70%

Until recently, Brian and I had a completely different approach to cleaning the house. He operated on what he called the "70% rule" and I operated on a rule governed by 100% or 0%. I'll explain using the dinner dishes as an example.

If Brian were working alone, in a matter of five or ten minutes after dinner, he would have piled almost all of the dishes into a heap in the dishwasher (un-rinsed), he would have washed almost all of the soap off of the mostly clean pots, and he would have picked up (and probably eaten) any big chunks of food from under the table. A few cups or utensils would straggle behind, and he wouldn't sponge the counters or sweep the floor (unless he had made his own pizza because on those nights, the mess of flour and cornmeal requires it). With that, he'd be done. Seventy percent clean. One hundred percent done. 

When my "old self" worked alone, it was a whole different story. After dinner, the dishes would stay put while I puttered around -- maybe playing with the kids or organizing the mail or paying bills. If I was especially tired that night, I'd think to myself about how much of a chore those dirty dishes seemed, and I'd wait...hoping that my energy level revved up again. In the meantime, I'd add to the mess with whatever else I was doing. That was my 0%.

When my energy engine was fueled up again, I'd clean; like really clean. I'd sweep the floors, wipe every spec off the countertops, and even sponge down the front of the dishwasher. Not a single cup or utensil straggled behind...until a few hours later when Brian put his empty ice cream bowl in the sink. I wanted to scream when he did that -- Maybe in your crappy 70% kitchen that is acceptable but can't you see this one is 100% perfect?!? But I just bit my tongue and put the dish in the dishwasher. (OK, I may have murmured something under my breath, too, but he had no idea.)

Meanwhile, Brian was probably murmuring under his breath when I was in my 0% mode, piling dirty dishes in the sink and leaving a trail of everything I touched. He had every right to be thinking something like, Can't this woman find some middle ground? But he knows that middle ground doesn't come naturally for me. I've never been good at 70%.

*  *  *

I still hesitate to say that cancer changed me, mostly because I'd never want to give it such power. Also, I still believe that it was writing that really changed me and I won't give cancer writing's credit.

But in the last several months (which is long enough for me to believe it's not just a phase), I've realized a way that I have changed, and I figured I needed to set the record straight, especially since back in January, I dedicated two entire blog posts to the topic of organization.

So, to come clean (no pun intended), when I started this post this morning, I literally sat in a house that was maaaaybe at a 12% cleanliness level. In the hallway to my right, there were piles of wet towels, bathing suits, and Crocs, as well as bags full of sunscreen, work binders, dolls, and water toys. To my left there was a play table covered in cut-up paper and ripped out coloring book pages. The plastic box labeled "Markers" had some crayons in it and the box labeled "Crayons" contained some PlayDoh. Teddy's Wii games were scattered all over the floor, interspersed with Annabel's fake food, leopard mask, boy shoes, and Red Sox sweatshirt.

Brian had gone to pick up the groceries we had ordered online (best invention ever). I stayed behind with the promise that I'd clean up before he got back. Still thinking I'd be loyal to my promise, I sat down to write.

I can't even remember what thoughts I felt I needed to get down, because as soon as I took my spot in the oasis that was my computer, I realized how much I had changed and I ended up wanting to write about that. Then an emergency thing for work came up, then the kids came home, then we unloaded groceries while the kids danced in their underwear (don't ask), then we had lunch and golfed and swam, and, well, now here I am again. And the house is at 70%.

The "old me" (however old that may be) would never have allowed myself to do something fun in a 12% (or 70%) clean house. Often, I didn't mind cleaning, in fact, it gave me a feeling of control I craved. But by the time I was done and the house was at a glistening 100%, I'd have missed my chance to do that thing I really wanted to do. I'd have certainly missed my chance to write.

Over the past several months, however, I've unknowingly found myself a convert of Brian's 70% rule. I'm dedicating this post to its awesomeness.

Now, if I'm being honest, I need to mention a certain variable that I've written about before. That variable is called Effexor and while I joke about it often (e.g., attributing any sanity I have to it), it does deserve a bit of serious talk.

From what I understand, Effexor is an anti-depressant, anti-anxiety medication that is part of the daily regimen for many people in active cancer treatment. (Apparently it's also used to help alleviate the side effects of menopause, even though I haven't experienced that yet.) Dr. Bunnell prescribed Effexor to me last fall after a conversation about my anxiety that I don't really remember.

Last Wednesday when I met with my therapy lady after my Herceptin treatment, I asked her about the Effexor. Is it something they will take me off of at some point? 

Dr. Fasciano explained that so long as it was helping me, it was good for now.

Here's the funny thing, though -- I have absolutely no idea how much it is or isn't helping me. How could I know? I've never been on anxiety medication until the cancer. Despite that I probably could have used some, I was always hesitant to turn to pills to fix something in me. I wanted to be able to fix myself myself.

Enter cancer, chemotherapy, anaphylaxis, neutropenia, Herceptin, and the realization that there are some things (ah, most things?) that I could never fix all alone. Soon after my diagnosis, I knew that I needed something to help me carry the heavy weights that had been placed on my shoulders, and more so, in my mind. Or better yet, I needed something that would help me avoid acting like Diane Keaton in my favorite scene from Baby Boom (when her well dries up).

Tonight while we got the kids ready for bed, we got the house up to 70%. The kitchen table is still a bit cluttered with things like a Lightning McQueen water bottle and a trucks place mat. Annabel's little plastic shopping cart is parked at the table like a fifth chair, and I'm certain her booster seat has hardened food in it. But I don't care. I'd rather write than sponge the table, and it'll just get messed up again tomorrow morning anyways.

And so I can't help but I wonder if it's the Effexor that makes me not care about that last 30%. I wonder if the little peach-colored pill I take every morning with my Tamoxifen is the reason why I do the dishes Brian-style now. Is that pill why adorable little fingerprints are still all over the stainless steel dishwasher?

The only way to really tell the effect of the Effexor would be to stop taking it and see if I become the crazy zero-to-one-hundred-percent lady again. But (without a discussion of these ridiculous details), Dr. Fasciano and I both agreed last week, If it ain't broke...

So I'll keep taking that little pill and I'll stay content in my 70%-ness. I'll wonder why I've changed but I won't dwell on it (maybe because the Effexor helps with that whole dwelling thing?). I'm only partly kidding.

In all seriousness though, I've found 70% to be a very happy place; the finger prints on the dishwasher are precious and Annabel's Lightning McQueen cup makes me think of how cute she will be tomorrow morning when she asks me to fill it with app-o juice. I've wasted a lot of time striving for that 100% when it just wasn't necessary. And no doubt, cancer has changed the way that I think about time.

Cancer, and even writing about cancer, didn't change me in any absolute way. Instead, it changed me on my already existing margins. I am who I was before, I think what I thought before, and I love how I loved before...just slightly different. Clearer; more healthful. More real. 

It turns out there's a lot I can do when I reallocate 30%. And there's such relief, such peace in the realization that sometimes, it's 70% that really feels like perfect. (Little peach-colored pill or not.)

Rainbows and Puppy Dogs

Back in May, I went to see Oprah deliver the commencement speech at Harvard University. I had really high expectations for that speech and unfortunately, it didn't meet them. That's OK though because Oprah's like Peapod -- she can screw up as much as she wants ... I'll keep coming back.

Last weekend, Andy forwarded me a speech for which I had absolutely no expectations. It was a commencement speech given by George Saunders and since I hadn't even heard of the guy, I didn't expect much from what he had to say.

Then I read the speech. In my humble opinion, it was a 9.8 to Oprah's disappointing 6.5. I've thought about it ever since.

*  *  * 

For me, one of the worst feelings in the world is that which comes with knowing that I hurt someone with something that I said or did. Thank goodness, it doesn't happen often (that I know of), but I can remember the times that I hurt someone with the utmost clarity. (Oh, and for the record, harsh things I've said to my husband when he did something wrong don't count, but cutting Teddy's baby finger the first time I used scissors on his nails definitely does.) 

After my treatment three weeks ago, I wrote a blog about an interaction that I had with a nurse in the lab. I wrote that blog for the same reason that I usually write -- to help me organize thoughts that would otherwise swirl down destructive paths in my brain. I never expected, and certainly never intended that the blog would do anything more than that. 

Then again, I should have remembered that my mother is my Mom. 

For my Mom, the issue of what Elaine had said to me was far from over. She wasn't mad -- she's far too professional for that. Instead, she was motivated. She wanted every doctor and nurse in the whole wide world to stop and consider the power of the words they choose for vulnerable patients. Chemotherapy is not "poison," she insisted, and no one caring for cancer patients should ever refer to it that way. 

Since she knew reaching the whole world was an ambitious goal, she at least wanted to reach the health care providers at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute. So she went online to find out who she could contact there to discuss the issue. When she found the President of Dana-Farber's email address on their webpage, inviting comments like her's, she asked me if she could use it. (I'm thinking they may have since taken it down. Kidding, Mom.)

I admit, I was hesitant about her idea to share the blog. I hadn't written the blog as something that anyone at Dana-Farber would read, never mind the President. But my Mom has always adamantly believed that none of us can ever improve if we don't get positive and negative feedback. I totally agree with her; I just lack the guts and the grace involved in giving (and, truthfully, in receiving) negative feedback. After some discussion, I believed that it may be useful for someone at the hospital to read the blog, even if I never had intended it as feedback. 

After I gave my Mom the green light, I didn't think anything about it, probably because I figured that nothing would happen at all. Shame on me for underestimating Dana-Farber. 

Within hours (and, by the way, around midnight), the head of the breast care program responded to my Mom's email. I admit, I was impressed solely by the fact that the President had read my Mom's email, forwarded it to the leader of the breast care program, and that this prominent oncologist had responded. But I was even more impressed by his actual words, which I found to be thoughtful and productive, mostly because they opened the lines of communication if my Mom wanted to talk further. I was also deeply comforted by the doctor's words that "Herceptin in an amazing medicine..." Personally, that's all I really wanted to hear. In my mind, the case was closed. 

But Dana-Farber is excellent because they constantly pursue excellence. So unbeknownst to me, the issue was still a work in progress. 

Earlier this week, another top administrator at the hospital, an individual in charge of the nurses, called me. At first, I had no idea why, but I soon realized that she wanted to discuss the incident in the lab. In fact, she wanted to meet me when I was in for my next treatment (today). I felt embarrassed -- like I had blown something out of proportion; like I should have had a thicker shell when Elaine was casually talking to me. I blamed myself, which I have a tendency to do. 

Then it dawned on me that my records had lead the administrators back to Elaine. How could have I have been so stupid to have assumed that using a pseudonym in my blog was all I needed to do to hide "Elaine's" identity? Of course the hospital could see who had inserted my IV that day -- it was in my chart! And then that terrible, awful, horrible feeling crept into my stomach. I had hurt Elaine. 

Of course, there's an incredible irony to this blog so far -- right about now, my Mom probably feels that terrible sick feeling in her own stomach, worried that her idea to forward the blog to the President hurt me. Oh goodness, this has gotten complicated. But it's that complication that fascinates me tonight.  

*  *  *

The George Saunders speech reminds us all (as if we need a reminder) that it's so much easier to respond sensibly, reservedly, mildly to something uncomfortable. We all know it's usually just easier to keep quiet when we see something wrong; that's part of why I pretended (to Elaine) that her comments hadn't hurt me -- it was just easier to reserve my emotion; to smile mildly as if nothing had just happened. But something had happened. And even if my thoughts weren't sensible (indeed, in retrospect, I know that they weren't), at the time, those thoughts very terrifyingly real.

George Saunders explained: 

... Who, in your life, do you remember most fondly, with the most undeniable feelings of warmth?

Those who were kindest to you, I bet.

It’s a little facile, maybe, and certainly hard to implement, but I’d say, as a goal in life, you could do worse than: Try to be kinder.

I just had to Google "facile" even though I'm pretty sure I should know what that word means. Anyways, now I do. It means appearing neat and comprehensive by ignoring the complexities of an issue. I agree that the goal of trying to be kinder does sound "neat," and I like that Mr. Saunders explains:

Kindness, it turns out, is hard – it starts out all rainbows and puppy dogs, and expands to include…well, everything.

Take Mr. Saunders's example about his neighbor, for instance.

I never said an unkind word to her. In fact, I sometimes even (mildly) defended her. But still. It bothers me. 

So here’s something I know to be true, although it’s a little corny, and I don’t quite know what to do with it: What I regret most in my life are failures of kindness.

What I take from this is that Mr. Saunders regrets not having had an effect on a bad situation; he regrets that he never made a real difference for the girl. He knows now that his mild response just wasn't enough.

This is just another reason why I love my Mom, and 33 years later, I understood it all today.

I don't think my Mom ever fails at kindness. Sure, she thinks babies (and maybe even rainbows) are boring and she probably wouldn't even pet a puppy dog. But my Mom will tread into uncomfortable waters with respect and with grace if she thinks that doing so could help someone. She will have difficult conversations in order to make things better even though those conversations are rarely, if ever, fun. My Mom will ask questions then listen to the answers, and she'll expect that the other person does the same in return. Yes, my mother has high standards and she's proud of that fact. She pursues excellence for the employees that work at her hospital and for the patients that they care for. And she pursues excellence for me, and for the men and women who will walk into Dana-Farber after I do.

To be honest, the sensible, reserved, mild part of me just wants to give Elaine a hug and tell her that I'm fine; that she doesn't need to worry about having hurt me. I know that my Mom would encourage me to do that if it made me feel better.

But my Mom has taught me something more about kindness; about the messier stuff that's beneath the surface of it. She taught me that real, true kindness takes more than just a smile and a hug. It takes courage to bring an issue to the forefront and intelligence to determine how to best address it. Kindness involves the empathy and awareness that will allow us to be productive rather than destructive while we walk the very fine lines that present themselves in difficult conversations. Most of all, kindness takes selflessness because, as Mr. Saunders reminds us, keeping quiet is usually so much easier.

George Saunders tells us that we'll remember most fondly those people who were kindest to us. I agree, but I'd push the concept a little further. Because I believe that we'll remember most fondly the people who had the guts and the grace to stand up and say, This could be better, for you and for others after you. Often those people aren't the rainbow or the puppy dog type. But they're the ones who will find you a rainbow or a puppy dog, whatever it takes, if you tell them that a rainbow or a puppy dog would make you feel better. Those are the people I will remember most fondly. And obviously, my Mom will be at the front of that precious pack.

Running: Part Two

My Mom loves to read books and watch movies, I think mostly because she loves to escape into the lives of fascinating characters. Sometimes when she thinks a movie or a book took a wrong turn, my Mom mentions something about a character’s motivation; about how what he or she did wasn’t what he or she would, really, have done. As someone whose mind never (unfortunately) shuts off, I often think about people’s motivations, including, of course, my own.

When it comes to people's motivations, I wonder about the big things, like why they chose their particular job or spouse or house, why they did or did not have children, why they love or hate the way that they do. And I wonder about the small things too – why they chose a particular tattoo, why they stuck that bumper sticker to the back of their car, why they’re sprinting to catch a train. Believe me, I don't do it in any sort of judgmental way because, you know, people in glass houses and all...

Since I’ve started to write, I’ve been much more curious about my own motivations – Why do I eat sugar despite that just a few months ago, it helped me so much not to? Why do I keep writing and publishing in this space, one year and one day after my first post? Why did that race in Falmouth yesterday mean so much to me? Tonight, after an ice cream cone with my kids, I'll approach that last question.

*  *  *

It turns out that when people run the Falmouth Road Race (and, I think, other road races, too), they wear revealing t-shirts. No, no, not revealing as in see-through, although there were some of those. I mean revealing as in descriptive of the wearer's motivations. I’ll never forget the shirts that I saw yesterday. They carried me 7.ish miles.

One of the very first shirts that caught my eye did so just as we shuffled with the crowd over the starting line. A tall man in front of us was wearing a white t-shirt with Journey to Parenthood information on the back. It read, “Our journeys may be different but our dreams are all the same ... to become parents.” For much of mile one, I thought about my dream to adopt a baby boy or girl into our family. I barely noticed that much of that part of the race was uphill.

Along the route, I also noticed dozens of multi-colored t-shirts for Children’s Hospital Boston. One pair running in front of us was running for “Maddie.” I couldn't read the black ink that told the date that Maddie was born and the date that she died, but I found myself curious about what she looked like and what her family went through to try to save her.

Joe Andruzzi’s Foundation, UpBeat Cancer, sponsored several red, white, and blue tank tops, and I thought that was a nifty play on words. Whenever I saw one of those tanks, I wondered if the runner was a cancer patient like I am.

Dana-Farber's shirts were light green, sky blue, and a soft orange, and every time I ran by someone wearing one, I wanted to thank them for helping save my life. For some reason, however, almost every Dana-Farber runner I passed wore earphones and looked serious about their pace so I sent them good (silent) vibes and continued on my way.

Before yesterday, I had never heard of Compassionate Care ALS, but that organization had a huge contingent at the our hotel and along the race route. I made a mental note to look them up to see if they could help our friend who was recently diagnosed with the terrible disease. I bet they really could.

As we ran along the oceanfront and through shady, beautiful Falmouth neighborhoods, I also noticed t-shirts for spina bifida, "trauma to art," Alzheimer's organizations, and even one that simply said, "I hate cancer." There were also several women in grey tank tops that read, “I run so battered women don’t have to.”

One of my most favorite colors to see yesterday was purple. Since her mother died from brain cancer several years ago, a friend of ours has organized the sale of purple shirts with her mother's initials on the front. Every time I saw a “PCC” shirt, I thought about Katherine and how inspiring she is to continue to raise money for brain tumor research, and how strong she is to go on, with such grace and such kindness, without her mom physically by her side.

The cystic fibrosis shirts touched my heart, too. On the way back to the car, Brian and I walked behind a man who had run to stop that terrible disease. Part of me wanted to tell him all about Ashley, but I knew I'd cry if I said anything so I kept quiet, and internally thanked him for his good deeds.

Yesterday as we ran, Brian and I wore our fluorescent yellow We Beat Cancer shirts. I have to admit, one year out from my diagnosis, running in a shirt that said We Beat Cancer felt pretty darn victorious. And running it from corral #5 was just how Brian and I wanted it.

So what did the Falmouth Road Race really mean to me? It meant running in a sea of t-shirts that each told a powerful story. It meant running with men, women, and children of all ages and sizes who each had someone or something that made them go out and train, and then go out and race. It meant running beside people who had been through something awful or seen tragedy from some short or long distance, just like I have. It meant doing something even though there were lots of reasons not to.

I've written before about my unique sort of faith in human resiliency. I think that yesterday felt almost spiritual because I was surrounded by so much resiliency all in one place. Indeed, I have never seen (and I mean, really seen, in the moment) such an enormous crowd of people gathered to make terrible situations or unbearable tragedies the starting point of something beautiful.

The race in Falmouth was so precious to me also because it reminded me that one year ago, I had no idea how resilient people could be. When I sat down at the computer in our playroom around four in the morning on August 11, 2012, a large part of me thought that cancer meant my end. I had absolutely no idea that it would be my beginning.

Yesterday, I was immensely proud of our We Beat Cancer t-shirts, partly because I believe that my loved ones and I really did beat cancer, and because I know what our running that race is going to do for families that are struggling to do the same. Since the race, however, I've remembered something even bigger -- that t-shirt or no t-shirt, we are all motivated by people and by stories that could fill up as many blog pages as I have written over this past year. Despite that I'll never even know a fraction of those stories, I still know that they would prove to me, once again, that my deep faith in humankind and its magical resiliency is well grounded. In simple things. Like running. 

Running: Part One

I'm not an avid runner and despite my utmost respect for those who are, I personally don't aspire to join the club. I don't have the attention span or the knees for it, plus, treadmills make me feel like time is moving backwards and I'm way too much of a wimp to run when it's really cold out.

Now that I think about it, however, I could tell much of the story of my life just by reflecting on time that I've spent running.

For instance, I could write about running around my grandparents' basement with my siblings and my cousins; how much I loved the sound of the adults talking and laughing upstairs, how gleefully terrified I was that someone would jump out of a dark closet at me, and how sad I was when that precious time ended every summer.

I could write about field day as an elementary school kid -- that strange feeling I felt in my stomach whenever I thought about my gym teacher yelling out, On your mark, get set, go, and how I finally understood that feeling to be nervousness.

I could write about playing basketball and the smell of my high school gym; about warming up before a game and feeling like I was ready to play whenever my parents walked in and took their seats on the bleachers.

And then there was my favorite event in gymnastics -- the vault. The vault made me feel like I could fly and I still (literally) dream about sprinting down the runway and soaring through the air, twisting and flipping, and sticking the landing. I wake up feeling so magically close to the days when I could do that and it's always a bit disappointing to remember that now, I can't.

I could also write about running in Maine during my first year of college; the miles upon miserable miles, because I thought I was fat and I had to burn off a certain number of calories before I'd let myself stop. I could write about how Brian helped me change all that; and how we started running together every now and then.

Then there was running when I was a student in South Africa; the first time I learned the importance of always paying attention to my surroundings. In those five months, I did as the University of Cape Town orientation people had said to do, and I ran with a car key stuck between my right index- and middle-finger. As if that was going to stop someone who wanted to harm me from doing so.

I could write about living with my grandmother the summer after I graduated from Bowdoin; running the hills near her house, and how much I loved to jog to the ocean and dive right in; how good my hot skin felt in the cold salt water.

Speaking of jumping into cold water, I could write about when I started law school in the evening program at Suffolk. For those four years, I ran to class almost every single day. I remember one run in particular; through the freezing, pouring rain with a bag that must have weighed 40 pounds bouncing against my back. I remember thinking about how much I wanted to quit law school; that going to class at night after teaching all day was just too damn hard. I remember that night so clearly -- I got to class, dried off, and kept going.

Running has also been a huge part of my work schedule as a lawyer. When I was at Ropes, I'd sprint to almost every morning train after dropping Teddy, and then Teddy and Annabel off at day care. Then I'd sprint back to the station every night. I didn't realize how much I hated that routine until I got to a place where a brisk walk will do. I love those walks now. I start to write on those walks.

When it came to cancer, I started to run to prove to myself that the Herceptin was not giving me congestive heart failure. Unfortunately, it does that to some women, and before my first post-Herceptin echocardiogram, I was terrified that it had done that to me. So far, it hasn't, although I'm thankful that every three months, my doctors check again to be sure.

Gradually, as I started to trust my heart more and more, I started to think about it less and less. I still sporadically think about my heart when I run, but when I do, I'm not scared that it will fail me. I'm just so deeply thankful that it has stayed so strong, and that it has received the Herceptin like the precious gift that it is.

*  *  * 

A few months ago, a fabulous local organization, We Beat Cancer, sent around an email that there were a few more numbers available for the 2013 Falmouth Road Race. Brian and I have talked about running that race for about 10 years now, and this year, we jumped at the opportunity.

When we discovered exactly where the money raised by We Beat Cancer for the road race would go, we became even more inspired. In October, We Beat Cancer will sponsor approximately 25 families to attend a weekend getaway at The Hole in the Wall Gang Camp, the camp that Paul Newman founded in 1988 so that "every child, no matter their illness, could experience the transformational spirit and friendships that go hand in hand with camp." (For more on the camp, please click on this unforgettable VIDEO.)

I hate asking people for money, especially when I'm asking the people who have already given us so much. But after I watched the video, I didn't mind telling people about this opportunity to donate.  Proving once again the generosity of our family and friends, we collected more money than we ever could have imagined.

This morning, however, it was time to do the work that we had promised we would do. Seven and one-tenth miles (yes, the 0.1 seems important to this bunch), on one of the most beautiful summer days I have ever seen.

I had a personal goal for the race; a simple one that I revealed to Brian somewhere around mile four when I realized it was actually attainable. I wanted to feel strong through the whole run. If I had to slow down or walk, fine. I just wanted to feel strong. And, to my sincere surprise, through all seven miles, I did. In fact, Brian and I gained speed as the race went on. It was a truly incredible experience.

This blog, however, is not about how today's run was symbolic of my cancer journey. I won't draw any silly analogies between our last (and fastest mile) to my chemotherapy or my mental state through cancer. I wish it were all that simple. But I know now that it's not. This past Friday night reminded me of that.

Around midnight, after a fire alarm at the hotel we were staying at trashed the hour it took us to get the kids to sleep, I found myself in a very bad place.

Teddy had stopped crying, Annabel had stopped jumping on the bed, and both of them were done telling us that the alarm was too loud (it was). Everyone fell asleep again, except for me.

And that's when I felt cancer. Everywhere. I was achy, probably just from carrying Annabel around outside for 30 minutes as the Falmouth Fire Department sorted out the issue, or maybe from Teddy jumping off my shoulders in the pool earlier that day. But in my half-awake, half-asleep state, I was convinced that I felt cancer in my bones. If I had packed my Ativan, I'd have taken one, even if it meant that Brian would have had to shake me awake if the fire alarm sounded again. Ativan-less, I had to rely on my own faith that everything was going to be OK. Turns out that works too, and I fell into a deep sleep at some point around one in the morning, until 6:30AM when the fire alarm sounded again.

The next day, we golfed in our annual family golf tournament. Being out there with my favorite guys -- my Dad, my brother, my husband, and my son; it was pure Heaven. When, after 18 holes, I felt great, I convinced the majority of myself (at least, for the time being) that my fears of the night prior were just the vomit of my sick imagination.

Today, exactly one year after I started this blog, we ran along the roads in Falmouth faster than we expected we could. After the race, we almost gave ourselves a pat on the back, but we were quickly brought back to reality when, on the two-mile hike back to the car, we both simultaneously tripped over a raised slab of concrete on the side walk.

Tonight, I'm exhausted. Fulfilled, proud, increasingly sore, and totally exhausted. Tomorrow I'll start Part Two of this post. It will be about what the Falmouth Road Race really meant to me.

Ready to run!

To Be Continued...

Good Words: August 8th

Today I took a deep breath and continued living. 

Thank you, Joy, for giving me the perfect answer to my question.