Health by Heidi

  Last year, I registered for a 14-day, 1,000 mile bike tour in Colorado.  The tour had close to 70,000 feet of climbing, all at high altitude.  Starting in March of last year, I trained hard.  I rode my bike five or six days a week, had a structured training plan, and followed it closely.  Every day, I would ride, then work, or work, then ride.  Weekends were consumed by long rides with lots of climbing.  That was the routine.  That was the rhythm.  That was the normal.  By the time July and the bike tour rolled around, I was in the best cycling shape of my life.  The tour was more than I ever thought it would be, and I felt great for all 14 days.  My training paid off.  Five days later, Scott died. In January of this year, I signed up for another bike tour, also in July, also big miles, also lots of climbing.  I was excited for it.  I was ready to start training for it.  But.  Things happened.  L...

  I yawned, stretched, rolled over onto my side. Don't look at the clock,  I thought.  With my eyes closed, I could tell it was still dark outside. I grimaced as I felt a bead of sweat drip down my chest.  I put my hand on my belly, also covered in a slick slime of sweat.   Yuck.   Apparently, this is what happens to a 47-year-old woman.   I sighed again. Don't look at the clock. I opened my eyes.  1:04 a.m.  I peeled back to soaking wet sheet.  The window was open, and the air hit me like a plunge into an ice-cold mountain lake.  I shivered, sweat still covering my skin.  I got up, walked to the bathroom, dried myself off, went back to the bedroom.  I crawled in bed, squirming around in an attempt to find a piece of sheet that wasn't fully saturated.  No such luck.  I gave up and lay still in the cold wet.   I closed my eyes, willing sleep to find me again.  Instead, the starting gu...

  It was Tuesday, March 10, last week.  It was my 47th birthday.  It was the first birthday since Scott died.  It was the first birthday since my mom moved into memory care.  Shannon was in Oregon working.  The alarm went off that morning at 4:00 am.  I had to be out the door for dog walk by 4:45 to get to my first clients by 6:30.  At 4:30, I started getting ready.  Put on my walking clothes, layering appropriately.  Put on the glowing green dog collars.  Grabbed my flashlight so I could see where I was going in the heavy darkness that is 4:45 am.   The dogs and I headed across the pasture on the same route we've done nearly every day since Scott died, the same walk he had done nearly every day since we moved into our house.  We made our way along the creek, up the switchbacks, onto the bench behind the house.  As we walked, I was throwing myself a pity party.  Here I was, once again walking in the darkness...

  I met with my therapist yesterday.  It was the first session we'd had since Shannon's son, Clayton, died.  As it goes with grief, it felt like seven lifetimes had passed since the last time I sat down on the couch in my therapist's office.   I took a deep breath, exhaled, looked at her.  She smiled back at me.  "I don't know where to begin," I said as I closed my eyes and thought back on the last two and a half months.   She nodded.  "Start with whatever wants to come out first." I took another deep breath and felt tears spring to the corners of my eyes as my throat constricted.  I thought of Clayton, of Shannon, of my mom, my kitty Lily, and of course, I thought about Scott.  I opened my mouth and the words gushed forth like an avalanche.  Once I started talking, I couldn't stop. We started with Clayton and Shannon.  As I shared, I realized how much empathy, compassion, and patience I have gained over the last seve...

  I was standing in the back room of a strange house, and I was being held hostage.  My captor was a man, but I didn't know who he was.  He would occasionally yell at me down the hallway.  I knew I was in danger, and I knew I had to escape.  I glanced down and realized I was holding a long, thin, blue saw blade in my right hand.  It was too long to hide.  How could I conceal it to make a surprise attack on my captor?  I heard heavy footsteps coming down the hall.  He was coming.  I gripped the sawblade in my hand, readied myself for the oncoming fight.  And then the alarm went off.   I woke up, rolled over, and reached for my alarm clock to turn off the alarm.  Except the alarm wasn't going off.  I vividly heard it in my dream.  It woke me up.  In real life, no alarm.  I lay back on the pillow, thinking about my dream.  Did my brain really just set off an imaginary alarm to wake me up and spar...

  My dad passed away in January of 2013.  I miss him.  I think about him often.  He was 84 years old when he died.  He had a long, eventful life, and by the end he was ready to go.  It was time.  I was sad when he left, but the sadness was mixed with relief in knowing that he was ready and he was no longer suffering.  We expect to lose our parents.  It's the natural order of things.  Knowing it's coming doesn't make it easier, but I do think it softens the edges of death a little bit.  After my dad died, I was sad for a long time, but I didn't have any of the other emotions associated with grieving.  I was never angry.  I didn't feel guilt.  There was no denial or despair or numb.  We all knew it was coming.  We were prepared.  Above all, my dad was ready to go.  He was tired and worn out from a life lived well and hard.  I expected to outlive Scott.  He was seven years older than me, and...