Yeau Claire

No sense in quarantining the TP

When I left Lehigh on March 20th, 2020, just before they sealed it up like a giant stone Tupperware, none of us knew how long we’d be gone before things got back to normal. It was my first full-time academic job, as a VAP the year after I’d earned my PhD there. Closing the door on Drown 303 felt like a change, like the end of something, like the beginning of something, like a surreal suspended animation or like I’d walked out into the spring air of an alternate universe—but I didn’t imaging I’d never be back.

Leaving my beloved home on the north side for an academic conference the following summer felt much the same. I packed, blithely told my kitties I’d be back soon, printed out the paper I was giving, and headed up in the general direction of the Mass Pike. It was there that I got an unexpected phone call offering  me a multi-year position eleven hundred miles away—with a catch. I needed to be there in a month.

Thirty-seven days. That’s how long I had to pull up the roots that had been growing for a decade, find a place to live, fly out for three days to attend in-person training and sign a lease, and transplant myself and everything I owned. But the truth of the matter is, I’d been uprooted several times in the intervening fifteen months, even while mostly locked in my cherished 650 square feet of sunny, pre-war space: unimaginable life changes for my beloved that still weigh on me, a failed contract renewal due to Covid, eight and a half months of increasingly debilitating symptoms that took seven infusions (that nearly damn killed me, thank you very much Affordable Care Act for forcing me to use a drug it turns out I'm deathly allergic to) and a surgery that ended up being not nearly as simple as anyone expected. The loss, again, this time irrevocably so, of a dearest, precious friend with whom I had finally been able to make amends, due to things beyond either of our control. An incredibly hard year of online adjuncting, half of it at a school I still haven’t set foot on the campus of. I’m still not entirely sure where it is beyond the exit sign off 22. Five weeks of filling in for parental leave at Lehigh after the Dean managed to screw me with my pants on one last time.

So moving to Wisconsin never felt like a choice. It has always felt, in some ways, like a desperate loss, despite how happy I am here in the larger sense of fulfillment. It still feels like an amputation, a bewildering exodus by night. A flight from something. I still don’t know what. I'm still mourning the old life that I'm just now starting to accept would never have returned even if I had stayed there. 

 

 

I can't believe I get to work here.

 But it's full spring here, finally. I haven't been down to the river since my sister came to visit me in October, when I took this picture, but finals start next week and I have many many riverine plans (not to mention a deep-seated call that I now recognize as not just the Chippewa but also Anishinaabewi-gichigami, Lake Superior), and I'm slowly starting to put down roots here, even if they're mostly just herbs in the window boxes. Part of the joy of my presence here is tempered by the knowledge that I'll be here less than five years. And I think that's part of the problem too. That I forgot that, on top of everything else that's happened in the past two years, my very presence in Doodlehem was always supposed to be impermanent. 

And so I continue in this liminal, limerent space, in this not-quite-reality that I know will end, because everything around me the past two years has pointed towards that in a way that it never has before. And at nearly fifty, I'm not sure how I should feel about that. While Covid cases continue to rise, a recent email from university administration characterized the pandemic as "distracting." Students continue to be exposed but no longer mask. My partner and I continue to be in the holding pattern brought on by both our situations. I plant annuals in the garden, because I know I'll have to dig up anything perennial I want to take with me. I continue to agitate and protest and advocate for BIPOC folks in my community because my students are freaked out and my colleagues and friends are furious, and it matters deeply, and I love them so much--but I also subconsciously know that at some point I'll have to quantify that for my academic future, which is something that feels both totally gross and absolutely necessary. 

I'd stay if you'd have me, but I know that's not how this works.

Who's the Turkey Now?

It was Thanksgiving in Three Feathers a few days ago, which meant not only the usual hilarity about a misplaced grand piano (apparently my mother, my two sisters, and I are the only people on the planet ever to have read Home Sweet Homicide, because this joke makes precisely zero sense to the rest of the populace), it also meant that my mother had bought several boxes of Advent candles. I am forty-five damn years old, and I have never once bought my own Advent candles. The two years I lived in Spokane, my mother actually mailed them to me from 2600 miles away. Because, you know...moms.

I pointed this out when my dad called the week before Thanksgiving to find out if I had recently acquired any orphans who would be joining us for dinner (don't laugh, it's happened. More often than not, actually. One year the orphan was trapped at work because an NPR party don't stop, so I brought Thanksgiving to him, but that's another story entirely). Before ringing off, he added, "Oh, and Mother has bought you Advent candles."

What? Of course she has. It would only be news if she hadn't. Between this and Home Sweet Homicide, sometimes I wonder how my dad puts up with us. Then I remember that for five years he and I had a standing date Thursday nights to take out the trash and hold hands on the walk back--our driveway is quite long, so it's enough of a walk to catch up on stuff--and that every time I visit them to this day, I still try to arrange it on a Thursday. When I realised somewhat belatedly that Thanksgiving was a Thursday yet again this year (how does that always happen? And how do I always manage to be surprised by it?) I actually said, "Ooo, it's trash night!"

So yeah. Maybe he's in with the right crowd.

That crowd, however, had a bit of a malfunction this year surrounding the Advent candles. When my mom found my set and tucked them into my briefcase, there were four of us in the room, not counting the turkey. Among the four of us there are five master's degrees, one juris doctor, and fully 9/10 of a Ph.D.

I mention this because it wasn't until two days later than anybody noticed that for the past eight years my Advent wreath gets stored at my parents' house. Which meant it was still in the attic when I left Thursday night, laden with candles and three different kinds of leftover pie.

Every year Solstice manages to forget how fire works.
Also, how the dining room table works, which is by not having cats on it.

You're Welcome

As I take a breather between pie crusts I am thinking about the way Thanksgiving is in my family. We take our Robert Frost and our Dorothy Day very seriously in these parts.

I think about my senior year in high school when Betsy's family left for Long Island before we got back from marching band, and as we sat down to eat the doorbell rang and there was Betsy holding out a bouquet of flowers she'd stopped at ShopRite for because she didn't want to show up empty handed. "Hi, I'm Betsy. Sara said it was okay to come over?"

And I'm reminded of the first Thanksgiving I ever hosted (my second Thanksgiving away from home; Daryl and I went to Brodsky's our first year) and suddenly calling Meg's mom and saying "Jane, how do you actually cook a turkey?" And five minutes before dinner, Kary and Georgia showed up with a Mrs Smith's pumpkin pie and some whipped cream and said, "We decided we wanted to have Thanksgiving after all, is it okay?"

And the one and only Thanksgiving I was married, when we had Thanksgiving on a Saturday because that's what you do when you're a chef, and all four of our parents and at least a couple of our siblings and some waitstaff from his restaurant and of course Robin showed up and it was a madhouse but it was our madhouse, and Robin just took over everything that my husband wasn't doing without asking if it was okay because he was Robin.

And I think of the night a few years ago when I loaded up my parents' cooler with leftovers to bring to the station for Alien Boy and the desk guard on duty and as I was leaving I heard my dad tell my mom, "I put in the rest of the apple pie to make sure there was enough, was that ok?" and my mom answering, "Good because I was worried that just the pumpkin wouldn't be enough." It was okay. It was more than okay.

It will always be okay. That's what it means, that phrase. It's not a formality when someone says thanks. It's what this house has always stood for, and will always stand for, no matter who occupies it.

You are welcome.

Another Exhaustive List

I don't want to come in here and constantly bitch and apologise about the fact that I'm never fucking around. I want to love this as much as I used to. I do love this as much as I used to. But.

Grief is exhausting. Seriously, I was not prepared for how long it would take all my energy just to exist every day, for how hard it would be not to collapse in a slithering wailing heap of bones Robin is dead in front of everyone. My diss advisor. My writing partner. My students. My friends. The mirror. People at the grocery store. Sometimes out of the blue I will be shopping in the cookie aisle at Shop-Rite (as one does), and the goddamn Pepperidge Farm Chesapeake Farmhouse cookies with the dark chocolate and the pecans will attack me from the side and I'll be crying my eyes out before I know it, because we used to wolf them down by the little white sleeve watching 60 Minutes or whatever. Mostly I'm better about this, but everything is still harder than it was.

Grad school is exhausting. I'm pretty sure I don't need to explain that, but just in case I do: OH MY GOD PEOPLE. This whole semester has pretty much been me hanging on by my fingernails, catching up just enough to keep from losing my shit entirely, and waiting for this week to finally arrive when all I have to do is grade finals and calculate grades--oh, and write an entire syllabus for English 1 for the fall, and a course description for the spring catalog for the lit class I have to finish designing that now has to have seven people in it in order to run, and oh hey yeah, how about that dissertation because you're totally fucking on the job market starting last August?

Also, it has been medically exhausting to be me for various reasons every since they decided it would be a good idea to take my gallbladder out before it exploded (which it apparently promptly did, all over the little pan they put it in once they took it out of my abdomen, which is equal parts funny and horrifying and also ew), and apparently now harbouring a case of IBS, which is exactly as unpleasant as everybody says it is. And because I'm in my mid-forties--and can we talk about that for a minute, because how did that happen all of a sudden--and have survived an endocrine cancer, every single hormone in my body has recently begun going haywire all at once, the finer details of which I will spare you, but suffice it to say that I have had no fewer than six gynecological appointments since my spontaneous ten-hour trip to the ER in mid-February and am now on a first-name basis with my uterus. (Actually, it's the fibroids that have names. I call them Snap, Crackle, and Pop. Though "pop" is more accurately a description of the hemorrhagic ovarian cyst that got me sent to the ER in the first place. But I digress.)

It was a long winter. And I'm still trying to get to the bottom of the endless fatigue.

But this guy.

This guy. He is everything. He has been through so much, and he is still so alive and fighting so hard to return to the living, and I could not be more amazed and in awe of him. Twenty years later, we are able to open up to each other with trust in a way that I didn't think was possible, and if this is to be my entire life I will clutch it with both hands and bless it, because it contains him.

Face the Strange

Horrifying to see how long it's been since I've posted. Lots has changed, lots hasn't.

What's changed (since you might not notice all of it)?

My last name has changed. Again. I reverted back to my maiden name effective this past Christmas. Don't tell the DMV yet, I haven't even gotten to the Social Security office.

My email address is changing for the first time in 18 years, so that's a little freaky and will take some adjusting for everyone. Goodbye, Earthlink, you've been lovely, but you're charging me for a service you can't provide and that's dumb.

I'm finally ditching Verizon's crappy sub-sub-sub-DSL because my neighbourhood isn't even wired for FiOS, too (related to email change, above).

My hair has been some very interesting shades of blue the past 18 months, some of which were entirely by accident.

Alien Boy. Well. That's changing, but it's also still the same. It's complicated. But what in life isn't?

What's the same?

My dissertation is still driving me crazy in a very good way. It's also eating all of my time, which is why I haven't posted in forever.

Robin is still dead. It still sucks just as hard as it ever did, but it doesn't always shock me as much when I realise it.

Solstice the cat is still the derpiest derp in derpville. He's now my only kitty, the others all having gone to the land where cats go (aka the field out behind my parents' chicken coop, under several inches of dirt and a very large rock to keep from being dug up). We're adjusting okay.

I'm still behind in my grading. Some things are constant. This is one of them.

Fly Away Home

I live in a neighbourhood of Doodlehem that is generally considered pretty safe--especially for something on this side of the river, since it's uphill, technically across the county line and its own municipality--but to get home from campus there's no avoiding the student ghetto (because, really, who doesn't love a college town slumlord?) and some very decidedly working-class residential neighbourhoods. I've been warned by my students, bless their hearts, not to walk down certain streets because "they're not safe"--which, in their insular little sometimes-unwittingly-racist minds, simply means "not white." As someone who's lived many years in and around New York City, their mindset makes me batshit crazy. The city residents I encounter daily on my walking commute to campus are friendlier than the average undergrad. Kids have come up to me and wished me happy mother's day even though I don't have kids, guys with dreadlocks have slowed down a half-block so they could share their umbrella with me, and the caretaker of the Latino church on the corner is always looking out for me to ply me with wilted flowers from the scraggly strip of grass between the sidewalk and the curb, as long as there's not too much dog shit there that day.

I really like my neighbourhood.

Today I came across a group of three kids on the sidewalk. Their one Razor scooter lay upturned on the concrete. The girl, who was maybe eleven, and the older boy huddled on their haunches around the younger boy--six at most--who was sitting with his palm upturned and tears threatening to brim over. The focus of all three kids was a small red bead of colour in the younger boy's hand. Thinking he had fallen and cut himself, I stopped short of the stop sign and rolled down my window to enquire if they needed help.

I had stumbled upon a ladybug funeral. They had found this tiny red dot of a bug earlier that morning and had decided to keep her as a pet, but in the sad ladybug way things sometimes go, she had not survived. These three--who were of a race and ethnicity I am continually warned against in this town--were reciting ladybug prayers before burying her under a leaf they'd plucked from a neighbour's tree.

They were kids. They aren't in anyone's gang. They aren't shooting rockets at each other across an arbitrary political border bitterly contested for sixty years. They aren't shooting missiles at passenger planes. On this particular day, they aren't even shooting water pistols at each other, though it might not be a bad day for that sort of thing.

Just kids, trying hard to understand why the world is the way it is, and loving something completely unlike them, so much that it hurts. 

Climbing Out, or Learning to Swim

I am doing one or the other. Have patience. I am still here, re-learning how to live, discovering how to navigate since the north star fell from my sky.

Bear with me. I'll be back soon. It was a hell of a winter, but spring returns.

In the meantime, say hello to Pip the Cat, Who Lives Upstairs. Pip is doing a pretty good job of expressing non-verbally how it's been going the past couple of months here in Doodlehem.

The Well of Grief

(c) Romano

Life is as hard and as easy as they say

Walking the steps we've chosen on this day

Some will be outrageous, some have rarely shown

Some will walk in couples, some will walk alone

As I think about the world I see

They stare and smile at me, at me

It happens every day at the crossing of the street

Walking out to see what's new and what is just the same

And the only word for love is everybody's name

And that will always stay

It happens every day

And every day will happen without you

I've noticed I keep resorting to other people's words. Lyrics. Favourite poems. Anyone who's had the misfortune to stumble across my twitter feed recently must think I'm an angsty teenager. But the truth of the matter is there is a deep dark well of loss where the words used to be. Someone I know recently posited that when we're at a loss for words, it's usually because we don't want to say the words we know are needed.

That, my friend, is a crock of shit.

In grief this deep, there is only silence.

This isn't going to be a very good blog post. Don't come here looking for language put together with care and beauty. Don't look for the uplift of hope at the end, the lilt of words that suggest I am finding my way out. You won't find it. Even if it's true, and experience and my gut says it is, right now I don't know that this is good for me, this sitting alone in the bottom of the well of grief, letting this all be true. Right now all I know is I am raging against any sort of grace that can exist in a world without him. 

Occasionally someone who doesn't know our history will ask who he was to me. And I'm genuinely at a loss for how to answer. Depending on who asks, or what kind of mood I'm in, I will probably say one of the following. He was a mentor to me. He was my best friend. He was my brother. At times, he was also, in ways too complicated and private to explain, my lover--but I probably won't tell you that. That was never anybody's business, and if you knew that about us, you already know more about our relationship than most people. Probably also including us pretty much most of the time.

But none of that explains our relationship. None of those descriptions do it justice. He was so much more than all of those things. It just gives you a box to put it in, to help you understand why I am so inexplicably sad sometimes lately. Why some days I don't get out of bed until mid-afternoon because I've stayed up beyond half the night before reading, staving off the darkness a little longer, when I'll have to close my eyes and face it again. That he's gone, and he's not coming back, no matter how many times I ask him to, no matter how many nights I dream of him. No matter how many times I have my phone in my hand, halfway to texting him something that I realise he probably already knows, and that whoever picks up his phone wherever it is these days isn't going to care, isn't going to say anything back to me that can make it any better. And none of it is going to make me open my front door someday, or walk into a room in a distant city somewhere, and come face to face with him, his hair doing one of the countless ridiculous things it was known to do--for in truth, his hair was never known to do anything but ridiculous things--his face squinched up in mirth and cracked just about in half with a grin just at seeing me, no matter how hard he may have wanted to throttle me five minutes ago (which was probably also true at least half the time, let's face it, and oh baby that feeling was so mutual it made me see plaid sometimes), that this face is never going to peer at me over the lip of this well of grief and ask me point-blank, "Hey dumbass. What are you doing down there? I'm not really gone."

Because he is.

Robin Romano: 1956-2013

I remember the November night almost ten years ago when we huddled in quilts and sweaters in front of your fireplace and read our favourite poems back and forth to each other to stave off the pain and the cold and the dark. I hear your voice speaking these words again tonight, asking me to read them back to you after you shared them. I hear your voice in everything. You taught me how to speak. Tonight the loss of you is a silence bigger than any words of my own, so I speak your favourite words back to your spirit tonight, to the part of you that might still listen from wherever you are.

The Port

The river is slow
and I knew I was late arriving but had no idea
how late
in the splintery fishing port silence
was waving from the nails
dry long since
the windows though rattling
were fixed in time and space
in a way that I am not nor ever was
and the boats were out of sight

all but one
by the wharf
full of water
with my rotted sea-clothes lashed to a piling
at its head
and a white note nailed there in a can
with white words
I was too late to read

when what I came to say is I have learned who we are

when what I came to say was
consider consider
our voices
through the salt

they waken in heads
in the deaths themselves

that was part of it

when what I came to say was
it is true that in
our language deaths are to be heard
at any moment through the talk
pacing their wooden rooms jarring
the dried flowers
but they have forgotten who they are
and our voices in their heads waken
childhoods in other tongues

but the whole town has gone to sea without a word
taking my voice

-W.S. Merwin
The Carrier of Ladders

On the Banks

Peace and All Goodness.

I realise this whole post is a bit more New Historicist/Reader Response/narrative theory meta-meta-meta-nerd than I usually get in this blog, but bear with me here. I’m trying to get at something that is not easy for me to express, or even to admit. 

Everything in this life is story. Maybe that’s odd coming from someone whose primary lens for viewing the world has always been poetry—especially since I tend to be more of a lyric poet than a narrative poet—but that is one true root that has been given me. We are the stories we tell. To each other, to ourselves, to the rivers and rocks and tree limbs. We are the stories we map in the stars at night, even when those stars are hidden from view and the hoot of the owl terrifies rather than reassures. The rivers themselves are stories.

The stories we tell ourselves are not always true ones. Honesty is often painful, especially in the dark, alone with ourselves and our worst fears and anxieties and memories. We remember how things should have been but weren’t. We get so caught up in what we think we wanted that we forget to be grateful for what is. We tell ourselves our version of the story so often we get confused between truth and fact. We forget that we can change our story, that maybe all good stories change over time.

Sometimes the best thing we can do is quietly hear the story out from someone else’s perspective. Just because right now, in this chapter, in this scene, we might be our own narrators, we forget we might be a part of someone else’s story—and it might be about something else entirely. And it might not be as scary as we thought. I was reminded again last night, while in the presence of beloved friends I don't see enough of, how much this becomes instinct over time, this forgetting to hear the stories of others. One of the most powerful things my friend Dan has ever said to me was this:

Stop being so afraid. We do so many awful things out of fear. It seems like most of our moral, ethical, and even religious tensions are bound to a need to control what we are afraid of or do not understand. To know this about ourselves might lead us to a different response, maybe even err on the side of love.

I don't think Dan knew just how close to the marrow he came when he said that. I think he was thinking about his own story, how it gets interwoven with the lives of others. I don't think he knew how much it was also my own story. Those aren't the words we use with each other most of the time. And I know he wasn't thinking of an internal picture of our skeletal structure, with a rotten broken heart and no lungs, barely breathing, concerned, confused, feathers launched like arrows through the dark to sprout directly from our fragile chests.

Stunned, but still breathing.

It might turn out that Emily Dickinson was right, that hope is the thing with feathers. It might turn out that what we thought over and over again was the hammering home of loss was actually a story about rebirth. It might be time for the story of us to change. It might even be that the story to which we thought we were doomed was no more than the prologue to the enduring myth of love. It may just be as simple and as inexplicable as that. Maybe our whole lives here are one big tangled love story.

Come On Home to Me

I've been trying to write this post for six days.

I haven't thought of a single word that can begin to contain everything I mean. There are no words for the unexpected spiral into grief I should have seen coming from ten months out but still managed to hit me like a freight train when church bells woke me that morning. There are no words to convey the soaring relief bestowed on me like a blessing at the foot of the mountain a week later, relief I had prepared myself to never find, but was stubborn enough to go searching for anyway. Instead, every word has no meaning, has two meanings.

And, too, I couldn't help but think of Maura. Like her, I headed north without telling my family. Very few people knew of my plans. Coincidentally, my destination that first night was a friend's house in Haverhill, Massachusetts. Like Maura, my trip was spur of the moment, poorly planned, and more than likely ill-advised. Like Maura, I'd received a series of emotional shocks in the days leading up to my journey that had actually spurred it into action. (Also like Maura, these emotional shocks caused me to drive stupidly and get into a relatively minor accident at one point that weekend.) Some of this is conjecture; we don't know why Maura left or where she was ultimately headed. So early Friday morning as I drove north on I-93 into New Hampshire, rattled and upset to the point of tears, I couldn't help but think, this is the part where it all goes wrong. This is the part where they never see you again. This is the part where you can't come home.

My story ended differently. I will never know why. I will never be able to understand the reasons behind why I was met at the end of my drive with more love and mercy and forgiveness than I knew what to do with. More, certainly, than I deserved. More than I have words to describe, and more than it would be prudent to speak of. It could have been so much worse. Actually, I was expecting it to be much worse, and I don't understand why Maura's path ends where it does--with a blank on the map--and mine continues forward with the people who loved me, who love me still, despite everything that could have gone wrong and every mistake we'd already made. I only know that, even though I didn't deserve it any more than she did, doors and arms were opened to me, and I was allowed to see my home again.

Where your darkness hits the light, in the space where you stand against the tide

You will always be home to me, no matter where our paths take us.

Where I'm Supposed to Be

Back and mostly recovered (physically, anyway) from a sprinter-van northeast tour with the guys. Had some long-overdue conversations, mostly conducted with eyebrow semaphore, shoulder nudges, deep earthy sniffs, chocolate chip cookies, and the occasional tiny rowboat --though I did actually have occasion to use my big girl words at one point, too, which was more difficult than you'd expect coming from me. Looking someone in the eye without getting lost and having to speak coherently to them from a place of authenticity is really hard for me. And by hard I mean terrifying and vulnerable. And the more I care about the person, usually the harder it is. This means it was damn near impossible.

Welcome to my tiny boat.

A flotilla of tiny paper boats.

Late Sunday night I took a crash course in origami off instructions printed on a t-shirt. Partly this was to work off nerves, and partly this was because sometimes my brain gets too cute by half when it gets going. Half the band thought this was the gift until I informed them it was just the wrapper. (Then one of them proceeded to leave it in the van when they returned it to the rental place. I'm looking at you, Stephen Daniel.)

Yes, we resorted to middle names. There was a slightly rotating cast of characters, mostly in the tour staff. At the start there were two Steves (both with ph's) and three Matts. A week later there were two Steves, two Matts, and two Saras. For twelve glorious and very confusing hours on Thursday night, we had the trifecta--three Stephens, three Matts, and two Saras. We were looking for a third Sara, or at least a Sarah, or even a Sally, just to hit bingo. Sadly, the closest we could come was a Rasheeda. Oh well. God knows what we could have accomplished with three of us, considering the shit that just the pair pulled off that first afternoon alone. The Matts even had hand-gestures to go with their names, based on hairstyles (Muppet, mohawk, goatee).

Two Matts, doing the same thing.
(c) Todd Polesiak

In between, there was a lot of driving. No, I mean a lot of driving. While I had the luxury during this sprinter of returning home to my own bed every night, unlike the boys, it also meant approximately a shit-ton of extra driving for me between venues. Also, I had a dissertation meeting on Tuesday morning. Because that was intelligent of me to schedule. Oh, and did I mention it was nearly 100° every day, and my apartment isn't air-conditioned? There was also therefore many a cold shower just to get my body temperature down someplace sleepable.

Sadly, due to the nature of people's private lives and That Thing Called the Interwebz, I have to leave out most of the good stuff, like the Fairy Zombie Attack, the endless rotation of people onto the air mattress on my living room floor, The Macaroni and Cheese That Would Not End, the part where I had to upend myself into every single front-of-house case with my legs a-waggle trying to get stuff out of the bottom, how I ended up with a bar rag from the Birchmere in my laundry today, and the birthday cookies that weren't.

No, really. Ever try to make cut-out cookies when one of the recipients is a vegan? And it's 102° in the kitchen before you preheat the oven? And you're working on something like twelve hours' sleep for the week and it's already Saturday? Yeah. Like that. Fortunately they tasted really good, even though they rather looked like dog biscuits. Let's just say we ended up taking a detour to the vegan bakery in town, and judging by the swipe of icing the guys left me after the show, it was worth it.

Two Saras, doing the same....
well, whatever. Close enough.

During the week, I also had a chance to catch up with some very dear friends not connected with the tour, some of whom I hadn't seen in months, and one of whom I hadn't seen in a few years. Altogether, there was much bolting through various lobbies to launch myself bodily at people, a koala bear hug off the side of a loading dock (which left a very interesting bruise on most of the right half of my body), late night Wal-Mart shenanigans (CDs! Matching jammies! A packing box to get that crap out of my life and back to Ohio as soon as possible!), a constellation of fly bites on my ass from the proximity of Monday's venue to the Atlantic Ocean, two of the world's most well-travelled birthday cards (one of which, yes, made reference to my illustrious career as Snowmeister, having been to Colorado twice during snowstorms), and a choreographed set-up of folding tables that would make Bob Fosse weep. Oh, also leopard-print sticky notes!, brought to me by a  band fan with whom I'd had an hysterical conversation on Twitter regarding the plural of Post-It. Personally, I'm still holding out for Post-Them. Kim disagrees.

Making it rain string beans.

Oh! And I almost forgot the string bean truck! The guys swore we were hallucinating, because who on earth just drives an open truck crammed full of string beans down the I-95 corridor? The guy driving this truck, that's who. Needless to say, I got teased about string beans for the next 36 hours or so. And, really, I was ok with that, all things considered.

And, perhaps best of all, there was a righting of the world where it had been wrong, a resettling of my soul in my bones, a coming home, however brief it turns out to have been. If I had known it was really goodbye, I'd have made you stand up for a proper hug, no matter how tired we were. Like last time, I was caught ill-prepared and you were halfway into somebody else's van before I knew what was happening.

Close Encounters of the Matt kind

I know there are no words for this parting, that even a breath is too much, that my blood would be too little. I know now that every time I see you there will be that door that we walked through once, that remains half-lit, half in shadow, just behind us. I know now that even among the trees that night we could never escape the concrete of the streets that would carry you away after I had fallen to my knees.

Do you remember what the city sounded like?
Do you remember what the city sounded like?

RR St. Jude Country Music (Half) Marathon, Code Word: Doing the Nasty

Despite being on the NTP (Nita Training Plan, also known as not training at all) for this race, it ended up being redeeming in a lot of ways. It was in many ways a baptism. And I'm not just saying that because of near-flood conditions.

The day after I got home from Nashville in January, all hell sort of broke loose in my emotional and spiritual life, you may recall, and I'm only now coming out of the carapace I'd built around myself to try to ward off the crazy. As much as I tried to stay with it and engage with the process, I really hate change. I hate it. It's uncomfortable. As I once memorably said to a pastor's wife and dear friend, "I like my comfort zone. It's comfortable." I wasn't being ironic or witty, either. I was dead serious.

So, all that is to say that I had mixed feelings about returning to the scene of the crime. (Except love is not a crime. Only denying it is.)

None of this makes sense. It's not a narrative, it's not about running, and it's not about the race.

Welcome to my life, folks.

I don't know why I thought flying down to Nashville at 7:10 in the morning was a good idea; surely the hundred dollars extra a flight at a human hour would have cost was worth not having to get up at 3:15 in the morning and drive to Newark. Alas, it was not to be. Mags lives literally on my way to the airport, so I offered to drive her, for which she gave me a mason jar full of homemade moonshine. We hit the expo pretty shortly after checking into the hotel, where I accidentally got interviewed by Channel 5 News because I was wearing a Boston Strong t-shirt. Fortunately my interview is only quoted in the write-up, and not on-camera. I do, however, make a cameo as That One Chick Who Indiscriminately Hugs Strangers Because They're from Brighton and Are Safe from Terrorists. After the interview, said Stranger from Brighton asked for a picture with me from her organization. Due to the unfortunate combination of biology and Adidas's graphic design department, it appears she is pointing enthusiastically at my enormous rack. She is, but not for the reasons people normally do.

My breasts are not from Boston. But they stand as one. Er, two.

Then there was all sorts of stupidity involving the hotel shuttle and a comped lunch because of the hotel shuttle, and then I fell sound the hell asleep for a few hours until everything started happening at once.

Thursday night ultimately found me with my beloved friends the Masons and their lovely neighbours Inspector Dave and Sunny, drinking moonshine from a mason jar around their living room coffee table and ultimately watching He-Man reruns because it got that late and we couldn't find the remote to change the channel. In truth, we could not turn away.

Friday, needless to say, was spent drinking a lot of water to undo that hilarity, lunch with Mags, a little bit of solo wandering downtown, at loose ends and at odds with myself, and then back to the Mason Jar. See what I did there? No? Ok. Anyway, Steve had left for a couple of house concerts in the upper midwest, so it was me and Jude and the kids, and we had a splendid time eating pizza that's better than any pizza so far from Brooklyn has a right to be, catching up, and watching Pitch Perfect which involved my staying up far later than I ought to have done.

And then it was race day and I was up far too early for the second morning that week. It started raining just as I got into Geoff the Jeep to drive to the start shuttle at LP Field. After that it was sort of all downhill. Except the parts that were uphill. I spent the better part of pre-race loitering in a McDonald's near my start corral with several hundred of my closest friends while the skies lightened...and opened. By the time I lined up for the start, it was full downpour and I was as cold as I've ever been in my life. Fuck this noise, let's run so I can at least feel my feet again. My feet, which are starting to ship water.

For by you, I can run in the night. You'd have loved this race.

At the expo, we had been given blue and yellow Boston commemorative bracelets with 4.15.13 on them. Just prior to the start, we were asked to hold those arms in the air, and give the peace sign during a minute of silence. It was the peace sign that undid me. I'm tearing up just writing about it. Then they went straight into the national anthem (which was aca-awesome). Fortunately it was raining because by the time they sent off the wheelchair start with Sweet Caroline there were thirty thousand people bawling their eyes out.

And then we were off. I was in a closer corral than I often am, but still pretty far back, so there was a lot of standing around shivering. While I was waiting, I bit thumb-holes in my throwaway jersey because it was clear I was going to need every layer of clothing I had on.

My back had been very tight in the area just north of my right hip for several days leading up to my flight down there, and with the wet streets I was really concerned about slipping at some points. Mostly I was just concerned about not drowning. I hadn't realised this was going to be a run/swim duathlon when I signed up for it.

It had been obvious for several weeks that I was going to run the half course instead of the full. Between the loop-de-loops in my life, the exams schedule, and the part where I broke toes walking into a piece of furniture in the middle of the night to avoid a cat, that message was loud and clear. Nevertheless, at one point during the first three or four miles I felt really good and thought briefly that maybe I'd attempt the full after all. Fortunately within moments I realised the folly of my ways.

By mile six things were utterly ridiculous. It was raining like a cow pissing on a flat rock. There was water coursing down the road on the hills. I was doing a lot of walking because of my back, and a lot of peeing because of the rain. Something about being waterlogged from the outside makes drinking water at rest stations fairly redundant. Seriously, I peed more during this half marathon than I did during any full, ever, or possibly even put together, and for that matter more than during El Scorcho. Which I would like to remind you was THIRTY-ONE MILES. In short, there was some serious peeing happening in Nashville last weekend.

Anyway, somewhere past Belmont in the middle of mile six or seven, a very lovely young woman offered me her red Solo cup full of mimosa. Whoever you are, I love you. Then, a half-mile later, another lovely woman, somewhat older and probably a mom, had dry towels stashed in the trunk of her minivan for runners to wipe their faces off so we could see for even a little bit. Whoever you are, I love you even more. Maybe.

And then I squished and slogged and sluiced along for another seven miles. I had a bad moment on Twelve South when I had to run past the Frothy Monkey, because they were open. And selling coffee. Hot, glorious, yummy, bone-tingling coffee. And then I was past them at the top of the hill. Sad Monkey.

Met another thyroid cancer survivor at mile ten, going on seven years strong. April 27th was my fifteenth cancer-versary, and it was because of this that I became a runner in the first place, so this was pretty sweet. We exchanged soggy hugs when we parted.

Right around mile 12.5, I met up with Susan, who had a cramp in her foot, and no wonder because it was cold, man. We were all little clenched shivers of wet humans trying to keep our shit together. It had long ago become obvious that I didn't give a shit about this as a race anymore, as long as there was a pot of hot tea waiting for me back at the Mason Jar (Jude's British; this is a completely reasonable expectation). I had long blown any PW out of the water, so to speak, mostly because of the standing in line to pee FOUR TIMES, but also because have I maybe mentioned that it was raining like pouring piss out of a boot this whole time?

This is not me. This is some other drowned rat of a runner.

So anyway, Susan and I sort of trundled our way back in to LP Field, which for the record is also "just around the corner and up the hill" from mile 13. (Long story, but that's how the finish line of my very first ever 5k was described by the cop directing traffic. Suffice it to say that "up" is not a word you want to use in front of first-time runners if you do not want dirty looks in response. Eight years later at my first Marine Corps Marathon, my dad stood at the bottom of the Very Enormous Hill up to the Iwo Jima Memorial that comprises the last 285 yards of the marathon and greeted me with, "Just around the corner and up the hill." If I could have lifted my arm at that point I would have gladly slugged him. Instead I just lobbed my water belt at my mom and kept limping along.)

I got my kick in and finished strong, then wrung out my shirt and skirt while in the finish chute, which cracked some people up. I'd taken off my throwaway simply so there'd be at least one picture of me on the course. Turns out I'm barely in the frame. Dorks. That's ok, I look like every other freezing, waterlogged, drowned rat of a runner looked that day. Susan and I did take a picture together at the end, which was really sweet. Then I set about finding Geoff the Jeep, because he had a dry zip-up for me, and more importantly HE HAD HEAT.

Due to the way the finish line was set up, I had to walk fully three quarters of the way around the stadium to get to where I'd parked. By this time, the rain had stopped. Of course. I wrung out everything I could, including my hair and my hat, and hopped in for the ride home. Under normal circumstances it would have taken two minutes, but I couldn't get onto the damn road in the right direction and had to get on the freeway to get off at the next exit. This gave me enough time to text Jude and let her know that maybe she needed to meet me at the kitchen door with a couple of towels.

God love her, not only were there towels, there were cheering teenagers at the front door, a hot fig and honey bubble bath with a scented candle on the toilet seat, the pot of tea, and leftover pizza. Eventually I thawed out and took E2 with me to Kroger (so I could find it) to get the crucial ingredients for Thai green curry supper. If you're wondering why I went, it's because I offered, so that Jude could get Bean down for a nap and the big kids could maybe not kill each other. Also, E2 and I sort of bonded big time last weekend. Love. Her. While at Kroger, I made the beautiful discovery that you can buy beer in the grocery store in Tennessee. So I did, which made both Jude and me very happy later that evening.

Slept hard Saturday night and barely made it out of my pajamas in time for Steve's return, and thank god because wouldn't that have been awkward. I mean, this is a man I've known for close to twenty years and I'm pretty sure he's seen me throw up at least once (yay cancer) but he does not need to see me first thing in the morning, ever. For the sake of our friendship, I found some clothes I could put on without too much effort, since going up the steep stairs to E2's bedroom to get them was about enough activity for me, thanks.

Sunday was lovely. There was a walk round the neighbourhood in the sun, lunch at Calypso (omg fruit tea addiction), spontaneous friend visits, French cricket in the backyard (where I fell over, because of course), more spontaneous friend visits, and enormous pork loin barbecue. So. Good. Oh, and haircuts for the guys, because Steve is in barber school. With a mustache like his, it's the perfect place for him. Here, Steve nails Cal pretty good.

After altogether too much food and good company and helping Steve with the washing up (what, darlin, I'm Irish. We can't help ourselves. We wash up. It's how we do.) it was time to head back to my hotel room and give them some family time alone, which they don't get nearly enough of between Steve's tour schedule and the E-Team being with their mom during the week. I dearly wish I could have caught up with Steve more, but we managed to get some good talking done in the little bits between other stuff happening.

Monday I slept until almost noon and spent the rest of the day reading in the sun by the pool and trying not to nap. Which was closed, but that was fine. I didn't want any more water. Possibly ever.

And then it was all over until next time. There's a lot I'm leaving out, but some of it is utterly inexpressible. Only know this: once a door has been shown to you, there is only one way and that is through.

Flying Inland.

So Young

This is how I will remember you. This is how your spirit shone through in everything you did.

courtesy of WJ Gage

Even when your body was horribly bloated from the steroids, when the tumour took your vision and your words and your understanding and eventually your life, it never once stole your dignity or your spirit.

Len, me, Ruby (January 2013)

You were truly a "beautiful, precious gem," not just to James and the girls but to all of us. My faith is so little, so easily shaken, it's hard for me to understand that at the end, you were excited to die. You couldn't wait to meet your God, to get that perfect sight and that restored body. It's hard for me to understand that you asked us to be happy for you. It's hard for me to understand a universe without you in it, without your crazy energy and your goofy jokes and your emails of encouragement.

I'm trying to be joyous. Right now all I can be is angry, because I want to understand the reason for this loss, in the season of so much loss everywhere around the people I love most.

I almost never called you So Young, first because I knew you by your American name, then later because I was afraid if I said it too loudly God would hear. And I didn't want him to take you so young.

Ground to a Halt

Catastrophic weekend failure.

I had really hoped my three hundredth post would be more chipper, but there you have it. Things started going downhill shortly after I woke up Saturday morning on my cousin's couch. What woke me was a text that my friend's death is imminent. Weighed down with that news, I nevertheless started firming up plans for Sunday, rumoured to include all manner of fantastic supper and shenanigans post-gig. I was excited.

Until it started snowing.

Point made, universe. You are drunk, you are mean, and you are not giving up the keys.

Short version: flights cancelled, band stranded in California, promoter cancelled, three-quarters of the band engaged in a round-robin of incoming messages that were alternately supportive, laden with rude but amusing sound effects, and delirious from having to drive 200 miles to Oakland for a 5 am flight back to Nashville. Without me. Though we did manage to tweet the Oscars at each other, which was a wee bit of consolation (though not much).

I am now home, having barely averted a full-blown stress meltdown Sunday afternoon at Gate C29 (which would have been mortifying) when my flight was delayed three times resulting in almost not being able to find someone to fetch me from the airport. And no, the bus does not run to Doodlehem after midnight.

I expect that any moment my phone will ring telling me Ruby's gone. It won't be long. She is receiving no nourishment, just morphine and oxygen and a sedative for anxiety. Her husband manages to persevere with so much grace I am ashamed to breathe the same air, to be called the same species.

I manage to be astonishingly grateful, however, at the bright spots--and there are many. My cousin and I made endless pots of Earl Grey tea and drank them out of our grandmother's Wedgwood that she inherited while reminiscing about being Henry women. Her children, though exceedingly high energy and often bewildering as they express their teenage frustration, are bright and thoughtful when you least expect it, and often screamingly funny. I managed to meet Mer for cafe au lait and beignets Monday brunch before she drove me to the airport, am utterly smitten with her, and remembered how much I adored living in the western half of the country, in the mountains. I still seem to have one of the best friends a girl could have, even though I'm a manipulative asshole when I'm grieving and I still miss him more than I can express. Lastly, I'm in student conferences all this week, so it will go relatively unnoticed that my cheese has temporarily slid off my cracker and wandered several hundred miles south of here.

Ticket for a Prayer Wheel (Part Two)

Oh dear. It seems the universe I inhabit is not particularly a tidy one. But at least it's entertaining.

I mention this because prayer wheels are supposed to to be soothing. Prayer wheels are those Tibetan things with a brass compartment and a wooden handle, often with a scroll containing a mantra inside the compartment. The idea, pretty basically, is you spin the prayer wheel round, and the motion itself, the revolution, is a prayer.

Apparently my personal prayer wheel? Is a merry-go-round. Or a ferris wheel. Something big, goofy, and garish, with lots of tacky flashing lights that is equal parts nauseating and exhilarating.

Which explains why I am suddenly, within the past 72 hours, in possession of an airline ticket to Denver for this weekend, to see these guys.

Disclaimer: I rarely actually see them from this angle. Usually I'm somewhere offstage, backstage, on a spot tower, or running around like a crazy person looking for an extra iPhone charger and more towels/water bottles/picks/gaff tape, which is what happens when you used to be a stagehand for a living. So I'll be impressed if I actually see their faces during the gig.

They probably won't be dressed like this, though....

Photo courtesy of Charlie Lowell.

....or this. But you never know, especially when Steve's around. 

Photo courtesy of Charlie Lowell.

Ok, I'm serious. And I am well aware that it is, to say the least, rather unorthodox to fly to Denver to visit friends who live in Nashville. Because, I mean, have you looked at a map, like, ever? Pennsylvania's not close to either of those things, but Nashville's a fair sight closer. Except when it's not. Which would be next weekend. Because last week, my actual flight to Nashville, which is for my spring marathon in April, got completely borked up. That's not to say I'm not flying to Nashville this April. It just explains what I was doing near Southwest Airlines when this ticket to Denver fell out of the sky and hit me over the head. For darn close to zero dollars and only a minimum of trying to convince Southwest Airlines that my name is actually Steve.

See what I mean? Ferris wheel. My version of spiritual growth is a fucking carnival ride.

The reason for this particular circumference of ridiculosity at this particular moment in time is that these guys have been the glue that has kept me together on more than one occasion in the past seventeen or eighteen years. I know I'm not alone in that, in a spiritual sense, but in my case it was also occasionally the literal sense. Not through their music, or their leadership, necessarily, but through their very personal compassion, their senses of humour (not to mention timing), and above all their cherished friendship. Individually and collectively, these men have opened their homes and hearts; shared their stories, their families, their coffee, and the contents of their bookshelves (this last of which I confess that I am sometimes bad about returning); gotten lost in King of Prussia Mall with me; nearly run me down with their Hammond B3; nearly left their accordions and laptops in my yard; been the recipient of knit gifts, Oktoberfest beer, pinot noir, and the occasional guitar-case emergency roadside repair (man, you can do anything with aircraft cable and a set of needle-nose pliers--just wait until you see what I bring you this weekend!); compared facial hair with me during Movember (fortunately he won); had marathon text message conversations with me while I'm trapped on the ninth floor of a hotel post-literal-marathon during a hurricane and going stir-crazy; prayed with me, for me, and over me; cried with me and for me when I'm grieving; had intense conversations about Thomas Tallis and Downton Abbey that last until four in the morning; pondered and poked holes in my dissertation topic; lovingly called me out when I'm being a right arsehole; and conspiracy-theorized about the possibility of a multi-state, multi-jurisdictional serial roadside toy bear mutilator or whether it was just a copycat....er, copybear....um, yeah, I can't really explain that last one either, but I swear it totally made sense two weeks ago when it happened.

So come Sunday morning before soundcheck there will undoubtedly be a good deal of this....

Photo courtesy of Stephen Mason.

Frankly, I have no idea who took this one, but it was
almost certainly not me. I don't even think I was there.

....and hopefully no additional arse-kicking for being a jerk. Because I've really sort of been a jerk lately. I guess you could say the Prayer Ferris Wheel is making me slightly motion sick, which is causing me to have to send rather more apologetic texts the next day/hour/whatever for Getting The Stupid On You Again than would be ideal in any given friendship. So I'm going two-thirds of the way across the country to say both thank you and I'm sorry.

Thank you for being my shelter, thank you for being rain in my desert. Thank you for teaching me how to forgive myself and love other people again. Thank you for being you. Thank you for growing that ridiculous moustache. Thank you for E-Team hugs and Earl Grey and sneaking me into sold out shows when you forgot to comp me and I forgot to ask. Thank you for not thinking I'm ridiculous when I come charging across the dew-wet cow pasture during the middle of your eight AM festival soundcheck, vault onto the stage, and squeeze the stuffing out of you. Thank you for tromping down the South Side Greenway with me in the middle of the night before bus call and loaning me your favourite new coat so I didn't freeze to death. 

I'm sorry I'm so weak. I'm sorry I'm so scared of being broken. I'm sorry for being frail. I'm sorry for so often trusting my fear more than I trust your kindness. I'm sorry for being a raging passive-aggressive wanker for most of last week (or, okay, most of last month) all over most of the forms of communication we have. I'm sorry I got so upset that one time that I almost threw up my cupcake and caused you to hate yourself for it. I'm sorry I lost touch with you for almost four years when it turns out two of us were going through awful divorces and we needed each other's shoulders the most and didn't know it. I'm glad we have them back. I'm sorry I'm being the hard part of your lesson right now, and more than anything I'm sorry I still don't fully trust that I haven't lost one of the most precious friendships I've ever had and that I have to get on an airplane and fly to fucking Denver to ask your forgiveness face to face because I don't yet believe that I'll actually have it. Because I should. I should know that. I should know it like the air I breathe and the ground under my feet. And I don't, and I'm sorry.

Because sometime on Sunday night or Monday morning, when all of the feast day celebrating is done, after the show is over and the fans have gone home, and after this happens....

Photo courtesy of Stephen Mason.

....one of us is going to get on a different flight home to a different state in a different time zone and go home to her books and her students and her little family of one, and it is either going to feel very much like it did driving through Western Kentucky last month, with my heart cracking open with possibilities like the stars over Elizabethtown, like a carnival ride in August when everything is weightless and free and lovely and real, or else it is just flat-out going to feel like this:

Photo courtesy of Jude Mason.

And I don't know that I could bear that.

File Under Bizarre Holiday Traditions

So, once again I found out about the town's annual Christmas Tree Toss the weekend after it happened. I've never seen it, but apparently it involves the City police chief and the Township police chief engaged in exactly what it sounds like, a procession in on a pony, the City police chief wearing his excellent and sexy kilt (seriously, if I ever wanted to marry a cop, I'd off this guy's wife and marry him), and an inexplicable ceremonial goat.

Yeah, I don't understand the bit about the goat either.

I bring this up tonight mostly because the holidays seem to bring out a lot of unique traditions here, and New Year's Eve is no exception. Have I mentioned yet that we drop an enormous Peep?

This town is very, very strange.

RR Marine Corps Marathon 2012, Code Name: No Guts, No Glory. No, Really.

This was simultaneously the best and the shittiest race of my relatively short marathoning career. I learned some important lessons this weekend. Among them:

1. Six weeks after abdominal surgery is too soon to run a marathon, even if it was laparoscopic.

2. I am still having trouble digesting things. Sometimes I care more than other times. One of those times is at Mile 5 when I have to veer over to the guard rail and try to puke.

3. There are still things in the running world cooler than a finisher's medal. Even one from the Marines.

The weekend started out pretty well. I didn't get detoured, lost, or ever really re-routed through the District on my way into Rosslyn, though I did run into a wee bit of traffic. But right from the get-go, something was off. I knew I was going to be moody all weekend (hello, hormones!) but I'd forgotten to take into account that I was also on a decongestant that makes me cranky and tense. Oops. So I was simultaneously really happy and a total bitch until after lunch on Saturday, when I figured things out and stopped taking the decongestant.

Friday night the part of the gang that was already in town went out to dinner and then set about some serious drinking back at the hotel. Not sure how it happened. Suddenly it was 2am and the beer was gone. Oooops.

I've got my people with me. And I'm standing on a table. Life is good.

Saturday I finally got a chance to get to the Expo, which unlike other years was a complete gagglefuck. Seriously. Did they lease this thing out to Competitor Group? Get it together, Marines! You're better than this! My bib was in a different place than my bag was in a different place than my shirt was in a different place than I had to STAND IN LINE because there was only one poor civvie volunteer looking up  bib numbers for those of us whose printers went tits-up when we tried to print out our confirmation emails before leaving.

And then, the lines. Ugh. The line was fantastic in that it moved quickly, but long-ass. And it made me miss the brunch-bus. Which made me sad, since I'd asked to go to OHP specifically. No dutch baby for me. But I managed to drive out and meet them, and Char had already ordered mine for me. Sweet relief! After brunch, I had time for a nap before dinner, but couldn't get to sleep. Did get a bit of a lie-down, though. Just not enough to make up for the five hours of sleep.

Do not get between me and my Dutch baby. Period.

Dinner itself was very, very odd. I won't get into specifics here, but the original dinner plan got hijacked. The good bit about dinner was getting to see my cousin OB for the first time in about 19 years. OB and I aren't actually related by blood--our moms are best friends--but we go back literally our entire lives. This is the kid who taught me how to belch the alphabet, the one who was my partner in crime the first time we stayed up past midnight, and--oh yeah, he's also a Naval Commander now. So he fit right in with the gang. I just sat him down next to Gunz and Gunz's old Marine buddy Patrick and let them loose.

Me and OB, together for the first time in nineteen years

Got back to the room before nine, but could not get to sleep. For the second night in a row, my stomach was bothering me, in addition to pre-race nerves. And this time they were justified.

Sunday morning go-time. Should have gone downstairs and had oatmeal for breakfast; instead, because my stomach was uncertain, I had a Clif Bar. Which turns out not to have been the best choice. By the time I finished it, I was already queasy. This was not good.

We are marathoners victorious, with our game faces on. And we are sleepy.
Also, some of us are psycho,  but that's beside the point.

We met up in the lobby and walked to the start together. I kept my eye out for Len, who was running with me--and the chest cold I had last week. I couldn't find him, so when the Howitzer went off I just put my head down and went, relatively certain that Len would find me--but in the meantime, I needed to run my own race. And right around Mile 2, find me he did, which turns out to be what got me through this race as far as I did. By this time, I was already needing the encouragement. I was lightheaded, and right around the 5k mark I started feeling nauseous and thinking it was going to be a very long race.

Oh, the irony.

So we continued, with Len graciously keeping at my pace even though he could have gone ahead several times. I made an aborted attempt at a pit stop somewhere in Spout Run--in other words, I veered suddenly over to the guard rail and tried earnestly to puke my guts out, without success--and a porta-john pit-stop around Mile 7.5 or 8. Trouble was, every time I started to run, within two minutes I'd be deeply nauseous to the point of watering eyes and tunnel vision. Urp.

By the time we got to Hains Point, we were mostly walking. Walking at a decent clip, mind you, but still definitely walking. The internal incisions where my gallbladder had previously taken up residence were aching badly now, on top of the nausea. This sucked hardcore. I wanted to stop. Coming back from the Point, the wind picked up--oh, did I mention there was a hurricane forecast for Sunday night? Yeah. So there we were, asses flapping in the breeze, getting blown backward while trying to hunch over and walk forward. And not puke. And not cry. I seriously wanted to lie down in the road. Even during my worst moments, that's never happened before. I was actively looking forward to being ill and falling over so that I would have an excuse to stop moving forward. I couldn't catch my breath, and I couldn't feel anything except cold and nauseous, and....oh. Now my right IT band got in on the act. That was unusual; it's always been the left one that's bothered me.

Hobbled a few more miles, but this was seriously the longest fucking race of my life. I wasn't even watching the signs or the spectators. I wasn't handing out high fives, and I'd stopped fist-bumping Marines before the orange station at Mile 9. I was not in a good way.

And then we got rerouted. Motherfuckers added a second cutoff to the race course two years ago, and it's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard in my entire life. Because not only do you not finish, you have to actually COMPLETE the course, getting rerouted right from Mile 17.5 to Mile 19.5, where the victory party of having beaten the bridge is busy going on. Everyone's telling you you've made it, you're almost there--only you're not. You're an imposter, a fraud, a cheat. And you have to hobble by these people with your head held high like you don't resent them for thinking you've made it this far in one piece. Fortunately Len is too good a man to ever remind me of the things I said during these two miles, because I was bitterly upset and disappointed. What was even worse was the well-meaning spectator who shouted out, "Good job, runners!--and walkers!" Ouch. We are not walkers. We are runners who happen to be walking. Or, you know, hobbling.

Once off the bridge, we decided that since it was unofficial and we weren't going to take finisher's medals anyway (which is on the honor system--there's no way of telling, but they ask you not to take one if you've been rerouted. I can guarantee you there are other people who did, or would. While on those two miles I considered sending my competitor shirt to our friend Nita who didn't make the trip, or outright burning it, but Len pretty much told me to get over myself.) Anyway. While on the bridge, we agreed that having to walk another two miles through Crystal City was bullshit we were not in the mood for. At that point I just wanted to get my knee taped up, get back to my hotel, curl up in a ball, puke my guts out, and cry. I wasn't going to go to dinner. I couldn't handle it. I just wanted it to be over. (I did eventually go out to dinner with the gang, once I got over myself. I just needed a few miles of self-pity.)

Len did a wonderful job of distracting me during those middle 15 miles or so. We turned out to be in the right place at the right time when a fellow runner's calves cramped up simultaneously and he fell over right next to us. I could see the twitching and tried to ease it the best I could with what I had (which is to say, reiki and talking him down and just being there). Len got him stretched out once the twitching stopped enough to seat him upright, and we helped him up and on his way, along with someone who'd gotten him water and a fourth fellow who just stopped to check. Because that's what runners do. When you fall down, we scrape you up and set you on your feet again. We point you in the right direction and cheer as you toddle on.

And then, half a mile later when you fall over again, we repeat the process. During this second one, Len was able to help him by himself, so I took advantage of our proximity to Pentagon parking lot porta-johns. With equally dismal results.

What should have been my sub-six victory march up the hill was a long, angry slash at an unfair, shitty day and an unfair, shitty series of events in the past seven weeks. We still ran across the finish, because I've always sworn I would never walk across a finish line, but it was the feeblest damn excuse for a run I've ever seen. Len said later that by this point I looked like death warmed over (there are official race photos of this phenomenon, and he is in fact incorrect. I don't look warmed over. I just look like cold, congealed, nose-runny death.) but that I was clearly determined to run up that hill, so if I could run it, he could run it. That startled me, because not only is it seriously the highest compliment anyone has ever paid my determination, but because I hadn't realised Len was hurting at that point. I was sure that even then I was holding him back. Turns out we were holding each other up. Funny how that works, at Mile 26.

Fortunately we were able to detour around the medal chute without too much attention or trouble. There was the requisite trouble getting my hands to function--seriously, I was freezing and couldn't get my thumb and forefinger to do the pincer-thing, and once again had to approach the Master Guns to get him to do rudimentary things. Remember how last year I said that if I'd had a windbreaker on he'd have surely zipped it up for me just as solemnly? Turns out I was right. His buddy gave him some shit for it, but what the hell, it was amusing.

JUST NOW REMEMBERED running into Carl and Karen while waiting in line for my first porta-john at Mile 7.5, shortly after I said something so off-colour and suggestive that I actually made a Marine snort. So there were good moments in this race. Just very, very few of them.

Meanwhile, back at the "finisher's" festival, all I wanted was some medwrap. I could do without the ice pack, I was producing enough of my own cooling. Len dumped me at the medical tent with a hug and a promise to see me at dinner, because by that point I'd realised that there's no shame in being human, and what I'd gained in 22 miles--the knowledge that I have friends who love me enough to bail on a race finish for me--was something no medal could replace. But goddamn my knee hurt.

My IT band has an actual bruise on it. Hardcore.

Disturbingly, friend Moo was also in the medical tent, getting his foot wrapped. He reacted to my news of DNF with genuine distraught sympathy and the best hug ever before hobbling his way back to the metro. Meanwhile, I got checked out by Dr. Chris With The Awesome Giggle, who was kind of fantastic, despite the fact that everything he did to my IT band made me want to punch him in the face. Got some T, got myself wrapped up in those icy wrap band thingies, which for the record are the slimiest thing you want to imagine touching any part of you, and humped it back up in search of Clarendon Boulevard. Which I lose after the race every single year. I swear. This year I think I only went a block and a half out of my way.

Then I had to deal with the fact that my tracking results were making it appeared I'd PRed and made my A goal time with nine minutes to spare, and my friends were jubilant for me. Oof. By that time, all I wanted was to be warm. And a cheeseburger. Both of which I eventually got.

The postscript of this is, of course, I spent the next two days holed up on the ninth floor of my hotel, watching Hurricane Sandy pound the shit out of my beloved New York City and wondering how in hell I'm going to make it home. I'm heading out tomorrow morning, back to Doodlehem, where rumour has it I still have no power but now actually have access to my home. So that's a start. Next time, I'll tell you about Orgasm in a Cone, the rat abatement committee, and how to make Gunz turn purple and almost spit his beer out. But for now I'm sworn to secrecy.

As for the race of my lifetime? Next time, bitches. Just you wait. Your ass is mine. I'll get you in 2013. There's a lot of miles to be had between now and next fall. And I'mma run all of them.