Tuesday 16 April 2013

God and the MRI

As a child, I spent considerable time pondering the existence of God. We didn't talk about God at home. I knew that my parents went to the Church of England regularly until they married, and immigrated to Canada. That's all I remember. It was a non-topic at home. So from about the age of seven, I thought I ought to do my own research.

I went to Catholic church with my best friend Carie. I remember sitting in Sunday school, desperately hoping that I wouldn't be called upon to read. The words were unfamiliar and stuck in my throat. I felt inexplicable shame as the children went up to receive bread, while I remained conspicuously in the pew. I also felt some fear of what I didn't understand. What did the bread have to do with the body of Christ? I felt my heart quicken if I let my eyes rest on the man hanging from the cross. My only sense was that I should somehow be apologizing for being bad, but I didn't know how.

I took care of two ponies when I was young, Dusty and Pokey. Their names suited them. As a Shetland/Welsh mix, they were as tall as they were wide. They were so lazy that they wouldn't flinch when I would leap frog from a box to jump on. I spent hours lying on their backs staring at the sky as they grazed. In my young mind, I imagined myself as a great show jumper, and set up a jumps course for these ponies. I shortened the western stirrups to mimic the English riders, and thought my will was stronger than that of my ponies. Dusty was the tallest, and hence my prize jumper. I'm not sure that we made it around my jumps course even once over an entire summer. He teased me into thinking he would jump by cantering toward my homemade log jump, then would throw on the brakes to toss me over his neck. He would look right into my watering eyes, as I got off the ground determined not to let him see my pain. Eventually, he took to grabbing the bit in his teeth and bolting, leaving me to hold on to his mane for dear life. This is where I get back to God. My make-shift jumping ring was across the street from Twyla's house. I knew this family was different from mine, but I wasn't sure quite how. The kids didn't go to school. The girls aways wore long skirts, and a little bonnet. Twyla and I somehow became friends of sorts. She would sit on the fence as I fought with my ponies, and she helped me brush them sometimes. I can't remember how it happened, but I managed to invite myself to their church. Once. In my vague recollection, I remember a church leader on stage calling out questions to the congregation. They got more and more excited as their leader inspired them to respond louder and louder to his calls. Peoples hands were in the air, many had their eyes closed, then as the fervour peaked, a woman was lifted up to the stage with the leader. She looked as though she had epilepsy. She shook, and drooled, and called out gibberish words. The whole congregation cheered for her. I held my friend's hand as she pushed toward the stage, terrified to be left alone. I spoke into Twyla's ear over the noise of the crowd to ask what was happening. I learned the woman was speaking the word of God. Speaking in tongues.

Not having found a church to ease my confusion over God, I began to speak to him myself. I began making deals. They started with sacrifice. "If I don't eat desert for 3 nights, You need to show yourself to me." The deals escalated. I can't remember how long this process took, but it peaked with me doing the scariest thing I could possibly imagine. My end of the deal was to jump out my bedroom window once it was dark, and walk all the way to the cemetery, a mile from my house. I began by touching the first post at the edge of the cemetery, and worked my way up to walking through the centre, where there was a little path between decorative bushes. Most of the time I would walk as quietly as possible, listening for danger. When I got spooked I would sprint for a moment, but then knew I hadn't kept up my end of the deal. I don't really remember how it petered out, just that I stopped making deals once my journey to the cemetery was unsuccessful.

These quirky childhood memories came flooding back this week, as I joked with my physio that I was starting to make deals with the Powers that Be. I would sacrifice all forms of racing, if only the Powers that Be would allow me to run pain-free in the trails, and join in fun family sports. I joked with the physio, but it wasn't far from the truth. Feeling very short of sleep from knee pain at night, desperately missing my 'life' of running and sport, I was ready to make deals.

In that same visit, my physio was giving me permission to run, bike, jump...anything that would inflame the knee so that the cause of the injury would be more obvious by MRI. He concurred with the surgeon. They think they know what's going on in there, but want to see it. That was last Thursday. I had a mix of excitement, thinking of what activity I would do to bash the knees, and also a fear of more sleepless nights and daily distraction with knee pain. The weekend rolled on, and I got more and more nervous about it. What if I was halfway around Kal Park, and couldn't make it back? What if I bashed them up, and they still couldn't see any injury to the tissues? As it turns out, I spent the weekend taking care of a sick little girl. She couldn't go to school on Monday, so my planned run session disappeared. Then I got sick too. Just a rotten cold, but the excitement to run had passed. Further to that, my knees had been feeling so much better over the weekend, after the physio had taped them up, that I felt I was making progress! Tuesday morning came, and I knew that I was supposed to have really sore knees by now, but I didn't. A background issue was needing to get a car to the airport for my family, as I wouldn't be able to pick them up late at night. The solution was to drive down, and ride my bike home, hopefully hammering a couple of hills to bash up the knees.

The plan was set. I pulled out my bike, and pumped up tires for the first time in 6 months. It took me much longer than I hoped to find clothing, a patch kit, bike shoes, helmet, gloves. It was like the first day of ski season, feeling like a beginner again. I took two more daytime Tylenol cold capsules, hoping my head wouldn't explode. I drove down to the airport, feeling like I was doing something really stupid, but was already committed. I parked next to the letter G, tucked the key under the wheel, and rolled away on my bike.


Easing in, I felt a little nervous next to the traffic. I thought the roads would be quieter mid-day. Within a few minutes I settled in and felt surprisingly good on the bike. I was spinning nicely, breathing fine, and moving forward. All good. I was trying not to over-analyze the knee comfort, and just ride for a bit. It was a stunning day. The sun was brilliant, and spring was clearly present on the hills around me. And that's it. Nothing happened. My knees didn't hurt more than twinges, I loved the ride, took photos of the incredible vistas, made it home, picked up my daughter to drop her with friends, so that I could drive to Kamloops for the MRI. Feeling like a big fraud. I hate to waste people's time and money. I hesitated all along for this MRI, but was encouraged by sport med doctor, the surgeon, the physio, all explaining that we needed to make sure that there wasn't an obvious reason that I wasn't seeing the progress that we all expected. Well it's done, and tomorrow I will just continue on with rehab exercises, hoping it will all be old news in a few months, and occasionally making a deal with the Powers that Be.
If you ride a little slower, you see amazing things. Check out this tree house!

I've ridden these routes a thousand times, but it was all new today.



Waiting, feeling like a fraud.

My two favourite things....small spaces, and being still.

Sunday 10 March 2013

Flow in the water

I've been waiting for this all winter; that moment where your focus narrows, you feel immersed in the moment, you feel flow in your movement, and a feeling of joy and confidence swells in your heart. I can be assured of that feeling of flow when my feet are pounding down a trail, or I'm standing on my pedals climbing switchbacks to a summit. I can't say that I've ever had that experience following a black line in a 25m pool...until today.

My friends know that I only swim so that I can get to T1. Sure, the lake is inviting in the summer, and I love the accomplishment of swimming to 'that dock' with the turn-around flag. Otherwise, the joys of swimming generally allude me. I have even cut out of a swim session early to get a jump start on my taxes.

Lately I've spent a whole lot more time in the pool. I have committed to staying off my feet to kick the inflammation in my knee. That means no running, hiking, biking, snowshoeing, skiing...or anything remotely fun! Sooooo, more pool time.

I got to the Vernon pool deck with my goal in mind. 400, 500, 600, 700, 800m alternating swim and pull/paddles. I've been swimming that exact same workout four days a week, no details, no pace clock, no negotiating. I perused the lanes, looking for consistent swimmers, avoiding the man with flippers doing some sort of adapted back stroke, and avoiding the whipper snapper with her swim club cap banging out 200s of IM. I hopped in with two men who looked pretty steady, and near my pace. I just wanted to get into my groove and complete my ritual without too much passing and dodging. Well it turns out that these two very agreeable fellows lacked a little in pool etiquette. They stood at the wall to chat and their large bellies almost touched at the black line, leaving little room to flip. The older one seemed to wait until the moment I turned, to push off the wall in front of me, leaving me to wait for a chance to pass. That's when things changed. Instead of my cruisey pace, I had to pick it up to beat the on-coming swimmer. Spurred on by a little irritation I kept up the stronger pace, and began to flip faster, reach further, push harder, breath more frequently. I felt the intensity rise. When I got to the wall, I saw men's bellies part as they made way for me. They scooted off to the side when they felt the water move on their feet. I felt that focus, that flow, being in the moment....hold on now.....joy? confidence? ME? IN THE WATER? YES, that was me. Feeling JOY in the water! When I stopped at the wall between the last two sets, the guys were getting out and one said "Wow, you're some swimmer." Usually I would have said something self-depricating, knowing that I'm mediocre at best, lining up next to triathletes and swimmers. Today I just said "Thanks! Have a great day!" and went on to finish the session feeling like "some swimmer".