Back

So, we made it back. Due to hot competition for Trevor's unit, I didn't blog the last day or so. I was pretty grumpy by then anyway so my diatribe may have been biased.

Overall it was a very good vacation. Never before have we spent 24 hours a day, 6 days in a row with no one but the four of us. No grandparents, babysitter, daycare, work, nothing. Nowehere to escape to, we all stayed in the same room. It was all I could do to pee alone. I must confess to an audible sigh of relief when we sent the kids off with Pappa this morning. For the first time in what seemed like a very long time, someone else was responsible for them. Phew.

I am delighted to say that Trevor and I had not one tense moment (ok, well, I didn't; I shouldn't speak for him). The kids' little voices got a bit tiresome (I think I counted an even two dozen "Are we there yet?"s, or variations on the theme, on the way home), but except for brief incidents, they were really well behaved and generally pleasant to be around. And it was good practice tuning them out when they weren't. I'm sure that skill will serve me well in some future endeavour.

Saturday, we did the Children's Museum, which I think may have been the best dollar-per-minute of fun that we had. The kids had a blast in this little warehouse factory, working together with other kids moving blocks around on conveyor belts. They might have stayed there the whole time if we hadn't prodded them along a bit. Unfortunately, they got tired and hungry, and our grown-up oriented trip to Ikea was an exercise in patience and tuning out. They whined that we were going to leave them in the babysitting area, and then when the sign-in line didn't budge for 15 minutes, we decided just to take them through the store with us. This of course provoked an all-out temper tantrum by Aimee, who suddenly wanted to go to the babysitting area. Extremely frustrating. So much so that we opted for dinner at Chili's for the fourth night in a row because it was in the hotel parking lot and we could drink several beers and not worry about plowing into an abutment on the way home. We worried there might be an inquest into whether such an accident was really accidental.

So while it was a very enjoyable vacation, I am glad to be home, for a number of reasons. I love my bed. I missed having a room with a door I could shut. I got tired of wearing the same jeans. I got pretty tired of restaurant food and wished for something healthy and homemade. I felt not a little violated at the nickel and diming (or, more accurately the $5 and $10ing) that went on everywhere, but especially at that bastion of commercialism, that Symbol of The American Dream, The Mall of America (or the Mall-of-A-Maraka, as Aimee described it in her journal). The Children's Museum was the only place that actually included all activities in its entrance fee, another reason for its high value-rating in my book.

I found no brilliant cross-border bargains. Everything pretty much cost what it would here, but there was a silent 25% to add for currency exchange. There was nothing we can't get at home, except Krispy Kreme, which is a good thing (damn those are good doughnuts!!). The beer was pretty good, and they asked me for ID (haha!!), but we went to about 8 different stores looking for some Famous Amos Oatmeal Raisin cookies for Trevor's dad, and they were nowhere to be found (any of my American friends have a source?).

I felt an almost palpable sense of relief when we crossed the border back into Canada. I knew my healthcare would be provided, and covered, if anything happened. I realized that I had spent a considerable amount of energy wondering how we would pay for treatment for, say, a bladder infection or a depressed skull fracture or a near drowning. I also worried constantly that my kids were going to be kidnapped and sold on the black market if I took my eyes off them for a second. That fear wore off a bit as the week went on and my irritability grew, but it was always there in the back of my mind.

We have talked about moving the the States from time to time, just for a year or so to make some money, but I'm not all that convinced that we would come out on top. Housing is more expensive, even if taxes are lower. Commutes can be insane, so count the quality time down. I'm not sure I could live in the land of the free. I'm sure my American friends would have some arguments in the pro side, but as one of them admitted, freedom ain't cheap. And don't even get me started on Bush.

There was one specific thing, however, that convinced me that America is not the place I want to raise my family. It is a social and political climate, borne of what her proud citizens consider their inalienable, God-given right, and exemplified by the necessity for the following sign, posted in variations at the door of many public buildings, including the Children's Museum and the Mall of America:

Need I say more?

Friday

Running out of parenting steam... 4 days has historically been our limit of patience before going back to work starts looking really appealing. We are at day 4. Trevor is having serious computer withdrawal and I am having silence withdrawal. The kids are having a blast, though.

Today we went to the aquarium. It was pretty cool, but maybe not quite worth $40 US admission. We got to touch stingrays and sharks, so it did have redeeming elements. Next, we saw Madagascar, which I must say was hilarious, in and of itself, but also for Jack's reactions. Trev saw Star Wars. I got an hour or so (it was 1 hour 24 minutes - trev) of power shopping (relatively unsuccessful). Another ride or two and we headed back to the hotel for a swim.

Takeout for supper and then these kids are going to sleep, damnit. They have really been well behaved but i've about had enough kid. The only times they are not at very noisy odds it is because they are watching tv, which is, unfortunately, wholly inappropriate and pretty much just above their heads. I am going out shopping as soon as they are asleep. It's the only thing keeping me from the drink at the moment.

Tomorrow, we are considering the Children's Museum and Ikea. Valleyfair was the original plan, but it will cost over $100 and it is unlikely we will get that much enjoyment from it. They are just not quite old enough for anything requiring more than about 2 hours of attention span. Plus, the weather is not supposed to be great, although better than home.

Zoo

Today we woke up and the weather was beautiful. We decided that rather than risk wasting a nice day indoors, we would go to the zoo. Turns out it is about 10 minutes from the hotel. We got there almost as it opened. As zoos go, it was not spectacular, but it did have a great dolphin show. The other animals were not a lot different from our home zoo, and were spaced further apart, so there was a lot of walking, which generated lots of whining by the end. All in all,though, it was a good 3 1/2 hours of wholesome activity.

We ate lunch at yet another kid-friendly restaurant and hit Target for the first official shopping expedition. Everyone found a treasure except me... I'm going to kohl's tomorrow if possible. Alone, if possible. More after that.

Mall

Ok, well Trevor has a roller coaster kid- it's just not the one I figured it would be. Jack went with him 4 times, where Aimee could only be convinced once. We spent the day at Camp Snoopy at the MOA. It was overwhelming and fun, and we figure the kids got their $16.96 US (each) worth of rides. They were impeccably well behaved. Jack, falling asleep tonight just asked if he could go back on the coaster tomorrow. I have to say i'm surprised. He's a pretty cautious kid.

Weather-wise, it rained hard today, so an indoor amusement park was ideal. There's enough to do that we will return tomorrow. And despite a ridiculous amount of debit to the Visa, I still have nothing to show for it. I'm heading for the shoe place I spotted today at my earliest opportunity.

Food has been a challenge. Finding restaurants that offer reasonable healthy choices is not that easy. I'm sick of fast food and generic menus, but our new criteria for restaurants has become ones which provide crayons for Hangman, and plastic cups with lids that we can take back to the hotel. So far,so good (sadly). Score tonight at Red Robin, when the manager thought Jack was cute or something, and instead of giving him one balloon, he gave him an even dozen, helium filled. They had minutes of entertainment releasing the whole "flock" into the ceiling fan in the hotel and watching them bumble along the ceiling. Giggles galOre.

We have also been having fun with the place names around here. Our hotel is at the corner of Yankee Doodle and Pilot Knob. On the way in, we passed by Pleasureland (an RV sales outlet whose motto, I thought, should be "if this trailer's a-rockin', don't come a-knockin'"), followed soon after by Opportunity Way (oh, to have such an address, all my problems would be solved). I'll keep a lookout for more amusing neighbourhoods.

Tomorrow we go back to the mall, and do the Aquarium. We are also seriously considering using the babysitting service for a couple of hours of whine-and question-free shopping. It is a major toss-up whether I use my time for actual shopping or for a pedicure somewhere.

I am off to the hotel gym for a short run and some collateral silence. Then back to the room for some drinks with my husband. So far, a fantastic vacation.

Minneapolis

OK, we`re on the road. We got away just after 10:30. It took exactly 41 minutes and 43 seconds for the first "Are we there yet?"

So far the kids have watched about 20 minutes of The Incredibles, played Gameboy, Leap Pad, listened to music and ate junk food. There's not much left to do, and as Jack is well aware, we still have a good three hours left. But I have to say it hasn't been too bad at all. I'll keep you posted.

Update - we just passed a semi filled to the roof with live chickens. Their feathers were blowing around and it looked like snow. They were crammed in so tight they couldn't move. It looked singularly uncomfortable. It almost made me want to be a vegetarian, so I could feel virtuous and superior at my selfless commitment to save the chickens of the world. The saving grace was the utterly blank expressions on their faces. Oblivious to the fact that they are one and all on their way to the KFC buffet we saw advertised a while back. And not in a good way.

Oh, and I forgot the funniest part of the trip so far. When we crossed the border, the customs guy confiscated the pepperoni from our sandwiches. Yup, made us peel it off and hand it over. No Canadian beef at all into the USA (like there's any real meat in pepperoni). We might somehow spread Mad Cow disease, I guess. Well, buddy, you're welcome to it. Wouldn't want to be responsible for another outbreak. With sandwich meat. Enjoy.


Jack, holding his stuffed dog: Mommy, what if there was a world with little teeny tiny people, and this dog came and squished them all down. How much longer?

Update: sitting in the hotel. We have been swimming in the hotel pool, out for some milk and snacks to put in the fridge, and for dinner at Chili's, which wasn't too bad, for a chain. The kids were great in the car, although the last couple of hours were quite interminable. They did watch a movie on the Pocket PC (heretofore known affectionately as Trevor's Unit), which saved us countless questions. It finished almost as we pulled in to the parking lot, timing was good.

Anyway, Trevor is anxious to get his paws back on his unit, so i'll publish and put him out of his misery. We are going for free breakfast in the hotel in the morning and then to the Mall. I'll check in tomorrow if T lets me.

Sorry for the typos, this thing is a pain in the butt to type on.

Travel

Well, we are off on a road trip. We haven't been on a road trip, a real family vacation since the kids were mere wisps. Certainly not since they became (arguably) civilized human beings. The last time we went anywhere in the car, they were both in diapers (fewer "rest" stops) and Jack was still small enough that when he squawked, all I had to do was climb in the back seat and hang a boob over him as we drove, so he could gorge himself at the trough of Mom, poop, and settle in for a nice long nap. This time, we are driving to Minneapolis, with a five year old and a seven year old. Eight hours. In. The. Car.

Several people I have told have managed to suppress the "Are you insane?" and have just asked "Do you have a portable DVD player?". My answer to them is well... sort of.

We have more paraphernalia than when they were babies. Gone are the bottles and diapers, here are the Game Boys, Leap Pad, CD player and, the Pocket PC. This is a sort of large Palm Pilot, and apparently it will play movies on its 4" screen. Which, I am sure, will never be in dispute. No, my angel children won't fight over who holds it, towards whom it is tilted more, or how loud it is. They will share it peacefully, and it will not crash, and they will be pleasant and well-behaved and we will barely hear from them the whole time. No one will have to pee 150 miles from the nearest rest stop, no one will get carsick, no one will be bored or ask how much longer. There will be no flat tires or issues at the border. We will have a wonderful time.

If we have internet in the hotel and I can get my hands on the Pocket PC (somehow that sounds a little rude, doesn't it?), I will try to post an update or two about our adventures in that symbol of over-the-top American capitalist commercialism, The Mall Of America (also known as The American Dream). Otherwise, I will save all my stories for weeks and weeks of blog material when we get back. After another uneventful eight hour road trip.

Are we there yet?

Charity

I found a lucky penny today.

Today on the bus going to work, I took a seat near the back and chatted with a neighbour for a few minutes. When it started getting crowded and we could no longer talk across the aisle, we, by mutual agreement, put our respective headphones back on and got lost in the process of Tuesday morning.

Shortly after, an improbably young mom, mayne sixteen or seventeen, got on the bus with a baby in a stroller. The baby was cute, not stunningly model-perfect or anything, but a sweet, chubby, baldish little girl, about maybe five or six months old, dressed in pink. She was settled into the stroller quite comfortably. Every once in a while, the mom would look down at her and fuss a bit, but she was quite a happy little thing. They were positioned so the baby was right beside me.

I looked at her and grinned. I got no reaction at first so I stuck out my tongue. She smiled a little. In a few minutes, she was bored and started wiggling around a bit. She leaned forward and found her feet. Tried her darndest to get one in her mouth. Soon, her little jacket was covered in drool. She played with her fingers as if they were complex, facsinating toys she had never seen before. I remembered the stage of my kids' infancy with some relief and not a little grief for its passing.

At one point, her fat little hand reached out and patted the knee of the guy sitting across from me. He looked a bit like a gangsta, maybe seventeen, with jeans hanging off his butt and his hat on sideways. The baby just reached over and smacked his knee a bit. I could see her grinning at him. He was grinning back.

A minute or two later, the baby gave one of those involuntary little lurches and spit up a little. Just a bit, on her shoe and her little hand. She played with it, trying, it looked like, to figure out what it was and where it came from. She patted my leg, and I felt warm knurr. A few seconds later, without even a burp, out bubbled more curdy white baby puke. Significantly more. All over her front, on her shoes, and a good-sized splat on the floor of the bus. Jack was a puky baby, so this was nothing new to me. It didn't really occur to me to let the mom, who was watching for her stop, know. It was just a little spit-up, not stinky or chunky or anything. Nothing invoking any sort of gag factor.

Despite the puke, this tiny person captivated the people around her. She made faces and thoroughly entertained everyone around her. When her mom rang the bell to get off, a professional-type in an expensive business suit grabbed the bottom of the stroller to help the mom back it off the bus. I don't think it was until she was well off (and suitably grateful) that he realized he had put his hand directly in the puke. He held it up and looked at it as if someone had handed him a fistful of poop. He tried to wipe it on one of the bus's handrails. I thought he himself might puke. I started to laugh. Oh, you are so childless, I thought.

"I got some too," I laughed and pointed at my pants. I figured in a minute or two it would dry and I could just flick off the crud. He didn't look too impressed. Someone gave him a napkin and he wiped his hand off. He offered it, crumpled and kind of slimy, to me when he was done. I was still laughing. "It's ok," I said. "It's just a little baby puke".

I chuckled the rest of the way to work. I wonder how fast the businessman ran for the washroom when he got to the office. The price of offering a helping hand.

Economics

Jack and I had this conversation today. It took place, as many good ones do, while driving in the car. They had been given money by Great-Gramma for Aimee's birthday yesterday and just spent it.

Jack: Where do we get money?

Me: Well, when Daddy and I go to work, our companies pay us every second week for the work we do. (I figured a lesson in health-care economics might be above and beyond, so I stuck with the private sector for simplicity)

J: Where do the companies get money?

M: Well, in Daddy's trucking company, people who need stuff delivered pay his company to deliver it. Then his company pays Daddy for the work he does to help keep things moving.

Then we arrived home, and the conversation, unfortunately, ended. Clever questions, I thought.

Shortly after, Aimee and I were driving in the car alone. Here is a conversation we had:

Me: Those were some pretty good questions Jack asked about money.

Aimee: Yeah, Jack always asks questions like that.

Me: He's a pretty curious kid. One of these days you and I should sit down and talk about stuff like where babies come from and what's going to happen to your body when you're about 12 or so.

A: I don't want to.

M: Why? Is it a little embarassing?

A: Yes.

M: Yeah, I agree. But you should know what to expect, and important things like how to avoid getting a baby until you're ready for it.

The conversation ended there with no useful response out of Aimee. If Jack is the most curious kid ever, Aimee is the most uncurious. Jack is the one recently who asked how the baby lions were going to get out of the tummy of the zoo's new lioness, prompting a little anatomy/reproduction talk. I don't know if it just doesn't occur to Aimee to wonder or if she really does find things that embarassing. If the latter, I wonder why. Although we have never actively discouraged talking about potentially embarassing things, like reproduction, we have never really got into it either.

A nurse should have no compunction about discussing the birds and the bees. It's odd that her kid does. We'll have to work on it.

Seven

My little girl turned seven today. We celebrated with a very nice dinner in the restaurant of her choice, and she opened presents without frenzy and was suitably grateful. I'm not sure where I got a seven-year-old. The last I remember, I was thinking about what colour to paint the nursery.

She's suddenly turned into this big kid. No more baby fat, although she is the smallest in her class, she is suddenly so lean. I miss the chubby little legs and the dimples in her knees. Her birthday presents were chapter books and CDs and electronic things, although someone did give her a set of Bratz (miniature hooker dolls) and a (nother) Barbie, so she did get some toys. I can guess though that Christmas will be mostly big-kid stuff.

This week, she scored her first two goals in soccer. She was positively glowing with pride. She has this coordination, this mastery of her body that she just didn't have last year. This year, she gets soccer. I think our team, actually, might be a bit stacked. Six of the nine kids played last year, and we have at least a couple of ringers. The boys are the only ones that keep score, though, it's mostly just fun running and kicking the ball. Aimee is actually willing to get in there and go after the ball this year. She knows it's okay to take things from her friends, in this context, at least.

And she still hasn't been corrupted by fashion, not seriously at least. The peer pressure hasn't given rise to any poor choices, as far as I have seen. As a Grade One kid in a multi-age class, it may have given rise to some good ones, even. By choice, she does Grade Two math and spelling and reading. She's pleasant and social and fun.

She still has her little-kid moments, though. Usually when there hasn't been enough sleep. She had a doozer of a tantrum this week, starting over a video game (portents of coming years, I fear) that lasted for an hour or more. She still has trouble calming herself down when she gets going. But it's coming along.

Oh well. I had some moments today when I was remembering what I was doing seven years prior to that particular minute of the day. I remember thinking how I could never forget one second of it. Now I wonder where it has gone.

Well, happy birthday, little girl. So far so good.

Ouch

My legs feel like I expect rigor mortis would feel, if those who got it were still sentient and could describe it. Going up and down stairs is quite painful. But I have so far forgone the Advil, preferring to be reminded of my momentous achievement each time I twitch a lactic acid etched muscle fibre. I have walked all day with the peculiar gait of one who has a pole up their you-know-what, but it really does make it less painful to limp about one's daily business. Why not wear it like a badge of honour? I earned it.

On another note...

In the past week, three patients of whom I had become very fond have died. I told you yesterday about Mr. S. Well, I saw the names of two others who were just really nice people in the obits. I check the Family Notices (what a dreadful, sanitized term) every day, just to see what's happened. One of these deaths was quite expected; we got him admitted to palliative care a few days before he died. He lived to see his granddaughter born, a couple of weeks early. The other I hadn't heard from in a while. He and his partner lived out of town.

It's interesting, I don't feel badly for the patient himself. His suffering is over. It's the family that I cry for. They all of a sudden (for them, if not for us... I think we see it coming long before the family does) no longer need to put all else on hold to take care of this person. Tasks that occupied their every waking moment, and many sleeping ones, too, I'd bet, are now unnecessary. It's learning to live a new way, without someone who was, literally, just there, someone who was such an integral part of their lives that to have that part missing so suddenly is like an amputation. That's what makes me sad about what we do. We try pretty hard to give these people their lives, to keep their families whole, but eventually, many die (well, I guess everyone does, someday, of some cause) , and even though we may have made it easier at the end, or given them months or years longer than without treatment, their families and friends are left without them. I think that most would say that the weeks and months and years of "bonus time" as it's often called by patients, is worth the physical and emotional investment. I hope at least we can give hope, relief, information always, cure sometimes.

Usually I can come up with a reasonable closing sentiment for these diatribes, but tonight I am burnt and sore, and having trouble coming up with something. So I am taking my rigor mortis-ed legs to bed with a quick detour to kiss my sleeping kids. You never know when you might get hit by a bus (literal or figurative) and I don't want to put that stuff off (how's that for sentiment?).

Marathon

Well, half marathon. We ran one today. It was the Police Service Half Marathon, a fund raiser for their cancer charity. 13.1 miles. Two out-and-back loops, crossing the start/finish line halfway. I figured a mile-by-mile account of it would remind me why I should never ever run again, should I lose my senses and reconsider some day. If I do, please email me a link to this blog. Of course, a mile-by-mile account will probably not thrill you, my loyal followers, but I figure if I suffered this way, with only one single solitary fan (my friend Edwina, wife of Other Trevor, the fastest man I know) who cheered just for me (where the heck were you all, I ask? I needed your support!), the least you could do was read this to the end and act suitably impressed by my stamina and incredible conditioning (not).

So it started at 8:00 this morning, which wasn't so much a hardship, except that an inch of snow fell last night, and it was -11 C with the wind, which was, shall we say, brisk. In May, who would have thought. We drove to the start line hoping it would be cancelled due to weather. No such luck.

We lined up at the port-a-potties, because the last thing I wanted to do was run with anything in my bladder. Squeezing a couple of kids out of that region does a number on the continence muscles, if you know what I mean. Then, after that delectable experience, we headed to the starting corral (demarcated by, of course, yellow Police Line tape).

My goal time was to finsh it in 2 hours. That is 13.1 nine minute miles. I had trained at that pace, and Trevor kept reassuring me that I could do it. We planned to run together, unless I was sucking wind, in which case he would carry on without me, so as to avoid the years of well, if I had gone at my own pace, I would have finished in 2 hours comments (him) and marriage-risking, physically imposible four-letter suggestions, reminiscent of labour (me). My last two half marathons were 2:14 and 2:11 (first-time goal was to finish not last, second time it was ten minute miles, both of which were about right). I was worried that if we were too far back of the start line, it would take us a few minutes to cross the start, and if I finished in 2:02 it would be because of the delay between the starting whistle and crossing the start line (times are counted from the whistle). And then I would feel compelled to try again in June. Still, not having any testosterone, I was not stupidly invested in my goal time, but hopeful.

Anyway, we lined up in the 1:45-2:15 pace group. Closer to the 1:45; I was feeling optimistic. Frozen, but optimistic. The whistle sounded and we started running.

Mile 1: Feeling pretty good. Chilly, but not too bad. Roads are slippery, people are still chatting amiably, good pace. My borrowed GPS says 8 minutes and 40 seconds per mile, nicely ahead of the 9:00 pace I want to be running.

Mile 2: Warming up now, still slippery. First water station. Sure, I'll have some. Walk a few seconds, no problem starting up again. We turn down a street and the wind dies a bit. We cross a major street and I look proudly at the waiting traffic. I'm running, you're sitting in your car. You can wait, I think.

Mile 3: Really slippery, and we turn up a street with the wind in our faces. Where is that turnaround? Trevor is still with me. The frontrunners pass us going back.

Mile 3.5 and the turnaround: I'm losing speed. Phew, a water station. I'm walking. Trevor wants to keep running. I say go ahead. He says, no, you'll be mad. I promise I will not punish him if he goes without me, and he takes off. I reluctantly begin running again. I see a pace bunny (yes, it is a male runner in a pink bunny suit with ears). I ask his pace and he says two hours. Good, if I stick with his group, I will make my goal.

Mile 4: Wind at my back, well on my way back to the start line and half done. Sucking wind, but pace is still in the mid 8-minute-mile rage. Bunny is doing 10s and 1s (run 10 minutes, walk 1). I gratefully walk with them. This is not all that fun anymore.

Mile 5: The bunny is ahead and Trevor is long gone from my field of vision. I am considering dropping out at the half-way mark, where the course passes through the start/finish line. Four-letter words start creeping into my head. Maybe two hours isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Mile 5.5: Walk break.

Mile 6: I am no longer having any fun at all. In fact, I am hoping to slip on the ice and break an ankle. Maybe, if it's bad enough, I will be off the hook for the Manitoba Marathon in June (Oh, I will say, I was sooo disappointed I couldn't finish... and even worse, I'm out for the season... darn). The side benefit is the paramedics (yummy) that will have to come to my rescue. A good walking break in this mile.

Mile 7: Crossing the start/finish/half-way line, I eat an energy gel (pure sticky carbs and caffeine) and take a walking break. The gel almost makes me barf, but I am now committed to the second half. In my body's effort to disperse some heat, my fingers have swelled up like little sausages so I can no longer make a fist, and my left calf hurts. I continue to secretly hope for injury, to put me out of my misery. I don't actually give a flying fig about my 2 hour goal. The front runners pass me coming back.

Mile 8: My legs no longer hurt; I can't feel them anymore. Where the hell is that turnaround? And who put these hills here? Manitoba isn't supposed to have hills (they are about 1% grade and maybe ten or twenty meters to the top). The wind is still at my back; I am dreading the turnarounds, if only for the wind chill factor. My pace has dropped to 9:30 miles. The two-hour pace bunny, that miserable so-and-so still smiling, passes me coming back. My short-lived burst from the gel is long gone. I walk every ten minutes, plus water stations.

Mile 9: I start thinking about the wife of a patient we lost this week. He was a really nice guy, and she gave us hugs every time we saw her in a clinic; always had a smile on her face. He was really sick, but we figured it was treatment-related and he would recover as soon as his treatment was done. He was even starting to feel better on Tuesday when we saw him, but then we heard Thursday that he was in ICU with septic shock after his white count dropped to nothing (a common chemo side effect). We visited them a couple of times, and on Friday, Mrs. S. chased us down the hall to give us hugs and let us know that he was up to a 50% chance of pulling through from 10% the day before. I said I'd come up and see them before I left Friday. When I went up on my way home, she hugged me and told me they'd lost him at 3:00 pm. She had to make the decision to stop the machines. I had tears in my eyes. Around now, I realize that my pain is temporary and will stop as soon as I stop running. Right now, I think, she is probably planning the funeral for her husband of 58 years. She will be living with her pain for a long, long time. Suck it up, buttercup, I tell myself. Run for Mrs. S. Your pain isn't a fraction of hers.

Mile 10: Heading back now on the final leg. There is a kilometre marker up ahead; if it says 15 km I will die. Hey, it says 16!! I'm a whole km closer than I thought! Only five left to go! I can do this! Mrs. S.... Mrs. S.... Mrs. S.... in time to my steps. 1 hour 33 gone... sure, I can do 5 km in 25 minutes... my goal is still in reach! I pick a girl ahead who is wearing shoes with purple soles. I can catch her, I think.

Mile 11: My pace is 10:25 miles and the damn GPS keeps beeping at me to speed up. I would pitch it in the river, except that it isn't mine. I tell it to bugger off and take a walking break. A few diehard spectators in winter gear clap and holler what are intended to be, I'm sure, encouraging and inspirational messages. "Good job, keep it up, you're doing great, you're almost there!". Kiss my ass, I think. I'm running, you're clutching your cup of coffee and shouting at me. Let's see you try this, you clown. Purple shoes is gone. She's probably in the tent, wearing her medal, eating bagels and drinking Gatorade. I hope she has frostbite on her purple shod toes. Mrs. S... Mrs. S... Mrs. S...

Mile12: I'm almost there. My legs are threatening to give out, but I force them to keep going simply because it would be too embarassing to collapse this close to the finish. I see people in race bibs wearing medals walking towards me. You're done, you bastard, I think. My fingers are tingling from cold and hyponatremia. I come around a corner, maybe 500 meters from the finish and I'm hit by an icy blast of wind and snow so strong it slows me down. "Oh, this is just not fair" I whine aloud. The man who is unfortunate enough to be running beside me simply ignores me and speeds up, visibly. Piss off, I think. I can no longer feel my upper lip from cold. I can do it... I can do it... Mrs. S... Mrs. S...

Mile 13. I can hear the roar of the crowd. I can practically smell the bagels and gatorade. I make the last turn and I can see the finish. Hey, wait a minute, it's over to the right. Jeepers, you want me to run 10 extra meters, over frozen grass? Hey, you bonehead, you will not pass me, I was here first. Keep in your finishing order, they say. You bet. I run across the finish line and they drape a lovely medal aroud my neck. It is suspended by gaudy yellow ribbon with Police Line Do Not Cross printed on it. I spot Trevor, Other Trevor and Ed. "Someone get a pen," I gaps. "Take this down. NEVER AGAIN." "Didn't you say that last time?" says OT. Fuck you, I say silently.

My Trevor finished in 1:52. OT finished in 1:49. I am proud of them, and not even a little bit bitter. My GPS said 2:05. I am satisfied. I do not feel the need to do this again. Not having any testosterone, my ego is more invested in finishing than finishing within some arbitrary time. Five extra minutes is not enough to make me want to do it all over again. I wear my yellow ribboned medal all day, even when we go out for lunch. Trevor walks, pointedly, a few steps behind me.

Equivocating, briefly, a few hours later, I think maybe next year I will try for two hours. Forget June this year. Train up, properly, with redoubled efforts. Then, I come to my senses and think, no, you idiot. This was not fun. It was not enjoyable. Shake your head. I am over it now. Maybe a relay (5 miles), maybe an occasional 10 km road race, but no long ones again. I hate the training, I hate the abstinence from coffee and alcohol, I'm even tired of pasta. Forget it. Run for exercise, not for glory. Besides, I'll probably keep my knees longer.

I truly believe that if today's run was a fun as last year's half, I would want to do it again. Last year I ran with my friend and felt great. No whining, no pain, no prevaricating on time goals. We felt good, had a good time, and finished strong. Trevor said I looked like hell crossing the finish line today. This performance cannot even be blamed on the weather, or lack of training. Heck, I knocked 6 minutes off last year... I have something to be proud of. But it was not fun. Not worth two hours of my day and hundreds of hours of training time.

Now, my fingers have returned to their proper size, I am warm, and I managed to escape the run with no major chafing (thank goodness for Bodyglide, or Boob Lube, as I fondly call it). In fact, except for some pretty ugly feet and a little muscle fatigue and the occasional involuntary sigh (my body's way of trying to repair its oxygen deficit, I guess), am little worse for wear. I feel the endorphin-induced glow of completing something really tough, but I still don't ever want to do it again. Maybe I can even be happy volunteering at the big races, sticking IVs into dehydrated runners and being glad I'm not them. I could probably do that now and not think, hey, I should have/could have done that. I know I could, but I don't wanna. And you can't make me.

I have to say the best part about it is that I did it. I completed it, even though it sucked, and I wore my medal all day to prove it (although no one asked me why I was wearing such dorky bling-bling, much to my chagrin). I don't really care about the time, but I am glad it was better than last year. When I ran today, I knew it was going to be a hard task, but I had a choice about my discomfort; my patients and their families don't. Even though it didn't do anything objectively for them, I hope that somehow, somewhere deep in their hearts, they know I was thinking of them while I was running.