"That suitcase weighs 54 pounds, sir," the ticket agent said. "You're going to have to shed four pounds or pay $75."
That sounded like a challenge.
It wasn't even about the money. It would be a solid month before I was back in Livermore again, and I had resolved to get by in the meantime on two suitcases a carry-on and a personal item.
But when I first packed, by suitcase weighed roughly 918 pounds.
I tried for hours to pare it down the lightest, most essential things. I set aside my favorite bottle of wine, that was to welcome me to my new quarters in Atlanta. I threw away my black boots that had seen slightly better days. I left behind my heavy coat, thinking I could survive without it for a month.
But now I had left all that behind and was about to have to pay an extra $75 anyway. If the ticket agent was going to make me pay an excess weight fee regardless, I might as well be looking forward to drinking a bottle of good wine in my black leather jacket and matching boots while sitting on my Georgia balcony.
I couldn't stand the thought that I discarded all that other valuable stuff for nothing. I suddenly wished that I would have kept all that stuff in my bag and added a few gold bricks for good measure.
I couldn't find any, so I stepped out of line and set about trying to lessen my load by four pounds. The problem was that my other suitcase was already so full I had to sit on it and yank the zipper until the point of tears (for me and for it) to get it to close. Also, both my carry-ons were bulging, and I was already wearing a jacket and carrying my laptop in my arms.
I had planned on maxing out my baggage allowance without having to lose four pounds at the last minute, and there was, literally, no room for a plan B.
I had limited options, and the only one I could envision was to just wear a lot of clothes.
I found a heavy sweater. I put in on over my regular sweater. Over top of it, I put on a heavy-ish hoodie with a metal zipper, that might fit underneath my coat. I couldn't bear to try it on just yet--all I had to do was get it out of my suitcase--so I draped it between the handles of my carry-on for the moment.
I pulled out a hat and put it on. I couldn't have weighed more than a few ounces, but I was running out of body parts to double-cloth. I took out a notebook and carried it. I replaced a couple of magazines in my carry-on with a small book, and stuffed the magazines in my back pocket.
I briefly considered putting on a second pair of socks, but they were buried pretty deep.
Otherwise, I was wearing enough clothes to last me an entire long weekend. Never has a Vanderbilt-educated lawyer with a six-figure salary looked more like a homeless guy.
I lugged my suitcase back over to the ticket counter. This time, I checked in at 51 pounds, but there was absolutely nothing else I could carry. Thankfully, the ticket agent let it slide.
I gladly handed him my largest bag and another that clocked in just under 50, but that wasn't the end of the adventure.
I was drenched in sweat from my layers of clothing, and the process of balancing two carry-ons, a laptop, a jacket, a notebook, and having to pull out an ID along the way, while also fighting MS, a progressive disease that makes me sensitive to heat and has killed my balance. But eventually, I made it to my gate. (Side note: it's definitely not fun to use an airport restroom while carrying basically everything you own.)
As I got to the waiting area of the gate and plopped at a seat, I exhaled and proceeded to shed my layers, like a human onion.
Just as I removed the last (extra) layer I was wearing, I heard an announcement:
"Ladies and Gentleman, we have a completely full flight. So everyone please consolidate your items to one carry-on and one personal item. You will not be allowed to board with a third item, and will have to check any additional item beyond two."
This seemed an impossible command, but I had come too far to relent.
I dressed again in all the layers I had removed, except for one jacket in which I figured I would need to wrap my laptop inside. Then I walked with a full-sized carry on, a personal item that was pushing the limit of what might fit at my feet, a notebook, and a wadded up jacket concealing a laptop.
I walked as quickly as I could, attempting to use my body to shield some of my stash as I handed the agent my ticket. Somehow, she let me pass.
I proceeded to board the plane, immediately remove three layers of clothes, and breathed a sigh of relief. But not too big of a sigh, because in an hour I'd have to connect in L.A. and redo the whole process.
It turned out my next flight was full too, so I had to do the same ridiculous charade. One of the agents gave me a hard look ("Don't judge me," I thought. I take up the same functional space on the airplane whether I wear one sweater or five), but she let me pass.
I made it to Atlanta eventually, with all my stuff in tow, and nothing even broke on the way.
Maybe I could have fit something else after all.
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
Sunday, October 27, 2019
About That Job You Don't Like...
"So tell me exactly what is so terrible about this job," my boss demanded as she entered my office.
I looked down at my desk awkwardly. I had just resigned, and she apparently wasn't taking it very well.
I started spitting out some filler words as my brain searched for how to respond. The irony about quitting a job is that your employer wants to know exactly why you are leaving, but you can't exactly tell them.
"It was mostly for family reasons," I said. "But I also didn't always feel like I was a valued member of the team. More often than not, I went an entire work day without anyone saying a word to me."
"What, so you wanted us to throw you a party every day,?" she said.
I don't remember exactly what I said in response, but that doesn't really matter because I woke up from my dream right about at that point.
Thankfully, I didn't really have that interaction with my boss.
But I did resign my position this week.
Resigning was hard in some ways, because I like what I do. Resigning was easy in other ways, because I worked at the kind of place that made me have dreams like the one I had last night.
It's hard to know when to leave a job you don't love. Maybe it will get better if you just hold out? Maybe the money is pretty good or you've finally built up some vacation time, and leaving would get in the way of doing whatever else you want to do in your life. Or maybe it just doesn't seem like a good time to change your routine.
Besides, what if the next job is worse?
Some people I know have been in their current job for decades. In theory, I want to be that person, but it somehow never works out that way for me. Once I had a good job in a bad city, once I had a job that I liked, but the higher-ups changed it around so that I didn't love it so much anymore. Actually that happened twice.
Some people keep their head down and just tolerate work they hate. I admire that in a certain way, but I have this thing where I tend to keep looking around when life doesn't seem completely fulfilling for ways to make it better.
Hopefully, I'll get there.
A few times, that search has led me to landing at toxic places that were soul-crushing and miserable. Thankfully, I found a way out of those, and it was an easy and happy goodbye.
This one was a little more complicated, and I waffled for months on whether or not to leave. But in the end, I decided to make the change. My job, let's say, just wasn't working.
So I'm going back to work for the federal government in a position similar to the one I left last year. That job treated me well and provided me interesting work, and (except during one ill-considered federal hiring freeze), had the work-life balance I'm currently missing.
I'm looking forward to a shorter commute, some new opportunities, and not having to bill hours anymore. Billing, the process where you have to write down how you spend every second of your work day, and hit an arbitrary quota of productivity, is quite possibly the worst thing about practicing law.
I hope it works out. I hope to stay until I retire, and use my federal pension for many years thereafter.
But I hope, at minimum, not have any more nightmares about my job.
I looked down at my desk awkwardly. I had just resigned, and she apparently wasn't taking it very well.
I started spitting out some filler words as my brain searched for how to respond. The irony about quitting a job is that your employer wants to know exactly why you are leaving, but you can't exactly tell them.
"It was mostly for family reasons," I said. "But I also didn't always feel like I was a valued member of the team. More often than not, I went an entire work day without anyone saying a word to me."
"What, so you wanted us to throw you a party every day,?" she said.
I don't remember exactly what I said in response, but that doesn't really matter because I woke up from my dream right about at that point.
Thankfully, I didn't really have that interaction with my boss.
But I did resign my position this week.
Resigning was hard in some ways, because I like what I do. Resigning was easy in other ways, because I worked at the kind of place that made me have dreams like the one I had last night.
It's hard to know when to leave a job you don't love. Maybe it will get better if you just hold out? Maybe the money is pretty good or you've finally built up some vacation time, and leaving would get in the way of doing whatever else you want to do in your life. Or maybe it just doesn't seem like a good time to change your routine.
Besides, what if the next job is worse?
Some people I know have been in their current job for decades. In theory, I want to be that person, but it somehow never works out that way for me. Once I had a good job in a bad city, once I had a job that I liked, but the higher-ups changed it around so that I didn't love it so much anymore. Actually that happened twice.
Some people keep their head down and just tolerate work they hate. I admire that in a certain way, but I have this thing where I tend to keep looking around when life doesn't seem completely fulfilling for ways to make it better.
Hopefully, I'll get there.
A few times, that search has led me to landing at toxic places that were soul-crushing and miserable. Thankfully, I found a way out of those, and it was an easy and happy goodbye.
This one was a little more complicated, and I waffled for months on whether or not to leave. But in the end, I decided to make the change. My job, let's say, just wasn't working.
So I'm going back to work for the federal government in a position similar to the one I left last year. That job treated me well and provided me interesting work, and (except during one ill-considered federal hiring freeze), had the work-life balance I'm currently missing.
I'm looking forward to a shorter commute, some new opportunities, and not having to bill hours anymore. Billing, the process where you have to write down how you spend every second of your work day, and hit an arbitrary quota of productivity, is quite possibly the worst thing about practicing law.
I hope it works out. I hope to stay until I retire, and use my federal pension for many years thereafter.
But I hope, at minimum, not have any more nightmares about my job.
Thursday, September 19, 2019
This Is Another Post About Hope
"Introduce yourself to the Court," the chief justice said as I approached the podium.
I mouthed the words "Andrew Smith, on behalf of the People." Inside I had no idea if the first part of that was really true.
I use to be good at this sort of thing. But I also used to be able to stay up past seven o'clock on a work night, and now that prospect is hit or miss. And I used to be able to start speaking a sentence without concern of whether a stabbing nerve pain would let me finish it. Today, maybe, for all I knew, who I used to be was gone.
I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the court and a whole courtroom full of folks watching--a captive audience resulting from my being first on the docket. More importantly, I didn't want a guilty person to go free because I pulled a Joe Biden and started rambling incoherently.
I used to do my oral arguments from a rough outline, where I wrote out the first two sentence to get myself started and then just used a few talking points from there, darting back and forth between those and the judges' questions. I don't trust myself to do that anymore, so I write out my entire planned delivery ahead of time.
That has usually gone ok. But this time I didn't get to practice my delivery much, because I collapsed in my bed from MS fatigue when it was still daylight outside the night before.
Please don't mistake this column for a lament of what MS is taking from me. It isn't about the early nights, the days where I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself, or those times when I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself.
I actually don't think my problems are all that unique. Maybe (hopefully) you don't have an incurable autoimmune disease, but you might look around and wonder every now and then much you have left in the tank.
It's been one of those seasons for me. And for Joe Biden too, I suppose. But he's not really my point.
My point is that lately I've been sitting (with my record player on per Uncle Joe's advice), wondering how much longer I can do this. I'm not a nearly 80-year-old man running for President (against a toddler), but some days I don't feel like I have my fastball any more.
For everyone, life gets harder in some ways every year from about age 26. You get new sets of bills and responsibilities, new sets of medical drama, more sick loved ones, and less natural energy. You start to get an increased urgency to fulfill whatever dreams you had back when you had time to look at the clouds.
When things start going sideways, at what point do you stop pursing your wildest, most unrealistic, dreams and just hold tighter to what you have? Or at least narrow down your list of dreams to just the one or two that are most important?
As I often do when I have important life questions, I look to one of my favorite bands. (I really do need to pull out that record player.)
It seems like a sad song, but it's really not.
Reality will break your heart
Survival will not be the hardest part
It's keeping all your hopes alive
When all the rest of you has died.
So let it break your heart.
Hold on to hope if you've got it
Don't let it go for nobody
They say that dreaming is free
I wouldn't care what it cost me.
-Paramore
That song is called "26," appropriately enough.
I've come to terms with the idea the fact that I'm never going to argue in front of the U.S. Supreme Court, which was my dream in my mid-twenties. I just don't have the health and energy to do what it takes to get there.
I'm ok with that. The end of this dream doesn't mean it's the end of dreaming.
Instead of trudging through life being sad about what is not to be, I just needed to come up with a better goal. Maybe if your long-held dream isn't working out, it isn't the right one for you either.
We can impact the world in more than one way.
There's a book inside of me. There are ways I can help. The crime victims I protect care more about sleeping through the night in peace than what courts are on my resume. I can still help them. I can continue my meager attempts through this blog to provide hope, or commiseration, for someone fighting against their body, their moods, or just life in general.
There's something more out there. Enough to keep hope alive, even if one dream has died. And even even if it broke your heart.
I'm going to hold on to the hope of what's still possible instead of looking back at what didn't work out the way I'd hoped.
And in the meantime, I can at least assure that my argument last went well. I woke up refreshed and my adrenaline carried me through. I mostly felt like my old self again. When it was over, I didn't feel like I had lied when I introduced myself.
I even think when the opinion is released, I'm going to win.
I hope so.
I mouthed the words "Andrew Smith, on behalf of the People." Inside I had no idea if the first part of that was really true.
I use to be good at this sort of thing. But I also used to be able to stay up past seven o'clock on a work night, and now that prospect is hit or miss. And I used to be able to start speaking a sentence without concern of whether a stabbing nerve pain would let me finish it. Today, maybe, for all I knew, who I used to be was gone.
It was my third oral argument before a panel of the California Court of Appeal in the last two months. I took this job in order to get to do these again, and hopefully even get to the Supreme Court someday. But between a heavy dose of arguments, a never-ending caseload of briefs to pump out, and a ridiculously long commute, lately I've been exhausted and fraying at the seams.
Oh, and I have this thing called multiple sclerosis.
I forget about it sometimes, but then it reminds me.
I didn't want to embarrass myself in front of the court and a whole courtroom full of folks watching--a captive audience resulting from my being first on the docket. More importantly, I didn't want a guilty person to go free because I pulled a Joe Biden and started rambling incoherently.
I used to do my oral arguments from a rough outline, where I wrote out the first two sentence to get myself started and then just used a few talking points from there, darting back and forth between those and the judges' questions. I don't trust myself to do that anymore, so I write out my entire planned delivery ahead of time.
That has usually gone ok. But this time I didn't get to practice my delivery much, because I collapsed in my bed from MS fatigue when it was still daylight outside the night before.
Please don't mistake this column for a lament of what MS is taking from me. It isn't about the early nights, the days where I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself, or those times when I can't find the word I'm looking for and end up repeating myself.
I actually don't think my problems are all that unique. Maybe (hopefully) you don't have an incurable autoimmune disease, but you might look around and wonder every now and then much you have left in the tank.
It's been one of those seasons for me. And for Joe Biden too, I suppose. But he's not really my point.
My point is that lately I've been sitting (with my record player on per Uncle Joe's advice), wondering how much longer I can do this. I'm not a nearly 80-year-old man running for President (against a toddler), but some days I don't feel like I have my fastball any more.
For everyone, life gets harder in some ways every year from about age 26. You get new sets of bills and responsibilities, new sets of medical drama, more sick loved ones, and less natural energy. You start to get an increased urgency to fulfill whatever dreams you had back when you had time to look at the clouds.
When things start going sideways, at what point do you stop pursing your wildest, most unrealistic, dreams and just hold tighter to what you have? Or at least narrow down your list of dreams to just the one or two that are most important?
As I often do when I have important life questions, I look to one of my favorite bands. (I really do need to pull out that record player.)
It seems like a sad song, but it's really not.
Reality will break your heart
Survival will not be the hardest part
It's keeping all your hopes alive
When all the rest of you has died.
So let it break your heart.
Hold on to hope if you've got it
Don't let it go for nobody
They say that dreaming is free
I wouldn't care what it cost me.
-Paramore
That song is called "26," appropriately enough.
I've come to terms with the idea the fact that I'm never going to argue in front of the U.S. Supreme Court, which was my dream in my mid-twenties. I just don't have the health and energy to do what it takes to get there.
I'm ok with that. The end of this dream doesn't mean it's the end of dreaming.
Instead of trudging through life being sad about what is not to be, I just needed to come up with a better goal. Maybe if your long-held dream isn't working out, it isn't the right one for you either.
We can impact the world in more than one way.
There's a book inside of me. There are ways I can help. The crime victims I protect care more about sleeping through the night in peace than what courts are on my resume. I can still help them. I can continue my meager attempts through this blog to provide hope, or commiseration, for someone fighting against their body, their moods, or just life in general.
There's something more out there. Enough to keep hope alive, even if one dream has died. And even even if it broke your heart.
I'm going to hold on to the hope of what's still possible instead of looking back at what didn't work out the way I'd hoped.
And in the meantime, I can at least assure that my argument last went well. I woke up refreshed and my adrenaline carried me through. I mostly felt like my old self again. When it was over, I didn't feel like I had lied when I introduced myself.
I even think when the opinion is released, I'm going to win.
I hope so.
Saturday, July 6, 2019
Summer Is Here: I Kind of Hate It
The most disappointing part of being an adult is losing the joy of summer.
When I was a kid, a typical summer day involved sleeping until 11 (I'm not disclosing whether this was a.m. or p.m), picking blackberries in the yard, riding my bike somewhere I wasn't supposed to go, and then coming home to eat an entire tub of ice cream.
Now, my typical summer day involves waking up early to take a long trip to work, getting scolded for putting the wrong cover sheet on my TPS report when I get there, then taking a hot train ride home. On a good night, maybe there will be something interesting on tv after I collapse on the couch.
I kinda miss the old days.
Summer had such unlimited potential as a kid. Every day promised endless opportunities for new adventures (assuming I woke up when it was still daylight outside). Play basketball? Go fishing? Is today feeling more like a bike or skateboard kind of day? Or maybe just wander the neighborhood and see what happens?
There were no bills to pay, no commute to work, and no battles to fight against the company trying to overcharge me or deny my prescription.
I longed for the day when I could drive and make money and no longer be dependent on my folks, but I didn't realize how good I had it. Driving means trips to the DMV, making money means having a boss, and being an adult means responsibility.
I could use a summer break from adulting.
In 2017, I spent all summer in rehab for a broken knee and studying for the California Bar Exam, in what was quite possibly the worst three months of my life. When summer 2018 came, I vowed I was going to have enough fun to make up for lost time.
There just wasn't much fun to be had.
Other than a wonderful trip to Prague, what I remember about last summer was that it was really hit, work was busy, and after July 4th, there was absolutely nothing interesting happening until fall. All the good mindless action movies now come out in the spring and avoid the summer heat too.
The idea of a lighthearted fun summer doesn't seem to exist in the adult world, except maybe for teachers who get the summer off. Most of us get maybe one week's vacation, and otherwise life is the same as always except it's hot outside, there are reruns on tv, and nothing meaningful happening.
Summer as a kid meant having more fun. Summer as an adult just means it hotter outside when you have to wear your work clothes.
I don't mean to complain, at least too much. I really had a great June. San Francisco is one of the best places on earth to be in the summertime (outside of the occasional meth addict yelling at you). I have an amazing trip to Europe coming up, the Warriors finally lost, and the Blues finally won, and the weather is still nice out here.
But I know that won't last forever. So while I still can, I'll grill out when its cool, I'll take a trip to Europe, and then I'll take some time off from this blog to sit by the fountain in my courtyard with a cool drink.
I'll do whatever I can do to create some summer fun, and I'll do my best to enjoy what life brings.
But it will never be the same as when I was a kid.
When I was a kid, a typical summer day involved sleeping until 11 (I'm not disclosing whether this was a.m. or p.m), picking blackberries in the yard, riding my bike somewhere I wasn't supposed to go, and then coming home to eat an entire tub of ice cream.
Now, my typical summer day involves waking up early to take a long trip to work, getting scolded for putting the wrong cover sheet on my TPS report when I get there, then taking a hot train ride home. On a good night, maybe there will be something interesting on tv after I collapse on the couch.
I kinda miss the old days.
Summer had such unlimited potential as a kid. Every day promised endless opportunities for new adventures (assuming I woke up when it was still daylight outside). Play basketball? Go fishing? Is today feeling more like a bike or skateboard kind of day? Or maybe just wander the neighborhood and see what happens?
There were no bills to pay, no commute to work, and no battles to fight against the company trying to overcharge me or deny my prescription.
I longed for the day when I could drive and make money and no longer be dependent on my folks, but I didn't realize how good I had it. Driving means trips to the DMV, making money means having a boss, and being an adult means responsibility.
I could use a summer break from adulting.
In 2017, I spent all summer in rehab for a broken knee and studying for the California Bar Exam, in what was quite possibly the worst three months of my life. When summer 2018 came, I vowed I was going to have enough fun to make up for lost time.
There just wasn't much fun to be had.
Other than a wonderful trip to Prague, what I remember about last summer was that it was really hit, work was busy, and after July 4th, there was absolutely nothing interesting happening until fall. All the good mindless action movies now come out in the spring and avoid the summer heat too.
The idea of a lighthearted fun summer doesn't seem to exist in the adult world, except maybe for teachers who get the summer off. Most of us get maybe one week's vacation, and otherwise life is the same as always except it's hot outside, there are reruns on tv, and nothing meaningful happening.
Summer as a kid meant having more fun. Summer as an adult just means it hotter outside when you have to wear your work clothes.
I don't mean to complain, at least too much. I really had a great June. San Francisco is one of the best places on earth to be in the summertime (outside of the occasional meth addict yelling at you). I have an amazing trip to Europe coming up, the Warriors finally lost, and the Blues finally won, and the weather is still nice out here.
But I know that won't last forever. So while I still can, I'll grill out when its cool, I'll take a trip to Europe, and then I'll take some time off from this blog to sit by the fountain in my courtyard with a cool drink.
I'll do whatever I can do to create some summer fun, and I'll do my best to enjoy what life brings.
But it will never be the same as when I was a kid.
Saturday, May 18, 2019
My Four-Hour Commute: Just Another Tuesday In the Bay Area
It was a normal Tuesday, the kind that seemed to exist just to take up space on the calendar between Monday and the weekend. And then, as the story so often goes, it all went wrong the moment I stopped to take a vitamin.
7:03: I have two minutes until I need to leave for work. I open the back to door to leave, when I remember that I forgot to take my Vitamin D. I would just leave, but Vitamin D, for reasons no one understands, helps people like me with MS manage their symptoms. I should go ahead and take it, so I don't forget.
7:06: I crank up the car, one minute late. I drive to the subway station to take the train to work, and the parking garage fills up by about 7:30. It's about a 20-minute drive, and try to get there by 7:25, just to be safe. I should be parked by 7:26, so it should be fine.
7:23: I pull in to the seven-level garage. My commute to work involves a 15-minute drive to the subway station, a five-minute drive to top level of the parking garage, a 50-minute train ride into San Francisco, and then a 7-minute walk from the station to my office. The whole process takes about an hour and a half if all goes well.
Today it did not.
7:27: The garage is unnervingly full, but I see a handful of spaces left. I should be fine, but the cars in front of me are taking their sweet time pulling into open spots. Meanwhile, cars coming from the other direction are filling them fast.
7:28: There are two spots left. The car in front of me is taking one of them.
7:29: And a car coming from the other direction just took the other.
7:30: Crap. But there is no need to panic. This has happened before, and the next station is only about five minutes away. Its parking garage usually doesn't fill up until about 7:45. I drive over, trying to move quickly to beat all the other cars who will soon have the same idea.
7:41: This garage is full too. But there is another garage on the other side of the freeway.
7:47: The car two spots ahead of me takes the last spot in the third garage. I've never seen all three garages of these garages full before I arrived. I've only worked in San Francisco a few months, and I have no idea what the next option is.
7:49: There's a shopping center across the street from the train station. I see people parking there and walking over, but I also see signs everywhere saying that those who do so will be towed. I'm scared to try it, so I drive over to the next station.
7:59: This station doesn't have a garage, but instead a large maze-like parking lot featuring a lot of dead ends. Its a traffic nightmare as cars buzz through and turn around. There are no spots to be had and about 100 cars circling, whose drivers seem to be feeling as frazzled as I am.
8:00: The drive to San Francisco takes about 45 minutes on a weekend, but I've never driven to work on a weekday the morning because I know the traffic is awful. According to the news, cars usually spend half an hour just waiting in line at the toll booth to take the bridge over the bay. But today, I'm going to have to try it.
8:10: It occurs to me that I probably should have stopped to use the bathroom before I got back on the freeway. MS causes many people, myself included, to go to the bathroom frequently and urgently. All the Vitamin D in the world doesn't prevent that.
8:20: As I fight through stop-and-go traffic, I really hate myself for not going to the bathroom. This is not going to be a fun drive in, and I'm no longer talking about the traffic. But I really don't want to stop because I'm already going to be late.
8:30: I'm somewhere in Oakland. Traffic is crawling. My bladder is screaming. I want to die.
8:33: I'm just going to have to get off on the next exit.
8:35: I get off and discover the exit has absolutely no services. But at least I wasted five minutes figuring that out. There are no businesses around, so I consider just pulling over to the side of the road to do my business, but I picture a newspaper article titled, "Local Attorney Arrested for Peeing by Freeway," and I can't bring myself to do it.
8:40: The next exit is in a horrible part of town and has one extremely sketchy looking gas station. But if that station has a toilet, it will forever hold a special place in my heart.
8:41: There are lots of sketchy looking people just hanging out in front of the gas station at 8:41 on a Tuesday morning. I wonder what has to happen in one's life to arrive in that position. But mostly I wonder if there's a bathroom.
8:42: Success! Oh thank God. That was excruciating. And the bathroom was even slightly cleaner than the condition of the station would have suggested. I have a new love for this part of Oakland. Maybe I'll come back to this wonderful place in my spare time this weekend.
8:45: I don't need gas, but I had to buy something to use the facilities so I handed the cashier ten bucks for gas to get a restroom key. I fill up as quickly as I can. It's early but I'm in a bad part of town that I don't know very well, and there already seems to be a lot of activity around me.
8:46: As I replace the gas nozzle, hop in the car, and hurry to leave, the driver of another car pulls in front of me. He signals for me to roll down my window.
8:48: My heart races. Part of me wants to just accelerate and get out of dodge, but I fear that might escalate whatever is about to happen. I'm already in the driver's seat of cranked car, so I can still take off quickly if I need to. And while I don't relish the thought of talking to strangers waiving at me in a hard-luck area of any demographic composition, I also don't want to be the white guy who flees just because a twenty-something year old minority tries to talk to me.
8:49: I roll down my window, expecting to be asked if I have any spare gas money. My car is modest, but it's nicer than the others here, so I am probably a natural target.
8:49: "Excuse me," the young man says. "You left your gas cap open."
8:50: I thank him just a little too warmly, because I feel terrible about myself. I've never felt more like a privileged, prejudiced jerk.
9:00: I'm back on the freeway, and traffic is still crawling. I packed my chicken-guacamole sandwich two hours ago, and it's going to spoil by the time I get to the office. It's 9:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I've already today I've managed to ruin a perfectly good sandwich and prove myself a racist.
9:05: Sitting in traffic, I eat my sandwich and the yogurt I packed for lunch. Otherwise I just have to throw them away whenever I finally get to the office, which at this rate might not be until Friday.
9:20: I'm not even across Oakland yet. I pull up my traffic app to see what time I'll actually get to my office on the other side of the bay. It says 10:45.
9:25: I turn around to go back toward home.
9:35: Really, I do. A batch of parking spots at my train station are reserved for monthly pass holders (I've been on the waiting list to become one for over a year), but whatever spaces are not filled by 10 become open to the public. I can drive back to the station, and claim one of those spots if I get in right at 10. If I do, I can ride in and be at the office by 11, which is about the same time I'll get there if I continue to fight through this traffic.
9:45: Now I'm caught in traffic getting back to my station as well. I'm not going to make it by 10. I'm pretty sure this is what Hell must be.
9:48: I won't get back to my subway station by 10, but I can get to the station with the weird maze of dead ends by then. I noticed that station also had some monthly reserved spots that open at 10. I get there at 9:54, and I hover over a reserved spot until 9:58. There being no parking enforcement officer in sight, I walk to catch the train.
10:58: I finally get to the office, almost four hours after I left home. Along the way, I almost used the bathroom on myself, I was wrongly suspicious of a nice young man, and I had to eat lunch at 9:00 a.m. It's been quite a day already.
I'm exhausted and ready to turn around and go home, but technically I should stay late to make up for not arriving until late morning.
And the worst part is that I know I'll have to do it all again tomorrow.
7:03: I have two minutes until I need to leave for work. I open the back to door to leave, when I remember that I forgot to take my Vitamin D. I would just leave, but Vitamin D, for reasons no one understands, helps people like me with MS manage their symptoms. I should go ahead and take it, so I don't forget.
7:06: I crank up the car, one minute late. I drive to the subway station to take the train to work, and the parking garage fills up by about 7:30. It's about a 20-minute drive, and try to get there by 7:25, just to be safe. I should be parked by 7:26, so it should be fine.
7:23: I pull in to the seven-level garage. My commute to work involves a 15-minute drive to the subway station, a five-minute drive to top level of the parking garage, a 50-minute train ride into San Francisco, and then a 7-minute walk from the station to my office. The whole process takes about an hour and a half if all goes well.
Today it did not.
7:27: The garage is unnervingly full, but I see a handful of spaces left. I should be fine, but the cars in front of me are taking their sweet time pulling into open spots. Meanwhile, cars coming from the other direction are filling them fast.
7:28: There are two spots left. The car in front of me is taking one of them.
7:29: And a car coming from the other direction just took the other.
7:30: Crap. But there is no need to panic. This has happened before, and the next station is only about five minutes away. Its parking garage usually doesn't fill up until about 7:45. I drive over, trying to move quickly to beat all the other cars who will soon have the same idea.
7:41: This garage is full too. But there is another garage on the other side of the freeway.
7:47: The car two spots ahead of me takes the last spot in the third garage. I've never seen all three garages of these garages full before I arrived. I've only worked in San Francisco a few months, and I have no idea what the next option is.
7:49: There's a shopping center across the street from the train station. I see people parking there and walking over, but I also see signs everywhere saying that those who do so will be towed. I'm scared to try it, so I drive over to the next station.
7:59: This station doesn't have a garage, but instead a large maze-like parking lot featuring a lot of dead ends. Its a traffic nightmare as cars buzz through and turn around. There are no spots to be had and about 100 cars circling, whose drivers seem to be feeling as frazzled as I am.
8:00: The drive to San Francisco takes about 45 minutes on a weekend, but I've never driven to work on a weekday the morning because I know the traffic is awful. According to the news, cars usually spend half an hour just waiting in line at the toll booth to take the bridge over the bay. But today, I'm going to have to try it.
8:10: It occurs to me that I probably should have stopped to use the bathroom before I got back on the freeway. MS causes many people, myself included, to go to the bathroom frequently and urgently. All the Vitamin D in the world doesn't prevent that.
8:20: As I fight through stop-and-go traffic, I really hate myself for not going to the bathroom. This is not going to be a fun drive in, and I'm no longer talking about the traffic. But I really don't want to stop because I'm already going to be late.
8:30: I'm somewhere in Oakland. Traffic is crawling. My bladder is screaming. I want to die.
8:33: I'm just going to have to get off on the next exit.
8:35: I get off and discover the exit has absolutely no services. But at least I wasted five minutes figuring that out. There are no businesses around, so I consider just pulling over to the side of the road to do my business, but I picture a newspaper article titled, "Local Attorney Arrested for Peeing by Freeway," and I can't bring myself to do it.
8:40: The next exit is in a horrible part of town and has one extremely sketchy looking gas station. But if that station has a toilet, it will forever hold a special place in my heart.
8:41: There are lots of sketchy looking people just hanging out in front of the gas station at 8:41 on a Tuesday morning. I wonder what has to happen in one's life to arrive in that position. But mostly I wonder if there's a bathroom.
8:42: Success! Oh thank God. That was excruciating. And the bathroom was even slightly cleaner than the condition of the station would have suggested. I have a new love for this part of Oakland. Maybe I'll come back to this wonderful place in my spare time this weekend.
8:45: I don't need gas, but I had to buy something to use the facilities so I handed the cashier ten bucks for gas to get a restroom key. I fill up as quickly as I can. It's early but I'm in a bad part of town that I don't know very well, and there already seems to be a lot of activity around me.
8:46: As I replace the gas nozzle, hop in the car, and hurry to leave, the driver of another car pulls in front of me. He signals for me to roll down my window.
8:48: My heart races. Part of me wants to just accelerate and get out of dodge, but I fear that might escalate whatever is about to happen. I'm already in the driver's seat of cranked car, so I can still take off quickly if I need to. And while I don't relish the thought of talking to strangers waiving at me in a hard-luck area of any demographic composition, I also don't want to be the white guy who flees just because a twenty-something year old minority tries to talk to me.
8:49: I roll down my window, expecting to be asked if I have any spare gas money. My car is modest, but it's nicer than the others here, so I am probably a natural target.
8:49: "Excuse me," the young man says. "You left your gas cap open."
8:50: I thank him just a little too warmly, because I feel terrible about myself. I've never felt more like a privileged, prejudiced jerk.
9:00: I'm back on the freeway, and traffic is still crawling. I packed my chicken-guacamole sandwich two hours ago, and it's going to spoil by the time I get to the office. It's 9:00 a.m. on a Tuesday, and I've already today I've managed to ruin a perfectly good sandwich and prove myself a racist.
9:05: Sitting in traffic, I eat my sandwich and the yogurt I packed for lunch. Otherwise I just have to throw them away whenever I finally get to the office, which at this rate might not be until Friday.
9:20: I'm not even across Oakland yet. I pull up my traffic app to see what time I'll actually get to my office on the other side of the bay. It says 10:45.
9:25: I turn around to go back toward home.
9:35: Really, I do. A batch of parking spots at my train station are reserved for monthly pass holders (I've been on the waiting list to become one for over a year), but whatever spaces are not filled by 10 become open to the public. I can drive back to the station, and claim one of those spots if I get in right at 10. If I do, I can ride in and be at the office by 11, which is about the same time I'll get there if I continue to fight through this traffic.
9:45: Now I'm caught in traffic getting back to my station as well. I'm not going to make it by 10. I'm pretty sure this is what Hell must be.
9:48: I won't get back to my subway station by 10, but I can get to the station with the weird maze of dead ends by then. I noticed that station also had some monthly reserved spots that open at 10. I get there at 9:54, and I hover over a reserved spot until 9:58. There being no parking enforcement officer in sight, I walk to catch the train.
10:58: I finally get to the office, almost four hours after I left home. Along the way, I almost used the bathroom on myself, I was wrongly suspicious of a nice young man, and I had to eat lunch at 9:00 a.m. It's been quite a day already.
I'm exhausted and ready to turn around and go home, but technically I should stay late to make up for not arriving until late morning.
And the worst part is that I know I'll have to do it all again tomorrow.
Monday, March 18, 2019
Running Diary: Running a Half Marathon with MS and a Not-Quite-Healed Broken Kneecap
It's 5 minutes to the beginning of the Livermore Half Marathon, and I'm near the start line with two major problems.
One, I've lost my chewable energy tablets somewhere between the car and the coffee shop bathroom. I've retraced my steps twice and can't find them. I will run out of gas about mile 10 without some nutrition to get me through the whole 13.1. But the race is about to start, so I just have to hope the volunteers will hand some out along the way.
My second problem is slightly more important. Last week I reaggravated the knee I broke two years ago. I haven't run since then. Until yesterday, I couldn't even walk without a limp.
The smart thing would probably to sit this one out, to call it until next time. But after breaking my knee in a nasty fall two years ago, this is the first time I've been able to try something like this. I've been training for three months for this, my annual hometown race. Also, I have MS.
Multiple sclerosis is a disease where the body's immune system attacks its own nerves, potentially leading to paralysis and all kinds of other problems. There is no cure, but there are medications to slow down the unpredictable progression. In short, there's no guarantee I'll ever get to try this again. Besides, I raised $2100 toward research for a cure for MS through people sponsoring me for this race. I can't let them down.
It's going to take a whole lot of pain to take this moment away from me. Even if I run out of energy at mile 11.
Here's what happened:
7:29 a.m.: Usually, races start a few minutes late. The organizers double-check to make sure the course is clear. They play the national anthem. They make some announcements. None of that happened here, and the emcee just started a ten-second countdown and it isn't even 7:30. The good news is that my knee feels ok, at least when I walk around. The bad news is that I was a little late to the party because I was looking for my energy tablets, so I had to hop over a barricade just to get into race. Also, my GPS watch hasn't picked up a signal yet. It has exactly 10 seconds...
7:29:15: I have a signal just in time. We're off.
7:32: There's no immediate pain in my knee. I breathe a sigh of relief. But not too hard, because I'm going to need all the oxygen I can get.
7:34: My first mile is filled with dodging slowpokes who for some reason wanted to start near the front of the race. I try not to waste energy running around people at the start of races, but in a couple instances people are almost walking from the start, so I have no choice.
7:38: The forecast called for a small chance of rain, which creates a dilemma. I usually have to run with sunglasses because MS causes me to go completely blind in my left eye when I get hot (historical note: before spinal taps, people suspected of having MS were thrown in hot tubs. If they went blind, they were diagnosed. Having been through a spinal tap, I don't know why they ever went away from the hot tub method).
I notice my running-induced blindness less if I have sunglasses on, so I wear them regardless of the weather. But they don't come with windshield wipers.
7:42: Sunglasses off. It's lightly raining.
7:58: Somewhere about mile 3.5 the sunglasses go back on. The sun is out, and suddenly bright. My knee is holding up, and I'm feeling good. I say a prayer of thanks. It's been so long since I've been able to do this.
8:05: Usually one of the highlights of race day are the crazy signs spectators have. Messages like "Worst Parade Ever" and "If Brittany can survive 2007, you can survive this" are among the highlights. I also fondly remember "Go Dan! Don't poop your pants!" from a prior year. I see one that says "I Bet You Thought You Were Signing Up for A Rum, not a Run."
8:17: I approach an aide station for some water at the 6 mile mark. I make eye contact with a volunteer, as is the protocol, and go to grab a drink mid-stride. Unfortunately, the person in front of me decided to grab her water and just stop right in front of me. I collide into her, fairly hard. She looks angry as though this was somehow my fault. I collect myself and keep going and she continues to stand there and block the path. It looks like maybe she knows a volunteer, and she picked a really bad spot for social hour.
8:33: Finally at mile 8 volunteers hand out an energy gel. I take one, expecting to grab another at mile 10. And no one stopped in front of me at this station.
8:41: My time has been pretty good so far. I'm just about on pace to set a new personal record, but mile 9 is steep uphill climb that usually comes close to killing me. I feel strong climbing it this time, but my time was not very good. I need to get about 3 more energy gels at mile 10.
8:49:06: There's no gel at mile 10, just water and a sports drink. I go to grab the latter, just as another runner decides to grab one. He stops to drink it in the middle of the course.
8:49:08: I crash into him, spilling half my drink on his backside. Why are people stopping on the course????? Unless you're hurt, or think you're in last place, why would you stop in the middle of the race path? What do people expect to happen when they suddenly stop directly in front of an aid station that others also need to get to? I apologized for running into both people I crashed into, but honestly, they both kinda deserved it.
8:57: I'm on to mile 11, and my watch reflects what I feel: I'm out of gas. I'm not going to set any records this race, but at least my body is not going to break down. Two years ago at this point, my left leg almost stopped working. This time, I'm just tired. This is progress, in a certain way, but I really wish I had some energy tablets.
9:04: Race exhaustion creates a special type of incoherence. At a certain point, the body is working so hard that the mind can no longer think of anything but survival. I lose the ability to read signs in the crowd or to comprehend the music in my headphones.
I check the distance on my watch every few seconds counting down to the finish line. I just need to finish. I have no idea, however, where the finish line actually will be. The races mile markers have either been missing or comically incorrect the first twelve miles. I hit what the race marked as "Mile 6" after 5.8 miles, but didn't hit "Mile 7" until 7.2. Mile 8 was at 7.78. There was no Mile 5 or Mile 11 sign at all.
9:12: There was also no Mile 13 sign. But at least there was also no one stopping to look at it for me to bump into.
9:14: I'm back in downtown Livermore. There's one more turn, and I'll be at the finish line, having completed my first race in two years. I needed crutches, a cane, or a knee brace for 18 months after my fall. My physical therapist told me MS might keep my muscles from ever rebounding enough to be able to fully walk again, much less run. I wasn't sure this day would ever come.
9:16: There's a toddler at the last turn, offering high fives to runner before the home stretch. I don't usually take any detours during races. 13.1 miles is long enough. But I see him, and his enthusiasm moves me. Literally. I run over to slap his hand.
9:17: As I hit the home stretch, I see my wife and some friends standing near the finish line. I point up to the sky for my finish line picture. I'm so thankful. I needed all the help I could get for this one, but I did it!
My official time was 1:47:55 seconds. That time was 30 seconds slower than my best ever, but roughly in the middle of the 8 races I've completed. In other words, my time was right about normal for me. After two years in exile, it was perfect.
28 months ago I was newly diagnosed with MS and in tears on the same running trail . In my first run-post MS diagnosis, I was half blind and my legs wobbled underneath me in a way that felt terrifying.
"You can't stop me," I screamed into the wind, but I was crying because deep down, I wasn't sure I believed it. Still, I vowed that while MS might make me take some detours, it wouldn't keep me from moving forward.
Today, I met my promise. It took 34 physical therapy sessions, and way more time and leg workouts than I care to remember, but my detour finally ended. I took another small one to high five a kid to celebrate the finish, but through it all, I kept going forward.
Even if the runner in front of me stopped directly in my way.
One, I've lost my chewable energy tablets somewhere between the car and the coffee shop bathroom. I've retraced my steps twice and can't find them. I will run out of gas about mile 10 without some nutrition to get me through the whole 13.1. But the race is about to start, so I just have to hope the volunteers will hand some out along the way.
My second problem is slightly more important. Last week I reaggravated the knee I broke two years ago. I haven't run since then. Until yesterday, I couldn't even walk without a limp.
The smart thing would probably to sit this one out, to call it until next time. But after breaking my knee in a nasty fall two years ago, this is the first time I've been able to try something like this. I've been training for three months for this, my annual hometown race. Also, I have MS.
Multiple sclerosis is a disease where the body's immune system attacks its own nerves, potentially leading to paralysis and all kinds of other problems. There is no cure, but there are medications to slow down the unpredictable progression. In short, there's no guarantee I'll ever get to try this again. Besides, I raised $2100 toward research for a cure for MS through people sponsoring me for this race. I can't let them down.
It's going to take a whole lot of pain to take this moment away from me. Even if I run out of energy at mile 11.
Here's what happened:
7:29 a.m.: Usually, races start a few minutes late. The organizers double-check to make sure the course is clear. They play the national anthem. They make some announcements. None of that happened here, and the emcee just started a ten-second countdown and it isn't even 7:30. The good news is that my knee feels ok, at least when I walk around. The bad news is that I was a little late to the party because I was looking for my energy tablets, so I had to hop over a barricade just to get into race. Also, my GPS watch hasn't picked up a signal yet. It has exactly 10 seconds...
7:29:15: I have a signal just in time. We're off.
7:32: There's no immediate pain in my knee. I breathe a sigh of relief. But not too hard, because I'm going to need all the oxygen I can get.
7:34: My first mile is filled with dodging slowpokes who for some reason wanted to start near the front of the race. I try not to waste energy running around people at the start of races, but in a couple instances people are almost walking from the start, so I have no choice.
7:38: The forecast called for a small chance of rain, which creates a dilemma. I usually have to run with sunglasses because MS causes me to go completely blind in my left eye when I get hot (historical note: before spinal taps, people suspected of having MS were thrown in hot tubs. If they went blind, they were diagnosed. Having been through a spinal tap, I don't know why they ever went away from the hot tub method).
I notice my running-induced blindness less if I have sunglasses on, so I wear them regardless of the weather. But they don't come with windshield wipers.
7:42: Sunglasses off. It's lightly raining.
7:58: Somewhere about mile 3.5 the sunglasses go back on. The sun is out, and suddenly bright. My knee is holding up, and I'm feeling good. I say a prayer of thanks. It's been so long since I've been able to do this.
8:05: Usually one of the highlights of race day are the crazy signs spectators have. Messages like "Worst Parade Ever" and "If Brittany can survive 2007, you can survive this" are among the highlights. I also fondly remember "Go Dan! Don't poop your pants!" from a prior year. I see one that says "I Bet You Thought You Were Signing Up for A Rum, not a Run."
8:17: I approach an aide station for some water at the 6 mile mark. I make eye contact with a volunteer, as is the protocol, and go to grab a drink mid-stride. Unfortunately, the person in front of me decided to grab her water and just stop right in front of me. I collide into her, fairly hard. She looks angry as though this was somehow my fault. I collect myself and keep going and she continues to stand there and block the path. It looks like maybe she knows a volunteer, and she picked a really bad spot for social hour.
8:33: Finally at mile 8 volunteers hand out an energy gel. I take one, expecting to grab another at mile 10. And no one stopped in front of me at this station.
8:41: My time has been pretty good so far. I'm just about on pace to set a new personal record, but mile 9 is steep uphill climb that usually comes close to killing me. I feel strong climbing it this time, but my time was not very good. I need to get about 3 more energy gels at mile 10.
8:49:06: There's no gel at mile 10, just water and a sports drink. I go to grab the latter, just as another runner decides to grab one. He stops to drink it in the middle of the course.
8:49:08: I crash into him, spilling half my drink on his backside. Why are people stopping on the course????? Unless you're hurt, or think you're in last place, why would you stop in the middle of the race path? What do people expect to happen when they suddenly stop directly in front of an aid station that others also need to get to? I apologized for running into both people I crashed into, but honestly, they both kinda deserved it.
8:57: I'm on to mile 11, and my watch reflects what I feel: I'm out of gas. I'm not going to set any records this race, but at least my body is not going to break down. Two years ago at this point, my left leg almost stopped working. This time, I'm just tired. This is progress, in a certain way, but I really wish I had some energy tablets.
9:04: Race exhaustion creates a special type of incoherence. At a certain point, the body is working so hard that the mind can no longer think of anything but survival. I lose the ability to read signs in the crowd or to comprehend the music in my headphones.
I check the distance on my watch every few seconds counting down to the finish line. I just need to finish. I have no idea, however, where the finish line actually will be. The races mile markers have either been missing or comically incorrect the first twelve miles. I hit what the race marked as "Mile 6" after 5.8 miles, but didn't hit "Mile 7" until 7.2. Mile 8 was at 7.78. There was no Mile 5 or Mile 11 sign at all.
9:12: There was also no Mile 13 sign. But at least there was also no one stopping to look at it for me to bump into.
9:14: I'm back in downtown Livermore. There's one more turn, and I'll be at the finish line, having completed my first race in two years. I needed crutches, a cane, or a knee brace for 18 months after my fall. My physical therapist told me MS might keep my muscles from ever rebounding enough to be able to fully walk again, much less run. I wasn't sure this day would ever come.
9:16: There's a toddler at the last turn, offering high fives to runner before the home stretch. I don't usually take any detours during races. 13.1 miles is long enough. But I see him, and his enthusiasm moves me. Literally. I run over to slap his hand.
9:17: As I hit the home stretch, I see my wife and some friends standing near the finish line. I point up to the sky for my finish line picture. I'm so thankful. I needed all the help I could get for this one, but I did it!
My official time was 1:47:55 seconds. That time was 30 seconds slower than my best ever, but roughly in the middle of the 8 races I've completed. In other words, my time was right about normal for me. After two years in exile, it was perfect.
28 months ago I was newly diagnosed with MS and in tears on the same running trail . In my first run-post MS diagnosis, I was half blind and my legs wobbled underneath me in a way that felt terrifying.
"You can't stop me," I screamed into the wind, but I was crying because deep down, I wasn't sure I believed it. Still, I vowed that while MS might make me take some detours, it wouldn't keep me from moving forward.
Today, I met my promise. It took 34 physical therapy sessions, and way more time and leg workouts than I care to remember, but my detour finally ended. I took another small one to high five a kid to celebrate the finish, but through it all, I kept going forward.
Even if the runner in front of me stopped directly in my way.
Wednesday, February 6, 2019
13.1 Miles to Finish MS
The hardest thing I've ever had to deal with wasn't living with multiple sclerosis. It was living with MS and a broken leg.
MS gives me more issues that I can quickly describe, but I've managed ok thus far against just it. Add in a broken kneecap to the mix, and life gets more complicated.
Combine MS with a broken kneecap that defied medical science in its steadfast and inexplicable refusal to heal, and you'll begin to get the picture of my last 21 months.
I fell on a dark Portland sidewalk in May 2017. I tore my jeans and it hurt. Sometimes people look at me incredulously when I tell them I broke my knee by falling, and they and ask me how I fell.
I have MS, I remind them.
And also it was dark out and I didn't see the little curb cut on the sidewalk that allowed people in wheelchairs to cross the street. I guess you could say that it was that particular disability accommodation, combined with my own disability, that was my literal downfall.
I walked through the Portland airport just fine the next day as I returned from a work trip. I was thankful the damage wasn't worse. It was mildly uncomfortable by the time I got to Oakland, but I made it home just fine. Two days later I had a trip to Japan scheduled, and it looked like I would be ok.
The next day was noticeable worse, but I could walk. I wondered whether to cancel the trip, but I was afraid the swelling would impede any type of reliable medical evaluation so early on.
So I bought the bulkiest knee brace I could find and hobbled my way onto the plane, hoping that the injury would be just a sprain that would get better after a few days.
Instead, things got worse for a week until I got home.
I went to the emergency room the day after I got back. The flustered doctor there, who looked about 14, told me it was just a bruise and it would be fine in 10 days. When I told Doogie Howser it had already been 10 days and I couldn't walk a step, he told me to go see a specialist.
It would be the first drop in a sea of misdiagnoses to come.
The specialist didn't see a break on the X-ray, but he referred me for an MRI. The MRI showed a microscopic fracture, so small that it's colloquially known as a bone bruise. "Six-to-eight weeks and you'll be fine," he told me.
If only.
The first time I walked without crutches was about six weeks later, after my physical therapist re-taught me how to walk. I thought the worst was behind me. But one Sunday in July I walked too many steps in a museum and my knee gave out again.
I was back on crutches for weeks.
The same pattern continued for the next eight months. I'd get better, put away the crutches, and then take one step too many at Walgreen's and need mobility assistance for weeks. If I moved from 2.7 to 2.9 mph on the gravity assisted treadmill at PT, I might overdo it and be back on my cane. If I parked too far from the entrance to the store, all bets were off.
Neither my doctor nor my PT could explain it.
The same PT who taught me how to walk warned me that this might just be what life was going to look like for me, considering the MS. An ordinary person could bounce back from this, he said, but I might not be able to rebuild the needed muscles to freely walk again. My body was already trying to destroy itself, after all.
My orthopedic doctor didn't have any good answers either. Five months in, he didn't understand why I hadn't progressed in my healing since week 6. He sent me for another MRI which showed the original break was somehow worse than the prior images had shown. "That type of break takes six months," he told me.
But he was wrong again.
Six months came and went I noticed I needed the cane less often and hardly ever the crutches. But I still needed a brace every day and couldn't walk more than a few yards. At the eight-month mark, I ran a single, painful, twelve-minute mile, and I was back on the cane for weeks.
The pattern continued for 34 physical therapy sessions over 18 months, and there were plenty of moments when I wondered whether I'd ever again be able to walk freely again. I cancelled my bucket-list trip to Machu Picchu because I couldn't move around.
I had to keep cancelling races too. I'd run seven half marathons before the broken knee, and had signed up for two more races that my knee wouldn't allow. I needed the goal of a race in sight as a light at the end of the tunnel for my rehab, but I got really tired of the disappointment of cancelling.
But as difficult as it was, the hard part wasn't just the fact of not being able to walk or run.
Staying active is one of the best way to fight MS, and I couldn't. By the time knee healed, I wondered if it would be too late for the rest of my leg to work.
But regardless, I fired the physical therapist who told me to get used to life with a cane.
Other people told me the same thing, and I think they meant well. They wanted me to stop torturing myself with cancelled races and vacations and accept that life would be different now. But I don't think they understood that I was going to be tortured regardless. So why give up hope for a light at the end of the tunnel?
My doctor released me from his care when I showed a few signs of finally getting in sight of turning a corner. My recovery was so imperceptibly slow that the only way I could measure it was to notice that on a good day I walk one more block than two months before, but after nine months, when I was far from healed, but could point to some verifiable improvement since week 6, he sent me packing.
I think he was worried about getting sued.
Eventually, the crutches gave way to the cane, which gave way again to the crutches, which gave way to the cane. After a few months, I added a knee brace to mix, and was able to survive just with that, at least until I overdid it again and needed the cane.
It's now been 21 months since I broke my knee, and two months since I last used the brace.
Coming back from it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I think I'm finally done with the brace, and the cane, and the crutches. I've said that so many times before, but this time it seems real. I just ran 11 miles without them.
And somehow, according to my most recent MRI, my MS didn't visibly progress during the whole ordeal.
I healed just in time to run my hometown half marathon this year. I would have liked another month to train for it, because at this point, I'm not quite the runner I used to be. Despite what my MRI says, I notice that I can't always run in a straight line anymore and my feet tend to kick the opposite leg when I get tired.
But I'm pretty sure I'll be able to do 13 miles by March 3, and I haven't given up that I'll whip into shape and run them faster than I did in any of my others seven races. I've also linked my race to the National MS Society's "Finish MS" Fundraiser, where people can dedicate their entry into an athletic contest to fundraise for a cure. You can read more about that here.
https://secure.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR?px=15646597&fr_id=29926&pg=personal
I'm running for donations to find a cure for MS, but it's more than just that.
I'm running to show that the even the most inexplicable, frustrating, and soul-sucking journey of life can end eventually. I'm running as a means of refusing to give up on a dream that other people think is unrealistic. I'm running because I've learned that joy in life isn't about never falling down. It's about getting back up again when you do, and moving toward the goal.
But mostly, I'm running because I finally can.
I wasn't sure this day would ever come.
If you'd like to quite literally be a part of the event, I've set up a link for donations on my Facebook page. I'd love your support to help Finish MS.
My knee is still delicate and overexertion can lead to another MS attack, so my old physical therapist probably thinks this whole thing is a bad idea.
But I wouldn't have gotten anywhere had I listened to him. And definitely not the 13.1 miles from the starting line of the race until the finish line.
MS gives me more issues that I can quickly describe, but I've managed ok thus far against just it. Add in a broken kneecap to the mix, and life gets more complicated.
Combine MS with a broken kneecap that defied medical science in its steadfast and inexplicable refusal to heal, and you'll begin to get the picture of my last 21 months.
I fell on a dark Portland sidewalk in May 2017. I tore my jeans and it hurt. Sometimes people look at me incredulously when I tell them I broke my knee by falling, and they and ask me how I fell.
I have MS, I remind them.
And also it was dark out and I didn't see the little curb cut on the sidewalk that allowed people in wheelchairs to cross the street. I guess you could say that it was that particular disability accommodation, combined with my own disability, that was my literal downfall.
I walked through the Portland airport just fine the next day as I returned from a work trip. I was thankful the damage wasn't worse. It was mildly uncomfortable by the time I got to Oakland, but I made it home just fine. Two days later I had a trip to Japan scheduled, and it looked like I would be ok.
The next day was noticeable worse, but I could walk. I wondered whether to cancel the trip, but I was afraid the swelling would impede any type of reliable medical evaluation so early on.
So I bought the bulkiest knee brace I could find and hobbled my way onto the plane, hoping that the injury would be just a sprain that would get better after a few days.
Instead, things got worse for a week until I got home.
I went to the emergency room the day after I got back. The flustered doctor there, who looked about 14, told me it was just a bruise and it would be fine in 10 days. When I told Doogie Howser it had already been 10 days and I couldn't walk a step, he told me to go see a specialist.
It would be the first drop in a sea of misdiagnoses to come.
The specialist didn't see a break on the X-ray, but he referred me for an MRI. The MRI showed a microscopic fracture, so small that it's colloquially known as a bone bruise. "Six-to-eight weeks and you'll be fine," he told me.
If only.
The first time I walked without crutches was about six weeks later, after my physical therapist re-taught me how to walk. I thought the worst was behind me. But one Sunday in July I walked too many steps in a museum and my knee gave out again.
I was back on crutches for weeks.
The same pattern continued for the next eight months. I'd get better, put away the crutches, and then take one step too many at Walgreen's and need mobility assistance for weeks. If I moved from 2.7 to 2.9 mph on the gravity assisted treadmill at PT, I might overdo it and be back on my cane. If I parked too far from the entrance to the store, all bets were off.
Neither my doctor nor my PT could explain it.
The same PT who taught me how to walk warned me that this might just be what life was going to look like for me, considering the MS. An ordinary person could bounce back from this, he said, but I might not be able to rebuild the needed muscles to freely walk again. My body was already trying to destroy itself, after all.
My orthopedic doctor didn't have any good answers either. Five months in, he didn't understand why I hadn't progressed in my healing since week 6. He sent me for another MRI which showed the original break was somehow worse than the prior images had shown. "That type of break takes six months," he told me.
But he was wrong again.
Six months came and went I noticed I needed the cane less often and hardly ever the crutches. But I still needed a brace every day and couldn't walk more than a few yards. At the eight-month mark, I ran a single, painful, twelve-minute mile, and I was back on the cane for weeks.
The pattern continued for 34 physical therapy sessions over 18 months, and there were plenty of moments when I wondered whether I'd ever again be able to walk freely again. I cancelled my bucket-list trip to Machu Picchu because I couldn't move around.
I had to keep cancelling races too. I'd run seven half marathons before the broken knee, and had signed up for two more races that my knee wouldn't allow. I needed the goal of a race in sight as a light at the end of the tunnel for my rehab, but I got really tired of the disappointment of cancelling.
But as difficult as it was, the hard part wasn't just the fact of not being able to walk or run.
Staying active is one of the best way to fight MS, and I couldn't. By the time knee healed, I wondered if it would be too late for the rest of my leg to work.
But regardless, I fired the physical therapist who told me to get used to life with a cane.
Other people told me the same thing, and I think they meant well. They wanted me to stop torturing myself with cancelled races and vacations and accept that life would be different now. But I don't think they understood that I was going to be tortured regardless. So why give up hope for a light at the end of the tunnel?
My doctor released me from his care when I showed a few signs of finally getting in sight of turning a corner. My recovery was so imperceptibly slow that the only way I could measure it was to notice that on a good day I walk one more block than two months before, but after nine months, when I was far from healed, but could point to some verifiable improvement since week 6, he sent me packing.
I think he was worried about getting sued.
Eventually, the crutches gave way to the cane, which gave way again to the crutches, which gave way to the cane. After a few months, I added a knee brace to mix, and was able to survive just with that, at least until I overdid it again and needed the cane.
It's now been 21 months since I broke my knee, and two months since I last used the brace.
Coming back from it was the hardest thing I've ever done.
I think I'm finally done with the brace, and the cane, and the crutches. I've said that so many times before, but this time it seems real. I just ran 11 miles without them.
And somehow, according to my most recent MRI, my MS didn't visibly progress during the whole ordeal.
I healed just in time to run my hometown half marathon this year. I would have liked another month to train for it, because at this point, I'm not quite the runner I used to be. Despite what my MRI says, I notice that I can't always run in a straight line anymore and my feet tend to kick the opposite leg when I get tired.
But I'm pretty sure I'll be able to do 13 miles by March 3, and I haven't given up that I'll whip into shape and run them faster than I did in any of my others seven races. I've also linked my race to the National MS Society's "Finish MS" Fundraiser, where people can dedicate their entry into an athletic contest to fundraise for a cure. You can read more about that here.
https://secure.nationalmssociety.org/site/TR?px=15646597&fr_id=29926&pg=personal
I'm running for donations to find a cure for MS, but it's more than just that.
I'm running to show that the even the most inexplicable, frustrating, and soul-sucking journey of life can end eventually. I'm running as a means of refusing to give up on a dream that other people think is unrealistic. I'm running because I've learned that joy in life isn't about never falling down. It's about getting back up again when you do, and moving toward the goal.
But mostly, I'm running because I finally can.
I wasn't sure this day would ever come.
If you'd like to quite literally be a part of the event, I've set up a link for donations on my Facebook page. I'd love your support to help Finish MS.
My knee is still delicate and overexertion can lead to another MS attack, so my old physical therapist probably thinks this whole thing is a bad idea.
But I wouldn't have gotten anywhere had I listened to him. And definitely not the 13.1 miles from the starting line of the race until the finish line.
Sunday, January 6, 2019
A Puppet Tiger Wonders What's Wrong Him
Sometimes I wonder if I'm a mistake
I'm not like anyone else I know
When I'm asleep or even awake
Sometimes I get to dreaming that I'm just a fake
Often I wonder if I'm a mistake
I'm not supposed to be scared am I?
Sometimes I cry and sometimes I shake
Wondering isn't it true that the strong never break
I'm not like anyone else I know
I'm not like anyone else
-Daniel the Striped Tiger
(from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood)
Daniel Striped Tiger, the puppet from the old Mr. Rogers' show, once sang about how different he felt from all the other tigers. He was small and mild instead of a brave, ferocious beast. He didn't hunt antelope for meals--he didn't eat at all, actually. Instead of roaring and jungle-sharking decibels, he spoke English at a conversational volume. All his friends were humans, who weren't known to consort with tigers.
If he ever saw tigers at the zoo, they likely didn't even acknowledge him as one of their own.
The humans he knew were nicer to him, but he knew he wasn't one of them either. He was too short, and didn't wear clothes. He couldn't reach the pedals to drive to meet up for dinner, and he didn't have an ID to get in the club. Besides, even if Daniel did show up for a meal with his human friends, everyone knew that he would literally just be in the way.
The humans reminded him of their differences constantly, even by Daniel's name. They called him Daniel Tiger, instead of a regular name like Daniel Johnson. None of his friends were named anything like Fred Human.
Daniel was different.
Daniel S. Tiger didn't quite fit into the human world or the animal world. And there was no way to hide it.
Daniel didn't feel like he fit in, and began to wonder if something was wrong with him.
Maybe that's what you're doing too.
Maybe Christmas with family reminded you how different you are from those you grew up with. Or maybe Christmas was the breath of fresh air that reminded you how unnatural your regular life has become. Maybe the new year marked a return to a job that doesn't seem fulfilling, to a city you wouldn't have chosen, or to a routine that feels like something other than the best version of your life.
Or maybe none of that applies, and you still feel just a little lost and alone.
If that sounds a little familiar, don't worry. Even Mr. Rogers felt that way too. His puppet tiger sang the song, but Mr. Rogers wrote the lyrics. In other words, the most uncontroversial, kid-friendly, vanilla, universally beloved superstar that American television has ever produced felt unloved and alone.
The good news is that Daniel Tiger's human friend heard Daniel singing, and spoke to his concern. She turned Daniel's solo into a duet:
I'm not like anyone else I know
When I'm asleep or even awake
Sometimes I get to dreaming that I'm just a fake
Often I wonder if I'm a mistake
I'm not supposed to be scared am I?
Sometimes I cry and sometimes I shake
Wondering isn't it true that the strong never break
I'm not like anyone else I know
I'm not like anyone else
-Daniel the Striped Tiger
(from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood)
Daniel Striped Tiger, the puppet from the old Mr. Rogers' show, once sang about how different he felt from all the other tigers. He was small and mild instead of a brave, ferocious beast. He didn't hunt antelope for meals--he didn't eat at all, actually. Instead of roaring and jungle-sharking decibels, he spoke English at a conversational volume. All his friends were humans, who weren't known to consort with tigers.
If he ever saw tigers at the zoo, they likely didn't even acknowledge him as one of their own.
The humans he knew were nicer to him, but he knew he wasn't one of them either. He was too short, and didn't wear clothes. He couldn't reach the pedals to drive to meet up for dinner, and he didn't have an ID to get in the club. Besides, even if Daniel did show up for a meal with his human friends, everyone knew that he would literally just be in the way.
The humans reminded him of their differences constantly, even by Daniel's name. They called him Daniel Tiger, instead of a regular name like Daniel Johnson. None of his friends were named anything like Fred Human.
Daniel was different.
Daniel S. Tiger didn't quite fit into the human world or the animal world. And there was no way to hide it.
Daniel didn't feel like he fit in, and began to wonder if something was wrong with him.
Maybe that's what you're doing too.
Maybe Christmas with family reminded you how different you are from those you grew up with. Or maybe Christmas was the breath of fresh air that reminded you how unnatural your regular life has become. Maybe the new year marked a return to a job that doesn't seem fulfilling, to a city you wouldn't have chosen, or to a routine that feels like something other than the best version of your life.
Or maybe none of that applies, and you still feel just a little lost and alone.
If that sounds a little familiar, don't worry. Even Mr. Rogers felt that way too. His puppet tiger sang the song, but Mr. Rogers wrote the lyrics. In other words, the most uncontroversial, kid-friendly, vanilla, universally beloved superstar that American television has ever produced felt unloved and alone.
The good news is that Daniel Tiger's human friend heard Daniel singing, and spoke to his concern. She turned Daniel's solo into a duet:
It's really true
I like you
crying or shaking or dreaming or breaking
there's no mistaking it
You're my best friend
Her message was simple. It doesn't matter how we are different, I love the person you are. I believe in your dreams, and I'll hold you when you life gets scary and you feel like shaking.
Having that kind of belonging is as much as most of us really need. But if you don't have that right now, that's ok too. Finding your place in the world requires at least a little bit of time wandering alone. Anyone who hasn't felt a little lost at some point, has probably never tried to find themselves.
More importantly, I like to think that maybe the message of Daniel Tiger's human friend has been God's message to us all along. A popular song on the radio suggests as much:
You say I am loved
when I can't feel a thing
You say I am strong
when I think I am weak
You say I am held
when I am falling short
When I don't belong
you say I am yours.
And I believe
What you say of me.
-Lauren Daigle
(You say)
Like Daniel Tiger, I sometimes feel like I don't belong or fall short of my wildest dreams. It's nice to think that we're held in those moments, even if we don't feel it. It's comforting to consider that maybe someone helps us gather the strength to dust ourselves off from our falls and get back up to a better place and try again. It's hopeful to imagine that the ways we feel different from everyone else were purposely and uniquely woven into our souls, to make the world different through us than what it would be without us.
So maybe we're not like anyone else. But that doesn't mean we're a mistake. We cry and shake when things don't go our way, and we wonder why everything doesn't fall into place. But someone, whether in earth or in Heaven, likes us just the way we are.
Of course, I don't know any of this for sure. But it makes me smile to think about. It makes me sleep a little more peacefully at night. It helps this life make more sense to me.
And I believe.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
