to bust out in hysteria; the other part still wanted the giant Mother's Day card next month and knew better.

"Just pull over," Liv begged, her arm in danger of being numb, limp or possibly amputated.

Literally, both sides of the road looked exactly alike:  nothing but nothing and desolation surrounded by beautiful mountains far off in the distance.

"Ok, got it," I proudly announce mid turn. 

And then I see it.

One pickup truck containing two heads roughly 20 feet away.  My stomach sank.  And we all know how I excel at trusting my gut in ALL situations. 

"Mom, are you re-zipping that thing or something?"  "Wait.  Why is that look on your face?"

Sometimes I tell Liv too much; other times, not enough.  The joys of parenting.  Toughest job I (and other parents, I'm sure) have ever loved.

"Just got some dust in my eye, sweets.  No worries."

Well, other than the two still smoking shotgun slugs I stumbled upon while walking around to the passenger side of the Jeep.  It was a scene straight out of Breaking Bad sans the portable meth lab, but NOT sans those two drug cartel guys who had zero lines to rehearse.  Ever.

I love new experiences.  And as I shared with Liv on the drive back to red rock safety shortly thereafter, it's about taking life in, learning from it, determining what you like and don't like, deciding with whom you choose to do things (you preferably both like, but compromise lovingly if not), etc etc.  You know, the serious talky-talk quasi-lecture kind of thing that I'm sure was more about me trying to feel like a better mom than her actually listening since she knows everything anyway.

Here's what I know:  fifteen years later, I am beyond thankful to be here to share these types of experiences with her.  There was a time when I thought she'd grow up without a Mom.  A time when I thought I would miss being there for her first lost tooth, her first heartbreak, and her first near death experience with a faulty Jeep on 89A in the middle of the desert. 

Without a bone marrow transplant, without the determination, perseverance, and knowledge of doctors, and without the support from scores of people that have their own unique experiences and stories, I wouldn't be writing this. 

I've written numerous texts and emails this week as well.  Mostly back and forth to Olivia (as in, Valencic-Miller) cheering her on as she continues to wonder how things are going, if we're on track, if this or that got done.  I remember all too well. 

We ARE on track, things ARE getting done, and she, along with 4 other candidates, is making a difference.

57 days until the gala.  Which means two things:  8 weeks left to donate and if anyone would like to stand next to me that night be forewarned:  Scottsdale has fantastic shopping and I may have purchased a pair of shoes which finally make the height on my high school basketball roster NOT an accidental typo.

Please consider helping the cause.  Donate, come to an event, come to the gala, or all of the above!

On behalf of parents of sick kids...sisters, brothers, cousins, friends, neighbors who have or have had sick loved ones...and cancer-surviving mothers of teenagers everywhere:  THANK YOU.

It matters.

http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm

WOTY2.0: Rising to the Occasion

I have no idea what day it is.  Thursday?  I think it's Thursday.  Someone once told me (probably my Mom...she did end up being right after all) that the older you get, the faster the days go by.  And the weeks.  And the years.

What she didn't tell me is that, when you are in the middle of something which you are incredibly passionate about, you wake up on a Monday morning and ta-da!  You blink and it's Friday night.  Sleep has been taking a back seat, coffee is riding shotgun, and somehow I'm managing to fit more words into the course of my days than ever before.

Yep, this thing is a miracle indeed.

We are in Week 2 of campaigning and the view from my new vantage point is pretty wondrous.  The five candidates involved in this year's effort are amazing.  And yes, believe me, I am totally aware of all the clichés, stereotypes, and whatever other subsequent blabbety-blabs ensue after making a statement like that.

Except, they ARE amazing and they are doing incredible things together.  The trick when you're going after a goal is tuning out all the ancillary noise, because in the end, it's insignificant.  What's the saying, haters gonna hate?  Let 'em is what I say.

Here's why.  In addition to a myriad of reasons, meet one of the most important ones, Caleb:

Caleb is this year's Boy of the Year.  This photo was taken last Thursday, one day after the Campaign Kick-Off, as he's walking into the hospital for treatment.  In his hand, he holds a John Deere tractor which Mel picked out for him and we gave him at the kick-off party.  Gianna received an art set; drawing is one of her passions.  I know nothing about farming or drawing.  Ask me to draw an ear of corn and the phrase "starving artist"  is suddenly redefined.

But I do know something about passions.  We all have them scattered within us; sometimes they are realized, sometimes not.  For the next nine weeks, this year's Fort Wayne contingent is doing all they can to ensure Caleb, Gianna, and multitudes of other cancer patients will have the chance to seek, find, and pursue theirs to the fullest. 

(So attention Starbucks:  we will not run out of energy if you will not run out of Venti cups.  Don't even get me started on "Trenta."  It's too much.  Literally and figuratively.)

My friend and WOTY candidate, Olivia, goes to work every day and carries out her passion for teaching teenagers.  Yesterday, I received a text from her that simply said, "Look at this." That's all she had to say; I could feel her emotion through the phone.

Here is what I saw:

An anonymous envelope.  Filled with two-fold inspiration.  Was it from a parent?  An admin?  A fellow teacher?  Olivia has no idea, nor does anyone else, hence its anonymity. 

I choose to think it's from a student.  Maybe even a girl who is struggling to find her way, her meaning, her purpose, her value, her worth, or her own identity.  One who, despite her constant efforts at trying to please others in an ongoing quest for self-acceptance, has a deep-seated love for the human race.  And she wants to help.

Or maybe that student is a boy who is struggling to find his way and his own set of values much like his female peer, but he doesn't want to seem uncool by quoting a Golden Age of Freethought orator.  (Note to teenage girls everywhere: go out with the guy who does...TRUST me.)

But isn't this what it's all about?  Coming together as a united front to be motivated by others with whom we live our daily lives for the greater good?  To make a difference?  To read things like:

"We rise by lifting others... Thank you for all that you do - it matters."

We may never know who donated to the collective cause, nor do we need to.  We need only remember that in this world, every life matters.  And it's our job, our duty, and our honor to keep going...to fight the good fight on behalf of those who are struggling...to pay it forward, and most certainly...to give others a lift.

Keep rising, guys.  You're doing this thing.

WOTY2.0: The Stories We Tell

The last four days have been a lock stock and barrel whirlwind, to be sure.  Wednesday night was the official campaign kickoff at Club Soda.  Let me tell you how that went, because it was an absolute profusion of sentiment.

As per my usual lately, I was completely blindsided by the emotional opulence the night brought.  And also per my recent usual, I was pretty much ill-prepared for how to deal with it properly.  As we walked in, there were many familiar faces in the cozy, surround-by-glass-on-two-sides room.  I greeted my long lost and newly engaged buddy with a giant hug and a “Mikey!” screech; he’s running for Man of the Year (sorry, dude, I know you donated to my campaign last year but one word:  Olivia. <still love you>!).

Other hugs and greetings were exchanged by all and the program commenced.  This is Melanie’s first year as the campaign director, and she’s doing a fantastic job.  Stepping into the ring was a giant leap of faith for her and she’s knocking it out of the park.  She gave an overview of the evening, explaining the time lines along with a multitude of other details before turning it over to Gianna’s Dad, Chris. 

Gianna is this year’s Girl of the Year.  She’s 9 years old and has Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia, the most common childhood leukemia.  That girl is quite possibly THE most photogenic child I’ve seen in my entire life with a head full of beautiful dark flowing curls.  She is bubbly with lots of personality and a side of sparkly attire.  Gianna was making her own rounds, holding hands with Caleb, the 4 year old Boy of the Year, while brightly smiling through her hot pink lipstick adorned mouth.   She is the picture of perfect effervescence.

Chris began to recount “the story.”  Cancer always has a story, does it not?  Something Chris poignantly said, I remember myself all too well:  it’s the unknown that is the worst.  Once the diagnosis arrives, time stands still.  Nothing makes sense.  It’s as if words become nothing more than faint and distant echoes; people react and respond in ways you’ve never seen or thought possible; and fear takes a swift stranglehold.  His voice began to crack as he disclosed that Gianna has something called the Philadelphia Chromosome.  My ears perked and a chill immediately shot down my spine.

The Philadelphia chromosome (Pc) is a reciprocal translocation between chromosome 9 and 22.  I know this because I had it, but I had no idea Gianna did until the moment Chris announced it.  He went on to say the odds are instantly cut in half when Pc is present and I watched from the back of the room as many eyes began to water, the side conversations coming to an end.  “As Gianna likes to say, ‘CANCER SUCKS’,” Chris told us before concluding the gut-wrenching story.

Melanie told me I would be speaking at some point to announce this year’s candidates and go through their care packages and other housekeeping items.  Yeah…I spoke.  Immediately after Chris.  All I can say is that there are moments in life when things make just as much sense as the times when they do not.

As Mel introduced me, that same faint, distant echo I heard the day (December 12^th, 1998) my Doctor told me I had leukemia showed up out of nowhere.  Kind of like the moment you know you’re about to run into that person after a long absence and you freeze, shell shocked by the overwhelming emotions which come flooding back to the surface, no matter how hard you’ve tried to bury them. 

Through muffled sounds, somehow I knew when to stand up and walk up front.  And somehow I knew even though I had nothing prepared to say, introducing the candidates in that moment wasn’t going to happen.  This campaign is so much bigger than any of us  (excluding Caleb, Gianna, and their families) in that room, and I needed to acknowledge a few things first.

Cancer is stupid.  So, so stupid.  I remember watching my parent’s faces just as I see Gianna’s parent’s faces now; I remember their pain of not being able to do anything to make it stop, to take it all away.  I remember feeling the pain on my own face simultaneously, as I looked at my tiny daughter, wondering if she would grow up without her mom.  Fear of the unknown.  How does this story end?

But hey, Gianna…I also remember when the Doctors told me I had the Philadelphia chromosome too – and yet I’m standing her today so you can see what hope looks like.  Someday, YOU will be doing the same thing.

I love when people come into each other’s lives to share experiences.  Far too many times we believe things we read or hear from sources that are either suspect or have their own agendas.  Sometimes, the stories people throw out there in an effort of personal catharsis end up damaging others and thwarting any future hope, as unintentional (or not) as it may be.  And it is our job to stand together and say, “Hey, unless you’ve walked in these shoes, you can’t know.”

What we DO know is this:  the landscape looks different than it did 15 years ago because of R&D; there are choices and options and ideas and people who care.  People who are working together to find a cure.  And some of those people reside right here in Fort Wayne.

We will all keep working as hard as we can together over the next 9 weeks.  Because we all know it matters, and we all know the characters in every story are special and unique, just like the stories themselves.  Unknown endings and all.

So keep rockin’ those curls and that smile, Gianna.  We're on your side.

(To help make a difference, please go to: http://www.mwoy.org/pages/in/ftwayne14/ovalencicm
and donate.  Thank you!)

 

 

 

 

A Year Later: WOTY2.0

Last year, I endeavored on a journey which was ineffable.  When I was asked to campaign on behalf of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society in an effort to raise massive amounts of money in a short amount of time, truthfully, my stomach sank.  While I already knew my answer was a resounding "YES," I was scared.  For many reasons.

Hearing that the prior year's Man and Woman of the Year raised somewhere around $50,000 each, I knew the task ahead would be daunting.  What if I fail?  What if I let people down?  What if people tell me no?  Those things have all happened to me throughout my lifetime on more occasions than I care to recall; yet, I am able to do so with precision detail.  The memories never leave me alone. 

I envisage every time I've failed; all the times I have let people down (mostly those whom I've loved, just for an added dose of guilt, pain, and suffering); and all the times when the answer in the end was "no."  I was scared it would happen again.  Aren't we supposed to learn from our mistakes / avoid traveling outside our perceived comfort zones for the purposes of self-protection and self-preservation?

Further, my stomach was in knots on the other end of the phone due to my straight up indecision.  Indecision in and of itself throws me into a tizzy. 

"Beth, are you there?  Do you need time to think about it?"

<The voice in my head>:  OMG, are you silent right now?  What?  For the first time ever, you have nothing to say?  Are you not thankful after being saved?  You're alive for a reason, you know.

<The other voice in my head>:  Yeah, only I still have not yet figured out what that reason is and I'm not sure I even deserve to still be here.  No one else made it.

<Voice of reason>:  Stop being a martyr.  Martyrs annoy you.  Excuses annoy you.  Complacency annoys you.  DO something about it.

<Voice of emotion/doubt/fear>:  Where the heck are you when I'm dating/in a relationship?

"I'll do it.  I am all in."

------------------------------------------------

The money we raised in Fort Wayne last year made a difference.  It mattered.  We came together as a united front to tell cancer - We will NOT relent.  We will NOT give up.  We may not have yet found a cure, but you will at least know we were there.  Fighting together.

It was an unbelievable journey and to this day, I am unbelievably grateful for all the support of family, friends, and complete strangers.  Because when it comes to cancer, none of us are immune.  We have all been affected by it someway, somehow, and many times, in profound, life-altering manners.  Life is NEVER the same after a diagnosis. 

But here's the thing about life:  you can either face it, or run away from it.  And I choose the former. 

This year, I'm choosing it again as I support my neighbor, friend, and quite possibly separated-at-birth-by-7-years (my only disdain for the woman) sister who graciously agreed to become a candidate for this year's campaign.  Here's how it happened:

I sit on the LLS Nominating Committee/Board/We Decided Last Week We Need a Better Descriptor Team.  There was some turnover within LLS after last year's campaign; and honestly, no one was stepping up.  After such a successful team effort involving many, many people just months before, it felt like a huge kick in the gut.  Like the collective wind had been taken out of our sails and we were just bobbing up and down, alone, far from shore or anything that even made sense.  A few men had committed to campaigning; ZERO women had committed and even worse, there were no more names on the list.

We threw around some ideas and feigned excitement.  In the end, we decided the best decision might just be to approach a local hospital and have some nurses in the Oncology unit form a "Women's Team."  Until...

I was sitting in my office at work one day and an email from Patti O'Neal (owner of Cakes Boutique:  https://www.facebook.com/CakesBoutiqueFtWayne) arrived.  Patti is also on the committee and in fact, is supporting the other WOTY candidate (Say whaaaa?  Women, competition, clothes and they can STILL get along for a good cause?  Yeah.  Adults fighting cancer, people.)

"I have the perfect candidate.  She just left the store.  I would be surprised if she doesn't commit.  Oh!  And she said Beth's her neighbor...Beth, hope that's ok!"

I was flummoxed.  Literally, I just moved to this new neighborhood 4 months prior to reading the name Olivia Valencic-Miller on my screen.  How is this happening?  Oh yeah, she's the cool neighbor!  I remember now...

Liv and I moved to our new home last September. September 27th to be exact.  I know this because the F4F half-marathon was the day after and note to self:  bad, bad idea to be on your feet moving desks and chairs and couches and stuff for 17 hours the day before a race.  Epic fail, but fun nonetheless. 

As Liv and I were standing in our driveway, boxes hoisted high upon our shoulders while sweating grotesquely and profusely, a little car comes zipping around our cul-de-sac.  Screeching to a halt, I see this bubbly, blonde, smiley woman (totally not sweating or grotesque) yell out to Liv, "Hey Olivia!  You moving in?" 

On and on they carry this comfortably familiar conversation while I'm standing there like chopped liver.  "Um, hey, I'm Beth."

Head nod. "You social?"

And the rest, as they say, is history.

-------------------------------

Olivia and I became fast friends, not really hanging out much initially, but there was just this understood and immediate bond.  I had no idea why.  At least not at first.

One day we were talking (I think when she bailed me and my dead battery out before work one morning; Liv texted her for me) and we began to share some of our back stories.  I mentioned the usual:  divorced, Liv's my only kid, in sales, go to Emmanuel, moved from a house near Homestead...

"I'm a teacher, at Homestead."

"Cool, what do you teach?"

"English"

(Ah, now I know why I like her so much.)

"I'm actually the English Department Chair there."

(A lot.)

"I've always enjoyed writing.  I clearly remember my parents taking me to Back to School Night when I was in 7th grade whereby my English Teacher told them I was a 'pretty' writer."  "My Mom elbowed me to shut up because she knew I was about to tell him that was a bad adjective choice in context."

Olivia laughed.  We went on a bit longer with the neighborly pleasantries, and then somehow it came out that I had leukemia right after Liv and I moved here from Ohio when things kind of all went south in a hurry.

"How old was she when you were sick?"

"Not quite two."

"I had your daughter last year in my English class.  She wrote about you."

"What?"

"I feel like I knew you before I ever met you.  I remember reading about a single mom battling cancer as her parents were getting divorced and how you were in the hospital for over a month and she only got to see you twice."  "Her story stuck with me; she loves you greatly."

By this time, I'm in tears.  I would have never known. 

As I continue on this incredible journey called life, I become even more acutely aware that God brings people together at just the right times, for just the right reasons.  People come and go, popping in and out of our lives all the time.  Some we forget; others we know there's no way we ever will.

Even before something happens, all of us inherently know when we are about to share something so profound with a person, a team, a group, or a community, that the unification and common end-goal will change us at our core forever.

And so it begins for us.  Our team.  En masse once again to do our part in finding a cure.  We are in this thing together.  No matter our gender, our skin tone, our socioeconomic situations, our cars, our shoes, our similarities, or our differences or our misunderstandings - we ALL hate cancer.  None of us can stand to be rendered defenseless, watching helplessly as we or those whom we love lose someone to its ugliness.

"I'm doing this for you, Beth."  That's what Olivia told me.  In the midst of a never-ending To Do List, this single mother in the eye of the storm is raising two young kids while selflessly teaching other people's kids about Longfellow and what it means to give back.  She's leading by example as she makes positive changes and choices in her own life.  She's outside of her comfort zone.  She's making a difference.

And I am proud of her. 
Let the campaigning begin. 

Watchmen

Exactly 5 weeks from today, I will be in Boston.  Hopefully by this time of the evening, we will be sitting downtown enjoying post-race activities, good conversation, and lots of laughing.  It won't even matter that my hips will be so sore I'll be hobbling around like Kathy Bates paid a visit to my hotel room.

I've been improvising the runs lately.  Not totally off track - no pun intended - just slightly off the plan a little.  Hey, story of my life and course corrections are nothing if not endurance building.  I typically run on Friday mornings, but last week the weather was once again a jerk.  So, I pulled a two a day on Thursday, cross training in the morning; abandoning all things "should do" and lacing up the shoes in the late afternoon.  It was beautiful outside and snow was on the way.

With only one layer on the top and bottom for a change, a pair of lightweight gloves, and some shades, I hit the end of the driveway smiling.  Ah.  Peace and...no.  No quiet.  I was jamming.  Music lifts my spirits like nothing else.  I'm kind of hooked on an Alanis Morissette song right now, so she and I were hanging at a fast clip with our Guardian.  Just as I cruised past the covenant-breaking Cousin Eddie RV a few houses down, I saw her.  And I don't mean Alanis.

Crap.  Crappity-crap-crap.  She's way faster and she's smiling.  Can I run backwards or would that be too obvious?  I had forgotten that the leader of our PR Training group has lived here for years.  She's been to Boston; she's won lots of local races; she is no joke out there.

Hey Beth!  How far ya going?

Um, just 6.  You done already?  (mind you, she's almost home)

Well I was, but I'll go with you!!

Swell.

It's kind of like when you're on the treadmill at the Y minding your own business.  You don't necessarily mean to pick up your pace when some well intended soul hops on next to you.  But then it just kind of happens and before you know it, you can't breathe and you quickly realize you have hit middle age in one big ass fell swoop.

So she and I are talking about kids, comparing the stories of teenagers, instantly making the pain of the now really stupid pace seem like sugarplums and fairies.  We hit the greenway and headed east.  The weather was weird; warm-ish and bright out, but mounds of dirty snow and broken branches still splattered the once in a while clear path. 

The good news in all of this is that my new bright orange race shoes no longer looked like first day of you're getting made fun of school shoes.  I ran through mud, water, stones, mulch, pretty much every kind of terrain sans a piece of gnarly-hard (even though you only chewed it for a second before popping your jawbone) Bazooka.

Ok, I'm gonna head back now so I don't have to run through that huge snow pile.  Sorry if I slowed you down!

Oh, so soon? Ok, thanks for coming with me for a bit.  And uh, no.  You definitely didn't.

(How I got that out verbally in response is an act of something miraculous)

Ok, 1 more mile east and then time to flip and get this one in the books.  So just as I was back to both a comfortable pace and the tunes, I see another impediment on the greenway.  Like, a lot of them.

Great, no where to run, I thought.  The song instantly starts blaring in my head.  Thank you, Paul Stanley.  KISS this.  Why does everything instantly equate to a song anyway?  Gotta work on that.  Maybe over the weekend.  Loverboy!  Damn it!

A new Starbucks is under construction on the south side of the road.  I saw a Bobcat being operated by what must have been either an illegal alien or a 4 year-old.  A gaggle of Amish teenage boys stopped watching whatever their little bro was trying to do because I guess they've never seen pasty white shins coming at 'em before. 

Man, there's no song for this.  Not only am I going to have to navigate a John Deere, I'm going to have to fight my total incuriosity of what is happening in roughly 10 more strides. 

Yo, wuz up Vanilla Ices?

I have no idea where that came from.  Seriously.  All I can cop to is that I was overtired, deliriously happy to see rays of sunshine, and in an ornery mood.  By the time it flew out of my mouth, I was already past them and wondering if I actually said it out loud.

Little things like that entertain me for hours. 

Here's hoping I can find something highly entertaining 5 weeks from now on the course.  Preferably, something that will last exactly 3 hours, 39 minutes, and 59 seconds. 

Or maybe if I'm lucky, even a little less.

Unsubscribed, Milestones, and Crying

What a whirlwind the last two days have been.  You may recall I am not a roller coaster fan.  Once, someone tried to use a Cedar Point pickup line which was met (after the "oops, I do an ill-timed laughing thing") with immediate disdain at the thought of being inside an amusement park.  It's pretty much repulsive to me. 

And yet, the ups and downs of the last two days have Deloreaned me back to The Magnum, The Beast, and even a thousand times on The Cheetah Chase at Busch Gardens.  Hey, I may hate amusement parks, but I've always adored being a mother. 

From the 50 degrees yesterday to the school closing/work from home day today; from the "ugh I feel like I just got punched in the gut" yesterday to the "man, this is unbelievably awesome!" today; to the "I'm digging my hair" yesterday to the "where is a hair twisty and a paper bag?" today...what an absolute up and down, corkscrew of a ride it has been.  All in under 48 hours.

Such is life, 'eh?

The alarm went off at 4:10am yesterday, as per usual.  Evan had a packed house and for some reason, that equals the equivalent of my Italian grandmother's hot, tiny, aroma-filled kitchen with about 20 of us interrupting each other while 40 hands are a flailin'.  Since no one can get a word in edgewise, people somehow think that by raising their voice someone will have to hear whatever the hell they are saying.  Uh, no.  Not so much.  By the time I realized how nutty it was inside of Absolute Results yesterday (Hey Beth, did you get 20 in when I saw you, Saturday?  Oye, Steven, WHERE are you going tonight?  Hey, I won't be here Thursday, going to Florida.  Hey look!  A bird!  How many reps?  OMG, Steve, are you new?  He said 15 of each! [that was my contribution to the chaos]), all I could do was smile and keep throwing punches with 10 pound weights in my hands.  I don't think EvanHitler can keep time, by the way. 

I met a good friend for lunch yesterday and it was a long conversation.  Mostly because by the time I arrived, I looked like Alice Cooper.  Ugh.  So much for the good hair day.  But here's the thing: instead of crying on the way up the coaster, I finally had the cry I needed to have on the way down.  That one final...I'm off this thing cry.  The realization that I went on it even though I was afraid to, I rode it at warp speed, and now the ride has come to a complete and final stop.  I sat in my car in the parking lot of the restaurant before walking in, just sitting, staring, kind of waiting to raise the lap belt and step back onto solid ground.  Once I mustered enough composure to grab the door handle, even though my stomach was still in knots, out I went.  Back into the world of I'm only riding the old-fashioned cars from now on.  

(And only with girlfriends.  Or a chauffeur if he calls me "Miss Daisy" / "Your Excellency").

After lunch, I arrived at the high school for a two-fold reason:  I filmed a video for the LLS campaign which kicks off next week, and I had an appointment with Liv's guidance counselor.  Apparently there is a big change for the incoming 2015 Seniors.  And also apparently it is espionage-punishable if any of these kids even hint about its composition to their parents.

I've met her counselor exactly one other time (note:  Liv, this is your THIRD year in High School, so see?  I'm not totally up in yo grill.).  He was thoroughly prepared in anticipation of my questions surrounding the whole what the heck is dual credit vs. college credit vs. what transfers vs. does she qualify vs. does she even TALK to you about this stuff? that just as I began to be impressed by his preparedness and settle in, it was an immediate wow.  Just wow. 

There was so much to navigate and dissect and understand and yet, I knew from both his face and the screen staring back at me that Liv had it all under control.  I sat down, breathed a sigh of relief, started to smile and yep... cried.

Man I am in so much trouble at graduation.  There's no way.  I suppose I'll just have to start banging to "Poison" or the apropos "School's Out" instead of Pomp and Circumstance.  Criminy.

As he started to explain how Liv is right on track with her credit hours, her course selections, her GPA, her application to go through a local college starting in August whereby she will be there 1/2 a day 3 days a week and whatever else he was saying...I trailed off.  I mean, his voice trailed off because I stopped listening.  Instead, all I heard was her little giggle as I pictured her flying high in the baby swing I used to hand crank and send her into the high heavens until dinner was ready.

Now, she's flying on her own.

After the long, reflective walk back into my office late afternoon yesterday, I sat down and began to answer emails.  In felicitous irony, this one greeted my no-longer-bifocal-wearing eyes first:

I have funny friends.  I am unsubscribed, for at least another 9 1/2 years, you jerks.

Next post:  All things Boston.

Cheated

8:03am?  Wait.  Right.  Daylight Savings Time just went down. 

When I first moved to Indiana from Ohio back in 1997, I felt like Eddie Murphy must have felt when he went to Queens in Coming To America.  Really?  What do you mean they don't sell beer in gas stations, have drive-thrus where you can buy a six-pack and a Slim Jim, or change their clocks in "this part" of the State?  That is the dumbest thing I've ever heard.  I just had to take my car to some creepy Breaking Bad-like emissions station place so I could pass a goofy test before I plunk down $450 bucks for ONE license plate, and now you're telling me they don't Fall back or Spring forward here either? 

Turns out that be careful what you wish for thing is sometimes true.  They may have been onto something.

After 20 miles on the iced over greenway yesterday, I could have not lost that hour of sleep and been pretty appreciative.  We haven't been able to run on the greenway in months, so to see our old friend brought an instant smile to our faces.  "Hey...I remember you...let's do this thing." 

It was a decent run, despite almost cracking my tail no less than 6 times.  When you can actually see the ice gleaming up ahead, you can run around it; it's those covered by pretty, white, innocent and pure-looking snow parts that can potentially wreak havoc.  Alas, we avoided any graceful falls, stopped at mile 10 to make a new belt adjustment (having Sponge Bob hips is not useful at times like this) and ran back in negative split style.  20 miles by 9:15am is a good start to any Saturday.

"Hey, Liv, be ready by 11:00, we're going out for a while."
"Why and who's we?"
<ugh>
"Am I seriously like chopped liver?  I know darn well you're not doing anything right now; I also know that you were awake pretending to be asleep when I got back from running and opened your door to check on you; and I also know that on occasion, I can be fun.  So get your butt IN THE CAR by 11:00 or you're not doing anything tonight.  Capish?"
<her "ugh">

So we ran errands and whaaaa?!  Actually talked?  Ok, I am liking this Saturday so far.

But then, of course, it came to a screeching halt because she was texting away during our "bonding time" making side plans to go work out.  Two things:  she knows I'll never tell her no to working out with friends and I.hate.texting.  So, so, much lately.

Ok, no problem.  I got two decent hours in with my getting-ready-to-leave-the-nest kid, so I'm good.  Ah!  I will go grocery shopping while wearing an incognito hat and pretend to be totally zoned out, and then I will go get a long overdue massage.  It's still early, so this will totally work.

Good plan except the only place that had any Saturday openings (schedule ahead, schedule ahead, got it) was Massage Envy.  I'm not a huge fan of that place, primarily because it's like a Costco.  They try to strong arm you into a membership right after massaging your own normally strong arm into a relaxed state of oblivion.  I hate feeling the guilt of "yeah, you just did something super nice for me - which I paid for, but that aside - and now I'm not going to agree to this sales ploy."

Yesterday, however, I was not a fan of that place for different reasons.  Firstly, as I'm sitting in the "relaxation room" (Woodhouse has cornered the market in Fort Wayne on this kind of room... schedule ahead, schedule ahead, got it) I see the Massage Envy Times or whatever home grown magazine they have sitting there, begging me to read it.  "How to Plan the Perfect Date" is headlining the cover, along with two beautiful, clearly in love about to go hiking, picnicking, and whatever-elsing individuals.  Just as I am about to lean forward and grab it out of pure curiosity under the justified heading of one giant educational endeavor, I hear my name.

<Chris, can you just work on the upper right shoulder and that knot/Gibraltar rock thing the entire time?>

Reason number two I was a non-fan yesterday:  it was only a 30 minute massage.  That's all they could squeeze in given my lack of scheduling abilities.  But because they are so thoughtful, they give you 5 minutes to undress and 5 minutes to get redressed, so really, it's a 20 minute massage.  As we walked down the hallway, I assured him I would not need 10 full minutes to accomplish those tasks, so let's shoot for the 26-minute massage package.  That's 3 minutes short of 4 miles on a good day.

He agrees and just as I was starting to relax, it was over.  Just like that.  In the blink of an eye.  I have no idea what even happened but it went something like...it started, it was amazing, and then it was over.

I laid there, with my head in that circular placeholder thing which leaves the sweet ring around the face reminder that you are supposed to feel better!  Only I didn't.  It wasn't long enough.  And I felt cheated by time once again.

Living by the watch when you're running is one thing.  You get to the checkpoints and you look.  Ok, I'm on pace.  I'm doing this.  I'm gonna get there.  Or sometimes, you're way behind and no matter how hard you push, you can't get there.

The older I get I'm realizing (as obvious as it is) there is not one thing any of us can do to stop it, to slow it down, or even go back.  Time goes on whether or not you want your kid to grow up, to hit a certain milestone age, to make a song stop playing, or to get the cookies out of the oven before they burn.

There is zero way to stop time in this life, but if there was, I'd read that article for sure. 

Whoop...time to get ready for church so we're not late.  I got this morning's prayers all lined up.