I am not OK, but that's okay.

To round out October as National Depression Awareness month, I thought I'd put all my thoughts of how I'm doing in one spot. As some who have read my Facebook posts might have wondered, I'm in a less than optimal state these days. Perhaps the largest indicator that something has been amiss is that I stopped writing in my blog--I remember a high school English teacher once telling me that people should be worried, not when I write about potentially dark or concerning things, but when I stop writing about them.

I've occasionally seen posts from several Facebook friends with the relayed message that goes something like "Please post this so that people know that someone is listening." Frankly--it doesn't do a whole lot for me, but I'm sure there are people that it does help, so please keep on with that.  What did help me enormously was when a friend reached out to me late last week over text message and just asked how I was doing, and offered to help in any way that he could. Just being able to explain my frustration with the state of mental healthcare in this day and age went a long way to settling my thoughts.

I should begin, not at the beginning, but at a point where this snowball began. Somewhere around a year and a half ago, I saw a new psychiatrist who put me on Remeron, which did wonders for immediately fixing my issues with getting to sleep and staying asleep. She was fairly certain that based on my activity level, the usual side effect of weight gain would pass me by. I gained somewhere between 5 and 10 pounds almost immediately, and then plateaued, and I accepted this as a necessary side effect. More concerning was that I woke up most mornings in a fog that did not clear up until noon, and I lost pleasure in the simple act of getting a workout in. You know that feeling of runner's high? Gone.

Just gone. The endorphins that went along with working out were eliminated from my psyche.  Working out became about effort. It became about looking at my workout on paper and deciding if it was good or not after the fact. It became about redefining joy around a performance--be that finishing a workout, or about meeting a speed objective. I lost the ability to independently say whether I enjoyed doing what I was doing or not.

My psychiatrist suggested lowering the dose of Remeron, which appeared to help with the "been in the hit head with a shovel" aspect of waking up every morning. Strangely, the weight gain picked back up again, and there was no improvement in the runner's high side of things. I made the determination that I needed to come off of this drug, and with my psychiatrist, we decided that we would see how things would go in an unmedicated state. I'd been on this antidepressant for a year, and we agreed to taper off of it. She said she didn't need to see me again unless things went wrong. At the end of it, I gained 17 pounds, almost 10% of my initial body mass.

So, I came off the Remeron. I passed four kidney stones in three months, and work became a great upheaval of overcommitment. I recognized the problem as it was happening--I was on a trip, and having to deal with another program from my hotel room, in a double duty fashion, and a third thing occurred. When I politely explained my predicament, the requests just got louder (as in emails to include the managers in my group about me not getting stuff done). I wound up doing the work, and made mistakes like forgetting to load files onto my laptop so I could work on it while I was flying--I was just in a state where all the cylinders weren't firing, and it was digging an even deeper hole for me. After landing in Paris, I spent a good chunk of time in my hotel room completing a document because of that screw up. Maybe it helped with the jet lag. I don't know. I started on Klonopin again to get myself to sleep--which is the red flag I had set for myself that things had gone awry.

I passed that fourth kidney stone a few days after I got home from Paris. Dehydration from flying probably had something to do with it. I then threw out my back the day after my stone, and met with my therapist and my urologist. At the urging of my therapist, I met with my manager to talk about how to reduce my stress load at work, and he said all the right things in that meeting. "We need to find people to take over some of the work you have"..."we need to find ways to eliminate some of those problems that cause you issues, like the commute from Long Beach to El Segundo"--my experiment with a desk in Seal Beach failed miserably over the past year, because I had nearly daily reasons I had to be in El Segundo.

However, I left that meeting with no concrete plan--no actual changes to the schedule. No actual shifts in responsibility. So, the days unfolded as they had before. I would work on something, at the demand of somebody who had already thought that I had failed by being late, and get that done, and then go to another building the next day and repeat the process. The discussions with my therapist about going out on disability for stress leave became more real. I also decided I needed to get back with my psychiatrist to go on another anti-depressant, and it turned out that she was gone on vacation for 5 weeks, and refused to start me on anything from a distance because it had been too long since I had seen her--5 months apparently exceeds her threshold. She said I should go to my GP to get started on a different drug, and it was in that moment that I decided she had simply washed her hands of me.

So, I simultaneously tried to make appointments with a new psychiatrist my therapist had referred me to and my GP to get me started on Wellbutrin. The psychiatrist's first availability was Nov. 22nd, and my GP's was after my scheduled trip to D.C. I agreed on a same day appointment with another doctor in the office I had never seen before. He asked me a series of questions basically covering his ass, and then prescribed me a dosage of Wellbutrin that is, in all likelihood, ridiculously insufficient.  It's less than half of what I took when Wellbutrin worked for me before.

For anyone who was concerned about why I posted "I'm pretty sure one of the leading causes of suicide is 'we can't get you on the schedule for 2 months'"--this is it. To be very clear, I am not suicidal--but I believe that anyone who is that faces this complete load of crap in trying to seek professional help might just have problems making it through. I had follow up discussions with my manager over email, and he now understands just how serious this problem is, and is working on a path to correct it. The plan is not concrete, but it is coming together. I am hopeful that my life will begin to turn around very quickly.

But something needs to change. And I mean something very significant about how this country views and treats mental healthcare. It should not be the right of only the super rich who can afford to pay out of pocket for professionals who know what they're doing. And it should not only be the right of the wealthy upper middle class who have decent insurance.

I have a plan. I am not ok. But I will be ok, so that makes it ok. And I am hopeful that, as I claw my way out of this hole, I will find the joy of working out again, and the feelings of accomplishment that come from doing a good job on something at work, while not having to prioritize things in a way that starts with "Who do I want to piss off the least today?"

So, for all you out there who may be going through something similar--I'm here.

Returning to Normal Life

Passing a kidney stone ranks in the top 10 of pain caused by medical issues, along with things like cancer and childbirth, as well as other crap everyone should be thankful that they haven't had the pleasure of dealing with.

I passed 3 stones over the last 5 weeks, and it wasn't like the experience of the previous ones made the next ones any easier. They just made me aware that I probably wasn't going to die from this. Before I got the first one diagnosed in the ER, I thought I might have been dying, because that's how intense the pain was. There are some forms of pain the human body was not meant to be able to deal with.

As I was passing the 3rd stone, I referred to it as a "stone fragment" because that's what I thought it should have been. I had lithotripsy done 5 days before that in an effort to crush the stones into sand...and well, that didn't work out quite the way it should have. Doctors sometimes tell you the best case scenario, and if something worse (or more painful) happens, they're happy as long as it gets you past it.  In my case, the remaining stones were probably reduced in size, making it possible to pass them, but no less painful. I spent about 36 hours in agony on the 2nd day after lithotripsy and another 12-18 hours on the fifth day. The third stone was roughly the same size as the first one, so the use of the term "fragment" could not have been more wrong.

On Friday, I was elated to find out that I had no remaining stones left--that the ones I had formed were all successfully expelled in the week following my lithotripsy. I would like to be able to say that I feel like I'm 100%, but that's not actually true. I get tired really easily, and I'm hoping that will improve quickly. A little bit of me has been smacked in the face with the cold, hard reality of my own mortality. One does not go through three stones being passed without taking a moment to pause and reflect about the human body's capacity to suddenly betray you.

So, I'm sitting here in my mid 40's, grateful to be alive, but also conscious of the fact that being alive is a gift that should not be squandered. And I'm sleeping and resting a lot right now, and that's ok.

See you back out there, sometime soon.

"I'm no superman..."

"Well I know what I've been told
You gotta know just when to fold
But I can't do this all on my own
No, I know 
I'm no superman
I'm no superman"  

--"Superman," Lazlo Bane, theme song to Scrubs

Occasionally, life throws a curveball at you, and you have no choice but to adapt to it. 13 days before I was to leave on a trip for work to the east coast, I dealt with my kidney stone, and returned to work to find out that my trip had been canceled. My reaction was relief--these work trips leave everyone involved in them exhausted, to the point of sometimes being unable to recall complex words after they are over. You know--like when you're putting on your shoes, and you're sitting there going...I need to put on these other things before them.  What are those called...you know, made out of fabric? "Socks." I need to put on "socks."

I thought I'd be able to balance the follow up appointments--the scheduling of my pre-op appointment, the scheduling of my surgery, and get all the way through this phase of the new normal for me. It would result in blasting the crap out of the large kidney stone sitting in my right kidney so that there wouldn't be a chance it would get stuck between my kidney and my bladder if it were to start moving.

I thought I'd be able to do that while ramping back into a healthy amount of training. I thought I'd be able to return to eating well.

And then, three days later, we were told to reschedule our travel, and the trip was back on. I initially did not, and decided I needed to prioritize the lithotripsy for my kidney stone over this work. The doctor thought there was very little chance that the existing stones would start moving in the few weeks since my last one, so while traveling with the impending doom of pain that would literally bring me to my knees was a concern, it was unlikely to actually occur. The problem was that I didn't know when I would be able to schedule this surgical procedure.

That Monday, I got it scheduled for the 17th of August, and the pre-op appointment was clear of the trip. I was free to travel with all my coworkers.

By the way, "Scrubs" was an awesome show

I was not free to do what I typically do on these trips--which is to get a workout or two in before I go in to work, further stress my body out by dealing with extensively long hours, and throw caution to the wind in the amount of time that I should be sleeping. My marching orders are clear--keep the kidney happy. Things that would raise my blood pressure were to be avoided.  Working too many hours was not allowed. What I did probably pushed the line, by working every day that I was in DC (yes, including the weekend--this is normal for everyone that I travel with). I chugged a 1.5 liter bottle of water every day at work, in addition to the usual fluid intake that I have, and made many, many trips to the bathroom.

I'm learning to say no, out of necessity. Within the first couple of days I was in D.C., an urgent request came through that I agreed to take care of my first day back, but I refused to reschedule my pre-op appointment around it. On Thursday, someone else will present that material for me. So, I'm completely brain-dead from the work I just got through, and I'm going to go in to work tomorrow and crank some shit out....do not get me started on why no one else is able to do this for me. But I'll leave, and I'm going to take the next two days off.   I need to put my life back together.

I'm going to take those two days and relax...and get the fairly manageable looking workouts done that I have on my plan, and not get stressed out about any of it.

Sometimes, life throws a curveball at you, and your health should always take priority.

Gertrude

Lap 3, two laps to go. I woke up at 2:30, due to jet lag from returning from Europe two nights ago, and I really didn't think anything of the early wake-up. Had a couple of shots of espresso because I was clearly not getting back to sleep, and suddenly I've got this unrelenting pain in the midsection of my right abdomen.

I named my stone, "Gertrude."  I think I will frame it.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, something told me to get up and walk, because that's what women in labor do to get through the pain. Around the island in the kitchen, through the kitchen doorway by the front door, past the tv, and around the couch to the wine rack and back again. Lap 4. If I can make it to lap 5, I'm sure it will pass.

Lap 5. I decide to lie down after meeting my goal and think that maybe the pain has decreased a little, and I am sadly informed by my gut that there would be no break from this. I try lying on my left side. I try lying on my right side. I lie on my back and massage my abdomen. A cramp, but not a cramp--a feeling that something inside me is tearing apart. It hurts too much to cry.

5 minutes pass. If I can make it to daylight, I'm sure it will improve.

10 minutes go by, and I decide I need to walk again. Lap 1. This is worse. Lap 2. It's no better. I round the island in the kitchen, holding myself up as I pass it, and my knees start to wobble. I let out a groan, and I'm aware that Brian has gotten up to go to the bathroom. I bypass completing lap 3 and heave myself up the stairs on all fours. "I need help. This hurts so bad, I don't know what to do. I need you to take me to the hospital."

Hesitation. I expect this. It's 3am, about 30 hours after we got home from Europe. Brian is sick with a monster cold. I wonder if this is what Brian's diverticulitis felt like. I have no idea what's wrong with me. "I need my pants and my wallet." Brian goes to the bathroom as I manage to pull on my pajama bottoms. We meet at the bottom of the stairs and he hesitates to open the front door. "What's wrong?"
Brian says, "I'm turning off the alarm." I know this, but every second of delay hurts more. The alarm is shut off and we make it down the stairs to his car. I get in the passenger seat.

"I need air." Brian rolls down the window. We're on PCH, and there is too much wind. "It's too much." Brian rolls up the window mostly.

We sail through the traffic lights to the traffic circle, and there's a red light for the left turn to get to the emergency room--I want him to run the red light. Brian isn't sure where to go for the ER.

"There," I say, and he makes another left turn into the ER dropoff. I'm aware he can't park here, but that's not my problem. I make it to the admit desk, and then crumple to the ground. "I need help.  It hurts here," as I grab my right side.

Sadly, I had thought that if I could make it this far, they would help me immediately. They tell me to take a seat, and I can't sit--the pain is too intense. I try standing, and I fall to the ground. The admit desk tells me I can't lie on the floor, and I tell them I can't sit. I try heaving myself up by my arms, and I manage to stand for a while.

"I can't breathe.  I told you I can't breathe, " a man yells at the admissions guy. "I need to dial 911 and go to a real hospital." I'm not really sure what happened to him, but I had a feeling he left the waiting room. There is one triage nurse, and he is dealing with the patient who came in before me. I wonder if this person is there for a cold, or bronchitis, or something equally as "not emergency."

Eventually, it's my turn, and the triage nurse tells me to sit in a chair. I can't sit. I stand, holding myself up by the countertop. Slowly, methodically, he goes through each question. I can't remember what they were. I need to lie down.

And I eventually do lie down, in the bed in the ER. They want my shirt off and a gown on. I lie there...I think for an hour or two, while the ER nurse asks me questions, hooks me up to a monitor, takes my blood pressure, and seems to accomplish nothing. The heart rate monitor keeps alarming every time my heart rate drops into the 40s. The alarm pisses me off, and my heart rate rises back into the 50s. My blood pressure is through the roof--something like 170/110. I ask Brian to ask the nurse to set the heart rate alarm lower, at 40. Somewhere during this time, I communicate that I've had my appendix removed, and I have to go to the bathroom. I come back and even though I feel like I constantly have to pee, there's nothing to pee. The nurse asks me if I've had kidney stones.

"No, but my dad and my brother both have."

At this moment, it dawns on me that this is what it must be.

"I'll report this to the doctor." The nurse disappears. My belief that my active lifestyle would avoid this genetically fated hell falls apart in the minutes of this realization. I had no idea how painful kidney stones are.

They eventually roll me to a CT scanner. Brian goes to get something to eat. Hours have transpired. The guy rolling my gurney to CT and I start talking about the cruise I was on--somehow I've told him about how we flew on a helicopter to an iceberg when we went on an Alaskan cruise many years ago, and he says those are the experiences he wants to have.

The CT goes easily--it's so much easier than an MRI. I'm aware that it's a thousand times the exposure of a single x-ray, and I don't care. It's preferable to dying.

An hour later and Brian asks what's going on. There are no results yet, and finally the doctor comes back and says I have a 2 mm stone somewhere between my kidney and my bladder--he said more specifically where it was, but I don't remember that detail. The plan is to let it pass. There's a 4 mm stone and another 2 mm stone in that right kidney and then others in my left kidney. I should follow up with my doctor, and if the pain gets worse, return immediately.

I've been hooked up to an IV and I get Toradol for the pain--it starts working and I feel fine in about 20 minutes. I wonder if the stone is passing or if it's just the pain medication, and they discharge me. We drive through Burger King on the way home, and I collapse on the couch. At some point, I decide I need to walk to CVS, because walking is supposed to help, so I pick up my drugs, and Brian asks me to get him some cold medication.

During the day, I decide that I want to watch the movie "Life," that I bought on my laptop on iTunes several weeks ago, but I can't figure out how to get the AppleTV signed into my account--effing two-factor authentication. Ryan Reynolds and Jake Gyllenhal in the same movie. Ryan Reynolds dies--this is stressful. An hour in, my pain starts to return and I take a Percocet. I have to pee through a screen filter until this stone passes.

I start watching Deadpool, and it's really hard to follow while strung out on Percocet. I don't finish it. I don't remember if I had dinner. I go to bed.

I wake up in pain about 9pm, and take another Percocet--I go back to sleep. Maybe 11pm, maybe midnight, I have to pee again, and the stone pops out. Diffuse lower back pain. It does not hurt to pee. I always assumed pissing a stone out would hurt like hell, and it does not.

I go back to sleep thinking this is over, and I wake up and realize that I've got as many as 5 other stones sitting in my kidneys that I have to get taken care of, which results in a call to my doctor, and they can't see me for 3 weeks. The scheduler is not helpful. I start screaming at her what the problem is and that these stones will put me back in the hospital, and she finally gets a message to my doctor, who responds that I have to go to a Urologist--who, luckily, can see me tomorrow.

My Urologist informs me that I need to get the larger stone broken up with lithotripsy, which is an ultrasound treatment to break up kidney stones because the 4.5mm stone may get stuck on the way out and cause me to have to have surgery--he believes it will remain in my kidney for some time, so it is urgent, but not an emergency, and the woman who schedules these procedures is out on vacation until Monday. I have that larger one to deal with, a smaller one, about the size of the one I just passed, and then the others are really not kidney stones, but small calcifications, that are of no consequence. I will have to endure the smaller stone passing at some unknown time in the future. I am a ticking time bomb.

I sit waiting...hoping that the large stone doesn't pass before they can blast the crap out of it.

The Worst Triathlon Ever

Yesterday was the day of the worst triathlon I ever did. Or didn't do, as the case may be. Close to 9 months ago, I registered for the triathlon at World Out Games Miami, as well as the swim meet (hosted in tandem with IGLA, the international governing body for gay and lesbian aquatics). Without belaboring the point, the sole reason that swimming, water polo, synchro, and diving went on is because of the blood, sweat, and tears of the members of IGLA that organize these sports on an annual basis. Without them, swimming would have likely fallen to the same fate as the upwards of 300 other sports that were canceled in the days before the events were to take place.

Something seemed off about the triathlon in the weeks leading up to when we departed for Miami. It is virtually unheard of to not receive a ridiculously long electronic packet of information for a triathlon prior to the race. Generally, there are something like 2 important details buried in 30 pages of stuff you have heard a million times. Since I hadn't heard anything, I emailed OutGames, as well as our swim team's contact to IGLA to ask two rather important questions--the first was if the event was still going on, and the second was what the water temperature in Miami was. I live on the west coast, and the ocean water temperature is always freezing cold, always wetsuit legal, and never something that you have to question. Miami, however, is much warmer, and a google search said upper 70s or low 80s this time of year--likely above the threshold for use of a wetsuit, and one less thing I should pack for a triathlon. I hadn't received a response from them the day before I left for Miami, so I asked my coach what she thought the likelihood of a wetsuit swim was, and she responded that it was pretty unlikely and the water temp was likely to be in the 80s--it was enough for me to not pack the wetsuit.

I found out the triathlon was canceled as we were pushing back from the gate to fly to Miami. In the several minutes before we had to shut down electronic devices, we found out that there were people coming from as far as Australia whose events had been canceled while they were in-flight. The email from OutGames was succinct, mildly apologetic, and made it clear that swimming would go on. I am much more fortunate than a lot of other people who trained for their races all year long, some of whom undoubtedly made this their A-priority race of the season. They lost their OutGames general registration fee ($150) along with their sport specific event fee, which varied by sport, but was $125 for the triathlon. If someone were traveling specifically for the triathlon, and not doing any other sports, they lost $275. Nobody has any expectation that refunds for these sports are coming--in all likelihood, this is money they will never see again.

Word got out that OutGames allowed people to register for the events as late as the week before the opening ceremonies. One person who posted to Facebook said that she and her partner registered for Golf the week before and were given no indication that there was anything wrong with the events. It is implausible that the organizers of OutGames did not know that they were in financial straits a week before the events that they canceled. Statements such as "fraud" and "misappropriation of funds" were tossed about on social media. An article came out in the Miami Herald that the organization would be investigated. Anybody who watches TV or movies knows that these things take time, sometimes on the order of years to come to conclusion, and anyone who has been the beneficiary of a class-action lawsuit knows that the likely outcome is that each person that is owed any money will wind up with no more than pennies on the dollar of what they paid, if they get anything at all.

I don't ever expect to see the hundred and twenty-five bucks I lost on the triathlon again. The cynic in me says that OutGames owes me more than that, because part of the reason there is a general registration fee is to cover the cost of the multi-sport/multi-cultural events that are a big part of the gathering of gay and lesbian athletes from across the globe, and those events were canceled outright. Recovering that money is a pipe dream strapped to the back of a unicorn, sliding down a rainbow into a pot of gold.

What I lost more than that money was the experience of doing that triathlon, because those events are fun to do, in particular when the pressure is off to perform well. I've been dealing with an elbow injury, and had made peace with the fact that I would likely struggle through the swim (I swam as slow as a 5:32 for a 400 meter free this week), and then see what I could do with the bike and the run. Again, I am much better off than some people, who were likely gunning to go a PR, win the race, or have some other goal they had been working toward for a very long time. OutGames stole that opportunity from them.

OutGames dashed the hopes of thousands of athletes this week, and for that, they should be cast out of existence, never to be heard from again...except for the check for 67 cents I'll probably get in 5 years.

May is stroke awareness month

In 2005, I was diagnosed with a heart condition known as a Patent Foramen Ovale--my particular version of this heart anomaly also comes along with an exacerbating feature called an Atrial Septal Aneurysm.  The shorthand is PFO w/ASA.  In laymans terms, I have a flappy opening between the atrial chambers of my heart, and a weak wall between them that floats with every beat of my heart.

Cardiologists were quick to dismiss this structure as being uninteresting from the standpoint of cardiac disease--however, it carries with it an elevated risk of stroke for the duration of my life.  The mechanism is that small particles that would normally be filtered out by the lungs have the opportunity to jump across this opening in my heart, and travel straight to my brain.

PFO is estimated to be present in 15-20% of the population, and PFO with ASA is present in something more like 1% to 2%.  I was told that when people have a stroke as young adults, it is often attributed to this structure, and as you age, that risk remains constant but it is eventually exceeded by other age-related stroke mechanisms.

To date, options for correction of this heart anomaly are not good--they include open heart surgery, which carries the risk of immediate death and placement of a device called an Amplatzer patch through a catheter, which does not have as a high a risk profile but most likely would end any ability I have to exercise and train seriously.  The result is that I manage the risk by taking a full strength aspirin a day and I cannot afford the risk of sitting in cramped conditions without being able to move my legs for more than an hour at a time.  To date, I have had no issues with stroke, but not everybody is that lucky.

May is Stroke Awareness month, and a rapid response is often the most critical thing in responding to a stroke.  Medications to aid in dissolving a clot (if a clot is the source of the stroke) have to be administered before the 6 hour mark after the onset of symptoms, and since it may take as long as 6 hours to work through the emergency room of any hospital, you have very little time to react.

Know the signs--you might just save someone's life!

Max

 Don't cry for me--I'm not in pain anymore.

15 years ago, I was playing on Spring Street, dodging cars, and running from one side to the other, when you stopped in your car, and called me over to you. I ran up to you, and loved you immediately. You hesitated and looked around for a while, and then decided to let me into your car. I knew I was going home, and away from where I had been before--my fur was caked in mud, and I had a tight collar on that was making it hard for me to breathe. I got to meet my sister Josie, and you gave me a bath, and made a whole bunch of phone calls, but I knew I was home.

I loved my new home, and my brothers, Milo and Norman, but they didn't want to play with me at first. I loved sleeping by your side, sometimes on the bed, and sometimes on the floor next to you. I didn't know better at first, when there was that one night I got locked outside when that other man was still around--I haven't seen him in a long time. I thought sleeping outside at night was normal, until you taught me better.
I remember shaking uncontrollably, and you were so worried--you took me to the doctor. She ran a bunch of tests, and then you started giving me pills every morning and night--they made me feel calm. Sometimes, I would be running through the house, and I wouldn't judge the door quite right, and I'd run into the door frame. I was so clumsy! But I felt better--you always knew what to do to make me feel better.
Do you remember when I should have won the obedience training competition? I had a seizure right before the class, and I couldn't quite remember everything I was supposed to do--but I remembered how to sit and stay better than anyone else in the class. Josie got 2nd place, and afterwards, we all knew I should have won. I was the best at obedience.





I remember you taking me running with Josie--she always went out too fast, and then I would be going stronger in the end. Sometimes, Josie would just stop and lie down, but I would want to keep running as hard as I could, and then one time, I collapsed and you took me home in a neighbor's car. I didn't want to disappoint you, so I just ran as long as I could, but thank you for only taking me for shorter runs...I couldn't keep up with you for as long anymore.

And in my new home, you and Brian only took me for walks. My hips hurt too much, and I had problems getting moving--but I loved my new home. It was peaceful--none of that loud, banging music from the old neighborhood. I woke up in the morning and sat in the back yard, and eventually moved inside, and watched the front of the house while I slept through most of the day until you got home.  I always ran to the door to greet you, and to greet Brian. Sometimes, when you both came home at the same time, I didn't know who to go to first. I was so happy to see both of you.

A year ago, I remember having a hard time walking, and I saw you crying, and I didn't want to disappoint you, so I learned how to walk again. I could never get stairs right again after that, but I wanted to. It was so hard--but I learned how to keep my back legs going, at least most of the time.  Thank you for making me eggs, I loved my scrambled eggs in the morning. But these past few months, my stomach didn't feel right, and I didn't want to eat anymore, but it made you happy, so I ate as much as I could.

When I got on the scale at the doctor's office this past week, I could tell you were sad, but I always felt better after you brought me here, so I told you not to worry. She took my blood and set me down on the table to take some pictures of my stomach. Thank you for coming home from work to spend Friday with me. I got to spend some quiet time with you and Brian. I didn't feel better this time, and I didn't want to eat anymore. I tried to keep you from seeing how much it hurt me, but sometimes, my legs just didn't work, and sometimes, my stomach hurt so bad, I didn't want to move. Thank you for knowing when it was time. I'm in a better place place now, and I can play with Josie, and fight with her over treats again.

When you're ready, don't forget to open up your heart and your home for some new friends. There's a lot of puppies out there that you need you, and you gave me 15 awesome years. It's too quiet for you right now, so don't ever forget all the good times you gave me, and all those great times going to dog beach, and dog park, and chewing on bones, and tennis balls. I loved my tennis balls, and I'll always love you.

--Max  

Woof!!!

I am not this strong.

A week ago, I lined up on the beach at Horny Corner to compete in the Bayshore 70.4 triathlon…I had just returned from 2 weeks in the desert of Las Cruces, working late hours, and not having my weekends to myself.  I got my bike put together ok the day before and my wetsuit fit reasonably well.  I hadn’t worn it in over a year, so there was the possibility that the already snug-fitting shoulders would have been too small for the 10 pounds I had gained over the preceding six months.

I stood on the front line, having said good luck to one of my friends, and hello to a coworker who was also racing.  I set my goggles in place—they fogged up.  I took them off my eyes and licked the insides.  They fogged again.  I had neglected to use antifog solution, because I never use it except for races like this, where the cold air meeting my body heat creates the ideal environment to not be able to see anything once the fog has filled in.   My fingers were covered in Vaseline from having globbed it into my biking socks, so I was careful not to actually handle anything but the goggle straps.  My goggles fogged up again with 1 minute to race start. 

I am not this strong.  I just had to deal with this crap.

The race started and I ran into the water, hit the dive to transition into swimming, and then did what I could to relax.  I felt the icy water envelope my shoulders, my upper arms, and my forearms, and then creep into the rest of my wetsuit.   I saw my left hand disappear into the murky brown, and then the right—the tempo was automatic.   Though I had only swum once during my trip, the lifetime of being a swimmer made my body know what to do. My biceps and triceps hardened under the strain of the cold, and I set out to relax and focused on rotating my body core.  It was my goal to get through this swim doing the least damage to my body as possible, but without being able to relax, I could not cruise through an easy aerobic swim.  I felt the usual crowd drop away, and had a vague concept that there might be several people in front of me.  I would not go after them. 

I am not this strong.

I exited the water at the halfway point and heard someone yell “That’s a good warmup for you.” I assume this was directed at the guy I was trailing.  We had swum side by side, with me unable to navigate a straight line, drunkedly wandering right and left across the narrow swim course.  I smacked into him at one point—it was completely my fault.   I entered the water again.  Some time shortly after the final turn around, I rolled over onto my back and simply said to myself “This hurts,” and then I rolled back over and continued on.  I would exit the water in fourth place, not knowing that until the race was over.

I was numb—my arms and shoulders stiff from the cold and I hobbled into transition and set about getting myself together for the bike.   I lacked the ability to pull my wetsuit off with the ease I was used to.  I yanked on the left leg three times, eventually giving up and standing on the wetsuit leg to pull my left foot out of the narrow hole. I yanked on a pair of rolled up arm warmers, only vaguely aware of what my fingertips were pawing at during the process.   I had opted to not leave my bike shoes clipped into my bike, so I hobbled out of transition and threw my leg over the bike at the mount line and got going. 

My general plan was to ride at a conservative, but decent power level—with the underpreparation I had for this race, the idea of blasting my wattage PR was out of the question.  I decided to cruise out for a bit, and let a couple of racers blow past me with ease.  160 watts was a good starting point, I would sit here for a few minutes, at least until I reached the river trail.  I was cold.

I managed to get my arm warmers rolled up to the top of my arms, so I had a chance of warming up.  As I made the left turn onto the river trail, I knew it was time to settle in.  Over the next 10 minutes, I would ratchet up my power, and ultimately decide that 190 watts was what felt reasonable for this race.  Perhaps I am this strong—it was what I had held two years ago on this same course. 

The course was littered with patches of sand from the brutally wet winter Southern California had been having.  As I approached the troll bridge, I saw an alternating landscape of bike path and sand dune—this area had clearly been submerged by the San Gabriel River. A brief glance to the walls of the course showed dirt with a darkened line at roughly the height of my head.  A volunteer diligently worked to sweep away the deepest of the sand traps.   Later on, I would see the bloody shoulder of a competitor who has not as lucky on these hazards as I was—I am not that strong, I rode cautiously.

At the halfway point, I had averaged 189 watts, and gone about an hour and twenty eight minutes.  I was conscious that the wind had just barely been blowing at my face on the way out, and there was a very minor uphill grade , so I though I might be able to split a little faster and bring in a time down near 2 hours and 50 minutes, and that idea came shattering to pieces in the shape of an onshore flow that rivaled the strongest that I ever see while training on this course.  The front that was moving in had arrived.

An hour and thirty minutes later, I had averaged at total of 188 watts on the bike, just a few shy of my wattage PR, but my legs burned.  I was undertrained for this.  A half ironman is a substantial undertaking, not to be underestimated.   I transitioned to run, feebly pulling my arm warmers off, and applying sunscreen.  I could not find Brian, so I decided I would ask a spectator to spray sunscreen onto the back of shoulders. 

And then Brian ran up, having arrived just minutes before.  He took the sunscreen and put a layer on me.  And I began to hobble to a run.  I am not this strong.

I had forgotten my shot blocks in transition, and since this race was as low key as it was, I asked Brian to go back and get them for me—he did, turning around on his bike, and grabbing the blocks off my towel.  I needed these.  No one is strong enough for a 13 mile run after a bike without calories.

I quickly decided that the run was going to have to be a run/walk.  I ran for 6 minutes, then walked for 1, and readjusted my shoes for the first two rounds.  About 3 miles in, someone came up on my shoulder, and I asked how they were doing.  The voice was familiar—it was Shane, my coworker…we exchanged some race talk—“That first mile killed my legs,” from Shane, with me responding that my legs were still being killed.  He pulled away from me, and I continued on.  I am not that strong.

On the return leg of the first run loop, I was told to go up the ramp at Junipero by a volunteer.  “Seriously?” I responded, and was told yes…and I said thank you, and thought that I am not that strong. I walked up the ramp, and then resumed my run/walk plan.   I did not know if my legs would hold up through the next 9 miles.   I continued a run/walk/hobble/walk/run plan.

A little after my turnaround for the second run loop, my friend Steve showed up, and said he would run with me on his first loop while I was completing my second—Steve had not been on his bike since October, so it was not surprising that the hellish wind took him a little longer to deal with.  Steve would pull ahead of me at times, and then we would group back up, with Steve walking a little longer during the walk breaks to keep us even.  On my second time walking up the ramp at Junipero, my abs seized on me briefly, and I decided I needed more salt, but I wasn’t sure how I could take in more than I already had been—a gram of sodium an hour should have been sufficient for these conditions.

I finished the race in obvious distress.  There were no finish line smiles, no fists pumping in the air.  It was a hard day, and I had finished.  There was no celebration—I am not that strong.

I chatted briefly with Steve’s husband, and told him where and when to meet him on the course, and then packed up my stuff in transition.  As I sat down near the finish to wait for Steve to come in, I had an ocular migraine, which is not common for me, but not uncommon either.  I have one of these every so often, and sometimes they are the harbinger of a blinding headache to come later on—I hoped that would not be the case.  I smiled at the dog at the aid station, and asked if the volunteers minded if I sat in the shade while I waited for Steve.  I am not strong enough to stand in the sun after a half iron while having a migraine and waiting 30 minutes for my friend to finish.

Later in the week, I came down with what I believed to be a hellish cold, and had to take a day off work.  I am not that strong.

The day off came on the heels of my having to send yet another email detailing out why an acceleration to due dates on some work I’m doing was not possible—I am stretched across too many programs, with too many people making demands on my time.  I have sent too many of these emails recently, and somewhere I wondered if anyone cared…while no one person is to blame, the totality of the workplace has created a system of throwing eggs against a wall and picking up the ones that don’t break, and throwing those eggs again, until there are no eggs left to be broken.

The next day, I was wired on Sudafed, and went for an easy run—it was the fastest easy run I have ever done, approaching and exceeding my 10k pace at times.  At least the run was short—it would cause minimal damage. I stopped the Sudafed that night, and returned to my normal workday, and normal training on the day that followed.  On Saturday, I had a 3 hour ride to do, and some people I have ridden with recently were going on a ballbuster of a ride through the hills of Palos Verdes, to which I decided not to respond.  I am certainly not that strong.  I suffered with my aerobic ride on roughly the same course I had raced the previous week.  I was very tired.

My swim team had a social that Saturday, and I went, but declined the after party at a bar down the street….I had no desire to do anything other than sleep and still had my bike to pack, and a long run to do the next day.   I sent a message to my book club that I would not be able to make it on Sunday.  There were not enough hours in the day.

So I approached my run, knowing that I should be able to slog through 9 miles if I did it sensibly.  My first mile barely broke 11 minutes, as I felt the weight of the previous week’s punishment on my quads and glutes.  The effort was unreal, and I told myself that I would loosen up, that I was that strong.  The following miles came at an effort.  I saw a friend of mine walking in the haze, and waved hello—there was a time that we had once run together.  I felt the grip of my shirt across my chest, as I perspired in the cold gloom, unable to see more than a half mile in front of me.  3 miles became 4, and then I reached the halfway, and my shirt weighed me down even more.  5 miles into 6, and each step became painful—an effort to lift my leg and make the next step, so I stopped and I walked.  I quit triathlon once or twice a mile as I walked home.  I decided I would not bring my bike on this next work trip.  I would not do the interval session that was planned for Tuesday.  I am not that strong.

I am not this strong.

So, I will just put one foot in front of the other.  I will pack my bags.  I will sleep, and I will wake again.  I will swim, and I will run, and I will find a stationary bike to ride, because I am not that strong.

Here's your prescribed dose of toxic people for today--

I haven't been writing, and while the benefits of exercise include a mental clarity that is unmatched on this earth, it is not the same as the soul searching endeavor of putting thoughts on paper...or into the blog-o-sphere, as the case may be.

While I was running today, I thought through an incident I had with a woman in the juror room earlier in the day (yes, I was lucky enough to be called in for jury duty, and was dismissed without even so much as sitting on a panel).

To summarize, we had just finished hearing the first round of panel selectee's and the majority of them had just gotten up and gone.  She tapped me on the shoulder, and as I turned to respond, she asked me if we were finished, to which I said "I don't know."  This woman then launched into me, calling me aggressive, and that it was uncalled for--and at one point said that the problem was my "entire demeanor."  Inserted into this 30 second or so diatribe was a statement that she had previously been assaulted, which carried with it an implication that she associated my demeanor with a precursor to assault.  The three sentences I said to her were the previously mentioned "I don't know," a statement of "I said nothing of the sort" and "You misinterpreted my entire demeanor."   I spent the entire rest of my time in the jury room making sure I was nowhere near this woman.

So, I wonder what this was all about.  Some have mentioned that she could have been staging something to get out of jury duty...which may have actually been the case.  Some have mentioned that she had a bad previous incident and is now "damaged goods"--I have a hard time with this one...mainly because if she were actually in fear, she wouldn't have been the instigator.

My conclusion is that she is likely just a very toxic person.  This episode is an example of social manipulation, and it's a hallmark of people who suffer from what may be a severely underreported rate of psychopathic behavior in today's world.  Before you get all jacked up on the word "psychopath," I am not talking about the stuff that horror movies are made of--I am talking about the condition where a person is incapable of feeling empathy and normal human emotions, and how that drives their behavior to manipulate situations into whatever outcome they have determined they will have.  Doctors have various names for this

Here's a cat meme...this brought me joy today

including Narcissistic personality disorder and Borderline Personality disorder--someone in the mental health field would likely be able to correct me on this, but that misses the point.  The only visible attribute that I saw today was someone creating and manipulating a situation at the expense of others.  I spent years of my life with someone who did this, so I'm a little sensitive to the signs.

The simple fact of the matter is that all I know is that she behaved in a very toxic way--I did not see enough of how she behaved to even be able to form a lay-person's opinion of exactly how mentally ill she is.  What I can say is that if you find yourself in a similar position, the best thing you can do is to get away from it as quickly as possible while suffering the least damage as possible.  Do not engage the person.  I probably went too far by responding that she had misinterpreted my "entire demeanor." People who manipulate situations do so to get a rise out of anyone that they can--and this response was a pushback to the prod that she had given me.   Luckily for me, there was a natural end to this, because we were instructed that we could leave the area where the panel was called.

If you find yourself in a similar situation, and you cannot get away from the person, the best thing that you can do in a crowded room is to clearly state something like "Please stay away from me," loud enough so that others can hear you, but not so loud that you look like a crazy person yourself. Then walk away.

Oh--and I ran 30 minutes today, and swam for an hour and fifteen this morning, both of which left me feeling tired, since I'm still broken down from the Surf City half marathon on Sunday, but helped me process this incident and the generalized crap that always floats through my head.