jennethink

SPRING THAW

Ironman Louisville is 20 weeks away. Only 20. That's not many. Not to say that's short, I mean a lot can happen in 20 weeks. In 20 weeks, a woman can bake half a baby. In 20 weeks, the temperature in Kansas City can go from fifteen below to 102 degrees. And in 20 weeks, Kim Basigner and Mickey Rourke can get blindfolded and freaky in front of a fridge 2.1 times. But when thinking about getting ready to swim, bike and run 140.6 miles (in a row) just 20 weeks from now, it just doesn't seem very long at all.  And I feel like I can use all the length I can get.

   

That's what she said.

   

Many thoughts go through my head on a day-to-day basis about Louisville. Those thoughts run the gamut. Some are positive (I can totally do this! What? Pshaw, ain't nothing but a thing … 140.6 times).  Some are tear-jerking (Jenne Fromm … YOU…ARE…AN….IRONMAN!) and some … well, some aren't so awesome.  The thing is, I can't think of Louisville without thinking about my ex in-laws (out-laws?) who lived there. I can't think of my ex in-laws without thinking of my first marriage – that makes sense. I can't think of my first marriage without thinking about my first husband – he was sort of there. A lot. And I can't think of my first husband without feeling, in a tiny tiny way, like I'm a failure.

   

If you've been married and divorced, you get it. It's the scarlet D you carry with you that no one talks about. No, it's not taboo anymore and yes, you are in good company but no one walks down the aisle thinking "eh, if it doesn't work, no biggy". And no one leaves a marriage without some scarring. That's what happens when something is ripped beyond repair.   Divorce is hard. It hurts. And if you have any self-introspection at all, it makes you question every single thing about yourself. 

   

There are tennis courts near my house. During the winter, the D.O.T. uses that space to pile up buckets and bucket of snow.  Every season, this snow pile amazes me.  For a couple of reasons - one, it's just always amazing to see Missouri actually plow snow (you'd understand if you lived here) and two, because that snow pile lasts well into spring.  I wish you could see it the day after it snows.  It's dreamy.  Every year I just wanna run there and play in it.  It's big and bright white and chunky.  It's soft and billowy.  It looks perfect – like snowball snow, and snow-angel snow and snowman snow and it especially looks like snow-fort snow.  It's everything good about snow. It's whipped cream. It's marshmallow topped cocoa. It's meringue. I just love it.

   

For about 24 hours. Then it gets crappy.

   

See the thing about that snow pile is, the longer it stays there, the dirtier it gets. Exhaust from cars karreening around the corner turns the top layer dingy.  Mud and muck from the melted street snow slashes up the sides.  Dirty rain beats down on the top of the pile during each drizzle. And as the pile begins to melt, everything the D.O.T. scraped up along with the snow begins to show through. Tree limbs, slabs of asphalt, rotten leaves, trash.  All this dirt and grime does two things simultaneously to my snow pile.  1) It infects it and 2) it insulates it so that long, long after it should be gone, it lingers. And it looks nothing like it did … all the beauty is leeched out. All the usefulness seeps away and it is no longer even recognizable for the goodness it once was.

   

 

 

A lot of things are like that, I suppose,

Grudges.

Anger.

Resentment.

Self-protection.

   

When they first fall upon us and pile up there is a good reason. It makes sense. Like the initial swelling of an injured knee or a twinge of pain in a pulled back – at first, necessary … if it sticks around too long, however, what was initially good can be downright grimy. 

   

I didn't do everything right in my first marriage. I wasn't as forgiving as I could have been. I didn't call bullshit often enough. I under-judged my support system. And I under-valued myself. I made mistakes. I shut down. I built walls. I gave up. Quite honestly, there was a time, years ago – years and years, when thinking about those mistakes and working to correct them and make changes to my character served me well. There was a time when that thinking was healthy. New. Fresh. When remembering was key to changing. When my failure of the past pushed me closer to the me I want and need to be. There was a time when it was good. But the longer that thinking sticks around, the dirtier it is becoming. Until now, it doesn't even resemble what it once was.   

   

Sometimes now, in the deepest darkest parts of my mind, in the melted pile of memories, I find it hard to think of my failed marriage without thinking I'm a Failure. 

   

I need to let go of it. 

I need to cross that finish line. 

I need to associate Louisville with success, not failure. 

   

The success of 140.6 miles.

The success of 5 years cancer-free.

The success of my current marriage, my current family, my amazing life.

   

Louisville is majorly hot in August. And I may be one of the only people who isn't worried about that heat. It's gonna warm the Ohio river, beat down on my back, turn my shoulders red and skin pink and when I fly across that finish line in the dark of night, that sun will have helped me melt a big ol' pile of nasty thinking.

   

20 weeks. In a way, it can't come fast enough.

SO IT TURNS OUT IT’S 26.2 MILES … NOT MINUTES

How does it happen? How does a girl who literally couldn't run more than a block without feeling like her head was going to explode off her shoulders run TWENTY - SIX POINT TWO miles? Insert all the funny and clichéd lines here. Such as.... One mile at a time! and.... Slowly! and... With a great deal of Body Glide! Yuk to the Yuk!

 

I was in Seattle this year for the 3 Day for the Cure when I decided to sign up for the Walt Disney World Marathon. I was also feverish and delirious from some sort of bug at the time and I don't know that I was thinking too terribly well. I remember talking to my coach soon after and asking him if he thought I could and should do a marathon. I remember listening to him tell me all the reasons I could. I remember him going through the typical, "It's going to be a lot of work" speech and kicking around the idea of me doing another ½ marathon or continuing to do Half-Ironman triathlons. I remember him landing squarely toward the end of the conversation on "Yes, I think you can do a marathon." To which I said, "Good. Because I already signed up."

 

Which is typical. All my life I've made decisions first based on what I want to do -- then later figuring out the road blocks and ways around them. I know that's not how everyone makes decisions (reference: The Hub) and I know my method of making decisions that way can be somewhat unnerving to others (reference: The Hub, still). But it usually works for me. Usually .

 

Here are some of the things I learned:

 

LESSON ONE:

26.2 miles is REALLY far.

 

Now, I know this may seem obvious but it sort of surprised me how far 26.2 miles really is. A few weeks prior to the marathon, I went to mapmyrun.com and created a starting point at my house and drew a line out 26 miles in many different directions. It amazed me. I know most of my readers aren't from around here but, as the crow flies, from my house to the Kansas City International Airport is only 20.1 miles ... and that drive takes me about 40 minutes. Forty minutes! And, since I'm not a car, nor a crow, it takes me a really long time to run 26.2 miles. Hours. And hours. And of course I knew it would take a long time but I didn't realize it would FEEL like such a long time. I dunno, maybe since I made the jump from a sprint triathlon - which has a 3.1 mile run, to a half-ironman distance triathlon - which has a 13.1 mile run, maybe I thought the jump to a 26.2 mile run wouldn't be that big a deal. Which just goes to show you can't underestimate the power of a little forethought (cue The Hub silently cheering this realization). Because even though I worked really hard at not thinking negatively during the race, I admit to having a moment at mile 17 when I said out loud "Wow. This is dumb." And the man next to me huffed out, "You can say that again." Unfortunately, I actually couldn't say that again - because it took too much oxygen.

 

At the same time, I have to be honest and tell you when it was over, it didn't really seem to take all that long. I finished and thought. Huh. I'm done! And this is pretty much like my life. There was a time when I couldn't imagine being over 40 and now that I'm here I'm all like : Huh, that didn't take long at all. So maybe the lesson here is - Don't make decisions about what you are going to do based on what it feels like the day you sign up. Instead, trust the finish line will show up sooner than you think. Don't wanna go back to school because you'll be 45 when you're finished? Guess what? You'll be 45 anyway - and sooner than you think. Don't want to start losing weight because it's going to take you 6 months to reach your goal? Guess what? Summer is coming anyway. Don't want to start reading this blog post because it runs way down past the screen? Guess what? I hear ya.

 

LESSON TWO

You don't have to run the race before you have to run the race.

 

Another one that may seem obvious. The running lesson here is simple - do your workout today and race day will take care of itself. Back in November, I had a 14 mile run I needed to get in one Wednesday morning. Thankfully, I was in Florida and I could run outside. My sister decided to be route support (what can I say? I get used to those fully-stocked pit stops every 3 miles on the 3 Day) and ride alongside on her bike with water and nutrition for me. All seemed good but there was nothing in me that day that wanted to run 14 miles. What's worse, I started off and felt super-duper awful. I was running about a minute per mile slower than my usual pace and the miles were dragging by mercilessly. When that happens, the negativity starts to creep in ...not just about that run and that day but more sinister, about race day. Thoughts bounce around in my head like bumpercars, slam into my psyche and throw me off my game. Thoughts like "How the hell are you going to run 26.2 miles on race day?" And "Even if you do finish, you'll be the last one" and "How the hell are you going to run 26.2 miles on race day?" and "Wow, You are miserable at this!" and "HOW THE HELL ARE YOU GOING TO RUN 26.2 MILES ON RACE DAY??" And on and on it goes.

 

And on that day, I just knew I had to put a stop to it. I had my support team there and by golly, I was going to use it/her. So I yelled out to my sister peddling along behind me, "Beek! Your job today is to make sure I run 14 miles ...not 13 or 13.5 but 14 ... 14 is the number. Got it?" "YOU KNOW IT!" she called back. And then, because she's a perceptive one, I hear ... "You okay up there?" And I told her I was hurting. Told her I wanted to quit. Told her that I just didn't see how I was going to be able to run 26.2 miles. "Beek," I said, "How am I going to run 26.2 miles on race day?" And you know what she said?

 

"By running 14 today."

 

The life lesson follows. Seeing the end is good - necessary even - but don't get all caught up in it. Today just do what you need to do today. You know how you grow your business in the next 5 years? You return that phone call today. You know how you move from this lousy job to a great one in 6 months? You write your resume today. You know how you repair the broken relationship with your family? You be nice today. Do the baby steps. The rest will fall into place.

 

On a side note, before each long run for the rest of my training I would call my sister and say "Beek, how am I going to run 26.2 miles on race day?" And she'd say "You're going to run X miles today!" Of course, being her, on race day last week as we loaded into the car at 2:30 a.m. I turned to her and said, "Hey Beek! How am I going to run 26.2 miles today???" and she said "Hell if I know - that's really far." Then again, she hadn't had her coffee yet.

 

 

LESSON THREE

Everyone starts and finishes at the same place.

There were a reported 15,000 of us that started that race. 13,400 finished. We all crossed the same start line. We all crossed the same finish line. We all ran the same course. For some, it wasn't easy. Some stopped at every photo op. Some chose to run the tangents and probably ran a little less. Some needed medical help. Some walked the majority of the race and some ran so fast you'd swear they cheated. But we all crossed the same finish line.

 

It's like life. We're all born. We all die. We all travel through life together. Some have a harder time and some have an easier time but there is a beauty to knowing we are all in this together. And it is your choice whether you see your fellow participants as competition or comrades. It is your choice to be inspired or frustrated. It's your choice to groan or cheer, wave or sigh, pump your fist or pump your legs. Your choice.

 

 

LESSON FOUR

Everyone has gas.

 

Self-explanatory. Both for marathons and for life. Deal with it.

 

 

LESSON FIVE

Nothing takes the place of patience.

 

The week prior to the race I was flitting all over Orlando looking for all the things that I needed - gels, new compression socks, the right top, etc. Every running store The Hub and I went into asked if we were doing the marathon. With 15,000 signed up for the full (or the "whole" as my mom calls it) and 24,000 signed up for the half, chances were pretty good that people entering their store were running. In one store the shop owner gave a little advice as we left loaded with gels and recovery brew. "Just be patient," he said. "It's a long way." Good advice. Great advice actually. Because (contrary to what my sister said) it's actually very simple how you run 26.2 miles on race day - you run 1 mile ... 26.2 times. There's no shortcut (although I do think it was cruel to run us right past the monorail station) and there's no way around it: 26.2 miles is 26.2 miles and if you are going to finish, you have to run every one of them. And sometimes, it's a grind.

 

Disney does an amazing job of providing entertainment along the way. From characters to karaoke, music to magicians, cheerleaders AND marching bands - they had it all. And still, that race can be a drag. Once or twice I tried to break the monotony by cracking a joke or two. Only to find out that not many people share my same sense of humor. (I still can see the dismayed and confused look on the face of the supporter who was holding up a giant sign "GO SALLY!" when I ran by and said "Hey, my name's not Sally but thanks anyway!!"). And there were a few times when I heard that shopkeepers words in my head ... "just be patient" and I would downshift my thoughts and do just that.

 

Such is life. It's fabulous and entertaining and hard and challenging and awe-inspiring and breath-taking and hysterical and heart-breaking ... most of the time. But sometimes, it's just a grind. Sometimes we just have to keep moving forward. Sometimes things don't happen as fast as we want, take longer than we want, bore us to tears ... and that's okay. One my favorite sayings and one that floats repeatedly through my head during long miles is "Keep moving, time takes care of the rest." And now, thanks to that Orlando shop owner and my experience at Disney I've added: Just be patient. Mickey may be around the next corner.

 

 

LESSON SIX - and maybe the most important lesson of all

Nothing beats the power of a good support team.

 

And yes, I made the shirts.

 

 

THE (NOT SO) FINAL WALK

I feel a little bit like Miss America after her reign, moving slowly down the runway one last time prior to giving up her crown. Except, of course, it wouldn't be a crown but a pink boa, coconut bra and crazy knee socks.  

4 years. It's been an amazing 4 years. In those 4 years, I've said my share of words. I've held the mic and the attention of the room probably more than I should have, I've yammered and told stories and repeated jokes and talked and talked and talked. But I'm hoping you'll indulge me one last time to simply say,  

Thank you.

Rewind the clock back to December 2006 … I was bald and broken and unable to breathe on my own. I'd been hospitalized due to complications from my lymphoma treatments. I was unable to walk across a room and my skin was a strange ashy color. Anyone who entered that hospital room could plainly see something was very wrong. Every visitor I had -friends, family, doctors, - all had the same look wash over their faces the moment they laid eyes on me. A look of sad compassion. Of realization. Of pity. In those moments, it was so obvious what cancer had taken from me. My health, my hair, my fully-functioning lungs, my strength, my rosy cheeks, my appetite, and my future. But for all those recognizable things chemo and cancer had taken from me, the most precious were the things no one saw.

Years and years ago, when I was in high-school, we had an old push mower with a pull cord. I had a date with that lawnmower every week. And every week, it gave me fits. One particular week, I stood in the barn and pulled and pulled and pulled on that old ratty cord but the mower just wouldn't start. I checked the gas, put in oil, adjusted the choke and kicked the blasted thing repeatedly. Bupkis. No matter how hard I tried, or how many times I pulled, the vurrump, vurrump, vrumump never turned into a varooooom!. Eventually I called my dad at work to break the news. "It's completely dead." I said. "It won't work. It's broken."

"Totally broken?" my dad asked.

"Totally broken." I said, hung up the phone and returned to watching The Young and the Restless.

When my dad came home he went immediately to the barn. I followed. Convinced the lawnmower was a goner, I rattled on beside him as he yanked the cord, checked the gas and adjusted the choke. "Yep," I said, "It's broken. Guess we'll have to get rid of it. Guess we need a brand new one. Probably should get one of those power ones. This one is definitely broken. Definitely useless. Definitely." On and on I went while my dad messed with the mower. And, what do you know, it wasn't too long before that bastard machine sprung to life.

"Spark plug," my dad yelled over the noise of the mower. "She's still good ... just needed the spark. Get to mowing, Kiddo." And I did. And it worked just fine. Of course it did. It wasn't broken. Everything was still there, but without the spark, it was useless.

I hate cancer for a lot of reasons. I hate it for what it does, I hate it for what it causes, I hate it for Jen, and Alison and Bridget and Becky and Daddy and Grandma and Linda and Jackie and Anna. I hate it because it's scary and frightening. I hate it because it's sneaky and ruthless. I hate it because it isn't fair.

And I hate it because it took my spark.

Just a few short months after my hospitalization and through the miracle of modern medicine and despite our fears, I was recovering. My scan was clear. My hair was growing. My lungs were breathing, my stamina was returning and my appetite - well, that homecoming was fast and furious. I was recovering. But I wasn't well. I may have looked okay on the outside but I wasn't okay. And as much as I tried to be okay, something was missing. Everything I once cherished and loved about the real me, the inside me, the me I enjoy the most was gone. Bupkis. I could varrump but I couldn't vroooom. And to be even more honest, I thought I was a goner for good.

Cancer took my spark. And you gave it back.

Thank you. Thank you for everything. For every opportunity. For every laugh. For every mile. For every high five and fist bump. To my partners at the event, thank you for listening to me. Thank you for playing "Greatest American Hero" again and again. Thank you for tolerating my calls to the 1-800 number when I couldn't find the command center. Thank you for shuttling me around the route and thank you for scheduling "emergency media calls" at exactly the right time. Thank you for being my official and unofficial writers and thank you for letting me steal all the good jokes and claim them as my own. Thank you for reminding me over and over again what city we are in and for more than my share of Executive stickers. Thank you for understanding the importance of colored index cards.  

To the amazing walkers and crew members of the 3 Day for the Cure, thank you. Thank you for walking with me. Thank you for fixing my back so many times. Thank you for sharing your stories with me. Thank you for letting me cry with you when you told me about your fears and losses and worries about your next scan, next appointment, next test. Thank you for trusting me with your hopes. Thank you for trying to scan my credential again and again and for giving me about 100 route cards per event. Thank you for giving me extra potatoes when I asked and for laughing at the dumb jokes I tell again and again. Thank you for giving me a space to heal and to hope. Thank you for welcoming me to your event each weekend and making every city my favorite city. Thank you for inspiring me. And for truly living the cure, not just walking for it. Thank you for never giving up.  

And to the amazing organization I've been honored to represent for the last 4 years. Thank you. Thank you for giving hope. And for providing a place for others to hope and shed the boat anchor of impotence and helplessness. Thank you for the sacrifice you all make to this cause. Thank you for not only doing what you can but for doing what others can't.

The 3 Day has been some of the best moments of my life.

Thank you. I will always be grateful for the spark.

With love,

Jenne

 

HOWEVER …

Even though it's only been a few days since I posted my "Difficult, not impossible" post, I had a lot of time to think about it. A lot of time. Hours and hours and hours. Mostly on Sunday.

 

Sometimes people ask me what I think about during all those hours of training on the bike, in the pool, during runs. I most often answer "Dairy Queen." Because I can get a good 12 miles of riding out of a dilly bar. But usually during training my mind mostly sort of shuts off. You'd think I could spend that time thinking about new talks I could put together or new strategies for some of my clients or new marketing ideas for my business. And I guess I could. But I don't. I often don't think about anything. And 3 or 4 hours later, when I get off the bike I often realize, "Shoot, I forgot to think!" But every now and then, I actually am able to think. About more than what I'm going to treat myself with. Sometimes I think about significant stuff.

 

On Sunday, during the ride especially, I not only had time to think but I had the focus. And I kept thinking about that post.

 

Difficult, not impossible.

<pedal pedal pedal>

Difficult, not impossible.

<pedal pedal pedal>

Difficult, not impossible.

<pedal pedal pedal>

Difficult, not impossible.

 

And that's when it hit me. Man! Something about that is buggin' me! I realized, quite suddenly, I had a serious issue with that post. The very post I posted. And I was frustrated because normally I get all my voices to agree before I post something. But apparently, somebody wasn't paying attention.

 

I spent a few miles during the run trying to zero in on what exactly was bothering me about that post. Then I spent the rest of the miles counting backwards from 300. Or upwards to 300. Or up to 150 then back down. Or, well, you get the idea. It was a long day. At some point between the niggling bugging on the bike and Monday morning on the plane, I nailed it down. Here's the thing. I stand by that post. I do agree with myself. I think I'm right about the Difficults in life. BUT if you would have said those same words to me … the ones about zooming out and seeing the bigger picture and embracing the difficult for what it brings; if you would have said any of those things to me when I was going through treatment - one of the most Difficults of Difficults in my life- I think I would have punched you in the mouth.

 

Because difficult sometimes is just too difficult. And in those moments when the Difficults fill the entire windshield of our focus, we can see nothing else. The clichés are too clichéd. And the encouragement is too hollow and the light at the end of the tunnel is just too far. We can't be our best. We can't have a stiff upper lip. We can't put a smile on our face and a song in our heart. We just can't embrace the difficult.

 

And that's okay.

 

This coming weekend I'll be back on event with the 3 Day for the Cure. Every event I see people do the difficult but not impossible. Every weekend I'm amazed by people pushing themselves. I see little old ladies chugging away mile after mile. I see overweight men and women with ace bandages and tape on their knees hobble along with smiles on their faces. I see people walking in flip flops on day 2 because their shoes rubbed their feet raw. I've seen firefighters walk the entire 60 miles in full gear. I've seen 2 girls do the whole route while hula-hooping. I've seen husbands push their wives who are weak and confined to wheelchairs. I've seen women leave early on Friday to take chemo and return on Saturday to walk. I've seen walkers sent to the hospital with dehydration only to come back the next day to finish what they started. I've seen people define "difficult, not impossible."

 

And I've also seen people collapse in pain. I've seen back spasms that require an ambulance ride. I've seen women sobbing in defeat and pain and men crippled by blisters as big as your fist. I've held women as they cried out in pain and helped ice a daughter's twisted ankle as she tells me her mom is watching from heaven and she has to finish. I've listened to mothers as they begged the medical team to let them finish and watched as the medical team does what's right and what's so hard and tells them they just can't let them go on. And I've watched as people try to come to terms with the fact that they didn't achieve the goal they set. And I've seen faces fall and eyebrows knit together and tears spill down cheeks as men and women feel like a failure. And it would be wrong, in those moments, to walk right up to them and say, "Hey! Difficult! Not impossible!"

 

See what I'm saying?

 

There was a time, not that long ago, when I knew this as clearly and distinctly as I knew how much a dilly bar cost. There was a time when if you quoted scripture to me or told me to have a positive attitude or sent me inspirational song lyrics I would have gone off on a tirade. There was a time when I wrote posts like this and this and this.

 

It's amazing what a person can forget.

 

Life is hard. And some Hards are much harder than anyone should have to endure. The loss of a child. The loss of a loved one. Chemo. The death of a dream. The betrayal of a friend. And on and on and on. Sometimes life is a really tough teacher. And sometimes life isn't a teacher at all. It's just a bitch. And for those of you who are going through the rough stuff, those of you who are facing the hardest thing you've ever had to face and you're wondering how you will do it; for those of you who are crying so hard you throw up and throwing up so hard you pass out and have lost the sense of yourself you once had and are surrounded on all sides by darkness and sorrow and pain, for you I say what my very wise sister once told me:

 

You don't have to do this well.

You don't have to be anyone's example.

You don't have to be an inspiration for others.

You don't have to be strong, or brave or kind or courageous.

You just have to keep going.

 

Right around mile 10 of the run of my last half-ironman and right when the wheels were coming off and I was ready to quit, I saw a hand-lettered sign someone propped up beside the path. It read, "Just keep moving ... time will take care of the rest."

 

Some things are difficult, not impossible. When life throws that at you, zoom out. Get some perspective. See the results of the difficult and not the difficult itself.

 

For the other times, be gentle with yourself. And just keep moving.

 

 

 

SYRACUSE IN PICTURES

Prep …

Swim …

Bike …

 

Run …

 

Finish …

MY SYRACUSE

Early yesterday morning The Hub came into the bedroom and finished a sentence he started at some other point. This is a common occurrence and I'm used to it. Just takes a little imagination and a lot of wheels turning to figure out where, when and what and how the conversation began. And where he currently is in it. Usually it works out well. Occasionally it doesn't.

 

"…the thing is," he said, "it's going to be difficult. It just is. But not impossible. And you've done a lot of things that are difficult but not impossible."

 

Then he kissed me and left for work.

 

I knew what he was talking about right away. I have this little race coming up. Coming up in 48 hours. It's fast approaching. And it's got me a little anxious.

 

 

Last year I decided to compete in a sprint distance triathlon. Just cuz. Just wanted to. I've been fascinated with triathlons my whole life … used to watch the Ironman world competition with my dad years and years ago. Maybe that set something in my mind. Maybe triathlons appeal to my cardio-ADD nature. Maybe I just like them because I don't know a lot of people who do them. Who knows. But I decided to compete … even though I hadn't been on a bike in 20 years. Even though I didn't and actually couldn't run. Even though my idea of "swimming" was floating in a innertube with a drink in hand. Even though. So I did it. I competed. I swam. I biked. I ran (well "ran"). And I loved it. l.o.v.e.d. it. So I kept doing it. And upped the ante. Which is what brought me to competing in the Half Ironman distance. 1.2 mile swim. 56 mile bike. 13.1 mile run.

 

Which is what I'll be doing on Sunday. And possibly part of Monday - HA.

 

I've done this distance twice before. I've finished both times. I've represented the back of the pack well. Last year I had limited time to prepare for the race. Just 8 weeks before the 70.3 distance I decided to compete. During that time I was also fulfilling my responsibilities as the National Spokesperson for the Susan G. Komen 3 Day for the Cure. Which meant while training to race 70.3 miles, I was also walking 40-60 miles each weekend.

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

This year, I've had more time to prepare. More time, and more issues. A recurring back injury that's been treated with traction, acupuncture and massage. A nasty bike crash in April that nearly cost me a great deal more than a race. A shoulder problem that is suspected to be a torn rotator cuff. A problematic knee and IT band. Yet another bike accident a few weeks ago. And, of course, a busy, busy schedule that - at minimum - puts a kink in my training time.

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

4 years ago I went through chemo. There were days when I would beg The Hub to let me skip a treatment. I would cry in his arms and tell him I swear I'll go tomorrow …I just can't do it today. I would promise I'll go in the afternoon, just not in the morning. On the way to treatment I would throw up and sob nearly uncontrollably. I would try to lift myself out of the car only to have my nupogen-filled bones scream at me and cause me to collapse. I would sit in a chair and bare my chest to a nurse who would plunge a very thick (and I swear, very dull) needle into my port-a-cath. I would bite my lip and grit my teeth so I wouldn't yell as she pushed through scar tissue. I would swallow rapidly as she flushed saline through my port so I would avoid tasting and gagging on it. I would let them start the drips, push the meds and feel myself slip away. I would leave a shadow of who I was when I went in. Knowing I'd have to come back and do it again. And again. And again.

 

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

Sometimes people ask me why The Hub and I don't have children. I remind them we do … we have The Kid - The Hub's daughter. My Bonus Daughter. "I know," they say, "but why not kids of your own." It takes about half a millisecond for me to go through all the answers in my head. Because we tried. Because we had 5 miscarriages. Because we had a failed adoption. Because we're scared to try (and fail) again. Because you're crazy to think I'm not insulted when you say "of your own". Because it's none of your dang business?

 

But I don't say any of those answers. I say something soft. Kind. Gentle. It's difficult.

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

When I was 15 my dad died. It was a shock. It was gut-splittingly painful. It seemed to come out of nowhere. It threw me into a downward spiral that lasted for a handful of years. It changed me. I thought maybe I died too. I didn't.

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

When I was 29, I left a marriage.

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

When I was 34 I went out on my own and began a new career.

Difficult. Not impossible.

 

And the list goes on. Life is full of difficult. The thing is, the difficults of my life have made me who I am. And as I lay there in bed yesterday morning (difficult to get up on a rainy day) I got to thinking about all the ways we try to avoid the difficult. If anything is the slightest bit hard, we shun it, keep away from it, try to modify it or change it. We are all about making the difficult easy. Everything from new drugs to new diets. From loungechairs to lunchables. From anti-inflammatories to antiperspirants. Everything around us is geared to help us avoid the unpleasant. And yet, when I ask people to tell me about a time in their life of great personal growth or when they experienced great insight or revelations, the stories I hear are almost always about the difficult.

 

A friend tells me about a busted marriage that led to a thrilling new life.

A senior-level leader lost his job and started a new career.

A woman on plane tells me of a painful revelation that induced a year+ long journey of self-discovery.

A client reveals an unexpected diagnosis that led to a change in perspective and a change in life's mission.

An acquaintance tells me of his heart-wrenching loss that altered his priorities.

A wayward son, an alcoholic mother, a sick child, a career-ending injury, a death, a separation, a failure … the stories are endless. The stories are difficult.

 

Yet not one of those people, when asked if they would change it, has ever said yes. Not one would give up the who they've become just to avoid the difficult. Not one of them would call a do-over. That's the powerful part. And the realization that maybe, instead of running from the difficult, we should embrace it. Not for what it is currently, but for what it will be.

 

Nobody wants it to be hard. But maybe it's okay if it is.

 

Sunday is going to be difficult. Guaranteed. The first 11 miles of the 56 mile bike course are uphill. The last 13.1 miles of the race are on foot (not my strong-suit, by any means). The forecast is calling for wind - and lots of it. It will be a long day for me. At some point, my stomach will get uggie. Around the 2 ½ hour mark on the bike, my back will start to burn. My shoulder - not fully recovered from my accident a few weeks ago- will spasm up and ache when I get out of the water. During the run my legs will feel like cement and at some point I'll become painfully aware of something - a seam, a wrinkle in my sock, an ache in my knee and I will obsess about it. Around mile 65 or so of the race I'll have to dig deep for motivation. I'll start arguments with myself. The Voice will tell me it's okay to stop, to walk, to lay down and just rest for a minute. Eventually I'll be reduced to counting …. Sets of 10 …. 10 of them at a time. In the past, this is where I start my chanting … always soft but always out loud, because I need to hear some voice (even if it is my own) other than the one in my head. "I am smooth. I am strong. I am steady. …. I am smooth. I am strong. I am steady. …. I am smooth. I am strong. I am steady." But Sunday, I just may modify that chant.

"Difficult. Not impossible. Embrace the difficult. … Difficult. Not impossible. Embrace the difficult. … Difficult. Not impossible. Embrace the difficult."

 

Difficult.

 

Not impossible.

 

Embrace the difficult.

OPEN LETTER TO ALL SUSHI PLACES THAT CONSIDER THE BIG FAT FRIED HEAD OF A PRAWN- COMPLETE WITH EYEBALLS- A LOVELY GARNISH

Stop that. Parsley works just fine.

Love,
Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile

OPEN LETTER TO GINGER

 

Dear Ginger,

 

It's true. Ours hasn't been the easiest relationship. At first, the only reason I loved you was because you were The Hub's dog. I've always had dogs of my own. I've always raised my dogs from pups. I'm a dog lover but when we met, I already owned two of the world's best dee-ooh-gees, so I wasn't sure I had room in my heart (or my house) for you. But, since you belonged to The Hub, you were welcome. Sort of. Truth is, (and I've never told you this) the only reason I let you move in with him was because the only other option was bringing in his two cats. And that was never going to happen. So on moving day, Jen got the cats. And we got you.

 

Whew. Crisis averted. Or so I thought. Turns out, the joke was on me. You're more a cat than Sylvester. I guess since you were raised with cats you have a cat like attitude. You are sorta snooty like a cat. You get disgusted if anyone tried to pet you. You've always wanted to keep your distance and you hate the idea of snuggling up.

 

You even lay (a far away from us as possible) on a rug in a patch of sunbeam and lick your paws.

 

For a long time I simply tolerated you. But it was hard not to like you. Because although you weren't keen on us, you are kind of funny. Okay, neurotic.

 

You never cross the room without giving the end table a wide berth.

You always keep at least one eye on the registers in the house … I've never once seen a register attack you, but maybe that's just because you wisely never let them sneak up on you.

You sneeze more than any pet – any HUMAN – I've ever known. And always ALWAYS you sneeze immediately after I pet you. I swear you know how to do that on cue.

You hate fireworks and thunderstorms. Hate them. And there are many a night when I wake up to thunder and roll instinctively and immediately to the middle of the bed because although you want NOTHING to do with us in the sunny, clear weather, during storms you will try to perform the nifty trick of burying your nails deep into my thigh and pulling yourself up onto the bed.

 

The first day we brought you home I plopped you down behind the dog gate with the two other adult dogs who you would have to learn to live with. Enclosed in the kitchen, where my dogs always stayed when I was gone, you looked back up at me like I was insane. But The Hub and I had a truck to unpack and so we left you there and headed out the front door, opened the rear door of the truck and grabbed the first of many boxes to carry inside. When I turned, you met me on the porch. Looking like "What else you got, lady?"

 

I headed back to the kitchen to see a gate demolished and laying flat and my two pups standing completely still – still in the kitchen - gazing at me like "what the heck just happened?"

 

You weren't big, corgi-sized really, but you were mighty. There wasn't a single item I could put in front of that gate that you couldn't figure out how to move. Benches, trunks, plywood, dining room table … whatever I shoved up there, you moved. Until finally, I gave up. even I have my limits.

 

Before you, the dogs all slept together. After you, dogs all needed separate beds.

Before you, the dogs ate out of the same bowl. After you, all dogs had different bowls.

Before you, dogs stayed put behind gates. After you … well, you know very well the extent we had to go through just to keep you contained.

Before you, dogs stayed off the furniture. After you. Oy.

 

We were off to a rocky start. But we grew on each other.

 

I didn't realize how much you'd grown on me until the day – about 6 months after you moved in – when you ran away. I still don't know how you got out of the back yard and I still think you waited until the day I had removed your collar to wash it to try. Somehow, someway, you got out. When I came to the door to let you in, you were nowhere to be found. I began searching. I started on foot in the neighborhood. I eventually used the car. I called The Hub and he came home. We drove and called and whistled. It was a chilly night. I was worried. You didn't have your collar. You don't like people. How would you make it?

 

Hours later, we gave up for the night. It was too dark. We couldn't even see the end of our sidewalk. I stood at the front door gazing out for what seemed an eternity until The Hub called me away. I felt awful. Awful for you. Awful for The Hub – whose dog you rightfully were. Awful for The Kid who we'd have to tell. And, as I walked to where The Hub stood, I realized, I felt awfulist for me.

 

And that's when the waterworks started. I thought you were gone for good and suddenly I realized there was an Orange Dog-shaped hole in my life. And that hole was big and gaping and it hurt. Stupid dog. Wormed your way into my heart and now you were gone.

 

And just when I thought all hope was lost, I looked outside to see you walking up the front walk like nothing was wrong.

 

You left. But you came back.

 

Maybe you decided to give our family another chance. Maybe you realized home is pretty okay after all. Maybe you never really had any intention of running away. But secretly, I like to believe you came back because as you settled down for the night in some neighbor's back yard or behind some dumpster, you became aware of a jenne-sized hole in your life. And you came back to fill it.

 

Since then, we've done just fine. Since then, you've greeted me at the door – not always – but sometimes. Since then, you occasionally let me pet your furry orange head. Since then you've only run away 6 other times … but I just chalk that up to your spirit of adventure, not a desire to leave me.

 

I like to tease you. It's true. I like to come up behind you and give you a "pffft" and a gentle poke in the sides. And you like to take off when I do, spin around and drop your head down and keep your butt up. I like to step lightly on your front paws and watch you try to jump on my feet. I like to call you Grandma and GiGi and Gingy. And, I'm not sure, but I think I was the first to notice a while back when you'd lost a bit of pep. And I was there the first time you tired to get up and found your back legs weren't listening to you. And I've watched carefully these few months as you've walked slower, struggled more with steps, had more accidents inside, slept deeper and deeper.

 

I hurt when you struggle to get up.

I can't stand it when you shake.

I worry about you when I'm gone.

I watch you carefully when I'm working to make sure you don't need me.

I get sick to my tummy when I see you limp slowly across the room.

 

So I had no choice but to be an adult and to make that call today. Because although I allowed you to move in, allowed you to change the routine, allowed you to rewrite all my dog rules, the one thing I will not allow is for you to suffer or hurt or wonder why things are so different for you now.

 

You were a rotten puppy. You were a rotten dog. And I'll miss you every day.

 

Goodbye Orange Dog

Thank you for being a part of our lives

Thank you for teaching me about what it means to be a grown-up

Thank you for sleeping beside my side of the bed these last few months

Thank you for the times you didn't bite me when I stepped on you in the middle of the night

Thank you for not breaking the skin when you did

Thank for being you – cat, dog, friend.

 

I hope you somehow make it to the cat side of heaven. I think you'll love it there.

 

Love love and love,

Jenne

EVERYONE I KNOW, EVERYWHERE I GO, PEOPLE NEED SOME REASON TO BELIEVE … - JACKSON BROWN

Anne Lamott is one of my favorite authors. She's funny, she's touching, she's smart and occasionally uses the f-word. Which makes her all kinds of awesome in my book. And in her books too.

 

Once I heard her mention her dislike of the term "writer's block" – as it implies there is something inside but it can't get out. Like constipation. That if you could just simply dislodge the block, the words, the word-pictures, the artistry on paper would flow. In reality she says the problem is not blockage … it's emptiness. It's not that the stories are trapped, it's that they are vacant. The places in your head that house prose and form delicious thoughts aren't locked down, they are dusty and abandoned. Her cure? Do something – anything – to get filled back up.

 

For the past few months I've been guilty of the busys … running around (sometimes quite literally – thank you Ben), flitting, landing, moving on. I've had thoughts a-plently but no drive to post them. I've been at rehearsals and dinners and meetings. I've facilitated difficult discussions, encouraged difficult decisions, listened to difficult thoughts. I've been a sounding board, a megaphone, a warm body. I've negotiated contracts, created websites, storyboarded plans for new videos and books. I've attended funerals. Officiated a wedding. Eaten more than my fair share of birthday cakes. I, like the Energizer Bunny who occasionally shares my stage, have kept going … and going … and going.

 

All that activity should leave a person quite full.

 

And yet this blog has gotten dusty. When I logged on tonight to post, I swear there was a creaking noise when the page loaded. Bats flew out of my computer and cobwebs dangled from the corner of my page. I've been incredibly busy. I've had nothing to say.

 

Last weekend in Boston, nearly 2000 men and women – collectively "The Pink" - walked and worked all weekend to cure breast cancer. The Susan G Komen 3 Day for the Cure series kicked off for the 7^th year. I've been the national spokesperson for 3 of the past 6 seasons. This is my 4^th year. I'm not known for doing the same thing over and over again. When I've worked for other people, I've rarely stayed in a single position longer than a couple of years. I have no interest in doing the same races over and over again. If I travel somewhere and have an amazing time – it only makes me want to go somewhere else next year … because it could be even MORE amazing. So the fact that I'm the spokesperson for another year – a FOURTH year – should tell you something.

 

Because this is my 4^th year, I carry a bit of institutional knowledge. I understand how this event goes. I understand the mindset of The Pink. I know their behaviors. Things that used to surprise or effect me, don't so much anymore. Pink hair and angel wings are the norm. team names like Cup Crusaders and Nancy's Nipples are a dime a dozen. Like anything, after a while, extraordinary becomes ordinary. And that's okay. Because if you knew The Pink you'd understand even the ordinary is something amazing.

 

Last Friday morning at Farm Pond in Framingham, Massachusetts, as I was gearing up to give the opening speech and having just made the final selections on my wardrobe and talking briefly with a media crew, I decided to venture back to the back of the corral where we hold walkers AWAY FROMT THE STAGE until 15 minutes prior to the start of the opening ceremony. It's a risky move heading back there … Back to The Pink. Because The Pink knows the score … walkers closest to the stage will be the first out on the route. And even though the 3 Day is not a race, there are benefits to being out first – not the least of which is getting to christen a blue lagoon (a.k.a a clean porta-potty) at Pit 1. Also, The Pink has trained for months and spent lots and LOTS of time checking, re-checking and re-checking their fundraising pages to make sure they've reached their fundraising goals. They have been planning, praying, hoping and looking forward to this day. They probably didn't sleep the night before. They most likely had a 3 am wake up call. They are anxious, happy, excited, worried, overjoyed, overwhelmed and in all likeliness overtired.

 

And, they can see me walking toward them for a good 30 yards. And they all have the same look on their face – like they are hungry lions and I'm made of ham. All they want me to do is open that gate, let them in, get this party started.

 

But that's not why I'm there. I may look like (and, okay act like) I'm in charge but the truth is, I have little power. And I know the limits of my reach and one of the things I cannot CANNOT CANNOT do is open the gates. If I do, Heather will kill me. So as I walk toward The Pink licking their chops I say loudly "I'M NOT COMING TO DO WHAT YOU THINK I'M COMING TO DO … DON'T GET ALL EXCITED!"

 

And since it is Boston, I get this back:

 

"Well then why ARE you here?"

 

Because Boston just has a way about them.

 

And so I tell The Pink, "I'm here to say hi! And see how you are!" Which is like telling a hungry lion you are there to castrate him - it's not what he had in mind and frankly he's not too keen on the idea. But The Pink gives me a break … mostly because they have no choice… and The Pink and I, we begin to talk.

 

I see faces I know. Faces from previous years, other cities, other events. I answer questions again and again, "Yes, we're on time." "Yes, camp is in the same place as last year." "Yes, my hair is blonder." The longer I talk to them, the more they begin to take shape. The Pink dissolves and I start to see individuals. Teams. One by one they come into focus.

 

Men with Heart. They're hard to miss. Every member of Men With Heart wears a yellow t-shirt. Each of them carries a massive backpack filled with medical and comfort items. Some items make sense - items like bandaids and antibiotic cream, Kleenexes and hand gel. Other items you wouldn't expect to find in a man's backpack. Items like face powder and combs and tampons. But you have to understand, they aren't carrying those items for themselves, they are carrying them for the women they walk alongside. The women they don't know but love anyway. The women they've come ready to serve.

 

And there's George. If you've ever walked or crewed a 3 Day event in Boston, then you know George. You may not know him as George, you probably know him as "Honey, I'm Home!" George walks alone and carries a big stick. Literally. A big walking stick. When George enters camp, or any Pit Stop he greets everyone with a loud and hardy "HONEY, I'M HOME!!!" George once had 2 daughters and a wife. One of his daughters died very young. His second daughter died in 2006 and last year, he lost his wife to cancer. George walks alone, because he is alone. But you wouldn't know it. George smiles. He cheers. He laughs and talks with others. He hugs me when I approach and tells me how good it is to see me.

 

I talk for a few minutes with a group of women I met on the plane on the way to the event. When I boarded that plane, I knew them right away – knew they HAD to be walkers. Because they were loud. And happy. And wound tighter than a snake … they were so R E A D Y on that plane. And if they were ready then – Wednesday – when flying in, you can just guess how out of their minds they were Friday morning. They were waving and hugging and nearly vibrating. They were excited. And that kind of excitement is contagious.

 

We took pictures. We made jokes. We laughed and hugged and The Pink counted down the moments to the start of the event.

 

Eventually, the corral is opened and The Pink soars in. From backstage I can see friends from Atlanta, DC, Philly and Twin Cities pouring into the corral excited and ready.

 

When ceremonies begins, Ronnie takes the stage. Ronnie is the executive director of the Massachusetts affiliate of Susan G. Komen for the Cure. Ronnie is exactly right. She speaks to the crowd. She tells them of her diagnosis and of her re-diagnosis a few months ago. She tells them they are walking for her this weekend and for her children whom she had to look in the eyes and say "it's back." She pumps her fist in the air and says "Together, we WILL beat this disease!" And when she is finished, she walks off-stage. And she comes to me and I hug her very gently. Because she just had surgery. And she's very tired. And although her spirit is as strong as Atlas, the world she's holding on her shoulders has weakened her body. She stays for the remainder of opening ceremonies and cheers the walkers out. Then she turns to me and says "I'm going to go home and rest" and she tells me she loves me and will see me next year. And I tell her I love her. Because I do. In that moment especially, I love everything about her.

 

 

From onstage I look out and see a group of walkers in grey t-shirts. On the front are simply the words "Team Courage". These guys, they look like football players. Athletes. They are big and brawny. They are serious. During opening ceremonies, they are so reflective. I can see it. All over their faces. Those knitted brows and folded arms stay with me. They are so very intense. And I can't help but wonder – why are you here Team Courage? How did this disease affect you? Did it take your moms? Has it attacked your sisters? Are you walking to support a buddy, a friend? And I know, dressed in grey and black they are just as much of The Pink as the teams in pink boas and tutus.

 

 

I see sisters with arms linked and friends wiping tears from their friend's cheeks. I see Pink Angels and Wild Women and Team Ta Tas. I watch as survivors cheer for fellow survivors and men openly weep for their wives and daughters clutch their mother's hands. I see pictures on shirts with the telling span of dates July 27, 1964 – January 5, 2010. I see pain, and joy, and sorrow. I see memories flood a face and sons bite their lips so they won't sob and teeth set in determination to do something – anything. And across The Pink, I see hope. Hope for the future, for what's to come.

 

Among tears, I see optimism

Alongside sorrow I see joy

Standing hand in hand with anger, I see faith

 

It's all right there. Present in The Pink.

 

 

 

For the past months I've been busy. I've been active. I've been meeting the demands of a hectic schedule. My calendar, my world and my head have been very full. But my words have been silent.

 

Friday morning I left Farm Pond in Framingham Massachusetts feeling as though I could write forever.

 

 

Thank you, Boston. I had no idea how empty I was.

 

OPEN LETTER TO THE LADY ON HER PHONE IN THE GATE AREA HAVING A CONVERSATION ABOUT BABY SARAH, THE TWINS, SUMMER IN OHIO AND THE NATURAL COLOR OF NANA'S HAIR

The phone actually amplifies your voice for you so the person on the other end can hear you. You don't have to try to push your sound waves through the air to "Darling Andrea"

You're welcome.

Love,
Jenne

Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile