Running with Heart

So, you may remember that I have had concerns about heart palpitations during certain races or runs. If you don't remember, you can read about some of them here and here.

You may also remember that this is the second anniversary of my father's death after a heart transplant.

If you put the two together, you might conclude that I should be seeing a doctor to determine if I have heart problems of the same magnitude as my father. This is definitely what my mom thought (Hi, Mom! Love you!), and so I made a series of appointments for tests and consultations with various specialists. Every test turned out normal. During my echocardiogram, the technician kept saying, "Boy, I wish every patient had pictures like yours!" I take a strange pride in the fact that I have pretty pictures of my heart.

This is EXACTLY how my heart looks in the echocardiogram pictures.  Except it isn't a tree.

The fact that all my tests were normal and I hadn't had any episodes since last Thanksgiving led me to believe that the palpitations (tachycardia) were probably stress-induced. My cardiologist (a young kid, by the way), however, wants to monitor my heart activity for a month to see if he can catch an episode. I have to wear the monitor at all times and do everything I can to provoke the tachycardia so that he can get a recording of it.

Me: Wait, so I can run, do speed work, race, all that stuff?

Doctor: Yes, exactly. I want you to provoke an attack so I can study it.

Me: Won't this be harmful? Couldn't I, like, die?

Doctor looks at me for a full minute, then says: Do you honestly think I would tell you to provoke an attack if I thought it was harmful to you?

Me: I don't know. Maybe you don't like me.

Anyway, now I'm sure he doesn't like me because wearing this event monitor SUCKS BIG TIME.  It's huge, so it looks like I'm carrying around a beeper from the 80s.  It has suction cups, which I have to move to a different place each day, so it looks like I have hickeys on my chest.  I have wires protruding from all parts of my body. I have to sleep with it, so I roll on it and it pokes me or vibrates to let me know that I'm killing it.

This morning I went for a long run (12 miles), and I wore the monitor.  This is how it looks:

One electrode here

The second one here just under my bra

They connect to this big, freaking box.

I can't see any data from it.  There are only buttons to push and one light that blinks when I have to upload the data.  How do I do that? I have to call a number, hold the box up to the phone, and let it play a whiny fax-machine-sounding thing for at least five minutes. I'm not exaggerating.

The good news is that I feel much better knowing that this isn't really harmful; the word the cardiologist used was "nuisance," which I know pretty well. I can live with this nuisance, but I'll wear the damned monitor while I have to (love ya, Mom!).

I'll leave you with something positive--my view at the Beaver Marsh on the Towpath this morning:

Those green plants are lily pads!

And this is how I felt when I finished my 12 miles:

I'm hot, I'm sweaty, and I'm fabulous!

Also, my fellow-Cleveland Marathon Ambassador Andrew (@Andrewrunsalot) found a picture of me on the Akron Marathon page!

I'm in the bright yellow. Look at that ass!

However you run this week, I hope you run with your heart--see what I did there? Until then, run happy, Peeps!

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Running with Grief

For the first time since I started this blog, I have skipped a post.  There is a very good reason for this.

My last post was a recap of the Ragnar Trail Event in West Virginia.  I had written about the challenges of that race.  What I didn't tell you was that the night I arrived (during the storm), I received several voice messages and texts from my family regarding my father, and I was worried about his health the whole time.

My father had two heart attacks and a quadruple bypass six years ago.  He was in the Cleveland Clinic for months, and if it had not been for the wonderful staff there, he would have died.  Last year my father's health started failing again, and I rushed to Florida just in time to get him psyched up to get an LVAD, which is a machine that regulates blood flow for the heart.  Again, he almost died because his organs had already started shutting down, but the surgical staff at the Cleveland Clinic in Weston performed a miracle and brought him back.

My father with my son

The LVAD is a temporary fix, and only patients who are on the list for a heart transplant get one.  My family was thrilled that my father would qualify for a transplant, but we knew the risks such a surgery would entail.

My father on his wedding day

When the storm started in West Virginia, I saw that my father had called me, but I couldn't access his voice mail because of poor reception.  When I finally found a "pocket of reception," I learned that my father had gone to the hospital because a heart had become available.  My last message from my father was him telling me that he was excited and that I should not fly to Florida for the surgery.

Fly to Florida?  I was surrounded by mountains and forests in Appalachia.

I kept my phone on all weekend, and anytime I could get reception (sometimes in the middle of a trail), I would look at my messages or listen to voice mails.  I was frantic.

Imagine running the Red Loop at 3:00 AM when you are frantic.

Anyway, I finally got the call from my brother the following Thursday, telling me to come to my father.  I got on the first plane I could book, and my brother rushed me to my father at one in the morning so he would know that I was there.

The next day we unhooked my father from all the machines that were keeping him alive.  Before we did, I told him that I loved him, and that he was a great father.  I hope he heard me.

I spent the next few days helping my father's wife make all the arrangements for his funeral.  I organized, I phoned, I wrote his obituary and the eulogy for the minister. . .and I did run.  I wanted so badly to run and cry, but the weather was so hot and humid that I felt more annoyed and irritated than anything, and I couldn't express my grief and sadness.

Running is so cathartic, and yet I have not felt any relief.

I returned to Ohio at 3:00 AM yesterday, and I am still organizing, cleaning, taking care of others.  At some point I will have to take care of myself. I will have to FEEL.

Tomorrow I will run, and I hope some sort of healing can begin.