jennethink

YOU CAN’T GET THERE FROM HERE - BUT YOU CAN POST ABOUT IT

May 31 2009 I ran my first triathlon. It was a sprint distance. I signed up in February and started training right away. I searched online and found a good schedule I could follow. I joined the rehab gym near my house so I could use the pool and get my swimming in. I spent many hours running outside in the cold and rain. I bought a bike and I built up my speed and distance and somehow figured out the gears. I converted to clipless pedals and shoes so I could lock onto the bike and paid the price a number of times when I forgot to unclip and fell right-the-hell down with my bike. I got in matches with the Queen of the Pool – some crazy octogenarian who tried many times to tell me where to swim. I bought bags and bags of ice and kept my knee wrapped up and frozen. I spent hundreds of dollars on the right shorts and tops and other equipment. And then, on that day, I got up, donned my gear, waded into the water and when the gun went off … there I went.

I swam

I biked

I ran

I finished.

The Hub was there – of course. Momme flew in from Florida to watch. My friend Julie came out and cheered me on. Together they took about 200 pictures of the event. I called my sister immediately afterwards. I texted friends. I posted a video. And for about 2 months I told anyone who would listen about the event. It was awesome. It was fabulous. It was totally great. But … you wanna know a secret? It really wasn't that big of a deal. The event itself, I mean. I was in the water for 15 minutes. I was on my bike for 30 minutes. I was running for – well, forever – but that's a whole different story.

The whole thing took me less than 90 minutes to complete. I've watched infomercials longer than that. In many ways, it was the equivalent of a long workout. Although it was a challenge and although not everyone does it, it really wasn't hard. I mean, it was … but … you know. Not really.

During spring break this past year I spent a lot of time watching The Kid swim in my mom's pool. She's a good swimmer and the pool isn't huge so I watched not because I was concerned she'd drown, but because I was amazed. I called out over and over to her how great she was doing. I watched her freestyle from one end of the pool to the other. I watched her swim underwater while looking for dive toys. I watched her tuck under and do handstands. Watched her jump, paddle, dive and kick and all the while I shouted "great job!" and "wow!" and "Kid, you are doing REALLY WELL!"

And then, for some reason, I stepped back – not literally, but in my head. I took a step back and watched her – really watched her … objectively. Watched her swim. Squinted my eyes and examined her stroke. Carefully evaluated her paddle and kick. And I realized something. Something significant.

She's really not that good of a swimmer.

Wait! Don't get me wrong. I mean, That Kid can swim! She's really good at it – but she's not … you know … Olympic caliber. She's just swimming. The way any 10 year old would swim. There's nothing extraordinary about her swimming. It's just … you know … swimming. It gets the job done. It is exactly what it should be – no more and no less.

Five or six summers ago, we took The Kid to a pool with a diving board and a deep end. Up to this point, I'm not sure she'd been exposed to either. This was back when her bathing suits were the size of tic-tacs and her entire body could be covered in sunscreen with one lotiony pass. She had grown out of any baby-fat she'd had (and really, she never had much) and out of that puppy-round toddler belly and grown into a Daddy Long Legs. She was running around on pixie-stix and I could span her waist with my hands. She was a tiny thing not yet eye-to-eye with my belly button and still small enough to get away with footie pjs and pigtails. In short, she was a little girl going for a swim.

Only, she couldn't swim. I mean not at all. She could sort of doggie paddle and when she did, she looked just as desperate as a dog does – eyes darting and pulling up up up … neck craning with muscles taut … little hands moving like hummingbird wings and legs kicking like a frantic colt trying to keep her little wet head above the waterline.

And, for some reason, I thought it would be a good idea to get her to go off the diving board straight into the deep end.

It wasn't easy to convince her. It was a scary proposition for a 5 year old. I'm sure it felt like I was asking her to jump into a pit of bees or the mouth of a lion, not into a deliciously cool pool. But it was so important. I so wanted her to experience the thrill of taking a little risk and succeeding. I so wanted to see her face when she realized she conquered a fear. I knew all she felt was the tiny boiling bubbling of terror but I could feel the thrill. And so I keep urging her. Kept nodding, kept smiling. It took a looooooooooong time and looooooooooooots of encouragement, but inch by inch she climbed up onto the board and millimeter by millimeter she shuffled to the end. Awesome! I said. Fantastic! I smiled. You are doing great! I encouraged all the while treading water in the deep end. Tread tread tread Go Kid! Tread tread tread You can do this! Tread tread tread I will catch you! Tread, Now just take a deep breath and JUMP!

She stood there. She took a deep breath. And she froze. I saw her little fingers ball up into fists. I swam a little closer. I lowered my voice. I paddled right up under the board and looked up at her. Hey, I said. Hey! When she looked at me, she had desperation in her eyes. She was begging me with her knitted brows and trembling pink lips to let her off the hook. I smiled up. Hey, I said, you can do this. And then I turned and swam back a few feet. You've got this! I said. And I sent up a little prayer.

She was trembling. And her little eyes were welling up. And just when I began to think maybe I was pushing her too hard, and just when I thought this is why step-mothers get such a bad rap, and just when I mentally began saving for her therapy that she surely would need after today, she jumped.

Right onto my head.

We both came up sputtering and laughing and cheering. YOU DID IT! I yelled as I swam to the side with her turtle-shelled up on my back. Once we hit the edge, she scurried up out of the water and into her Daddy's arms. Who immediately suggested we celebrate with some ice cream. Shocker. We instead spent the rest of the day taking turns catching her as she plunged into the water again and again. Each time she hesitated and each time one of us assured her she would be okay, she would survive, we would catch her, everyone would cheer.

Fast forward a few years and I sit watching a kid fearless. She swims, she dives, she jumps. She encourages others to go off the high dive. She looks like she was born swimming. Like she's half fish. Like she was made for it. She makes it look easy. But every time I see her jump in, dive, swim, I can't help but remember that day she stood shivering and alone on that very long board hovering over a very scary deep end. Whenever I watch her sink and catfish along the bottom of the pool I think of her balled up fists and watery eyes. Each time she calls to me to watch her dive I hear her little tinny 5 year old voice whimpering and worrying. And I guess I'll always see her through those eyes. Eyes that remember where she started. Eyes that brightened and smiled strong enough to outshine her fears. Eyes that will never forget how far she's come.

It isn't the now that's so amazing. It's the distance she's traveled to get here.

May 31, 2009. 188 people went into the water. About half of them came out before I did. A lot them were off their bikes before I was. A scant few were running longer than I did. Only one found a lump on her collarbone 3 years prior. Only one had her neck sliced open and biopsied. Only one fought the urge to abandon her family and fight it alone. Only one tasted the poison designed to save her not once or twice but 12 times. Only one had bones that felt like glass and skin that ached and a stomach that burned and heaved and lungs that filled and choked. Only one contemplated stopping it all more than once. Only one cried late into the night at what cancer was taking from her. Only one was in my skin, feeling my fears, living my doubts and doing it anyhow. Only one athlete that day had once been as weak and discouraged; dried up and afraid as I was.

… As I was.

A sprint distance triathlon. It really isn't that far. But look how very far I've come.

BOOM

D-DAY ANNIVERSARY

Yesterday marked the 3^rd anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. Each year I reflect back on that time and I'm always struck by how thick and dark the dividing line is between the before and after. The calendar of my life seems to be divided into B.D. - Before Diagnosis and A.T. - After Treatment. So much has been colored by those months of care. And as each day clicks away and I get more and more distance from those days of chemical poisoning, I can see more and more of the effects of what happened after the B.D. and before the A.T.

I loved to draw when I was a kid. Still do, actually. To this day, one of my favorite activities is to color. I love everything about it. I love the thick smell of the crayons, especially ones that are all piled together. I love the waxy feel of crayon residue on my fatty part of my palm left over from dragging my crayon-clutched fist across a creation. I love scraping at the paper on the disappearing flattened tip of a crayon and using that tiny bullshit sharpener in the box to create a dull point on a used stick. I love using the same color to make both gentle light sweeps of color and thick heavy bold lines. Crayons rock. Versatile. Simple. Colorful. Once, when I was pretty little, a babysitter showed me how to lay down stripes of color on a piece of paper. She showed me how to use as many colors as I liked, in whatever random pattern I wanted. Then, when I had the paper filled, she showed me how to take the black crayon and cover it all up. Dark and thick I would lay the black crayon on its side and press a wax blanket of black over all the color. The harder I pressed, the darker the black. The darker the black, the quicker the colors would disappear. With each pressured sweep across the paper, the color would evaporate right before my eyes. Every pretty bright thing would be swallowed up, overtaken by blacknesss.

Before diagnosis, I had spent much of my life laying down bright strips of color. Family relationships – blue green. The Hub –yellow orange. My business – blue violet. Friendships – brick red. Other friendships – olive green. Still others – cornflower. My home – lemon yellow. The Kid – periwinkle, carnation pink, orange red. And the colors were beautiful. Even the burnt sienna and bittersweet. They worked. Messy in places, sure, but as a work of art, it was really coming together nicely. It's pretty easy to see where this is going. If B.D. was laying down color, then treatment certainly was The Black. 12 treatments. Six scans. 3 operations. Countless blood tests, needle sticks and saline flushes. And 1 very scary hospitalization. Each a very heavy sweep of a very black crayon. And with every pressured sweep, my color evaporated right before my eyes. Every pretty thing about me and my life seemed to be swallowed up, overtaken by blackness.

People still ask me if I was scared when I was diagnosed. They ask me what I thought about. Did I worry about dying? How did I handle the news? Did the diagnosis terrify me? And I have the same answer to every one of those questions. No. I was not terrified. No. I did not worry about dying. No. I didn't freak. But that was then. That was a B.D. reaction. And although I can't predict the future I can guess I would react differently a second time around. My A.T. reaction to a recurrence would most likely be different. There would be fear. There would be dread. And there would be panic. Not because cancer scares me more now but because treatment does.

It is black

And heavy

And it covers the color so completely even the memories of color fade.

The first time my babysitter told me how to color and cover, it was hard to convince me to do it. I didn't understand. Why would I want to make something beautiful only to cover it up with something ugly? I'm not sure how much convincing it took for me to finally give in. Eventually, I did what I was encouraged to do. I wasn't happy about it. But I did it. Of course, at the time, I didn't see the whole picture. I didn't know the final step. I didn't know something else was coming. I never imagined after the paper was engulfed in black she would pull a coin out of her purse and begin to slowly, and with intention scrape the black crayon away. But that's exactly what she did. She pulled that penny across the paper and used it to spell my name – letter by letter. And in doing so, she revealed all the beauty that was beneath. Each letter contained a pattern. A burst of color. Each bit of my name housed pieces of the colors laid down before. Right before my eyes, Jenne bloomed - a beauty that never could have been created any other way.

Today is 3 years and one day since my diagnosis. It is also 2 weeks since my first triathlon and one week from my second. It's not the solution, not by a long shot, but somehow, I think the scraping has begun.