So alright, I know it’s been four months since my last post.  But don’t think I have forgotten about you.  It’s just that I have been very busy. Too busy for you, you say? Well, I know, I am sorry, I just get wrapped up in all my own stuff that I forget sometimes that there are people out there concerned for my well being.  Please don’t be angry, I am not trying to be selfish.

Many days I have written to you here–within the confines of my own swirling brain. I just never seem to get the time to sit and write it down.  Soon another day has gone by and I have new thoughts, making yesterdays thoughts jump to the back seat.  Pretty soon I have so much to say to you that I say nothing. You know how that goes, right?

So I sit here today all sheepish and guilty and hope that you still love me and listen while I  give you a brief synopsis of why the heck I cannot find time in my life to turn out a cohesive sentence. Here is why: I opened a bakery called ‘Just Baked’, I had Wash R Ware trade shows for 3 months,  The Holidays crept in, I messed up my right knee, my house is a disaster, and to top it off my family unit has taken a tumble toward the bizarre as Mark and I try to figure out our futures seperately, and my 18 year tells me things like “I am a terrible mother” and “why didn’t I make him lunch….even terrible mother’s make kids lunch” while telling me also that he is 18, making him old enough to drink in his eyes and certainly old enough to get into car accidents.

All of these will be explored in far more detail in blogs to come, don’t worry.  It’s just that I needed to do a quick check in with you all to let you know that I am still here.  There is a boatload of experiences happening in my life right now.  Do I write the personal stuff? Yes, I think that I will–question is, can you handle it?  If not please unsubscribe right now. If you are not a friend or supporter, and only a gossiping voyeur who visits this blog to gather information to use against me, please jump off. Otherwise, hang on, I’ll be right back…

While waiting at the check out desk to schedule my follow-up, I heard  another  doctor giving a list of instructions to a woman behind me in line:

“Friday you’ll come to the 10th floor for your first infusion, here’s where you go for your MUGA heart scan, fill these prescriptions by tomorrow and take them Friday morning before you come…..’

An all-too familiar shiver went up my spine as he rambled on.

Suddenly, here was that fine  line I walk, again, the one between leaving people to their own grief or getting involved. I struggle with this. Sometimes I keep to myself, wishing I had said something. In this case, the feeling of panic and fear emanating from behind my back was  so palpable that I reacted before I had time to convince myself to mind my own business.  And this time, I was glad I did.

I turned around to see a woman, older than me by maybe seven years with her husband.  Both looked like they had just witnessed a train wreck or walked through a haunted house.

“You’ll get through this.” I said, “Honestly, you are going to be ok.”

Her gratitude almost made her knees give out and I showed her to the chair.

“I’m so overwhelmed.” she said, shuffling through a pile of papers in her hand; white, purple, yellow copies of instructions, and prescriptions, consent forms and test results. Her husband sat on the other side of her, rustling through his own papers, alternately looking over at me like I actually had the answer to the question I know he wanted to ask, “Am I going to lose her?”

I told her things I had learned:

“The chemo will be hard at first but they give you lots of drugs to counteract the side-effects.”

“Wint-O-Green mints really helped me.”

“Three days after infusion you will start to feel a little better.”

“Take the Ativan.”

She thankfully accepted my comfort as I rubbed her arm and put my hand on her shoulder–gestures that usually are reserved for only your closest friends and relatives.

“Will I  be able to walk out of here after the chemo treatment?” she asked me.

“Oh definitely,” I said, “You will be tired and your head will be fuzzy from the chemo and the drugs but you will be fine.  Really.”

I learned that she had been treated for uterine cancer through surgery and was doing well enough to not need chemo or radiation. But after 5 weeks she was in great pain– the cancer returned as a large tumor in her upper abdomen.

“Five weeks!, ” She said, “I was walking on air, had a new lease on life.  I couldn’t stop smiling, and then bang, just like that…”

She enjoyed those 5 weeks immensely, not knowing what lay around the corner or the next battle she was going to have to face.  This confirmed what I believe stronger every day–There is no sense in ruining today by worrying what might happen tomorrow. My cancer could come back at anytime–it’s why they want me to take these medications–to avoid the recurrence that could be deadly.  But it does me no good to worry about that until it happens. Deal with each hurdle as they come, don’t sit around overwhelming yourself with what might happen. I would much rather squeeze as much life out of today like my friend in the doctor’s office did.  If she’d known the cancer would return, how unhappy and anxiety-ridden those 5 weeks would have been.  Instead she has wonderful happy memories of a time when she totally enjoyed her new life–and those memories might just give her enough strength to get her through her next hurdle.

“I’m so sorry, “I said, “But it’s great that you had those weeks, right? Imagine if you didn’t ever get to be that happy?…and now you will just get through this–you just will.”

I don’t know this woman nor do I know for sure that she will get through this.  But so often all it takes is some ones’ faith in your strength and ability to muddle through–sometimes it’s enough to hold onto when you think you can’t do it any more.

“I am not giving up,” she said, looking straight into my eyes.

When I left the office she squeezed my hand and thanked me.

“I am so glad you said something, ” she kept saying, “So glad you said something…”.

Me too.

So here I sit, 35 years later feeling the same way I did that summer day.
Recently, since riding in the PMC, some friends and blog readers have called me ‘inspirational’. Upon hearing or reading this, I get very proud and stand a little taller like I have just received a well-deserved award in the mail, but after a few minutes of self-congratulating, I am that middle school phony again. Somehow the title of ‘inspirational’ is not deserved. I can’t really fathom why I would be inspirational to another human being, but what seems to be a recurring theme when this is mentioned, is the fact that I battled cancer and I that do triathlons.  I was advised by a close friend to not write this blog because it would anger my readers, the very ones who have given me the moniker, but I am hoping you will all understand that I don’t mean to piss you off or sound like I am looking for you to gush further to me about ‘how inspirational” you really think I am, I just honestly don’t get the whole thing and when my mind is grappling with a concept, the best way for me to figure it out — is to write it out. So please bear with me.

Yes I had breast cancer. So have millions of women and men around the world. Some have survived, some have died. The fact that I survived so far, has nothing to do with any act on my part. It’s just the luck of the draw. I don’t feel like I perpetuated  the cancer by my actions in the first place and therefore do not deserve credit for fighting it. Sometimes treatments work, sometimes they don’t. As far as the ‘cancer-fight’ goes, I also don’t believe I fought any harder than someone who died from the disease. So my fight can’t be considered inspirational unless you want to condemn all those who have lost their lives to cancer as slackers who gave in.

Was treatment tough? Absolutely. I hated every minute of it, hated being sick, and bald and tired and worried all the time. I suppose I could have been considered inspirational during that time, only because I tried not to complain and just got through it. But every cancer patient I know doesn’t complain and seems to have the strength of thousands when it comes to their coping skills. Think about anyone you know in cancer treatment of every phase and you’ll know what I mean.

Also, I am not in treatment anymore. I am strong and healthy, probably stronger and healthier than I’ve ever been. So to call me an inspiration now makes me uncomfortable.

The other aspect of my ‘inspiration’ comes in the form of my exercise. Granted I excercise a lot. More than many but less than others. I’ve just gotten used to that and feel terrible on days I don’t do something. But my excercise is completely selish–I want to look good and feel good–and here’s the key, I am lucky enough to be  healthy enough to be able to run, bike and swim. Inspiration to me is the athlete who lost his leg and still runs or rides.  The body part I lost has no effect on what I can do with my body( now of course, if I started breast feeding at this point–yes you could call me inspirational!)

There have been those  I know I have inspired  to start running or biking just by my writing about how much I love it.  This is wonderful–if that’s the case then yes, call me ‘inspirational’– better yet all me ‘motivational’. Because to be a true inspiration you must motivate someone to do something. It makes me very happy when I know that  I have encouraged someone to get out there and run. It’s the fastest easiest way to slim down and get healthy. But I am not inspirational for doing races or triathlons. I do these things because I like to stay in shape. The true inspiration here is my friend Julie who makes me sign up for these races and then encourages me to compete.

So this is a lot of words to tell you that it is each and every one of you in my life that actually ‘inspires’ me. And I am much more comfortable talking about your inspirational qualities than my own.  With your words of encouragement, and your friendships, and even those I have never met, who tell me that they like my writing.  I am inspired every day by strangers and friends alike.  I am inspired by the woman I met who bought a necklace for her 17 year old niece, the one she raised since the girl was 3 when her father died of cancer. I  am inspired by my friends who struggle every day to raise their kids alone, or hold their families together in times of crisis. Inspired by the woman who must visit her husband in the nursing home everyday and watch the light slip from his eyes. Inspired by friends who go out of their  way to make me feel happy when they are not.  I am inspired daily by my children who surprise me constantly with their love and loyalty.  I am inspired by my sisters who support me in every decision I make and by my brother who rages against demons and fights hard enough to ensure he meets another sunrise.

I could go on, and I probably have gone on far too long.  But thank you for letting me ramble because as I come to the end of this diatribe, what I’ve discovered is this: Each of us has the ability to inspire someone else, just by being thoughtful and kind, or by facing every day with a smile,  and I for one should not feel bad about being called ‘inspirational’ as I hope you are all not bothered when I call you the same.

Friends are so alarming
My lovers never charming
Lifes just a cocktail party on the street
Big apple
People dressed in plastic bags
Directing traffic
Some kind of fashion
Shattered

==============================================

At 3:30 on Sunday morning at Mass Maritime, it sounded like someone was standing outside the dorm heaving  buckets of water at our window.  The rain was relentless.  Oh well, so much for a 4:30 am  start. We closed our eyes for another half hour and then packed it up, resigning ourselves to a day of riding in the rain. We’d get to P-town no doubt about that, but at a much slower pace than the day before.

After taking my broken luggage to the medic to be wrapped in Saran Wrap for transport, getting some breakfast, and searching in vain for a cup of tea, we set off over the Bourne bridge.  It’s tough going up the Bourne bridge as it is a very steep climb and we are only given 1/2 a lane to ride in, so it’s difficult to pass the slower riders whose gears are getting jammed from the incline.  But to me that wasn’t as scary as riding down the other side with slick roads and squeaky breaks–which I clamped tightly until the ground leveled out.  Once that was done, though, we pretty much stayed ahead of the rain throughout the cape, riding with a comfortably overcast sky and occasional drizzle. The hills in Barnstable and again in Truro were tough but completely manageable. The roads were quite slick though as was the white line on the shoulder.  Many riders hit that line, and went down, their tires slipping right out from under them.  Susan and I were lucky to not be involved in any of  these accidents, but we saw quite a few and heard stories of many more…like Doug Lyons’ excursion as he road over some woman who went down and then flipped over his handlebars (he was fine), or the pediatric surgeon who wiped out and needed an ambulance but was also able to diagnose his own injuries.

We reached P-town with much hoopla from the fans, showered in the horrific tent made from tarps and cold piped in water, ate some food and drank some Harpoon. And the skies opened up again.  It was then I promised Susan we would not be late for the  3 o’clock party boat to Boston (like last year) and that we would leave in plenty of time to get a dry seat on the lower deck of the ship, preferably near the bar.

“But first let’s have one more beer.”

At some point, the people we were talking to, who had a reservation on the 4 o’clock ferry, asked, “Ummm, why are you still here?”

It seemed everyone else was gone.  So we donned garbage bags and matching hats (Susan’s gift to me on Friday was a hat that I had admired on her) and we ran, through the rain and puddles, through the streets of P-Town.  At one point taking off our shoes, thinking it was easier to run barefoot (it wasn’t).

The whole time Susan was saying things like,”You promised me…..”  and  ”I’m too old for this…..” and “Why did you say we could have another beer?”

To which I answered…..”Why did you listen to me?   Don’t ever, ever listen to me when it comes to anything regarding being responsible….ever.”

But we made it to the boat with 2 whole minutes to spare and Susan asked this guy to take our picture and as he did told us that looking at us reminded him of the Rolling Stones….and so we danced…happy to be dry, and done.

I must say the weekend went very smoothly for Susan and I.  Up at 3:30 Saturday morning, we dragged her VERY LARGE suitcase onto the school bus. This giant red rolling piece of luggage got quite a few stares and whistles from the men who were able to carry only a small backpack and live in the same clothes for 3 days. Unfortunately for Susan, her bag was very cumbersome because she had to stuff a sleeping bag into it along with her clothes and of course a few extra pair of shoes; just in case.  I had the luxury of Mark being there as a road crew mechanic to take my blanket with him in the van.  The reason Susan even had a sleeping bag was just in case we ended up in the tent again like last year when we got locked out of our room. Unlike me, Susan is always prepared for any situation that might arise. I on the other hand, am not, as was obvious when my own luggage ripped apart in the rain and I was left carrying a garbage bag (brought by the ever-prepared, Susan), looking a little like a homeless person.

Susan and her suitcase

The ride on Saturday was uneventful–  No flats, no accidents, no physical pain for either of us. No Lance siting, either, although we heard lots of stories at the end of the day regarding whose friend’s friend got to ride with him.We rode the 110 miles on Saturday from Sturbridge, taking in the extra 38 mile difference from the Wellesley start we have done in the past. Susan was a trooper, rolling along with the crowd as I continued to get into ‘race’ mode and zip ahead, attaching myself to groups that passed me. At certain points I would stop and wait for Susan, and then everyone I had just passed, rolled by me. Then I would stay with her for a little, until I got the urge to rush away again. I had a hard time, especially on the up-hills, going slow and steady. My instinct is to race ahead whenever I can and Susan was very understanding of this, knowing that we both have our own riding styles.

The 2nd to last water stop on Saturday was in Lakevillke where the Pedal-Partner’s tent was set up. The pedal-partners are children in treatment at Dana Farber and are sponsored by one of the many teams at the PMC. In order to have a pedal-partner you must have at least 5 members on your team . Since Susan and I are a team of 2, we don’t have a pedal partner. The tent was filled with children of all ages , some bald, some in wheelchairs, some on bikes….and they were all smiling –happy to be a part of the PMC and knowing that our ride and fundraising are part of saving their lives. Susan and I walked a way from that tent a little taller, with reinforcement once again of why we do this every year.

We arrived at Bourne around 2:30, a half hour later than last year, which is pretty good considering the extra hills of Sturbridge, our short night’s sleep, and the fact that it was quite hot.   My plan of attack last year once reaching Bourne was in this order :

Beer–Shower–Food–Beer–Massage–Bed.

Because we stopped for beer first last year, our roomates scoffed the lower bunks, leaving Susan and I to the very wobbly upper beds, which in turn led us to trying to steal another room, getting locked out, becoming homeless, and finally crashing in on Mark’s tent. It was all a little too much for Susan so she changed-up the order of things this year.  Her plan of attack was as follows:

Shower–Beer –Food–Massage–Bed.

At first this system seemed to work better as we were the first to arrive in our rooms, pulled the wafer thin mattresses to the floor and avoided the bed in the sky.  The problem occurred when we missed the third step altogether–food. After our showers, we immediately met up with my friend Michelle who was a volunteer at the PMC and her younger brother Robbie who I hadn’t seen since High School.  This led to many beers and laughs about how Michelle was volunteering in ‘logistics’ and basically the only thing she did all night was to get Susan a water. (I realized the next day that we stood and drank beer with these guys and never sat down.  After 110 miles riding, we never sat until we went to bed that night.)  You can see here in my picture with Billy Starr that we were feeling little pain at that point. When he asked me who I was I said “I am Fran the Great and you are Billy the Greater, so take a picture with me…” I figured his ego may not be big enough and he might need a little boost from me.

At 6:00 pm,  we realized that it was time for my “living proof photo” down by the waterfront and we all ran down for that. This is always a bittersweet moment in the day, as 200 plus riders, all cancer survivors like myself gather for a photo.  This year Billy gave a little talk and toast which was very nice.  Then we figured we’d better eat, but, unfortunately when we ran back to the food tent, dinner was being cleaned up.  We managed to snag some cold, limp hamburgers and a baked potato but that was about it.  All I really wanted at this point was a cup of tea–which was to be an impossibility over the weekend even though Dunkin Donuts was a sponsor. Tea drinkers are definitely discriminated against in this country.  I think I should move to Ireland.

So off we went to bed in our hot dorm room with empty stomachs and sore legs, once again setting our alarms for 3:30 am.

(To be continued…)

So after six months of riding many, many miles–sometimes starting as early as at 5 am, sometimes on as little as 3 hours sleep, sometimes in 90 degree heat– we have finally reached the weekend of The Pan Mass Challenge. After 1600 miles, and numerous encounters with deer,squirrels, chipmunks, raccoons, and one poor deceased cat, Susan and I are tucked into our hotel beds in Southbridge,waiting to be woken by our cell phone alarms at 3:30 am so we can embark on our 190 mile journey all in the name of raising money for cancer research.

As the summer wore on and our miles added up I found myself getting increasingly agitated with having to get up so early and ride. There were many day that I just wanted to stay in bed, text Susan and tell her I wasn’t going to ride that day. Of course I didn’t do that, even on days that I hadn’t gone to bed until 2:30 in the morning. When you ride a hundred plus miles in a week it is easy to get bored with it all and lose sight of why you are on that stupid bike to begin with — easy to forget the real reason you put your body through this.
But here, tonight, I remembered the reason we do this, the reason we train all week, ride our bikes for hours on end when we should probably be cleaning the house or mowing the lawn or walking the poor dog, who looks at you with sheer disappointment every time you walk out the door with your helmet on, is quite simple…. It’s because, as Lance Armstrong said tonight, because….we love to bike and we hate cancer.
We hate cancer,we hate cancer, we hate cancer……….
(This I will continue tomorrow as it is now late, Susan is asleep, and if I don’t get to bed there is no way I will be able to ride 112 miles in the morning……so I will check back once I get to Bourne. )

I was seven years old the day I walked home from school to find an empty house, cleared of all it’s furnishings, the halls echoing back my voice as I shouted, “anybody home?” It’s a clip, just a celluloid sized snippet of a moment that I recall — sitting on that front porch, wondering where my family had gone and why no one bothered to tell me that they were moving to another house across town. Perhaps they did.  Perhaps I forgot, as seven year olds are apt to do.   This particular move was only the first of many moves, often at  six or ten month intervals.  In response to the transient life I was given, I learned a thing or two about adjusting to change.

For most people, change is scary– wheather it is changing jobs, or moving to a new city, or going back to school. It’s the storm cloud in the distance, the open chasm that looms over the edge of the cliff, sometimes it can feel as vast as the ocean with no land in sight. Some people will do anything to avoid the fear of the unknown and stay in miserable situations like a dead-end job, a loveless marriage, or an over-mortgaged home far too long, simply to avoid what lay on the other side.  The devil you know is far better than the one you don’t…as my mother would say.

Sometimes change  is thrust upon us– like every time my family moved to a new town.  I was not consulted, just told every six months or so, “Ok, pack it up Franny, we are moving again”. Or if your partner decides to leave or you get fired from your job. This particular kind of life altering change is tough to take because you did not choose it. You are told that it is time to get going. You haven’t had time to prepare. So this type of change feels extremely daunting.

The second type of change; the one I have begun to revel in over the past few years with my renewed understanding that life is so fleeting, so precious, so ridiculously brief; is change that is self-initiated. This is the type of change that makes me try new things like a jewelry business, or starting a bakery and makes me continue to stretch the limits of what my body can do physically by upping the ante from sprint triathlons to olympic distance races.

What usually happens is that we stay in situations far too long out of fear and then a change is thrust upon us. But what would happen  if we had initiated the change ourselves, before it got so bad, before the house was in foreclosure or before the boss was yelling at us on a daily basis? If we had initiated the change ourselves and not waited for someone else to do it for us, then not only would the outcome not be so bad–it would be amazing.

It’s taking that first leap that is so very difficult.  Deciding that that’s it, something has to change.  I deserve a great life, an exciting life, a happy life. And trusting that although it may be tough for a while, you will always land on your feet.  Somehow, my father instilled that in me.  I have always known that I will be ok.  That life will throw some crap my way but deep down I have always been confident that I will be fine. I believe I have many guardian angels–but that’s a blog for another day.

Sometimes it’s easy to initiate the change, but it is the second step that is hardest.  Maybe it’s easy to start the ball rolling, but once it goes over the cliff, chances are you can’t get it back.  And that is ok. The other aspect of accepting change is not to look back. Just keep moving in a forward direction and eventually you will get to a place where you are happy and fulfilled.

Because what is the alternative to change? Stagnation. Living without moving forward.  Where there is no change there is no learning, no growing. In my constant quest to figure out why on earth I am here, I now understand that my only goal is to be the best person I can possibly be and while striving for that, to help as many people along the way as I possibly can.  I can’t do that if I am stuck in  rut.  I can’t do that if I don’t challenge my goals on a daily basis.  I can’t contribute to society unless I am consistently trying to change myself or my world for the better. It’s an on-going process and I don’t feel as if I am even close to where I should be…which makes me want to continue to push things a little further.

There is one more major factor that must be in place, when trying to change your world. You have to have friends who support you. I am lucky enough to have some of the greatest people in my life who constantly support me, encourage me, root me on. They are always available for tea or a phone call, or a late night chat–even when they are exhausted and probably have to get up early in the morning.  Without these  beautiful souls in my life I am not sure change would come as easy for me. If you are lucky like me and have these people in your life, hold on to them. These are the ones who will tell you that no matter what changes you make, they will be there for you–even if it means sailing out onto the vast ocean with you or scaling the chasm.  Even if they think you are crazy. And that’s ok, because sometimes what seems like a crazy idea is exactly the change that the world was looking for.

I swear at you. I call you a stupid, lazy, gas guzzling, bastard. You give me the finger and call me a psychotic, spandex-wearing, left-wing bitch.

And then you are gone.

My adrenaline remains high because you have driven away and I can’t resolve this argument. You don’t get to tell me that you are late for your meeting  or that if you come to work late one more time that the boss said he’d fire you and you overslept today because you had to drop the kids off at the babysitters, so having to slow down for me and my bicycle, really pisses you off.

I don’t get to tell you that I am riding in the PMC to raise money for cancer research and that I am on this road during the morning commute because I have too many miles to log and there are just so many hours in a day. Since you don’t stop, I can’t explain that I am a cancer survivor so this race is particularly important to me. I don’t get to tell you about the health benefits of bicycle riding. But this I fear would fall on deaf ears because you would probably tell me to go ride on the bike trail, to “leave the road for the cars”–like you screamed at me that time out your truck window as you cut me off in that intersection in Groveland. Remember that? But you are always gone in a flash of dust and gas and exhaust so I can’t explain to you that the bike path is more for families with toddlers on tricycles and babies in jogging strollers.

I need to ride with you on the road, shoulder to shoulder–even though most times that shoulder is littered with sand and glass so I must maneuver into your lane for a few seconds–which you claim I do on purpose, just to spite you.

I wonder if you stay mad at me all day. I don’t stay mad at you. Once you are past me, I let you go and put that energy into pumping my legs harder and riding faster. I grip the handlebars tighter until you are out of sight and then I relax again.  In your vehicle there is no outlet for your anger except to rev your engine, lay on the horn, and maybe turn up your radio. Does every cyclist you see for the rest of the day feed into your hatred. Does that co-worker in the desk next to you who commutes to work from the north shore, get under your skin? Do you make fun of his helmet behind his back? Secretly pray that he doesn’t get that promotion?  I don’t know because I am not you. I am me—a psychotic, spandex-wearing left-wing bitch, who isn’t trying to ruin your day,  who is just trying to co-exist with a stupid, lazy gas-guzzling bastard like yourself.

ps. Have a nice day.

As the school year comes to a close, I am finding it harder and harder to keep it all straight. End of year picnics, brunches, dances and finals all fighting to be remembered in a brain that has about half the memory capacity that it used to. Sports schedule changes and team dinners are announced in  daily  e-mails that get looked at and put aside to respond to at a later date and then forgotten. Three separate schools all with different end-of -year activities all hoping for a piece of my time.  Time which I see ticking down, my personal time, those precious hours alone soon to be over as the final half -day looms above me. Add to that work, running, biking, spring clean-up inside and out and general daily living; it’s enough to make someone feel like they are drowning in a sea of expectations.

So is it just a coincidence that I almost actually drowned at Walden Pond 2 weeks ago?  In the midst of all this scheduling  and training, Susan and I rode to Concord.  The plan was that we ride the 25 miles there, I swim, and then we ride 25 miles back. Simple enough,  I am training for an olympic distance triathlon(.8 mile swim/26.2 mile bike/6.2 mile run) so this should be no problem, right? The problem was that it got very cold.  That Thursday the temperature had dropped to about 50-60 degrees, down from 80 degrees the previous week.  I hadn’t noticed that the only two other swimmers that day had wet suits on and I didn’t.

Needless to say I found myself smack in the middle of the pond, dizzy and disorientated coupled with a very disturbing sensation of not being able to move my arms.  For a short time I considered just closing my eyes and resting because I couldn’t move from my vertical position. I started to panic when I realized that this is how “strong swimmers” drown.  Had I closed my eyes at that point I am sure I would have sunk to the bottom. It’s very difficult to explain how close I was to that point of sinking, but I know that I was, the same way you  instinctively know when your kids are sad even when they say they are ‘fine’.

In an article my friend Beth sent me the other day called “Drowning Doesn’t Look Like Drowning“ (See Full Article Here) it states that,” Drowning is not the violent, splashing call for help that most people expect,” but rather it is “almost always deceptively quiet.” It was extremely quiet out on the pond that day.  Susan sat 1/4 mile away on shore waiting patiently for my return so we could ride home, but I had no way to alert her, because “drowning people are physiologically unable to call for help.”  And I couldn’t move my arms–this is called The Instinctive Drowning Response.  “Drowning people cannot wave for help.  Nature instinctively forces them to extend their arms laterally and press down on the water’s surface.”  

At some point, which seemed like a very long time but I realize now had to have been only seconds, I got on my back and kicked without using my arms.  I made my way toward the side shore and after a few minutes flipped back over and swam back to Susan, the whole time consciously hugging the shoreline. We then rode home to Reading and although I was quite shaken by the whole experience, I was more baffled as to why it happened.  I didn’t think I was that tired getting into the water and I am strong enough to be able to handle that kind of training.

I found out later it was a simple explaination.  The water was cold that day.  Colder than I thought since I was hot from my bike ride when I entered the pond. A little research told me that cold water that enters your ear can cause dizziness while swimming and that a cheap pair of earplugs would alleviate the problem. It’s true.  I swam yesterday with earplugs and had no problems.

Although I am now safely on land I can’t get the image out of my head.  And as my days get more and more crammed with activities and responsibilities and as my life seems to be whizzing by, often I am left with the same feeling that I am drowning. Just like in the water, drowning people on land get very quiet; as they get busier and more overwhelmed by their lives they close in on themselves and become quiet and distant, unable to call for help.  I’ve witnessed this first hand in friends who are overwhelmed and depressed–they move toward solitude–I’ve done it myself.  At the time when you most need to talk and vent , you lose that ability, because you are just trying to stay above water, get through your day, not forget something like your daughters chorus recital or your son’s soccer dinner.

Most fascinating to me is this business about the arms. A drowning victim cannot move his arms. At Walden that day, they felt as heavy as lead and I couldn’t get my brain to move them no matter how hard I tried.  I’ve had this happen both in the water and on land. There have been times when I have been so overwhelmed that I just can’t muster the energy to wrap my arms around someone.  But that’s what I should do.  A hug can be a life-line.  At those times when I feel like I am drowning in life, if I could get my arms to move it might make it better.

So look around today; look for the signs. If a friend or family member is getting quiet on you, pulling away, beware, they may be drowning in their own life. Try to get them to talk to you, try to get them to use their arms, you just might save their life.

Being alone has been at the forefront of my mind recently. My teenage children 17, 14, and 11 have been particularly ornery lately and all three, even the nice middle one, have been using me as their punching bag. Quite often in the last few weeks I have thought and said out loud that I would like nothing more than to live alone on a cliff overlooking the ocean.  I wanted everyone to just leave me alone. It’s more than just a whimsical thought, believe me, I have considered it seriously. They are at an age where they don’t seem to really need me except for money and rides, all which could be provided by their father or other mom-stand-in.

Ah, to be alone. It’s what I crave–minutes, hours, days of endless me-time.

When it comes to exercise and training I prefer to go it solo. I’ve never been one to join running clubs or biking groups, although I am frequently asked.  I have always preferred to run alone, swim alone (dangerous, I know) and up until recently, bike alone. When I started training for my first triathlon, I used to bike alone. I would ride fast 15 mile sprints to prepare for my races. It never occurred to me to go further than that.

That all changed four years ago when  Susan showed up after having hip surgery .

“Hey, can I go biking with you some day. I’m not supposed to be running as much on my hip.”

“Sure,” I said, remembering the last woman in town who asked to bike with me.  After a fast and precarious ride around the Wakefield rotary at Lake Quannapowit during morning rush hour, I never  heard from her again. It worked once, I was sure it would work again.  Susan didn’t look so tough to me.  If the rotary didn’t throw her off than the straight shot up Charles street with the trucks and potholes would surely send her away and I could get back to my solo training in no time.

“We’ll go tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll take you to Wakefield, by Lake Q.  See you then.”

Well obviously you know how that ended. Three Pan-Mass seasons later we have become official ‘bike partners’. Susan, my sherpa, my bike-Nazi was tougher than I thought. Her slight frame and matching outfit belied her core strength and tenacity. When we got home from the 13 mile ride replete with every obstacle imaginable short of coyotes, she said, ”That was great. What time tomorrow?”

And so began my slow slide from solo-biker to biker-dependent. Nowadays it is Susan who maps our routes and she is always the one who insists we ride even when I am advocating going back to bed–just for a little while. Usually if Susan isn’t riding, neither am I.

But yesterday Susan was working and it was a beautiful day and I didn’t feel like running; so I rode alone. At first it felt wonderful.  I was free to go fast or slow, whenever I wanted. I cut some sharp lefts in front of cars that Susan would never have allowed and pushed through yellow lights where Susan would have stopped. I felt liberated and independent. ‘I don’t need Susan to ride with’ I thought.

Yesterday as the miles rolled by, and I was imagining my cottage on the cliff and how happy I would be to be alone and away from my family; I was thinking how quiet and perfect it would be. Then I saw a biker riding while talking on his cell phone.  If Susan were there we would have scoffed at that together and discussed the dangers of cell-phone use in all moving vehicles.  But I just shook my head.  Then I saw a bird eating an egg. I surely would have mentioned that to Susan and something along the lines of “eating your young” and maybe how I could understand that a little these days.  But she was not there, so I rode along–making mental notes of my surroundings and as the miles added up and my ride continued I started to get lonely.  It seemed so great when I had started out a few hours before but now I wanted someone with me to notice all that I saw.

Alone is good in small doses, for short rides. But the long haul demands company. I imagine my cottage on the cliff would be similar to my bike ride. At first I am sure it would be quite liberating to be alone, sleep as long as I wanted, cook for myself, and have no one yelling at me.  I could take sharp lefts and speed through yellow lights and for a while that would be great. But when the sun came up over the water and the seagulls fought over a fish on the shore, who would I share that with? Without others along for your ride to share in the beauty and absurdities this world offers –it’s simply not as fun.