Can a Great Blue Heron be a Sign from the Universe to Me?

Do you believe that sometimes the universe (or God) sends you a sign? Most cultures believe in omens and signs. They believe that crossing paths with a certain animal means something.

I will be honest. I thought a lot of this was hooey. I was extremely skeptical when someone would tell me they saw a cardinal and thought that it was their Uncle Joe visiting them. Yet this last week something happened that made me question my beliefs.

Since I broke my shoulder and can’t run, I have been walking the routes I normally run. While I enjoy the walks, the physical pain of this injury—along with the fact that I miss running—has been difficult for me.  

I live in an area full of lakes and ponds. So seeing a great blue heron is not a rarity. But every time I see one, I feel blessed somehow. To me they are majestic birds. But they are not a sign.

Yet as I walked by a local pond and looked over there was a great blue heron not ten feet from me. We were both in an open area so he obviously saw me but was not fearful. I whipped out my phone quickly and with my one good hand took a quick photo and continued on my walk. Later when I looked at the photo I was shocked at how great it came out. My wife, who is an amateur photographer, was amazed. The coloring of the bird was a vibrant blue and gray. The trees reflected a gorgeous green halo around the heron in the pond. It was a very lucky shot.

The next day, at another lake, I saw a great blue heron again. This time it was not on the water’s edge but about 30 feet in the forest. We looked at each other, and I paused before I walked on. He was in an unusual spot I thought. Maybe he was hunting chipmunks because I saw them scurrying nearby. I had never seen one there before.

Then the next day things changed dramatically. I was doing a long walk around a neighboring lake when once again I came across a great blue heron. He was near a boat rack full of kayaks and canoes. He looked at me as I went for my phone and then took off in flight across the lake. I stood there a while and watched him gracefully cross the lake. As I continued around the lake to the area where he had flown to, I saw the same bird walking from someone’s lakefront yard onto the road along the lake. He was strolling down the middle of the road. He was a good 300 feet from the water. As I got closer to him (Actually I keep referring to the heron as a he but I am no ornithologist and can’t tell the gender.) He crossed the road into a yard even further from the lake.

I am sure some people would say this was not unusual, that it was simply normal behavior for a great blue heron. But to me, it felt like more than coincidence. This skeptical cynic found himself going down an internet rabbit hole about the symbolism of the great blue heron. Maybe the universe was trying to tell me something, and I had been too cynical to understand it—or even to notice.

What did the heron symbolize, and how might it apply to me—if it did at all? Herons are famously solitary birds. They hunt alone and are known for their patience. They live at the water’s edge, yet they seem equally at home in the air, on land, and along the shore. Many cultures, including Christianity, associate the great blue heron with spirituality. Some even see a heron sighting as a sign that God is watching over them. I was surprised by how many people believed herons carried that kind of meaning.

Because the heron is a solitary bird, many people see it as a symbol of inner strength and determination. I came across one line about the heron’s symbolism that resonated with me: “Alone we have to face our fears, look at our gifts, and be in harmony with our world.” Yes, we need others, but sometimes we still have to face things on our own.

I stopped my internet searching for a while but came back to it. Was this bird my new “spirit” animal? I argued with myself. It was just a sighting, nothing more than that.

Yet I couldn’t shake the thought that there was something to this. I had suffered a broken shoulder and was healing steadily but slowly.  Maybe I needed to practice the patience of the heron on this healing journey. The physical therapy needed was solely on me. I needed to have some determination and inner strength to not only heal but to run again.

I started to read what I had written and I wondered if I was taking this too far.  A part of me still wanted to dismiss the whole thing.

Yet there I was with an injury and needing to heal and feeling great frustration and these weird sightings occurred. A beautiful picture that seemed to be taken by someone else. Herons in strange locations crossing my path. I chose to believe that there was something. Maybe I was making more of it than I should.

But when I learned about the symbolism associated with herons it felt like something I needed to do more than read about—I needed to channel it.  I know that some readers will think that I am reading too much into this. Others will most assuredly say that the universe or God does send us signs. What do you think?

There is a Price for Pushing Yourself to Your Limits in an Ultra

 

“I owned every second that this world could give
I saw so many places
The things that I did
Yeah, with every broken bone
I swear I lived” – OneRepublic

I believe strongly in pushing yourself to your limits.

Most times we do not even know what our limits are, or what we are capable of until we push ourselves. I have accomplished some things in running that I never dreamed of.

Since reaching the age of 60, I have run numerous races and ultra-marathons that I am proud of. Listing these accomplishments seems to give them a sense of inevitability that tends to minimize their difficulty.  Yet, as I was recently reminded, those difficulties are real and there is a price to be paid for pushing yourself to extremes.  

When I talk about the “price” I am not talking about the time put in for training or other considerations. I am talking about the price of failure. That price can be steep--sometimes very steep. The question is whether that price is worth it. This is something I ponder in every difficult endeavor.

You see on every ultra-marathon, even though I am running       solo, I have an unwelcome running partner who is not very supportive. Running alongside me is the possibility of failure. Because I am choosing to do something that is difficult for me, failure is a stronger possibility than if I had played it safe.

I was running a rugged 50K trail race in Bear Mountain, New York. The course was single-track, rocky, slippery, and had very few truly runnable sections. I felt good about my pace and stayed cautious on the slick, rocky parts. Then, while moving with the pack on a relatively flat stretch, I relaxed for a moment, tripped, and fell hard. I threw out my arms to catch myself, and the pain in my shoulder was immediately excruciating. With help from other runners, I got back to my feet and knew my race was over. I have fallen many times in trail races and am no stranger to pain. Usually, I shake it off and keep going, even if I have to walk at first. This time, though, my only thought was how to get medical help. I knew the injury was serious. It turned out I had broken the humerus in my shoulder.

I couldn’t remember how far it was to the next aid station. The other runners gave me conflicting answers from one mile to seven. While there was an aid station in about a mile and a half it was just a table in the woods with water. Even walking was painful as I had no use of my right arm. As I walked I used my left hand to steady and hold up my right arm. I was extremely lucky when two runners stopped to see if I needed help. One was trained in first aid and said I needed to put my arm in a sling. The other runner who didn’t know the first runner said “I have a roll of gauze.” And presto I had a sling.

While the sling helped, I still had to walk 3.5 miles to take a DNF (Did Not Finish). Yes, I had a solid reason for not finishing this race but I still found it hard to accept that I failed to finish. My very reason for running these races is to overcome difficult obstacles. As each runner passed me the pain of the DNF was more acute. I tried to take solace in the fact that if I hadn’t gotten hurt, I would have finished ahead of most of those runners. Yet I was still down. There would be no finisher medal and t-shirt for me.

It’s not like I was unaware of the possibility. After all when I registered for the race I had to sign a waiver that I was aware of the risks of doing a race like this.

Yet it was not just the DNF and the excruciating pain that I was in that had me thinking. All of the races and runs I had planned for the next couple of months would not happen. There was also the matter of my daughter was getting married in two weeks.

It was at the wedding that I paid another price for my injury. A couple of friends teased me about it. I had always said that ultra-marathons were “fun” which I know most people besides ultra-runners get. Now my friends wanted to know when the “fun” was starting. It is amazing how the result of your performance affects people’s perception of your actions. Last year I completed seven ultra-marathons and people complimented me and admired my accomplishments. Now, after this injury I heard the loud whispers. You are too old. This is too dangerous.

They obviously feel that the price I pay for pushing myself is too high. There is no way it can be worth it.

The question is what do I think of the possible price to attempt races that will test my limits? When I finish them, it is an easy answer. But when I fail, take a DNF, and am seriously injured it is still an easy answer. Yes, I would do the race again. In fact, I am scheduled to do the same race again next year.  Yes, the price was steep for this challenge. Yet those challenges would not be so rewarding if they were easy.

I have usually completed the hard races I’ve signed up for. That success breeds resiliency. That resiliency is what I needed to walk out of the forest and then drive over an hour home so my wife could get me medical care. That may seem like a steep price for one race. Yet the price I pay is for a lifestyle of doing hard things. When you look at all the races it is a small price to pay. In fact, if I include the resiliency and satisfaction of completing runs that were beyond my capabilities when I was younger, the price is miniscule.

We should not only try things when the risk of failure is very low. Easy victories are not life changing. Being afraid of failure will most certainly limit your success. I will admit however that talking about facing failure is easy when you succeed. For me now, I have to accept failure and plan a comeback that will most definitely rely on resiliency.  It will test my patience because this will be a slow and methodical recovery.

This comeback will take more effort to get to the starting line than most of my races took to get to the finish line. This will take more self-motivation than normal. I do have a goal of doing an ultra-marathon in September. It is a flat paved course so there is little risk of falling. Hey, I may be daring, but I am not reckless,

Ironically my motivation now comes from those people who think I should stop these races because of my age. Nothing motivates me more than proving the doubters wrong.

So, I hope I answered the question about the price of the challenge and whether it is worth it. Let me leave you with one final thought. The people who tend to think that the price is too high for pushing yourself, seem to be under the impression that there is no price or cost to bear doing nothing and playing it safe. I believe that there is a price. A steep price in fact. A life of wondering what if? Wondering what would have happened if you tried. A life filled with would’ve and could’ve.

I am not willing to pay that price. As OneRepublic says “Yeah, with every broken bone (literally in this case.) I swear I lived”.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Running Fall that Derailed a Runner and a Writer

A little more than a week ago, I was on a trail race when I suddenly took a bad fall.  After hitting the ground, I knew immediately my race was over.  The pain in my right shoulder was excruciating.

I have fallen often on these races and usually just get up, walk off the pain and start running again. But this pain was different.  An x-ray confirmed my suspicions: I had broken the humerus bone in my right shoulder.  I am right-handed, so not only did this mean I couldn’t finish the day’s race; this was an injury that was going to hinder my everyday activities.

I prepared myself to make the necessary adjustments for the next few months. No running or races. There would be no driving, great difficulty sleeping, no cooking, and no washing dishes (Honestly, I was able to adjust to this rather easily.) In addition, many of the little things that we all take for granted—such as showering, brushing my teeth, and yes, even going to the bathroom—were going to be much more difficult. While all these things are frustrating, the thing that surprised and upset me the most was my inability to write.

This is not just the inability to use my right hand on the keyboard, although that was the first domino to fall. I realized that there were two options to write. The first would be to hunt and peck with my left hand. That’s obviously a very slow option, though since I am a “hunt and peck” typist now, that’s not as drastic a change as you might think. The other option was to use the “dictate” feature in Word and instead of having the words flow from my fingers, have them flow from my lips.

First, I tried just using my left hand – really just my left index finger – to type. That immediately proved to be frustrating. While I was able to answer emails, it took a lot longer than I wanted. It was like driving to a major event that you are late for and getting stuck behind a tractor-trailer going exceedingly slow uphill with no passing lanes for miles. The thoughts and ideas started backing up in my mind. It was a pileup of jumbled thoughts. While I loved some of the ideas, I ended up walking away from the traffic jam in my head.

Next up was the dictation feature. I thought this would be great. Instead of my fingers putting my thoughts down it would be my lips. Surprisingly, this was even more frustrating. I tried dictating a blog entry but there were times when I had to pause to find the right word and stopped talking. Something was being lost in translation from my mouth. I looked at what I had “written” and it was awful. The writing was so stilted and rigid. It was not even salvageable with editing.

Oh yes, editing. This is the other frustration not having use of my right hand. I am embarrassingly clumsy just moving the mouse with my left hand. While I always have a final work proofed, I have enough pride that I want the draft to be readable. This was not readable.

Since you are reading this you must be wondering what I did. First of all, I realized that there is pace for each writer and that the fingers and the brain work in unison. Sometimes the thought that you originally had comes out differently as you type it – in effect, you’re editing as you commit words to paper.  

You don’t want all your ideas to be trapped in that traffic jam in your head because you can’t get them out fast enough. My fall may have halted many things that I took for granted in life. However, it did ignite one thing in me—the desire to write stories about facing failure, coping with limits and making a comeback. I remember distinctly that as I was taking the painful 3.5 mile walk out of the forest after I fell, the thought occurred to me that this was a great story that I needed to write about.

I am old enough to remember when writing was an extremely time-consuming process. This was before there were laptops and the word processor. For me, typing an article took several steps. First, I wrote it down with pen and paper. Then I typed it up. After which I edited it and typed it again. Even then many of us needed to use a product called “Wite Out” to paint over mistakes and correct them. Deciding to move a paragraph from one place to another meant retyping the whole document. So, writing started as very arduous chore. I needed to adjust back to an earlier time.

To help myself adjust, I took a lesson from my running experience. I am an unusual runner. Most runners settle on a specific type of race and distance. They may do 5Ks, half marathons, marathons, or ultra-marathons. They don’t deviate too much from their comfort zone. I am different. Last year I ran anywhere from a 5K to 66-hour multiday run. From trail races to road races.  The key to adjusting to this variety of races is adjusting your pace. On a 5K I am flying, while during a multi-day race, I take my time and even sleep. So, I am used to adjusting my pace.

My problem in writing was that I was trying to write at a 5K pace when I needed to be going at a much slower pace. Pretty much an ultra-marathon pace. I went to my left-hand hunt and peck method. Yes, it was arduous and frustrating but like rehabbing from a physical injury in running, you have to start somewhere. There is one other thing that is similar to finding new way of writing, which is similar to coming back from a running injury. After I had completed a long arduous comeback from a knee injury in running, I realized what a gift it was to run. I appreciated that running had become part of my identity.

The same is true about writing. While I will never be a best-selling author or someone who is remembered for their graceful prose, it is still part of who I am.  It is worth working hard at to keep it in my life. I did not fully realize this until my fall.

It is not until you face the loss of something and realize that it is part of you that you put a concerted effort into getting it back into your life. You are not only willing to be frustrated, but take the frustration as a good sign.

I am quite frustrated and a bit down since my bad fall in the woods. Yet knowing what my goals are and why I need to achieve them provides me with motivation, patience and contentment on this challenging journey ahead.

How COVID Made me a Better Runner and a More Content Person

As I sit at the keyboard, I realize that it has been about six years since the COVID-19  hit our nation and I was stricken with COVID. Where I live in northern New Jersey it hit early and hard. Yet now it almost seems like a distant memory—as if it was just a bad dream. As a nation we have moved on.  Much has been written on how it affected our society. Nearly all those COVID memories and associations are rightfully negative. Mine are too. Yet if I am completely honest with myself it did change me in some positive ways. I am slightly embarrassed to admit that. Yet it is true that I am more content as a person and a much better runner. Let me explain.

In April 2020, I wouldn’t have believed that I would ever say anything remotely positive about my experience with COVID. I should note that during the pandemic I lost family and friends to the disease. So, I am not saying I would ever want to go through anything so deadly and tragic and scary again. But sometimes we can learn from tragedies.

My COVID story is that when the pandemic hit in mid-March my work immediately became remote. I ran before COVID but now that I did not have my 90-minute daily commute to work, I used that time to run. I naively thought that my running would stave off COVID.  

One day in April I came back from my morning run and noticed on my watch that my heart rate had jumped up to 200 beats per minute. I didn’t feel anything unusual, but I was wary because it was not a hard run and my heart rate was never even close to that before. The next morning, I tried running but at the end had to walk back to my house exhausted. I was an avid runner who had run a 50-mile race and a 50k. Now I couldn’t finish a five-mile run.

I collapsed at my house and then had no energy and a cough brewing. I suspected I had COVID so I went to get a test. Now this was not at a doctor’s office or a hospital, this was when they weren’t doing that. I drove to the parking lot of a local community college and waited in line with other cars while people in hazmat gear checked us in and put a swab up our nose all without us getting out of our car.

I got a call the next day that, I was positive. For the next two plus weeks I was restricted to the den away from my family with a high fever of 102, a persistent bad cough and complete fatigue. My wife would put meals for me at the door. I never thought my life was threatened. I was positive that I would win this fight but very unsure if I would ever run again. Many people never fully recovered from COVID.

Despite my inability to walk or even stay awake for most of the day, something began to rise in me that has made me a much better and more appreciative runner. It was because my mindset changed on running. Suddenly running was not just a fun hobby. It was not just a way to stay fit. It became much more. All of a sudden, I realized that running was part of my identity.  Sometimes you do not realize how important something is to you until it is taken away from you.

I realized that running even at the age of 60 is a gift. Maybe even more so as we age. It was at my weakest moment that my goal was to run again. Not only just run again but to run an ultra-marathon. Admittedly I was motivated by fear. Fear that this gift might be taken from me.

It took about two weeks for my fever to break and a week or so more, for my cough to begin to subside. I felt the urge to move and walk even though I knew that I could not run.  I was motivated by my goal to push myself to run an ultra-marathon. Ironically the day I came down with COVID was the day I was supposed to do a 50k out near Zion National Park. I think this also sparked my goal to do an ultra-marathon. My mind was more focused than ever on being a runner. Yet while my mind was there, my body most definitely was not.

It was unseasonably cold when I went on my first few walks which were only a couple of miles. Before COVID I loved running in cold weather but even though I was bundled up when I breathed in the chilly air the cold seemed to infiltrate my entire body. My training to become a runner began with these short slow walks. Then after a couple of weeks, I began to stretch them out.  Yet I somehow knew I was not ready to run.  I was actually afraid to try to run. What if I couldn’t do it? I needed something to get me to take the next step.

Sometimes on my walks I would go to a local park and hike in the forest. It was here that the “Running Gods” sent me a sign that it was time to run. It was a beautiful day in May and I was hiking in one of my favorite parks when I saw a trail runner approaching me. She stopped when she saw me because I was wearing a T-shirt from an ultra-trail race that I had done.  She had done the same race and was supposed to do it again that very day, but it had been cancelled because of COVID. The pandemic was still raging so we chatted eight or nine feet apart about various races. We ran in the same races. We eventually went our separate ways, but that brief conversation reminded me that I was a runner and needed to run.

The next day I went to our town park which is completely flat and decided I would try and run. I was so nervous. Worse than any pre-race jitters. What if I can’t run? I used to be very confident when I ran but now, I was not. 

As I took my first few strides, I was nervous but then everything began to feel familiar. The comfort of settling into a nice pace. The feel of the wind as you run. Even the sweat that began to drip from my hair. After three and half miles I had my answer, I was a runner again!

After that run I never looked back. I signed up for virtual running challenges. Since my work was still remote, I started to use my commuting time to run.  I had a goal of doing an ultra-marathon and pushed myself more than I had previously to see what I could accomplish.

COVID had taught me one thing and that was that time was precious, very precious. Time is also limited and is not guaranteed. It is a person’s most precious commodity along with good health. I now had both and was not going to squander them. I also told people that I eliminated the word “later” from my dictionary. If I wanted to do something I would not wait to do it later. Later is not guaranteed.

There were almost no in-person races going on that summer as the pandemic was in full swing, I signed up for several virtual challenges and began my daily runs with a new urgency. I was crushing my virtual challenges, but I needed a real race. Yet they were not there. After all, my goal was to run an ultra-marathon.

Finally, a 50k opened up and I immediately signed up. I needed to test myself completely. It was not an easy course and was comprised mostly of single-track trails with plenty of rocks. It was my first test since my battle with COVID. It was not easy but I finished.

That accomplishment completed the change.  From that day forward I pushed myself harder than before and sought out races that would challenge me. After all there was no longer a “later” only the now. Since that moment I have done so many ultra-marathons and crazy runs. I went to Zion to do the 50k that was cancelled, ran a hundred miles seven times, ran the length of my home state of New Jersey (196) miles and even did the Grand Canyon rim-to-rim-to rim run.

I run with more joy because I realize being able to run is a gift. I am also more content not just as a runner but a person because I no longer wait for “later.”

Echoes of Experience: Aging Through the Eyes of Those Who’ve Lived It

I recently went through my cellphone to listen to old voice mail messages.

The first one to pop up was a year and a half old and I was wondering why I kept it. When it came on there was a long pause before a voice came on and I knew immediately remembered the message and why I saved it. It was my friend Richard.  He was 97 at the time and I remembered clearly the line “I am getting close to my expiration date.”

Hearing his voice was like encountering a ghost because Richard died shortly after that call. He was very active up until the end. I have always wondered if those who live a very long life—into their nineties or beyond—know when the end is near. Richard did.

I am now 66 and in very good health. At this moment, it does not appear that my expiration date is just around the corner. However, I do ponder what life will be like in my eighties and nineties. My hope is to live that long, as long if my luck holds out and nothing unexpected occurs. I have three role models for living a long, fulfilling, and independent life into my eighties and nineties. Richard is one of them and my parents are the other two role models.

Looking at your parents for hints about what your future holds is only natural. You know them best and your share their DNA.

Looking to Richard as a role model is more unusual because we never met in person and that voicemail was the first time I ever heard his voice.  When I returned his call that was the first time we ever spoke to each other. We had both been members of an online running club and got to know each other through a chatroom feature on the site.  Richard, our friend Cynthia and I were in the chatroom frequently and exchanged stories of our runs and other adventures on the site. We did this for about seven or eight years until the website folded. After that we exchanged email addresses and continued our conversations.

I remember when I first started running, I was trying to do 1,000 miles in one year, which averages out to be about 20 miles a week. I remember when I looked at the website at the end of February that year, I was very proud of my total miles run. That was… until I noticed that Richard had logged more miles than I had and he was over 90 years old at the time!  

Richard was impressed that I did trail races on tough terrain and later ultra marathons, but I was more than 30 years his junior, so he impressed me more. You see Richard competed in master track and field events in his nineties. He did the 100-yard dash, long jump, 200-yard dash, and other events, often placing first or second. While I ran in my fifties and sixties, I kept wondering when I would be too old to run and compete. Richard was my model and taught me that I could be an athlete for the rest of my life.

My father who died at what I now feel was a young age of 83 also modeled aging for me. He never stopped moving, even after he retired. He worked in his yard and garage nonstop. When I had a project in my backyard, whether it was building a rock wall or taking down a tree, he was there even in his late seventies. He encouraged focusing on family and making the most of any holiday spent together.  He was my hero and I thought that he was invincible. I thought that he would live into his nineties. Yet cancer had other plans. By the time it was detected the cancer had spread and was at stage four. I believe that in this case his strength and sprightliness in his eighties masked the symptoms of cancer until it was too late.

I remember two things distinctly from his battle. Coming out of the doctor’s office and he calmly said “Sometimes there is no hiding, and death is going to get you.” He had accepted his prognosis, but his family had not and we pushed for aggressive treatment to fight back. I think he acquiesced to that only because he loved us.  The second was visiting him in the hospital and he was in so much pain and uncomfortable flailing in his bed. I knew the end was near. Yet the next day when I went to take him home for his final days, I was shocked that he was up and about like he was ready to do a chore in the yard.

Yet that miracle day was just that, a single day, and cancer got him in the end. But he never seemed old in his entire life. Even for the last few months he was not old but tired and weak.

My mother, who is still alive at the age of 98, is the one that I have studied the most. That is because I have had a front row seat for her aging process. She is a tiny old Italian woman, who is now maybe 4’6” and about 90 pounds. She just keeps going despite some major bumps in her health that might have done in others. She has a feistiness that I am sure Father Time is annoyed with.

She had a bad fall when she was in her eighties and living alone in her home. She survived but it was a wake-up call to my siblings and me that she would need to be watched more carefully. We eventually sold her house and moved her to a one-floor condo in her late eighties.

She was very independent and was living by herself even after she was no longer able to drive. We made sure that we saw her often during the week and called her every day. We had someone come in during the week to help clean the condo and watch her. If she needed something she would call. The job of taking her to church fell to me. I saw how the church community really helped her stay younger.

However, this last year a bad fall and extended time in a rehab facility took its toll. She was unable to take care of herself and needed a full-time aid. I can see the loss of energy and strength every time I see her, which is at least once a week. She always had little aches and pains, but they are now much more acute. They also do not go away with a couple of Tylenol. She lost eyesight in her left eye, and her hearing is also poor. She now needs a walker to get around.

She is not as engaged in the conversations as she used to be. It has happened very fast. At first she fought the idea of having an aide, but she now seems to have accepted that she needs one. She has lost almost all of her independence and must rely on her kids and her aide. I cringe now because when I am at one of her many doctor appointments, I now do most of the listening and talking. I am uncomfortable with this because my mother was a nurse and has more medical knowledge than I do. Yet she has let her kids take the lead on her health care.

I embrace my responsibilities to her, as do my siblings, because we are so happy that she is still in our lives. Yet I can’t help but think at those moments: How will I be at this age? How will I handle this loss of my independence? What will my final months be like? Will I be a burden to my kids?

It is the loss of independence and relying on others that petrifies me. This winter was a frigid and snowy one in New Jersey and I was shoveling my driveway and walkway after getting almost two feet of snow. I have no snow blower. As I was out there in the snow I paused from my shoveling and thought to myself “Will I still be doing this in my eighties?” Is my first concession to aging is getting a snow blower? Or is it just hiring someone?

My mother’s first concession to getting old was selling her large house. Though that was not much of a concession because my father had maintained the house and the yard. The major concession was giving up her car. That is a major loss of independence. She once told me that she did not really feel the aging process until she was in her eighties. She told my sister recently that she was not sure she will live long enough to attend my daughter’s wedding this year. I wondered if she was like my friend Richard who sensed that his “expiration date” was near.

I do a lot of manual labor around the house and run seven miles or more every day. Yet I know that while I am in excellent shape now, it will end someday. What I also learned from all three of my role models is that they were very active until the end.

They were physically always on the move and mentally always engaged. They also were surrounded by friends and family. I am emulating that model. I not only do not have a snow blower, I do not have a leaf blower. I believe engaging in physical activity is a way of staying young.

My mother is still teaching me lessons on aging with grace every day.  Every time I take her to church or to one of her many doctors I get a lesson. I observe the loss of mobility. I see her struggle to do things that once came easily, like walking to a car. That now takes great strength for her to accomplish. She is still fueled by the determination and perseverance that she has displayed throughout her life.

For now, I am ignoring morbid thoughts of my final days and focusing on the lessons all three taught me. With a positive mindset, staying physically active, and surrounding yourself with good people you can have a happy, fulfilling life even in your eighties and nineties. I’ve also learned the importance of living in the present with an eye to the future and not dwelling on the past. Even with my mother’s recent decline they all lived lives with very few restrictions on things that they could do.

When my “expiration date” draws near I am attuned enough to my body that there is a good chance I will know it.  Until then I will keep pushing myself like my three role models.

Winter Running Means Embracing the Cold

I was trudging up a narrow road and finishing my early morning run when I saw a middle-aged couple getting out of their car. Even though I did not know them I said “Hi” as I approached them. The woman had a befuddled look on her face like she was seeing something she could not understand. She said, “You really enjoy running in this weather?” New Jersey had been in the grasp of an extreme cold spell and most of my runs were in the single digits, though on this day it was a balmy 15 degrees. I replied “Yes!” She replied with an incredulous “Really?” She looked at me like I was the bearded lady in a circus exhibit. I did not have the heart to say that I like it a lot better than heat. I struggle when it gets into the high 80’s or 90’s.

I knew she didn’t live in that house because I run this route almost daily and know the faces of the homeowners. I pictured her entering the house and telling her friends that she saw a man running outside in this cold weather, and what a strange neighborhood this is.

I find it fascinating that people are so shocked that I run in the cold. Besides that woman, others have been shocked when, on an extremely frigid day, I note that I did my morning run outside. People have asked “Doesn’t it hurt to breath in that weather?” My reply is “No”. It is as if running is a warm weather sport only. I must admit that there are runners I know who, when the temperatures dip below the freezing mark, head to a treadmill or a fitness center. When I first took up running, I was a heavy treadmill user even joining an online system so that I could pretend that I was running in all parts of the world. Now I search for races that take place in all parts of the world. I believe the last time I was on my treadmill was about ten months ago and that was when I was training for running the Grand Canyon Rim-to-Rim-to-Rim and my second run of the day would be put on the steepest incline so I could extra incline in my workout. Simulating a long steep climb out of the canyon.

What happened you might ask? Well, my racing now is almost exclusively ultra-marathons and trail races. While treadmills give you great workouts, I find that running is more than just the miles covered. All miles are not created equal. The type of races I run challenge you with the terrain and elements. Conquering miles is relatively easy conquering bad weather and difficult terrain is another. Therefore, I decided to run outside no matter what.

I soon found many benefits to running in all types of weather. First you learn how to dress for the elements. There is an old saying which I believe is Norwegian and it is “There is no such thing as bad weather, only bad clothes.” I have found this to be almost completely true. I now look at the weather forecast on my phone and adjust my gear to the temperatures I will be facing.

Second, and maybe most surprisingly, cold runs are almost more peaceful. After a snowfall it is eerily quiet and beautiful. There are always fewer people out and there are not as many birds and animals. They will all return in the spring. It is more meditative to run when the only thing you can hear are your own footsteps and breathing.

Third, it helps build resilience. Obstacles are placed in front of us daily. Despite my bravado about running in the cold, it is always a chore to get out from under a nice warm blanket in bed and bundle on the layers to brave the cold. We humans – as most creatures –instinctively like a warm and comfortable setting as opposed to one that is cold, frigid, and sometimes even wet.

My morning routine actually starts the night before. I check the hourly weather on my phone to see what it will be like around 7 a.m. I brace myself for hot weather in the summer, and rain and wind particularly in spring and fall. In the winter however you need to really get your mind around running in tough weather. Especially frigid temperatures in the single digits like we have experienced this year. 

In order to ease my run on those mornings I get my running gear out the night before. On those days when it is single digits it is a pile of layers of clothing. Heavy winter gloves with an extra glove liner. Long pants with a base layer. Not just a winter cap but a head mask. After years of running outside in almost all weathers I have a routine and outfit for all occasions.

As you can see, it takes some effort to get out the front door. Yet once out that front door and I start running it seems the cold is not that much an issue if I am dressed correctly. I usually make that assessment at mile two. The one weather element that can affect me the most is wind. Especially a strong gust. It can instantly make you cold when just a second before you were fine.

While there are some nerves about going out the front door there is great feeling when coming back in the front door. On weekends my wife or son may be there to greet me and not really congratulate me but question my sanity.

When I arrive home, I begin to shed the many layers I am wearing. This is not as easy as it sounds because my glasses fog up instantly as I get inside. I begin to leave a pile of clothes and gear in the foyer. The only thing that dampens my enthusiasm is knowing that all those layers will need to be washed.

There is always a great feeling finishing a run that is hard to explain to others. It means no matter what happens the rest of the day you have accomplished something. That feeling of accomplishment is stronger on a cold frigid day. You not only finished your run but you conquered the elements. You overcame an obstacle. Other people may be deterred but you were not. I am not crazy but determined.

A couple of days later it was the coldest day of the year, at one degree with wind chills at seventeen below zero.  I am once again finishing up my run of seven miles, when I see my friend Joe coming out the front door of his house as I run by his house. He looks at me and says “Ray, you know you are crazy.” As if there is no debate on the issue. I replied “Just a little.” That is the thing that one has to accept when you run in the frigid cold. You think you are determined but your family, friends and even strangers think you are crazy. Maybe I am, but as I told Joe, only a little.

Surviving Emergency Rooms as a Caregiver

The holidays were over and there were no events or obligations on this day. My wife and I looked at each other and knew what we had to do. It was to go to a place that we both dreaded. It’s a place that I am familiar with visiting. Most of the time in my life I am confident, happy and at ease with my surroundings. Yet the trip we were about to take was to a place that made me feel helpless with no control in my life. It is a mind-numbing place where time drags exceedingly slowly. It was a trip to the emergency room with a possible hospital stay to follow. This time the patient was my wife.

I had prepped myself for the journey. While I am very good shape for a 66-year old man and have been fortunate enough to be fairly healthy, I am still pretty experienced at going to the emergency room and hospitals. As we age, even if we are healthy ourselves, the people around us may not be that lucky. In my case my 98-year-old mother has had numerous emergency room visits over the years for various reasons such as falls and severe UTIs.

There are consistent sights and sounds that you experience. The beeping of the monitors keeping track of all the patients’ vitals. EMTs coming into the hallways with gurneys and new patients. You can’t help but overhear some patients moaning and their conversations with either medical staff or a loved one. Medical staff are scurrying around, although it is hard to tell what their job is because even with name tags it is difficult to tell who a nurse, doctor, or technician is. For me personally, there is negative energy in the air even though most patients are getting great medical care.  While it is a chaotic scene it moves in super slow motion if you are a patient or caregiver there to support a loved one. Various staff members come in to set the patient up or maybe take them to get a test. The doctor comes in before and after the test results, but the minutes soon turn into hours, and you have no answers. You spend hours doing nothing but waiting to see who will come next.

As I mentioned, I prep for these visits and for all that downtime. I always bring a book and my cellphone. Often, I bring my laptop. Many times, my mother will doze off so I would sit there quietly maybe texting my family to update them but there is little to update them on until the very end. While your focus is on your loved one you can’t help but feel a bit helpless. You have almost no control over what is going to happen. Your job is to be positive and supportive for your loved one.

Going with my wife was a little different than my frail mother. I saw this coming for a while. She had a procedure that was supposed to solve a problem with her esophagus (A very rare condition.) that prevented her from eating solid food and even some liquids. It had not worked and three weeks later she was no better, in fact she was getting worse. Losing weight and energy. She had somehow survived not eating during the holidays but the adrenaline that got her through the holidays was now gone. She knew she had to get treatment. Our son and I had been pushing her to be more aggressive in getting medical treatment, but she had resisted. She works at a hospital and knows how the system works. An emergency room visit is never a quick undertaking; it is a long journey.

I wanted to be as supportive as I could for my wife on this journey. Yet it is hard to be positive in such a chaotic environment. As is the case with many emergency room visits, this one was an ordeal. It was overcrowded and patients were on gurneys in the hallway. Even our walk to her hallway bed was detoured because of a gurney traffic jam. The patients’ ailments ran the gamut. I don’t know how the medical staff handle it at an emergency room. There are people with almost any injury or disease you can imagine, and the staff has to deal with individuals who are having psychiatric issues, heart attacks, or orthopedic issues. The older woman about four feet from my wife was holding a baby doll as if it was her baby. She was suffering from dementia but had also collapsed.  She held on to baby for dear life and fought the help of the staff until her son came.

I could not even stand or sit next to my wife because the constant gurney traffic made me stand or sit in a chair at the foot of her bed. My wife who is very practical said to me “You should go home. There is nothing you can do here.” I ignored her because I thought that was a preposterous request but also because there was something I could do there. It was to get answers to her condition. One of the other things I learned with my mother’s visits was how critical it is to take in all the information the staff gives you.

The other thing about emergency rooms is that you are surrounded not just by chaos, but it seems like you are in an environment that is so unhealthy. I get bad health vibes because no matter where you turn there is someone in a bad way. I am afraid to touch anything. I feel that there are germs all around me trying to take me down. I feel vulnerable in this environment. As part of my prep for these visits, I also wear a race shirt (I am a very avid runner.) hoping that that helps stave off the bad juju of the emergency room. The germs I envision are like a lion picking out the weak and injured in a herd. The germs will ignore me and seek easier prey. I know…this is not exactly scientific, but it gives me a sense of confidence.

We finally got answers and we learned that my wife would be okay, but it would take some time including a hospital stay.  I would then be visiting her daily and hearing her regularly say “go home and do something useful” which I of course ignored.

I guess a trip to the emergency room is an admission that you have to put the life of someone you love in the hands of others. You are seeking both treatment and answers. It is very difficult to endure just being almost a bystander in the life of someone you love. But the most important part of being in this environment in which time seems to stand still is that you are there. Think about a loved one being there all alone. For me I think having someone by your side, even if they feel helpless, makes a difference. Even if my wife will not admit it.

As I age, I know that there are more trips in my future to emergency rooms and hospitals. While I have acquired the skills to better handle these situations, there is no joy in having this expertise.