The Post That Should Have Been...

Going "down the stairs" in Sedona

So last week I went mountain biking for the very first time…and I loved it.  I have to admit, I was very skeptical about it, as physical activities and my physical limitations do not typically jive.  Case in point, I struggle a lot with cross-country skiing.  I don't hate it, per se, but I don't much care for it.  For two winters now I have tried my hand at cross-country skiing, and I was mediocre at best.  And who wouldn't be, their first time trying out an activity that they've never done before?  For some reason I have this delusional idea that there is some sort of physical activity out there that I will somehow take to like a prodigy.  I'm still trying to find that activity…I'm thinking that it probably doesn't exist.  Hahaha! But I keep looking, and I keep having expectations.

So, given the struggles that I had with cross-country skiing, I had my doubts about my ability to mountain bike.  Turns out, they were mostly unfounded.  For someone who is afraid to ride a bike up a curb, I barreled up rocky paths with some deeply buried courage that hasn't been accessed in quite a long time.  I'm a chicken heart, you see.  Put me in any situation, and I'll give you several different ways in which you could be mangled or killed while doing it.  I don't know where this comes from, I don't know why I do it, but there it is just the same.  I'm afraid of a lot of things.  And even though there were times while mountain biking on rocky paths that I thought I was going to go tumbling over the edge, a stream of expletives exiting my mouth, I hung on, hunkered down, and just went for it.  I can see why so many people here in Flagstaff are mountain bikers…it's a pretty phenomenal rush, and this is one of the perfect places in the country to do it.

I think another reason I felt safe mountain biking is because I know how to ride a bike.  I've been riding a bike for as long as I can remember.  In fact, I remember one of my very first bikes…it was blue with a white basket and it had those hard rubber tires…you know the ones, the ones that don't have any air in them.  That was the first bike that I can remember.  My next bike was a really old-school Schwinn, I think one that had been passed down from person to person before landing on me.  It had cushy tires, dark blue paint, and I had put a bunch of those beaded things on the spokes to make it look more girly.  I loved that bike.  I thought I was really fast on that bike (I probably wasn't).  It's funny, there's a hill of sorts near where I grew up, and I remember walking down it with my bike when I was little because I thought that it was too steep.  I go back there now, and it's barely a hill.  I had myself almost convinced that they must have graded the road and straightened out the hill sometime ago, because there's no logical reason that I should have been afraid of it.  But that's how it is with childhood…things that seem big and scary just get small and inconsequential as you grow up.  After a few mountain bikes to get me through my teenage years and college, I bought my first real bike after graduating from nursing school. It was a Trek mountain bike, and it had front shocks and I bought it at a bike store because I didn't know where else people bought nice bikes.  It was my first big purchase to congratulate myself for making it through 4 years of college and actually finishing with a degree.  Funny that I bought a mountain bike and never once took it off-road in the time that I had it.  I just felt comfortable on those fatty tires, I guess.  I ended up selling my Trek while on an assignment in Colorado.  I put that money towards my fixed-gear road bike, which was the only bike I had up until last month when I bought not one, but two mountain bikes.  I know…typical Stefanie…buying in multiples once again.

Me with my new bike, on Bell Rock Pathway

I posted a picture of Mountain bike #1 in my last blog, my Cannondale 6, and it was such a pretty bike…flat black, nothing flashy, very under the radar as far as looks were concerned.  Nice and light, front shocks, disc brakes…everything I was looking for in something that I had no intention of riding on pavement.  And it performed better than I ever could have expected during my first ride in Sedona.  It hopped over rocks, scurried down paths, and climbed uphill like a beast.  It was so much fun, and I was eagerly looking forward to the next time that I got to take it out on the trails.  My butt had to recover first…you can't ride 3 hours on rough trails and not have a serious case of biker butt.

Unfortunately, the post that was meant to sing the praises of my newfound sport are to be short-lived.  My pretty little Cannondale 6 was stolen during a recent trip to Phoenix to try out some of the trails down there.  Simon and I had our bikes locked to the bike carrier on the back of the Jeep, and during the night some neanderthals with a set of bolt cutters made quick work of our bike lock and cable and off they went with our bikes.  I was devastated.  Simon was pissed.  And you know, by the end of the day, I wasn't upset about the money, heck, I almost wasn't even that upset about the bike…I hadn't had the thing long enough to get attached to it.  What was most upsetting was how losing our bikes ruined our trip.  We had planned a four-day trip to Phoenix to go mountain biking, stay in a cute hotel in a pretty centralized location to everything that we wanted to do, to meet up with a friend at the Botanical Gardens, to go see The Grand Budapest Hotel in a movie theater that serves you food and beer from your seat, and to hang out with the few family members that I have down in the Valley.  Waking up that first morning and realizing that our bikes were gone ruined everything.  It was so disheartening and frustrating that we just couldn't find the energy to be excited about anything else that we had planned.  And you know, Phoenix has very few redeeming qualities as it is…it's unbearably hot, the drivers are a-holes, the traffic is atrocious, the people are selfish and rude…Phoenix has very few things going for it.  We are continuously just on the cusp of writing that entire city off entirely.  I think this may have tipped the scales.  My family is the only thing that will pull me down there in the future.  And maybe some of the micro-breweries…maybe.  You can bet that I will be bringing no possessions whatsoever.  They can't steal what I don't have.

This is the fourth time I've had something significant stolen from me, and it's been a different situation every time.  And each time it happens, I lose a little more faith in humanity over it.  It chaps my hide that there are people out there who are resourceful, confident, and ballsy enough to go out there and get what they want, but unfortunately they don't use those attributes for anything positive.  They steal; they feel entitled to take what isn't theirs just because they can.  They do it with no thought whatsoever as to how it's going to affect the person they're stealing from.  It's a complete lack of empathy and a total disregard for their fellow human beings.  And that's what bothers me the most.  I can buy a new bike.  No problem.  Bikes are a dime a dozen…in fact, I've already contacted a few people on Craigslist this morning who are selling pretty decent bikes.  I could have a bike by the end of today if I really wanted one.  But what I won't have by the end of today is a feeling of trust and respect for those around me.  After the bikes were stolen and reported missing, Simon and I took a walk around the park near our hotel, and every single biker that went by me got the once-over.  Were they on my bike?  Had they seen my bike?  Were they riding a stolen bike?  And I hate that.  I hate feeling suspicious of people.  It's an uneasy, stressful feeling, and I wish that I could just trust people not to do shitty things.  But I can't.  And I'm sure this won't be the last time that I get stolen from, because unfortunately, this entire world is crawling with human vermin awaiting their next opportunity to take what isn't theirs.  I did find it ironic, however, that after 8 years of criss-crossing the country for travel jobs, this is the first time we've ever had anything stolen from us.  That's a pretty good record, I guess.      

And you know, I know that there are more good people in the world in than bad…there have to be or society would just collapse.  I take comfort in the fact that last night I slept in a comfortable bed with Simon and my pugs, in a nice house that we can easily afford, in a town that we love.  We woke up this morning and had a great breakfast, good conversation, and have the leisure time to work on our projects.  For the most part, we have a very good, very happy life.  How happy is the life of the person who stole our bikes?  I'm guessing not very.  Doing bad things to people does not make a good case for happiness…it might provide a sense of accomplishment, but it's not happiness.  So at the end of the day, he might have my bike, but I have my happiness, and that's bigger than a bike ever could be.

So I hope he enjoys what little delight he gets out of my bike, whatever he happens to do with it.  Personally, I hope he crashes while riding it and snaps his f*cking neck (and dies, of course, because I don't want my taxes going towards the treatment and rehabilitation of someone who possesses such disregard for other people…I would have to assume that someone who steals bikes also does not have insurance), but that's just the vindictive side of me hoping for some sort of retribution for the ruination of what was supposed a fun few days spent doing things I like with people I care about.  I also had visions of spending 2 minutes alone in a room with him…with my pink "Girls Rule" T-ball bat (purchased in Phoenix 8 years ago, ironically, because there were some men at the time who just couldn't seem to stay out of women's apartments…admittedly, a gun would have been a better choice, but I didn't have to use the bat, so I wouldn't have had to use the gun either).  I think 2 minutes would be an adequate amount of time for me to drive home what I really think about him and who he is and how he makes people feel when he steals from them.  Our justice system is so flawed that the criminals are the ones who are protected, and the rest of us suffer for it.  It's complete and utter BS.  

It's kinda funny…being atheist and all, I told Simon that I can't even take comfort in the end-of-days judgement that might cast the bike-stealer into that alleged lake of fire for all of eternity, because I don't believe in that.  And even if I did, a case can be made that all of god's children end up in heaven one way or another…and that's not a satisfactory ending for me either.  I do believe in a very rational form of karma, and believe that if you are a person who does bad things to people, eventually you're going to do a bad thing to the wrong person, and things are not going to end well.  Of course, I'll never hear or know about this, but I know that that's usually how it goes.  He'll get his, one way or another, he will.  And whether or not he's thinking about all the bikes he's stolen and all the people he's hurt along the way, well, that's his problem.  I've already moved on from it.

So yeah, a post that was supposed to be gushing with excitement and delight was tainted by one person's poor choice and lack of respect for people and property.  Sucky.  Fortunately for us, last night we had the pleasure of hanging out with my brother Chris and my nephew Jett, and we got to enjoy a fantastically prepared meal by my cousin Jenny and her boyfriend Scott.  Those two always feed us so well.  Oh, and I got to pet a baby horse that was only a week old…he was so incredibly soft and cute.  Nothing brightens one's mood like a baby animal, if only for a little while.        

Bits and Bobs and Things From My Brain

So I haven't written in a while.  Truth be told, I have several blogs that are just hanging out in the drafts section of the interwebs, waiting for me to find the time and creativity to finish them.  Or at least work on them a little bit.  Time and creativity for writing are hard to come by…I find either I'm lacking in one or both of those aspects, and I have enough respect for myself and my readers to post something that has been well thought out and creatively edited.  Yes, even the posts about poop.  I currently have an idea of a post dedicated entirely to poop, but I've thus far held back on working on it because the subject matter is relatively off-putting.  Throwing a little poop talk around here and there is somewhat amusing…an entire diatribe devoted to it?  Maybe not so much.  So here's some random tidbits because I have a little bit of time, and a little bit of creativity.

Last night I made my first vegetarian casserole using tofu.  Don't get all excited/concerned, I'm not going vegetarian…I could never give up bacon…a life without bacon is a life not worth living.  Okay, so maybe that's a little dramatic, but I do love bacon.  I could probably be vegetarian if I was allowed to have bacon.  I wonder what they would call that…baco-vegetarianism?  I have to think that of all the meats that cause vegetarians to stray to the dark side, bacon has got to be at or near the top of the list.  The casserole actually turned out quite good (would have been better with some bacon in it, but I digress).  I even invited one of my vegetarian friends and her boyfriend over, and at the end of the meal she asked for the recipe so she must have enjoyed it.  I have to admit, for something vegetarian and also incorporating tofu, it was quite good.  I had to doctor the recipe a bit, of course, since I can never follow a recipe in its entirety, and I'm proud to say that the doctoring actually turned out for the better this time.  This is not always the case, and many a fit has been thrown in the kitchen when a recipe doesn't turn out. A fit is also thrown after Simon reminds me that I didn't follow the recipe, and that maybe I should have.  Thank goodness for take-out.  To be entirely truthful, I did have a veggie pizza on hand in the freezer in the event that the veggie casserole didn't work out.  It's always good to have a back-up plan.

Mayhem at the Color Vibe

So I just signed up for 2 foot races here in northern Arizona in the coming months.  The first race will be a 10k run down in Cottonwood.  I suppose it should be mildly concerning that I'm thinking more about what I'm going to wear rather than the fact that I haven't actually run consistently since my half marathon at the end of February.  I won't have the full benefit of running at a lower elevation for this one either.  Cottonwood is at about the 5,000 foot range, which is lower than Flagstaff, but still pretty high.  I also hear there's a beast of a hill at mile 4…hills and I do not get along, so we'll see how this one goes.  We all know I have no shame in walking, so there's that.  The other race I signed up for is the Color Vibe, and that will be taking place in Flagstaff at the beginning of May.  It's a 5k, so I should have a little easier time with it, but I'll be at 7,000 feet this time, so I won't have any advantages whatsoever.  I've always been curious about these color runs, and it seems like a decent amount of my friends have done one.  They never seem to do a second one though…I wonder if that's because you're inhaling colored cornstarch the entire time and then proceed to cough it up for days afterward.  That's what I've heard anyway…I'm sure I'll dictate a full report when it's finished.  Although with the way I've been blogging lately, you're not likely to see commentary on it until sometime in September, if ever.

Ellen and I after finishing the Enchanted 10k at Disneyworld

Still sticking with the running talk, I still have plans to join some running clubs.  There are three out here that hold some interest for me.  One is the Northern Arizona Trail Runners Association, and they seem to do most of their runs on the trails near Flagstaff and Sedona.  Most of them are around 5 miles, give or take a few.  It appears that all ages and abilities are welcome.  They run on Saturday mornings though, and given the fact that I pretty much work every Friday night, it hasn't yet worked out for me to join them.  I'm tentatively off work tonight (I'm on call), but I checked their website, and as luck would have it, there doesn't appear to be a run scheduled for the morning.  Doh!  The other group is the Flagstaff Trail Divas, and they are a group of women who get together on Thursday evenings to run.  Since they started back up again this spring, I haven't had a free Thursday evening to join them.  But one of these weeks I will.  Hopefully.  They also seem to welcome all ages and abilities, and their runs are around the 5 mile mark as well.  Both of the aforementioned groups do pretty much all their running on trails, which is a really neat way to get out and run.  It's so much more interesting and interactive than just running on the pavement.  The last of the running clubs is a fee-based running club, and they seem to focus more on conditioning and training.  They do organized runs as well, but I think they would be good for me given the fact that when I run, I get stuck in a rhythm and don't vary from it.  Which is all well and good, but it's a terrible way to elevate my running fitness, should I choose to do so.  The last group also trains with professional athletes and former, current, and prospective Olympians.  I kind of want to join the group just to say that I train with Olympic athletes…hahaha!

So now that Simon and I are no longer travel nursing, or driving across the country, I feel that I can safely come out and say that during my 8 years of travel nursing, I didn't get a single speeding ticket while traveling to or from an assignment (there was that one speeding ticket that I got in Scottsdale, AZ during my very first assignment, but I'm choosing not to count that one).  That's a lot of miles logged in a lot of years, and I can safely say that I rarely, if ever, drove the speed limit while going from one assignment to another.  Even with the trailer.  And a red vehicle.  After moving to Arizona, I was pulled over three times…one for speeding, one for making an inappropriate right turn, and the other for running a stop sign.  I got out of all three tickets, which is unheard of for me because I was never the girl who got out of tickets.  Ever.  Even if I cried.  I was once cited for 5 things at a single pull-over…I think the cop felt bad for me since it wasn't my vehicle and there was no way I could have known about 3 of the 5 things I was cited for, but not bad enough to not give me a ticket for one of the indiscretions.  I suppose I should consider myself lucky that he only chose one citation, not a very expensive one at that.  So…back to my Arizona pull-overs.  I honestly think that having the Minnesota plates and Minnesota driver's license had a lot to do with me getting out of the first and the last pull-over…I was able to claim ignorance, even though I'd lived in Arizona long enough to be anything but ignorant about what I was doing when I was pulled over.  The pull-over for the inappropriate right was the funniest one.  I was pulling out of a bar, being the sober cab that I was that night, and instead of pulling into the closest lane when I turned, I pulled into the far one, anticipating a left turn up ahead.  I do this all the time…we all do this all the time.  But because I was pulling out of a bar known to be frequented by alcoholics and rowdy college kids, I got pulled over.  And then there I was, doing a sobriety test.  While my friends and Simon sat in the Jeep watching.  The interesting thing about the whole situation, was that I recognized the cop from the hospital, as he had been there a few weeks prior to pick up an unruly patient to take to jail.  I didn't mention this to him, as I didn't want to appear that I was trying to get out of a ticket by revealing our past interaction, but in speaking with a cop friend of mine afterwards, he told me that I should always mention that I'm a nurse.  Solidarity in working with the public (not always at their finest) and whatnot.  I'll have to keep that in mind for next time.  Hopefully there isn't a next time.

Little Beezer mugging for the camera

In rather morbid train of thought, Brie is getting up there in age and I've been kind of joking around as to what I'm going to do with her when she passes.  Simon thinks we should bury her out in the woods behind our house.  Which I would be okay with, I guess.  I worry that something will try and dig her up, but I guess if she's dead and her body will contribute to the survival of some other animal (aka, the natural process of things), then I guess I can be all right with that.  My ideas are somewhat less traditional.  I've tossed around the idea of getting her stuffed, turning her into a handbag, or making her into a rug.  Simon is disturbed by all of these.  My friend Adam is the only one so far who seems to share my morbid sense of humor, and thinks that the rug is the best option.  I tend to agree.  I could put the rug under my desk and rest my feet on it while I blog.  Simon actually had the idea that we could mix her ashes into some paint and make a painting.  I think that's a lot less morbid than the rug idea, but still very meaningful.  Simon's sister Abby also suggested the idea of making a paver stone for the garden and incorporating the ashes into the mix for that.  Both very good, and very non-disturbing ideas.  Not that Brie is anywhere near passing at this exact moment, but she's elderly and fragile and I don't think it'll take a whole heck of a lot to tip the scales to the negative.  The vet we go to actually refers to her as her favorite UTI-prone pug, since we are in there every couple months for antibiotics.  But she's holding steady for the time being.  I actually have her on a new supplement that has glucosamine and turmeric in it, and she's doing a little better.  Gives her a little more control of that hind end.  She still wanders around like a drunk though.

Basically what the new bike looks like.  I like the flat black paint.

In other news not related to running, death, or poop, I recently purchased a new-to-me mountain bike.  That I haven't ridden yet.  But I will.  Someday.  It's a Cannondale Six, which doesn't mean a whole lot me, but it seems like a nice bike…I got it for about half retail price on Craigslist and it appears to have been scarcely ridden.  I've been learning all kinds of new mountain bike terminology lately, and I've been told that this bike is referred to as a "hard-tail," meaning that it only only has shocks on the front fork.  Simon's bike is a "full suspension," which means that he has shocks of some description on the front and the back.  Generally a full suspension makes for a smoother ride, and absorbs a decent amount of the impact when riding over boulders and such.  Full suspensions seem to run at almost double the price of hard tails, but you can find good used ones at relatively reasonable prices if you're willing to put in the time and effort to look for them.  I originally wanted a full suspension bike, but then realized that I have absolutely no interest whatsoever in riding over boulders.  In fact, I think riding down a dirt road sounds right up my alley…hahaha!  So yeah, here I am with my mountain bike that has yet to be ridden.  I hope it starts to get a little nicer outside so I can actually get out and use it.  In another bout of crazy thinking, I've decided that I want to find myself a fixed-gear mountain bike.  I've determined that they don't exist in stock form (at least not that I've found in my limited Googling), so I have to find a bike that I like, and turn it into a fixed-gear myself.  I think we can all agree on the likeliness of that happening…which is not very.  The problem with finding a mountain bike with a fixed gear is that most mountain bikers like the ability to coast while aggressively riding downhill.  I don't even like to aggressively go downhill on my road bike on a smooth surface…I can't imagine that feeling would change while riding over rocks, tree roots, and other random obstacles.  There are a lot of dirt roads and trails here in Flagstaff that I think would be perfect for fixed-gear riding.  I really enjoy riding fixed-gear…the ability to control my speed using my legs instead of the brakes is actually really cool, and it challenges me and makes me think more while I'm riding.

Love peonies…Grandma always had the light pink ones

So yeah, I guess you could say that I'm embracing life here in Flagstaff pretty well.  I enjoy the scenery, the outdoor offerings, the food, my job, and the people.  I also like that when it's snowy and cold here in the winter, I can drive 2 hours south and be in balmy Phoenix weather.  Can't beat that!  People ask me when I'm going to start traveling again, as if staying here is only a temporary option (and also the subject of one of my works-in-process on my Life At the Bedside blog).  I don't really know, to be honest.  I really like it here, and I'm really liking the idea of staying put for a while.  I'm actually planning on visiting the local garden shops to see about putting in some flowers and plants this spring.  There are about 4 flower beds here at our rental place, and as far as I can discern there are only plants in 1 of them.  And they've been very poorly maintained at that.  I bought a few mums on clearance from the grocery store and plan on putting those out as soon as the threat of frost is mostly gone…it still gets pretty cold here at night…and it just snowed again the other day.  I also just found out from a friend of mine that peonies do, in fact, grow in northern Arizona, so I was really stoked about that and have plans to buy some starter bushes and plant them in June.  Peonies are the flowers that remind me most of my Grandma Ellringer, who I still miss dearly and think about all the time.  It would be cool to have a few plants right outside the window to remind me of her.  And who knows…maybe I inherited her green thumb…someone in the family hopefully did!

So that's pretty much it for now.  I'll get working on my in-process blogs one of these days.  It's just so much more fun to sit and type out whatever happens to be going through my head at the time.  Until we meet again.  :)      

Nurses…The Cannibals of the Medical Field?

Recently, I had the pleasure of attending a class required of my profession.  It was a refresher of sorts, specifically focused on the heart.  How it works, it's specific rhythms, and most importantly, what to do when things get a little out of whack.

As a med-surg nurse (meaning that I don't take care of kids, babies, ICU patients, or emergency room patients) there are situations that I encounter on a daily basis, there are situations that I encounter every and now and then, and then there are those situations that I've been trained about but have never actually encountered.  I have to be trained on basically everything in the event of "what if."  So refreshers are great…they remind me of what I already know and have maybe become complacent about, and they also remind me that things can take a turn when caring for a patient, and it's my responsibility to know what to do.

So I'm in my class, and we're discussing a situation that is common in the ICU setting, but isn't common on the med-surg units.  In fact, the situation we're discussing is one that I've never seen or been a part of in all my 12 years of working in the hospital.  It's not that it doesn't happen, it's just that the patients are either already in the ICU, or it happens on my days off (dodged the bullet).  So, having never been in this particular situation, I asked a question.  I was answered, rather condescendingly, not by the instructor of the class, but by a fellow nurse taking the class.  I instantly bristled.  How am I supposed to know the in's and out's of a situation that I have never encountered?  I don't work in the ICU, so I shouldn't be expected to know what an ICU nurse knows.  And I shouldn't be treated as less intelligent because my knowledge base is different.  Although my question may have sounded stupid to someone who encounters this situation quite frequently, I thought it was a legit question coming from someone who doesn't.  I myself, am far from stupid.  And honestly, I think the stupid nurses are the ones who don't ask questions, the ones who think they know all the answers.  Actually, stupid isn't quite the word I'm looking for…more like dangerous.

   

Admittedly, I probably started out this blog on the wrong foot…blogging about death and dying and all that goes along with it isn't the greatest beginning, but that's just where I was at the time, so there you have it.

So let's start anew, shall we?

For starters, I never wanted to be a nurse.  It was never even on my radar.  When I was young, I loved animals, and like all young children who have a love for animals, I thought that someday I would be a veterinarian.  And that really didn't change until late into my junior year of high school, right about the time when I had to start thinking about college and what I wanted to do and where I wanted to go.  As the years had passed from childhood into adolescence, I started to develop allergies to animals.  First it was cats, which I wasn't too upset about because I didn't really like cats anyway (still don't, to tell you the truth).  And then it was rodents (I had pet rats, who I absolutely adored).  And then it was horses, dogs, cows, rabbits…basically anything with hair.  Being allergic to animals, highly allergic in some cases, would probably not bode well for a veterinarian.  How could I adequately care for my patients if I was allergic to them?  Okay, on to Plan B.  Marine Biology…I could do that…none of those animals have hair…totally doable.  Except…I'm allergic to mold, which shares several allergenic properties with algae, which is everywhere in the water.  Fail again.  On to Plan C then, I guess?  I very, very briefly dabbled with the idea of becoming a doctor.  I even became a member of the Mayo Explorers, which was an educational group sponsored by the Boy Scouts whose goal was to introduce high school students to different careers in the medical field.  One day a week for a few months, I would go to the Mayo Clinic with a bunch of other high schoolers, and a bunch of doctors would come and talk to us and tell us about what they did.  In some cases, we even got to go to the hospital and see where they do MRI scans, what the operating room looked like (we got to practice scrubbing in for a surgery, which was pretty cool--to be clear, there was no patient being operated on, it was all pretend), and we got to see what an average patient room looked like on the medical floors and the ICU (ICU was terrifying).  We even got to put a breathing tube in our mouths to see what it felt like for a patient on a ventilator.  We got to see and do some pretty cool stuff.  So I thought maybe I would become a doctor.  Until I found out how long and how expensive schooling is to become a doctor.  Best case scenario, assuming everything went according to plan, would have me practicing as an actual doctor, on my own, in my early 30's.  Do you know how old a 32 year-old person is to a 17 year-old?  Ancient!  I thought those 22 year-old guys who still went to high school parties were old.  I couldn't wrap my head around being in school and in training for that long.  So I was stumped.  Enter the high school Guidance Counselor.

I had met with Tom a couple times my junior year, and when I mentioned veterinary school and medical school, and a few of my hangups with both of those careers, he gently steered me in the direction of nursing.  I was confused at first…I had been hospitalized exactly once in my life at that point, and all I really remembered of my nurses is that they were the ones who brought me popsicles, helped me to bathe, and emptied the pee out of the little receptacle that sits in the toilet.  Why in the world would I want to do that?  And why do I have to go to school for four years to do it?  He explained to me that nursing opens a lot of doors to various careers in the medical field, and he explained it in such a way that it made me realize that maybe I had the wrong idea about what nurses actually did.  So, I thought to myself, why the heck not.  I'll give it a shot, and if I don't like it, I'm sure there will be some other career path that might be interesting.

Being the scared, shy little person that I was in high school (I know, most of you will not believe that about me, but I truly was!), I decided on a university that was close to home…a 45-minute drive away from my parents' front door, to be exact.  I was far enough away to do my own thing, yet close enough to easily find a way home if I needed to.  And the school that I chose seemed to have a really reputation for its nursing program.  It's possible that I'm not remembering everything correctly, after all, it's been over 10 years since I graduated from college, but I really remember enjoying my classes those first two years of school.  I even enjoyed most of my nursing classes, but not as much as my general education classes.  You know what they say about 4-year college students being more well-rounded?  I understood that by the end of my four years there.  And I'm not saying that I'm better than anyone else and I don't think that anyone with a 2-year degree is any less than me, but I really enjoyed taking those classes that had absolutely nothing to do with my course of study.  They were fun, they were informational, and I'm just thankful that I had the time and the energy to stick out for four years for those classes.  Looking back, those extracurricular classes are still some of my favorites.  I wish I could say the same for the nursing classes.

I'm not going to get too far into it, but I didn't like my nursing program.  I didn't find it to be overly challenging, and by the time I was ending my junior year of college, I still didn't have a good handle on what nurses actually did.  I actually considered dropping out of the nursing program after my junior year to pursue a biology degree, or something that would get me on the path to pursing one or more of my original interests…veterinary science or becoming a doctor.  I was stressed out, I was somewhat depressed, and I was afraid that I had just wasted three years of college on a degree that I wasn't sure I was even going to like…at all.  At the advice of my mom, I got a job the summer after junior year of college at a dog shelter, just to see if working with animals was still something that I might want to do.  She told that me not to drop out of nursing school, but to give it the summer to think about it.  Luckily for me, I also got a nursing internship at the Mayo Clinic the summer between junior and senior year, and everything changed.  There I was, working on the nursing unit amongst men and women who were fantastic role models and excellent examples of who a nurse really is and what they contribute to the medical field and to patient care.  My eyes were opened and it was good.  Fortunately, the dog shelter gig actually pushed me away from pursuing a career in veterinary science.  There were days when I would go directly to the dog shelter after working a shift at the hospital, and what a drastic difference between the two places.  

When A Patient Doesn't Make it...

I've been a nurse for almost 12 years now.  12. Freaking. Years.  I can't get over how fast the time has gone, and how much I've experienced so far in my career as a nurse. There have been ups, there have been downs, there have been a lot of in-betweens.  Every now and again, there is a situation that I encounter at work that shakes the very foundation of why I became a nurse, who I want to become as a nurse, and where I'm going from here on out. Some time ago, I had one of those situations.

Because of privacy stuff, I can't say too much specifically about the situation, but I'll say what I can.  I was caring for a little old lady…I've taken care of my fair share of little old ladies and little old men throughout the years.  I like taking care of little old people.  Their life experience is invaluable, and I always find myself learning something new with each little old person who crosses my path.  Another reason I think I like them so much is because a good number of them remind me of my Grandma Ellringer.  She's been gone for over three years now, but I still miss her terribly, and every now and again I see a little bit of her in the wrinkled faces of my patients.  So my little old lady…my poor, sweet, sick little old lady, who I think was more sick than any of us realized, and more sick than her family had led us to believe.  The shift had started out decently well, but at some point in the night, things started going terribly wrong.  I called in support from my follow nurses, the respiratory therapists, and the physician on call.  We were managing it…we were just barely staying ahead of her symptoms, but still, we were staying ahead.  Until we weren't.  I called her family to let them know what was going on, because if I was her family, I would want to know, and I would want to be there to support her.  I think there's got to be almost nothing worse than being surrounded by strangers during a medical emergency.  Sometimes a familiar face makes a huge difference to someone who is struggling.  So they came, and they sat with her, and she calmed a bit, but continued to struggle.  By the end of my shift she had transferred to the ICU, and I just had a horrible, sinking feeling about it.  Sometimes it's like that…patients take a turn for the worst, they go to ICU, and sometimes they get better and we see them again on our unit a few days later.  But, sometimes they don't get better, and we don't see them again.  And to be honest, most of the time we can tell who's going to come back and who isn't…there's just this feeling, I guess…I don't know how else to describe it, because it's not something that I can put a finger on or quantitate…but it's still there all the same.

So I went home after my shift feeling defeated, horrible, and sad.  What had I done wrong?  What had I missed?  What, in the name of everything out there in world, freaking happened?  And you know, the worst part about this situation, is that there is no closure on my end once a patient leaves my unit to go to the ICU.  Because of privacy laws, I'm not allowed to access a patient's chart once he or she leaves my unit for a higher level of care.  A lot of times, I don't even know if the patient lives or dies unless a family member makes a point to track me down and give me an update.  Sometimes if I have a personal relationship with a nurse in the ICU, I can get updates that way, but even that is probably breaking some sort of privacy law.  And I hate it.  Watching someone cling to the very edges of their life, doing everything I can to keep them here with us is such an emotional experience.  I'll spend hours at a patient's bedside, helping them to breathe, helping to keep their heart in a stable rhythm, keeping them awake, keeping them alive, for Christ's sake...helping their family understand what's going on and what's going to be done, looking in their eyes and seeing the despair and the struggle, and the fear…there is sometimes a point when I will lock eyes with a patient who is not doing well, and sometimes there is a moment where we both know what's coming, and it's something that neither of us want to acknowledge or admit…because to admit to impending defeat means that we've already lost the battle.  And then they go to the ICU and I'm supposed to just carry on like it never happened.  And I can't.  I just can't do it.  It seems like a huge injustice to the patient to not acknowledge what happened.  And it's not fair to me to sit and wonder…did I do something wrong?  Was there something that I missed? What could I have done differently?  What actually happened?  Did the patient choke? Did the patient have a heart attack?  Cardiac arrest?  Septic shock?  Blood clot?  What can I do next time to get a better handle on the situation?  What do I need to look for?  These are all questions that go unanswered for me because I'm not allowed to follow up, I'm not allowed to talk about it, I'm not allowed to ask about it…I'm supposed to just suck it up and pretend like it never happened.

There are little things that get to me the most when a patient isn't doing well.  Seeing them struggle to breathe, seeing the light go out of their eyes as they get more and more tired of fighting whatever it is that is going on in their body at that very moment.  Their body becomes a prison, and there's no escape.  Well, there is an escape, but it's not the one they want, it's not the one they're prepared for, and it's not the one that they admit is lurking right around the corner…and that's why we fight.  As a nurse, I establish a relationship not only with my patient, but with their family members as well.  What is most heart-wrenching when a patient isn't doing well is the family.  Watching a husband pack his wife's shoes and clothes into a generic, plastic patient belonging bag, knowing that he's hoping and praying that she'll wear them again someday.  Seeing a wife sitting at the edge of the bed, holding her husband's hand, running a cool hand across his forehead as a fever takes hold.  Some families are prepared, some are not…more often they're not.  How do you prepare for the death of a loved one when that's not even on your radar?  Most people I know prefer not to think about the death of their loved ones…it's not pleasant, it's depressing, and I do think that a lot of people live under the assumption that if you don't think about it, then it's not there.  And when death is an inevitability, it seems like maybe it's a waste of time to sit and think about it.

Through the grapevine, I did learn that my little lady eventually did pass away in the ICU.  This was a small hospital…the respiratory therapist is married to a nurse whose sister is a radiologist whose husband is a lab technician whose cousin works in the ICU…you get the gist…it's like 2 degrees of Kevin Bacon.  I've tried really hard over the years not to take patient deaths personally.  Sometimes things just go wrong and there's nothing we can do about it. I can't help but wonder afterwards if the family members think that I am somehow responsible.  In this particular situation, I had received no indicators from the patient's family that would have lead me to believe this, as they were very thankful that I had communicated with them and kept them in the loop, but still I wonder. Which causes me to question…how much personal accountability do I have for what happens?  I don't know.  Maybe some, maybe none...I don't think I'll ever know.  Sometimes I wish that I had the time to sit at a patient's bedside all night to make sure that they don't choke, that they don't stop breathing, that they don't have a heart attack, but I can't.  And that would be wasted time anyway…people don't spontaneously die in the hospital at a constant, at least not on the med-surg units.

Maybe it would be better if I didn't know what happened to my patients after they transfer to a higher level of care. Maybe it would be nice to think that they got better and left and that no news is good news. I wish I could just be content with that, but I'm not. And what does it matter if my patient lives or dies? Should the death of a complete stranger have that much bearing on my day to day life? This is one of the reasons why nursing isn't "just a job."  When people's lives hang in the balance, and sometimes are affected directly by what course of action I take, that ups the stakes quite a bit.  I was talking with one of my coworkers the other night about situations in which patients unexpectedly pass, and I said that I don't know how ICU nurses handle so much death.  She made the comment that they probably just get used to it.  They "get used to it." If it's even possible to get used to the idea of people dying, how does one go about getting there in the first place?  Can anyone really "get used" to seeing people die?  It sounds so cold.  But…in an environment where death is frequently a very real outcome, maybe they have to.  How else could you function?  But no matter how much death a person sees, it has to affect them in some way…it has to.  

In healthcare, there is always the very real possibility that from time to time, a patient will not make it.  It's true…we can't save everyone, but that doesn't stop us from trying.  There are so many ways that a patient can die in the hospital that it would be useless to list them all out.  Luckily for me (and my patients), most of the time they come in, they get treated, they get better, and then they go home.  But it's not like I haven't had patients die before…it's not like I haven't ever experienced death in both my personal and professional life. I do, I have…death is part of being alive, it's impossible to avoid it. It's even less avoidable than taxes. It will happen to everyone at some point. I know this.  I don't know why some deaths are more difficult than others.  Maybe because it's not often that I care for patients who are critically ill.  I've cared for critically ill patients multiple times in multiple different hospitals…sometimes caring for multiple critically ill patients at the same time.  Had a lack of caring for critically ill patients made me complacent?  I've been extremely fortunate and incredibly lucky to have been a nurse for as long as I have and to have not had a patient traumatically die on my watch.  Some might say that I'm going to bring bad luck upon myself by putting that statement out there, but I don't believe in that nonsense.  I don't believe that patients go crazy when the moon is full either…I think patients can and do go crazy every day of the week.  If a patient is going to crash, they're going to crash…if they're going to go crazy, they're going to go crazy…nothing to be done about it but weather the storm and hope everyone comes out okay in the end.  And most important, to learn from it…always always keep learning, no matter how hard the lesson.

Flagstaff!!

Our new house

So here I am in Flagstaff.  Soon to be a permanent resident of this fantastic town.  It's weird.  And exciting.  And expensive!  We've bought so much furniture within the last two weeks that the thought of ever moving again is nauseating.  It's funny...we moved all of our belongings out here in a 6x12 foot trailer, and somehow it seems like our stuff reproduced on the way here.  We still have boxes lying around, books without a shelf to rest upon, dishes that still need a place in the cupboard (to be fair, I have this whole obsessive-organizing thing going on...there is plenty of cupboard space, but I'm trying to find out the "best" arrangement for the kitchen...it's a work in progress).  So far we have purchased five book shelves, 3 dressers, a coffee table, three end tables, a large area rug, an 8 foot sofa (it's massive), an oversized living room chair, 2 ottomans, a mattress and box-spring, 5 bar stools, a desk, a kitchen table, and two chairs.  Seriously.  How could we possibly need any more stuff??  And I'm still waiting to hear back from someone about a TV stand. Craigslist has been magical during this time of furniture acquisition.  I wish I had known about it when I bought my house all those years ago...I would have saved a boatload of money on home furnishings.  But maybe it's good that it wasn't around...I probably would have just had more stuff.

The living room with the massive furniture

Moving into this house is almost completely different from the time I moved into my house in Rochester all those years ago.  For one, I'm not alone this time.  Having Simon makes this experience a different one all together.  He does the heavy lifting, I do the organizing, we both fall into bed at night exhausted from all the lifting/organizing.  The first week here we did nothing but move in, unpack, and sleep.  It's finally to the point where I feel like we live in a "home."  Another difference is that aside from the bed, all the furniture that we've purchased is used, and super cheap to boot.  We bought a couple cans of paint at Home Depot, and are slowly refinishing a bunch of the furniture that we bought...stuff that's dinged, or old, or just plain ugly is getting a face lift.  It's actually quite fun, and we like seeing the results after a day in the garage furiously painting.  I still have a ways to go...two end tables, a dresser, and a kitchen table are all sitting forlornly in the garage waiting for their turn to be made up.  I know what I'm going to do with the end tables and the dresser, but am still at odds with what to do with the table.  It's an old farmhouse style table that was painted black, and then must have gotten the crap beat out of it at some point.  It needs some love.  I'm trying to decide how much love I'm willing to give.  I'll definitely paint the table top, but I have no interest in either sanding down or painting the legs.  I'm all about making over furniture, but I do have my limits (as do my painting abilities...I have little faith in my ability to paint the legs without drips, smears, or missing spots all together).  I was thinking that I would maybe whitewash the top and leave the legs black, and then find some funky mismatched chairs to go with it.  It's an idea.

Our back "yard" butts up to the forest. Excited about the fire pit

All that aside, I'm trying to keep the "stuff" to a minimum while we're out here (I kinda think it's a losing battle, but I'm giving it a shot).  We got rid of about half of our stuff prior to even moving out west.  Fitting all of our things into a 6x12 trailer was hard enough.  We pretty much cleaned out our parents' homes and our storage unit before moving out as well.  Pretty much everything we own is here with us in Flagstaff.  And that's good.  I'm enjoying having my entire wardrobe at my fingertips (although I still seem to wear the same thing every day...jeans, tshirt, hoodie, sneakers...I'm a creature of habit), my entire book collection is there for the reading, I have all my kitchen utensils and gadgets at the ready, and I like having my favorite art on the wall and some of my more meaningful knick knacks out where I can see and enjoy them again.  Some of this stuff has been packed away for over 8 years...pretty much the entire time that I've been traveling.  And I got by all right without it...it's amazing how little a person can get by with when it's necessary to pack and live as lightly as possible.  For now, the only packing we're going to be doing is for trips to visit friends and family...and camping.  So nice.

View of the kitchen with that dastardly ficus

Oh, and I forgot to mention that ficus.  How could I possibly forget that bastard of a tree?  It was given to us for free by a couple who was downsizing.  We had gotten quite a few pieces of furniture from them, and they threw in the ficus for free.  And that thing has been nothing but a pain in the patoot since we got it.  First off, the thing must weigh 250-300 pounds.  It's huge.  And part of it is dead.  And we've moved it to no less than 5 different locations since we brought it inside.  Luckily we had the foresight to put it on a little throw rug when we first brought it inside, so now we just drag it around on the rug to wherever we (I...obsessive organizing) think it needs to be.  After several different moves, it's back where it started in the kitchen.  And it's going to stay there for a while, because we're tired of dragging it everywhere.  It's a pretty tree, and I wanted to have some plants in the house.  I just think maybe we went a little overboard by having our first plant be a giant indoor tree.  Should have started out with a little jade plant or something.  We'll know for next time.

Amy and Simon at New Belgium's Clips and Brews film festival in Flagstaff

This is our roommate Amy.  She's a tiny little rock-climbing, mountain-biking whirlwind of energy.  I'm envious of her energy, to tell you the truth.  I work with Amy at the hospital, and she's been an awesome addition to our household.  She actually likes the pugs, and has tried to have them sleep in the bed with her on two occasions now.  I say "tried" because their snoring tends to keep her awake all night...hahaha!  She also brought her record player along, and we've been having fun combing thrift shops for cheap vinyl.  I remember listening to my mom's records when I was a kid, and I just love how they sound.  So we've been having a lot of fun with that.  I picked up Ann Murray's Christmas album the other day for 50 cents, so now our house can sound like my parents' house did all those years ago around the holidays.  I'm a sap, what can I say?  All that nostalgia aside, Amy has determined that she's going to get me out on the trails on a mountain bike, and that I will be accompanying her to the ski hill this winter.  Funny, she's the person I sold my snowboard to when I first moved out here last fall.  So now I get to comb Craigslist for a decent mountain bike, and have to face the inevitable fear that I will find  myself out on a ski hill for the fourth time in my life.  On skis this time.  I'm done with that whole snowboard bit.  I don't know why I thought that was a good idea.  So yeah, it's been fun having a new dynamic in the house.  We've settled in quite nicely...to the point that Amy and I had the fireplace going the other night and fell asleep on the couch together...on opposite ends, of course...there was no spooning going on.  We don't know each well enough yet for that sort of thing.  Hahaha!

Brie on her new favorite blanket, courtesy of Isaac Patten

So yeah, the addition of a roommate and the fact that we're still renting makes this whole "settling down" thing not so daunting.  It's like we're settled down, but not for real.  I struggled with this a lot.  For the last 8 years, traveling from place to place and living out of a suitcase was all I knew.  There were times that it was stressful, there were times that I hated it, but overall it was a great way of life and I really enjoyed it.  And I can't even begin to describe how much it helped me as a nurse.  I had hospital experiences while traveling that I never would have had in one single hospital (both good and bad), and I'm so grateful for that.  I'm hoping that I can bring some of those experiences with me to the hospital here in Flagstaff, and maybe give them some ideas on how they can improve on the great workplace that they've already got going.  They actually have a whole committee made up of employees from all levels of the healthcare system who get together and brainstorm how they can make things better, more efficient.  Part of me is a little nervous about getting out of touch, about losing my skills.  Hopefully that doesn't happen.  I guess if I start feeling that way, there's always the option to travel again...nothing is so permanent that I'm stuck in any one place for an indeterminate amount of time.  It's funny...when I was traveling I would count the shifts that I had worked, and how many I had left...a 3 month contract equalled out to 39 shifts.  I still find myself counting, even though there's no reason to, and there's no end in sight.  Old habits die hard, I guess.      

Looking like a goon at sunset

We have no idea how long we'll be in Flagstaff, but for sure (unless something major and unforseen were to happen), we will be here for 3-5 years, if not longer.  Hopefully longer.  It seems like this will have all been for naught if we just pick up and move again in a couple years.  And I like it here.  It's starting to feel like home, especially lately since we're no longer sleeping on an air mattress and we actually have somewhere to sit.  The puggers settled right in with little anxiety or fuss, which was nice.  They're pretty chill these days and seem to be content as long as they know we are nearby.  We've already had friends over for dinner a few times, and we frequently meet friends downtown for coffee.  Amy, myself, and our friend Jeremy drove up to Snowbowl the other night to watch the sun set over the mountains.  We were late (my fault), but the sky was still so beautiful.  It's still amazing to me that the mountains out here are so easily accessible.  20-30 minutes from home and we're nestled among the pines at 9,000 feet watching the sunset.  It's pretty surreal.  I'm excited to be here.

And it's funny...I think I posted a while back (prior to moving to Arizona last year) about how every time I had an ache or a pain I was absolutely convinced that I had cancer.  I don't think that out here.  It's weird.  I'm so much more at peace here than I've been anywhere else that I've lived.  I don't stress out as much, I don't freak out about stupid stuff, and I don't wake up every morning convinced I'm secretly dying of one thing or another.  It's such a relief.  I don't know why living here would have that effect on me versus living anywhere else, but it does.

Oh, and I solved that whole seafoam green pick-up truck conundrum that I was trying to figure out last fall...they are trucks that either belong/did belong to the Forest Service.  I have no idea why they went with that particular color, but there it is.  On to the next thing.

So that's that.  I've been kind of absent from the blogging since the half-marathon in August, but a lot's been going on since then.  I'll catch up.  I need another one of those "blog every day in May" sort of things to keep me typing out the thoughts and whatnot.    

       

So I guess this means I'm a runner...

Finisher's medal and my post-race treat.  The finish line to the race can be seen on the street in the background

Over the weekend I finished my second half-marathon.  Simon and I flew to Vancouver, British Columbia to take part in the Sea Wheeze, which is a race sponsored the athletic clothing company, Lululemon.  It was my second half, Simon's first.  My first half-marathon was back in February in Orlando, FL (you can read a little bit about it here, if you like).  The Sea Wheeze race couldn't have been more different than the Disney race.  

On our way to Stanley Park

For starters, I was able to finish this race 35 minutes faster than the Disney Princess half-marathon in Orlando.  35 minutes is huge, especially considering that my training leading up to this race was lackluster, at best.  The only explanation I can come up with is the elevation change.  For most of the last year, I've been living and exercising at 7,000 feet of elevation.  I get out of breath walking up a hill here in Flagstaff.  In the three months leading up to the race, the longest continuous distance I had run was four miles.  Four.  And then I transported myself to sea level and rocked out 13 miles like it was nothing.  Well, not quite like nothing.  I was definitely struggling at the end, and I was sore for about three days afterwards, but other than that, I was shocked that I was able to run the entire thing with little to no stopping (it's hard to drink water and run at the same time, so I had little walks near the water stations).  The running seemed easier in Vancouver though, and I never once felt out of breath.  So I've decided that I need to move to Flagstaff, and only run races that take place at sea level...then I'll feel like I've accomplished something.  Honestly, it almost felt like cheating.  Another reason I think this race went a little better than the Disney race was the number of participants.  At Disney, I ran with over 23,000 other people, about half of them walkers (no judgement, just an observation...I did my fair share of walking as well).  There were times during the Disney race where the bottlenecks were so severe and the lanes so narrow that I had no choice but to walk until the path cleared...an inevitability when sharing a one-lane road with that number of people.  The Sea Wheeze capped out at just over 10,000 runners, the majority of them were much more fit than the average Disney runner, and from what I saw, most of them were running for most, if not all, of the race.  The running path was much wider at Sea Wheeze as well, enabling Simon and I to maintain a pretty even pace for most of the race.

Simon getting warmed up for group yoga

For all the frivolity that Lululemon can bring to the athletic clothing world, they really put on a very good race.  There were several group yoga sessions that Simon and I were able to participate in, they had a roped off area with food vendors, couches to hang out in, and people doing the runners' hair and nails.  The course that we ran was absolutely beautiful, and we got a see a decent portion of downtown Vancouver, including Gastown, Yaletown, Kitsilano, and Stanley Park.  We ran across and under a couple bridges, and it was cool to see the different parts of town.  We lucked out in that the morning was cool and overcast, so the sun wasn't a factor in overheating us and wearing us down.  At the water stations they had not only water and Gatorade-type stuff, but they also had orange slices and banana pieces, which I thought was a really nice touch.  The orange slices were so refreshing.  The little packets of gel...not so much.  Simon choked one down and got heartburn almost instantly afterwards.  He said it tasted like someone had made a paste out of crushed up vitamins.  Ick.  Pretty much all along the course there were people cheering us on.  My favorite fans were the drag queens, who we got to run past twice, which I enjoyed.  At one point we were even chased by one clad in skin tight pants and super high heels, her gigantic breasts thrust out in front of her as she yelled, "I'm a chase you!  I'm a chase you!"  It was pretty funny, and a nice distraction.  There were people on stilts, people in costumes, and an entire dance troupe of little girls decked out in tutus...all of them cheering, screaming, and ringing cow bells as we ran past.    

Honestly, I was almost taken aback by the spectator turn-out.  The only places where there weren't people cheering were the places where there physically wasn't room for them...like along the sea wall in Stanley Park where the only place they could have stood was in the ocean.  And even during that part, there were people out on the water on paddle boards cheering us on.  Part of me felt a little weird about it, to be honest.  There we were, decked out in our brightly colored, expensive athletic wear, running a race we paid to participate in, a race that really doesn't mean anything in the broad scheme of things...it's not like our race fees went to charity.  But still...thousands of people got up early to come out with their homemade signs to cheer us on.  I felt like I was doing something significant, but at the end of the day, I really wasn't.  A friend of mine is wildfire firefighter, and I saw a video recently of the reception that the firemen get from the community when returning from a long day fighting fires...it was a lot like the reception we got as we ran through town.  People cheering, honking horns, congratulations abound.  I appreciated them being there, and at times was even grateful for their encouragement, especially during that last mile.  It made me feel like I was accomplishing something important.

Simon and I after finishing the race

As far as the actual race itself went, I finished in 2 hours and 25 minutes, a new personal best for me.  Simon and I were able to maintain a running pace of just under 11 minutes per mile for the majority of the race, which is also quite good for us, at least for a race that long.  I awoke that morning pretty nervous and a little queasy, and it didn't help matters that I found myself in dire need of having to poop five minutes before we were supposed to head out for the race.  Of course it had to happen right at that time.  Maybe it lightened me up!  That could be another reason why I finished so well.  ;)  I recently switched to a new brand of shoe, and while I had my reservations about switching from my super stable Salomons to the lighter and more flexible Mizunos, I thought they were a great shoe to run that distance in on that particular course (and they matched my shirt...what more could I really ask for?  Haha!).  However, around 10 kilometers, my arches started to ache.  Fortunately, my right butt cheek went numb around 15 kilometers, so that was a distraction of sorts from my feet.  By 20 kilometers with only 1 kilometer left to go (that last one is always the longest), it was all I could do to just put one foot in front of the other.  Simon was a fantastic motivator.  Not pushing me too much because he knows that will backfire and I'll just give up, but pushing me just enough to keep me moving.  It was great running with him, and I know that a big part of me finishing as fast and as well as I did was because of him.  He's not sure if he's got another half-marathon in him though.  This race was really hard on him...most especially on his joints.  I told him that we could just walk more next time, but he's got that competitive spirit that I've never had.  He would want to try to beat his time from this race, rather than take it easy and finish at a slower time.  I'm just happy to finish the thing, and don't really care a whole lot about the time.  I think that's why we made such a good running team...he pushed me to keep going, and I just went.  We'll see if we end up there again next year.  I hope we do.  What I do know, is that I will never be one of those runners who pushes myself to the point of expiratory grunting.  We were passed a few times by women who sounded like mini freight trains going through.  That just sounds painful.  And not fun at all.  I would rather walk than reduce myself to a sweaty, grunting, breathless mess.  As Simon and I finished the race, there was a woman who finished right next to us who was immediately whisked away by the medical staff.  She must have had a look about her or something, because they didn't give Simon or I a second glance.  13 miles is a long way to go...it took a lot out of us, and I'm sure there were people running it who even less prepared than we were.  

For some odd reason, I preferred to keep track of the race in kilometers, rather than miles.  They labeled the course both ways, since the race draws so many participants from the United States.  A half-marathon is 13.1 miles, or 21.1 kilometers.  Logic would tend towards tracking the race in miles, since the numbers are smaller.  But my brain wanted to track in kilometers, since I know that kilometers are smaller than miles, although really not by much.  But that didn't matter.  Saying that I went 21 kilometers sounds like I went so much farther than 13 miles, and therefore accomplished more.  These are the things we have to tell ourselves when we get it into our heads that running 13 miles/21 kilometers sounds like a good idea.  It's not a good idea.  There is no logical reason for a person to run 13 miles straight.  But we do it anyway.  The races are good motivation for me to stay in shape, and to maintain a certain level of fitness.  I guess if that's what it takes, I'll keep doing them for as long as I can.  It was kind of funny after the race to see people hobbling around town, the 13 miles taking their toll.  The funniest one was when we were on the elevator on our way to our hotel room after the race, and the doors opened a few floors below ours to reveal a woman limping by wearing an athletic top and a tutu.  It was like a tiny glimpse into the aftermath of the race, cut short by the closing of the elevator doors.  

Lululemon Sea Wheeze store...crazy busy!

In true Lululemon fashion, there was a spectacle surrounding the Sea Wheeze specific items for sale.  For their race, they release a line of athletic wear in colors that are exclusive to the event, and people go absolutely nuts over it.  The doors for both the store and the race packet pick-up opened at 8, which is when we got there, but we had a clear view of the front door from our hotel room, and the line was already around the rather large building by then.  I have no idea what time those crazy women at the front of the line got there, but it had to have been around the 5am mark, if not earlier.  Insane.  Crazy.  The store itself was a complete disaster area.  Women were grabbing things left and right, then hoarding them off into a corner where they sifted through them like little misers...or like little rodents lining a nest with expensive, brightly colored spandex blends.  I was bit disturbed by it, to be honest.  I wandered around aimlessly for a while, marveling at how picked over everything already was, despite the store having only been open for an hour and 45 minutes at that point.  Out of curiosity that night, I hopped on to eBay to see if things from the store were up for sale, and sure enough, there they were...at triple the price.  What was even more shocking were the number of people bidding on the items.  I very briefly thought about buying a bunch of stuff to put on eBay...if the prices on eBay were any indication of the profit those people were going to make, I probably could have made back the money for my flight and hotel with just a few items.  But I didn't do it.  That's not why I was there, and honestly, I really don't care for people who do that.  But...if there are people out there who are dumb enough to pay $400 for a $100 hooded sweatshirt...well...maybe they deserve to be taken advantage of...just not by me.

Porchetta sandwich at Meat & Bread

Simon and I stayed an extra day after the race, mostly to just wander around and enjoy Vancouver.  We had visited Vancouver last summer, and part of the draw of doing the Sea Wheeze in the first place was an excuse to go back.  It's such a walkable city, and there is so much to see, do, and most importantly, eat.  :)  During our few days there, I had only 2 cilantro incidents, and I handled both of them quite well, if I do say so myself.  No fits were pitched, no food was thrown, no bad attitude took over.  I just had an outward exclamation of "dammit!" and then passed the offending morsels to Simon, who is always glad to accept my cilantro-tainted refuse.  Other than that though, the food was fantastic.  Everywhere we went, no matter what we got, it was great.  My favorite, of course, was the Porchetta sandwich at Meat & Bread.  Seriously, the best sandwich in the world.  I have to imagine that's true.  It's slow roasted pork, topped with salsa verde (no cilantro...I asked), and sprinkled with cracklin's (basically pork rinds).  Divine.  Fantastic.  When are they going to come to the States??  Probably never, and so my yearly pilgrimages to Vancouver will most likely continue.  If not for the running, then definitely for the sandwich.  My second favorite food in Vancouver was found at the Granville Island Public Market.  It is a pastry simply named Blueberry Bread, but it is so much more than that.  Think of a cream cheese danish.  Now take out the cream cheese and replace with it with a creamy, not-too-sweet white chocolate.  Top it off with fresh blueberries and powdered sugar.  Amazing.  I bought one in anticipation of eating it for breakfast in the morning before boarding our flight.  Yeah, it was an evening snack the night before.  The thing didn't last 3 hours in its simple, blueberry stained paper bag.  The one food item that I didn't try, which I will save for next year, was the Poutine Burger at Tap and Barrel.  A burger topped with salty fries, cheese curds, and a red wine gravy?  What's not to like??  It was our last night there though, and I was feeling a little heavy from all the eating and figured a grease bomb such as that would probably not sit well through the night, and might have dire consequences the next day when I was supposed to be sitting on a plane for hours on end.  Next year, Poutine Burger, you will be mine.

Simon and I at the Xavier Rudd concert after the race

By the end of the race, and the weekend in general, I was done with standing in lines.  Just over it.  I had been surrounded by more people than I care to acknowledge for those 2 days of the race event.  Everywhere we went, for everything we wanted to do, there was a line.  On our last day in Vancouver Simon was taking a nap, and I wanted to go to Starbucks.  Luckily, there was one right across the street from our hotel.  I had the misfortune of getting in line behind a rather large family who didn't speak much English, and wasn't all that familiar with the offerings at Starbucks.  After waiting 5 minutes for the first person in the group to order (I had assumed he was ordering for everyone since he was taking so long), the second person in the group stepped forward and began asking the barrista the exact same questions the previous person had asked, complete with asking the barrista to show her what all the sandwiches looked like...exactly what the first person had done.  So I stormed out...into the rain...and walked 5 blocks in the rain to the next closest Starbucks.  I arrived soaked and with a poor attitude, but luckily didn't have to wait in line.  By the time I got back to the hotel room, I looked like a drowned rat, albeit with a steaming coffee drink in my hand.  By the time we left Vancouver the next morning, those clothes from the Starbucks incident were still wet.  I was impatient, and I made an irrational decision.  And luckily for everyone involved, it was a trivial irrational decision.  The only person who saw any negative effects was me.  Simon kidded me and said he hoped I had learned my lesson.  Yes, I had.  Will that prevent me from doing that again in the future?  Probably not.  We all have days like that.  Sunday morning was mine.

All in all, it was a fantastic trip, and we had a fantastic time.  For those of you who bailed, you totally missed out.  Luckily you'll have a chance at redemption next year, as it sounds like plans are already in the works for Sea Wheeze 2014.  See you there!  :)