How I gave birth to my second marathon

Posted by on December 15, 2009 31 Comments

DSC04555“This your first marathon?” I ask the girl to my right.

“This is my first and my last,” she replies as we pass mile marker 7.

“You say that…” my running partner and I both respond together, and then smile at each other.

Others in the pace group start to chime in, “You’ll forget all about the pain… you’re going to look back and only remember the good things… it’s going to be so amazing when you cross the finish line… you’ll run another one… just wait.”

I laugh a little to myself. It really IS so much like having a baby, med-free.

During labor and delivery with Kendall, I couldn’t help but constantly compare my mental state of mind and the level of pain I was experiencing with what it felt like to run and finish my first marathon two and a half years earlier. It was, in fact, the most painful, most mentally and physically challenging thing I’d ever been through up to that point. It was the biggest motivator for me, facing down the wretched,razor lined, semi-truck through the spine gremlin, a.k.a. giving birth to an 8.11 lb anterior facing baby with no epidural. “If I can run a marathon, I can do this,” I repeated to myself over and over.

As I ran my second marathon yesterday (around Dallas’ White Rock Lake), I kept myself slightly amused, entertained and intrigued by turning the tables and comparing the strength it took to get through a med-free delivery to surviving another 26.2 mile race. “I can do this. I had a baby with no epidural,” I reminded myself often.

(Miles 1-7/signs of early labor)

In the beginning, you’re a ball of nerves. Do I eat? Do I not eat? What do I eat? Will I throw it up? You’re planning in your head. You’re very concerned about potty breaks and getting everything out. Making lists, checking off milestones, very conscious of your body. What was that? Why does that hurt? I hope that goes away. You haven’t settled into your pace. You’re jittery. You’re mind is everywhere. You smile. A lot. You’re so excited about the journey you just started. You may even break out the camera and take pictures. You have the energy for such things right now. You even look good. You have an outfit on that matches because you think that matters right now.

(Miles 8-15/still cooling it at home)

Then you start to find your groove. Things loosen up. Your breathing becomes steady, but you’re not really having to focus on it yet. You are very interested in what your watch tells you. You’re cross referencing it’s readout with where you should be at nearly every step. You’re feeling good. Really good. Sure, it’s a little painful, but the optimism is shining through.

(Miles 16- 19/ starting to think a trip to L&D or a visit from the midwife is in your near future)

You get a little further along and things start to ache a little more. Those twinges and tweaks become sharp aches and cramps. You have to get serious now. You have to focus. You’re lighthearted conversations die out. You are mostly silent. You are paying a lot more attention to your breathing. You’re also starting to wonder what you signed yourself up for, but you don’t even allow yourself to think that you might not be able to finish what you started. You know that’s a very risky mental path of self doubt to go down.

(Miles 20-22/This. Is. Serious.)

The pain is bad. It’s really bad. You are hurting in places you’d never even given thought to before. You’re trying so hard to stay positive. The people around you make all the difference. The way they can read you and cheer you on pushes you through. You really crave oranges right now. Oranges are amazing. You’re making weird noises and you don’t care who hears you. You want to believe that you can do this, but if ONE MORE person tells you you’re “ALMOST THERE!” you just might kick their ass. This is the hardest you’ve ever worked in your life, and you know it’s going to get a lot worse before it gets better. You also cuss. A lot. You probably offend some people. You don’t give a shit. Every thing becomes a blur and your sense of time is completely warped.

(Miles 23-25/This is TRANSITION)

WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING???!!! NO REALLY, WHAT THE FUCK??? Repeat x 1,000. You can’t get emotional because then you can’t breathe and breathing is SO IMPORTANT right now. As people on the outside try to motivate you, you may think, “Please, people, stop making me want to cry with all your inspirational bullshit because I really need to FUCKING BREATHE.” And then you just get mad. You’re just a mad person, and you think people are lying to you. You think they are just telling you things like, “it’s almost over” just to get you to keep going on this never ending ride through hell forever and ever. You hate them. You tell them that, even if just under your very labored breath. YOU ARE NEVER DOING THIS EVER AGAIN!!

(Miles 25-26.2- PUSH)

Quite frankly, you don’t care what comes out of you right now. You might shit yourself, and you’re okay with that. You will not look good for pictures. You are so DONE with all this. DONE. Screw listening to your body. You don’t care what you rip or tear in the process, you want to be finished, and you’re going to push yourself so far beyond your limits until you get there. You know the only way to feel better, to rest, to stop, is to push because stopping before the finish is not an option.

People are cheering you on. It’s fueling you. You finally allow yourself to think just how amazing it will be when that award is in your hands. You want it so badly. You find every last ounce of energy in your body and you give it all you’ve got. You feel a wave of excitement pass over you and you just go with it. You don’t remember exactly how you get there, but you finish. And then you collapse… and then you cry. It’s an ugly cry, but it’s a beautiful moment. And they put it in your hands… and you are so amazed… so proud… and it was all worth it.

BUT that still doesn’t mean you are EVER DOING THIS AGAIN. You would give just about anything for an epidural now that it’s over.

You will feel like you were steamrolled for a while. You won’t dare think of doing this again for quite some time. You will be happy enough with your first and only experience.

And then, one day in the distant future, you will look at what you worked so hard for, you will remember the pride, the joy, the amazing reward. You will think to yourself, “Well, maybe just one more…”

DSC04552

Kendall is nearly 19 and a half months old, and he thinks our finisher medals are pretty awesome.

Photobucket
Filed Under: Headed to Toddlerhood |Tagged With: , , , , , , |31 Comments

Moment of Peace, my #Best09 entry

Posted by on December 8, 2009 11 Comments

Silence except the sound of my footsteps, rhythmically pounding in time with the sound of my breathing… heavy at this point, but not labored. As the sun gets high in the sky it lights up the gentle rolls in the water that fills the lake. It’s nearly noon. I come to a bridge that I know well. It’s not a big one. It’s not one that hurts my aching knees as I cross it. It’s small, spanning just a small offshoot of  White Rock Lake. Two women and two girls crouch below it, picking up plastic bottles and trash.

“What is this?” one woman asks.

“Plastic!” both girls proudly and loudly reply.

“That’s right! And what do we do with plastic?” asks the other women.

“Recycle!!” the girls exclaim.

I smile big, wave and run on… alone again with just my thoughts. Returned to silence, with the exception of the footsteps and the breathing.

It’s hard not to focus on the pain. I’ve been running for hours and over 16 miles. I fight the urge to wince, to stop, to give in to the thoughts in my head that tell me that I can’t, that I won’t, that it’s too hard. It’s been a particularly challenging run for me. With no running partner to pass the time chatting with, I’ve been left to run alone for the longest run I’ve faced in years. No Ipod, just my watch and my thoughts.

I take a minute to look to my left, to really take in the lake. It’s something I take for granted most Saturday mornings. My head is usually down or focused straight ahead. I realize I’m coming up on the water stop that will mark 17 miles, one mile from my finishing point. Another runner passes, alone in his own bubble of silence, which he breaks to look up and simply say, “You’re doing great! Hang in there.”

I’m suddenly overcome by emotion, by pride, by happiness, by peace. I am doing great. I am hanging in there. I’ve been hanging in there for over 16 miles, and I’m going to hang in there for all 18. And then I’m going to run a marathon next month. I’m going to do this! And I have nobody to thank but myself.

As a family of ducks swims past me, I turn toward the stretch that takes me to the water fountains, and it’s all I can do to keep the tears from coming. Look at what you’ve done! And why are you so surprised? Why would it be so shocking that you could run 18 miles all by yourself? You’ve trained for this. You have run these distances before, though it was so far back and so far removed from the life you know now it may seem like another lifetime. You are strong. You had a baby with no epidural! You are a mother. You can do ANYTHING!!

The last mile of my long runs is usually brutal, filled with various four letter words, shouted loud enough for any and all to hear, but not today. Today my last mile is a mile of peace, of pride, of reflection. Today my last mile inspired me to do more, to run more, to love more, to write more, to live more. And this mile of peace… this glorious moment of peace didn’t come easy. It came after 17 lonely, self doubting miles, after hours of silence and footsteps. It was my gift for facing a challenge that threatened to stop me in my tracks, literally. It was my gift for pushing myself beyond the point that I believed in myself. It was one of my most beautiful and best moments of 2009.


This is the story of my favorite moment of peace in 2009, inspired by Gwen Bell’s #Best09 challenge. It’s one quiet moment of the year that stands out as having the biggest impact on me, and surprisingly not a drop of wine or a single dose of Benadryl was involved. I know this post veers away from my traditional sarcastic writing voice, and is probably way more sappy than some of you can stomach, but alas, I can be cheezy and sappy sometimes. I knew the moment I saw the writing prompt for December 8th (Moment of peace. An hour or a day or a week of solitude. What was the quality of your breath? The state of your mind? How did you get there?) that I had to get this story out. It touches on so much that has shaped me this year.

This happened on October 17th, 2009, and Kendall was 18 and a half months old at the time, at home with his father, eating pancakes and watching the Science Channel.

Photobucket
Filed Under: Headed to Toddlerhood |Tagged With: , , , , , |11 Comments

Well, that blew (chunks)

Posted by on November 15, 2009 6 Comments

I was SO ready for this race. Being my second marathon, I felt a sense of calm about me. It was like I could relax more, enjoy it more because I knew what to expect. We’ve been training for six months, six long hard months that took us right through the brutal Texas summer. I’ve pushed the stroller over more miles than I care to add up in my head. I’ve busted my ass to raise my fundraising goal to benefit the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. It was going to come to a celebratory close when I crossed that finish line today, and I was so excited about that.

About 7:30 last night I began feeling sick to my stomach and experienced a really painful headache. Chalking it up to nerves and exhaustion, I headed back to our hotel room to get in bed as early as possible. By the time I made it up the elevator and through the door, I was feeling pretty damn terrible. I laid in bed, writhing… and burping…oh yes, those burps you get before you throw up. I am not one of those people who easily blows chunks. I HATE throwing up, and will will my body to do anything in it’s power to prevent it, but even that wasn’t enough. By the time midnight rolled around, I had puked what I believe to be the entire contents of my guts out. I don’t recall a time ever in my life when I puked so much. Even Scott, who so kindly held back my hair, marveled about the sheer volume.

My coach told us before we left that 80% of your performance on race day is determined by nutrition. Well, considering all of the “nutrition” I’d so strategically taken in over the last 36 hours was now making it’s way down the sewer pipes, and considering I couldn’t so much as keep a sip of Gatorade down, I had to count myself out of the race.  Talk about a major disappointment.

Scott wasn’t feeling too hot, either, when the alarm went off this morning, but he decided to give it a try anyway. I knew it was bad when he came back to the hotel after only running 8 miles. This guy went into the marathon trying to run a 3 hour and 40 minute race, and to quit after not even completing the half? Well, that wasn’t a good sign. Even worse? He proceeded to puke his guts out as soon as he got into the room.

So here we are, laying separately in each of the double beds, watching Wizard Of Oz, and lamenting over the way the weekend ended up. No finish line for us, no medals, no after party. Yes, I still raised a considerable amount for a tremendous cause, and we’ve benefited from the training and the friendships we’ve made. It’s just disappointing to not be with those teammates who I’ve trained with for so long to celebrate our accomplishment.

We’re not quite sure what made us sick. We thought it was maybe food poisoning from a Mexican place on the River Walk where we had lunch yesterday, but now I’m wondering if it’s some form of the flu. We’ve both had the aches and a fever off and on all day, but the upset tummies are gone… I hope. I was finally able to get some chicken soup down and would really hate to see it come back up. It was f-ing $9 for a cup. Damn hotel prices.

The silver lining in all of this, if there is one, is that my mom is watching Kendall this weekend. I can NOT imagine both of us being so sick back home. I have no idea what we would do with him. I guess if we HAVE to be sick, this is the best place for that to happen. We’ve got separate beds, which helps us not disturb each other in our own misery, room service, endless clean towels, and Pay Per View… and the boy is with his Nana. Hallelujah!

Kendall is about 18.5 months old, and I really hope we aren’t contagious when we pick him up tomorrow

FYI- I’m still raising $$ for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society!! I’m about $125 short of my goal and would really LOVE to reach it by Wednesday. I’m hosting a drawing for prizes then, and anyone who donates $5 or more to my LLS account will automatically be entered to win. There are a TON of great prizes (over 20). Most recent, Hot Mama Designs jewelry donated $100 jewelry credit for one lucky winner. Check out more here, or just click here to donate. If I can get just 25 more readers to donate $5, I’ll reach my goal! Thank you SO MUCH to all of you who’ve already supported me and made a donation to this or any other fundraiser I’ve held.

Photobucket
Filed Under: Headed to Toddlerhood |Tagged With: , , |6 Comments

Help! And this time it’s serious.

Posted by on May 29, 2009 9 Comments

Scott  (my husband) and I trained for and completed the Marine Corps Marathon 4 years ago, and I think if there is anything out there that can come close to preparing you for med-free labor and delivery, running 26.2 miles while repeating over and over in your head, “what the HELL were you thinking?” is as good as it gets.

Marathons are a lot like having a baby, I think.  You have to work for months to prepare for them.  You’ve got to know how to pace yourself, how to breathe, how to stay calm when you hurt so bad you just want to scream, “somebody put me out of my misery!”  You have to take one step at a time, stay hydrated, you will crave oranges toward the end, and then you will want to vomit.  And just when you think you can’t do it anymore, you can’t possibly survive one more minute, you see the finish line, and it’s crowning.  The reward makes the race worth it.  Although, you will most likely leave telling yourself you are NEVER doing that again.  However, months or years later, you will forget the pain, and only the memory of the prize landing in your hands will remain.  Then you will think it’s a fabulous idea to do it all over again.

Now, don’t go reading too much in between the lines there.  I’m by no means saying I’m ready for another baby.  I am, however, ready for the early morning training runs, the blisters, the shin splints, and the accomplished feeling of crossing the finish line again. So Scott and I signed up to run the San Antonio Rock & Roll Marathon on November 15th.  See, since we’ve made it through the year, I’ve healed as completely as I ever will and am pain free, and we’ve all started to get some good sleep, I figure we need to go and erase all of that.

We began training last month with the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society’s  (LLS) Team In Training (TNT) program.  We completed our last marathon through a similar fundraising program and found it to be highly effective and motivating.  So, admittedly, we signed up to fundraise for TNT mainly for the coaching, support and motivation they would provide us, and not so much for the funds we would provide them.

However, our focus and inspiration grew exponentially when we had the joy of meeting our honored hero at our event kickoff.  His name is Luke and he is 2 ½ years old.  As I sat and watched him at the front of the room, I was taken aback at the wave of emotions that passed over me.  His infectious smile and cheerful clapping made me grin from ear to ear.  His playful spirit reminded me so much of Kendall, and I imagined they would make great friends.  Then, just as soon as my heart warmed from Luke’s presence, it began to ache and I found myself fighting the tears threatening to fall down my cheeks.

 At 13 months old, Luke he was diagnosed with Acute Myelogenous Leukemia (AML), requiring him to go through 6 rounds of chemo every 4 to 6 weeks and numerous blood and platelets transfusions.

I sat there, not able to wrap my head around how his family can possibly have so much strength, how heart wrenching it must be to see him undergo painful treatments. (Hell, I can barely make it through Kendall’s immunizations.)  It pained me to think of such a cheerful, young boy having to endure so much in his life already.  And, naturally, I began to think, “what if that were Kendall?” 

Thanks to the wonders of medicine and advancements in research and treatment that the LLS and TNT help to fund, Luke has been in remission since April 2008 and is living life as any other 2 ½ year old would be.  He plays with his older brothers and enjoys pulling his mom’s hair lightheartedly as she tries to carry on a serious conversation (as he demonstrated at the kickoff).

We left the kickoff with a new outlook on training for this next big race.  We are running for Luke.  We are running for his parents and his brothers.  We are honoring their family’s strength.  We are training for and finishing this race because we are lucky enough to do so, because our son is healthy and we are immensely grateful for that.  We are running because we don’t know what the future holds, but for today, we can endure the aches and pains, the early, early, early mornings, the heat and the humidity, all so we can support Luke, his family, and others who are forced to run their own exhausting race against blood cancers.

Combined, our goal is to raise $5,800.  And, as I’m sure you can gather, this is the part where I ask for your help.  Any donation, no matter the size, will help us reach our goal, and ultimately, help fund research to find a cure for blood cancers.

 I’m asking for help in a few ways.

1.     You can make a personal donation by visiting this link anytime.

2.      I’m hoping to organize two fundraisers, one of them being an online giveaway/raffle type thingy (am I allowed to call it a raffle?? IDK… still fuzzy on the legalities). Details are still in the works, but I am in need of some donated loot to giveaway.  Please email me – Jill@babyrabies.com – if you or your company can help.  It will be run and promoted through this website.

3.     SPONSOR ME!  I am offering ad packages in exchange for several levels of corporate sponsorship.  The levels and prices are as follows:

Platinum Sponsor – $1,250 tax deductible donation (1 available)

            You/your company will receive a large banner ad on BabyRabies.com for 6 months, an ad on my Twitter background (@BabyRabies) for 6 months, 1 blog post dedicated to telling my readers all about your business and/or product. AND your corporate name on the back of all race singlets to be worn by the entire North Texas Team In Training chapter at all events for one season. Think of all the exposure!!

Gold Sponsor – $750 tax deductible donation (1 available)

            You/your company will receive a medium banner ad or large sidebar button ad (approx. 300×250) for 6 months on BabyRabies.com and 1 blog post dedicated to telling my readers all about your business and/or your product.

Silver Sponsors -  $250 tax deductible donation (4 available)

            You /your company will receive a small sidebar button ad (approx. 100×100) for 6 months and you will be featured, along with other Silver Sponsors, in a blog post all about your business and/ or your product.

Bronze Sponsors- $100 tax deductible donation (10 available)

            You/your company will receive a sidebar link for 6 months

If you are interested in learning more about the sponsorship packages, including my most current website stats, or about the North Texas Chapter of the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society and Team In Training, please email me atJill@Babyrabies.com

If you’ve made it this far, thank you and please pass the on the word. GO TEAM!!

 

 

Photobucket
Filed Under: Headed to Toddlerhood |Tagged With: , , , , , |9 Comments