For My Mother and Because I Can

There’s something in all these many months of writing that I have had bubbling near the surface, but has not been able to roll out into a coherent blog entry.  On the eve of leaving for Wildflower, I would feel remiss if I did not speak what drives me on the days when I would rather just not continue and give up my Ironman dreams for a summer of parties and sleeping in late.

I have people ask me all the time how and why I am doing it, how I can do double workouts or get out of bed at 5:30 a.m. to swim and run and then find the energy to go salsa dancing that night. 

If they are asking “how”, well the answer is just put on your workout clothes, promise yourself 5 minutes, and see what happens.  Most of the time, you do the whole workout.

But the why…well that is a little more tricky.

The answer in a nutshell, is my Mother.

The second bit is “Because I can”.

My Mother

Something happened early last fall (2009).  Our family was hit with the new information that my 56-year old mother’s stage III breast cancer, supposedly in remission, had escalated to Stage IV, incurable and metastasized to her bones.  Average prognosis 2-5 years. 

While our family stewed over the information, my mother embarked on a new round of chemotherapy every other Friday (with no end, mind you).  And I decided I no longer had the luxury of time. 

I don’t exactly know why I have always wanted to do an iron-distance race.  I have daydreamed about finishing, tears streaming when I watch the annual Kona Ironman broadcast.  It symbolizes something to me, something out of my reach, transcendent, and possibly enlightening.  And late 2009, I realized that if I didn’t just go for it, I might not be able to do it with my mother still alive.

I have a difficult time thinking about what my mom’s “stage IV” diagnosis means.  I process with myself a lot during long rides and runs, but I rarely speak of it with others and certainly not with my mother.  Not yet.  I spend a lot of time thinking about death and life, pain and overcoming that pain. 

My mother is in pain a lot.  She is tired a lot.  But she endures, even forcing herself to walk 3 miles a day, when she is up for it.  She is a far more admirable “endurance athlete” than most.  She rarely complains about the chemo, despite it having no end.  She actually seems to be doing ok which feeds my own denial.  But when I do think about it, I am in awe of what she overcomes on a daily basis. 

It is truly inspiring, to see someone face pain and death and just….endure. 

“Because I Can”

Sometimes I marvel at how many different things are “wrong” with my body and that I am still training and working towards these goals of a 1/2 and full ironman.

I have neuromas in both feet that make me scream when I get off long bike rides. 
My left knee has been through 3 surgeries and suffered through an infection back in March.  I never don’t feel it when running.
My low back constantly aches. 
My neck and traps seize up periodically to where I can’t move my head. 
I’m 20 pounds or so overweight now, and probably 35 for an endurance athlete.
I have asthma (since age 3) that requires a constant stream of albuterol injected into my lungs during exercise

But.

None of that is Cancer. 

It hurts, but it is not hurting me.

I can swim.

I can bike.

I can run.

I CAN. 

And when I do, and especially lately, I feel the miracle of my body working for me.  I feel the link between my breathing and blood pumping and sweat cooling me and muscles firing.  I feel what it is to be REALLY using and experiencing this insane machine that we were given.  How lucky are we, truly?

I wonder why I have so often mistreated my body, simply because it wasn’t “small.”  It is an amazing vessel and I feel fortunate that I am just now tapping into what it is capable of, after 32 years of moaning and whining and hating and abusing and denying.

Just before she was thrown up a level in the cancer stages, my mother had registered for a 1/2 marathon.  She was going to start training when her bones started fracturing and it no longer was an option.

She can’t.

But I can. 

And I will.

During the race this weekend, my parents will not be there.  They are on a cruise ship headed to South America and through the Panama Canal, enjoying each other and writing yet another chapter of their 33+ year romance.

I am racing for my mother and with my mother this weekend. 
I will be thinking of her along the whole 70.3.

 

Me and my mom – July 2009, supposedly in remission and before the new diagnosis.

 

My Mom and Dad.  30+ years and still madly in love.  January 2010.