I am not a runner. I run, but that does not make me a “runner”. I think I am actually a little retarded. I developed this bucket list of sorts a few years back. The list consisted of a few things I wanted to accomplish before I reached 40. Although the list is small, since the stroke I am more adamant than ever to accomplish it.
One of the most challenging things on my bucket list is to run a marathon. 26.2 miles. I actually might have blamed the stroke for the damage to my brain that makes me think I can do this, had I not set the goal to so do before I fell ill.
I began training for a half-marathon about six months before the stroke. I figured if I was to reach this massive physical goal I had to do it in phases. I’d run a 5k, then maybe a 10k or 15k and then a half marathon. Once I had that under my belt I would be more realistic about tackling the entire haul. I was up to running eight miles when I had the stroke. It was the furthest I had run in my entire life. I was a lifelong soccer player so I could sprint. Long distance running was never my thing. I was so excited and proud of those eight miles. Then my stupid brain halted my progress.
I was planning on running the Miami Beach half in the 13.1 Rock and Roll series. I clearly remember thinking to myself, a couple times actually while I was hospitalized, “How am I gonna train in here?” When I was released from the hospital I asked my neurologist if I could still do the half, (which hysterically was less than five weeks away at the time). Of course he laughed at me and firmly said, “No.” I was looking for a compromise. “Can I walk it?” (With my walker) “No!” So the 2010 Miami Beach half passed me by. I didn’t run it. I now realize what a doofus I was to think for a second I could even walk one mile let alone 13.1. Looking back it took me weeks to be able to get out of bed and use Esther, my walker, around the house. I was exhausted after pushing her to the bathroom and then back to bed. I had serious delusions of grandeur. At home I soon forgot about the race I had missed and refocused on recovery and sleep. Lots of sleep. My thoughts of running didn’t return to my conscious mind until I began physical therapy.
Luckily I convinced the doc to release me home from the hospital instead of straight to an inpatient rehab facility. I actually did a small pirouette to convince him I was ok to be home and travel to outpatient rehab. It’s a small miracle I didn’t fall flat on my big ass. Impressed with my fervor, he let me go home. I was expected to be in outpatient PT and OT (occupational therapy) for at least six months. I was released from both after 45 days. Yeah, that’s me, forcefully stubborn as all hell.
Occupational therapy was all about motor coordination and physical response. Basically they were assessing how the signals in my brain were communicating with my body. I went through a few repetitive visual exercises. It was really frustrating at first because my brain clearly recognized the signals and how to appropriately respond to them but my physical being couldn’t keep up. It was, quite frankly, infuriating. My brain told me immediately what to do but my hands couldn’t do what I wanted them to do. My arms couldn’t reach those lit up red buttons in a timely manner. There was this huge board. It was probably 20x30 and it was white covered in rows of red buttons that would light up in any given random order. I had to press each button as it lit up. My eyes found them immediately. My arms and hands just couldn’t get to them in time so the first few go rounds I missed a lot. My motor coordination was crap. I was really pissed. There were other visual things, matching games and items on paper, but that damn board was the thorn in my side. I was determined to make my body respond so I could master it.
Physical therapy was surprisingly not as mentally frustrating to me as the occupational component. However, it was grueling. It was like having to stand on a toothpick while juggling. Ok, perhaps that is a mild exaggeration, but it damn well felt like that at the time. I broke a major sweat doing the simplest of things. My left side was pretty compromised by all the brain swelling, as was my vision, so that was my physical therapist’s focus. Jackie was my PT and god bless her she was awesome. When Jackie said shit to me like, “Ok you are an athlete, you can handle this”, I knew it was going to be unpleasant. And I was rarely wrong. Balance was a huge obstacle for me. Mostly because my vision was so wacky that it was often difficult for me to find any resemblance of equilibrium. Jackie honed in on that. I remember a lot of the elementary things I had to do. Like walk. Its amazing how hard walking is with a bum leg and screwed up vision. I recall walking on a rubber matted area, set up like parallel bars in gymnastics, except the bars on either side of me were metal and there for me to hold onto for dear life. Which I white knuckled the first few times I walked it.
Once I got walking down pretty well, Jackie got all ambitious on me. She gave me a balance exercise that I was intimidated by, but tried anyhow. She made me stand on this round disc that had half a ball beneath it. So basically I had to stand on half a sphere and not fall. It was my “Whatcyou talkin’ bout Willis?” rehab moment. I can’t put into words how hard it was. I mean I did it, and I did it EVERY therapy session, but it was excruciating every time. I had to focus, really focus, on my muscles and visualize myself not falling every time I stepped on. I hated letting go of those bars. Those bars were the only thing between my head hitting the floor and me being back in the hospital. Then after a few sessions, once my need for the bars was gone, she felt we should strike up a friendly game of “catch” while I stood on this satanic contraption. Yes, catch. She literally threw a ball at my head and expected me to catch it WHILE I balanced on the disc. It sounds simple enough. But it sucked. I was soaked with sweat and fear after about ten passes back and fourth. That exercise became a staple in my sessions. And the balance time got longer and the balls I caught became heavier. In two weeks I felt stronger that I ever thought possible with my body in that state.
My most difficult time was post therapy and pre final MRI/MRV. Even though I had recaptured my ability to do basic things, I was still not allowed to exercise. At all. I was allowed to walk no more than three miles a day (on days I was not so fatigued that I could actually do that). I was in a limbo of sorts. A rehabilitative purgatory. Although I had improved, my neurologist would not clear me for anything even remotely strenuous until he saw that the blood clots had all dissipated. I’d dream of returning to my yoga practice and wondered how long it would take for me to get back to running eight miles.
I finally went in for my final MRV in October of 2010. Driving to the appointment I said out loud, very matter of factly, “The clots are gone. My scan will be clean”.
I waited eight long days for that call. Then it came. The clots were gone. Not only were they gone, but also three baffled neurologists looked at my scan, because my brain had healed so perfectly and completely there was absolutely no sign of the trauma it had endured. No scarring, no damaged tissue, nothing. My brain was healthy. More so than it was ever expected to be.
I was at work when I was given the results. I hung up the phone and cried at my desk for ten solid minutes. The relief was overwhelming. I think that moment in this entire ordeal was the first time I felt truly lucky. I then called Keane and left him a message. After that, my first thought was, “Can I run now?”
My neurologist told me I could do yoga and some light running to start. He advised me to ease back into it, but I was totally free and clear to resume my training. I was so excited and terrified at the same time. I truly hoped I could get back to where I had left off, sooner than later.
I remember the first time I ran a full mile. It was the following December. It was the best Christmas present I could have ever given myself. It took me twenty minutes, but I did it. I sat on the edge of the treadmill in my basement and with head in hands cried. I cried a lot to myself in the following months. Every tear was one of pure gratitude. I thanked my body everyday for returning to me and promised to treat it well for the rest of my life. Thus far, with Keane’s help, I have stuck to that promise pretty well.
I have faithfully run and practiced yoga since my clean scan. I have set my mind into motion that I can reach each small goal I set. I ran my first 5k with Keane on our anniversary in March 2011. He held my hand and saw me across the finish line. I did it in 37:42, but I finished. Today I am running at least twice a week on the treadmill (a 5k or a 5 miler depending on the day), and an 8 – 10 mile run outside once every two weeks or so. I practice yoga in class twice a week and at home regularly, while lifting weights once a week. My routine is set and although I am not perfect with it, I am getting stronger and looking forward to being in the best shape of my adult life by 40.
So here I am. Nineteen days away from running my half marathon in Miami. As each day creeps closer, the anticipation fills me with both excitement and terror. I know deep down I can finish, even though doubt still haunts me on days where my body feels weak. I’ve been mentally preparing for this for years. I have trained responsibly yet hard, for almost seventeen months. It is all going to be in front of me in nineteen days. It will be the best feeling in the world to cross that finish line with these legs of mine. It may very well be the hardest thing I’ve done so far. It will be a test of my mental fortitude and physical strength. It will once again allow me to prove to myself I can do anything.
And I can’t wait.
No comments:
Post a Comment