I Ran an Ultra Marathon, but I’m not sure I’m an Ultra Runner

The Conundrum of Facing the Ultra Challenge Again

Reflecting on my running journey, the ultra was a test I promised I’d never endure. 

“I’m not that crazy!” is what I told myself, my husband, and all of my friends. Of course, I also said that about running a marathon, but I was crazy enough to try that, too. 

Truth be told, I’m actually pretty jealous and impressed by my friends who run ultras on a fairly regular basis. Their persistence and tenacity are something to admire. I’m just not sure that’s exactly who I am. Loosely translated, perhaps I haven’t reached that level of insanity yet. 

My best friend, the instigator of all great shenanigans involving running, is signed up for the same ultra we ran together last year, the Freight Train 50k. Am I crazy enough to do it again? I’m not sure yet. 

Maybe it’s the course on the High Bridge Trail in Farmville, VA, an old rail line that consists of endless pea gravel and dreary winter trees of December that are deterring me. Of course, the route is punctuated by the High Bridge, which, considering that it’s two out and backs, makes up about 2 miles of the 31.3 mile route. The bridge itself is quite lovely, perched at what seems like a mile over the Appomattox River.

Did I enjoy doing that? Again, I’m not sure. The pain wasn’t that much different than running a marathon. You simply endure it for longer. But you do feel 100% more badass casually mentioning that you ran an ultra last weekend (or month, season, or year.) 

Runners don’t need an excuse to drop facts like that into casual conversation. It simply spills out of our mouths. 

I suppose I feel challenged with finding my why for running a second ultra. Surely I would beat my abysmal time from last year. That may be reason enough.

I did learn a few lessons from my effort last go round. If I choose to run this race again, I will KT tape my knee to ensure that my patellar tracking issue doesn’t cause problems. I was forced to run quarter-mile intervals for most of the race last year. I now have a hydration vest I’ve had lots of practice using. And I will certainly stay overnight in Farmville after the race. 

Driving almost an hour and a half both ways in the dark and rain was less than ideal. I don’t even know how I did that now, other than I had to. 

Plusses for this race include the super long time limit thanks to the concurrent 100k race, the amazing race support at the aid stations, and how well organized the event is. There was even food for vegans at the finish party! With the race in early December, it’s also timed really well to use a fall marathon training cycle to prepare for an ultra race. 

If you are looking for a “first ultra” event, the Freight Train 50k is it. Non-technical trail with very little thought about where your feet land. You only cross four roads the entire time, with the worst of those in the town of Farmville itself, where the drivers don’t necessarily get the whole “state law to stop for pedestrians in the crosswalk” thing, even with signs explaining it. Sigh. 

Last year, my bestie convinced me to sign up for this misery on the last day that guaranteed a shirt with your entry. She was lucky I had consumed two adult beverages before she texted me. Otherwise, my rational mind would have taken over. 

If I decide to run this race this year, and that’s a very big if, I hope that the last three miles of my run won’t be in a torrential downfall like last year! 

Of course, I could choose to run a different ultra marathon, right? 

So is ultra running my thing? That’s the conundrum. 

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Ultras are fun, right? Or am I just a special kind of crazy? Don’t answer that question. 

After my fall marathon, I’ve decided that running an ultra isn’t the best idea for me right now. I am going to let my body rest and heal. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

Devil’s Lettuce: Vegan Restaurant Review

How exciting that the far West End of Richmond has a new all-vegan restaurant! If you read my earlier review of Hurley’s Tavern, this is the vegan comfort food kitchen they built in front of Hurley’s dining room. 

The brainchild of chef Janice Rossano, pictured with me above, she’s been envisioning a space like this for a while. While Hurley’s has a nice variety of vegan items she created, she wanted to offer a separate restaurant with an all-vegan menu. Janice shared that she has been vegan for 10 years, and many of these recipes have been in development for quite some time. 

With a name like Devil’s Lettuce, you may pick up on a theme here. There are several references to the herbal refreshment, from the “vegan food joint” to the “420 herbs and spices” blend for their Gateway burger. It’s cheeky!

The space is colorful and cozy, with a separate kitchen and meal prep area from its companion, Hurley’s Tavern. There is both indoor and outdoor seating. 

I’ve now been twice, sampling different menu items each visit. Any vegan will tell you what a strangely wonderful phenomenon it is to have multiple choices on a restaurant’s menu. Knowing that everything is safe to eat is like realizing a vegan utopia!

On my first visit, I got the tofu melt, pictured above. This was excellent with seasoned, roasted tofu, peppers, and cheese served on bread panini style. I had to pause a few times and make sure I wasn’t eating chicken, the tofu was seasoned that well!

On my second visit, I got a bowl of chili with a side of mac and cheese, pictured below. Both were perfect for the day’s weather, which was cool and dreary. The chili was mildly spicy, and the mac and cheese was creamy and satisfying. 

I will definitely be back! Hurley’s has quickly become a family favorite since I live with omnivores, and now with the Devil’s Lettuce in the same space, I will have even more options when we dine there. 

If you are in the Innsbrook area, check them out! It’s worth the drive from other parts of the RVA. And if you’re passing through Richmond, it’s really convenient to I-64 and 295. 

Check out their menu:

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Are you as excited about an all-vegan restaurant in the West End of Richmond as I am? Have you been here yet? I’d love to hear about your experience!

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

Chessie Trail Marathon 2022: Race Recap

“I’ll meet you at the cow!”

This is one phrase you may not typically hear from your running partner during a marathon. But we did encounter quite a few of these majestic creatures during the race. They were mostly curious and/or unbothered by our presence. 

The cow patties, on the other hand, were not so majestic. Those kept you on your toes, as they often punctuated the divots in the trail where it was most convenient to place your feet. 

To be fair, we were warned about the cows ahead of time, and in particular, to not get between a mother and her baby. A point I clearly understood!

For my fall marathon, I chose to take on a smaller race, the Chessie Trail Marathon in Lexington, VA, which is in the middle of the Blue Ridge mountains. The mountains are definitely my happy place, so I was excited to run a different kind of marathon in the midst of so much beauty. 

This was my 10th marathon, and perhaps my most challenging. Considering that I ran the Marine Corps Marathon in 2019, which began in a monsoon and ended in sweltering heat and humidity, that’s saying a lot. But it’s done! 

Positives from this race? 

  • I got my money’s worth. I finished 15 minutes before the course officially closed in last place. With only about 50 marathoners and as slow as I’ve been running lately, it wasn’t hard to do. 
  • The shirt. I love the long sleeve technical shirt for this race. Simply designed and in a fabulous light aqua color, I will definitely wear this a lot!
  • The scenery. This was a rail trail, so fairly flat. Some rail trails I’ve run have little to no scenery, but this one was different. We ran along the Maury River for most of the route, and it was beautiful. We were also surrounded by mountains. And although peak fall colors were earlier this month, the leaves were still pretty. 
  • The wildlife! Besides cows, we saw squirrels, chipmunks, wild turkeys, and deer. For the record, turkeys do fly. Sort of. And the deer just jumped on the trail with you. Crazy stuff!
  • The crew. The volunteers at this race were really supportive, which was very helpful since there weren’t many spectators.

With a race that took me this long, there were some negatives:

  • It’s four out and backs. Not my favorite route format, especially when you bypass the finish line 3 times. It was so hard to not give up at the half-marathon mark. My running partner, Becky, carried me mentally through most of this race.
  • The cow patties. Tough to dodge, as previously mentioned. 
  • Aid stations had nothing salty! I appreciated the water and orange and banana slices, but I wish they had had potato chips or pretzels to accompany these!
  • Little to no crowd support. But this is to be expected at a trail race.

Some things that worked out for this race were just luck. We had fantastic weather! It was really chilly at the start, so Becky and I went to Walmart the night before and bought mylar blankets from the camping section for about $3 each. This was a great decision and something I will definitely buy again. They folded up super small and fit nicely in our hydration packs to use next race. Temps started in the 40’s, warming up to 60 degrees toward the end. It was mostly cloudy, which I actually love for running. 

Clearly, though, this was not my day for racing. My right knee started hurting before we hit double digits. And even though I’d taped my knee to help prevent this, it still happened. This race just hurt. Everywhere. But considering that I had COVID 3 months ago and struggled for weeks, that I missed a few training runs because we lost a family member, and that I had a cold all week, I’m surprised I finished!

I would not recommend this race as your first marathon. I think it’s super important to have that big race experience for your first marathon, as that crowd support is amazing and so helpful mentally for runners new to this distance. But for folks that get overwhelmed by crowds, this may be a great race for you. Just be prepared for that mental challenge of the course setup. 

The town of Lexington is so quaint! Home of Virginia Military Institute, the downtown area is filled with cute stores, locally owned restaurants, and even a local running store. The ladies we met at Lex Running Shop were super nice. I highly recommend stopping by if you ever visit the town. Surrounded by mountains, the scenery is stunning. 

I think this race is a one and done for me. It’s not that it wasn’t pretty or unorganized. I just had a tough time mentally, and I’m not sure I can overcome that if I tried again. It is a challenge that I’m glad I did, though!

That being said, I might be tempted to run one of the shorter distances they offer, especially the half marathon. There’s also a 10k and a 5k, so this could really be a family event!

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Do you run a marathon in the fall? If so, what has been your favorite? Mine will forever be Richmond, but now that I coach with Sports Backers, I can’t run this race. I’ll be on the course to support runners! If you plan to run Richmond, let me know! 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

A Body in Motion Stays in Motion

Running through post-COVID symptoms and grief

My current mantra. The law of inertia: a body in motion stays in motion, and a body at rest stays at rest until another force acts upon it. 

These last few weeks have been extremely challenging. I’m now 12 weeks post-COVID and am still not back to normal. Sure, my energy levels for day-to-day activities have returned, but my running is most definitely not what it was pre-COVID. My pace is still so very slow, and while I may feel like I’m putting out an effort that would pace me at 10:30 minutes per mile, my watch says otherwise. It’s depressing. 

At least my lingering chest pain from the infection is subsiding. This used to be a constant companion, but over the past week or so, it’s become far more intermittent. This is a very welcome change. I’m hoping this indicates my speed will begin to improve as well. 

My strategy for healing is to stay in motion. One foot in front of the other. To give myself some grace when my runs are a struggle. To appreciate the fact that I can still run despite having had COVID. 

The recent loss of my father-in-law also weighs heavily on me. As we kept vigil in the last week of his life, I lost so much sleep, and my energy needed to be spent doing things other than running. I missed two planned runs, including my Sunday 12-mile long run the morning that he passed. Besides being up most of the night, my family needed me, especially my young adult daughters, who both went above and beyond in giving care to my in-laws. 

My family and I are navigating our new normal, as my father-in-law was a big part of our lives. Living next door, we saw him almost every day for years, and recently, several times a day as caring for him required more assistance. And now, we are helping my mother-in-law adapt to a life without her partner. 

I hopped back into my running schedule for taper. I won’t make up the 12 miles I was supposed to run the Sunday after my 20 miler. My final long run before my marathon was a mere 9 miles. I’m grateful I managed to get a 20 miler done this training cycle. And now I’m fighting a cold, and I skipped all of my runs in this final week. 

My marathon will be run on a wing and a prayer, relying more on my mental toughness than my athletic ability. But then, that’s typically how they go, anyway!

For now, I’ll simply keep moving. A body in motion stays in motion. I run the Chessie Trail Marathon on Saturday. 

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I’m pretty sure the expression on my face in the lead photo says everything that needs to be said about my expectations for this weekend’s adventure.

Are you a runner who is trying to maintain a training schedule for a race post-COVID? I’d love to hear about your experience.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

Saying Goodbye

We laid my father-in-law to rest on Saturday. 

The visitation was Friday. When it was just family, I looked at all the flowers there, and when I saw a large, pink arrangement, I already knew before I read the card. It was from my sole sisters, the loving term my running friends and I have chosen for our core group. Pink for my running team, the Pink Nation. Adjacent to that was another arrangement from my best friend and her significant other. She is one of my sole sisters. 

That was the first time I cried that night. The second time was when I saw my parents and brother who had made the trip from Hampton Roads. Seeing the sheer number of people who came out to pay their respects, including many old friends I haven’t seen in years, prompted more reasons to tear up. 

My wedding anniversary with my husband was Sunday. It’s not the first time a funeral was involved in our anniversary weekend. My husband’s cousin Ronnie passed away a few years ago, and we celebrated his life as part of our anniversary. When I saw his son and daughter walk into the funeral home, who are about the same age as my husband and me, I couldn’t help but think of the mixed emotions they must be feeling as well. 

The service was beautiful. The current pastor at my in-law’s church officiated, and our former pastor sang a hymn and delivered my husband’s eulogy. His words were beautiful and perfect, capturing every aspect of his dad and the influence he had on his world. 

The graveside service was brief, but touching. From watching our friends who served as pallbearers carry him to his final resting place, the perfect fall weather with crisp air and bright sunshine, to the bumble bees who were delighted to busily collect nectar from the funeral flowers, to the care and precision with which the Army soldiers folded the American flag draped over his coffin, there were so many things to notice.

Their church hosted the reception. I’m still a bit bitter that the church where they have their plots refused to host us, but there’s not much we could do about that. But their church was warm and welcoming. I also got to catch up with their previous pastor, a woman who I still regard as a friend and perhaps the most influential pastor in my life, even in my present state of deconstruction from the Christian faith. 

The flowers after the funeral.

Now the fight or flight is over. All the ceremonial duties are done. And we are left with memories of my father-in-law and the care that our community showed to us during these final days. The next step is to establish the new normal, whatever that may be. 

Grief is a strange thing. We go on with our lives because we have to, but may find times during the day when we think about the person we lost. Maybe we’re running errands, thinking about something they would need or want, and then realize they aren’t there to receive the gift. Maybe it’s a time of day passing, our brain telling us it’s time to do a caregiving ritual, like helping put someone to bed or change them, and realize that burden is done, with both relief and sadness in that realization. Maybe it’s something we see that sparks a memory of them, and suddenly our state of feeling OK is no longer that. 

Hopefully soon, our voids in life will be replaced with good memories of who my father-in-law was before he became ill. My daughter says she struggles to remember what he was like then, which I can understand, especially as we navigate this new world. 

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Are you navigating a new world without one of your parents? I’d like to hear about it. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

October is National Physical Therapy Month!

How great of our local YMCA to recognize the amazing benefits of physical therapy!

Oh, wait… they meant personal training. 

I don’t know why I get my panties in a wad about the misuse of my profession’s abbreviation. Except that I do. That’s because there’s a big difference between a personal trainer and a physical therapist. 

Physical therapists earn a bachelor’s degree before they ever go to graduate school. My master’s program was 3 years long. The entry-level degree now is a Doctor of Physical Therapy, and most of these programs are 3.5 years. Once you finish your degree, you must sit for and pass a test to earn your license to practice physical therapy. 

Currently, there are no national or state regulatory bodies that monitor the personal training industry. Your average personal trainer attends a weekend class or studies online and takes a test to earn a certification, with the only requirement typically that you are a high school graduate. It’s not the same as the schooling a physical therapist goes through to earn an advanced degree. 

That being said, I know some excellent personal trainers that know their field extremely well and have college degrees to back it up. But without much regulation of this industry, programs to certify personal trainers vary greatly in content, scientific background, and quality, and is reflected in the competency of the trainer.

I worked in a gym back in the late 90’s after I graduated from PT school. I was a personal trainer as I waited to take my boards. I can tell you that some of our trainers were competent, others were not. 

One of the trainers I worked with claimed that her two years of pre-med coursework in undergrad were equivalent to my post-graduate degree. And, no, she did not earn a degree of any kind. Sigh. I took the same classes in my first two years of college, too. Most college graduates do. 

But let me tell you a better example. We had a trainer who would instruct her clients to find their target heart rate, then try to achieve this with each cardio workout. I ended up having one of her clients in one of my intro to exercise classes. He asked me why he couldn’t reach this magical number. 

The answer to this question required a bit more investigation. I asked him if he had high blood pressure, which he did, and if he took medication for this, which he did. One of these was a beta blocker, which artificially lowers your heart rate to reduce the workload on your heart. So this poor guy was huffing and puffing away on the treadmill, never reaching that target heart rate. 

To correct this trainer’s lack of inquiry, I educated the client about the effects of this medication and what to do instead. I may have prevented a major medical event for him. All it took was a more thorough questioning of his medical history and a basic understanding of how certain classes of medications work. 

I teach my patients about rate of perceived exertion, or RPE, instead of target heart rate. It’s a much better way to gauge the effort of exercise. Here’s why:

  • First of all, it’s far less complicated. 
  • Second of all, folks tend to take a carotid pulse, which I feel is a bit risky. You never know if you will throw a clot this way. 
  • And third, the heart rate sensors on cardio equipment are rarely accurate. 
  • As a clinician, I tend to sit and chat with my patients when they are doing activities aimed at improving their cardiopulmonary endurance. That way, I can gauge their RPE while also monitoring their vital signs.

I also tried to educate our personal training staff about this, detailing the issue in our communication book and even explaining the concept of RPE. The response I received? “You suck.” Awesome. Not only were some of our staff incompetent, but also extremely unprofessional. I was so grateful to pass my boards and get my first job as a physical therapist. 

Several years later, I was working out at a new gym. I saw all of these employees walking around with shirts emblazoned with “PT” on the back. So, I asked, “Are all of these staff members physical therapists?” knowing that they were not. The staff member I conversed with confirmed that these were personal trainers. I explained the issue with this and how hard I worked to earn that designation. She seemed unfazed, merely shrugging her shoulders and carrying on with her day. I was less than impressed. 

So, beware if you interact with a “PT” at the gym. You are probably not talking to a physical therapist with an advanced degree. You are more likely to encounter someone with only a certification in personal training instead. As I said, there are some great personal trainers and personal training programs, but not all are created equal, and not all personal trainers have a related college degree or the professional curiosity to back up their methods. It’s really important as a consumer to understand the difference. Only a physical therapist can call themselves a PT. 

Happy Physical Therapy Month to my fellow PT’s!

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This is not an attack on my friends who are competent personal trainers. It is, however, commentary on the misuse of my profession’s designated abbreviation.

If you are looking to get on track with an exercise program and don’t have many medical complications, especially involving cardiopulmonary systems, a competent personal trainer can be helpful for your needs. But if you are injured or have medical issues which need to be considered with activity, you should consult your doctor, and a physical therapist may be just the medical professional you need to help you. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

At Peace

I wrote my father-in-law’s obituary yesterday. Yet another task I didn’t expect to do in my life, but another ritual after death that must be done, and done well.

He passed away early Sunday morning, just after midnight, nearly a week since the morphine was started. His passing was as peaceful as we could have made it, his final moments with my husband and mother-in-law by his side. 

While the rest of my family went to the funeral home to finalize plans Sunday afternoon, my husband asked if I would work on the obituary. So I sat with the outline from the funeral home and a few examples I found on Google, and I got to work. 

How do you even begin to sum up someone’s life in just a few sentences? Doing him justice would surely take more time and space than the small bit allowed. 

How can I fully capture the type of man he was? He was a devoted husband and father. Soon after meeting him, I realized what a good example he had set for his son, and it’s part of the reason I fell in love with my husband. Once it was clear that I would become a part of the family, he never treated me like a daughter-in-law. I was his daughter.

He was instrumental in helping to raise my girls. How can you quantify the value of his presence in their lives, the family dinners, the activity shuttling, the time in conversation, the example he led for my girls? You simply can’t. 

I will remember his epic dad jokes, some of which I admittedly fell for the first time I heard each of them. I will remember his mischievous grin, a trait that my husband inherited. Looking back on old photos, there was a picture of my husband as a young boy with that same expression. And even up to his final weeks, we still caught glimpses of this grin from him. 

When hospice care was being considered several weeks ago, I don’t think any of us expected that we would be saying goodbye so soon. His passing may seem quick to an outside observer, but the truth is that Parkinson’s robbed pieces of him, bit by bit, over several years. He deserved far better in his final days on this earth, but I suppose we can’t choose how our lives will end. 

The past week, we had lots of visitors. He was surrounded by conversation, telling stories as we looked over photos from his life. Maybe he simply didn’t want to miss out on hearing these. Maybe this is why he waited so long to pass. 

My mother-in-law’s devotion to him and the exceptional care she gave him is admirable. Even as Parkinson’s deteriorated his body and mind, her love for him was unconditional and comforting. May we all have a caregiver as wonderful as her in our lives. 

Now we genuinely grieve, partly grateful that he is no longer suffering, partly feeling guilt in the relief that the burden of around-the-clock caregiving has been lifted. But the spaces we held for that time in caregiving must be replaced with other things. 

Now the care for my mother-in-law begins, to help her make this transition to her new normal without her life partner. To fill some of those spaces with peace and joy. To help her focus on caring for herself just a little, as she has spent the majority of her life caring for others. 

I didn’t sleep as well as I expected to last night. I thought peaceful slumber would finally arrive. But my brain is still on alert, waiting for that phone call in the middle of the night that brings change or bad news. Hopefully, the anxiety will be quelled soon, as we close the final chapter in his life.

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It’s been a long week full of emotions, with little sleep, but with no regrets. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

Last words

“Don’t do that!”

These will quite possibly be the last words my father in law will utter. As his caregiver and I changed him after a quite interesting morning, he was clearly not interested in the extreme rolling, wiping, and donning of an adult diaper that we were orchestrating. As we turned him to the other side to complete the task, he whispered again: “Don’t do that.”

Sunday was a whirlwind. As I hit the track at Sports Backers stadium to complete the last mile or so of my 20 mile run, adding on to a planned 18 mile supported route with the team, I received a text from my daughter.

“Can you check on Grandpa after your run? His breathing didn’t seem right.” 

I called to check on things first. Most of my family was going to the annual family reunion in town, and my father in law was in good hands with his caregiver. It was agreed that I would stop by on my way home. 

He seemed ok, but not great. Per the pulse oximeter, his oxygen levels were fine, but his heart rate was elevated. But with his tremors from Parkinson’s, I didn’t trust the device. I asked him if he was hungry, and his facial expression changed for the better. I assumed that meant he was hungry. His caregiver fixed him something to eat, and he gladly accepted it. Satisfied that all was alright for now, I went home to shower and eat, letting his caregiver know that she could call me if she needed me. 

I received a call about 45 minutes later. 

“Miss Anne, something doesn’t seem right. Can you come over?”

I did the best I could to finish what I needed to do and head over there. I took my stethoscope with me. 

I needed my stethoscope to check his apical heart rate. This is what you call it when you check someone’s pulse by directly listening to their heart. It was 124, which is very high. His respirations were over 30, also very high. And he looked at me in desperation, as if he were saying, “Please help me” with his eyes. I’ll never forget his expression. 

We use a faces scale in healthcare for non-verbal patients. On this, I would give his expression a 7 or 8 out of 10. That is not a comfortable place to be. And whether it was just anxiety or pain, either way, we needed help. 

I called my good friend and fellow coach Kelly, who is a hospice nurse, and asked for her feedback. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t overreacting to my observations. She assured me that I wasn’t, and also explained what would likely happen next when I called his hospice team. She was right. Word for word.

As the on call hospice nurse gave me instructions to find the emergency medicine kit, I felt the tears beginning. I never imagined that I would find myself in the position to give my father in law his first doses of morphine and lorazepam. 

I texted my husband to let him know what was going on, as they were on their way home from the reunion. All the family were rerouted to Grandma’s house. 

It was after the first dose that his caregiver and I were blessed with what will likely be his last words. 

By the time everyone was there, I had received a follow up call from the hospice nurse. No, the first dose didn’t completely alleviate his agitation, but it did take the edge off. He was still using all of his accessory muscles to breathe. The doctor was called. The dosage was increased. The meds were given again. And finally, he was comfortable.

It’s interesting how someone chooses who their person will be. I think he wanted me to be the one to make the choice. He didn’t want my mother in law or my husband to be burdened with this task, this decision to start the morphine. 

It’s a bit of an awkward place to be both a healthcare provider and a family member. Professional me is fighting to stay objective to avoid the grief. Sometimes you know too much about all the things. And sometimes you feel like you don’t know enough. And at this point, my skills as a physical therapist are not exactly needed. But part of the art of healthcare is in helping family members understand what is happening and how to bring comfort. I’ve had lots of practice with this, too. 

Now, nearly a week out from Sunday’s chaos, I’m having second guesses as to whether I did the right thing. Everyone was on the way. They could have seen him with his eyes open and talked to him before the morphine robbed him of his conciousness. But then again, I don’t know if they wanted to see the expression I saw. 

At some point, this will all hit me as a daughter in law, and I will have to decompress. I find myself pretty irritable when running errands. I nearly lost it when the card reader at the grocery store wouldn’t read my chip the other day. But I must give myself some grace. It’s funny how much something so small can be the straw that breaks it. 

My father in law holding my first born.

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We now have daily visits from a hospice nurse. 

Grief is a strange experience, indeed. In many ways, this process began at the beginning of his symptoms. We are now choosing photos for his funeral and making arrangements. 

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.

Transitioning

It’s a fancy word for dying. Why is it that we must make up elaborate words to describe horrible things in life? This is how I feel about this word: transitioning. 

My father in law has been in hospice care, in his home, for several weeks now. As Parkinson’s makes its last ditch efforts to slowly and painfully chip away at whatever life he may have left, we continue to hope that there are moments of peace for him. 

As his brain deteriorates further, we see the emergence of new symptoms that I have never observed with ordinary Parkinson’s. Things I would normally see in someone with other neurodegenerative diseases. He is now holding his left arm in a flexor synergy pattern, his left leg in an extensor synergy pattern. This is how people with severe strokes and end stage Alzheimers are postured. Many of my patients on the memory care unit when I worked in long term care looked like this. 

The extensor tone is extremely problematic. It makes him hold his leg at least a foot off the floor while sitting in a chair. And while this has been an issue for a while, the past couple of weeks have seen this spread to his hip and his trunk. If you put that all together, you can imagine that it’s nearly impossible for him to sit in a chair. He simply, uncontrollably, pushes his way out. There are medications that can help with this, but they also make him very sleepy. He sleeps most of the time anyway, so this side effect may not even be really noticeable. 

So this week, the hospice nurse decided that it was time for him to start staying in bed. The title of transitioning was applied to this stage of this game. After 2 instances of lowering him to the floor and one dependent lift into a chair in one week, I have to concur with this decision. We’ve noticed that he has a bit more energy to interact with visitors now, and that’s a good thing. And, yes, friends have heard the news, and they are stopping by to visit while they can.  

His appetite, once voracious, is waning. My mother in law is trying her best to keep him fed and hydrated, trying foods she thinks he will like and are easy to eat. Per her request, we brought him a vanilla milkshake last weekend. He didn’t eat a lot of it, but after a few sips, he made this really awful face. Clearly, he was having a brain freeze! Poor guy. But his loss of interest in food is another sign that his life is winding down. 

Who knows how much time we have left with him. But is it really him anymore? I don’t know. I just don’t want him to suffer. 

Is it better to know that your loved one is dying, that death is imminent? Or is it better to lose someone suddenly? They are both pretty terrible. 

This past weekend, we said goodbye to our neighbor and dear family friend. He had been under hospice care after a long battle with cancer, but his death was still rather sudden and unexpected. He didn’t go through that “transitioning” phase. 

His memorial service was held in a Baptist church. This evoked lots of strange emotions for me, from becoming unexpectedly sentimental over old hymns that are also among my father’s favorites to feeling uncomfortable and a bit at odds with my former life as a Christian, it was a bit overwhelming. It’s been several years since I have set foot in a house of worship. It also hit me that this was sort of a dress rehearsal for my own family’s pending loss, and it made my heart heavy. 

My time in the “sandwich generation” is beginning to come to  a close. The loss of a collective parent is just a start. Which means that I will soon become the other side of the sandwich, and not the middle. And I’m not so sure how I feel about that.

We were talking to another former neighbor’s son at the luncheon after the memorial service. He’s beginning his life with his fiance. I remember him when he was a little boy! So crazy to see that he’s a full fledged adult now. We talked about how young he still looks. I’ve always appeared younger than I am, so I can relate. But I assured him that even at 48, I still look for an older grown-up in the room and feel grateful and a little relieved that a “real” adult is there. 

It’s breaking my heart that my grown-ups are now leaving. Pretty soon, I will be that grown-up that the younger grown-ups look to to feel safe. This leaves me feeling anxious, bewildered, and a little bit lost. How did I get to this phase in life? It doesn’t seem real.

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After writing this post, my father in law took a turn for the worse. He is now receiving around the clock pain medications. We are truly ushering him into the next world, as comfortably as we can.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy. 

Back to the 1950’s?

“All Longwood girls are loose and stupid!” my professor exclaimed on our first day of class. Did he know I was a Longwood girl? Surely not. And although my personal sex life was none of his business, I did make it my business to prove to him that I was, in fact, pretty smart. I didn’t have to wait too long to get my chance. 

That was the summer I took a class at the community college in Hampton closest to my parent’s home. It was Western Civilization, a notoriously challenging, weed-out class at Longwood. I had my heart set on graduating early, and knocking this out over a summer was key. 

A multiple choice question on a quiz provided my first opportunity to debate this crusty, old, set in his 1950’s ways, washed up man. There was simply nothing endearing about him. But I made him throw out the question: Which came first when establishing civilization? Among the multiple choice answers: language. I can’t remember what the others were. I think cities was another choice. I chose language, which he marked as wrong. I debated:

“We can’t have civilization without some form of language! I don’t care if it’s hand gestures or grunting, there has to be some way of communicating with others in order to get organized,” I told him. “I meant written language!” he replied. “Well, you didn’t specify. You just said language,” I retorted. The rest of the class applauded my success in this debate. Our professor was less than pleased.

Here was my second opportunity:

“America is the only Western nation that isn’t imperialistic,” he began during one lecture. Up my hand went. 

“Um… excuse me. How exactly did America acquire these 50 states? And what about Puerto Rico and the Philippines? How can you say that we aren’t imperialistic? We colonized and stole all of this land” And thus, I proved my point. He huffed about that argument, too. 

I guess I should have warned him that my dad was a history major, and I was well versed in real world and American history.

About Colonization and Slavery

Colonization. That’s a point to reconcile for me, as my family can be traced back to my ancestors who settled in Richmond in 1610. Yes, I am a descendent of original colonizers. And with that comes the knowledge that they stole land from Native Americans, and, eventually, owned slaves. Ugh. That’s an ugly past. 

I can go with, “Well, that’s just the way things were,” much like whites who lived in the South deal with their feelings of guilt about living in the time of Jim Crow laws. The 1950’s. But that certainly doesn’t make me feel any better about it. 

The more real knowledge of history I gain, the more I realize how awful our past truly is. A part that I didn’t think about was how trafficking humans not only robs them of their dignity, but of their identities as well. 

I recently wrote an article for my local run club’s magazine about inclusion in the Richmond running community. As a part of my research for the article, I had a conversation with Max Plank, the marketing director for the Djimon Hounsou Foundation, who recently held their inaugural Run Richmond 16.19 race here in Richmond. The course was a historically significant one, as it closely followed slave trails established at the height of the slave trade, as Richmond was a major hub. One of the purposes of this race was to help Americans of African descent to reestablish their identities. Max explained that stripping people of their identities is a major construct in exerting power over them. I had never considered that aspect before. 

About Belonging

We made Africans assimilate to our culture. We make all immigrants assimilate to our culture in America. Our language. Our value of material things. Our rugged individualism. Our work ethic. Our capitalistic society. Our version of religions. So, of course, a common issue is feeling detached from origins. Thus, you never feel you belong, living in the in between of your native culture and the American one that seems to exclude you, both in subtle and overt ways. 

Michelle Obama made a poignant statement in her book Becoming about fitting in during her years at Princeton: 

“It’s hard to put into words what sometimes you pick up in the ether, the quiet, cruel nuances of not belonging—the subtle cues that tell you to not risk anything, to find your people and just stay put.”

Beautifully stated. A feeling I can appreciate, but can never fully understand. 

What do we do now?

I’m left with the feeling that I need to help make things better. After all, our society is only as great as our most marginalized members. And the more we fight to make systemic changes in favor of equality and fairness, the more pushback we are getting from those who think they are losing their pieces of pie. They don’t understand the concept of fairness at all. 

It’s both sad and hilarious to witness the online temper tantrums. To watch grown white men get upset because a talented Black woman had the opportunity to play a glass flute of one of our Founding Fathers, who happened to be a slave owner? Sigh. I thought it was historically significant and amazing. To get their panties in a wad over a Black Little Mermaid? Wow. They miss the importance of representation. They miss the fact that the actor who plays her is super talented. 

I know this is bigger than one movie or one amazing musical performance. But it also transcends to other marginalized members of our society. Sometimes I think there are two parallel universes in existence: all the normal, sensible people with really decent morals who stand up for others, carrying on as usual, and the minority who are fiercely holding on to the 1950’s with all of its misogyny, bigotry, and hate. It wasn’t a simpler time. It was simply a time where all of this discrimination was accepted. Well, I don’t want to go back. You shouldn’t, either. I’m ready to move forward, creating an America that really fights for liberty and justice for all. 

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One of the best ways to fight back is to vote, and we have a very important election coming up in November in America.

As always, I hope you all are safe and healthy.