From Swimming to Running: An Evolution of Movement

I believe my first foray into the sports world was softball in 2nd grade. I played softball for several seasons and liked it okay. I played soccer also. I was the only girl on an all-boy team and I had a blast. I was a defender and good at what I did. But my real passion (almost from the beginning) was swimming.

One benefit to my mom telling the same stories over and over again is that they are burned into my memory--like my brain has been branded in several spots. She tells me that the first time I took swim lessons, I didn't get into the pool until the last week of the session. "She would have done great," the instructor told her, "if she would have gotten into the water." My love of all things swimming blossomed from there.

I swam on a team for the first time when we lived in Streamwood. I was a Stingray. We had practice Monday through Friday, every week during the summer. The meets were in exotic locations like St. Charles, Oswego and Elgin. I was amazed by the older kids, the ones who were in high school. Some took me under their wing, which was helpful because swim meets can be intimidating places. I missed a few races because I wasn't paying attention. I got disqualified my first time swimming breaststroke because I didn't touch the wall with both hands at the same time. (I didn't make that mistake ever again.)

I didn't swim year-round. That would have required a huge time commitment on the part of my parents and I was busy enough with school work. But every summer, I was so excited to start swim practice. I am not a morning person. I would prefer that morning start at noon, honestly. I really only get up when I do now because of my kids. Swim practice was early in the morning, though, and I was there. I lived some summers for the occasional rain day. This meant I could sleep in. Conference meets were like parties. You were there all day, hung out with your friends, goofed around and occasionally swam a race.

I got pretty good at breaststroke and swam in a relay for a few summers. Jill Bastian and Erica Hillenbrandt (sic) swam with me--I can't remember the fourth girl. I met interesting people, I took part in crazy traditions (I was told that you should bite off a corner of your swim card before the race) and I generally had a good time. In middle school, I still swam, but I tried volleyball and enjoyed it--except for the running.

There was something magical about me being in the water. I felt like the awkwardness and clumsiness that plagued me on land (two broken arms, a foot and a finger) melted away when I dove into the water. I was graceful. I sweated, for sure, but it was easier to sweat when I was immersed in the water. So when I started playing volleyball, I was disappointed to find out that running was involved. I wanted nothing to do with running. When I ran, my lungs burned, sweat ran into my eyes (I've always sweated like a man, always), my legs screamed at me and I just didn't feel good about it. I was not quiet about my disdain for running either. I yelled at a coach in high school while trying out for volleyball because I didn't want to run anymore. I loathed it.

I swam all through high school. I never won a lot, but I enjoyed swimming because I was always swimming against myself. I could beat my previous times. I didn't have to worry about first or second place if I was bringing in a PR.

As high school ended, so did my swimming career. I ultimately was smarter than I was physically gifted and that suited me just fine. I went off to college with a continued love for swimming, but what I discovered was that it was a time-consuming hobby. I know that some people may disagree with me, but it's tougher to fit in a 60-minute swim than a 60-minute run. There is more equipment involved. You can't just swim on the road in your neighborhood. So I fell out of the habit of swimming and didn't replace it with anything else. In my mind, all other forms of exercise were inferior.

About five years later, I started walking for 30 minutes every day. Rain or shine, I walked. I didn't speed walk, but I tried to keep it brisk. I was still smoking at the time (that's the subject for another blog entry) and overweight, so this was the most I could do. It was a manageable amount of time, it didn't have a high production/logistic value and I enjoyed it.

No one was more surprised than I when I decided to use a program called "Couch Potato to 5K." For years, I had said I hated running. I loathed everything about it. The problem was, I had reached a plateau with walking. I wasn't seeing results anymore on the scale and I wasn't as winded as I had been in the beginning. I could have increased the time, but I figured I could increase intensity and keep it at a manageable time.

I wish I could say it was love at first sight, but my passion for running came in fits and starts. I initially ran on a treadmill. I am a control freak to the max and I wanted to know how many calories I was burning, how far I was going, how long I had been running, etc. I found out the hard way, though, that running on a treadmill or indoors in general has shortcomings.

On March 17, 2003, after 7 years of smoking, I was done. In honor of that achievement, I decided to train for the North Shore Half Marathon. I should mention that I know little to nothing about geography or topography. I picked this half marathon because it was at the right time--12 weeks from March 17. I was following a Hal Higdon training regimen and it all fit. I literally just pulled it out of a hat. I trained hard for the race, but I was still afraid to run outside. The few times I ran outside, I had been bombarded by wind and couldn't go nearly as far or as fast as I could at the gym. Being young and egotistical, I wanted to see good numbers.

What no one mentioned to me was that Highland Park, the setting for the North Shore Half Marathon, was built on a ravine. It is a beautiful course and there's some great scenery. However, if you have only trained on flat surfaces, look out. There is very little of the course that is flat. Mostly, it's ridiculously steep hills. My friend Julie ran part of the race with me. There is a section of the race where you are running almost straight downhill. All you can see at the bottom of the hill is Lake Michigan; calm and serene. It's a stark contrast to my heart pounding in my ears and my legs trying to tell me to stop, lie down and go to sleep.

The real heartbreak, though, is hidden. At the bottom of the hill, you turn left to continue the course. I looked up to see what appeared to be Mount Everest. I felt like, if Steven Spielberg were directing a movie about it, he would have shown the reaction on my face first. That told the story. My shoulders slouched as I tried to see the top of the hill; it is also hidden. I didn't know how I was going to make it. Julie, who hadn't been running, was ridiculously upbeat, jumping up and down on her fresh legs. I wanted to punch her. I had to walk up that hill, but even that was no small feat.

Mercifully, the last few miles are relatively flat and lead into a finish around a track. I was never so glad to see my family and sit down. I missed two days of work because I simply couldn't walk. It was some of the worst pain ever, but that's when I discovered the true joy of running. I felt awful. My body ached and everything felt tender. Underneath that, though, was a feeling I had never experienced before. I had trained my body to do something my mind had always told me I couldn't do. I felt like I imagine babies do when they finally start walking. It's something akin to finding out that the boy you have a crush on likes you. It's driving in the car on a summer day, windows down, eyes closed and feeling the warmth of the sun on your eyelids. Once I realized how I could tap into that feeling on a regular basis, the sky was the limit.

I floundered after that race. I didn't know how to structure my running if I wasn't training for a race. It was kind of a frustrating summer because I didn't know what to do with myself. I spent the next several months trying to find a rhythm to it, but it's tough to do. Even now, years after my first major race, I struggle to find that ideal structure.

I am happy to report that I ran that same half-marathon a year later and shaved 21 minutes off my time; no small feat. It was also that year, 2004, that I tackled the marathon. I picked the Chicago marathon because it was close to home and (thankfully) was a flat course. Whatever elation I felt in completing the half-marathon quadrupled for the marathon. I loved all of the support I received on the course, the cheering throngs of people, seeing my friends and family at different points on the course and getting to see some world-class athletes.

I belong now to a community of people. I love to talk about running. I was so proud when I lost my first toenail and sustained other common running injuries. I started running again five months ago, with another Couch Potato to 5K program, and it's been great to rejoin the community. I love my running peeps because there's no judgement. Some may run faster, some slower, but I've never felt ostracized because of my running time. Every milestone, every improved run, is celebrated. I am to running what I was to swimming; someone who enjoyed the sport but didn't spend a lot of time in the winner's circle. Luckily, in running, the winner's circle follows me around.

Beginnings

I don't call myself a writer. I feel like that's a label others can use for me, but I feel arrogant using it for myself. I don't call myself a runner, either, even though I have completed 3 marathons, 6 half-marathons and various other races. It's a weird quirk I can't really explain. I don't know if I'll ever be able to call myself a writer. I would like to try, however, to illuminate how I became someone who enjoys writing. 

It started with a love of reading, really. I was reading at 4 years of age, but it was Miss White, my second grade teacher, who really lit the fuse. She was a mess, as teachers go. She was brand new out of college and was thrown into a first/second split. We spent a lot of time combing her hair and listening to her read The Little House on the Prairie books. I'm not kidding about combing her hair, either. I really think she was out of her depth. 

I must have read that series of books two dozen times over the next several years. I didn't memorize them, but I knew the characters well. I could understand what motivated the characters. The books I picked up from then on were largely character driven. I will confess that I read the Sweet Valley High series, but I also devoured books about Ramona, Nancy Drew and others. I read the same books multiple times. I read fast, so reading things again helped me catch nuances. 

The more I read, the more I loved. Sure, I read trashy books like those by Christopher Pike. I remember being in sixth grade and having some free time. I became so absorbed in the book that my surroundings disappeared. One of my classmates had to shake me to tell me it was time to go home. I entered the world that the author had created. I was able to see what the author was describing, the scenes they were setting, everything. I have always been socially awkward. It hasn't been until recently that I've blossomed in that respect. It was easier to read and immerse myself in fictional worlds than to cope with reality. 

I took my first stab at writing in the Young Author's competition in third grade. I started writing a fanciful tale about a damsel in distress. I showed it to my mom and she suggested that I write what I know. I was devastated! I felt like the story, as I began it, was going to be a big hit. I begrudgingly went back to the drawing board. 

I ended up writing about a family trip we had taken to Texas. I've read it a few times since having written it. My mom knew what she was talking about, because I won for my grade level. It was an invaluable lesson. 

It makes me think of Jo, from Little Women, or Anne of Green Gables. Both had these magnificent imaginations, but when they wrote about the things they knew, they found success. Writing about what I know is never boring because I don't see the world the way everyone else does. 

For example, pregnancy for me was incredibly poetic. I enjoy the word gravid. It comes from the Latin word gravidus and it means that you are laden with child. I feel like gravid exemplifies how I felt. I was heavy with child in a literal sense-my center of gravity shifted, my hips changed, the pull of the earth on my body was stronger. But I also feel like I was gravid with possibility. There is something emotionally heavy about creating a life. From one millisecond to the next, cells start dividing. A life is created where there wasn't one. 

I look at my kids belly buttons and I am amazed that for 40 weeks, they survived inside my body because of a cord that came from that belly button. Their life, the one created in a millisecond, will hopefully continue for years after I've breathed my last. That is a heavy thought.

It's simplistic to say being a parent is like molding children out of clay. Clay is inanimate. It sits still while you consider when and where to add or subtract clay. You can step away from molding clay to gain perspective. You can sleep on it, if you get tired, to see if maybe the sculpture should go in a different direction. 

Being a parent is like wrangling tornadoes. There is no plan book. There are no classes offered at the local community college. Each tornado is unique, is proceeded by a cone of silence, produces funnel clouds and may or may not include a microburst. Bekah, my beautiful daughter, is a counter-clockwise tornado. She has always had music playing in her head that doesn't match what's playing in mind (or in the minds of those around her). 

Bekah runs the gamut from F1 to F5, both with happy and not-so-happy emotions-but both can inflict damage on their surroundings. It's when the wind stops blowing, when the cone of silence descends, that you should be concerned. When she first learned to crawl, I mistook her silence to mean she was playing quietly on her own (something Jeremy did regularly). In fact, she found a blue crayon, started chomping on it and crawled all the way up the stairs. I found her sitting on the floor in her room, surrounded by blue handprints, with blue all over her face. 

Jeremy, on the other hand, was clinical and focused from day one. He would play with toys, on his own, for hours. He didn't enjoy his first birthday cake because he didn't want to get his hands messy. He didn't touch things directly, rather he had two blue Legos that he held, one in each hand, to touch things. 

No, with Jeremy the hazard wasn't (isn't) the cone of silence. It's the microburst. He is calm as long as there is a routine. His preschool teacher from last year told us that he would grill her in the morning about the schedule for the day. If she deviated from the schedule, he pointed it out to her. He also struggled with transitions. Mrs. Irwin would give a few choices about how to use their free time. Jeremy, if he disagreed with her choices, would fling himself on the carpet and suck his thumb. He has used this technique on me, with varying degrees of success. His microbursts hit when least expected. He may go berserk if a friend steals his table hat (his word for his baseball cap)--I mean, full on, throwing things, kicking and screaming berserk. So I catalog that response, I plan for it, I prepare for it. As I see the same situation unfolding, I take precautionary measures to lessen the impact and-bam-just like that, nothing happens. No reaction from him. I end up looking foolish, standing in a defensive position for what seems like no reason.

You don't mold tornadoes. You admire them as forces of nature. You prepare for them as best you can, try to minimize the damage they create and work hard to create an early warning system. It's an inexact science, underfunded to be sure. 

I'm not a writer. I'm just a person who senses connections where most see none. It's a great way to go through life. 

My Journey to Bariatric Surgery

I am 34 years old. I weigh 290 pounds. This is not something of which I am proud. I am not looking for conciliatory remarks like, "you look great," or, "it's really not that bad." It is bad. I have high blood pressure, have had issues with Type 2 diabetes, probably have high cholesterol, experience shortness of breath when performing the simplest of tasks, and sweat profusely even after just a little bit of physical exertion.

I don't normally publish my weight. I certainly wouldn't under normal circumstances broadcast it across the Interwebs. I am doing so, though, for a few reasons. First, I need to own where I'm at. One doesn't normally weigh 290 pounds without having made poor food choices and poor decisions about self-care. It's not a secret that I am big; none of the pants I own with fasteners (snaps, zippers, etc.) fit me right now. I wear XXXL shirts and still feel like they're too tight. So I'm mentioning my weight to say mea culpa. There is a component to my current physical situation for which I am responsible. I like cakes, cookies and other sweet things. If I'm stressed, if I've had an emotional day, if I am frustrated, I reach for something sweet. I can't remember a time that I haven't.

I just started exercising again after a year and half hiatus. There are few people that I know who consume mass quantities of empty calories, don't exercise and don't gain weight. It's really not rocket science. I used to run 5 times a week; more recently, I was doing aerobics DVDs at home 4-5 times a week. It should not be shocking that, without that amount of physical exertion, I would put on the pounds at a rapid rate.

But there's another reason I'm going to let my readers in on this journey. I have been on antidepressant medications since I was 11 years old. It has been an arduous journey, trying to maintain my emotional health with (and without) the help of therapists and also with medication. Antidepressants don't make me emotionless, they don't alter my mood and they don't replace the importance of a relationship with God. They do, however, help me counteract faulty brain chemistry. I have been off of my meds for periods of time and it never goes well. Inevitably, the depression starts creeping over my mind like sunset over the horizon.

The last time I lost an enormous amount of weight, I was off of my medication. Since being on my medication (going on almost six years), I have gone through some extraordinary circumstances. The medication has helped me navigate these stormy waters, but one of the side effects is that it disallows me from being able to lose weight. So even after Bekah was born in 2009 and I was working out like crazy and eating (or trying to eat) perfectly, the weight didn't come off very easily.

I met with my surgeon today. He has already operated on me for something unrelated, but he walked me through why I'm a good candidate for this surgery. By clinical standards, I am morbidly obese. Again, this is not a fishing expedition. I own my weight, but I also know the number on the scale doesn't represent my worth, my beauty, or my identity as a redeemed child of Christ. All the same, the words are tough to hear. (The truth usually is.) I am not sure when and even if the surgery will happen. My insurance informed me that they don't cover this procedure, but Dr. Hoeltgen told me that the insurance ladies at his office have worked with them before to get it covered. I don't even know if I can afford my portion of it. There was a sense of hope, though, as I left the office today. I do not intend to stop working out and eating healthy. If anything, it encouraged me that I need to continue to do more of both. This surgery will help, but not without me following a program. I need to take the next right actions. I need to continue to pray that God will work His divine will in this situation. If He wants it to happen, he will make it happen.

The irony is that I have, up to this point, seen bariatric surgery as a cop-out. I really believed that if I worked hard enough, I could do this on my own. I am convinced, though, that along with the actions I can take on my own, I need help. I am humble enough to recognize when I can't do something on my own. This is something with which I need help.

I encourage my readers to check back; I will be keeping you posted on where this journey will take me next.

Father Knows Best

As I prepared for college, there was some dispute about what my profession was to be. I wanted to major in Literature and write. My dad said I needed to do something more practical, like teach. I started down the path of education, but much to my dismay, the children in my practicums knew nothing! It was very disheartening. I switched to secondary education because surely, they would know more. Alas, how discouraging it was to find out they knew too much. I was unable to really impart any knowledge to them because they knew everything. I faltered in college, just at the end. I never finished and this was after transferring schools and changing my major several times.

I still have nightmares about college. In my dreams, I have missed most of the semester of a class but am still required to show up for the final. I am an adult, moving back to the dorms to finish my degree. I seek out people who can tell me how many more classes I need for my degree to be complete. I usually awaken from these dreams feeling regret sitting on my chest, smiling at me and then, like the Cheshire cat, fading away into the morning sunlight.

Lately, my dad has been on me to use my writing talents. I am one of the founding members (and COO) of the Patronik-Carbajal family, in charge of wrangling our three kids and otherwise managing daily activities. I have (what seems like) no time to delve back into the writer inside.

But my dad is persistent. Always has been. So I'm starting a fresh, new blog. I'm going to relay funny experiences about my kids. I plan on recording their various deep thoughts and malapropisms. And, late at night (like it is now), I will sit in front of my computer and try to unravel my creative self. It will probably take a while. I remember the old Heinz ketchup bottles, the glass ones. You had to hold the bottle at an angle and wait for the ketchup to make it's way to the opening. In particularly stubborn cases, you had to hit the bottle with the butt of your hand. That's how I think about my dad--he was waiting for me to start using this talent and then realized I needed the encouragement to start pouring out.

I can't promise anything interesting will make it's way out, but just in case, my blog is here to catch it.