Confession: I am a Type II diabetic. I was diagnosed a month after losing Dad. I admit this too – I put my disease into the deep recesses of my mind while living at the hospital. A year later, I had to confront this unwelcome guest. Taking meds regularly was just a start, and the routine of it became (and remains) a special part of my day with Rachel.
Back then, I began tracking my glucose numbers somewhat regularly, and I stepped onto the scale to track my weight. One morning, late that summer, I gained up five pounds overnight, I swear. I blinked at those digits, wondering how they got there so fast.
What the hell is that about? When did these five pounds decide to join this party?
Truth be told, I probably was about to get my period, but I was suddenly on fire to do something about it. Something drastic.
Well, you’ve been working on running here and there…
This is true. When I got on that treadmill downstairs, I was working on a tiny bit of running, but I mostly walked. Running felt like too much work.
Melissa, it may be a lot of work, but admit it: you like how your body feels after running, even a tiny bit.
I grabbed my laptop and researched races to join. By the end of that day with my magical five pounds, I signed up for an event called the Library Love Run in St. Paul, a little 3K raising money for books.
When Jim got home that day, I didn’t say anything right away. I just went about my business, loading up the dishwasher. The room was quiet, with the exception of the news channel, blathering on.
“Honey, what is this charge I see on the bank?” Jim held his Ipad with our account on the screen.
“What charge?”
“This one that says MinnesotaRun for $30? That one?”
“Oh, that…Well…Um.”
“What IS it, Melissa?” The irritation rose in his voice.
“I signed up for a race. It’s in October. I’m going to run in a race.”
His eyes widened. “What? You? You signed up for a race?”
“Yes. Yes I did. I gained five pounds, and it made me mad, so I’m doing something about it.”
“You got mad about five whole pounds? Melissa, you used to weigh 180, and then you dropped all the way down to somewhere about what, 130 something? And now you’re MAD about five whole pounds?”
“Yes. I don’t like it anymore. I don’t want to be that heavy. Ever. Neither do you, I imagine.”
“Well, no. No, I don’t.” He paused, his tone got a little softer. “But I guess I wasn’t expecting you to do this.”
“I know. It’s dramatic…sudden. But I have to do this.”
“You know you must train for this, right? You need to run WAY more than you walk.”
“I know. I’m going to start tomorrow.”
“Okay. Be careful. I can’t carry both of you.”
“I will. You won’t carry both of us. I promise you that.”
The next morning, I stepped onto the treadmill, flicked it onto a walking speed, and visualized myself finishing that race. I researched the night before how to train for a race, starting with equal parts walking and running. Eventually, I was to gradually increase the running and decrease the walking. Sounded simple enough, so that’s exactly what I did.
When I exercised, I found that I talked to myself. As my body adjusted to new speeds, I let my mind wander to take it off the hard work at hand. Sometimes I’d be aiming for a goal, reviewing a problem, or reflecting about life. As I started training for my first race, my mind was on a marathon of thoughts…
One of the things I thought about was my career as a teacher. I wondered if I would ever be a full time instructor, shedding that worry that comes with part time work. I had heard rumors that it was hard to find good college reading instructors. Training for that race helped me make the decision to go back to school.
By the fall of 2012, I had signed up for my first graduate class and arranged for the tuition waiver to pay for most of the course. I had no idea if getting a certificate in Reading would secure work. I knew that it wasn’t a waste, though. I wondered if it would help me in assisting Rachel to learn how to read.
Other times, as I trained, I reflected on Rachel’s recovery. My mind was a ping-pong game of thoughts, with hope on one side of the table and doubt on the other…
God her smile is getting more beautiful, more even, isn’t it?
Yeah, but she can’t talk much.
Melissa, her dimples are even returning. She’s looking more and more like her old self!
But I miss her so much! I miss that girl who purposely placed her hand into mine as we walked…walked into the grocery store together. I miss that girl who helped me make coffee at night. I miss that girl who asked if we could talk about God while sitting in the living room. I miss her voice. It was almost like she sang rather than talked. I miss her sass. I miss playing Candy land for hours with her as I nursed my grief of losing Dad in January of 2011. I miss her. I just plain miss her.
I know. I know. But you gotta keep working on you so that you can be there for her as she continues to get better. Think about going for the reading certificate. Getting this running habit going…It’s for you as much as it is for her.
I’m tired. I want to get off this Goddamn treadmill.
Sorry, I need you to keep going until you hit a full mile. Keep going.
I don’t like you today.
You will love me when you finish that race in October. You will adore me, so MOVE it.
Jim came home from work at the end of one day and asked, “Well, how is training for that race going?”
“Um, ok, I guess?”
“How far can you go?”
“Well, I’m up to a mile.”
“A mile? Running all the way through that mile?”
“No, I take walking breaks.”
“Look you gotta work on running allllll the way through. We don’t want to be waiting for you to finish that race.”
“Gosh, thanks for your vote of confidence. But hey, I got this.”
“Oookayyy,” he said, with that nasty doubtful tone, which rang in my ears.
One morning, I checked my glucose number, and it was above 300. The goal is to have “wake-up numbers” at around 100. When I see these high numbers, I want to scream at myself…How the hell are you going to stay alive for Rachel’s recovery with these kind of high numbers, you idiot!
Being a diabetic has been a blessing and a curse. At this point, I was suffering from horrific yeast infections. Diabetes was the evil culprit, and it took me another year to get rid of them. Yet, my disease whittled away at my heavy self, like a sculptor with a block of clay. I do LOOK much better, but the daily fight on what to eat and drink is a minefield I could do without.
Is she ever going to walk again? Or talk?
It’s going to take time, Melissa. You know what the nurses told you back at Gillette and Children. Jim reminds you over and over…it is going to take time.
She’s going to get heavy. Too heavy to carry someday.
Then you need to get in shape and get stronger.
WHATever, Melissa. You know, crayons aren’t that hard to hold, and she can’t do that yet…
We have to remain positive. That’s what Dr. Jill Bolte Taylor said in her book, and she is a stroke survivor herself!
Man, if she can’t hold them, then she puts them into her mouth. Gross.
Dr. Taylor experienced oral fixation too…after her massive stroke…AT THE AGE OF 36!
I’m tired of arguing with you, and I want to get off this freaking treadmill.
No can do, sister. You’re going until you reach a mile and a half.
The oral fixation piece was hard for me to endure, it’s true. As an infant, she never used a pacifier, nor did she suck any fingers. But it’s a normal part of stroke recovery for many patients. Dr. Bolte’s book reminded me to count my blessings, though. That second stroke nearly killed her.
Be that as it may, running allowed me to face the doubts in my head while reaching for hope. Yes, such a tug of war in the mind is just a part of the overall marathon I was in. So, to answer that unknown, running soon became the new weapon I wielded against doubt and diabetes.
Wasn’t it cool how she sat next to you and shared an apple with you the other day? That is SUCH an old Rachel thing to do!
I suppose…
You SUPPOSE? What do you mean, you SUPPOSE? It was WONDERFUL, and you know it. Plus, remember when Mom told you the Kleenex story?
Meh.
Oh come on! I’m talking about how Rachel was in the back seat of Mom’s car, and when Mom coughed, Rachel tried to heal her by offering a box of Kleenex to help her.
Yeah, so?
Yes! And it made Mom laugh, and then soon, Rachel herself was laughing. You see? She is really IN there! And her ability to process things is getting better! You know, she just might be a doctor someday!
Oh, please! This is the kind of dramatic BS that drives your husband crazy. Let’s just get through this race before crowning Rachel a damn doctor.
Well, you certainly have an attitude today.
Girl, I want to get off this treadmill.
You are at 1.80 miles. Keep your ass moving.
Despite my doubts and diabetes, I chose to stay IN this marathon of life because I’m her mother. And I love her. So does Jim and my mom. Many doctors, nurses, and therapists told us that we were “great parents.” Some even called us heroes. No, I’m a mother, teacher, daughter, diabetic, wife, and now, I’m a runner. I’m marathoning toward hope, fueled by love, and weighted down by doubt.
The hardest part? I don’t know where the finish line is.