Because I Can

Enjoying a ridiculously hot morning run. 

Just about a month ago, Dave and I celebrated our 11 year anniversary looking onto a beautiful beach with our two beautiful children.  

Today I celebrate another life-changing event...my run-iversary.  Seven years ago today I made a choice not just to run, but to BECOME a runner. I run because I CAN!  This is the story of the life-altering shin splint. 

I'd run before.  Beginning at about age 21, I saw something in running and in runners that I desperately wanted.  I wasn't sure what that something was, but I figured I needed to be a runner to learn the secret.  They had such purpose...such discipline.  I wanted what they had.  So I ran.

Well...sort of.  I lacked consistency and had quite the talent for making excuses, but about 3 days a week...a couple of weeks a month...I'd lace up in old Nike's I bought based on looks, strap an FM radio to my arm (this was before the days of the smart phone) and an Ironman Velcro strapped watch with a timer to my wrist, and out I would go.  Run one minute.  Walk one minute.  Repeat.  I would circle the block around my apartment complex chasing that mystery it factor all the runners seemed to have.

After about 3 years of my haphazard, poorly educated, and inconsistent search I found something so many others before me had also found.

I found that running really sucked, and I quit.

Clearly, this was NOT the mark of my maiden voyage to become a runner.

Two years, a diet of fast food and Dr. Pepper, and a toddler later, a scale I stepped on at Bed Bath and Beyond snapped me back into reality so hard I needed a neck brace.  In tears, I did the only thing I knew to do.  We got in the car and drove to Luke's Locker...the running store of all running stores, where even the salespeople are runners.  One thing I love about the running culture is how welcoming and inviting runners are, to everyone.  Even so, it took everything I had to approach the saleswoman, who may as well have been an Olympian in my book.

My first Luke's Locker shoes.
Brooks Adrenaline GTS
July 20, 2011

"What can I help you with, today?" she asked, with an inviting smile.

"Well...a lot," I responded.  "I want to be a runner."

The saleswoman chuckled, "Well, you're at the right place!  So tell me, why do you want run?"

I gestured toward my body.  Pale.  Untoned.  Still carrying 40 lbs that my one year old gifted me and that I so fiercely maintained with my love for Oreo's and cheese enchiladas.  "I need to lose weight."

"Okay, so you want to run to get in shape," my new Olympian friend replied.

"Um...well...yes, but more than that, I really want to be a runner."

She smiled again, "That's the easiest part.  All you have to do to is run!"

My face smiled, but my brain judged her.  "Easy for her to say," I thought.  "I bet she doesn't have any kids.  I bet she doesn't have a stressful job."  I'd tried to do it her way before, and it was hopeless.  "If all I had to do was run," I thought, "I wouldn't be standing here, in front of you, looking like the Pillsbury Dough-boy, wondering what's going to happen when I try to cram all this muffin top into all that spandex."

My first race:  The Vineyard 5K in Grapevine, TX. 

As I tried on shoe after shoe after shoe, she told me about how she, at 55, had taken up running when she went with a group of friends who were breast cancer survivors like her, and she walked the Susan G. Komen.  She was inspired by the camaraderie and kindness, and when she saw other cancer survivors actually running, not walking, the race, she figured if

they could do it, she could too.

If she could do it at 55, surely I could at 26.

An hour and a half later, I left the store equipped with a brand new sports bra, shirt, shorts, stability control shoes for my flat feet (certainly not purchased for looks), a new app that hadn't been out long called Couch to 5k, and a better attitude.

The first step was taking the first step and believing I was going somewhere.  I needed a goal, a destination, so I picked a race and made a plan for consistency and discipline.  Nothing would stand in my way this time, not even me.

I was slowwww...man was I slow. I had the gate of a 5-minute-old giraffe. But to become something, you have to begin. You have to make up your mind and just make it happen.

Susan G. Komen race - Dallas, TX. 

Somewhere between my very first five minute stretch of running and the bullhorn for my first 5k, I discovered something.  All this time, I'd been running searching for what they had, when the real true key was never out there.

Becoming a runner is a personal journey, crafted by every up and every down.  A runner is not defined by the miles she counts, but by the moments she embraces with each step.  Inspired to keep running, and excited to keep racing, I signed up for the Susan G. Komen, the race the saleswoman mentioned at Luke's Locker.  It was everything she said it would be, and more.  I had to keep going.

My first Half Marathon: 
Rock n' Roll - San Antonio, TX

I got faster.  Much faster.  I got so fast that within 6 months, I was finishing in the top ten of my division.  By month 8, I was sticking around for the awards ceremonies, taking home trophies, medals, and race trinkets awarded to the top three runners in each division.  Pretty soon, I added 10ks, 15ks, and even a couple of half marathons to my repertoire.

The weight I'd once set out to lose was long gone, but now I was a runner.  I no longer ran for fitness, I ran because I'd fallen in love with running, with racing, with the culture, and with all that comes with being a runner.

My first 10K:  The Bunny Run
- Dallas, TX

But sometimes there's a dark side to running...the injury...the sideline.  I'm talking, the injury that leaves you completely incapacitated for weeks or months.  For me, it started with a shin splint.

By my third year of running, a six-miler was an easy Wednesday, a far cry from the wide-eyed version of me who could not run a solid mile without walking.  I was preparing for a 15k race in January when I began noticing a pesky shin splint trying to cramp my style.  I tweaked my training plan, eased up, foam rolled, stretched, and did all I knew to do.

Running a 9.3 mile race with a shin splint not only makes for one absolutely miserable race, it is also a ridiculously stupid thing to do.  I knew that, but I ran the race anyway, and it was as awful as I'd expected.

My runs after that were pretty terrible too.  By the end of February, I was needing more rest days than ever before and cutting back on my mileage significantly, but this pain was just not getting any better.  In fact, it was getting much worse.

When I couldn't finish even half of a Saturday run at the end of March, I knew the time had come to make an appointment with my doctor for what I was fairly certain was now a stress fracture.  The feeling of defeat was mitigated only by the knowledge that this would just be a 3 to 6 week setback, at most.

The good news, the x-ray showed, was this was NOT a stress fracture.  The bad news was something didn't look right, and I needed a CT scan...which also was inconclusive, so I'd need an MRI.

Tibia - Cross Sectional image
of mass with "irregular borders"

If March was the month of pain, April was the month of radiology.  And then there was May.

On Friday, May 9th, about a week after my MRI, I was at work, wrapping up my Friday, and getting ready to head into Mother's Day weekend when I got a call from my doctor that left me utterly speechless.

"We need you to come in this afternoon so we can do more blood work," she explained.  The rest of the conversation is a bit of a blur with distinct bits and phrases such as, "getting you set up to see a really great Oncologist at Baylor on Monday morning," and words like "possible Ewing Sarcoma" and "possible Osteosarcoma" which are cancers of the bone.

Me holding Baker
Mother's Day, 2014

Suddenly, putting my running shoes on again became the least of my worries.  As much as I loved the Susan G. Komen race, I didn't want to run with a "survivor" status.  I wondered if I'd ever run again at all.  Would I be able to walk to the park with Dave while we pushed our son in the stroller?  Would I be able to give him the second child we'd been talking about?  Or worse...Would this be the last Mother's Day?

I could hardly speak the words to Dave.  We both cried and prayed all the way to the doctor's office to get my lab work done.  It was even harder to tell my parents.  There's really no good way to say, "Happy Mother's Day, Mom!  I might have cancer."

If ever there's been a time I realized my own mortality, it was on Monday, May 12th, sitting in that waiting room at Baylor, packed with people who had lost their hair to grueling treatment protocols and relied on oxygen tanks to help them breathe.

Once in the room, the oncologist remarked that he had studied to MRI reports and began explaining the odds of limb amputation for these types of cancer, various treatments, odds of remission, and actual prognosis.  Now it was time to get a game plan together.  He excused himself to go take a look at the MRI images and see, for himself.  I cannot adequately describe the moment when he returned.

"Well," he beamed, patting me on the other leg, "I don't get to put you in a wheelchair or make you bald!  You, little lady, do NOT have cancer."

I finally breathed for the first time since the previous Friday, though I was still confused.  The doctor went on to explain that while I did not have cancer, I did have a serious condition called Osteomyelitis.  The bone infection had set up at the site of what was likely once a shin splint.  Of course, at that point, as long as it wasn't cancer, I was happy to have an infected bone!

When four weeks of rest and antibiotics did not do the trick, the medical team resorted to surgery to clean out the bone.  Finally, this whole ordeal would be over, and I could run again in about 3 weeks.

What was supposed to be a half inch incision that would be a bit sore but not so sore I couldn't go camping that weekend, ended up being a 5 inch incision with no possibility of walking without crutches for at least two weeks.  Imagine my surprise when I awakened from the surgery with my leg wrapped from my knee to my ankle and my doctor explaining that he was about to insert a picc line so Dave could give me IV antibiotics every day for the next six weeks.

The surgeon stood at the foot of my bed and with complete sincerity explained, "Ma'am, I honestly don't know how you were even walking on that leg, let alone running on it.  I've performed this same surgery on professional hockey players whose injures were far less than yours, and they could barely move!"

He turned to my mother and Dave remarking, "I guess she's just got an incredible tolerance for pain."

To which they responded, almost in unison, "No, she's just that stubborn."

When the doctor said I'd be sidelined for another 12 weeks, I couldn't take it.  I knew I should be happy to have my life.  I knew I should be happy to have my leg.  But it was June 2nd, and I had been unable to run at all since March, and 12 more weeks may as well have been an eternity.

The first few days after the surgery were spent at home, feeling sorry for myself, and nursing my actual pain with the prescription we picked up from the pharmacy.

On the fifth day, I awakened with a determination I hadn't felt in quite a while.  I hadn't been able to run for months, but I was still a runner.  I was absolutely hell-bent on being cleared to run again, and I would do it sooner than 12 weeks.

I push my crutches to the side, swung my legs over the side of my mother's couch, where I'd been drowning in my self-pity for days, put my weight on my good leg, stood up, and took my first unassisted step.

As the infection had eaten mostly the side and back of my tibia, the surgeon apparently had to completely slice through my calf muscle in order to gain access.  This realization came to me as my left foot touched the floor and my leg provided the tension and support of a wet noodle.

Now my next task was getting myself up off the floor.  But I did.  Because I'm a runner.

And while my left leg was too weak to walk just yet, my right leg was just fine.  So I practiced walking with just one crutch and did exercises that didn't require me to use my left leg at all.

My leg did get stronger.  By my three week appointment, I was completely off my crutches.  At my six week appointment, they removed the pic line, and I was cleared to walk, carefully, for exercise.

"Wow, you're really looking great!" My surgeon remarked at the nine week appointment.

"So does that mean I can run again?" I asked, hopeful, but not expectant.

"Emily, you can run out of this office, if you're ready."  And boy, was I ready!

First race after July 31st clearance. 
Plano Balloon Fest 5K, Sept. 21, 2014 - Plano, TX

That was July 31.  I ran every chance I got for the next 8 weeks and on September 21, I ran my first 5k race after my 6 month hiatus.  Because I was a runner.

With just eight weeks of training and pure excitement in my tank, I ran my heart out.  I would have been proud to have just crossed the finish line, but third place in my division...I may as well have been an Olympian.

The following month, I lost my grandmother, and in the same week discovered I was pregnant with Lucibelle.  With three threatened miscarriages, 6 weeks of bed-rest, a premature delivery, and her seven surgeries before she was two and half, Lucibelle has been a novel unto herself!  I found myself needing to take many, many breaks both during and after my pregnancy.  But I always took the opportunity to run when I could, because I could.  Even during the breaks, I was always a runner. 

It has been nearly four years since the entire ordeal.  Throughout this journey, I've experienced quite a few time-outs due to illnesses, family tragedies, busy schedules, sick kids, and the list goes on...and there will be more to come.

But once you BECOME something, you recognize those situations for what they are, the mountains and the molehills, and convert them into the fuel that will drive your next mile.

People often tell me that running is crazy, and though they are kidding (mostly), they are kind of on to something. You see, so much of running really is in your head.

So much of life...really...and what we perceive to be the obstacles...it's in our heads.

Training is about establishing endurance and stamina: the "I-CAN" needed to power through. And just like that Little Engine That Could, once we convince ourselves that we CAN go that next step, there's very little (short of a true catastrophic event) that can get in our way. In fact, even in the wake of some major setbacks, that belief and strength can be sustained, and building back and exceeding your pre-tragedy status CAN be done.

What I know to be true in all of this is if I want something...I just have to get in it and do it. It's not about the time I have, it's about the time I make. It's about ignoring the voice that tells me to stop, that says it's been too long, that says I don't measure up, or that says that bump in the road means I can't get back up. It's about embracing the strength that God has infused within my soul to the point that it takes hold and radiates throughout ALL I do.

Forney, TX:  2nd Female Finisher

There will ALWAYS be excuses to stop, to give up, to NOT. Most days I don't even have to search for them.  There is very little in life I actually cannot do.  Through the courage of faith and strength of Christ, I can do so much more than I cannot. 

There was a time when I could not run because I was too inconsistent. 

Then, there was a time I could not run because it was too painful.

There was a time when I was unsure if I would ever run again.

And so, today, I run because I can.

The Baby Down the Hall

My mind’s ramblings are generally inspired by my children, and this one is no exception.  It is rooted in Lucibelle’s story, but it is really a reflection and confession of the heart for me, as a mom.  It is the story of my Hallelujah…the cold and broken kind. 

A friend today, shared an article on Facebook which stated, “Given the nature of NICU…the feelings of emptiness and grief, the uncertainty and ups and downs, the lines, wires, monitors and alarms, not to mention the security buzzers at the entrance of the unit or the constant rigorous hand-washing, it came as no surprise to me that parents who have experienced premature birth are at greater risk of postnatal depression, anxiety and post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)” (Oglivy, 2017).  The article goes on to explain that 40% of NICU mothers experience postpartum depression.  Now, I have not gone on a fact-check for these percentages.  To those who have never experienced a NICU or a PICU, this may sound like lies, damned lies, and statistics.  But to me, it sure seems logical. 

Coincidentally, Facebook also reminded me that three years ago, today, we got to bring Lucibelle home from a three week hospital stay that, for us, was life-altering.  At 7 weeks old (adjusted age: 1 week old) she had already endured all of the pokes and prods that comes with three weeks in the hospital, along with an EEG, an MRI, 2 nasal feeding tubes, and two lifesaving, surgeries. 

I never dreamed we would have a feeding pump, a c-pap machine, a nebulizer, a pulse oximeter, and various other medical equipment in our home.  I never dreamed that even three years later we would be planning her eighth surgery.  I never dreamed (or nightmare’d, if you will) the amount of medical bills a little person could gather.  I never dreamed of the amount of prayers and love we would receive from friends, family, and people we have never even met who live in places we have never even been. 

Even so…for so many other moms and dads out there, Lucibelle’s journey, by comparison, is such small potatoes.  There are moms and dads out there whose babies have fought far greater battles.  There are moms and dads out there with medical equipment I probably could not even power on.  There are moms and dads out there with medical bills so astronomical, I could not even begin to imagine.  There are moms and dads who pray for, support, and encourage other families of medically fragile children, while simultaneously cheering on their own children as they fight disease and disability. 

Then, of course, there is the worst imaginable scenario, there are moms and dads out there who suffer the loss of a child and whose babies will never come home, which leads me to another reminder Facebook sent me this week. 

On July 8, 2015, just before 3 a.m., I rocked Lucibelle and stared at monitors with which I had become all too familiar.  The ICU was cold, lonely, and scary.  Learning to feed my baby through the new surgically placed port in her belly, even scarier, and the IV ports and monitor leads did not make it any easier.  Not only was it an easy place to drown in sorrow for my baby, it was also an easy place to settle into my own depression.  The silence had been so loud, but the sound that broke the silence was staggering…a sound my heart will never forget. 

It was raw.  It was animalistic.  It was much too real for my sleepless stupor.  There was no mistaking the mother’s wail down the hall, “What do you mean, she’s dying?  Please, God, no!  Don’t take my baby!”

The feelings of dread, helplessness, hopelessness, despair, and darkness once looming on the horizon, engulfed me in all directions. 

I held my baby even closer.  Lucibelle would be okay.  She would come home with us.  I sobbed as I sang Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah and watched her sleep as the storm in my heart was punctuated with electric surges of guilt. 

The mom and dad down the hall would never take their baby home, and in that moment, these strangers became some of the most poignant characters in my life’s narrative, though they will never know it.  I never saw the baby down the hall but I saw her parents pacing frantically and walking family, who had gathered in the waiting room, to say their goodbyes.  Lucibelle’s room faced a nurses station into which I would watch the nurses duck, regain their composure, console one another, and then go right back to their top priority…a priority that the term “gut wrenching” is far too benign to describe…the priority to calmly, peacefully, and compassionately guide this baby and her family in her last moments. 

Suddenly, Lucibelle’s feeding port seemed so minuscule in the grand scheme of things.  Also in that instant, however, Lucibelle felt so much more fragile in my arms.  She did not feel like a baby that would bounce.  She felt like a baby that would break.  Like if I was not ever so careful, ever so vigilant, ever so protective…like if I ever got comfortable…the next strangers down the hall would be us.  The anxiety was crippling.

Not a day goes by that I do not think of the baby angel down the hall.  I imagine she was like Lucibelle, with a fiery passion for adventure, dance, and anything that sparkles.  I wonder if she is maybe one of Lucibelle’s guardian angels, and I pray for the mom and dad who, three years ago today, were mourning the loss of their baby girl. 

Unlike other stories, where the emotional response dissipates with time, the story of this moment in our first ICU stay brings back that flood of emotions.  It is no mystery to me how mothers of children who spent time in the ICU could go on to experience symptoms of PTSD, anxiety, and depression. Even while writing this blog, fighting back the tears is absolutely impossible…as though it is all happening all over again.  The pain in that mother’s voice.  The pain on those nurse’s faces.  The pain of loving someone so much you actually ache inside.   

One of my favorite verses from Leonard Cohen’s song says, “Love is not a victory march; It’s a cold, and it’s a broken hallelujah.”  

I hum the tune.  I dry my eyes.  I take a breath.  I rejoin my now.  I try to absorb every moment and be in attendance for the beauty of today.  Sometimes with the deepest pain…in all that is cold and broken, God also grants the deepest love.  For that, we praise Him.  Hallelujah. 

Three years ago, today, our baby came home, and today, she is an energetic ball of sass and sugar. 

Sometimes, before it instantly transitions into the past, the present makes its mark…a reminder, of sorts...like the scars that adorn Lucibelle’s abdomen.  

Then, they were wounds, painful surgical incisions sewn and covered with gauze and medical tape.  Now, she doesn’t even know the scars are there, though I notice them every day.  She runs around with that little milk-belly hanging out without a care in the world.  And I chase after, hoping to catch her if she falls.  Someday, though, she will look down at her scars, and she will ask where they came from. 

We will tell her about her surgeries, but more importantly, we will tell her that these are the reminders of the many, many beautiful and loving people who loved her and prayed for her before she knew them. 

And perhaps, when she’s old enough to know, I’ll tell her how her beautiful marks are my prayerful reminders of the worst kind of pain, the best kind of love, and the baby angel down the hall.