Superlative Media Spasmodics: H1N1 and Public Fear

As one of the relatively few Americans who received the H1N1 vaccine, I feel a little odd about the current media spasm contracting around its “questionable safety”. I received the vaccine because I work in admissions for a medical facility. I see dozens of sick people every day, and being vaccinated makes me feel a little bit better protected. While we don’t get a lot of H1N1 patients in my department, it’s still a medical facility, and it’s still early in the season…so there’s plenty of bad bugs floating around, and more still to come. When I got the vaccine—by a nasal application, as the shot was available in even more limited quantities and for an even more limited population—I was hyper-aware of my physical well-being for about a week to follow. I have full confidence in my immune system, but all of the hype around H1N1 and its “untested” vaccines had me a little worried. The virus in my vaccine was live—the nasal application is a “live attenuated” so it’s a live, but greatly weakened, strain of H1N1—so would I be more susceptible to illness? Could I get H1N1? The questions swirled in my mind for about a week until I forgot I ever got it and went on with my life. I suffered no side effects, at least none that I noticed, and if anything, my activity level increased—I began taking aerial classes at the local circus center again—so my body, somehow, under the combined duress of the H1N1 vaccine and unusual muscle strains, has managed to handle itself pretty well. In about an hour, when I leave work, I’ll be heading to the gym for a trot on the treadmill and a few laps on the weight machines.

I know, I know. What could have happened to me, though? The possibilities, given the time constraints under which the vaccine had to be developed, are endless, really, but only if you really go looking for them. And you’re paranoid. The amount of testing that anything must undergo before it’s deemed safe by the FDA is massive and, some argue, red-taped to the point of being superlative. Why deny the public viable drugs because someone forgot to cross a “t” or dot an “i”? Bureaucracy and pandemics clearly don’t mix well. Go get vaccinated, as soon as you can, especially if you’re pregnant or caring for an infant under six months of age.

Gender: A Pre-Existing Condition?

I received an email today from change.org rallying supporters to "tell Congress that being a woman is not a pre-existing condition"! While I (fundamentally) agree with the change.org task force most of the time, I'm having second thoughts on this one. While I don't think that being a woman--or a man--should have any effect on insurance companies' claim judgment, which is what, of course, this particular war cry is supposed to ignite fury over, I'm pretty sure there isn't a condition that is more "pre-existing" than gender. I mean, really, this is why men have nipples.

As a clerical admin currently employed by a hospital, I get questioned about the current health care debacle by patients all the time. August 2009 was a particularly interesting month to be a medical office employee. Truth be told, while the system is obviously broken, I'm not sure who can fix it. What I am sure of is that it's going to take cooperation and caring action by a massive number of people to get any sort of progressive ball really rolling on health care. Until we Americans stop employing capitalist-imperialist, i.e. exploitative, ideology and acting as apologists for our oppressors, the current corporate leviathan--the insurance industry and the pharmaceutical lobbying groups--is going to keep winning, and American health will continue to suffer.

Eldorado Springs, Anyone?

I have found heaven, and it is on Earth. It is called Eldorado Springs, and I am somewhat ashamed of myself for not having known about this awesome, killer, gorgeous part of the world--that is basically IN MY BACKYARD--since I've lived in Boulder for over a decade now.

On the trail, cheesing it up, in pigtails and a Camelbak. Yes, I am a Coloradan!

Eldorado Springs sits about six miles South of Boulder and has a populations of about 27 or so. Or 2700, if you count the rock climbers. As he has been climbing for his while life, and Eldorado Canyon is kind of up there on the grand list of Places Climbers Take Off Time From Life To Check Out, my boyfriend Jeremy was totally game to check it out a couple of weekends ago. He was still recovering from straining the cartilage between his rib cage and his sternum (an injury only a climber would get) so we took a chill weekend...and then decided to go check out one of the holy grails of climbing. Except that we'd be hiking, and not bring along any gear, so as not to tempt ourselves too much.

Eldorado Canyon is at the end of the town; when I say "town" I mean lovely collection of houses all along one street, which eventually becomes the road into Eldorado Canyon State Park. Driving through town, I felt an urgency to move there. I need to live here! I MUST!!! It is such a gorgeous little town, and it was such a beautiful weekend, and...well, reality interfered and I returned to Boulder, convincing myself that I needed to be close to work because I don't have a car and bussing in from Eldo would be a nightmare every day and yada yada yada...

We got to the ranger station, paid the $7 entrance fee (!!!) and crept around myriad mazelike parking areas until we secured a spot. It was a very busy day at the park, both around the hiking areas and trails and, of course, on the walls. When we first got far enough into the canyon to be able to pick out groups of climbers --spider-people, one hiking guide calls us-- it was all I could do to remain in the vehicle. Every crag, every line, everything that looked like it could possibly be a crag or line, every traverse, every possible nook and cranny--climbers looooove our nooks and crannies--was teeming with groups. As we were getting out of the car I heard the familiar sound of hexes clanking against cams and nuts and looked mournfully at Jeremy. He returned the gaze, then tried to smile a little. "We'll bring gear next time," he said, nowhere near enthusiastically enough to lift my spirits.

Jeremy scanning the nearby walls of Eldorado Canyon for climbers:


The Eldorado Canyon trail is part of a trail network that meets up with the Walker Ranch Trail in Boulder as well as other South Boulder trails...which is pretty cool. We were just doing it as on out-and-back, although it was more like a stumble-and bumble, as we spent a good amount of time watching the climbers as we hiked. Jeremy's good at this. Me, not so much. You know the old "walk-and-chew-gum" adage? Yeah, well, I can barely walk, much less do so while looking at anything other than the ground in front of my feet. So I took frequent "watch the climbers" pauses, all the while bemoaning our lack of gear.

The trail itself was quite lovely: moderately steep, not too busy, overlooking gergous valleys and meadows, Rocky Mountain wilderness and probably, plenty of wildlife. I'm always amazed at where some things choose to put down roots...Yes, that is a tree. A tiny tree, but a tree nonetheless, growing out of a boulder. AWESOME!!

I'm also amazed at the ingenuity of the state parks department. There are some interesting "improvements" made to the trail, probably to keep erosion from wearing it away (like layers of felt beneath the top inch or so of dirt near places that would be good rockslide candidates), and a hole in the ground, off-trail, where rangers have erected poles and wrapped them in bright yellow caution tape. What does bright yellow caution tape make YOU want to do?

That's right, it makes you want to check it out. Seriously, they might as well have erected a big neon sign that said, "check out this old mineshaft!". So Jeremy, the brave one, slid down the little makeshift path to the caution-tape laden hole and snappred a few shots. I'm sure it's quite dangerous, and I definitely wouldn't want to get stuck in there, but it make me wonder how many people had to be rescued from it before the area got plastered with plastic yellow "danger-do-not-enter" tape...and how many have done just what we did since. Oh, the vicarious lives we live!

Eventually, we turned around and made our way back to the car. Driving slowly out so that we could keep an eye on the climbing parties all over the walls, we started excitedly discussing gear we'd need, techniques we'd have to use and, of course, how quickly we might return.

RIP William R. Barrowclough August 5, 1940 - October 7, 2007

It’s somewhat incredible to me that this is the second year my father has missed his own birthday. That he’s still gone, that I can’t call him to say hi, Happy Birthday, Daddy, what are you going to do on your special day? I was doing a crossword puzzle earlier and thought of him solving the daily puzzles in The Charlotte Observer, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open, lost in thought over some clue, some elusive synonym. I remember Dad helping train me for my first marathon. I remember him driving into Boulder for the first time, exclaiming over the beauty of the mountains, the FlatIrons, this lovely little city. I remember him at my college graduation, bursting with pride, grinning and hugging and kissing me. And I remember him sick: I remember how cancer, its side effects and its aftermath ate alive his effervescent youth, his energy, his radiance, how it stole his appetite and his mobility, how it ate away at his tissues until he could not longer stand or walk, how it took his life away. But I also remember, a few weeks before he died, how excited he was to see me when I flew out to South Carolina to see him for what, I didn’t know then would be, the last time. How we talked for hours on end until he’d fall asleep, midsentence. How I helped take care of him as best I knew how, which admittedly wasn’t very well.

Boy, do I miss you, Dad. I love you.

So, I Fell Off Of A Cliff Today...

Now THERE'S a blog post starter for you. On the down side, it doesn't get much more exciting than that. For me, this is also the up side.

I was out climbing with Jeremy, celebrating the fact that if I have a kidney infection, it's in serious getting-the-hell-out-of-my-body mode or it's already gone, thanks to rest, rest, more rest and excellent advice and props from my wonderful friends, family, colleagues and boyfriend. After feeling like total shit for the past two and a half weeks I am finally starting to come out of the fug of fever, exhaustion and incoherence that is my body and mind when my immune system is battling something nasty. Anyway...

I was unroped, actually...roped falls don't merit this type of blog post, as when they happen, it's something like, oh fuck, I'm FALLING!, and then my belayer catches me, and then I'm not falling, just a little freaked, for a moment, and then I'm attempting to do whatever I was just attempting to do, but better this time, and without falling. All of this happens in about five seconds, BTW.

So, I was unroped, off trying to find bushes to go do a girly bush-squat, toilet paper in tow, before climbing Jaycene's Dance (climbers: it's a half-pitch 5.8 at Animal World that boasts a ton of fun moves on it, a couple of little ledges, and a crux that's pretty much AT the anchor; it's extremely popular and a lot of fun and if you go, expect to wait unless you go REALLY early in the morning...I've seen parties lines up three deep for this one...non-climbers: it's a long cliff that's barely visible from the road as you're headed up Boulder Canyon (from Boulder to Ned); it's above the rock wall on the right side of the road where you always see groups of climbers, about 9 miles up the canyon or 1 mile past Boulder Falls, called Boulderado), as I'd properly hydrated before belaying Jeremy up to setup the anchor and therefore, had to attend to some business. I'd been scouting around for a spot among a boulder formation that had tons of pine straw scattered about the ground...I hate pine straw, have slid precariously down a few scary gulleys before due to the presence of the stuff and am NOT a fan, and I was busy thanking my wonderful approach shoes for being better on pine straw while trying to teeter off of a cliff to see how far down it was to try to get out of sight to do my business. There was a small evergreen within reach, and I figured I'd graba tiny branch on it then move my hand to its base, all the while battling pine-straw slippage. Well, my hand never reached the base and I slipped, in slow motion, over the edge of the cliff, my hands still scrabbling for something to hang onto, and only catching air again, and again, and again as the tiny branch--which couldn't have supported the weight of a bloated caterpillar, much less a 160-lb human being--snapped off in my hand and I fell, ass-first. Because I couldn't see where I was going, I thought, quite coherently, "I'm going to die." My life didn't flash before my eyes, but I had no idea what was below me as I had been, in fact, scouting that very question when I slipped over the cliff edge, and I knew that a lot of the cliffs tumbled rather sheerly down to the road. I was going to die.

Terrified though I was, I was also indignant and angry (leave it to the human species to be able to produce such emotions). What the fuck was THIS about? I wasn't going to die falling off some cliff while I was just trying to take a leak? If I was going to die climbing, it was going to be much more spectacular than this: my anchor's ledge would unexpectedly cleave off and I would tumble to the bottom of the rock face just as I was about to reach it, or my protection would fail off of some huge wall in Yosemite and I'd tumble to the earth, or my rope would suddenly an immediately fray through, and I'd plunge to my death (this last one, by the way, is virtually impossible...climbing ropes do not fray through, and if there's even a remote possibility that they're going to, climbers do not climb with them anymore. They cut them up and throw them away.). Or something. I mean, what the fuck was this about?

These were possibly the two strongest thoughts as I plunged off the side of the cliff, headed down ass-first into a ledge, covered in about a foot and a half of pine straw, twelve feet below my initial slip. Apparently, I screamed, although I don't remember doing so. When I hit "bottom", my first impulse was to laugh. While I'd been sure of it for a split second, the Universe was not about to place me next into line for a Darwin award. I landed on quite possibly the softest, gentlest place in all of Boulder Canyon's climbing areas--six inches further and I would have hit a rock slab that would have no doubt been considerably less forgiving--and I soon got my feet under me, called out "I'm okay!" to Jeremy's concerned cries (I was close enough to the route that he heard the tree branch snap, me falling (and screaming), and the THUD as I landed. He only got worried when I didn't make any noise, and that's when he began calling my name.

Boy, am I lucky. Boy, was that close, or COULD have been close. Plenty of those cliffs drop straight down onto the road, or much harder surfaces, or would cause a climber to pinwheel through limb-shattering evergreens and small boulders before coming to rest on something. Boy, was I--am I still--scared out of my mind. Not knowing what you're going to hit is absolutely terrifying, even thinking about that moment, the uncertainty, the seconds my mind had to race through all the possibilities that I could reasonably summon, even thinking about those NOW, makes me catch my breath and causes me to blink back tears. To say it was a sobering moment scratches only the tip of the iceberg or, perhaps, the broken branch I still held in my hand as I scrambled to my feet and thanked my Creator, the Universe, whatever fate and luck and need for me to still be among the living is out there. I am so lucky to be alive. That could have ended so much more badly. And I'm really, really thankful that this time, I got off with just a warning.

And some suffering, of course. After the adrenaline wore off the pain in my buttocks and hip started throbbing; while pine straw is forgiving (and deceptive...I'm amused that my reason for falling was also my savior...gotta love the universal irony there, huh?), it was piled on top of boulders, and it wasn't THAT deep. I'm sure that as the bruises start showing, they'll become more painful; as it is, it's hard to walk and the area between my outer knee and right buttock are tender and sore, and bound to get worse. Damn, am I lucky or what?

After that, I did my business, roped up, and did my climb. Incidentally, it was my most solid climb to date. I felt great, and Jeremy said I looked great. I was testing holds and feeling the rock more than I ever have before, getting comfortable standing on teeny-tiny ledges and toeholds and using intermediate moves to advance the climb. The whole climb was very Zen for me, very focused, attentive, concentrated. It had to be. It was either that, or the great big balloon of terror filling my midsection would burst and I'd be stuck on this wretched cliff face bawling my eyes out. I didn't want the day to end that way. So instead, I focused my energy on doing the best climb I could, and it turned out to be the most graceful and solid I've ever felt. Go figure.

We left, then, pretty immediately, pulling our rope and calling it a day. I'm so grateful for the fates being on my side, for my awesome boyfriend's reassurances as I freaked out, then got angry, then started laughing, then freaked again, his ability to maintain calm and prevailing steadiness throughout, the mountain's forgiveness and fury, all at once, and the fact that this time, when it was levelled at me, I escaped a little scathed, a little wiser, a little more introspective, a little more aware, and a lot more grateful. Gratitude--even when induced by short falls off of minor cliffs--is always a blessing. Me partway up Jaycene's Dance summer 2008.

Sensationalist Media

Just a comment on a couple of interesting stories in my local paper, The Denver Post. A front-page story ranon Friday decrying the H1N1/"swine flu" paranoia that was causing people to Lysol their desks constantly, hand-sanitize themselves to death and exhibit other behaviors that verged on the wholly, terrifically paranoid.

The article continued on page 21A, where its headline: "GERMS: Difference between prudent, paranoid" directed the reader easily to the rest of the story. And then there was the next major piece of news on page 21A: "A swine-flu pandemic could infect 2 billion, WHO says".

Is it just me, or is journalistic hypocrisy reaching yet another high point in a desperate bid to keep selling papers?

Construction, Demolition, and SWAT training grounds

So, a month or so ago, I left my apartment to see a demolition crew tearing down an old abandoned house that has been sitting on the edge of a weed-choked vacant lot next to my complex for years. I felt a small pang of nostalgia but mostly relief; the place was an eyesore and probably some kind of publica hazard, and at least I would no longer have to give friends directions to my apartment by telling them, "Go past the junkyard and the abandoned house and my driveway is the next one on the right. If you get to the trailer park, you've gone too far." It makes it sound like I live in the ghetto and for what I make in income and pay in rent, I don't really like feeling that way.

I was blown away when the house was not only totally torn down but also hauled away by the time I got home from work that evening. There were also the makings of a crude parking lot for...what? Within the next few days, a pedestrian crosswalk had been erected, the kind with flashing lights to alert traffic to pedestrians crossing the street. While there was a fair amount of foot traffic in my part of town it was hardly downtown Boulder, and the whole thing remained a mystery until construction crews turned up across the street from my complex and, it seemed, turned the parking lots for the Shady Hollow East complex as well as the public works building nearby into rubble. The crude parking lot across the street was laid down so that residents would have somewhere to park their cars until the area looked a little less like this:
(Photo credit: Jeremy Baggs.) This was taken from my complex's lot...as you can see, there's not really anywhere for Shady Hollow residents to park there anymore, and what's been interesting to watch is how they, almost as if in some sort of passive rebellion, refuse to use the crosswalk. They'll be ten feet awat from it but refuse to press the button, activate the flashing lights, and cross in the actual crosswalk. An act of defiance, I suppose, in some form. Anyway...

The trailer park is also being demolished. I don't even want to know why, really, but I was really rather entertained to hear that due to the fact that it was slated for demolition the Boulder Police Department SWAT team, never one to miss an opportunity for any kind of staged-real-life practice, was going to descend upon the fenced-in trailer park for tactical training on Wednesday, March 25. On Monday we residents ofTwoMile Creek Condominiums were greeted by the following notice posted at all of the external entryways:
Presumably, we were warned so as not to be concerned about the myriad explosions and gunfire that would be quite audible, not to mention the dozens of armed cops clearly labeled with SWAT across their backs. I wish I'd called in sick from work, though I'm sure I would have been shooed away from any kind of snooping I would attempt. With my luck, I'd be arrested for disturbing the cops who were disturbing the peace. My indomitable boyfriend, never one to miss a photo op, shot a couple of quick digital pics from his car as he drove by and one of them looked pretty interesting:
(Photo credit: Jeremy Baggs) It's really probably a good thing I wasn't home. I wouldn't have been able to keep my snooping to myself.

I Love Boulder

Ahh, Boulder. Outside of Colorado, Boulder is known, I think, mostly, as:

a) an enclave of endurance athletes the world over, a kind of near-mythic utopia where Kenyans, Ironmen/Ironwomen, Olympians and various other superjocks come to train as we mere mortals gaze in awe as they fly past us and choke gratefully on their dust

b) the home of the University of Colorado, one of the nation's biggest party schools as rated by Playboy

c) that sleepy little town where that little girl was killed on Christmas, or

d) the setting for Mork & Mindy

There may be other associations of which I'm unaware, but I think this pretty much covers it. Inside of Colorado, it's a different story. Boulder is the liberal holdout, that trippy-hippie pseudo-city where, it was once rumored, California liberals headed when Berkeley got too conservative for them. Conversationally, anyone's perception of you shifts immediately once they realize you're from Boulder. Get a Letter to the Editor published in a Denver newspaper and you're bound to see a response in a day or two blasting whatever it is you wrote about based on the fact that you reside in Boulder.

That said, I love living in Boulder. I'll take my self-indulgent, overly intellectualized, flagrantly liberal, often entitled little city over anywhere else on the planet any day of the week. We get over 320 days of sunshine annually here. We have more grocers selling locally-grown, organically-harvested products than we know what to do with. We have a generally healthy, upper-middle class population and consistently rank as one of the healthiest places to live in the United States. Kids start hiking, cycling and rock climbing when they're still toddlers. The accolades go on...and on...and on.

That said, we are definitely still a liberal haven, as was demonstrated recently by throngs of protesters upset about our country's skyrocketing unemployment and slumbering economy, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, congregated at the convergence of a couple of main streets in the downtown area:
OK, so, you can see protesters anywhere. In fact, it's kind of welcome in a nation that's enjoyed an incredible span of total public apathy. In other countries, when they don't like what their government is doing, the population takes to the streets. They go out and protest en masse. And they achieve, at the very least, a lot more of their government's attention.

But this is Boulder, and protests are SO the norm, that I was at once convulsing with laughter and nodding in agreeement when I saw the anti-protest protesters:
Talking with them briefly while we were stopped at the intersection they were anti-protesting on, they gamely discussed the need to end protesting in Boulder. They were about a block away from the throngs of actually-protesting protesters, and we thought they were a riot. I love this picture in particular:
because he was actually saying to me, "We need to put a stop to all of this useless picketing!"

Ahh, Boulder. How can you not love this town?

I especially love that I snapped those photos (with my phone, hence the lousy quality) the same day as witnessing other Boulderific sights, such as this guy who was really, REALLY bent on going climbing:
Nice crashpad mounted on his back whilst riding the scooter up to, presumably, a nearby bouldering or sport climbing route. I guess in this case it serves a dual purpose, just in case some overcaffeinated multitasking soccer mom fails to notice his presence and rams him with her SUV.

God, I love this town.

Without A Doubt, The Cutest Kitty In The World

Awwwwwww...............................

Jeff Mason Strikes (Out) Again

This guy must be one heck of a talker to have attracted the kind of attention he has from sponsors. Doesn't matter; if he continues to address his racers this way, he may have an irate public on his hands. I recently received an email from "Boulder Marathon" (I must be some kind of masochist to remain on the mailing list, or perhaps I just do it to keep receiving His Eminent Moron's narcissistic ramblings masquerading as "race news"...whatever the reason, his flounderings make me chuckle and hey, isn't that what it's all about?) addressed to "Dear (Contact First Name)". In the name of all that is holy in marketing! I hope that by the time Jeff has shot himself in the foot so many times he's got nothing left to stand on, I'm in a position to start up the REAL Boulder Marathon.

Dear Uncle Chuck

(An email I sent my uncle after receiving a totally untrue chain email from him about how upset liberals were that Tiger Woods didn't make a political speech during his speaking event at the 2009 Inauguration. Woods has been a very vocal supporter of Obama and gushed his support energetically shortly after the election despite the fact that he has historically maintained a staunchly apolitical public stance.)

Uncle Chuck, why do you hate liberals so much? I'm really, genuinely curious about this. I don't understand what's so wrong about raising taxes on the wealthy while giving the lower and middle classes a break, or embryonic stem cell research, or calling for a massive stimulus package to stagnate skyrocketing unemployment levels and revive a terminally ill global economy. President Bush, after all, handed out stimulus checks twice. The first rounds of checks effectively annihilated the balanced budget achieved by the Clinton administration. The second was a desperate bid to demonstrate that conservative economic ideals of the "spend more than you can afford to" Republican party were fiscally viable. This led to the subprime mortgage crisis, which led to the credit crunch, which led to a terrifying global recession. The companies who desperately need federal funding to stay alive are dragging their feet because the government is not going to write them a blank check; the funds are available for those willing to dramatically reformulate their business plan, because the one they've been using thus far isn't working anymore. Similarly, the $500,000 salary cap that President Obama set on CEOs of businesses receiving federal assistance has sparked an outrage among these CEOs as well as reignited the conservative battle cry about the evils of government regulation. Apparently, asking businesses who stay afloat on federal funds to be accountable to the taxpayers who made those funds possible is socialism, and CEOs cannot possibly survive on $500,000 per year.

As for the accusations in this particular chain mail about us scheming liberals, where exactly is the evidence that Tiger's inviters were "stunned"? Oh, wait...there is none. Darn. Can't pin much more than an unfounded angry Conservative accusation on us. See the snopes research on this here: http://www.snopes.com/politics/obama/tigerwoods.asp

As is noted in the (snopes) article, Tiger Woods often takes the opportunity to publicly address the importance of respecting and honoring our troops.

I love you,
Dondi

OMG!

One of our patients was so enthralled with our ability to work him in for a stat ultrasound (which we do all the time) that he went to Breadworks and bought us a box of cookies. Each was individually wrapped so we knew they'd be safe for consumption (he was careful to indicate this, which I thought was doubly sweet). Awww!

The Death Roll

So, I heard about this from an acquaintance; apparently there's some group you can join to place bets on who is going to die within the calendar year. Except there's no money involved, and you don't get anything but points in the Death Roll club or whatever it is, and points are acquired through rather strange qualifiers. Like, more points for younger people (the further away they are from 100 years old, the more points you score if you called it), more points for suicides, etc. This all made about as much sense to me as the way my acquaintance analogized the thing: ["It's like fantasy football, but with no teams. Or players. Or games."] Riiiigggghhht...

OK, so it's weird and messed up and kind of um, disgusting/pathetic/nonsensical? But let's put all that aside. What I really want to know is, are there qualifiers that deduct points from your total, if you're participating in this thing? Like, if you pick someone with terminal cancer, or some other life-threatening illness? What about someone whose lifestyle involves higher inherent risks than the average joe, like skydiving or traveling to hostile lands or being related to the Kennedys?

So there's my musing for the day...wow, I should probably get some coffee in me and get going...

Emily Smiles

A drunk driver nearly destroyed my family's Christmas. My mother and sister, who are incredibly close, haven't seen each other in years. Our extended family and friends joined forces to make it possible for my mom to visit Emily, who moved to Charlotte several years ago to be closer to our (now deceased) father while he battled cancer. When Dad died last October, Emily decided to stay in Charlotte. She'd made friends and our Dad's side of the family lives close by, and a move wasn't financially viable, to say the least. When my mother's best friend offered to use her frequent flyer miles to buy a ticket for Mom to go see Emily, the rest of us figured out how to make it work. A neighbor is taking care of her dogs; her sister sent some money so that they could buy groceries while Mom was there. Emily, working two jobs, can barely make ends meet and my mother's meager government disability stipend barely covers her living expenses. My boyfriend and I arranged to drive Mom to and from the airport. Emily couldn't even take time off while Mom was there; they visited around my sister's considerable work schedule. But we were all so happy that Mom was going to get to see Emily; we all knew it would be the best Christmas gift they could possibly receive.

They had barely arrived at home on Christmas Eve when the drunk driver of a Trans Am hit Emily's car. He smashed into it so hard that he shoved it some 30 feet down the street; the car is so badly totaled that they can't move it anywhere (right now it's blocking a driveway). We can't even scrape together enough money to have the car towed anywhere, and her insurance company picked a fight with her when she called them to report the accident last night. The driver fled the scene but miraculously a neighbor was outside when it happened, saw the whole thing, and got the guy's plate number...then went to Emily's door to let her know her car had just been destroyed. My mom is leaving tonight and instead of spending these last few hours together enjoying each other's company they are calling around frantically for help to get Mom to the airport. Emily has to work a thirteen hour day tomorrow and will have to take buses two hours there and back. She's a 24-year old bright spot of sunshine and good humor in the lives of everyone who knows her; there is not a more compassionate, vivacious, beautiful person in the world than Emily Barrowclough. She has also lived through some horrific incidents in her very young life, from being the victim of an armed home robbery while living in Colorado to the death of our father to losing a dear friend in Charlotte to a heroin overdose just this past year. She's such a good, kind, loving person; I don't know why these terrible things keep happening to her.

I spent my Christmas Day today setting up a donation fund for her so that she can get some help securing transportation. Please consider donating to the Emily Smiles Fund (there is a donation button at the top right on this blog). Thank you.

This...Is Frostnip

The word "Frostnip" sounds adorable. Like Jack Frost's puppy, or the latest winter cocktail. It's also fun to say (oh, just try it, you know you wanna: frost-nip, frost-nip, frost-nip...okay, okay, that's enough). It is NOT fun, however, to actually deal with.

Frostnip is the first stage of frostbite (ahh, logic in pseudo-scientific terminology). eMedicineHealth.com describes it as such: "When only the surface skin is frozen, the injury is called frostnip. Frostnip begins with itching and pain. The skin then blanches and eventually the area becomes numb. Frostnip generally does not lead to permanent damage because only the top layers of skin are involved. However, frostnip can lead to long-term sensitivity to heat and cold." Doesn't sound like fun, does it? Well, fortunately, I only skimmed the surface of potential frostnip myself today, biking to work in -10 degree weather.

In my defense, I don't have a car, taking the bus system would have taken 30-45 minutes and increased my carbon-footprint guilt, and since I didn't really pay attention to the deep freeze that began yesterday and apparently continues to consume Colorado tonight (at this posting, it's -2.6 degrees outside) I figured I'd get the usual sunny Colorado day-after-a-weekend blizzard weather to deal with on my ride to work: cold, bracing, but not really freezing. Never again will I make such an assumption.

As usual, I prepared my messenger bag and my bicycle, threw on the lovely fleece I usually ride to work in, and headed out to greet the day. The roads were still covered in packed snow, and as I descended the staircase from my third-floor apartment, bike and bag in tow, I was paying much more attention to my footfalls, as a slip would be quite simple to sustain and likely have dire consequences, than I was to the weather. Having safely descended, I jumped on my bike, pulled my hat a little lower, and wobbled carefully into the rightmost set of tire tracks on the road. This is a Boulder thing, and I don't suggest trying it elsewhere. In Boulder, they will grimace, scowl, shake their fists, curse and sometimes roll down windows to scream at you but they will not, if you are on a bicycle and they in a car trying to pass you, actually hit you. At least not on purpose. While I feel a little bad knowing I'm a slow-moving obstacle that the clenched-teeth SUV-driving, Starbucks-latte gulping, Bluetooth-headset wearing driver behind me really wishes he could just mow down, I reconcile such thoughts with, wait a minute, I am making up for that douchebag's carbon Bigfoot print with every jam forward onto my crank. He can kiss my arse. And they get a break in traffic, and they go around. Big deal.

Today, however, I had no such thoughts, because I had no time for such thoughts, because my lungs were not functioning. I was forcibly separated from my bicycle for a few days last week as it underwent a tube change and was a bit terrified, thinking, oh my God, it's only been a few days and my lungs are burning like they're on fire, and my skin is frozen, and my progress is pathetic. Yes, I was in slippery. slidey snow but I usually make better time than this! Then I realized I could hear myself breathing over the music on my Nikepod, and my breathing terrified me even more. Think of a severe case of tuberculosis in the 19th century, something like Doc Holliday on his deathbed. Then put it on several shots of espresso and amphetamines. That's what I sounded like. A caffeinated TB patient. On top of this, my fleece jacket, usually a great top layer because it allows some breathability while keeping me somewhat warm, was performing about as well as a fishing net. I was chilled to my bones and panting rapidly. No good could come from this, and I seriously started worrying about my health.

I eventually made it to work and it wasn't for another hour that I discovered exactly how frigid the air outside was. I think we had a high of 4.3 degrees today. Without any proper gear--though I had some in my bag, at least a Gore Tex jacket to overlay my fleece with, had I known it was that cold--including a balaclava or some similar attire to keep the arctic air from being sucked straight into my lungs, I was literally killing potentially hundreds of alveoli in my lungs with every breath. I was informed of this by my colleague Alice, who has an impressive breadth of knowledge on this subject, as I sat at my desk beside her wheezing tremendously. The shot of albuterol I sent down my airway once I got to work probably didn't help. I found out later that the temperature was around -10 degrees while I was riding. No wonder. My face was bright red thanks to the very earliest stages of frostnip, and my hands and arms didn't fully warm for about half an hour.

When I got home after work--my loving boyfriend picked me up and we left the bike in the rack for the night--I looked in the mirror for the first time and noticed that my cheeks were dotted with red bumps and blotches where blood vessels had frozen and then restarted during and after my frozen ride to work. I didn't take these until a few hours later, and it's gone down considerably, but anyone who knows me knows my cheeks and ears aren't generally this red:




So, lessons here: Even the gentlest nip of frost is unpleasant. Check the weather report before you leave to bike to work...and, well, um, don't bike to work in negative 10 degree weather! But if you must, layer as much as you can. Your body will thank you. Mine is still dodgy, but I'm sure it'll come around eventually.

Denver Half Marathon Race Report

October 19, 2008

What do you get when you pair 5623 runners with about a hundred port-a-potties?

Really long lines.

That said, it’s about the only major executive-level complaint I have about the Denver Marathon. Then again, when you have a former Boston Marathon race director designing the course, it’s sort of expected that that level of organization is included with your race fee. The fact that there were nowhere near enough port-o-lets at the race’s start/finish to accommodate the runners was kind of a bummer. I don’t expect to find thousands of temporary toilets on the grounds of Civic Center Park, but surely a few more wouldn’t have hurt.

We were pretty much left to fend for ourselves on the course, as well, although since it toured through several parks in greater downtown Denver, there were a few more toilets available around the course…but there were very few. Outside of port-a-johns, you could head into a local business along the route and hope for sympathy.

How did my race report get so toilet-centered? Well, to say my digestion was suffering on race day would be the understatement of the millennium. My stomach was so bad that I couldn’t even imagine starting without going to the bathroom; when the starting gun went off and the lines for the toilet disappeared, I stood my ground and fled into the next open toilet. I’m not used to this. My digestion has been one thing I’ve always had going for me: races, training runs, whatever, my stomach has never been an issue before. That morning, however, my tummy was NOT having it. As a result, I started running about ten minutes late…and departed the start line just ahead of the sweeper truck.

OK, so, that aside…Colorado in autumn is absolutely gorgeous, for the most part. There’s a chance you can get bogged down in snow, but it’s pretty slim, and on October 19, Colorado’s fall spectacular was on display. I ran the Denver Marathon under crystal-clear skies and warming temps as the sun came up to illuminate the gorgeous fall colors: aspen and oak and crab apple and mulberry trees all in the midst of their annual showcase in brilliant golds and oranges and reds and yellows. I feel extraordinarily blessed to call this part of the world home, especially at this time of year.

The entire course is paved, and ran through sections of LoDo and downtown Denver, including Coors Field, the newly redesigned Denver Art Museum, City Park and Cheesman Park, along with scads of beautiful older-Denver neighborhoods. The race started and finished at Civic Center Park, near the state Capitol building. Both races follow the same course; the marathon course splits off and weaves through several other historic areas and a couple of extra parks, then loops back and rejoins the main course about a mile before the finish. Finishers were directed by ever-helpful and friendly race volunteers and personnel into separate chutes for the half- and full-marathon, and the reception at the finish was phenomenal: to already be running a gorgeous course on a beautiful day just feels fantastic; to feel so beloved by the hundreds of cheering fans at the finish, especially those already-finished runners who stick around to cheer for us back-of-the-packers.

The course was well-stocked with Gatorade and water, and surprisingly not quite as well-stocked for nutrition otherwise. Personally, I didn’t mind the single aid station offering Clif Shots—I can’t stand gels and pack my own sustenance—at mile 7, and for a half-marathon, you really can get away with very little if any nutritional complements, but looking at the course map I only saw one other aid station for Clif Shots, at mile 17. Perhaps less nutrition is better, but it seemed kind of lacking to me. Since I didn’t run the full, however, I’m in no place to comment: volunteers often bring their own snacks and generously share them with dogged marathoners, a courtesy I have always appreciated.

Speaking of volunteers…the volunteers for the race were exceptional, as usual, and cheered and enthused and encouraged us all on, even me, barely ahead of the race-walkers. The awesome attitude and charm of race volunteers and spectators never fails to amaze me; I think the sidelines at any road race are possibly the best evidence for the social and supportive nature of humans available. Runners are crazy: we get up at absurd hours and then go exert ourselves for an extended amount of time, so that we can cross that finish line, beat that PR, get that metal trinket handed out at the finish and then mill around with a bunch of fellow crazy, sweaty people afterwards to chow down on bagels, burritos, bananas and beer (alliteration unintentional, but amusing). But what of the people who aren’t running, who show up to support us, to hand us water and Gatorade, to sweep up millions of little paper cups and cheer us on and take our pictures and carry our crap for us? I can really only offer my enormous gratitude and thanks to every spectator and volunteer present, not the least of which goes out to my awesome boyfriend/sherpa/personal photographer/cheerleader/sideline therapist/motivator Jeremy.

The police presence was commendable as well. Having to blockade substantial areas of main streets and neighborhoods can’t be easy, but they not only assisted the runners wholeheartedly, they would smile and nod or cheer us on as well. What a great feeling. I’m sure that closing roads for this race seemed like small potatoes to them after hosting the Democratic National Convention, but I still really appreciate their candor and cheery attitude.

While the course is “relatively flat” there are some hillier sections that made me really thankful for being residentially acclimated to life at 5000 feet. I’d recommend getting here a few days in advance, if possible, so as not to be stymied by the less-than-flat sections, if coming from sea level to run this race. It’s nowhere near as hilly at the Boulder Marathon but still might warrant acclimatization for runners from sea level. It’s much easier to haul up those hills without feeling like you’re breathing through a straw.

Miscellany: McDonald’s was a title sponsor, which simultaneously doesn’t surprise me and makes me cringe. Nothing like America’s greatest championer of obesity promoting an athletic event. There was a huge Team In Training presence, which I always enjoy seeing and am starting to think hard about joining, or at least running a race or two with; I really admire this organization. Finally, there was a woman at mile four holding a McCain/Palin sign. OK, the political situation was driving most of us crazy to begin with, and escaping it through running doesn’t work anymore as myriad lawn signs are posted everywhere. I don’t need anyone else’s political assertions injected into my race as well. Granted, it was more of a run than a race for me, but I still think it was annoying, at best. I was there to run, not evaluate my political conscience…apparently a $102 race fee can’t get you away from the die-hards.

Speaking of what that $102 fee included…the race packets were pretty pathetic: lots of shiny advertisements, a beverage that couldn’t possibly pass muster as a sport drink, and a cotton t-shirt. Because we runners love to wear cotton so much. I really think there oughta be some sort of universal stipulation for giving race participants synthetic race shirts. The finishing medals were really nice though; you kind of felt like an Olympian considering the heft and size of the things.

All in all it was a beautiful race that gives a nice scope of Denver for out-of-state entrants, and a great reminder for us residents of the wealth of awesome running routes we enjoy year-round. If you’re considering a Mile High marathon, I strongly endorse this one.

http://www.denvermarathon.com

Sick...

In the wake of Senator Obama's visit to Colorado, in high spirits and enjoying the mellifluous peace that we were going to secure a leader for this country whose work as President would be revolutionary, ingenious, historically significant, one huge black mark crashed through my day today.

It started with a Fox News report (how better to know my enemy than to read their news?) on a couple of white supremacists arrested by the FBI for attempting to enact a plot to kill Senator Obama as the "final target" on a list of 88 murders and 14 decapitations of black people. The list includes black schoolchildren. Apparently no one is too young for the psychotic notions of super-racists.

Are you listening to me?!?!?! SCHOOLCHILDREN!!! What is going on here? As much as I hate to say it, Senator Obama is probably more aware of the dangers to his life and the liabilities facing the decision he made to run for President than any other Presidential candidate in history...the only reason being that we are NOT a coclor-blind population. As much as we would like to say we are, we're not. I don't think I'm exaggerating in saying that any non-Caucasian person in this country has a sense of that, grows up with it, understands it. We'd love to be. But we're not. Let's get honest here.

One particularly terrifying, and yet somewhat gratifying, part of the New York Times article I picked up on the would-be killers: "The two men “planned to drive their vehicle as fast as they could toward Obama shooting at him from the windows,” according to an affidavit filed in federal court in Jackson, Tenn., by an agent with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. Mr. Obama has no plans to be in Tennessee, and the affidavit does not make clear whether the men had picked a location for an attack."

Terrifying because: people are actually planning to try to assassinate Obama. I remember remarking on the presence of the Secret Service at the Denver rally, "What's the worst thing that could happen right now?" and all of us nodding and reluctantly acknowledging the horror of that idea.

Gratifying because: the FBI is really ON TOP OF IT. They caught onto these guys before their plan even reached an advanced stage. Also because they're so clearly ignorant morons that they wouldn't have gotten far...drive their vehicle as fast as they could and shoot at Obama through the windows? Um, last I knew, the Secret Service had that plan anticipated, and clearly thought out, and had plenty of contingency plans to deal with such an incident. Obama didn't have plans to campaign in Tennessee, and while future development might show they intended to strike elsewhere, all we know now if that they were planning this attack from home turf.

And then...nauseating, because...how does anyone, anywhere, anytime, justfiy killing children?

Obama/Biden 08. Vote!

Law of the American Jungle

First, there was the pre-dawn wake-up call, our alarms clattering noisily, rousing us from our comfortable slumber. Our bodies didn't want to respond at all. Being up this early was completely foreign on this day of the week, and they didn't like it one bit. Somehow, we got ourselves to the bus on time.

Then it was the bus ride to Denver, packed in with crowds of people RTD doesn't usually see on this line, during this day of the week. The decision had been sent down from dispatch, our driver informed us, to run more buses that day. We'd secured seats and were still trying to wake up, and I pitied--though not enough to give up my seat, selfish child that I can be--those who had to stand for the entire hourlong ride.

Then there was the wait in the line, which moved every so often, only to reveal more line. Finally we neared the park. There were metal detectors to pass through, Secret Service and Denver Police officers patting people down, coins and phones to remove from pockets, bags to be searched. A woman beside me groaned, remembering her artificial knee. Making our way through the park, we stopped at what was then the edge of the crowd, a good 60-70 yards from the podium. We grumbled about having a lousy view and prepared for our next wait. It would be another hour and a half before the rally even began, and the crowds were packing in.

Standing on my tiptoes, I could only see if a few hundred people tilted their heads just so. And even then, only a glimpse of the podium, the teleprompter, the speaker. Bitter-cold breeze blowing. Feet stamping. Trying to warm up.

By the end of the day, we were sunburned. Fatigued. Cold. Achy. Claustrophobic.

Faced with an imminent need to empty our bladders.

And yet, the Law of the American Jungle still applied: stay calm, and share your bananas. We weren't necessarily calm; it was a political rally, for goodness' sake, "calm" isn't the point. But we were joyful. We were exuberant. We were smiling and joking and laughing. We were befriending those around us, sharing the latest negative-campaigning gossip, heartily congratulating a woman nearby when she said she was a lifelong Republican who not only had converted but was out helping with voter regiatration, getting people to early voting, helping in any way that she could. A woman forgot her camera, so she gave me her email address so that I could send her our pictures. She and her friends shared their trail mix with us when they broke it out. We all laughed over the $150,000 wardrobe scandal, we shored up our reserves and we discussed tactics to get our friends and loved ones who were Republican or undecided to consider our candidate. It was awesomely Democratic; as far as I can tell, the only thing Republicans do when they rally--in, thankfully, waning numbers--is shout crude, vitriolic psycho-babble like "Drill, baby, drill!" Republican gatherings look like the crowd at the AARP claims office: a bunch of old angry white men. Democratic gatherings have a decidedly more American flavor: people of every shape, size, color, age, sexual orientation, you name it, are there. The rally was actually representative of the American population, rather than representative of Old Johnny's Cronies. Moving on...

When our local politicians took the stage, we cheered them on. When they incited the crowd for responses, we hollered readily. My boyfriend, the designated photographer, snapped dozens of photos, mostly of a sea of people, a podium, a figure speaking, and a huge white building as the backdrop. He snapped pictures of the Secret Service snipers on the roof of the county building, and we all murmured acknowledgment that if the absolute worst were to happen, that's what they were there for.

And then he took the stage, and the crowd roared. Gracious, brilliant, and inspiring, we listened as he outlined his promise for change, his heartfelt gratitude for our presence, and yes, a bit of tearing into his opponent. But mostly, his hopes for our great nation. His plan to wean us from foreign oil without bankrupting the seas and poisoning the environment, to free us from the burdensome toils of the broken healthcare system, to get us out of this horrid downward-spiraling economy. To alleviate the middle class of the fear of foreclosures for a few months, until people can get back on their feet and begin paying their mortgages.

His speech was profoundly eloquent, yet humbled; he was spirited, passionate and driven without sinking to the depths the Republicans have in their attacks on him. He took a few shots at McCain but mostly he talked about what he was going to do, not what his opponent was not going to do. His hopes and dreams for our country, not his opponent's, or how wrong they are, or how evil he is. Which for me, would be difficult (which is, among other reasons, why I won't be making a bid for the White House anytime soon).

He encouraged us, and his enthusiasm was infectious. He spoke with such integrity and honesty that I found myself, 3/4 of the way through his speech, swallowing a big lump in my throat, brushing away tears, out of nowhere. And then at the end, he thanked us all. Imagine that: he thanked us.

Nine days. Nine electoral votes. Please, Colorado, my adopted home, don't let me and the other 100,000+ people gathered in support of Barack Obama today down. Don't give in to terror tactics and fears drummed up by the same crazy people who brought us the last eight years of economic horror, war, corporate buyouts, healthcare crises, and abject terrorist activities carried out in the name of this country. It can be better, and he can make it so.

Elect President Barack Obama.

Profoundly Influential: RIP William R. Barrowclough

My little sister Emily called me at 5:30 this morning. When I picked up she assumed she'd woken me and said something about it being two hours earlier here and apologizing for waking me up, but I'd been up for at least an hour and a half by then and was only planning on writing this blog and doing some online work. We got to talk for about twenty minutes--a rarity between me and Emily, in part because of the distance between us and in part because of the distance between us. She lives 2000 miles away, but she might as well be on the moon. Our lives are as separate as they could possibly be, and while this saddens me at my egotistical, self-indulgent faux core, it makes my heart a little warmer and my soul a little happier knowing that she's well, she's doing okay, her life is good. She amazes me: she has been through just about every terrifying circumstance and situation possible, from watching friends commit suicide as early as junior high to our father's death a year ago today and way above and beyond even that spectrum which, to me, is pretty broad. Some of the events I know of, some I probably don't, and some I only have sketchy details of, either from our worry-stricken mother or much more casual conversations with Emily where she tells me everything she can but mostly tells me she's going to be okay. I believe her, because she's survived everything. She absolutely blows me away. She's my hero and my best friend, in many ways, my confidante and my absolute favorite person to do just about anything with, and at the same time, I often feel like I don't know her at all: don't know the people in the pictures she posts on myspace or facebook, don't know the friends she's made in Charlotte, don't know what her work is like, who she gets along with there, if she likes her boss, if she gets any fulfillment from what she's doing...and she doesn't know most of this stuff about me. So hearing from her, especially this morning, was really good. I got some bad news I was otherwise unaware of, and I got some good news: I got to hear her order her morning coffee (a small skim mocha with an extra shot, from a coffee shop run by Habitat for Humanity near where she works), got to hear her thanking people and the apologetic sorry-I'm-on-the-phone sound in her voice when she was talking to people at the coffee shop and had me on the line (it's the same tone my voice takes on), got to hear her ripping a little into Sarah Palin, which I enjoyed greatly, though shortly, since I dominated the conversation from then on with a recount of a recent karma spree and then she had to go because she was at work, but it was still good to hear from her. I'm pretty sure every day would be a little bit better if I heard from Emily, because every day I do is.

Our father died a year ago today, which was the original subject of this blog post. At this time--especially at this time, with the political and economic mayhem currently taking place in our country and possibly the most important Presidential election in United States history about to unfold--I wish Dad were still alive, but there isn't a day that goes by that I don't. When big things happen: Emily goes through something tough (any of the things I will be broadly and blandly vague about because I know she doesn't want me writing about them on my blog), another member of our very close, very small family struggles with alcohol and drug abuse, I'm unemployed for a month and horribly depressed by it, I have a seizure because of an accidental overdose of a supposedly safe medication, I meet and move in with the love of my life, we learn to live on a dollar-eighty-seven or so a week because we're so badly in the hole and in such poor shape to do anything about it, my major love before now gets married, I turn 27 years old, my sister turns 24, and somewhere in the middle of that we miss a birthday: Dad would have been 68 this year, and the stress of missing him on that day buckles my knees at work and leaves me clutching the counter in front of me, eyes and mouth filling all at once. There's a sense of drowning that accompanies profound grief, and I wonder how many people have experienced that, have written or talked or expressed it aloud, the intense fury of an internal storm so big that for a moment it threatens the life and safety of the whole ship, and just when you begin to pull apart at the seams, it calms. The winds die down, you stop feeling like your guts are trying to escape their worldly anchors and you move on, limping, sometimes, slightly. You can breathe and see again, though sometimes through a glimmer of tears, and you know that you're going to survive, even though it seemed like--only a moment ago--the hole in your life was going to cave in and swallow you forever. The absence of a parent, of a father. Like I'm qualified to write about this. Well, I am absent a father, so I guess that qualifies me. For a year now. It actually happened on a Sunday; it was Sunday, October 7, 2007, and I had been waiting for the phone call all weekend. They'd told me on Thursday or Friday that his systems were shutting down, and that his liver was failing completely. That was when it really hit me: my dad is going to die, it's going to happen soon, and there's nothing I can do about it. I am thousands of miles away from my family while this is happening and so I can't even be there with him. He told me the whole time he was going to beat it, and so, like everything else he ever told me, I couldn't believe it when it wasn't absolutely, undeniably true. When I was a kid, my dad always told me how much he loved me, how beautiful I was. I wasn't much for combing my hair or keeping clothes pretty--I was a tomboy from the start, and Emily too, and he loved that--so I wasn't really much for mirrors, either, and until I was a gape-toothed, stringy-limbed preadolescent, I'd never really looked in one. When I did, I was horrified. I remember thoroughly feeling that I was intensely, terribly ugly, with my gapped teeth and enormous glasses and upturned piglike nose, my chapped lips and my lack of chest, or nubs, or anything that would positively identify me as woman. I was so, so ugly, and infuriated with my father: how dare he lie to me like that! He told me my whole life how I was so beautiful, and I wasn't, not at all, not even a little!!! I wa sso angry about it I never brought it up with him. And I feel like I lost a huge chunk of my innocence that day.

Of course, I grew up...and now, at 27, can feel beautiful, even when I am feeling fat and ugly and wretched and even when other people are telling me how wretched I look or am acting, and I can be quite wretched, and I know this, and I've moved beyond the mirror that haunted me through puberty and stalked me well into teenhood, and I can handle the fact that while I'd like to lose 20 pounds to be in better shape as a runner, I am still in damned good shape as a 5'7", 155-lb. woman. I can see more of what my father really meant when I was growing up and less of what I saw in that terrible mirror, but I still feel the zing of that betrayal, the shock of that realization. It was the same way I felt on October 4, 5, and 6 of last year: numbed, but true, I was coming to terms with the fact that my father was dying. And so when my brother called me to give me the news, when I first heard his cracking voice through the receiver of my phone, saying, "Don?" and me "Yeah?" and he "He's gone." and heard the pitched sob he held back from crying out into the phone to me, maybe because he was holding his baby son, maybe because he didn't want to break down and was trying to hold it together for me, maybe because he was already flush with tears and had seen his world tear apart already as he watched our father take his last breaths, he held it back, and the world came undone anyway. The most important thing my dad ever told me: I'm going to beat this, was no longer true, and while I tried very hard to see the beauty inside of it: he wasn't sick anymore, he wasn't hurting anymore, he wasn't in pain anymore, he was in a better place, he was going to heaven or to meet God or to an afterlife that would be such a great improvement over this one, while I try to see that beauty to this day, I still feel shocked, betrayed, undone, that he left us. He left us, dammit! How dare he! And I stomp my selfish, egotistical foot and think of everything he's missed in my life since: meeting the love of my life, dealing with the shakiest employment year I've ever had, standing up to my cruel and deceitful boss at my former employer and winning, having a seizure, getting fatter than I've ever been, realizing how much Jeremy really loves me, and is willing to put up with, for me, my 27th birthday, my introduction to and love for the world of aerial arts, training for my third marathon, the 2008 election and the possibility of real hope and change, and the very real possibility of the horror of four MORE years of Republican hell, or even, I daresay, eight. Hockey season starting, autumn in Carolina and Colorado, telling him how much I miss him on the phone, talking politics in heated discussions that last for hours and leave both of us with grumbly tummies as our dinners have gone cold but full of mindful inspiration and joy, that we could come together and talk and agree and disagree and love each other so much over something so important. And so unimportant. Next to something like the former love of my life, the only man I loved enough to bring home to South Carolina to meet my entire family, all the siblings and my father, the importance of that, and of letting him go entirely, of finding out that my old love, who had long since had found his true love, was getting married, got married, sent me wedding photos. He missed that! He missed Bob's wedding. How dare he! How dare he!

And then I think of the things he's going to miss: my wedding, my children, if I ever have any, the same for Emily, the rest of the years of my life, and I start to feel very young and upset and confused. And selfish. And I cry and yell and scream even though it doesn't do any good, and even though I know it's never going to do any good. The print publication of my first writing. The actual upcoming election, and his vote, that won't be counted in it. The chance to meet, get to know, affirm the love of my life, admire him, enjoy his company, welcome him into our family. The pictures from Bob's wedding. My third marathon. My workdays at the medical center, and Emily's at her medical center, and hundreds and hundreds of New Jersey Devils games to come. And I break.

I should have taken today off: if I had any kind of option to do so, I would have. I'm a teary disaster, and a teary disaster who needs a shower and fresh clothes and a few minutes to think and maybe read my email and the news before heading off to work for the day, and since I'm running out of time--and for the sake of my loyal readers, who may or may not have doggedly followed me through this one--I'll end this here and go do that. It's 6:55 in the morning in Colorado, and the sun is coming up. Dad died in the middled of the afternoon, so he was still alive a year ago now. I wonder what he was thinking, or feeling, or seeing. I wonder--selfishly--if he knew how much I love him, and how much I would miss him. I wonder if he was sad, or upset, or in pain, and I hope he wasn't, because no matter how great the struggle, how mighty the storm, how ferocious the waters that swirl around us become, the sun keeps coming up, the days keep passing and, amazing though it seems, life goes on, even without him. My dad loved life so much it's hard for me to believe he let go easily. But I hope, kind of, in the end, that he was at peace with it. I'm not; well, sometimes, I am, but most of the time I'm not, and I have the rest of my life to ferociously love and be unwilling to let go of, to fight for and work for and struggle for and make peace with, to enjoy and contemplate and always, always find the beauty in.

After my brother called me and we spoke a little, after talking to my sister awhile, a year ago this afternoon, I went outside with my camera and took pictures of the day. It was a marvelous fall day in Colorado, and a storm was blowing in, the winds mightily whirling the turning leaves and wintering branches of trees about, and I took photos of the storm, of the trees, of the bright shining sun, of everything in the world around me changing, always, into something even more beautiful.

I love you, Daddy. I love you so much.

a rare photo of all of the siblings together: left to right, my stepsister Heather, my half-adopted sister Gerie, my half-brother BJ, me, my little sister Emily, at BJ's house after our father's memorial service last year

PS While I realize it's probably impossible, especially after reading this last rather warped and warbled view of things, to convince anyone of this: I am as equally thrilled at the times I did have with my father, if not more so, as I am about all of the things I miss about him, and will miss sharing with him. More on that later...have to run to work now...

Declaring A Winner

This evening millions of Americans tuned in to NBC for the official broadcast of the debate between vice Presidential candidates Democratic Senator Joe Biden and Republican Governor Sarah Palin. Within moments after, and likely during the entirety of the debate, the pundits were spitting and snarling, tearing apart the attacks and the defenses, the weapons and the malfeasances. Doing what pundits do: generating a lot of hubbub about a nicely intelligent, rather surprisingly well-presented debate. What pisses me off, of course, is "who won?"

The answer will undoubtedly be Sarah Palin. This doesn't bother me as much as the reason for the answer, though. Sarah Palin won because she didn't suck.

She didn't falter--as badly as she has in the past--and she didn't coin anymore cheesy catch phrases. She didn't present herself as irrational, illogical or even incapable. And this, my friends, was enough to make her "win".

Right. She didn't suck. So she won. Joe Biden presented--as usual--a well-developed, clearly outlined--if sometimes muddled with varied interests and concerns--argument, but he won't be declared the winner, because his opponent, who was expected to, as she has in the past few weeks, make political gaffe after gaffe, continue to do so. And she didn't.

When we declare the winner of a debate by the degree of improvement from lack of intellect and logic to ability to recite facts, names and dates, occasionally drop a crowd-pleasing line for the good ol' boys, and continue to mispronounce "nuclear" in an apparent attempt to change Merriam-Webster's pronunciation of the word to George W. Bush's, over the polished, professional and brilliant oration of a seasoned political genius, we have declared ourselves a population dominated by its most blatant stupidity. No longer interested in effecting change or creating actual reform, we hang onto blunted catch phrases and repetitive commentaries, and we declare ourselves an educated mass. We are satisfied with the collective input of the lowest common denominator, and it will be reflected by the generations to come.