Month: November 2016

Dateline: July 2016, Running in NJ and Maine… until…

After Yosemite, it was time to buckle down and run. Yes, run, and like it, damn it. Matt Arnold, my cousin’s husband, had invited me back in April to be the first member of his 12 person team for the Hood to Coast Relay: 200 miles, 1,000 teams, 2,000 vans, 12,000 runners, sells out in minutes.

I was, like,  hmmm. I haven’t been running. But I did a relay once before, the Tom’s Run in Maryland. I don’t really enjoy running, but I do like riding in vans with sweaty strangers who become friends overnight and over 200 miles of suffering. So sure. Count me in.

I went to Pleasant Valley Park to begin to get fit. It was hot. It was sunny. It wasn’t fun. I did under 5k. But it was a start.

I kept at it. I figured the best thing to do was to go to Maine, train in a climate closer to Oregon’s. Oh, it was lovely. I came up with a five-mile route on Southport with Porta-potty availability. I ran in the morning, 60 degrees. What could be better? And the scenery can’t be beat.

Just one problem. I texted Matt, asked about the weather in Portland (Oregon, not Maine!).  He said it would probably be close to 90 degrees. Should have stayed in New Jersey, I guess. But I was having fun with family, sailing with Kip, celebrating a friend’s 80th birthday. And the running was going well.One Saturday, end of July, there was a race- the Rock the Boat 5k to benefit the Southport Yacht Club junior sailing program. Our next door neighbors clued me in. I figured it was a good chance to check my fitness. My plan? Run the race, then, in the afternoon, after watching women’s Olympic soccer, go for a second run. When you are going to have to run 17 miles in 36 hours, it’s important to try 2-a days, right? Matt told me to..

The 5k went well; I ran medium fast, and I didn’t feel like vomiting at the finish. I was third in my age group, and happy because I wasn’t sick. That meant, maybe, I was expanding my range. Things were looking good, one month to race day.

I watched the soccer then set off from Kay’s townhouse back to our home on Southport. It was 4.5 miles, with some hills. It was tough. I walked about 50 yards total. But I did it. Next day, rest day. Next day, bike ride. Third day…..

I set out for my five miles. I was hurting, my butt, left side. I said, ok, it’s going to hurt, keep going. It got a bit looser, then I met a woman my age, a triathlete. We finished up together. She was renting a cottage two doors down from me.

By the next day, I knew I was in trouble. Only 3 weeks now until race day. I went back to the physical therapy place I worked at for five years. Kelly worked on me every day. It was a strain at the piriformis and hamstring insertion. I followed her instructions exactly. I went to the track to walk/jog. And with just a week to go until departure, I wasn’t capable of running 400 meters. I called Matt, and through tears, told him I was OUT. Twenty five percent of my team dropped out in the final week, injured. I pushed too far, too fast. I needed more time, or I needed to stop running races. I’m not sure which.

Nothing was going to stop me from going to Oregon to see family. Kip and I volunteered on the course for the Hood to Coast. As luck would have it, we drew leg 11, and we were in charge of getting runners safely across a highway ramp at rush hour(s). Five hours.

It was 97 degrees. Had I not been injured, Leg 11 would have been mine to run. As one competitor opined as she dodged cars, “This leg sucks.” Truer words were never spoken.

Without my running a step, the Old School Corduroys completed the Hood to Coast. And not a single runner was injured or killed on Leg 11, at least during the 12 to 5 pm shift Saturday. And that is something to cheer about. Even better, though I couldn’t run, I could hike, and I was able to bag Oregon and Washington and have fun doing it. Keep on reading for details.

 

 

Dateline: November 9, 2016, Trumpocalypse 2016

Today is 11/9. It feels like 9/11. Gray skies, chill breeze, a country brought to its knees by its own actions. We have elected a man so stunningly unprepared to lead us, so small, so small-minded, so mean, so stunted. I fear for our nation. I fear for the Earth. I can’t speak, can barely write, can’t imagine the future in a positive light. We must stand up and fight, oppose, make our voices heard, love each other, refuse to descend into the caves of misogyny, xenophobia, and narcissism. But that will have to wait until tomorrow.

Time to do the blog. Ok, that means I need a framing device. I’m glad that I got to visit so many National Parks this summer during the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service. Why? Because I am sure that Donald J. Trump is going to allow corporations to start naming the parks and using them for cross-marketing. Google Yosemite Park, Yahoo! the Grandest of Canyons. And mining will be allowed along the banks of the Colorado River as it traverses Yahoo Canyon.

Stand up! Fight! Oh wait, write. Someday soon you might not remember where you’ve been and what you’ve done, so write this blog for you. No one else will read it.

State 21:California

Dateline: July 1-4, Yosemite National Park, 34 miles total, Clouds Rest Summit, 14 miles

My brother, Matt, and his family live in Oakland, California. Aware of my quest and that I was fully recovered from my first breast surgery, Matt and Colleen invited me to join them as Yosemite for Fourth of July weekend. Fourth of July, you know, when we celebrate the Declaration of Independence, we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal. And when I meet Thomas Jefferson, I’m gonna compel him to include women in the sequel. ( Hamilton strikes again, in parentheses..) Evidently, he should have mentioned it right from the beginning..

After a few days in Sacramento exploring the Statehouse and Old Town, I drove to Yosemite and hiked about five miles at Hetch Hetchy, the seldom- visited twin valley to Yosemite which was flooded in the early twentieth century to provide water to San Francisco, over the vehement objections of John Muir. Despite the damn dam, the valley is still beautiful and well worth a visit. One can hike in near solitude there even in high season, right up under Wapama Falls.

I saw a couple of backpackers in the Hetch parking lot at 9 am, but that was about it. I crossed the dam and entered the dark tunnel leading to the Wapama Falls hike. Every step I took altered the view.  Every blink of the eye was a new vista. wildflowers thrived in tiny crevices between the rocks, and the only sound was the gradually building roar as I approached the falls.

The hike of 5 or so miles was not difficult, but it was hot, and the mist roiling over the bridge at the base of the falls was a welcome relief. At times, the water runs so high here with snowmelt that people are swept away. Not so this day, but I could feel the power, a wind generated by the cascade.

Something tells me we will be lucky to have the next intrusion into our national parks end as benignly as the damming of Hetch Hetchy, but eventually all the people who remember how the parks used to look will be dead. Surely that will mute the negative effect on future generations. They won’t know what they’re missing, so who cares? Pave paradise, put up a parking lot.

Hike one done and dusted, me fried and dusty, I decided to head into Yosemite Valley at noon on July 1. I got past the entrance gate with my annual pass with no delay, but the Valley was a mob scene. I felt like Elmer Fudd chasing that wascally wabbit: which way should I go? Which way should I go? I ended up walking over to Bridalveil Falls and then had a brainstorm. Why not make it a waterfall day? Oh look, there’s a trail called Yosemite Falls. It’s ok that I haven’t eaten, it’s ok that I have just arrived at 5,500 feet, it’s ok that it’s 95 degrees and I’ve already done 5 miles. This will be fun. Especially since Yosemite Falls is the tallest waterfall in the contiguous United States.

I was about as prepared as Donald J. Trump is for his next job. I was woefully inadequate. But unlike him, I realized that if I proceeded on my chosen course, I was likely to run into disaster in the ensuing days. I stopped. I reconsidered. I backed away from the figurative and the real precipice. Unfortunately, people with his mental illness never do.

A lovely drink at the world famous Ahwahnee Hotel (renamed The Majestic due to some ridiculous corporate thing (See warnings in paragraph 3, above.)),  and then I met my bro at the brandy new Rush Creek Resort just outside the park gates and had a terrific buffet meal poolside and chatted up my nieces.

Day Two featured a hike with the girls to May Lake and beyond, onto the slopes of 12,000 foot Mt. Hoffman. Our group split up at that point and Matt and I headed for the summit ridge, which was a bit too much for the girls. The two of us have summit fever to a certain degree. I also have a fear of heights, and I was, like, ok, you go ahead, I don’t really have to climb those boulders and get to the tippy top and see the 7,000 foot drop off the other side. But two women who were about to make the attempt said, oh no, come on, you got this far. And don’t let anyone tell you women  can’t do anything they set their minds to, (yup, even win the popular vote for President of the dis- United States despite being too competent to be popular) because we did it, and shared the summit space with this marmot. He kept us occupied taking pictures while his partner in crime was chewing up Matt’s brand new pack and my hiking poles. Marmots need salt, and they get it from eating sweaty gear. Opportunistic little rodents. Like some politicians.

July 3 was the day of the requisite dawn assault. Matt and I left before dawn to drive to the trailhead for Cloud’s Rest, a 14 mile out and back hike to the top of, well, Cloud’s Rest, which looks down on Half Dome. It’s not as high as Mount Hoffman, but it is a major hike in and out. We started the climb about 6:30 am, as I remember.The sun was barely up in the valley. It was cool and dry, and the trail was nearly deserted. Wildflowers, boulder fields, steeps, switchbacks, skinned knees, bathroom breaks off trail, and the sound of our breathing underscoring the birdsong. Matt is tall and strong, and the pace was a challenge for me. So fun.

Every mountain seems to end in a rock scramble. Matt captured this shot of me striding confidently toward the summit…

and this one of me suddenly feeling exposed and crouching feebly toward my feet.

The view from Cloud’s Rest down into the valley was worth the momentary terror. Half Dome is left of center, people ascending the cables like ants.

The final day, July 4, we hiked out to a waterfall and swim along the Evergreen road called Carlon Falls.  I hadn’t hiked with young children for quite a few years, and doing so reminded me that a slower pace is not a lesser pace; it is just different. It reveals details best savored slowly. After we said our goodbyes, I headed back to Hetch and did one final 2 mile hike on the ridge before driving back to Sacramento to catch my flight home.

Yosemite is vast and varied, and surely one of  the crown jewels of our public lands. May they be forever public. I honestly don’t know what will become of them.

Sorry to be so negative but this is a terrible horrible no good very bad day. My memories of Yosemite are fading with time and more travel and final goodbyes, and they are tainted by my fears for its future.

 

 

DATELINE: May 2016, REWIND January 22, 2016, Morristown Memorial Hospital

I am weary of painting a perennially rosy picture about my life, blogging, but skirting the tough issues. My readers are probably tired of my relentlessly upbeat and cheery tone, wondering if I am for real. This blog is supposed to be about the triumphs and little victories in my quest, but also about the obstacles that I face in achieving them. True, I have structured my days to enable me to train and to travel and to bag the states, but there are other things going on, things I haven’t revealed, secrets that are weighing on my mind.

Remember that surgery I blithely mentioned in my Florida post? That was a double mastectomy. Nobody wants to have this surgery, but among those who do have it, I consider myself lucky. I had it on my terms, while healthy.

Since early 2010, I’ve known that I carry a gene mutation called BRCA1. It is similar to Angelina Jolie’s mutation. This  defect in my genetic code predisposes me to breast and ovarian cancer at ten or more times the rate of the general population. That means that my risk of breast cancer before age 70 is something like 70 percent, and my risk of ovarian cancer, among the most sneaky and deadly forms of the disease, is, oh, I don’t know, high enough that I make a point of not knowing.

Some people inherit genes for ghastly illnesses for which there is no cure and about which they can do jack shit. One example is the gene for early onset Alzheimer’s, which is not a predisposition, it is a guarantee of dementia and death by age 60. I am fortunate. I can take steps to reduce my risk of breast and ovarian cancer to way less than that of the average woman. I can save my own life. And I did. Six years ago, I had surgery to remove my ovaries and fallopian tubes. And in January, I had the mastectomies and reconstruction. My husband, mother, and sister were all wonderfully helpful during my hospitalization and recovery.

My saline implants are temporary now, but I will go in for my surgery to place the permanent silicone implants in the fall. Between now and then, I’m allowed to do all the stuff I love to do, even play soccer. I’m on a spring team, and I have logged a goal and two assists since the season started a month ago. Oh, and I have plans to capture a slew of states this summer. I feel empowered by my decision and haven’t regretted my choice for a single moment.

The way I figure, if I had continued to postpone surgery, with each passing year, I would have a greater chance of contracting breast cancer, and if I got it, I would feel stupid for letting fear of change endanger my life. I would then have a mastectomy anyway, and I would also have to go through chemo and radiation, and I could DIE. Feeling like I had stupidly contributed to my own death would suck. I’m sure that my dying thought would be regret. That’s not how I want to go.

Today, I feel great, I feel normal, and I am no longer burdened with the threat of cancer which has lurked in a dark corner of my life since my cousin contracted ovarian cancer in her 30s and I tested positive for the mutation.

Best of all, I don’t need a bra. That’s right. No bra. Even for soccer!

My former breasts did their job. I nursed both my daughters and cherished doing so. My new breasts are firm- ok, really firm. But they are more shapely and they fit my muscular frame better, in my opinion. And my opinion is the one that counts.

I have kept my diagnosis under wraps, as concealed as my breasts, since 2010. At that time, I decided not to tell my daughters about the mutation. Each has a 50 percent chance of inheriting it. Nothing can be done until your early- to mid- twenties in terms of medical management, and I wanted them to experience their college years without having to wonder if they would have to face some difficult choices as they progress into full maturity. I shaded the truth when I had my ovaries removed in 2010, and again this year with my second surgery.  I hope they understand that I did it for them. I hope they know that I will be there to guide them through testing, genetic counseling, and whatever they may face. I hope they are negative for the mutation but if not, I hope to help them understand that there are worse things to face.

Looking back, I can now tell you, I must tell you, that the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer that I completed some years ago with Kelly and Jen was even more meaningful than I let on. I had already had my ovaries removed, and I knew that there was a very good chance I would someday sit in a stark waiting room watching a white-coated radiologist with a downcast expression walk purposefully down a hall toward me to tell me I had a malignancy.  And on March 12, when I completed that Breast Cancer walk with Kip and Kay and Susan on my 54th birthday, I no longer walked with that fear. What sweet freedom.

While I was in the hospital, one of the nurses asked me if I had ever heard of Sharsheret (www.sharsheret.org). It’s an organization devoted to helping Jewish women who carry BRCA mutations to find community, counseling, and understanding. Ashkenazi Jews have far more BRCA mutations than other groups (Outside this group, one in 300 people have a mutation.) I called Sharsheret and offered my services as a peer counselor. Despite the fact that I am not Jewish, they welcomed me with open arms. I look forward to helping other women with BRCA mutations to face each day with courage and a sense of gratitude for the choices that we have. Knowledge is power.

Here I go again, lapsing into confident tone, looking at the world through my trifocal rose- colored glasses.  I suppose there are worse things… I must be an optimistic, happy person.

I can live with that.