Mom Strong

It’s unbelievable how quickly things can change in the course of 24 hours. 
But first, Let’s back up to 2002.
I was being amazing. Risky and careless. In my quest to push the limits (or at least my limits) I decided that learning to jump on my snowboard was a fantastic decision. I had major failures, some funny, some painful. But I also had some successes. Not a ton, but enough to keep me going. 

I loved the sound of the chairlifts, the smell of the mountain early in the morning. The feeling of my snowboard gliding over the quietly, crunching snow gave me such joy. As I write this, I can still hear my shaky toe sided stop. Lunchtime peanut butter and fluff sandwiches usually fueled my afternoon until the lifts closed and ski patrol did their evening sweep on the trails.
I was fortunate enough to have the mountain practically in my backyard. Which meant every chance I got, that was where I was.

That morning, a friend and I headed out early. So early the lifts were still quiet and we had to hike up to the jumps. We would tear down through the fresh snow, the icy air making our eyes tear. (Goggles were only for snowstorms, keeping you hat on your head or dressing up your helmet.) Jump after jump. We would crash, laugh, unbuckle our bindings, sling our boards over our backs and hike back up.
I remember sitting in the snow that cold morning quietly looking down at the jump I just couldn’t seem to master. 
Hmm.
My bindings tight and helmet buckled, I punched my right mittened hand into my left and took off. 
Speed. Maybe if I could just get off that kicker with a little more speed I would have enough time in the air to figure out my landing.
Oh sure.
I don’t remember much except sky and then the landing. Right on my ass. I just lay there. At first, I couldn’t feel anything. Well, I felt fear. Then I felt the worst pain I had ever known (until I had kids that is!) I heard my friend yelling my name. The sound of him coming up behind me was such a relief. I felt the spray of snow as he stopped. Saw the look of concern on his face as he hovered over me.
After a while I got up. I could move my legs, wiggle my toes. So I guess that meant I could keep riding, right? 
It took 3 long months to be able to sit without pain, poop without difficulty and I never went snowboarding again. (Except for in my front yard.) But more than those 3 months of recovery, my back would bother me off and on for the next 15 years. Sometimes rendering me unable to do even the simplest of tasks.


Back to present day.
There were 6 days until the half marathon I had been training for. This training cycle had been happy, pain free and strong. My decision to train for this half came 6 years after training for the last one, the one that had been cancelled due to a hurricane. I had given birth to my daughter and 2 weeks later was lumbering away on the treadmill, sweating, gasping and feeling like a million bucks. So why not sign up for a half? Why just do something a little when you can do it a lot?! Can you hear my sarcasm?
Anyhow, that Saturday before, I worked on the ambulance with my brother covering the Lakes Region Triathlon. Which I will conquer someday…of course….
We had been standing at the finish line watching the racers come in. One of the EMT’s that was with us happened to be running in the half marathon as well. We chatted about how excited we were, nervous about weather, the right amount of clothing to wear, proper hydration. All that stuff. By the time we left I was super motivated. I was truly looking forward to the race. Not only to FINALLY have my medal but to be able to sleep in on the weekend again. And to not submit my precious children to the double stroller day after day. And to not have to say to my husband when he got home from work,
“Hey babe, how was your day. Can I go run now?” Poor guy. He truly is a frigen fantastic human being.
It was super hot and sticky out that evening. I only had 2 miles on my training schedule. 8 for Sunday or Monday. But that night, only a beautiful, short 2 miles. I slipped out the door while everyone was quiet. My run was slow, purposeful and wonderful. The hot day had made the smells of summer more pungent, actually it was technically autumn. My husband sent me a text of a bunch of turkeys in the road with the caption, 
“Uh oh. How are you going to get home?” (Birds are slightly horrifying)
“Almost there!” I responded.
The turkeys all ran off as I came up on them.
It was a great run.
I felt happy and successful all evening.


The next morning, I was getting ready to take the kids to church. I put on something light. It was hot.  And it happened. The explosion of pain across my lower back. I didn’t dare move. It felt like someone was actually ripping the muscles out of my body. Tears filled my eyes. No, no, no! I won't be able to pick up the kids. (I’m super grateful that was my first worry and not running the half.) After a few minutes I managed to hobble down the stairs. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. I leaned on the counter holding my weight off my back. And then it happened again. Worse. Almost unbearable.  
Oh blow it out your shorts lady, I thought. You pushed out 2 kids no problem. But the pain persisted. 


By lunchtime, I couldn’t stand up strait. And I was kinked over to the left. I looked and felt like an old lady. A REALY old lady. I couldn’t pick up the baby, sit, stand, lay down. I was screwed. In 24 hours I had gone from a strong mother and athlete to a hunched over woman who couldn't even pick up her infant or wipe her own rear end.


Heat, ice, stretching. Nothing. Was. Working.


I hadn’t been to a chiropractor in years. I was desperate though, so I found one that had an opening.
After an hour of electrical muscle stimulation, heat therapy, stretching and adjustments, I could only stand a little better. I asked the Dr. What he thought about running the half on Saturday. He responded with a laugh and told me not to hold my breath.
When I got home, I could pick up my daughter, uncomfortably, but I could. I had hope.
I went back to the chiropractor the next day. And the next day. And the next.


On Wednesday evening, I walk/jogged on the treadmill. I felt victorious. 
Thursday afternoon I ran 4 miles. I was stiff and sore Friday morning. 


Hmmm. Was it worth hurting myself so that I couldn’t pick up my babies? Nope.
Was it worth it to maybe permanently injuring my self so a half was never going to be attainable again? Nope. I  swear I can hear a quiet little voice saying maybe there is a reason that you have yet to finish a half. Figure it out. What is really important in your life? Your physical prowess? No. Your ability to run a ridiculous amount of miles? No. Your…..gasp…..medal? Gulp. No.


My family. That is what is important.


10k here I come.


It was raining and freezing. I mean I have run this race for 12 years and this was the coldest it had ever been. Kendra, my consistent running partner, and I huddled under a tree in attempt to stay dry.


My Dad came to watch the start. One of our local police officers told me to run faster as I jogged past him. Kendra’s parents parked at a local pizza joint and took pictures. My mom was two miles up cheering me on. A long time friend high-fived me as I happily turned at the halfway point. I had a nice conversation with a woman in mile 4 about the run/walk method, which she had truly mastered. She finished almost 2 full minutes ahead of me. A woman with no shoes sped past me. Geez. My feet hurt in shoes. My brother and Kendra met me at the last .2 miles. My mom and dad were at the finish line. And so were my wonderfully, supportive husband and the two best things I have ever done. My children.


I had made it. 6.2 miles. I ran every step of the way. Smiling. I crossed the finish line uninjured and proud. My son and daughter got to watch their mom be strong, healthy and happy. A true goal attained.


And my next goal you ask?


I’ll worry about it tomorrow. 

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