"rookie" -- marathon no. 1 -- october 21, 2001

after I stopped competing collegiately, I knew it would only be some time until I tried my hand at the marathon distance. I really can't recall why I decided to run my first. maybe it was because I was about to turn 21. maybe it was because I was bored with racing piddly races. maybe it was just to say I had finally done 26.2?

regardless, I do remember scouring runnersworld.com for a beginner marathon plan. and I do remember putting in some serious miles for it (some with my then-bf russ, an AMAZING athlete). but truly, that's all I can remember. until race day. I actually don't even remember the start line. was there bag check? no clue. what was our plan? no clue. I do, however, recall approaching mile seven...and we were cruising! were we going too fast? no clue.

russ and I separated somewhere around mile 15. he was feeling strong so I sent him off. no worries. I was fine. until mile 18.

oh, mile 18. this is when it donned on me that maybe I should have the chocolate Gu I brought along. I hadn't thought to take in any calories (other than gatorade) until mile 18? I know, absurd.

I remember "climbing" the one hill that the Columbus marathon is known for...and then bonking, badly. I took the Gu in an effort to revive myself. and while it give me a bit of energy, my fatigued stomach hated it. no, I didn't throw up...I'm not that kind. I just kept going...in total misery. I hit mile 21 and met a guy who was super chatty...he exclaimed (yes, exclaimed) that this was his 2nd marathon that month. I couldn't believe anyone would do such a thing! (yeah, umm, I've never done that before..."snicker"). he bid me farewell and I keep plugging on.

I was hell bent on not walking. and I never did...until I crossed that beautiful finish line. my time-3:24:37-meant nothing to me. BQ time? what was that??? oh, how naive.

the most significant part about that day--other than finishing--was a few hours later. nauseous, sore and unsure what to do with my destroyed body, I was laying on the floor my apartment just "being." I hadn't seen my bf after. neither of us had a plan as to how we were getting home, so we had each hitched rides back with random friends who had been spectating. he called me once he was home and showered, "that completely sucked," he said. I replied, "I know." I think I also added that I was never, ever doing it again. (hah!) tell that to the girl that sits here typing this.

so there you have it. marathon no. 1. columbus, oh. october 21, 2001. 3:24:47. 18 more recaps to come.

missing in action: my mom

 mom + me: a trio framed in my bedroom

for regular readers of my blog, you know my posts often address subjects and situations that have shaped me into the individual I am today. alas, here comes another. put your seat belts on, folks.

I recently (yesterday) visited a new psychiatrist to try and work out my panic attack med situation. she was almost everything I hoped for...sweet, interested, caring...thoughtful (with a really heavy polish accent). regardless, I left her office feeling a bit hopeful. no, she didn't tell me I was ready to abolish all meds from my daily routine, but we had decided on a new course, one I couldn't help but think might work.

my point. she asked me a zillion questions (being new to me and my situation). I had dreaded the appointment knowing that I would have to give up all the little details of my so-called screwed-up childhood and early 20's. once I started relaying this info, no problem.

I related all the key facts: my father's history with panic attacks, my two trips to the ER due to my then undiagnosed condition...and, oh yeah...my mother's "disappearance" from my life at age...um, I believe 14. when I told her this, she stopped dead, "I have never heard of such thing" (read in a polish accent). yes, smack dab in my teens, my mom took off.

I suppose she had reason. when my parents separated (after 19-odd years of marriage), my sister, brother and I decided to go live with my dad because, well frankly, he fed us. my mom was going through an EXTREMELY rough time and simply forgot to take care of us. no biggie...we shuttled off to live with my dad where we got to eat chinese take-out several times a week, sleep in one room like a big slumber party and generally live life like rockstars.

the courts eventually got involved. we were all supposed to testify about our intentions to live with our father, but somehow they spared us. in any case, my mom was PISSED! we had betrayed her. we were her children. we didn't want to live with her? no, actually we didn't.

after the courts granted my father custody, my mother grew increasingly distant. she wouldn't tell us where she was living nor provide a phone number. I didn't mind at the time. I was making my way in the social maze that was high school, so whatever, right? plus, I had my older sister. she was a better mom than I could ever imagine at that point.

at some point (I can't remember when), my mom disappeared off the radar...pouffff! she was gone. I hate to say it, but many years passed by and I just wondered, "I hope she's okay. I hope she's still alive." that sounds terrible, I know, but she had vanished from my life as well...she was...gone.

I grew up. 5 feet. 5 feet 10 inches. high school graduation. NYC move #1. college graduation #1. 1st marathon. college graduation #2. biggest heartbreak #1. NYC move #2. grad school. biggest heartbreak #2. marathons #15, 16. ironman florida FINISHER! true love...found. MA graduate (degree #3). marathon #17 (PR). ultra-marathoner. success...

many people have asked me about my mom in the last 15 or so years. it's a "weird" subject for most inquirers, but for me, it's simply life. I can say with certainty that it's not a sore subject; I don't recoil when someone says, "so, how about your mom?' it simply is.

close to two years ago my brother went on a serious search for my mother (he was the closest with her and his search was definitely a sign of this). he hired a PI and went about locating her. slowly he was able to piece together her path since she left us: cincinnati to becoming a buddhist monk (my jewish mother, mind you) to shaving her head to getting remarried in colorado to...texas...somewhere.

it took the PI some time to locate her within in the great state, but eventually he provided my brother with an address. ezra (my brother) called me shortly thereafter. he wanted me to go with him and his wife. I desperately wanted to, but at that time I was entrenched in grad school, work and coaching a group with Team In Training (and scheduled to go to the next marathon to support them). I couldn't let down the individuals that were counting on me. so I declined.

he called me immediately after ringing my mother's doorbell and spending the next hour with her. one of the first things he said was that she looked good. and that her "new" husband was very sweet. and that her beautiful curly hair that we all had inherited had gone straight. and gray. whoa. really?

he relayed other info, but it's too detailed to enumerate here. I did, however, ask if she was well, truly well. my brother indicated as such, although with some reservation (my mother has always been a bit off...she certainly gave him the sense that she was not altogether well).

the visit affected him for sure...he was, after all, her "golden child"...think what you may of that. he was hesitant to provide the phone number she gave him. I prodded him for sometime but gave up eventually (sorry, but my brother can be a selfish bastard at times).

so, here I am...15 years later and mother-less...but as my new psychiatrist said to me yesterday, "my dear, you have done so very well for yourself. be proud."

yes, I am proud, dammit. I have overcome SO much adversity, yet I don't let it define me. I am just a girl in the city working, running, training for her second ironman, overcoming a mental disease and kicking ass.

I truly hope I am able to reunite with my mom sooner than later. I'm excited, actually. we have so much to catch up on...and so many hugs to give...and receive.

here's to hoping whatever is right works out as such.

I love you mom. xox

i swam. i biked. i ran.

I was cleaning out some files at work this AM and came across the post I wrote about IMFL for NikeRunning.com. figured it would be fun to share it here as I'm once again relearning these top 10 things. hint: click on the image to view it a fairly readable state.

((((panic)))). a wild ride.

when I was growing up, my dad would sometimes seize up with panic. frozen with fear, he would hyperventilate, become non-communicative and pretty much scare the shit out of my sister, brother and I. eventually he sought medical help for what would be later diagnosed as "generalized panic disorder" and today, while still taking meds for it, he has it mostly under control.

while I witnessed my father's panic attacks, I never truly understood why he couldn't just take a deep breath and relax...until the summer of 2006. I had just moved back to NYC and was under extreme pressure: a new job with a heavy workload, the beginning of grad school and a "new" city where all my old friends had left.

"it" hit on the fourth of july. I went to coney island to witness the infamous hotdog eating contest. it was blazing hot. and crowded. and loud. jammed between a mass of people, I freaked. I sent the friend I was with a text and made my way to the less crowded boardwalk. a million thoughts pummeled me. was I dehydrated? did I have low blood sugar? was I just under the weather? I had no clue, but I knew I wasn't well. my friend came to find me shortly after and tried to get me to eat. I couldn't. shaking, I was certain I was going to throw up. maybe I was just getting sick...

I decided to pull the plug and head home to the UWS to get out of the sun. I didn't have a couch yet for my apartment (and at the time, a pain in the ass loft bed), so I curled up on the hardwood floor with a pillow. I flipped on the tele to distract me...hours later, I had yet to move...and felt worse. but not sick worse, just simply freaked out. I remember watching the NYC fireworks on TV and weeping, thinking 'what is wrong with me?'

I didn't any feel better the next day. when I was still in a tizzy the following day, I decided to go see an urgent care doc. he took my blood oxygen and flipped out; he was certain I had a pulmonary embolism (blood clot in my lung) and called 911. in an ambulance I went...now also REALLY freaked out that there was something seriously wrong with me. yet after blood tests, MRIs, chest xrays...the whole nine yards, the only thing the could determine was that my iron was a bit low. brilliant. I was discharged seven hours later and went home to my apartment, feeling no better than when I left nine hours before.

over the next few days, I continued to feel worse...short of breath, heart pounding, body shaking. I couldn't eat. I couldn't sleep. the only thing I did was go to work and hope I could endure the day.

on july 11th, a week after the initial symptoms, I couldn't take it anymore...I hauled myself into a cab to another ER. something was wrong with me. it had to be. hours later...the same news...nothing wrong. this couldn't be. I remember sitting in my apartment that night sobbing and wishing that someone would help me.

it turns out, I helped myself. the next morning on the way to work I realized what was wrong: I was having constant panic attacks. duh. my sister had struggled with it for years and obviously, so had my dad. I immediately got on the phone with my insurance and picked the first doc with availability.

I wasn't cured instantaneously and I'm still not "cured."in the summer of 2008—after two years of being on meds—I decided that maybe I'd have a go without them. I was fine for two months, then WHAM! the panic hit me like a truck (right in the middle of my training for Ironman #1). so back on the meds I went. I also switched from Effexor to Lexapro at one point...the withdrawl from Effexor was like nothing I've ever experienced...absolutely HORRIBLE.

now nearly four years since my first being diagnosed with the same affliction as my father, I am struggling once again. I haven't stopped taking any of my meds, but the panic attacks are creeping back...ALL the time. up the meds? change again? add something? maybe, but to be honest, I'm SOOOO tired of all of it. the panic, the side effects, the cost, the slave I am to daily (sometimes twice daily) little white and yellow pills. I'm 29 years old, not 89!

I don't have a plan of action to tackle this yet. my bf understands which is nice. and I do have the name of a new doc (my present one is just old...smart, yet wayyyyy overdue for retirement). I guess my first step was to write about it...just talk to myself in the way I know best: through word. and then take action. and as we all know—myself included—I'll find a solution no matter how pretty or ugly the path is.

so here goes...

eleven things. the best pre-IM advice.

I had the above printout posted by my desk for the many months leading up to my first ironman. it stayed there well after my race (actually, until they moved me last week...over a year after my ironman). it's pretty much the best "advice" anyone gave me before IMFL (passed along by a teammate...I can't recall where he got it). I've re-posted it by my new desk, but wanted to share it with everyone.

missing: motivation.

I can't deny it any longer: I'm REALLY having difficulty drawing much enthusiasm for my Ironman training.

I feel kind of sacrilegious writing that, but it's true; my motivation is lacking. I checked my Coeur d'Alene countdown on Facebook yesterday. it nearly made me cry. yes, I'm putting in the workouts. yes, I don't "super suck" at any of three disciplines (not that I excel at all of them). yes, I'm moving myself from the road to the trainer to the pool...but it's just not there this time around...the excitement.

I can pinpoint several things that are making it difficult during this go:

1. it's winter.
2. I hate the bloody trainer.
3. I have yet to have a single ride that has felt even remotely good.
4. have I mentioned I hate the bike?
5. I'm doing nearly all my training by myself.
6. I'm tired. I feel like my body hasn't fully recovered from my 3rd meeting with mono nor the b12 deficiency.
7. I just want to be running...fast.

blah, blah, blah...right? I wish I could just tell myself to suck it up...but I haven't found that meanie within me just yet.

right about now you might be wondering why in the world I signed up for IM #2. yeah, I am too. I guess I wanted to try my hand at the distance when I wasn't in grad school, working full-time and juggling a long distance relationship (that was a juggle). so I took the crazy leap (again) and paid my $576 to active.com last June. reality hit in December when the training plans started rolling into my inbox. 'shit, I've got train for this thing again!'

I know I won't regret my decision to go another 140.6 when I cross that absolutely wonderful finish line come June 27th, but on February 8th, I'm struggling. So, for now...come on motivation—I'm missing you madly!

to settle: a dirty verb. or my best friend?

a couple words in the english language make me shudder with fright: average, normal, boring, milky and moist, among many others. none, however, scare me more than a seemingly innocent verb: to settle.

I've been thinking about this word a lot lately, perhaps because I feel as though I'm in a bit of transition period in life. while certain things are very solid, others are in a bit of flux. naturally, my always racing thoughts send me down memory lane.

in reality, there's no reason to fear "settling." I never have. my freshman year of college—despite kicking ass on my cc team—I chose to transfer because the school wasn't right academically. I didn't settle.

after returning to ohio to complete a second undergrad degree, I built myself a bit of resume by working at a couple good companies, but I had to get back to NYC to get my MA at a school I always wanted to attend: NYU. so I found myself a job, got myself into grad school and moved back. I didn't settle.

one of the hardest decisions in my life came when I was faced with a question that should often brings extreme joy rather than extreme confusion: will you marry me? I took a year to answer and ultimately gave back the MOST beautiful diamond ring to a man I knew I just wasn't in love with anymore. I didn't settle.

I didn't settle when I hated (yes, hated) the job I took during my first year back in NYC; I got a new one. I didn't settle after needing to walk nine miles of the 2007 Chicago "heat wave" marathon because of a stomach infection and mono (didn't know I had the latter until post-race); I came back three weeks later to finish another hour faster in the NYC marathon.

And I'm not settling now as make another change in my career; whatever comes next is sure to be a great next step.

thus, I think I can stop fearing "to settle" and see it as a friend. I wouldn't be where I am today without it.