The Thankful Runner

I can't say it as fact, but I have a sneaky suspicion that neither Martha Stewart or Julia Childs were runners. I am pretty confident that the editors of "Southern Living" and "Beautiful Home" are not either.

I was in the line at the grocery store and in a feeble (failed) attempt to avoid the chocolate, I began perusing the magazines. It took me about 15 seconds to come to the decision that those magazines are not written for runners and triathletes. It took me about 20 seconds to realize, how funny it was that that was my first thought....

I flipped open to a page showing a beautiful home. It was just gorgeous. Oh, how I would love to own a house like that, so perfectly positioned on a grassy hill with a sprawling yard......sigh! The article went on to show pictures and detail every room, and with each flip of the page my heart sank as I realized that this house was not for me, the runner. The fine entryway with the steps leading to the front door simply would not do. How can a girl be expected to walk up those things after a 22 mile run? The rich, dark hardwood floors would be destroyed by my three running mates-- two black labs and a catahula. Not to mention the fact that I couldn't possibly walk across them dripping sweat and mud! And really, how silly would the porcelain bathroom fixtures look with my sweaty shorts and sports bras hanging from them dripping onto the marble floors? I can just see me plopping down on the floor post-run and stretching while my stench embedded itself in the luxurious carpet.

I closed the magazine, made my purchases, and went home. I pulled up to my simple home with the yard that needs to be mowed. It's so hard to get to that pesky yard work after a Saturday morning spent running. I opened the door to the sound of 12 humongous paw running towards me, slipping and sliding across the tile. I walked past the ball of fur collected in the corner and stepped over one of the three cats winding through my legs. I picked up the towel I had used to wipe the mud from my legs after a bike ride and sat on the couch to realize it was still wet from where I sat on it this morning before I changed. And as the leftover sweat seeped into my jeans and the dogs fought for my affections and I took in the pile of sand next to the 4 pairs of running shoes under the coffee table, I knew I couldn't be luckier. I am exactly where I am supposed to be.... it may not be in Beautiful Homes Magazine and it may not be every person's dream home but if they made a magazine of homes for runners, my house would be on the cover.

Sometimes, it's hard to be thankful. It's hard to remember that the grass is not greener on the other side and to be content with where I am right now, in this moment. Today I am overly aware of the blessings in my life. Almost a year ago, I lost my job. Since then, so much has changed. I didn't even know how well I had it. I never even considered how fortunate I was or that I should be thankful for what I had. And the best part is that even though I am living now on less, my life is so much fuller and richer than ever before. You can't buy that.

My dogs are all lying at my feet right now, twitching and dreaming. I had a glorious run in the rain, my belly is full, my body is nourished and my spirits are high. I have everything I need right here and I couldn't be more thankful.

The Ultimate Finisher's Medal

Sunday, April 26th at 1:45pm I had to put Roxy down. It was the most surreal and amazing experience, and yet somehow, it was one of the sweetest moments I have ever experienced...

The tumor began bleeding Saturday night and by Sunday morning it was uncontrollable. I called my friend, Donna, who is a veterinarian and local triathlete, in hysterics. Donna is one of those people who prances right into your life, fills you with joy, and lets you know what friendship is all about. She is an admirable athlete, a spunky woman, an amazing veterinarian and absolutely adorable at 8 months pregnant. I could hate her if I didn't love her to pieces! I am not a person to ask for help and it took me hours to decide to make the call. Donna was in Bradenton and without question packed up her stuff and headed home, texting me for comfort the whole way.

I knew when I made the call it was the beginning of the end. I knew my minutes with my best friend were numbered and precious. Roxy and I went out under the tree in the front yard and sat together and "talked." Her fur was matted with blood and my clothes weren't much better. It's funny to me that in moments like that it always seems like things around you are sensationally clear. The sun is brighter, the wind is perfect, the sounds are thunderous and the colors are magnified. As we sat under the tree, Roxy let her head fall back and the breeze tugged at her ears. She leaned into me and sighed. It was a big sigh- contentment, peace, happiness, satisfaction- but it was a tired sigh. We lay under the tree just letting the memories and moments of our life together swirl around us and then, like a single body moving together, we got up and headed to the truck. It was time.

Roxy was never afraid.
She licked my hand until her last breath, reassuring me, giving of herself even in her last moments.

I feel a little lost this week. There is a warmth in my home that is missing and a bit of a struggle within to know that I am ready to travel the road without my sidekick. I seem to be floundering for something to prove my own vitality and longevity. Roxy never held a grudge, she never pointed out my flaws, and there was never a question of forgiveness. She was what I only hope I can become. I want to love my friends unconditionally and accept them even with their flaws. I want to be patient and kind and leave behind a wake of reassurance and hope. I want to explore and play, but always remember how to get home.

It is almost exactly eleven years ago that Roxy forced herself into my life and now I am on my own. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little apprehensive...

"But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds of the air, and they will tell you; or let the fish of the sea inform you. Which of these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this?In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind"
Job 12: 7-10

My pacer in the Race of Life

In the spring of 1998, I went to the pound and picked out a dog. Well, in reality, I suppose she picked me out. I didn't like her at first with her multi-color eyes and big curly tail. But she loved me and my Memaw said that "a good dog picks you, you don't pick them." Dogs have a better intuition, afterall. They don't base their decision on all the silly things that we consider. I was picking out a dog for reasons different than most people. Sure, it was fun to get a puppy, but Roxy was destined to serve a much bigger purpose. She had a big job and my life and my future rested on her shoulders. I think she knew that.



When I was 14, my battle with anorexia began. I don't know exactly how it started or why it started. I am sure a psychologist could have fun blaming this or that and analyzing the various events leading up to it. But however it came to pass, it sucked me in and consumed my every thought. Looking back, it's a hard thing to explain. I wonder how I ever did it- how I played sports year round (and even excelled at them), how I covered it up, how people didn't shake me and scream and yell, how I could stand missing out on so many things. My memories of those years are very sparse and there are even periods of months that I cannot recall at all. I do remember the day I asked for help. I do remember that that day was actually just the beginning.

A year after I asked for help, my situation was worsening and my parents were at a complete loss. They covered for me when people asked and I suppose in a lot of ways it was pretty embarassing for them. Mostly, though, I think they felt like I was sliding through their fingers like the fine, soft sand on the beach. Pieces of me- my personality, my organs, my body parts- were being caught in the winds of time and carried away, never to be seen again. Desperation is what got me to the pound. Desperation is what made my dad agree to the nutritionist's suggestion of a puppy, a therapy dog. The hope was that I would feel the unconditional love of a puppy and regain a sense of purpose, a motherly instinct to survive and thrive to protect my baby. Even better, I would hopefully learn to gauge how much she needed to eat or not eat or exercise or not exercise and begin to apply those principles to my own life. It was a long shot, a very long shot.

The recovery rate for anorexia is not good. A very small percentage of those who enter the murky waters come away from them and never dip their feet back in. The day I picked Roxy up from the pound, the hard work began. We were inseperable, Roxy and I. She rode all over town with me. We went for walks and jogs and spent countless hours sleeping all curled up together. When I went to college, every bare wall was covered with pictures of her and I- reminders of my sweet angel dog.

I wish I could say I quickly gained back the weight and life was good. But I can't. I did gain back some; I had to because I was playing soccer at Florida Southern that year. My liver was not doing well and the doctor had serious concerns about other side effects of anorexia. I played that season, but I did not do well. No longer could shear will-power carry me through the tough workouts and long days. My body was tired and I was exhausted. After just one season, I moved back home. It was a huge loss for me. Soccer had been my sport. I loved the game and reveled in the physical execution. My body was failing me now and I couldn't pretend anymore.

Roxy was at home to greet me. She knew she was needed and stood by me every step of the way. She loved me and gave me purpose, even after I had lost my hopeful ambitions. The summer after I graduated from college, my weight had stabilized within a healthy range and I was considered "cured." I have never gone back. I've never stood on the banks of the murky waters and considered the temperature. I have never dipped a toe in or considered diving in to retrieve the lost memories. Not once. And Roxy has been there all along. She has walked by my side the whole way, a constant reminder that I am loved.

It's been eight years or so since I was officially "better." Roxy is laying beside me right now, snoring softly. She had a tumor removed from her face yesterday. The veterinarian couldn't get all of it and is not confident of any hopefulness for her. Her little face is swollen and bloodied and I can feel that she is in pain. I am afraid to lose her. I am afraid of procedures I cannot possibly afford. I can't even remember my life before her; she is eleven. I wonder to myself how can I look at her and tell her I can't save her? She came into a darkness that no one else could enter. She saw me, my heart, in a blackness where people saw loss and hopelessness. She never got mad or frustrated, she never gave up. She was my brave little puppy. She took my sickness.

UPDATE 3/30
The pathology came back and the tumor is indeed malignant. The cancer is s pretty horific one and the next weeks and months will be very tough for Roxy. :(