Wall

I have never been a big fan of heights, but I thought I had licked my fear when I stood on the glass floor of the CN Tower a couple of years ago and looked down. So when we joined the new Y with a 20 foot climbing wall, I thought climbing would be great. The kids were not interested in climbing at first, they thought it looked scary. Which wasn't a problem, since they needed to weigh 50 pounds to overcome the anti-gravitational force of the automatic belay, otherwise when they let go of the wall, they would just hang there.

I thought it looked like fun. I watched young Y patrons climb it, and they zipped up and floated down. It looked like a good, fun workout. The whole height factor never occured to me.

One day, Jack indicated an interest. So, we encouraged him, and, with a little creative license in the area of his weight (I never figured he would want to go too high, and we could pull him down if he got stuck), they strapped him into a harness, threw a helmet on his head, and boosted him to the first step. He climbed until his feet were three or four feet off the ground, and rappelled down "like Spiderman". Aimee thought it looked fun, and became a theoretical convert. I booked the wall for us to use as a family. We have now gone three Wednesday evenings in a row.

Jack gets one step higher each week. His feet now get about five feet above the ground and he jumps back down, and starts all over again. Trevor is tall, and so he has an advantage. When he reaches up, he's already half-way up. He has mastered two or three of the five climbs. Aimee has managed to get within spitting distance of the tops of four climbs. She looks so tiny up there and it takes her forever to get down, since she is barely 45 pounds. She has stronger arms than I do; she says that it's because of the monkey bars (she is very good at them). If she can't get her feet where they need to be, she pulls herself up with her hands. It's pretty impressive, really, what a fearless little monkey my timid little mouse has become.

My discomfort with heights reasserted itself the first time I got more than a few feet up. I have made it close to the top on one climb and what I considered a respectable height on three others. One problem is that the higher I get, the more uncomfortable I am. I have thoughts like how crazy climbers are and how unnatural it is to be that far from the relative safety of the floor. The bigger problem, however, is getting back down to that safety zone. To do this, one must simply let go of the wall, grip the rope, and float down, kicking off the wall on the way, like Spiderman. I seem to be incapable of letting go without several seconds of dithering, rationalization (it's perfectly safe, it's perfectly safe, it's perfectly safe) and more faith than I apparently possess. After several little panic attacks, and several episodes of wondering what I am doing, 15 feet above the ground, I let go and, rather than floating, clump my way unceremoniously down, usually landing in an ungraceful heap at the bottom. You'd think that after a few trips up and down, my mantra (it's perfectly safe, it's perfectly safe, it's perfectly safe) would sink in. Nope.

Tonight, I decided to approach the descent like I do a good leg waxing: apply, rip briskly, no waiting, no thinking. Descent is one of those things you just need to do without thinking. Just let go. It worked, I guess. It helped that Aimee was higher than I was at the time and trying to tell me where to put my foot. My ego wouldn't let me appear nervous, so I let go. It was fine, of course. Not artful, but effective.

We've booked again next week. I have found that I am quite sore for a good few days afterwards, so it takes at least until Saturday before I can even think about climbing again. It also takes that long for me to forget the abject terror of the moment I need to let go.

I have come to the conclusion that I do not find adrenaline-producing events thrilling (why I have not liked emergency nursing, despite the glory). I am not a roller coaster freak. What is excitment for some, is stress for me. But, I also know that the more I climb, stressful or not, the more comfortable I will be with letting go. I'll keep working on it. Maybe my newfound faith will carry over into other areas of my life. Good clean family fun, exercise, and a little character development.Could it get any better?

Distance

I ran yesterday, far. I did about 10 miles (I am erring on the side of accomplishment, despite what the GPS said, 9.67 my fanny) in 93 minutes. Not quite on track for a 2 hour half marathon, but better than previous attempts.

It is my plan to run a half on May 1 (guess I should sign up for that) and the half at the Manitoba Marathon in June. After that, I think I may retire from long distance running. I am worried about my joints, and since vanity is my main motivator, I keep thinking how wide my butt would become if my knees got bad enough to need replacing. I also think there's a bit of a moral imperative at work... if I applaud the local family physician who won't treat patients who continue to smoke, should I really be doing what amounts to smoking in terms my knees can relate to?

I realize there are people who run iron man marathons and three or four or more a year, but my assumption is that they have always done these things, and that, especially during their Formative Years, they continued. I, on the other hand, failed Grade 9 phys ed class, because I was lazy and had a bad attitude. I never stepped off the couch from age 9 to age 18, and it was only by the grace of good genetics that I managed to keep from tripling my weight. I started running because I thought it would be a good stress buster, and because at age 19 or 20, my cholesterol level became clinically elevated. Not good.

Today, after my 10 miles, I am sore. My muscles ache. That, actually, feels kind of good to me. Everytime I go up or down the stairs, I am reminded of my accomplishment (10 miles in 93 minutes). I like the feeling of knowing I did something good for myself (mentally and physically). I figure things out when I run. Yesterday, around mile 6 or 7, I realized that I am grateful that I can run. My body works, painlessly. I have the joints and the cardiovascular health. I am educated and I can afford good running shoes. I have people I can leave my kids with. I can read, so I know how to train and what to eat and how much water to drink. I have the money for race entry fees. I have the self-esteem to be motivated by how good it feels to have accomplished a run like that. I know how good it is for me and I understand the risks of a sedentary lifestyle. It takes a lot of factors to come together for a 10 mile run to be possible. I am lucky, or blessed, or something.

It's the crunching joints and the ache in my bones when I am still that worries me a bit (I can feel my femurs remodelling themselves along stress lines today). Those are the reasons I will cut down on miles per week. What I need to do is figure out how I will get my exercise. I imagine 2 or 3 three-milers a week, with an occasional 10km road race just for fun. I am thinking of learning to swim properly and trying a mini triathlon. I am thinking of the MS Bike tour which is a 2 day cycling fundraiser. But I have also thought of a cycling tour of, say, France, or Scotland. Sounds like a good way to try deep-fried Mars Bars without adding extra weight to the return flight. I am also thinking of climbing things, sailing, kayaking.... hmmm... the possibilities are endless. As long as I don't get sucked back onto the couch.

I am pretty sure that sedentariness is no longer an optional lifestyle for me, though. I do not feel well if I don't manage to get some sort of strenuous activity into my week at least four or five times. It's a matter of lifestyle choices. We have been wall climbing as a family two weeks in a row now and have the wall booked again this week. I am thrilled that the kids will be old enough to go for family bike rides this year (new bikes for them on Saturday). It's a matter of establishing priorities, and making healthy choices. I bite back my comments when people grumble that they have no time for exercise. I have a full-time job, a 1 hour commute, a husband (supportive, granted) and two kids. I trained for a half marathon when I was finishing my degree. You can always work something in. It's a matter of choice.

Anything is better than nothing. And, I think, it's a matter of taking responsibility for your own health. Which brings me back to the ethics and responsibility of running my joints into early retirement (sometimes I wonder if pounding away for an hour or two is any less bad for me than, say, a big greasy burger or a cigarette, only in a different way). However, I have my heart set on a 2-hour half marathon, so then I will give my knees a rest. I promise, knees. In June.

Winter

It’s amazing what a new pair of shoes and a ten mile run will do for one’s outlook. Yesterday, I was flying high on the residual endorphins from a ridiculously long run (and my triumph of willpower yesterday, see previous blog), and I had a new pair of shoes to wear to work. What more could a girl want?

Last night, when I got up to pee at 2:00 am, I realized that my heel was sore. Plantar fasciitis is not fun for a runner, so I figured I would rest it this morning and sleep in a bit. I slept very well, which is unusual. I think it is because I decided not to spring out of bed at the crack of 5:45. I sleep better when my schedule is less “tight” in the morning. Otherwise, I am looking at the clock every half hour to see how much longer I can stay in bed.

In any case, I was well-rested but groggy this morning. As the fog lifted, I still felt like I had a little cloud over my head. The kids were irritating, and although it was typical behaviour for them, it grated just a little more than usual. I dragged myself to the bus, hoping against hope that there would be no one I knew so I could read my book (no such luck). I felt unsettled and antsy.

Later in the day, I still feel anxious and irritable. I think, I assume, it has to do with not running this morning. Maybe I am addicted to those endorphins, and I’m all jittery, just like a drug addict, because I didn’t get my fix today. If so, I need to re-evaluate my running goals and strategies… if I want to keep my joints useful and painless into my twilight years (too late), I should either run fewer miles or fewer minutes. In any case, I think my marathon career is limited. Just another two half marathons this year, then maybe I’ll retire. I think I’ll have to wean myself off, though… what if I can’t get rid of the DTs?

Of course, my mood could have something to do with the fact that it is still very bloody cold out, and the long, long nights (which are getting noticeably shorter, but it’s still depressingly dark). I am also grumbling about my vacation planning appointment this week… I am fifth from the bottom of the list for choosing vacation, which means I will have time off in October and April, yipee. Extremely useful, not. To top it all off, I watched Ladder 49 the other night, which was wonderful, until the end. It made me want to be a firefighter, or something dramatic and useful. I want to love my job that much, and lately, around here, it has been a little more depressing than usual.

When I am in a disrupted, unsettled mood like this, I feel like I want change. I want something exciting to happen. Usually, the feeling is hormone related, but not always. At times like these, I often colour my hair or rearrange the furniture or go shopping. None of these options appeal right now. I feel like I am stuck under one of those lead aprons they put on you when you are having an x-ray. Just heavy enough to make moving not worth the effort.

So, I am looking for some excitement. Nothing unsafe or even terribly risky, not dramatic or disruptive, just something to break the monotony, something to talk about. The routine is a bit mind-numbing after a while. Wow, I really am in need of some sun. Maybe I should have spent money on a trip south, a little photo-therapy, rather than my kitchen. Maybe I should head to bed early and chalk it up to fatigue, and worry about it tomorrow. Or maybe I should just go for a run. Cheaper than airfare. Hey, medicare will pay for my new knees, won’t they?

Control

In a triumph of personal willpower and self-restraint, today, I ate just one chip.

Superstition

I am finding I am getting more and more superstitious in my old age. I'm not talking so much about not walking under ladders, or tossing a pinch of spilled salt over my shoulder (or the more bizarre ones, like not passing people on a staircase, or not putting shoes on a table), although I must say that I am consciously deliberate in my flouting of these conventions. I think I am aiming to taunt the gods into some sort of divine reprimand, just to make them prove they are there.

No, the superstition to which I refer is my reluctance to speak aloud any reference to future events, especially ones to which I look forward. For example, every single work day where I have looked at my list in the morning and said, out loud, "Oh, this one doesn't look too bad," turns into a trainwreck. If I make it loud and clear that I am expecting a rotten day, it usually turns out okay.

Other examples: the kitchen renovation. I predicted two years, and it has been less than two months, and it is pretty much finished. Everything happened like clockwork. The kids: any time I dare to talk about how civilized they are becoming, there is a major meltdown in a public place. If I comment about their robust health, someone starts barfing. It goes on an on.

The logical, more scientific part of me assumes that these are all coincidental events. But I can't deny that it happens more often than not that when I figure a clinic will go late, three patients don't show up, and we end on time. Patients who I predict will not make it through the weekend live for weeks or months. I have stopped telling patients I will see them next week.

I know there are people out there who will not speak of the future without also uttering the suffix, "God willing", but since I sit less in the theist camp than many, I tend to prefer to ascribe events to fate or karma, some sort of faceless cosmic force that influences things. However, the frequency with which these things happen does make me wonder.

With all the jokes we have been making about the Pope lately, both T and I were sure we would be struck by lightning. Of course the very act of saying it out loud means it won't happen. And now that I've said that, who knows? It could go either way.

I'm going to bed. Hopefully my electrocution blanket won't short circuit and fry me in my bed tonight (wink wink).

Return

It's been so long since I wrote here that I almost forget how to find it. Now that the kitchen is done, maybe I can come back and pick up again. After all, it was one of my new year's resolutions, writing more, that is...

There is so much to report. For example, I was asked for ID at the liquor store the other day... me!! at 33 1/2!! I was with my mom, which made it even funnier, to me at least. My mom pointed out that I was the mother of an almost 7 year old...I told the clerk she was my new best friend.

Today, I spent the day with Aimee. She has her second cold in three weeks, and she coughed and whined all night, so no one got any sleep. We stayed home from work/school and, since I felt fine, I got a whole lot of things done. I cooked dinner, I cleaned the kitchen and bathroom, I ran 4 miles. I think I did about 5 loads of laundry. The last load of laundry is in the dryer right now. The rest is folded and put away. I can usually manage to have either clean, or folded, or put away laundry, but rarely do we have all three, at the same time. It will be lovely in the morning to have choices. The best part is that Aimee helped me with the socks. Socks are the bane of my existence. When I fold laundry, I usually put all the socks in one basket, figuring I will sort and fold them later. Then, every few weeks (ok, maybe every few months), I'll have a sock-folding frenzy and end up reducing the sock basket by half (the rest, apparently, are in that ether where St. Christopher has no access). This time, rather than leaving the paired socks in a giant communal sock collection, I actually put them away in the drawer of their designated owner. Such an accomplishment, I can hardly tell you. I should be good for a few months at least!

Aimee and I had a good morning, though. I had a run on the treadmill while she dozed, then we did her homework and played board games for a while. The poor kid, though, slowed down considerably just before we were to go pick Jack up from daycare. She confessed that she had an earache and I told her she needed medicine to make it stop hurting. She freaked out, as usual, when medicine is mentioned. I guess once, a long time ago, she gagged on something, and now she will not consider taking anything. If she needs something, we battle long into the night to get her to take it, and we invariably lose the battle. She is just that stubborn. Anyway, all I could think about today was this poor kid's pain, and having to take another day off work, and 7 to 10 days of BID amoxicillin battles, so I told her she had to take tylenol or I was taking her to the doctor. She refused. She said she would rather go to the doctor.

At one point, she climbed into Jack's bed, crying pathetically. I could tell she was in pain, it wasn't the whiny sick-and-tired cry. We tried to talk to her. She screamed at us to leave her alone, and even kicked T in the head. She denied pain. She refused to listen to my non-pharmalogical suggestions. I felt like a failure as a mother and as a nurse. My kid was sick and in pain, and there was nothing I could do. I started to get bitchy about it, and tried ignoring her for a while. Even that didn't work. We managed to get her into a warm bubble bath, hoping the humidity would loosen up her head, but she started crying again as soon as she was back on dry land. I finally got her to confess that her head hurt and she was scared of going to the doctor. I am a pathetic nurse.

We finally got her to take some liquid Advil by telling her she had to, letting her have control of the syringe, and counting down from 10 to when she had to start sucking it back. She was not pleased, but coke in between mouthfuls helped reduce the gagging. I also figured the caffiene might help her headache. It took forever, but as soon as it was down, she was so relieved and exhausted that she fell asleep in minutes. I certainly hope she gets some good sleep tonight. I'm sure it will make all the difference. As nice as the good parts of our day were, I'm not too keen on another one like it.

Thankfully, Jack was on his best behaviour today, for a change. It gave me a glimpse of the nice little boy he has the potential to be, once he has learned to harness his energy and use it for good, not evil. He was helpful and pleasant, and I told him so, as often as I told Aimee I was proud of her bravery for taking the medicine. Which was as often as she called me Evil Mommy for making her do things she didn't want to do. Oh, well, you can't win 'em all. It was for her own good... and mine. I'm heading for what I hope will end up being a peaceful sleep. Good night.