We don’t often share the things that are tough, the things that make us uncomfortable. We are quick to share achievements we are proud of, the highlight reel as we have become accustomed to saying.

Here we are, months later and I can say it - the Chicago Marathon was not fun for me. I enjoyed very little of it and my finish time was not near what I wanted. So I kind of tucked it away, spoke as little as possible about it and just tried to move on. But while on a run the other day, reflecting on 2018, I realized that I did myself, and Chicago, a huge disservice. 

In and of itself the Chicago Marathon was a great race. It’s a beautiful city with gorgeous architecture and vibrant spectators. The starting line was organized and easy to maneuver. Volunteers were friendly, and fellow runners upbeat. Even though it was a bit drizzly, the weather really wasn’t that bad. I felt rested and hydrated and was so encouraged by stories of my EMC teammates, several of whom were running their first marathon.  It should have been a fantastic race, but then I got stuck in my own head. 

Despite hearing from numerous people how wonky GPS gets, and to trust the mile markers, not my watch, I still somehow got mixed up. When I hit mile 13.1 on the course, my watch told me it was 14.4 and it went downhill from there. If anyone got close to me, I am sure I reeked not of sweat, but of bad attitude. I wasn’t likely I to hit my time goal so I contemplated stopping. Not because I couldn’t physically run any more but because my goal was getting further and further away from me. I actually had the conversation with myself about what I would say to people – “oh I just stopped, no reason other than because I wasn’t going to hit my A goal. Or my B goal for that matter. I just stopped and got a ride to the finish.” I was serving myself up a big ‘ol pity party of one. Suddenly a guy next to me barfed. Just barfed all over the side of the road. I perked up a bit, realizing maybe I didn’t have it so bad after all. That positive thinking didn’t last. Even though everything hurt, especially my pride, I kept on with forward motion. Walk a bit, run a bit, walk a bit, run a bit. Grumble, grumble, grumble. I don’t remember much of the end of the race, I was so full of discontent and discouragement. The medal was placed around my neck, I received my free beer and made my way to where I was going to meet my friend and teammate Traci. Grumble, grumble, grumble. Disappointment filling the space where elation should have been. 

Traci and I waddled back to our hotel and had celebratory drinks and burgers. We relaxed in our room, telling tales and watching Kevin Hart’s recap of his Chicago finish, and laughed and laughed. It was behind me. Marathon number 4 in the books.
I returned home and quickly got comfortable with my answer to everyone’s question of How was it? Hard, I replied. Of course it was, it was supposed to be. I felt like I was lacking a highlight reel, so I didn’t say much.

The thing I realized this week though is that running 26.2 miles, and crossing the finish line on my own two feet IS the highlight reel. Accomplishing a goal that only 0.5% of Americans accomplish IS the highlight reel. Pushing past my physical and mental limitations IS the highlight reel. Raising $3026.26 (doubling my goal) for Every Mothers Counts IS the highlight reel.

As the great Teddy Roosevelt said, comparison is the thief of joy. I compared Chicago to my previous NYC marathon experiences and when it didn’t come close, I diminished it. When I didn’t get the result I wanted, I minimized it. I robbed myself of the triumph of finishing a marathon. Simply put.

I have plans and goals for 2019 but something has to happen before I can tackle them.  I need to honor my body, and my spirit and relish in that which I worked hard for and succeeded.  

So here you go…

On Sunday October 7th, 2018, I ran the Chicago Marathon. I cried, I cursed, I laughed, I high-fived. I encouraged. I crossed the finish line with a time of 4:43:05 (which I figured out weeks later was actually my second best time by 47 seconds). I finished my 4th marathon in as many years. Cut. End highlight reel. Screen fades to joy. 

​

In my dazed, saddened state I was not prepared for the doctor’s words “I wouldn’t recommend getting on an airplane at this time. Miscarriage can be a medical emergency for some women. You don’t want to be midflight if something goes wrong”. My brain was unable to grasp what he was saying. Miscarriage. Medical emergency. Airplane. We were 3000 miles across the country, losing our 9.5 week old baby and the only place I wanted to be was home. What do we do then? I asked. “Hunker down. Wait this out. It may take your body another week or two to finish what I believe is the start of a miscarriage.”

We were in Daytona Beach, Florida, on a surprise trip to celebrate my husband’s birthday when I began spotting. The first day I didn’t think much of it, I knew it could be common. As the spotting got heavier, and after a phone call with my OB-GYN back in Portland, on her recommendation we found ourselves in the Emergency Room. An ultrasound confirmed our fears – there was no heartbeat. The doctor explained that sometimes our bodies don’t immediately release the fetus, and it can be a slow process.  My body gave no other indications, hence his suggestion to sit and wait.

After a restless night of sleep, heartfelt conversation and prayer, my husband and I decided as much as we liked the oceanfront hotel, where we wanted to be was home. He made all the arrangements, I bought supplies at the store and we began the long weary drive to the Pacific Northwest. The majority of hours spent in the rental car are a blur. Our original plan was to make our pregnancy announcement once we returned home and had all our family and friends under one roof for my husband’s birthday party. Instead, I made phone calls sharing news of the loss we were facing. We drove along, watching cities fly by, sometimes talking, often crying.
Through the hours, my pain increased and I grew more and more uncomfortable. My husband shared with me later that as the miles passed on the freeway his eyes were always searching for the Hospital, Next Exit signs. Neither of us could get the doctor’s words out of our heads. 

We reached a hotel right off the freeway in Tennessee. It was there that my body let go of the life that had been created. Instantly I felt different; stomach flatter, less swollen. My heart broken. The reality hit me, I was no longer pregnant. Instead of being out to dinner to celebrate my husband’s 40th birthday, we were curled up in a roadside hotel saying goodbye to hopes and dreams.

Our plan changed and we continued north, making our way to Chicago. After more conversations with my Doctor, she felt confident that it would now be ok to fly home, so long as nothing got worse. We went out to dinner, wandered the streets, took in the sights. We didn’t talk much, mostly just held hands and walked along. Adrift. Untethered. Mournful. I admired the river and buildings, said I’d love to come back another time when I could enjoy all that the city had to offer.
We flew to Portland, returning home much different than when we had left. The matching baby onesies I bought to break the news to my pregnant sister got tucked away into my hope chest. I threw my husband a fabulous birthday party in which he was surrounded by our parents and friends and love. No big announcement to make, just a rousing version of Happy Birthday. Life moved on in the midst of grief and fear and faith. 

10 years later and many of you know what happened next. We were blessed to get pregnant quickly and are now the parents to an all out beautiful, rascally, kind, curious 9 year old boy we lovingly refer to as AB.

My plans were never to run a marathon other than New York City. However, Chicago is calling me this year. 10 years later. It’s pulling me to come back. To see the beautiful streets, this time with eyes full of wonder and adventure. Less sadness, more joy. I will run for Every Mother Counts once again. I will run and fundraise because all proceeds go to improving access to safe and respectful maternity care. 303,00 women die every year as a result of complications during pregnancy and childbirth. That is one woman every 2 minutes. Up to 98% of these deaths are preventable. Distance is often a barrier for women to receive the care they need. Many women live miles away from healthcare facilities with limited access to transportation.

Even with the all the pain, I am grateful for so much of our story. Gratitude will propel me forward as I go my own distance, 26.2 miles though the streets of Chicago 10 years later. Loss becomes gain. One heart, two legs- full of strength, determination, faith, hope, and a will to do better for every mother, every where.

There is truth to the idea of just ripping a Band-Aid clean off. Quick, fast, no time to think about how much its going to hurt. The sting, a bit of a surprise yet also expected, usually goes away quickly. Rip. Sting. Recover.

Much to my husband’s dismay, I am a “holder onto of things”. Naturally, as my son AB grew, I held on to things should we need them again down the road. When the road got longer and longer, and it became evident that we would not in fact need many of the baby items again, they remained in boxes or placed in a room out of my husband’s direct eye sight. I have a hard time letting go. So many memories and emotion wrapped up in tiny soft things. However, one not so tiny thing that I moved from room to room was AB’s glider. The one I spent a painstakingly amount of time choosing. I sat with my swollen belly in a floor model at the neighborhood baby boutique. Rocking, gliding, trying to decide which fabric in which color. Once our own was delivered, I came to know that chair quite well – the hours spent rocking, sleeping in it beside AB’s crib, upright, holding tight to the tiny person cradled in my arms. Nursing, every two hours for the first many months. The stories that were read and told in that chair are countless. Every month of the 17th we took pictures of AB propped up in the chair with his stuffie beside him, to mark each milestone. 1 month, 8 months, 15 months, and on and on. When we moved, I watched the movers carry it clumsily up the stairs as I directed them to the new room, no longer a nursery. It took its rightful place beside the window, much further from the crib now as the room itself was much larger. But stories continued to be told, and books read, as did nights of sleeping in it. Just not as frequently.

The chair became a place AB would climb into on his own, to read a book, to look out the window and watch the world outside. The space behind the chair was the perfect size for him to hide in. I learned to distinguish the noisy rock of the glider, which meant he was about to launch off it, seeing how far across the room he could jump.
When he was five we rearranged his bedroom, nothing significant, just created a better play space for him. Just like that I watched my husband Scott (not nearly as clumsily) carry the chair out of AB's room. Rip. It was literally happening before my eyes. Sting. We didn't have a replacement on hand, so that first night AB set up a blanket and pillows in the same spot and we read stories on the floor. He liked it, I was lukewarm. But the moments of togetherness were still there, just not as comfy. Recover.
He would occasionally ask if we could sit in the chair, which was now in our room and we’d snuggle in for books or just hugs. Most often it became a landing spot for my clothes, or a pile of clean laundry. Its presence was as comforting as an old friend though.
About a year ago, our beloved babysitter, the one who watched AB from the time he was three months old, was pregnant with her first child. One day, without much forethought I sent her a text, would you like AB’s glider? Her reply of We’d love it, came through and tears I was ill prepared for flooded from my eyes. Rip. Within a few days my husband loaded it into her car. With her swollen belly, she guided him carefully as he got it situated. Sting. Another few days and we received a photo of how perfectly it fit into her nursery, ready to hold a new mama and baby and create memories. And now, we get pictures of her baby girl on her monthly milestones, sitting in the light brown glider with a stuffed animal beside her. Recover.

In my own defense I do recognize when things should get passed along, I just don’t often go further with those thoughts. It’s not the thing itself but the memories tied to it.

We are in the midst of pulling out the carpet in our upstairs bedrooms to have the hardwoods refinished. When we were told that everything has to be removed from the bedrooms I went into survival mode, and started planning. Within a day I sold the guest room bed which we have long talked about replacing. I boxed up books, shoved pillows into cabinets, I was getting stuff done! We had also talked about selling AB’s dresser, the one we purchased before he was born and used as a changing table. It was super functional then – two drawers, five open cubby spaces, and two cabinets. Many sleepless nights were spent at that changing table, clumsy hands learning to change diapers in the dark and help keep a pacifier in while changing pajamas.  It held diapers, creams, board books for chubby fingers.  The older he got though the less functional it became. It didn’t have nearly as much book shelf space as he needed. The top drawer became a stashing spot for each piece of paper that he started a drawing on but wasn’t ready to throw away (where in the world does he get that!?) The bottom drawer held every single “toy” he collected from the doctor and dentist’s office as well as the happy meal toys from our yearly road trips to California. The top, no longer a changing table, became the spot to hold treasures from the tooth fairy, newest Lego creations, and anything deemed worthy of display.  I asked him numerous times to go through it and figure out what to keep and throw away. Each time, it was a resounding, I need to keep it all. Seriously, who’s kid is he?!? This past weekend though as he helped my husband pull up carpet in the master bedroom, I set to work cleaning it. I snuck an overflowing trash bag out to the garage and deemed the dresser worthy to be sold. It’ll serve another family better I told myself.

I took pictures and placed an ad. Rip. A reply came quickly. Someone wanted to pick it up the next day. The buyer came over with a friend and together they hauled it out. I stood inside, watching them load it into the back of the truck, snow softly falling. I wiped my eyes as I watched it go. Sting. I walked up to AB’s room and he was looking around, noticing all the free space. Then he started to share his ideas about what kind of a bookcase he wanted, and where he could move his bed. I nodded my head, admiring his dreams and vision and told him the possibilities were endless. Recover.

I would look at the glider and remember how it felt to lean my head into it, baby to my chest, as I quietly prayed for sleep to come to both of us. I gently and lovingly folded each new item of clothing that went into the drawers of the changing table. I restocked the diapers, whenever he moved up a size, noticing how fewer fit as they got bigger. I blew raspberry after raspberry on the bare belly of my beautiful son nearly every time I changed his diaper. Gliders, changing tables, dressers, they become vessels unto which our memories pour so freely. They are backdrops in the story of AB’s childhood.

It’s happening faster than I’d like some days. Rip. AB is growing and grasping for independence. Sting. But for every memory I have to share, or story to tell, he continues to listen with open ears and an eager heart. And sometimes, he’ll even indulge his mom a little bit. Recover.

​As Amy Grant’s voice sang out from our Jambox I listened and sang along with tear stained cheeks; 

Do you wonder as you watch my face
If a wiser one should have had my place
But I offer all I am
For the mercy of your plan
Help me be strong
Help me be
Help me
 
Breath of Heaven/Mary’s Song was playing and the weight of week released through my tears.  
 
The previous Friday my 8.5-year-old son AB was delighted to set up our new projection light, the one that displayed snowflakes across the front of our home. He sat at the window overlooking the front yard and watched the dancing lights. As soon as darkness fell the following night he turned it on and again, watched from the window. Shortly after he was in bed I realized I couldn’t see the lights and upon opening the front door, I discovered someone had stolen our new light. Between the hours of 6:00pm – 8:00pm someone walked into our front yard and stole the dancing snowflake light. I was sick and sad and so discouraged. When we broke the news to our son in the morning he expressed confusion and sadness. Why? He asked.  I wish I had an answer. A kind neighbor through the Nextdoor app reached out to offer his brand new light, one he was considering returning. Two days later, tied with a silver bow, I set the new light under the tree and when AB woke up he was surprised and happy. We talked about the kindness of people, neighbors, strangers. I told him more times than not, kindness wins. The light will live in our living room this season and we’ll delight in the disco display that it projects. My son’s eyes light up, brighter than the green and red light now dancing across our ceiling and hallway. The world felt righted again.
 
On Sunday,  AB had his first piano recital. With Grandma in tow, we oohed and ahhed and took him out for a special dinner to celebrate. Upon leaving the restaurant via Uber, an incident happened in which the driver became very aggressive and verbally assaulted my husband, in front of our son. It was disturbing and unsettling and was an unfortunate way to end an otherwise beautiful day. My husband talked through it all with AB before bed and did what he could to assure him that the man was angry to begin with, and there was nothing they could have done otherwise. My husband focused on the good of the day and tried to soothe AB to sleep with good thoughts dancing through his head.
 
The next morning AB woke early and climbed into bed with me – “Mom, I can’t stop thinking about last night. That man was so angry and so mean.” As the morning wore on, he fought going to school, said he wanted to stay in bed and read all day. I understood but felt like going to school, being one among his classmates, enjoying the joy of soccer at recess was what he needed. Off he went and when I picked him up at 3:00pm, a smile was spread across his face. The world wasn’t quite righted, but it felt a bit more balanced.
 
It is now the weekend again, Saturday morning, the first day of Winter Break and AB wakes up with all the enthusiasm and energy I wish I could have an ounce of! He retrieved his new toy – one sent Friday night from the East Coast by a dear family friend, and one that he has actually asked for more times than I can count – a drone. With a bit of practice the previous evening, he set to work to figure it out even more. He soon got it, like really got how to fly it and he was outside doing barrel rolls. He had learned the stunt button! I joined him outside and was impressed with how well he was doing. He was so pleased with himself he asked to make an Instagram story to show people. He continued to play outside as I poked around the house, watching him through the window. Soon though, I hear crying, not just crying but cries of distress and sadness. Turns out, he flew it too high and it got stuck on the highest level of our roof. { Side note – a few weeks prior my husband needed to fix something on the roof, about the same spot where the drone has landed. He was going to MacGyver his way up through a window with a climbing rope attached to his belt…I stopped him there. No. Call in the professionals, or at least get a ladder that can reach the 40 foot height necessary. }
 
So here I am, with Scott gone fishing on the river, I have a stuck drone and a little boy that is devastated at losing his new toy, and feeling responsible for losing this new toy. Its barely 10:00am and I feel like we should both just crawl back under the covers. The dismay goes on – he is in tears as I haven’t seen for years. He is angry at himself, frustrated, and telling me together we can get on the roof to get it (um, no, see above regarding the pitch). I sense that the events of the week have finally caught up to him and he is letting it all out. We go for a walk outside, to look for ladders and to get fresh air. The tears continue to flow, as he’s replaying how he’d do everything differently. As we are close to home he slipped on the wet sidewalk, fell and scraped his knee. The flood gates opened even wider. “I just need a hug. I just need you to hold me” he repeated over and over. So I did, and asked him if he’d like to say a prayer. Yes please. We prayed. Not for the drone to flip itself over and respond to the remote, but for peace over our hearts and spirits; for kindness to show itself again, and a renewed sense of forgiveness and grace, for ourselves and others.
 
I made him a cup of hot chocolate and he added a Candy Cane as a stir stick. We laughed at how the candy cane was dissolving, and the hot chocolate continued to taste better and better. He had a snack. We wrote a thank you note to the man who so generously gave his projection light. We reached out to a neighbor who has a ladder tall enough to reach and said we can borrow it anytime Scott is ready. We did what we could to right our world.
 
AB had moved through it, for the moment. He chose to watch a movie and grabbed his stuffies to join him. I turned the Jambox on and went about my business. Amy was singing….
 
Breath of heaven
Hold me together
Be forever near me
Breath of heaven
Breath of heaven
Lighten my darkness
Pour over me your holiness
For you are holy
 
Events of the past week have left me weary, not just for myself, but for my son. He saw glimpses of ugly, and felt the effect of that ugly. My days of trying to protect him are dwindling. I can only do what I know how to do; hold him, hug him, pray- for him and our world. Lighten the darkness. Be strong. Be.

"You seriously call that running? I can walk faster than that." The voice came out of nowhere, I hadn't even seen the-down-on his-luck looking guy sitting on the bench overlooking the track. He was a bit set back, hoodie on, drinking something from a paper cup. I continued running, kind of chuckled and thought to myself, was I just heckled? There were other people on the track as well, but each was in their own zone and no one else seemed to notice. As I came up to the bend again, I wasn't sure what to expect, was it a fluke? But as I rounded the turn I hear "why don't you just stop? you can not call yourself a runner when you look like that". Yep, it was happening, I was being heckled, but I didn't chuckle this time. I felt anger rise up inside and I thought of all the witty, unkind remarks I could throw his way my next time around. Not a runner, he has no idea! I steeled myself as I hit the turn again and sure enough, "you look like you're in pain. do yourself a favor and just stop. stop already." I kept my comments to myself but decided I had enough. His voice didn't carry kindness, it was mean-spirited and directed at me. I ran the last lap and exited out the opposite side of the track. I made my way through the park, and decided to head home. Shortly as the park was behind me I stopped and literally broke down in tears, hands on my knees, sobbing like a baby.

​On any other day I might have had a good laugh, may have even egged him on a bit with a funny reply or smile and wave but today was not that day. You see, not even half a mile into my run, I had already titled it UGH. I wasn't feeling it. My legs felt heavy, and my spirit was anything but light. I felt discouraged in every sense of the term. A half mile in and I decided five miles would be enough, I didn't need to go six. A half mile in I was ready to quit - tired of running the same streets, tired of running all together.

​When I reached the track around mile three I was ready to just zone out. Run in circles, appreciate the different surface under my feet. I admired the colors of the leaves against the red-ish track. Then The Heckler made himself heard.

​Through my tears I had a sad realization. You see, that heckler said out loud everything that I had been feeling the previous miles. I didn't feel fast. I didn't feel like I looked like a runner. I was in pain and I'm sure it showed. He spoke all my negative self-talk and it hurt. It hurt my heart and as my tears fell all I could do was pray. The enemy wasn't sitting on the bench, it had taken up a cozy spot in my head.

​I wiped my face, blew a couple snot-rockets and chose a route home that included a tough hill. I cheered myself up it, pushed harder than I had all morning and complimented myself on my strength and determination. As I huffed and puffed at the top, I said to myself, or anyone else that was listening, you are not welcome here Heckler. Move along, because you can bet your ass I can run faster than you can walk.

I don't remember what day of the week it was, nor do I remember what color scrubs the doctor was wearing. I do know he walked into the small, private waiting room with a touch of weariness on his face. I was sitting on the far end of the couch, and my mom was in a chair to my left, our dear friend next to her. My sister and best friend were next to me on the couch, to my right. As the doctor began to tell us about the complications my father had been through, and how it was not likely he would survive, that machines were keeping him alive, a million thoughts went through my head. One of which was, "Why am I smelling Red Vines? Who is eating Red Vines?" Don't think me callous, just know that in that moment, with all the heartbreak my world has ever known, I had an association with Red Vines. We had been in the waiting room for hours so chances are they, along with Fritos, were most likely our snack of choice. It has been nearly 16 years since that day but the smell of Red Vines always takes me back to the ache I felt upon hearing the doctors words, there will be choices to make, decisions to be made, begin your goodbyes. My dad beat the odds and went on to live another 11 years. I can probably count on one hand the number of Red Vines I have eaten in that same amount of time. I just can't do it.

Last week I spent 12 hours in the hospital for heart palpitations and chest heaviness. Upon arriving in the ER at 2:00am, I was whisked into a room, placed on a monitor and had blood drawn. I was given baby aspirin as a precaution, a chest x-ray and warm blankets to cover my feet. I was cared for, asked questions of, and did my best to be the patient patient. I soon learned that my potassium and magnesium levels were extremely low, and this was most likely the reason for feeling the way I was. There was no indication of a heart attack. However, when you are a woman in your late 40's, and you go to the ER in the middle of night with these type of complaints, they put you on lock down so to speak.

Aside from giving birth, being the one in a hospital bed was a new experience for me. I spent weeks at the bedside of my father, after his stroke, then heart attack. I sat next to my mom as she recovered from a compound ankle fracture. I can do the bedside, I can be the advocate, ask the questions, grab magazines, make phone calls, update friends. I have become quite good at that caregiver role. But being on the other end was difficult for me. Resting in the bed was the easy part actually, and once I inadvertently called it my hotel room instead of my hospital room. The emotional strength was the hard part. Throughout the years after his stroke my dad didn't do anything by the book. It was never "just" a seizure, or "just" a cold, or "just" an infected toe. My dad threw curve balls. It was never just as it appeared. So the majority of hospital experiences tended to have a urgent, anxious feel to them.
I reclined in my dark room in the Critical Decision Unit and couldn't help but wonder (fear?!) will I throw curve balls too? I mean, I just ran a marathon in November and am in the midst of training again, yet here I am, hooked up to a heart monitor and waiting out more tests. It's hard not to go to that place, so I prayed and kept bringing myself back to the moment. To the warm blankets covering my feet.

After a second round of labs and EKG, and a stress test with the cardiologist, I was cleared to go. However, they were sending me home wearing a heart monitor for 48 hours. Leads taped to my chest, and a small pouch to carry the device, I left the hospital on my own two feet, cold glass of water in hand, into the passenger seat of my husbands car. We drove together to pick our son up from summer camp and I breathed in the fresh air and breeze on my face.

Once we were home my son looked at me and with wild surprise said, "what the? what is that on you Mom?" (the tank top I was wearing did little to cover the leads and tapes). Without too much detail I explained that the doctor was keeping an eye on my heart, that he was getting a really clear picture of how my heart worked. He stared, curious and then in all seriousness asked "are you a Robot Mom?!" It felt good to finally laugh and play along to his perspective. (Domo Arigato was on repeat in my head!)

The next day I found myself releasing all the tears that I'd unknowingly been holding in. They were tears of praise, sadness, relief, fear, and hope.

At the end of my 48 hour heart watch, my son AB and I went back to the hospital to return the monitor and daily log. It was a Friday, it was the last day of summer camp and AB was full of excitement and enthusiasm and ideas. We can all remember the camp high experience and he was still basking in it. I too was feeling a bit of a high, no longer hooked up, tape removed, no bulky belt around my waist. It was refreshing. He asked questions as we maneuvered through the parking garage and found the right building. Monitor turned in, we began to retrace our steps, this time taking notice of a vending machine in the hall. AB stopped, looked at me and asked if he could please get something. Sure, anything you want. He took survey of all the items and I wondered to myself, is it a Cheetos or M&M's afternoon? I began to gather up a dollar bill and some coins and he said, "Ok, I'm ready. I want the Red Vines." Tears filled my eyes, "are you sure?" "Yep, Red Vines." He fed the machine the money, pushed the proper buttons and happily grabbed them from the tray. He continued on with his re-cap of the day, not yet pausing to have a treat. We got outside into the sunshine and he opened up the package. "Here Mom, you can have the first one." I looked down at his sweet face, the hospital further and further behind me and I accepted it. I took a bite and smiled my thanks. "Good aren't they?" as he devoured his in nearly one bite.

Indeed son, good for a fresh start and a different ending.

Hey you -

I had heard so much about you from friends but I'd never met your acquaintance. Its true you know, what they say, the way you show up when least expected, and not always with the best timing. But you made your way to me. I'm still wondering where and how. Was it random? You knew we'd never met. Were you looking for someone new? Someone fresh? Was it my thick curls that lured you in?

I can't believe how swiftly you turned my life upside down. You were all consuming. You made my heart beat fast and flushed my cheeks the perfect shade of pink. Everything I did was with you in the forefront of my mind. It was like some strange sort of obsession came over me. You disrupted my sleep, had me checking the mirror frequently and feeling as though everyone who looked at me knew.

I fell hard and fast and you were all I could think about. I felt special at first. You chose me. You hung around, you wouldn't leave once you got attached. You clung to me. You couldn't breathe without me. I was your lifeline.

But you know what? I realized I didn't really like all the attention you were getting. The money I spent on you was outrageous. Ridiculous. Necessary, yes, but ridiculous. The way I looked at others around me, wondering, were you seeing them too? Were there others? I figured you had to be connected to one or more of the moms in AB's class. It made my stomach hurt. I began to question and doubt and withdraw into myself. I suddenly didn't feel so special. I was actually over it. I was over you. I was done cleaning, done doing laundry, all just for you. Because of you. I'm done being afraid to hug others because of what you might think. Or heavens knows, what you might do. I'm not really the high maintenance type and you are clearly are.

So, dear Lice, I am breaking up with you. It's not you, it's me. I'm just done. It was brief, and we gave it a shot. We aren't really meant for each other and I don't have the time or energy for this kind of relationship right now. I'm going to kindly ask you to refrain from contacting me, or any of my family members again. I've put restrictions in place, please honor them. I need my space.

Goodbye. Its time for a new lease on lice.

Truth be told, when I first signed on as part of Team Every Mother Counts, I saw it as a way to fulfill MY goal of running the New York City marathon. However, with each mile I logged it became clear to me that my journey was leading me to something greater.

Running feeds my soul. It clears my head and strengthens my body.  It makes me a better mom, wife, friend and person. I do my best thinking and processing while running. I've created weeks worth of menus, come up with games and decorations for a Ninja themed birthday party, figured out the right words to respond to the difficult email awaiting me in my inbox. I have conversations with myself, God, and sometimes even my Dad. As a morning runner, it is what prepares me for the day.

Through my marathon training I got a sense for what my running can do for others. I raised funds - $5,264 to be exact, and I raised awareness. Friends and family were moved not just by my story, but by the work that EMC is doing. I had friends who graciously made donations with heartfelt thanks, sharing that the birth of their child was one that required extra medical attention. I received a donation from a dear friend whose mother passed away earlier in the year. Her mother had been a nurse and early in her career, 40+ years ago, fought for good maternal health care. Everyone has a story, and sometimes we don't know with who, when or how, our stories come together with others. It's when stories collide that things happen.

I am thrilled that my story with Every Mother Counts continues as a running Ambassador - to assist and grow the running community, organize teams, train, fund raise, educate and support. And run. Did I mention I get to run?!

Join me. So that more stories can be told. More healthy, happy, successful birth stories.

6 quarters, 30 dimes, 13 nickels, 125 pennies and 3 dollar bills.

Shortly after I started this blog I got an email from my Aunt Mary, my mom's younger sister.  She shared with me that my beloved grandpa, lovingly referred to as Poppy, always stopped to pick up a penny on the pavement with the comment that  people are lazy if they wouldn't bend over to pick up a penny. She said there may have been more to the story but it was her childhood memory, so every time she spied a penny, she would pick it up and think of Poppy, and if she didn't pick it up, she'd apologize to him.

I didn't know this about my Poppy when I started to pick up loose change while out running but I thought about it often as I would bend down mid-run to grab a coin. It wasn't always effortless either. On my long training runs stopping at mile 16 to pick up a coin usually involved a grunt, moan, or other such verbal resistance. It wasn't always easy on the body, but it was harder to let it pass by.

At the beginning of 2015 I decided it would be the year to actually keep track of all the found change and add it up once the year was done. Little by little the baggie marked 2015 found change filled up.

6 quarters, 30 dimes, 13 nickels, 125 pennies and 3 dollar bills equals $9.40.

In 186 runs, covering 984.53 miles I found $9.40.

I also found strength I didn't know I had, I found healing, I found a competitive side of myself that is so very new to me, I found courage, I found a sense of pride, and connection, and I found hope. I found change.

Mile by mile, penny by penny, dime after nickel. It all adds up and eventually, it will make a difference.

You just can't be lazy.

 Its been two weeks since I ran my first marathon in New York City. I have sat down more times than I can count to write a race recap. Words have failed me. I've written a sentence or two then I stop. So many friends and parents in the school hallway have stopped to ask, how was it? It was awesome, I loved it, can't wait to go back again next year, I reply. Even as I say it, it doesn't do the experience justice. To be honest, it feels like a really lame response.

Just over four years ago when my dad died I struggled to write his eulogy. The first words I wrote, and actually ended up reading to the full church were...It feels too big. How do I sum up Huck Hagenbuch? Then it came to me, the words he would say if I was taking a photo standing too far back from my subject; tighten up your shot kid, bring it in.

As I was meandering around upstairs last night, putting away remaining items from my still unpacked suitcase it came to me, tighten up your shot kid, bring it in. There is no way that I can convey the overwhelming experience of the NYC marathon. There are so many components to it and it feels so grand and vast. It feels too big. I cannot give you a mile by mile report because they all blend together. I can tell you I found a dollar bill, my first ever, and while I know it was early on in the race, I don't know if it was mile 3 or mile 4. The woman, standing outside her church, hollering into a microphone, hallelujah, hallelujah, bless these runners Jesus, I know she was there, she was to my left, and her voice and enthusiasm and uplifting energy is so vivid in my mind, but again, it could have been mile 4 or mile 6. There was a guy wearing a Portland Timbers sweatshirt and I screamed at him, I'm from Portland, and he screamed back, Goooo Portland. Maybe that was mile 7. A woman, holding a cup of coffee in her hand looked me straight on and said yes, thank you, we love Every Mother Counts, that could have been mile 17. It was the moments, not the miles. 26.2 miles worth of moments.

The crowds in Brooklyn were off the charts. The people were three deep, crowding in on both sides of the street, holding out hands for high fives, screaming while drinking from red solo cups. They held signs, jumped up and down and looked me in the eye. There was a brief moment as I ran along that my heart ached knowing that no one would be familiar, no one was waiting for me. But they held signs,some generic, some for a specific person. I soon began to insert my name when a name was written - run Krista run, You got this Krista, Go Krista we are proud of you, You sweat sexy Krista. You get the idea. It felt personal and it got me through the miles. My smile grew. Somewhere along the way, I rounded a bend, still in Brooklyn, a band was playing My Hero by Foo Fighters. I sang along; there goes my hero, watch him as he goes. there goes my hero, he's ordinary. It was the second time since crossing the start line that I choked up on tears. I was no hero, but I didn't quite feel ordinary.

Volunteers, and police officers lined the course. People filled the streets and they continued to energize me. My sister Kira and I ran along together, but each in our own space. We had decided that we were going to do what we could do to stay present, stay in the mile we were in. We knew the other was there, we ran along side by side, yet alone, each of us taking in our experience. The miles clicked by quickly, almost too quickly, we said to each other at one point.

Soon enough the Queensboro Bridge was in front of us. I knew the energy would change. The crowds would be gone and the cheering would be replaced by the sound of footsteps. Heavy, tired, footsteps, and deep, exhausting breaths. Grunts, moans, cursing. Forward motion though, always forward motion.

The bridge dropped us down onto First Avenue around mile 16 and we had a three mile stretch ahead of us before my team's cheering section. The street was wide, I ran in the middle, trying to take in the energy from both sides. My body was tired but my spirit was strong. My sister's quads started to cramp prior to the bridge and I could see she was focused on staying tough. We kept each other in sight, checked in, gave encouragement, forward motion.

Kira and I had settled into a groove where I entered the aid station first and waited on the other end for her to come through. With 50,000 other runners, it was easy to lose track of each other. For all the previous miles our flow had worked, but as I held back, watching for her to come through this aid station, she didn't. I waited longer, still no sign. I figured she must have passed so I started to run slowly, all the while searching. I felt a little like Jack Bauer, scanning the crowds for the face that stood out. Tears again. This wasn't the plan. Our plan was to cross the finish line hand in hand. For the first time in nearly 19 miles, I felt like I couldn't go on. I didn't want to go on without my sister. Reason set in and I knew that the Every Mother Counts cheering section was up ahead. My cousin Eric planned to be there too. If she arrived before me, she'd learn that I hadn't been there yet. I started running at a faster pace, anxious to see what awaited me. Soon enough I saw a Seattle Seahawks 12th man flag flying, and my sister hugging my cousin along the curb. Tears yet again. I thought I lost you, I said, which didn't feel so urgent as I spoke the words with her at my side. I hugged her, my cousin, and my cousins daughter that I hadn't seen in 20+ years and we were off. Side by side. I was afraid to let her out of my sight again. 

Ahead I saw the TEAM EMC sign and it felt like an oasis in a hot desert. My singlet read Every Mother Counts and that is what people called out to me - we love Every Mother Counts, go Every Mother Counts, Every Mother DOES Count. While I didn't hear my own name, I heard the name of something that I have come to believe in and support and be a part of. It brought unexpected meaning and purpose to the race and got me to dig deep when my training got tough. Kristen, team leader who along the way provided me unlimited support and encouragement and answered every ridiculous question, wrapped her arms around me and I soaked it all in. Christy Turlington, the woman and force behind Every Mother Counts had the biggest smile on her face, she reached out and squeezed my hands. While I really wanted to stop and talk skin care with her (she is STUNNING!) I moved forward, feeling energized and renewed. Mile 20. Only a 10k left. The finish line waited.

I knew my sister wasn't feeling her strongest but her determination and resolve showed through. Keep going, she told me, I'm right here, I'll catch you. We started up into the Bronx, people were fading. Kristen had sent an email from a friend of hers who as a running coach had run the marathon numerous times. He laid out the emotional components to the race and I read it many times prior to that Sunday morning. One thing that stuck out was that as we worked our way through the Bronx we'd see people losing it. His exact words, you will start to see the strangest things. People walking, lying down, frozen from cramps.  Do not look at them. Look ahead and run. A woman to my left vomited. I kept running, eyes up. I looked ahead and ran. I was suddenly really, really tired. I didn't want to stop, quitting never even entered my mind, but my legs were tired. I was surprised to see we were on Rider Avenue. Tears again. I thought of my husband and son at home and I knew they were cheering, tracking me and sending me all their love and strength. I reached into my pocket and touched the stone my 6 year old son AB had given me. For two days prior to my departure he held it tight, gave it some of his energy. I drew on that.

Then, there we were, running down Fifth Avenue. I kept envisioning my mom and Aunt Mary in the grandstands at the finish line and I kept moving forward. I continued to focus on the cheers, every, Every Mother DOES count. I could hear the shouts for my sister, go She Will (her shirt read She Will Endure All Things, but her bib covered up the last three words so all people could see was She Will. It was perfect.) Suddenly, out of nowhere, that old familiar IT pain in my right leg screamed at me. I stopped, stretched, shook it out, but it wasn't going away. I had a 5K left, I could do it. We were running through Central Park and I breathed in the trees and the colors and the beauty. I got into a pattern, run, stop, shake-out, run, stop, shake-out. I just need to remain on my own two feet. Look ahead and run.

We turned onto 59th, the Plaza Hotel to our left and my sister and I grabbed hands. We ran together, pulling each other forward, knowing the finish line was within reach. Look ahead and run. We turned once more into the park and as we passed the flags representing all the countries I knew we were almost there. I spied my mom and Aunt first and the tears came yet again. My dear mom held her camera proudly and hollered at us to stop so she could snap a photo. We weren't quite across the finish line so we smiled but ran on. Did I hear my name announced over the loud speaker? I may have, I don't know. I do know that I flung my arms out to the side, tilted my head back, closed my eyes and took a deep breath - I did it. I crossed the finish line of the New York City Marathon.

The dollar bill wasn't the only #foundchange along the way.

I woke that Sunday morning a runner, I went to bed a marathoner.




to be continued......