jennethink

TRI’D AND TRUE

In 2 months I'll be participating in my first triathlon. (I'll wait while you check the url. Yes, it's me.) I know! I never thought I'd do one either. Besides the fact that preparing for a triathlon is an awful lot like working out, the big hiccup for me is that there is an entire section of this event devoted to running. I tried like hell to find a triathlon that didn't include running and instead included something like, oh I don't know, shopping or dining but no luck. Bottom line is, if you're going to compete in a triathlon, you're going to have to run. And I think you know how I feel about that.

Running and Jenne just don't mix very well. We're like oil and the Exxon Valdez. We stick together for a short while, but really it's just a disaster waiting to happen. And wildlife will die. I just don't run well. I once decided that if I ever die in a horrible and tragic violent crime, it will be because I refused to run. Killer would be all "Run or die!" and I'd be all "Can I hear those choices again?". Running just doesn't feel right. It feels wrong – I mean like, morally. Like the entire time I'm doing it I feel ashamed of myself. Humiliated and violated at the same time. And it isn't like I haven't tried to run. There have been a number of times when I've decided I'm going to become a runner. And I try. I try and I try. With no luck. "Maybe you're trying too hard" a runner friend of mine once said. "Maybe you should work up to it." And she proceeded to tell me to not try to do so much straight away. Instead, she said just run for a block, and then walk for a block, and then run again … she said to do that and it would make a big difference in the misery factor. So armed with this half-assed notion and a full-assed rear end I headed out the door. I got to the end of my block. I crossed the street and then broke into a run. I ran for a block then I stopped and walked for a block. Then I ran again. Then I walked. Then I ran. Then I walked. Then I ran. Then I threw up. Then I went home. The entire way home I thought my head was going to blow off my shoulders. My face felt hot and emergency-room red and I could literally feel my pulse in my ears … and it felt like machine gun fire.

I should be so lucky.

Later that morning I had breakfast with the know-it-all friend who suggested this method of getting into running. I explained in great detail my little adventure. She listened. She laughed. She almost got water thrown in her face and then she turned serious and said. "Look, I totally understand. But believe me, if you just keep doing that … if you do it over and over … if you do that same thing like every other day for 3 or 4 weeks, in the end, you won't throw up and you won't feel like your head is going to explode. I promise." And all I could think of was that sounded like an awful lot of work to just not throw up. Let's face it, I could stay on my couch and not feel like my head was going to blow off my shoulders … in fact, it's one of the things I sort of like about my couch … there is rarely any head explosions happening there. And so that's what I did. I stayed in and on my couch and sure enough, right away I felt like I wasn't going to throw up.

But deep down the urge was still there – is still there. Deep down I want to run … or rather, I want to want to run. Deep DEEP down I want to be able to effortlessly glide across the ground, to run next to The Hub and have meaningful conversations, to join one of those running groups and keep pace with other people while we enjoy each other's company and the sound of our feet slapping the pavement.

Then again, deep down I also want to be a kangaroo … and frankly, that ain't happenin' either.

Still, I have signed up for and have been training for my first triathlon. Run included.

For those of you who don't know, a triathlon is an event consisting of 3 legs – swim, bike and run – in that order. (As a reminder, I only have 2 legs – the right and the left.) There are different distances of triathlons, the most well-known is the Ironman – which consists of a 2.4 mile swim, a 112 mile bike and a 26.2 mile run. I won't be doing that. And I won't be doing the Olympic distance either. I will however be doing the half-olympic distance. Which is a 750 meter open water swim (that's a little less than ½ mile for the metrically challenged), a 20 km bike (that's 12.4 miles) and a 5 km run (that's agony). I'm not a swimmer – I like to swim. I enjoy being in the water. I know how to move in the water to decrease my chances of drowning but I wouldn't call myself a swimmer. I'm not a cyclist either – the giant bruise on my left hip and cuts up and down my right leg sort of prove that. And clearly, I'm not a runner – even though I've somehow worked my way up to actually being able to run (and I use that term very, very loosely) for 45 minutes without stopping (or puking). Regardless, in 2 months I'll be doing all those things. In that order.

Swimming

Biking

Running

Kind of exciting, isn't it?

OPEN LETTER TO THE 70 YEAR OLD SELF-APPOINTED QUEEN OF THE POOL WHERE I SWIM WHO FINDS NOTHING WRONG WITH TELLING EVERYONE, INCLUDING ME, WHERE AND WHEN AND HOW TO WORK OUT THEN ASKS ME IF I INTEND TO KEEP COMING TO THE POOL AND IF SO, WHEN.

You don't know me very well, do you?

 

 

Love,

Jenne

 

ME AND YOU AND A DOG NAME BLUE AND PRETTY MUCH EVERY ONE ELSE TOO

Last Thursday I went for a run. I had to. It was such a beautiful day here - 80 degrees and sunny with a breeze. I mean, that's great weather at ANY time but right smack at the end of winter and just a mere 4 days after a big SNOWSTORM and man, that made for a good day.

There is a trail near our house - The Trolley Trail - and I love running on it. It cuts through a nice green grassy swath of land and winds pleasantly past cottage homes and quiet streets. Even though I love the trail, as I left the house I was somewhat reluctant to use it because I assumed there would be quite a few more people on it than usual. But since the trail is so perfect and it was the perfect day, I headed down there anyway and began my run.

And immediately began laughing. EVERYONE was on that trail. Every. One. Anyone who has ever gone for a run, thought about going for a run or knows how to spell the word run was out. And not just runners ... there were walkers power walking and couples casually strolling and moms pushing double strollers and dads carrying kids on their shoulders and kids walking dogs. There were people on mountain bikes and families on cruisers and little kids peddling big wheels. With every person I passed and every one that passed me I got more and more tickled. I could hardly wait to see who was coming up next and half expected to see a guy in a bowler hat sitting way up high on one of those bikes from the 1900s with the giant front wheel and tiny back wheel or a couple of kids pushing a hoop with a stick. It was just the most delightful day. And there I was running and giggling in the midst of it.

When I went through chemo life was difficult - not impossible, but difficult. I would go into treatments feeling pretty good and in a matter of a few hours feel as though I couldn't move without help - and often, I couldn't. When I would leave chemo, I would lean on The Hub and shuffle along slowly, sometimes groaning. There is a bench just outside the automatic sliding glass doors at the Cancer Center and The Hub would lower me gently down to the bench while he'd race off to get the car and bring it around so I wouldn't have to make the trek to the parking garage ... the same trek I bounded through on the way in just a few hours before. Sometimes we would leave chemo and go get a bite to eat ... we could pretty much guarantee that it would be the last meal I would eat for days so we'd make it high calorie goodness like corn chowder and gooey ham and cheese sandwiches and bowls of ice cream with fudge sauce and a brownie on the side. As the months went on and the cumulative effects of chemo caught up with me, those lunches became obsolete but in the beginning they were a bright spot in what was a downright bleak time. By the time we'd get home the steroids that I got with each treatment would kick in and I would want to start a puzzle. Early in treatment we discovered I couldn't concentrate well enough to work a crossword and although an avid reader in non-chemo life, I couldn't seem to make my eyes follow a trail of words on a page, so jigsaw puzzles became popular around here. We went to Target at some point and pretty much bought every puzzle they had ... boat scenes, flowers on a hillside, mountain peaks, the statue of liberty and even a puzzle of Da Vinci's Last Supper (which was fun to put together because my mom kept calling the disciples' robes their "costumes" ... as in "Is this part of Jesus' costume or is this someone else's costume?" Which made me laugh every time. The Hub finally and gently said, "Um, I don't think those are costumes as much as just what they wore." Poor Momme, she was so tired back then). As the steroids wound me up, we'd dump a new puzzle and begin working. Sam and Julie would come by in the evening and join in. The Hub would at regular intervals get up and get me a glass of water. I'd ignore it for a while until he'd threaten to tell my mom and/or my doctor I wasn't hydrating then I'd choke it down. Water tasted just like the chemo they pumped into me and it was all I could do to drink the required 6 - 8 glasses a day. As the night wore on, people would leave or go to bed. I'd sit hunched over for hours hunting for the next piece and the next. Slowly creating something beautiful. Sometimes I'd stay up until 1 or 2 in the morning working a puzzle until either it was done or I was. Eventually, I'd drag myself to bed, curl up and sleep.

By the next morning, every bit of that late night steroid-induced energy was gone. I'd wake up feeling hung over - only without the great memories of a fun night out. The side-effects would have kicked in and every bone in my body would ache. My skin felt thin and paper-fragile. My elbows felt like steel points threatening to rip open my hide and my muscles burned a low, steady pain. Suddenly any strong smell was too much. I'd get sick when my mother brewed coffee or cooked meals. Loud noises sent me to bed. Music actually hurt me. It was painful to listen to anything. My eyes would blur if I looked at the TV too long and even the stream of the shower would be too harsh. I would be so weary and tired but unable to sleep. Nothing helped ... not really. We'd try every remedy, every tip and trick but those days following chemo were endlessly painful. Other symptoms came and went. Sometimes I was sick - padding to the bathroom, or leaning out the car door to vomit. Sometimes my mouth erupted into painful sores. Sometimes I'd have bouts of fatigue so severe I couldn't finish a sentence. My breathing became labored halfway through chemo and the burn with every breath would make it difficult to get the little bits of air I needed. Occasionally pain would rocket through the bones of my arms or legs and I would buckle and cry out. My mouth tasted coppery and awful and my skin smelled burnt and dead. Every so often, my mind would go blank and I had trouble thinking simple thoughts. The bleomycin compromised my lungs and I suddenly was unable to yawn without pain severe enough to bring tears to my eyes and I would grab my chest and sob and gasp for air at the completion of each sneeze.

Like I said, life was difficult.

However, it wasn't continuous. Those awful symptoms that plagued me each treatment would only last for a few days - longer as treatment went on - but for the first ½ dozen or so treatments, those post-treatment symptoms would only last a week or so. And since my treatments were 2 weeks apart and since I didn't have to start taking nupogen shots to boost my white blood cell count (side effect: horrible bone pain) until a couple days prior to treatment, that meant I had at least 3 and maybe as many as 5 really good days before I had to submit to the poisoning again.

At least 3 really good days.

The oddest part of it was as quickly as the symptoms would come after treatment, they would seem to go a week or so later. Sometimes I would go to bed feeling the heat and pain and heaviness of those awful side effects and wake up feeling light and calm ... as if the symptoms stole away in the dark of night. They all got together hitched a ride out of town. Stow-aways. They snuck in then slipped away. I'd wake up and wow ... I'd feel like myself again. At least for the time being.

One of these renewal days, a few treatments in, I felt good enough to make lunch plans. I can remember driving downtown to pick The Hub up for lunch. I can remember having a normal conversation at lunch. I can remember seeing a few people on the way back and actually enjoying talking with them. After I dropped The Hub off at the office I started home. The day was nice and I rolled down the windows on the car so I could feel the warm air. As I drove the song "Unwritten" by Natasha Bedingfield came on the radio and I freakin' blasted it. The song sounded great. The sun looked great. My lunch tasted great. And I felt ... GREAT. I felt SO GOOD. Nothing hurt. I could think. My body wasn't rebelling against me. I might go for a walk later. I wanted to talk to people. My bones didn't hurt. I'd eaten spaghetti and meatballs for lunch. I didn't need a nap. And I LOVED THAT SONG. And it was at that moment, as I was flying down the highway feeling the wind whip over my bald head that I began weeping. Big, fat, wet tears slid down my cheeks and I did nothing to stop them. I wasn't crying because I was broken or because I hurt ... I was crying because it was all so good. Life was so very good. And I felt ...good.

That was the most dramatic example of renewal, but it happened every time. Every treatment I would have a moment - after the side effects subsided and I started to feel normal again where I would just marvel at how good it felt to feel good. More than once I would turn to The Hub or my mom or a friend and say "I can't believe you people feel like this all the time!" It was a wonder, a miracle that anyone - let alone most of us - could feel this good and this was NORMAL.

And then ... just a few days later ... the normal was gone. And I was back in the quagmire.

26 months ago, I had my last treatment and felt those horrible side effects for the last time. That means 7 - 10 days after that treatment I felt good again. But for the life of me, I can't remember that feeling of feeling good. The amazement I felt that day in the car and all the other times is only a memory for me. Just like I can't remember the bone pain, only that I had bone pain; I can't remember the feeling good. I only know this feeling that I now feel every day once made me cry with happiness.

I went for a run last week when the weather was perfect. When I went, there were so many others out with me - enjoying it, loving it, drinking it in. And it was no wonder. Weather like that is not to be taken for granted. That was Thursday.

Saturday it was just as beautiful. The sun was shining, the breeze was light and lovely, the temperature was perfect. Trees were budding and my tulips had poked through the ground. It felt like spring was here to stay. It seemed the snow and ice was a memory. At 3:30 in the afternoon, on this perfect spring day, I drove by the Trolley Trail.

It was empty.

And maybe that emptiness should have made me sad. Made me angry that people weren't taking advantage of the beautiful day. Made me upset that people were just taking the nice day for granted when just a few days before it was so special they just had to be out in it. Maybe it should have bothered me. But it didn't. Because part of life is taking it for granted. There is beauty in that. Beauty in the hope and confidence that I can let a gorgeous day slide by without notice because there will be others just as gorgeous that follow.

And as much as I wish I could remember the feeling of feeling good enough to cry ... I'm grateful that I don't. Grateful that I take it for granted.

There is more than beauty in that. There is mercy.

PICTURES FROM MY BLACKBERRY

Recently I noticed my blackberry randomly dumps emails from my inbox. Upon doing a search on The Google I realized it was because I had too many pictures stored in my phone. Okay. Fine. I downloaded them into a folder on my computer, erased them from my phone and promptly began filling up the memory with more pics. Just yesterday my blackberry reminded my memory was full again by getting rid of all of my emails so I began the process of emptying the pictures once more. When I did, I looked for the first time at the folder I had created earlier this year with previous photos in it. And although the photos themselves are nothing to brag about – grainy and sometimes out of focus – everyone of them has a good story behind it. And I realized, these pictures are usually the pics I take on impulse. When something strikes me as funny or significant. They are my "between the picture" pictures … the ones where life really happens.

Arizona 3 Day – 2008.

Opening ceremonies was held down in this little valley. And that little valley got right freezing cold that morning. However, as ceremonies started, the sun came up and began to warm the crowd, the ground and shine beautifully –RIGHT INTO MY EYES. I did the majority of the opening ceremonies in the most aggressive squint of my life. This picture I took immediately after I ended my opening speech as participants are making their way out onto the route. The STAFF member in the photo is my stage manager, LaLa, who isn't nearly as holy as she appears in this snapshot.

Medical Chart for Jenne Fromm – 2008.

Years ago I worked for a physician who had been in practice for decades and treated entire families and generations. Because he'd been in practice so long, he had stacks and stacks of medical charts. Some of those charts were thick as family bibles, coming apart at the binding and sporting years and years of yellowing, drying and peeling scotch tape. I was always fascinated by the size of some of the charts that held those individuals' medical records. There was something beautiful about those tattered and torn charts and all the vulnerabilities they held. Sometimes a chart got so large, we had to write "1 of 2" on it and start a new chart, "2 of 2". And still other times we had to go back and scratch out the 2s, change them to 3s and start a third chart. It made sense that those charts were so large, after all, Dr. Anderson had been treating some of those patients for 30 years or more. This is my chart at the oncologist's office. This chart was started a mere 2 ½ years ago. Tattered. Torn. Beat up. Stuffed full of information – some good, some not so good. Still functioning but a little worse for the wear. There is something beautiful about that.

Steve after walking 60 miles in the San Diego 3 Day without training.

Walking 60 miles is no easy feat (arr) even IF you've done all the training. The Hub walked with me this past year without doing the training. The Hub is no schmuck. He is fit as a fiddle but even a fiddle should train to be on their feets walking and walking and walking for hours and hours and hours. If for no other reason than to prepare your toes for the beating they are going to take. By the end of the third day, every single toe of his (and eight of mine for good measure) was individually wrapped. The toe wrapping was part prevention, part blister care and part art. Wrapping your toes is sort of like eating at a buffet or plucking your eyebrows, you never know when to stop – and the results can be just as upsetting. Each little corner of the tape can rub. So you tape the corner. And then the corner of that piece of tape can rub. So, you know, you have to tape that. And if you're not careful, you wind up with tape up to your tits. Careful though, that tape under your arm can rub. Anyway, back to this pic. I love it because I'm so proud of him for walking that event with me and so thankful he supports me in such practical ways.

Sign in a Wendy's window – or should I say "Sign".

I have a love for misused quote marks. In fact, I like to collect pictures like these of quote marks used incorrectly. Just as a review, quote marks are to either a) quote someone or b) indicate that the word or phrase isn't being used literally. So in this case, unless "Caution" is something we can attribute to Shakespeare or Abe Lincoln we have to assume this Wendy's doesn't really want you to be cautious. Just kinda sorta. You know, use "caution" … not real caution, just some sort of behavior that is <rolling eyes and nudging> caution-like <wink wink>. My favorite example of misused quote marks was at my local grocery one week when the "Cheese" was on sale. That's what the sign said, SALE TODAY – "CHEESE". Hmmm … I don't think I'll have some of your "cheese". Thanks!

The Pink Nose of The Yellow Dog. I end up with a lot of these pictures. This one is on the ottoman.

On my lap while I'm watching TV

Blocking my way into the kitchen.

On my lap under the table while I'm eating dinner

On the bed while I'm (trying to be) asleep. There is just something so wonderfully pitiful about that pink nose. It's irresistible. I can't help but take pictures of it.

Turkey and avocado sandwich from room service at The Ritz Carlton in Dallas Texas.

Seriously … this sandwich. It was almost worth the thirty dollars I spent on it. I'm a big fan of room service. There are many, many things to love about someone showing up at your door with a meal. One of my very favorite things about room service is the miniature everythings … the little salt and pepper shakers, the tiny little ketchup bottle, the itty bitty diet coke – A D O R A B L E! All of the teeny tinies on my tray this day only made my sandwich look EVEN BIGGER! I sat there for a good 3 minutes pretending all the accessories were normal sized and I was a giant. Then I snapped a photo so I would never forget the joy of a fat pile of turkey. The fun and games all ended when I couldn't get my mouth around those layers of bacon, avo and poultry. I know … that's a big sandwich.

Jenne and Steve at Jalapenos.

This picture cracks me up. If you didn't know what was going on, you'd think it is almost sad. In a way, it has an artsy feel I'm looking up and laughing and Steve is looking down and pensive. It's almost like he's been caught in a moment of deep reflection or maybe prayer. Actually, it's none of those things, in reality, he's just busy dipping a chip into some cheese dip. He loves that dip. So much so that he couldn't stop long enough for me to snap a pic. Oh cheese dip, you are a harsh mistress.

The Cheese Dip. (And, by the way, the reason I gained 7 pounds in the month of December)

At Blue Koi – my favorite restaurant.

This picture confuses me. I'm not sure why I took it or why I kept it. There's nothing special about it that I can see … well other than the child growing out of my head. And I can't recall anything in particular happening on this day. That's not a new scarf and I didn't get a haircut (both perfectly valid "between the pictures" reason to snap a photo) so I don't know. But I thought I'd include it because it is, after all, a really great restaurant. When toddlers aren't tumoring out yer noggin.

Jenne on New Year's Eve posing only so Steve could snap a picture of the loud-mouthed broad behind us.

Oh man, see? This is why I take pictures because if I hadn't had this snapshot I would have forgotten all about that bossy, bitchy completely ball-busting woman having dinner with (what I thought must have been her child but found out was) her p-whipped husband. She was loud enough and annoying enough that The Hub and I stopped having our conversation and started having hers. I started repeating everything she said. I would have repeated his side of the conversation too – but he didn't have one. In fact, in the entire time we were there, I didn't hear him say ONE SINGLE SOLITARY THING. Meanwhile she picked at him and criticized him and sarcastically challenged him and told him what to order and reminded him what he liked and didn't like and made comments about his table manners and on and on and on and on. I felt bad for that poor sap for days. I hope for his sake she's dynamite in the sack. Or something.

Man babysitting his chicken – and no, that's not a euphemism for anything.

This was taken at Jalapenos – our favorite Mexican restaurant … a little TOO favorite in fact. We've become quite the regulars and have had to modify a little saying of ours, "just because you Mexi-CAN, doesn't mean you Mexi-SHOULD." Anyway, one night as we were propping up the bar this guy came in. He plopped down on a stool and plopped a bag next to himself on the other stool. It was sort of odd the way he gave a seat to his bag. And eventually – after he'd consumed a few beers and I'd consumed a few margaritas, I looked closer to see what was in the bag. It was a chicken. No … not a chicken sandwich. A chicken. A chicken he'd purchased at the grocery across the street. Odd enough to bring your chicken out for a drink but what really got me was every time he got up to go to the bathroom, …. HE TOOK THE CHICKEN WITH HIM. And he got up a lot. I kept thinking he was leaving but then he'd come back! Finally I sent The Hub after him because I just had to know two things 1) was he actually going to the bathroom and 2) did the chicken join him in the stall. The answers are 1) yes and 2) oh hell yes. And that, my friends, is completely fanTAStic. Which, if I remember correctly, I actually shouted out loud when The Hub confirmed my suspicions.

And that brings me to the end of the blackberry pictures.

For now.

OPEN LETTER TO MICHELLE

Um, it's March. Maybe some sleeves?

 

 

Love,

Jenne