Clarapy: Clarity + therapy. During a phone conversation with my friend Darcy one day, one in which I was extremely stressed out, I tried to thank her for giving me clarity and free therapy. In a fortuitous slip of the tongue, I uttered “clarapy.” Since I have invented a new word, I guess I have to define it now that it is part of my daily lexicon. As Ray Charles, Humble Pie, and others have attested to in song, “I don’t need no doctor.” They insist they need their “baby,” but what I think they really needed was some clarapy.
Clarity: Lucidity. Understanding. Therapy: Treatment for some sort of disorder whether physical or mental. When I can’t figure out things for myself, I reach out to my friends. True friends. The kind of friends that put up with my crazy. In my case, they understand that there is a 100% chance I will swear, and they still answer my phone calls. I know, in turn, my friends will almost certainly need some clarapy from me during stressful events in their lives. I will listen for as long as they need to talk.
Since a falling out with one of my closest friends almost three years ago, I have been examining friendship relationships more than ever. I learned a lot from books about friendship and my own fractured friendship. True friendship involves a willingness to put up with each other’s junk. The crazy stuff. The “I-can’t-believe-you-did-that” moments. And, in turn, I must put up with their crazy. Clarapy is part of the deal.
In late January, my husband and I went to Florida. His mother was having some health issues, but under our care, she seemed to be improving. We went ahead with our previously made plans. I had agreed to power walk the Melbourne Music Half Marathon with my friend Pat. Despite the fact that I had zero training for a half-marathon, unless you count endless workouts on my elliptical trainer in Michigan, I agreed to give it a try. After all, I had run four half marathons in the past, so I figured I could pull off power walking one without any problem. After all, I had nine days in Florida to train before the race.
Around mile ten on race day, after Pat and I had maintained an under 14 minute-per-mile-pace for the entire race, I realized I had blisters the size of silver dollars on the bottoms of both feet. I also discovered that I had forgotten to put anti-chafing balm on my right arm. Where my arm had rubbed against my tank top, I had a blister/bruise the size of Lake Okeechobee. At mile twelve, Pat and I clocked a 13:29 mile. At the end of the race, I showed Pat my blisters and bruises while I gulped down pizza and beer. She asked why I had never complained during the race. I wondered about that for days and days afterwards while I nursed my sore body back to health. When my mother-in-law’s health suddenly took a dramatic turn and ended up in the hospital, I thought about this more and more.
After a particularly stressful day, I sat outside in the warm Florida sunshine as the sun began to set. A woman across the street rode her three-wheeled bicycle, circling a parking lot. Around and around she went as a small terrier rode in a white basket on the front of her bicycle. For some reason, I felt insanely jealous of this woman. I wanted her bicycle and her dog. What was wrong with me? Logically, I knew I wanted my mother-in-law to heal quickly. I wanted to ease my husband’s pain and stress. After watching me cope with my mother’s Alzheimer’s and my father’s dementia and cancer, a period of about six very stressful years, my husband understood all too clearly the crazy that comes with caring for an elderly parent. It can be the loneliest feeling in the world. I needed to be strong for him. How could I provide clarapy for my husband when all I wanted was to steal a woman’s bicycle and her dog?
Typically, a good run or a power walk works sufficiently for waking up those feel-good endorphins and prevents me from committing a crime. Despite the fact that the hot weather in Florida was the extreme opposite of Michigan’s frozen-lakes-in-winter syndrome with temperatures and wind chills in the negative thirties, I was miserable, but I wasn’t sure what would untangle the threads of craziness circling through my amygdala. I gave a little spin on Pure Prairie League’s song “Amie,” and sang, “Amy G, what you wanna do?” The answer seemed obvious: clarapy. I sent out a few text messages, and that’s when my friends began to offer up their own special brands of medicine.
Phone calls. Emails. Cards. Friends driving across the state of Florida to hang out with us and search for manatees. Eventually, my mother-in-law was in a rehab facility, and we were invited up the coast to stay with friends for several days. We were still just a short car ride away from my mother-in-law. In addition, I had long phone conversations with several Michigan friends where I ranted and raved about all sorts of things, and my friends did not hang up. Instead, my friends provided insights from their own similar situations, words of wisdom, or simply found ways to make me laugh. My friends might not wear capes or have x-ray vision, but they certainly have the power to heal what’s ailing me when exercise isn’t enough.
How was I able to finish the half-marathon when my body hurt so much? I could have stopped, slowed down, or started whining (or swearing which would be much more likely), but I did not want to let Pat down, nor did I want to let myself down. I knew I could do it. “Mind over matter” as my mother used to say. I knew my body would heal later. Why is dealing with a sick parent or child much more difficult? Why do emotions overtake our heart strings and play us like an out-of-tune harpsichord? When my mother-in-law was in the hospital, a woman in the next room kept loudly moaning that she was sorry. She didn’t mean to be bad. She wanted help. I began reliving my mother’s Alzheimer’s disease and had to spend time in the chapel just to get my game face on for my husband and mother-in-law. I began to rely more and more on my friends’ gifts of clarapy.
And it is true. Friends are gifts to us. Over the past few years, I have been lucky enough to spend more time with my friends and my cousins. I have learned so much from them every moment we have been together. Many of them have seen me at my absolute worst: the death of my daughter, my mother’s illness, my brain tumor, the death of my dog, and the last few horrible months of my father’s life. These are the things that define me and have made me temporarily crazy.
After each sadness and heartbreak, the fogginess in my brain would begin to lift as my friends and cousins gave the gift of clarapy in their own ways. Those moments are stored in my memory so that I can pull them up at a moment’s notice as if I am opening the pages of an old picture book: Running in the Flint Hills with my cousin Sybil as an eagle soared overhead. After the death of my daughter, receiving almost daily phone calls or visits from my friend Vicki who listened to me talk. Or not. Hugging my friend Darcy at the end of my first road race after Gamma Knife surgery for my brain tumor. Receiving feedback on my writing from my friend Chris as I struggled with language and writing after the effects of radiation and medication. Watching manatees floating in warm waters with my husband and friends Peggy and John in Florida as we worried about my mother-in-law. Intentionally crossing the finish line in step with Pat at the end of a half marathon. The list goes on and on.
I am back in Michigan now running on the roads I find such comfort in. My mother-in-law continues to heal in our home. I try to make my husband laugh as often as possible. I have been working on my clarapy game with him and my friends. I will do everything in my power to give them what they need. It might be as simple as listening or running a race together. Perhaps sitting on a beach somewhere and watching the world go by in silence might be the order of the day. Or perhaps it will be in a way I have not yet imagined. I am ready. My blisters and bruises have healed for now. My heart strings are in tune. I am still thinking about the dog and the bicycle.
I’ve got the elliptical trainer blues, baby. This winter weather is so unkind.
I’ve got the elliptical trainer blues, baby. This winter weather is so unkind.
I can’t run on icy roads, and dangerous wind chills are freezing my mind.
I haven’t been able to run outside for over a week. Is this any way to start a new year’s resolution to run more and become more fit? The last time my running shoes hit the pavement—wait, the icy, snowy, dangerous roads, I practically had to crawl up a hill that I had managed to slip-slide down ten minutes earlier. What fresh hell was this? After the men in the DTE Energy truck shook their heads at me as they tried to avoid running over me on Killer Hill, I wondered if I should do the unthinkable: work out inside. This was the beginning of my winter madness—thus far—in my basement torture chamber, home of my elliptical trainer.
The elliptical trainer is new and somewhat beautiful, well, if you are into workout equipment. Our ten-year-old treadmill started spewing plastic parts and trying to strangle our feet by feeding the band into the motor. I decided to switch from a treadmill to an elliptical trainer, because I had a vague memory of working out on an elliptical trainer at a gym I went to a long time ago. Perhaps a new style of workout was just what I needed. ET would be my comrade in arms.
ET’s perfect face consists of a shiny screen with pre-set workouts of various resistances and speeds. Its arms move, whether or not you are holding on to them, and they are oh-so fit. No chicken wings for this wily girl. ET’s legs are sturdy—sort of like a hockey player’s legs. Although ET’s feet are enormous so that even a small elephant could go toe-to-toe and slow dance, it has a smooth glide to it. I feel as if I am cross-country skiing on it or replicating the sixties dance the monkey. I tried watching television as I became acquainted with ET. I soon found out that trying to navigate the remote with my right hand while ET kept throwing quick right jabs at my face just wasn’t going to work out. Come on woman, I said to myself, use your iPod! Pretend you are out running the roads and feeling happy. The moment I heard Miranda Lambert’s “Gravity is a Bitch” from my playlist, I felt as if I had been reborn.
Yes, ET allows you to stride, work your muscles, swear, sweat, and do it all to a beat, but it is not running. I want to break up with ET, but Mother Nature keeps flipping me off. Doesn’t she understand how much I miss not bonding with her? Doesn’t she miss my interaction with rude drivers on the road? I’m almost positive my husband misses hearing my ten-minute soliloquies about my daily running experiences. After I work out on ET, I trudge upstairs, look longingly outside as if missing a long-lost lover, and curse the snow and ice. The chickadees, blue jays, nuthatches, cardinals, and woodpeckers seem to sigh along with me as they shoot back and forth between the snow-covered pine trees before dipping down into the various birdfeeders in our yard. The deer tracks in the yard remind me that something is moving around outside at night. My tracks from snow shoeing several days earlier have all but disappeared.
One of my goals for the New Year, dare I say resolution and incur the wrath of those who say the word resolution is de rigueur, is to whine less about things I cannot control and do something about it instead. Well, dang! I also decided to swear less this year, but I blew that one about a minute after I announced it to the family. Should I create a new goal/resolution? Are goals and resolutions merely a lost cause for me in 2015? Absolutely not. I will continue to bond with ET until the dangerous wind chills die down, and the roads are somewhat safe. Although the sides of the roads are a little narrower now with all of the snow that has fallen, I will soon be out there waving at the snow plow drivers as I jump out of their way and give the peace sign to drivers who refuse to move over. My blues will evaporate the minute I hit the road in my hat, gloves, and several layers of clothing. I will breathe the rapturous fresh air. For the time being though, I think ET is in the mood for a little J.J. Cale: “They call me the breeze. I keep blowing down the road.”
Excuse me? As I ran north in the bike path on A1A, just north of Ft. Pierce, Florida, and south of Vero Beach, I spliced my way through a contingent of men wearing hard hats repairing power lines and placing new poles at varied logistical points on the east side of the highway. I kept a wary eye on the traffic zipping along at 45 miles per hour about five feet to my right. Although the sidewalk is much safer, it’s also the absolute worst substance to run on. However, since I am accustomed to defensive running, I continued on my steady pace, occasionally glancing across the road, admiring shoreline vegetation creating a natural buffer between the road and the Atlantic Ocean. The color of the water reminded me of Paul Newman’s eyes. As Butch Cassidy once said to the Sundance Kid, “Boy, I got vision, and the rest of the world wears bifocals.” When a person is biking, walking, or running on A1A, it’s best to have one’s eyes intently focused on the road. I’ve got vision.
And I was paying attention even though my mind was on the fact that I was not in Florida on vacation. My mother-in-law fell and fractured her pelvis two days after arriving in Florida in early October, so my husband and I are here to help in any way we can. So even though my emotional focus was on her, mentally I told myself to keep my focus on road. No bike riders were approaching me, I was in a cone zone, and the “Sidewalk Closed” sign gave me no other option than to run on that noodle of a bike path. Suddenly a man in a black SUV slowed down next to me and screamed: “Get on the sidewalk” while he angrily gestured towards the ugly strip of leg pain. I smiled and motioned downwards toward the clearly labeled “Bike Path.” What was his problem? Get on the sidewalk? Had he completely missed the “Sidewalk Closed” sign? I flashed the peace sign and went on my way.
This wasn’t my first time running on this particular stretch of road. I am respectful of bicyclists, and I always move out of their way by easing onto the grass or the sidewalk next to me so that they have a clear shot of the road. I am constantly amazed at their skills as they negotiate this busy highway. I am quite used to bicyclists, runners, walkers, animals, and automobiles sharing the road where I live around Higgins Lake, Michigan. There are no sidewalks, and far less traffic moves on the road. On a typical fall morning there, it’s not unusual to see more wildlife than cars or people. I’ve yet to have a turkey or deer try to run me off the road. In Florida, it seems the ornery wildlife drives an SUV. The man’s neck looked like a turkey’s neck as he screamed “get on the sidewalk.” The thing is, I don’t know if he was upset because I was on “his” bike path or if he just didn’t like runners sharing the road. I will never know. He didn’t exactly seem like someone I wanted to have a conversation with. Ever. I wondered if he would have screamed at a man running on the road. Perhaps I needed to puff out my chest or look mean or something. Luckily, he continued on his southward journey down A1A.
The next morning, I checked the paper and saw that low tide would occur about the same time as I normally run. I’ve tried running on the beach, but I always feel as if my hips are being displaced because of the angle of the land or my arches will never return to their normal state after being subjected to the squish-and-release sand traps. I decided I would power walk next to the ocean. I headed out with my walking sandals on and hit the beach. Paul Newman’s eyes beckoned.
As I journeyed north, I listened to the light crash, splash, breathing noises the ocean made as I made my way over thousands of sea shells. Osprey, seagulls, and pelicans flew above the water searching for a morning snack. Sanderlings, small and very entertaining shore birds, danced near me, constantly pecking at the sand with tiny black bills in their quest for buried edible delicacies in the sand. Fishing boats occasionally puttered past me or headed out to sea. Several jellyfish lay helplessly in the sand as if waiting for the tide to rise again and return them to the sea. A coconut in the distance momentarily made me think of my beloved dog with its dark brown texture. How odd, I thought, to compare my dog, dead for two years now, with a coconut. My vision segued into hallucinations but only for a moment.
After walking for almost two miles, I spotted another person walking towards me. With the exception of the “Get-on-the-sidewalk” screamer, most folks in Florida are all too eager to say hello and give a hearty greeting. I realized I wasn’t ready to speak to anyone yet. I imagined that I had lost the ability to verbalize. My solitary sojourn had somehow changed me: I was at peace with the world. My vision was clear. Despite all of the upheaval in the world and in my personal life, something about the push/pull of the water, the stick-legged birds daring me to run, and the absolutely reckless abandon I felt at not uttering a single word for at least thirty minutes had hypnotized me and washed away all negative thoughts. This was a hallucination I wanted to hold onto. I turned around to head back and avoid speaking to the man coming towards me, and much to my amusement, there were about twenty people at various distances behind me. I would have to speak. I cleared my throat just before I offered a cheery hello to the first passerby.
As I made my way back to the condo, I greeted everyone I passed. I stopped to take pictures of two very different looking and very dead jellyfish. I picked up several seashells for my collection. Shore birds continued zigzagging near me. The waves continued their hypnotic heartbeat. I felt lucky to be alive. There is always something about the ocean, a lake, or a river that gives me sustenance.
The next day, I headed out for a six-miler on A1A. Because of traffic, I stayed mostly on the sidewalk. I absolutely hated it, but no one screamed at me. In fact, an elderly gentleman walking with his wife, told me I was marathon ready. I always appreciate words of encouragement no matter how off the mark they are. I’m just working on getting back to my half-marathon running body. Another man apologized to me for not moving over as I came up behind him. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you,” he said as he adjusted his headphones. “No problem,” I said and gave him a thumbs up. Although my legs were sore from the pounding of the sidewalk, I was happy as I returned to the condo and greeted my husband. It was time to shower, get dressed, and head to the assisted living place my mother-in-law is recuperating in.
There are people of various ages at the facility. They work on healing their bodies or their minds just so they can negotiate a room or a sidewalk. Getting dressed can sometimes take an hour. Memories of my mother and her losing battle against Alzheimer’s disease flood my brain as I greet every patient I walk by. I remember how lucky I am that my body still allows me to walk on the beach or run along a road. I know that can all change in an instant. Get on the sidewalk? Sure, when I have to. Until then, I will run and walk when and where I can. As Matthew Wilder once sang, “Ain’t nothin’ gonna break my stride. Nobody’s gonna slow me down, oh-no.” Run on, my friends, run on, for as long as you can.
The morning’s gray sky dripped with humidity and the promise of rain. I could not wait for the rest of my day to get started. The members of the band I used to be in were coming to my house to play music. For several years, I had dreamed of the ReCremains reuniting and playing music on my lawn with Higgins Lake as the background. Mother Nature laughed at this plan. After 1.5 inches of rain fell, I stared at the large green sponge that used to be my lawn. This was no place for electrical equipment. We would have to rock in the basement instead.
One of my former students, Christi, arrived first. Bandmates Lori and Kirker arrived soon afterwards and began unloading equipment from their car. Their amps, guitars, cables, and percussion instruments were added into the mix of my guitars, amps, piano, and keyboard. After figuring out a plan for setting everything up, we warmed up our fingers and voices by playing a few songs. Our friends, Peggy and John, arrived to watch the band perform. We chatted in between songs and awaited the arrival of Mike, Bill, and their families. We needed our piano man and our bass player.
Even though I was among friends and at my own house, I had performance anxiety. I had not practiced with the band for over a year. When I retired from Saginaw Valley State University in 2010, and my husband and I moved to Higgins Lake in 2011, the commute to SVSU became problematic. When my SBT (Stupid Brain Tumor) tried to take over my life, I wasn’t even sure if I could play guitar again.
There is something to be said for both a runner’s high and the way one’s brain works on music. When I was recovering from brain surgery, I soon realized that I always felt better when I ran every day and listened to music. I finally attempted to play guitar. Again. I started writing songs. Again. I read and reread books such as This is Your Brain on Music by Daniel J. Levitin and Musicophilia by Oliver Sacks. I soon discovered that although I could not remember things that happened six months prior, I could remember the words to practically any song I had ever heard whether it was Sinatra or Stevie Ray Vaughan. Music was the fix I needed; it was stronger than any medicine could ever possibly be.
After everyone else arrived, plus our neighbors from next door and my mother-in-law, Mike sat down at the piano, Bill fired up his bass guitar, and we began to play. I wished for our former drummer Frank, but he now lives in Virginia. I don’t remember what song we played first, but between songs, I spoke into my microphone: “I am so happy.” I repeated this many times throughout the afternoon and evening.
We ran through a bunch of our original songs, and when we played “Radio,” a song I had written years ago for the band, my fingers flew across my guitar, and my voice felt strong. We continued playing original songs we had written over the years: “Monkey Groove,” “Cream City,” “Carnival Clown,” “Swamp in My Heart,” “A Happenin’ Place (If You Happen To Be Dead),” “Highway Michigan,” “Lather, Rinse, and Repeat,” and so on. Occasionally we sang a cover song by the Stones or the Beatles. Christi sang Blondie’s “Rip Her to Shreds.” At some point, Peggy picked up a cowbell and joined us as we made merry music. We played “Brown Eyed Girl” by Van Morrison for Peggy since she had requested it. We also received requests for an Elvis song, and Bill broke out some major bass moves while singing “Jailhouse Rock.” Bill’s granddaughter Alara requested “The Alphabet Song” and “Wheels on the Bus.” We gladly obliged. She sang along and danced. Similar to a runner’s high, playing music had kicked my mind into happiness overdrive.
Eventually we knew it was time to stop. We were all exhausted. Although we had taken a break to eat dinner, we had been playing music for close to four hours. Or was it longer? My legs felt as if they might break. My voice was hoarse from singing and yakking into the microphone between songs. My neighbor, Jessica, suggested stand-up comedy might be in my future. I may seriously consider that. Not!
When I went to bed that night, even though I was exhausted, it took a long time for me to fall asleep as I relived the night’s musical madness. The next morning, I went down to the basement and looked around. The room that had been alive with music and mayhem seemed different now. Better. I had rocked in this basement with friends.
When I still taught at SVSU, author Ken Follett came to campus one year. My husband and I were lucky enough to be invited to the meet-and-greet. Instead of talking about writing, we ended up having a short conversation about playing guitar. He said that playing in a band made him a much better player. I realized this was true. The more I played music with Mike, Frank, Bill, Kirker, and Lori, the better I wanted to be as a musician and a songwriter. When Brei and Danielle, two SVSU students at the time, sang with us for a short while, I wanted to be a better singer, although I knew my alto voice could never compete with their vibrant sopranos. Despite this, I began to feel more confident.
Although Mike still encourages me to play lead guitar licks during songs, I still freeze up the moment he motions towards me. I am happy playing rhythm guitar and singing. I know I am the worst musician in the band, but they put up with me. They also seem to like the crazy songs I write, and with guidance from members of the band, those songs have become better than when I penned them as I sat alone with my guitar.
I am already planning on next year’s event: August 2015, on the lawn, under the light of a bright full moon. I am thinking of songs we could cover: “Moondance,” “Werewolves of London,” and “Fly Me to the Moon.” But it is the ReCremains original songs that really highlight the heart and soul of this group of musicians. Our poetry. Our brains on music.
Imagine yourself sitting on the beach. You are enjoying the beauty of a skier zipping by you. You remember the days when you could jump the wake, fly into the air like some bikini-clad acrobat, and your slalom ski carved the waves like a surgeon’s scalpel. Now that you are older, you imagine bursting up through the water as the line pulls you forward, and releasing the rope almost immediately as you wonder if your arms are still connected to the rest of your body. Or perhaps you are out for your morning six-mile run, and the traffic has increased dramatically. Instead of ten cars passing you or trying to run you off the road, you now have fifty drivers frantically trying to get somewhere with no regard to your well-being. Instead of chirping hello to the usual suspects out on the road, you are now greeted by a bevy of skinny-pony-tailed blondes running past you or young men wearing the shortest of shorts and no shirts. At least they all wave at you—the tinsel-haired woman weaving down the road in her bright pink running shoes, trying to sing along to her running playlist and breathe at the same time. Then boom-boom-boom-boom—it is as if someone had twisted John Lee Hooker’s song into some sort of nightmarish blues ode. People are detonating what sounds like small bombs somewhere just because it is the 4th of July. Dogs bark. Babies cry. You swear. You miss the month of June.
There’s some sort of cosmic tilt in the universe when June transitions into July at Higgins Lake. In June, the mayflies may or may not come out, mosquitos roast marshmallows on your legs if you sit by the campfire at night, and the houses along the lake remain empty as if they are cottage-shaped morgues waiting for the night shift to arrive. It is quiet. You can think if you go outside at night. You swear you can hear the pulse of a distant blue star and slight variations in tempo as waves roll into shore.
When the 4th of July weekend arrives, you start to feel as if you are being forced to listen to the worst radio station ever as it alternates between AC/DC and Celine Dion. Not only are you thunderstruck, you wonder if your heart really will go on, because the constant boom, boom, boom, boom from bombastic fireworks have made you paranoid. You jump when your husband opens the refrigerator door. You cringe when you hear the thumpa-thumpa-thumpa of someone’s stereo as they cruise by you during your morning run. You consider sleeping in your bedroom closet, because it might be the quietest place in your house. You pray for a downpour that is biblical.
In June, you were happy. You ran the Higgins Lake Sunrise Race with your husband and son. Even though you ran the race like a newbie, starting out too fast, imagining Commander Cody’s “Hot Rod Lincoln” pushing your pace, and finding yourself at mile 4 suddenly in Jabberwocky territory—you had become a slithy tove—you were happy as you chugged across the finish line after 6.2 miles. There were no booms to celebrate the accomplishments of people of all ages, shapes, and sizes. Instead, people clapped and shouted words of encouragement, and as you made your way to your family, smiles and words of congratulations rang through the air. You realized that you wished all celebrations could be like the end of a road race.
Although the people not far from you on the lake believe in the bigger-is-better school of fireworks, they must also realize that there is beauty in quiet fireworks. As the glowing reds, blues, greens, and yellows floated silently on the water, you could hear the oohs and aahs of people watching the show. But then a screamer or a boomer would spit through the sky as if no one could truly appreciate fireworks unless they were fracturing the night air.
It reminds you of running a race. Everyone is working hard with the same goal in mind: the big finish. But you know that it’s what comes after all of the hustle and bustle that allows you to appreciate what’s right in front of you. You will sit on your dock on a quiet evening. You might hear the murmurs from people’s conversations as they sit around campfires or voices carrying across the water as people cruise by in their pontoons. The sky will be an open book of possibilities. Chickadees, robins, and mourning doves will serenade you as you breathe in the scent of pine and wildflowers. You look forward to a good night’s sleep in your bed, the windows open, welcoming the night air.
“April is the cruellest month…”—T.S. Eliot
The ice smothering the inland lake where I live melts slowly some winters as if not merely a body of water, but a human body slowly dying, exhaling slowly as if mist rising or fog lifting, before gasping for one last breath. April’s cruelty reveals itself in other years by forcing violent winds to wreak havoc upon the shoreline. Broken ice floes creep steadfastly up the rocks, their push and pull give birth to small bergs of diamonds grinding and moaning towards the sandy beach. With the promise of spring, hidden in the bones of cold artic air, we speak of daffodils, tulips, and death.
Ten years ago in April, my father-in-law, Carl, died.
Eight years ago in April, my friend Laura told me she had a Stage IV glioblastoma.
As the ice begins to shed its skin each April, loons’ cries echo across the still water in the damp morning air. We search the lake for their small black heads, and then watch as they dive deep into the clear water seeking minnows or perch to feast upon. Mallards promenade up our neighbors’ boat ramp, before waddling towards our yard, seeking refuge under our bird feeders as they devour seeds dropped by chickadees and goldfinches. At the slightest intrusion, the ducks quack loudly and begin their awkward square-dance moves before strutting off in indignation or taking flight. Robins build nests under our upper deck. Deer and foxes stumble through snow-free lawns along the shoreline searching for sustenance. Raccoons and skunks sneak into our yard at night to scavenge what others have left behind.
I keep waiting for Carl to walk down the hill from his house to ours and tell us about the project he plans to work on that day.
I keep waiting for Laura to step out on her front porch and tell me a story as the two of us ease into our morning run.
On May 1st this year, I ran 7.4 miles, a distance I had not run in a very long time. After suffering a grand mal seizure during a road race in October of 2011 and finding out that a brain tumor—a meningioma—would completely change my life forever, I could not run, could not form clear sentences, and could not remember if I had done something the day before. My world went gray as if I, too, had been covered by a thick layer of ice. The first time I went for a run, my husband followed me. I ran ahead of him until I finally turned around and ran back to him. Before long, I knew I could run on my own and not be afraid.
One day I saw Laura’s parents as I ran past their house, and I told them about my brain tumor.
The lake, as smooth as glass, reflected their sorrow and my guilt for being alive.
April holds us taut in its grasp, and we run towards May with heavy arms.
Twenty degrees, sunshine, blue sky, frozen lake, snow-covered roads with a hint of ice underneath: What should I do? Hibernate? Drink a hot toddy before noon? Join the snowmobilers or the cross-country skiers on the lake? I noticed that my new pink running shoes looked forlorn in the corner and seemed to be aware that I had once again considered heading to the basement to hit the treadmill. Since I had not run on the roads since my spectacularly nasty fall in November trying to leap over some road debris, I had nursed a sore hamstring with short walks outside and watching twerking videos on MTV while walking on the treadmill. I knew that when I found myself trying to analyze the difference in videos presented on MTV, VH1, and CMT that it was time to hit the road, my hamstring be damned. Since my beloved pink running shoes’ tread had begun to wear thin and had recently been attacked by a dog, I knew it was time to break in the new shoes.
I bought new shoes in November fully intending to break them in after Thanksgiving, but because I injured myself, I wore my old shoes when my husband and I decided to head to Florida to warm ourselves up for a few weeks before Christmas. While we were staying with friends in Naples, Kira, one of their Golden Retrievers, became quite affectionate with my left running shoe while we were out chasing alligators in our sandals at the Fakahatchee Strand Preserve State Park. Although Kira left the shoe intact, the shoelace had been chewed apart in two places, and she had somehow managed to pull the lace so tight that I could barely fit my toes into the shoe.
After pulling and tying the lace together with several knots, I was able to wear my shoes when Jim and I began our drive back to Michigan. As we headed north from Naples, Florida, to Cleveland, Tennessee, the temperature dropped 40 degrees. We continued our streak of staying at Hampton Inns, and after I relocated nine ladybugs from our room to the hallway, a rather tricky move that involved catching them in a paper cup, we settled in for a good night’s sleep. Scraping the frost off of our car windows the next morning reminded us that we were indeed headed in the wrong direction.
After taking turns driving, I was behind the wheel as we passed by the “Welcome to Michigan” sign. Thus began the horrible drivers’ portion of our journey. By coincidence, if there is such a thing, I had just read an article that very morning in the USA Today newspaper which is provided for free at all Hampton Inns. Ladybugs are apparently optional. According to a recent poll by CarInsuranceComparison.com, Louisiana drivers are the worst drivers in the United States. Michigan drivers did not even make the top ten. The poll basis its outcomes on “DUIs, failure to obey traffic laws, [and] fatality rates.” Louisiana may have earned their number one designation, but it seemed that Michigan drivers had their taillights in a tizzy at not making the list, because we had just entered Michigan-driver-hell.
As I observed drivers passing by me on the snowy windswept roads, I wondered what the odds were of a driver crashing if he or she combined driving, smoking, and texting while cruising along at 80 miles per hour. Not using blinkers, cutting off drivers during a lane change, and releasing ice chunks from the tops and bottoms of their vehicles added to my distress. After a flying saucer-like pile of snow flew off of the truck in front of me, I reminded Jim of the time a semi-truck driver dropped an ice block off of the bottom of his truck in 2007, and I hit the ice block dead on which ripped open the bottom of my car. My insurance person actually asked me if I got the truck’s license plate number. Nope, I was preoccupied with the horrible grinding and dragging noise my car was making, and I was really bent out of shape about being late for work. Perhaps this memory, plus the fact that a rock from a truck had cracked our front windshield in Atlanta, Georgia, made me jittery. Or just pissed off.
My husband knew this was my kind of driving since I had an excuse to swear. Frequently. Loudly. After we passed Bay City, Michigan, the traffic thinned out, and we began watching the sides of the road for deer. They filled the open fields, and a few dared to stand near the edge of the roads as if tempting fate. We arrived home in time to watch the Lions on television, so we had something new to swear about. Jim doesn’t swear much, so I have to make up for both of us.
The next morning I surveyed my snow-covered surroundings. I wondered if I would ever see double digits on the outdoor thermometer again. Should we build a snow ark-mobile? Build a tunnel to the mailbox? When the snowplow and the snow-blower are getting more action than my running shoes, you know you are no longer in the land of alligators and ladybugs. Only the deer roam around happily as they make their nightly trek to our birdfeeders. I had a major case of cabin fever.
Finally, a break in the weather and the promise of 30 degrees and sunshine provided some relief. I hit the road. The main roads were plowed, but slush remained everywhere. It was a lovely day for a 3.8 mile run, although running up and down several hills I had to negotiate were best described as slip-n-slide. A little voice in my head kept shouting “Do not fall.” I figured if I did fall, the snowbanks lining the roads would at least provide some relief. As Allison Moorer sings, “I was looking for a soft place to fall.”
My new pink running shoes proved their resilience with their alligator-like treads, and I cruised down the roads expertly, dodging the local horrible Michigan drivers. Do drivers not understand the concept of splashing slush on someone running along the side of the road? The speed limit ranges from 35 to 40 mph, so it is not as if these drivers couldn’t slow down or move over, but they all seemed to be either texting, talking on the phone, or adjusting their egos. I finally decided to trot down the middle of the road and see if anyone would run over me. When I saw the snowplow driver heading towards me with his death plow, I quickly ran to the opposite side of the road. He smiled and waved at me.
As I approached the safety of my own driveway, I congratulated my new shoes on a job well done. I walked into the house and my husband looked relieved since the last time I came in from a run, I was bleeding and telling him how sore my ass was. I gave him my usual report about my road trip before yanking off two layers of running pants, my sweatshirt, base layer shirt, sports bra, socks, shoes, gloves, and hat. I longed for those days of shorts and a t-shirt. Perhaps in April?
I am looking forward to running in my new shoes in 2014. I haven’t retired my old shoes yet, because there are a lot of stories associated with those shoes. They sit in my closet, the left shoe with its strangely configured lacing system and Kira’s teeth marks, as if waiting for the next time we hit the road. In the meantime, if Kira shows up, I am hiding my shoes. All of them.