Third time's a charm - Avon Walk 2015

It’s been about 24 hours since I crossed the finish line.  After a hot shower and a good night’s sleep, I still haven’t shaken the chill from my bones, nor have I come down from my natural high.  This past weekend has been the most physically challenging, and one of the most rewarding and emotional weekends of my life.

It started early on Saturday morning.  We set our alarms for 4:30 AM and made our way to Pier 84.  The sun had not yet risen, the temperature was brisk, but the energy was high.  We dropped off our gear, filled our water bottles, grabbed some food and waited for opening ceremonies to start. 

We had the option of walking either 13.1 miles or 26.2 miles on day 1, and of course you can walk any amount – it’s not about the miles but about the dedication.  I told the girls that my plan was to walk 13.1.  That’s what I trained for, although I secretly thought that it would be pretty amazing to walk 26.2 miles all in the first day.  I know that Sabrina was determined to walk the entire day, and Iris was pretty hyped up for it too.  I told them that I will see how it goes. 

The first ten miles were a piece of cake.  I had been training for seven months and the most I had walked in training was 11 miles in one day.  At 13.1 miles we stopped for lunch and I had to make the decision – will this be my finish line for the day or should I go on?  I told Iris that I would walk to the next rest stop, which was about 2 miles away and decide from there.  As we started back, I started to get chills, but I pushed through.  I was starting to mentally waver but I kept going.  We passed mile marker 14, 15, 16 and so on, and we walked.  We were going to do it.  I wasn’t going to stop.

Somewhere around mile 24 I started feeling a little nauseous, but kept it to myself.  We were so close.  I worried that I was getting dehydrated, but I couldn’t fathom the idea because I was diligent about filling up my water bottle at every single stop and making sure it was empty before the next one. 

Finally at mile 25 we were able to see the walking bridge that would lead us to Randalls Island, and we got a sudden burst of energy and hope.  We crossed the bridge and made it to our first finish line at 26.2 miles just as the sun was setting.  We had accomplished our first goal, and we had literally walked from sun up to sun down.

All I wanted to do was get our tent set up and sit down and stretch my legs.  Right before it was fully dark, we got the tent up with the help of a volunteer.  Although I wasn’t really hungry, we made our way to the food tent.  We had to stand around for a few minutes to wait for another food delivery and all of a sudden I felt as though the walls were closing in on me.  I told Sabrina that I needed to sit down or I was going to faint.  She walked me to a table and got me some food.  I didn’t feel like eating, but I did.  I was scared to stand up to even walk to the medical tent for fear of fainting, and my body was literally shaking from the chills.  I really just wanted to go back to my tent but the girls were worried about me, so off to triage we went, with each of them holding me up in case I got dizzy.

My blood pressure was okay and my pulse was fine, but my body was clearly in a little bit of shock, maybe from the rapid change of temperature.  They put me in front of a heater and wrapped mylar blankets around me to help retain my body heat and they made me drink.  Finally after about an hour, I headed back to the tent.  I was too afraid to shower, for fear of passing out, so I went to bed as is, a disgusting, stinky wreck.  I put on 2 pairs of pants, 2 pairs of socks, 3 shirts, 2 sweatshirts, a hat and gloves.  I stuck a disposable heating pad on my chest and I climbed into my sleeping bag.  It was 39 degrees outside.  I thought about the day ahead of us and prayed that I wouldn’t have to tap out.  I had worked too hard and had come too far.  Iris convinced me that the next day would be easier, because we would “only” be walking 13 miles.  We tried to fall asleep, hearing the sounds of the wind, and the song “Rock you like a hurricane” on a loop blasting from the neighboring haunted hayride.

We got up at sunrise after a horrible night of sleep.  My legs were cramped, my mouth was dry and my head was spinning.  Not sure if I was determined or stupid, I decided not to quit.  We got dressed, took down our tent, had some breakfast and started day 2.

Day 2 was very hard.  I was losing momentum and with each mile I was ready to be done.  To pass the time, we chit chatted with other walkers and heard their stories of why they walk.  Many people had their shirts decorated, and I loved their creativity.  One person’s shirt read, “For my daughter, so she can wear pink ribbons in her hair and not on her shirt.”  One young man had a shirt that said, “Ladies – check your breasts or I will do it for you!”  Every time I was ready to quit there were people cheering us on, and I thought of the women going through chemo and radiation, who are drained in every way possible, and so I kept walking. 

This was my third Avon Walk but it was much harder than the other two.  I am 9 years older now, and this time I walked twice as far on day 1 than I had the last time.

Finally we were getting close to the end.  There were no more bridges to cross, no more traffic lights to pass.  We were on our last stretch and we could see the finish line ahead. 

We linked arms and walked together, and I could see my family cheering us on.  With tears streaming down my face, I hugged my mom, an 11 year breast cancer survivor. 

My mom had been diagnosed in 2004, which is what motivated me to participate in the walk back then.  In 2006 she decided to walk with me.  This past weekend, she reflected on the walk, and she commented that “the whole weekend is about walking and crying.”

And she’s right.

We walked and cried for those that lost the battle.

We walked and cried for those who are going through treatment.

We walked and cried for our courageous survivors.

We walked and cried for those who are yet to be diagnosed.

We walked and cried for our daughters, sisters, mothers and friends.

And we walked and cried because maybe, just maybe, one day there will be a time when we won’t have to walk and cry for breast cancer anymore.

Random emotions

 

 

I just had a good cry.... all alone.... in a random playground... while out training.  Lucky for me, no one walked by and saw me or I might have been committed.

I've been really extremely emotional this week. 

I am so humbled by how much support people are giving me, with their financial contributions and  with their kind words.

I am anxious about leaving my boys all weekend, although I know that Daddy is more than capable.

I am scared that I won't be able to walk as far as I plan, even though I have been training for seven months.

I am worried about sleeping in a tent in what looks like will be a very cold weekend.

I am mostly nervous about leaving Goofball, who was in hysterics when I broke the news that I am leaving him all weekend.  He knew that "Mommy's big walk" was coming soon, but as the details unfold about packing, train tickets and sleeping bags, it's becoming too real for him that Mommy isn't putting him to bed for 2 nights.

I convinced my husband to bring Goofball to see me cross the finish line.  I want him to know that this is big... really big.  It's more than me.  Right now in his mind, this is about Mommy getting exercise.  And it is, but it's so much more. 

As I put the names of those touched by breast cancer on my shirt, it crosses my mind that this is too many: Four aunts, two cousins, a friend.... My mom.  I remember exactly where I was when I heard my mom say the words, "I have breast cancer."  I fear for my future, and I pray that I never say those words myself.

I try to explain to Goofball that this isn't just about me.  It's about his Grandmas, his aunts, his cousins, his friends... It's about sisterhood, teamwork, following your dreams, cooperation, camaraderie, and coming together for a cause.

I am writing the names on my shirt, and there are too many names.  I write "Penny" but this time I add a halo and wings.  We can't lose one more, and that's why I fight.  Breast cancer may take our breasts, but it won't take our souls.

And so I will think about Goofball and Mush while I walk, and I will smile, because I refuse to accept that I won't get to see diplomas, wedding rings and grandchildren.

And I will think about my future daughters-in-law, and smile, and pray that they never know of breast cancer.

And I will think about my cousins and friends, and I will smile, and pray that they never know of breast cancer.

And I will think about my three nieces, and I will smile, because in their little world of dance lessons, arts and crafts and Minnie Mouse, there is no breast cancer.

 

 

 

To donate:

 

http://info.avonfoundation.org/site/TR/Walk/NewYork?px=1324249&pg=personal&fr_id=2406



 

My mom's new iphone

It's 3AM and I am wide awake.  The 3 year old is laying next to me.  He is burning up.  I have given him some tylenol, a drink of water, and some extra cuddles.  I am wide awake and a million thoughts are going through my head.  It's the life of a mom.

Earlier today I was with my own mom.  She came with pizza, a knitting project and a new iphone.  I joked that hell had frozen over as I took a selfie with her and showed her how to post it to her facebook page, adding a little emoji and tagging me in the photo.  My mom... who is still learning to turn on the VCR now has an iphone.  She has always been about ten years behind the technology.  I remember that my house growing up was the only house that had an 8 track player when every other house had a record player.  We still had a corded phone when everyone else's phone was cordless - talk about trying to have a private conversation when you are stuck to a wall!  I love my mom dearly - God bless her - she is always behind the times... except when it comes to health.

 

 

For over 40 years my mom was a registered nurse, taking care of others.  When it came to her own health, she was diligent, which is why her breast cancer was detected so early... because of modern technology like mammograms and sonograms.  Isn't it ironic that the technology that my mother takes so long to embrace is the same technology that has saved her life?  Not all of the other mothers in the world are so lucky.  Not all the daughters in the world are writing about their moms in present tense. 

In honor of my mom, I have made a pledge to walk 2 days, and to raise $1800 for breast cancer research.  I can't do that alone, and I ask you for your support.  All it takes is the click of a button on your iphone. 

To Donate: http://info.avonfoundation.org/site/TR/Walk/NewYork?px=1324249&pg=personal&fr_id=2406

Happy 3rd Birthday Mush: A look back

The crib has been converted to a toddler bed.  The stroller rarely sees its way out of the trunk anymore, and with every box of diapers I purchase, I wonder if it will be the last.

I think back to that hectic morning at 32 weeks and it still seems like a crazy blur.  Rushed into an emergency c-section, the words “VBAC” were replaced with “prepping the O.R.” and “have to get this baby out.”   There’s no talk of contractions.  Instead there’s “platelets dropping,” “liver failing,” “have to knock you out” and “won’t be awake…”

I remember being too drugged to hold him, too tired to open my eyes and look into his.  It wasn’t until the next day that I got to snuggle this fragile, teeny 4 pound 1 ounce nugget, holding him awkwardly so as not to pull out his feeding tube or disrupt the wires that were keeping him monitored.  He was the tiniest baby I ever held, the same size as the baby doll I picked out to give to Goofball when he became a big brother, which was still sitting in my closet waiting to be wrapped.  My eyes were still blurry, not from any drugs but from my body shutting down.

Five days later they send me home and now I am expected to be a mom to two, driving well before I was supposed to or ready to, back and forth to the NICU, preschool, preschool, NICU.  Pumping in between.  CPAP, incubator, bilirubin, jaundice, IV, feeding tube, cc’s, car seat test.

Seventeen long days later we are together.  They told me he is too weak to latch, so my life revolves around lactation consultants, pumping, latching, supplementing with formula, weight checks, weak suck, pumping, not gaining, supplementing with pumped milk, pumping, cleaning pump parts, failure to thrive, pumping, support groups, little tubes taped to my breasts, more lactation consultants, more pumping, reflux, gastroenterologist visits, medications…. Was I even there to watch my preschooler grow?

At 6 months old, he looks like a newborn.  At 9 months old he’s barely rolling over, and at 12 months old he’s hardly sitting up.  And then there’s evaluations, physical therapists, low tone, psychologists, core strengthening, early intervention, special ed teachers, IFSP meetings, coordinators, occupational therapists….

First year of life and we have a random seizure, freak high fevers, infectious disease consults, neurologist visit and an EEG.

This sweet little face certainly makes me work for my Mommy money, and on top of that he never sleeps (at least at night.)

Yet amongst the chaos of that first year, we had first giggles, sucking thumbs, stroller walks, spitting up all over when trying to play “Superbaby,” sticking his tounge out at big brother, baby sign language classes, stinky baby feet, happy squeals, babywearing, infant massage, singing “You are my sunshine” over and over and over, silly photo shoots, clapping hands, Mommy and Me, cake smash, slamming feet on the floor, wondering if his eyes will stay blue, sleeping in the baby swing, kisses, kisses and more kisses.

I just hung up a Happy Birthday banner for my little baby, although he doesn’t resemble much of a baby anymore. 

And instead of celebrating milestones such as finally making his way onto the growth chart, we’re putting on backpacks and heading off to preschool.

And instead of worrying that he’ll never walk, I worry that he’ll run into traffic.

It’s all changing, but it’s all good.  

Happy 3^rd birthday, little Mush.  You were worth every gray hair and I love you more than you will ever know.