Oh what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?

My dearest darling beloved Zeke. This is my belated birthday post to you.

Even just writing those words - dearest, darling, beloved - makes me choke up a bit. The love I have for you is so intense and boundless, it overwhelms me sometimes. Which is a good thing, because the past few months with you have required me to draw on every ounce I have of strength, patience, and parental abilities. 

If I didn't love you so much, I wouldn't bother. 

I had high hopes for the start of high school. You were so motivated. You signed up for a panoply of challenging classes. You were excited to be in a great school with all of the neighborhood friends you had known from kindergarten and beyond.

But you immediately started hanging out with some non-neighborhood friends who were leading you down a bad path. You were making truly terrible choices, some of which were just irresponsible, others of which were truly dangerous. 

Because I will always respect your privacy, I won't get into specifics. Suffice it to say I was dismayed, worried, and occasionally terrified. 

I have cried and raged and nagged. I get headaches from grinding my teeth at night. I have anxiety dreams and restless sleep. 

I have leaned heavily on my mother to try to figure out what to do. I have asked my brothers to be mentors to you. Even Greg, who also did some stupid shit when he was in ninth grade, offered you some guidance.

Thankfully, the lightbulb seems to have come on. You ditched your trashy friends and are hanging out with kids from your school who appear to be better influences. Because I'm not naïve or stupid, I am under no delusion that you guys don't do stupid shit. But mostly you do normal teenage stuff like go to the mall or hang out at each others' houses or go skateboarding nearby. 

I still nag. I'm crying and raging less often. But we are on a positive trajectory, thank goodness.

It's been frustrating because you're so smart and talented. In terms of sheer brain-power, of an inquisitive approach to the world, of breadth of interests, you could have it all. It would take minimal effort to be a super-star, which is one of the things that has so frustrating to me. 

My approach to you and Josie (and most situations) is to try to assess what's going on from an objective and reasonable place. I examine what outside stressors you're dealing with, why you might make the choices you make, and what you're capable of from a maturity/developmental perspective. 

So I understand that 15 year old boys are morons whose brains aren't done cooking yet. I have to take that into account when you're making dumb decisions. 

But still. You have gone above and beyond in this regard.

On the other hand, it's not all bad, or even mostly bad. When you are on your game - which is most of the time - you are one of the most delightful people I know. You're funny and affectionate and sweet. You're witty and clever and fun to talk to. When you're not sulky, you constantly give me hugs and tell me how much you love me. 

I know this is true. As you have told me in the past, I am your person. The one you lean on the hardest, but also the one who bears the brunt of the bad stuff because you know that you are safe with me and that I can handle it. That I will never turn my back. 

Sometimes the relentlessness of your need for me feels crushing. But it has also made me a better mother and a better person.

This shit isn't for the faint of heart, that's for sure. I also know that it will pass. You will mature and it won't be so hard.

You are 15 now. You are charming and a gatherer of people, your peers pulled in by your heliotropic powers. You are truly gorgeous. You're a talented athlete. Kind. Sensitive. Brilliant. 

Complicated. 

Anything you want to do, you could accomplish. You just need to believe in yourself and put in the effort. I will always have high hopes for you.

And you know I will be there for you however I can. 

All the love in my heart,

Mom

The kid is more than all right

Josie turned 13 in late September, and I'm a month late doing her birthday post. 

Birthday posts are hard now because my children are teenagers and their lives are theirs. I have all kinds of funny stories that I might tell my mom or a trusted friend, but I am very mindful of protecting their privacy. Which means that I am not going to tell their stories here, with very limited exceptions. 

In that spirit, here are some non-embarrassing examples of why my daughter is a truly lovely human, in addition to being utterly hilarious and fun. 

She does funny voices and cracks jokes and keeps everyone laughing.  She walks around the house dancing and twerking. She is either super cute in jeans and crop tops, or she goes to school looking like a homeless person, wearing oversize t-shirts and pajama pants. She sends texts that consist of strings of two or three word messages that eventually add up to a full sentence.

This had me rolling

The current thing is to talk like Jennifer Coolidge in Legally Blonde -"I'm taking the dog, dumbass." Her imitation is spot-on, and it's never not funny.

A few weeks ago she decided that she wanted to paint her room a different color. She got some new bedroom furniture for her birthday, courtesy of her extraordinarily loving and generous grandparents, and wanted a new look that was more mature than what she had.

So we walked up the block to the Ace Hardware and studied the paint options. She had a very clear idea of what she wanted, and decided on a pale beige-y grey that has very subtle hints of pink. I tend to gravitate towards bright, bold colors so it felt weird to go with something so muted, but it's her room and she gets to choose, and it looks really great. 

I was telling Greg about this and he was amazed. Not about the color, but about the fact that it took us 20 minutes to pick it out and Josie had no doubts that it was the right one. 

Almost a year ago, he fixed a squeaky stair, which led to a decision to replace the carpet. After months of deciding on a carpet, he had it installed and immediately declared that he hated it. The color (beige) didn't go with the walls (also beige). 

That led to a decision to repaint the walls, and then months of trying to pick out a shade of beige that wouldn't clash with the beige of the carpet (my suggestions to maybe try something other than beige were met with derision). Paint samples were purchased and tested on various walls. "My house looks like a leopard," he said.

Again, making a final decision took months. Thank goodness he likes the way it looks, because at this point if he didn't, my advice would have been to burn the house down.

"So you just went to the store and picked out a color and Josie's happy with it??" he asked.

"Yep."

"And that's it?"

"That's it."

Mind blown.

Anyway. 

Josie and I went home and got out the painting stuff and got to work. I showed her how to use the roller and how to paint edges by placing the paint on a certain part of the brush and holding it in a certain way. It was fun to work on a task together. 

"Why don't we put on some music," I suggested.

She put on the Grateful Dead. 

I looked at her, bemused. 

You have to understand that this is a child who thinks that nine-minute jam band songs are an abomination. She's thirteen. She's supposed to be surly, especially about my generation's musical choices. I'll be listening to Dead & Company in the car and she'll exclaim, "how can you possibly listen to a song that's this long??"

So it was a surprising choice.

She shrugged. "I know you like it, Mom, and I appreciate you helping me. I love you."

She is the sweetest girl. 

She is sweet to everyone.

Yesterday afternoon I picked her up from school and we were talking on the way home. She was telling me about a student in her class who has autism. She understands that autism is a social/communication disorder that makes it difficult for people on the spectrum to understand social cues or how their behavior might be interpreted by others. So he's a little bit awkward, but he's a nice kid and she is friends with him.

"Mom, there are kids who bully him and talk about how he's annoying. They say shitty things and the teachers know about it and don't care. It makes me so angry."

"That's awful. I hate hearing stuff like that."

"I try to stand up for him and tell people to knock it off. But they don't."

"How does he react?"

"He tells me not to worry about it. He says he's used to it and that I don't need to advocate for him because he needs to advocate for himself."

"Ugh, that's heartbreaking."

"I know. I tell the others that it's not ok. IT'S NOT OK! He can't help the way he is. And he's a really nice guy. It's so wrong."

"It's definitely not OK. I'm proud of you for sticking up for him."

The kids in Josie's class definitely need Jesus.

She is a good person. She is decent and kind and principled. She is not afraid to speak up when others are being unfair or unjust or mean.

I'm so proud of her. I have so much respect for her. She always, always keeps me laughing.

I'm lucky to be her mom. 

No one expects the Spanish inquisition

At around 10:40 on Saturday morning, I was over Juniper Pass and should have been undertaking the ride from Idaho Springs to Georgetown. 

I mean, the ultimate destination was Vail. But mentally I was breaking the ride down into sections. There were four aid/break stations. All I had to do was make it to the next aid station.

One was on the way up to the summit of Juniper Pass, the second was just before Georgetown. 

I made it to Juniper Pass. Everything went to shit after that. 

What did me in was the weather. Certainly weather is always a factor. It's something you need to prepare for. But I didn't think it would totally flatten me the way it did.

It has been hot and sunny for months. All of my outdoor training has been in 90°+ weather. I like heat. I grew up in heat. I understand heat. Riding over a mountain pass in the heat is challenging, but you have air in your face (at least a little bit), and then you really get to cool off when you're descending at 30 miles per hour. My body can handle heat.

But this past weekend, the heat went away, to be replaced by cold and rain in the mountains.

I thought I was prepared. I bought a waterproof rain jacket. I had a warm fleece to put on. I had gloves. I had waterproof booties to wear over my shoes. 

None of it turned out to be waterproof or warm. It started to rain within the first hour of the ride. I put on my jacket. I rode further and was cold, and I realized I was wet under my jacket. I put on my fleece. It started to rain harder. I put on my waterproof shoe covers. I wore my gloves. 

By the time I got to the summit of Juniper - a 16 mile slog with a 3600' elevation gain - I was wearing everything I had, it was all soaking wet, and the temperature was in the 30s. I was freezing. And I still had a windy 16 mile descent to Idaho Springs.

On the descent, I lost feeling in my hands and my feet. I focused on being able to move my fingers enough to brake and shift gears, but it was a struggle. In my head, I was in disbelief. How could I be this cold? How could I continue? 

At the bottom of the mountain, there's a little parking lot right by where you turn onto the road that leads west. I pulled into the parking lot, still numb, shivering uncontrollably, and started to cry. Like, sobbing crying. Because I knew I couldn't go on. 

I called Christin, who is definitely on my list of my favorite people on the planet. Greg and I had randomly run into her the day before when we were picking up our ride packets, and she told us that her husband was also riding the Triple and that it was her plan to be on call all day. 

"I'll be around, so call me if you need anything."

So when I was standing in that parking lot crying, I got my phone out and called her. 

"Christin, I need your help." She immediately said she would come and get me. She is the best. 

While I was talking to her, there was a guy near me in a truck who worked for the organization that sponsored the ride - he was helping to coordinate all of the assistance efforts for people who had broken spokes or flat tires or injuries. He saw me shaking from the cold and said, "you need to get in the truck right now to warm up." 

I nodded and did as I was told.

The cab of his truck was roasting - the heat was all the way up and blasting. He told me he could drive me to Georgetown, and Christen could pick me up from there. 

Notwithstanding the heat, I couldn't stop shivering. He told me that that was a sign that I was done. 

"You're clearly borderline hypothermic. It's not safe to continue, especially if you don't have anything dry to put on." 

He also told me that I was crazy to attempt the ride after only being able to really train outside for 6 weeks. And that before I attempt a ride like that, I should have at least three century (100 mile) rides under my belt. 

I have none under my belt. 

Looking back, it's clear that I was overly ambitious. I lost months of real training time because of my knee injury. I didn't get the chance to really put in the miles I needed to put in.

But it was the weather that was the nail in the coffin. If I had been warmer, I can't guarantee that I would have finished, but I would have been able to keep going from Idaho Springs. I could have made it over Loveland Pass and accomplished two of the three peaks. But freezing and wet and numb, I was done.

Christin picked me up and brought blankets and dry clothes. She took me to her place, where I took a hot shower. I finally was warming up. It had taken me almost an hour and a half to stop shivering.

I texted Greg what had happened - he had been ahead of me. He was also freezing and decided to bail after Loveland, so Christin and I went to pick him up. While we were waiting for him at our designated pickup spot, Ken, Christin's husband called. He was done as well, and was just down the road from where we were. We saw tons of people who were calling it a day and getting picked up to head home.

Christin took us to Vail. Greg and I checked into our lovely hotel. We warmed up in the hot tub. My wonderful parents sent us champagne and a charcuterie board and a cake, so we ate and drank. Then we feel asleep at 7:30 and slept for 12 hours.

Even with hindsight being 20/20, I am beyond disappointed. I really wanted to finish. I really wanted to do well. In the moment, I knew that my body could not continue, but there's always that feeling later of, well, maybe I gave up too early. Maybe I could have kept going. Maybe I'm just weak.

I know I shouldn't do that to myself. I did the best I could. And even in those conditions, I rode over a difficult mountain pass. Most people in the world can't say that. 

There were points of beauty and joy. The scenery was gorgeous. There were people who had come out to sit by the side of the road and cheer us on, including a guy playing the bagpipes. It was amazing to feel the camaraderie of the group. Everyone was so positive and encouraging.

"You can give it another shot next year!"

Maybe. I don't know. I doubt it. 

Maybe. 

I do know that if I give it another shot, I will have much better gear.

Panic! 'Ere the Ship Goes

When I got to work this morning, I had gotten no sleep and had been in a state of panic for 14 hours. 

Yesterday when I checked the mail, I had a letter from my health insurance company. They informed me that my health insurance for me and my children had been terminated and that I would cease to have coverage after June 30, 2022. 

I immediately burst into tears.

It's been a difficult and stressful week. 

Work has been uncharacteristically hectic. I had court all day on Wednesday, an expulsion hearing yesterday, and three new disputes/cases to deal with.

I've been scrambling to get Zeke packed and ready for his big bike trip before I leave for my cruise. 

I needed to get a COVID test and go to the waxing salon and get my nails done. 

I've been getting organized and packing for myself, and feeling overwhelmed by the task. So many things to take - dresses! jewelry! casual clothes! workout clothes! fancy shoes! hiking shoes! Does my bathing suit look ok on me? 

The agita came to a head when I was trying to figure out the bra situation for a new dress that has a halter neck, meaning my shoulders are bare and I can't wear a regular bra without straps showing. The other night I literally spent 45 minutes engaged in boob-wrangling to try to figure out what to do with this one stupid dress. I have some strapless bras, but strapless bras are invariably difficult if you have big boobs, because if they do the job and actually hold the girls up, they are tight and cumbersome. I have some of those clippy things you can use with regular bras to pull the straps in to make a racer-back, but it didn't work with the neckline. By the time I gave up I was exhausted and stressed out and felt like I had been wrestling a bear. 

Greg's solution was to gleefully suggest that I go commando, which I may end up doing. 

Time is particularly of the essence because I'm going to a Dead show tonight, another one tomorrow, and then our flight to Seattle leaves the following morning at 6 a.m.

In immortal words of Crash Davis, I'm dealing with a lot of shit. 

So when I got the letter from the insurance company, I lost my mind. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out if I had somehow forgotten to make all of my benefits selections during the open enrollment period, but I knew I hadn't because a) I specifically remember doing it, and b) when I logged in to my account, a number of the changes I made were reflected in my account. The idea that I would make a bunch of changes and selections but somehow neglect the health insurance piece, which is without a doubt the most important part? Inconceivable. 

It was too late to call anyone, so I hurriedly wrote an email - which I'm sure was barely comprehensible - to one of our benefits coordinators asking if they knew what was going on. 

Then I fretted all night. What would I do? Was it too late to fix it? The end of June is less than 2 weeks away, and I'll be gone for one of those weeks - how do I find decent health insurance in such a short time? How will I afford it? How will I get my and my kids' prescriptions filled? What if something happens to Zeke on his trip and he doesn't have health coverage? Who will I be able to see for my knee rehab? How can I risk injury riding the Triple Bypass or skiing next season or doing anything else if I can't find insurance coverage? 

My heart pounded in my chest and I didn't sleep. I was too nervous to eat. So I got up and went to work super early because I couldn't think of anything else to do. When I got to the office, I headed to the HR department.

"Hi, guys," I said. "I don't know if you've seen my email but..." 

Before I could finish my sentence one of the women said, "I was just getting ready to email you back. There was a glitch - it happened to a few people and it's already been fixed. Don't worry, you're good to go."

I felt overwhelming relief followed by overwhelming exhaustion and hunger. 

"Oh my god. Thank you so much. I was seriously freaking out. You're the best." 

"All good, Wendy. We've got you covered."

I went up to my office and starting checking stuff off my to-do list. My COVID test results came back negative. I texted Zeke about getting all the stuff he needs into his duffel bag. I bought a parking pass for the show tonight so we don't have to worry about parking. I reminded myself to leave checks for the cat sitter and the cleaning lady. Tomorrow I will finish packing before I take my stuff Greg's and we head out to the second show. We will be exhausted Sunday morning, but once we get on the boat we won't have to do anything. 

Maybe at that point, the feeling of anxiety that is gripping my chest will abate and I can finally relax. 

School's out for summer

I got home from work last week and found Zeke chilling on the couch eating popcorn and watching TV. 

"Heeeeey Wowie," he said, using his pet name for me. 

"Heeeeey Zekey," I responded. "What did you get up to today?"

"I went to the park with some of my friends. We did some skating."

"Nice. Bratwurst dogs and salad OK for dinner?"

"Sure, sounds good."

"Josie? You home?" I yelled up the stairs.

"Hi Mumsie!"

"Good day?"

"Good day!"

Our days are good right now. 

Because my kids attend school (most of the time without an argument) and I work for a school district handling the student matters, summer is a mellow time for all of us. The day after the last day of school, my workload drops off dramatically. June and early July are deader than disco. The teachers and staff are off contract for the summer, the administrators take vacation, and things slow. way down. It's lovely.

For my kids, they are at an age when they can hang out with their friends and fend for themselves, but aren't quite old enough for summer jobs. And after a year that was stressful for a number of reasons, Jason and I decided that with the exception of some overnight camp for Josie and an amazing three week bike ride for Zeke (Portland to the Golden Gate Bridge), they could have an unstructured summer to chill out. 

So for all of us, we're relaxed and happy. We have things to look forward to. Colorado in the summer is amazing. We can have beach days on the lake with the paddleboards. We can go hiking in the mountains. We can go to any of the myriad festivals popping up around the city. I've got two Dead & Company shows next week, and then Greg and I are going on an Alaska cruise in which we have to get dressed up so that we can have dinner with Captain Stubing. Then in late July, we go to the Outer Banks.

In one respect, however, I will not be chilling out. Because I have decided that I'm going to try to ride the Triple Bypass after all. 

When I busted up my knee and particularly when I had my surgery, my assumption was that there was absolutely no way I would be able to do it. The early stages of rehab were painful and difficult. The swelling took a long time to go down. My hamstring ached where they took the graft. 

But then I started getting stronger, and from there, the progress was dramatic. 

The surgery was a little over two months ago. As soon as I was able to, I started a weight lifting program and was doing rides on the Peloton. I started small - 5 and 10 minute rides with almost no resistance. I increased the time and the resistance as I felt stronger and more comfortable. When the PT said I could work out of the saddle, I did that. 

Three weeks ago, I had my 6-week follow up with my surgeon, He said that everything looked great and that I could do as much on the bike and with weights as I could tolerate. 

"Can I ride on my real bike outside?"

"Not yet. Give it another month or so. The ligament is still weak. If you fall or somebody hits you, if you have to stick a leg out to catch yourself, it could be really bad. But inside, go for it. The rule is, if it doesn't hurt, you can do it."

Which got me thinking. 

On the Peloton, I can do power zone rides and climb rides and HIIT training. There are rides that mimic mountain climbs from stages of the Tour du France. There is a 5 hour series of climb rides based on going up Mt. Haleakala in Hawai'i. I can do short rides and long rides, and I can string rides together to get used to being in the saddle for long periods of time. Off the bike, I can lift weights to increase my strength and stability on the bike. 

"The Triple Bypass is on August 20," I thought. "I have 12 weeks. Why not train inside until I can train outside?"

The only thing missing would be getting in some rides at altitude - the Bypass is all above 7,000 feet, with the mountain passes over 11,000 feet. But if I can start riding outside by early July, I'll have enough time to do some long rides in the mountains.  

Why not?

I couldn't think of a reason. So I put together a training schedule and got to work. 

The day after we get back from the cruise, I have another PT appointment. My hope is that I will get the go-ahead to start training outside. And then I will be on my way. 

I'm nervous and excited about it the same time. Which is one of my favorite feelings. Let's fucking go. 

How to soothe a preteen girl

It's threatening to show itself...

My sweet daughter has had a rough year. She's been dealing with some really heavy shit that has been extraordinarily stressful and anxiety-producing. She has also been forced to talk about it with people other than me, which she absolutely hates. This is a girl who is extremely private and it has been excruciating for her. 

It has also affected school for her. It piled on. So school has been a trigger as well. 

Last week she became free from that process. We are also rapidly approaching the end of the school year. 

For some, this might have brought on a sense of relief. A feeling that you can finally relax and exhale.

For Josie, it has not been that. Instead, all of the tension and anxiety and trauma that she has been holding in for a year have come flooding out. Tears and feelings of despondency. It has been heartbreaking to watch.

Last night she seemed to be doing ok and then when I mentioned going to school, she broke down. The thought of going to school today overwhelmed her. We lay down on my bed and wrapped my arms around her while she cried.

"All of my friends are coming up to me and trying to comfort me, which is nice. But they keep trying to get me to talk about it, and I don't want to."

"Then you don't have to. Just say, 'I appreciate that you've been thinking about me, but I really don't want to talk about it.' That's all. There's nothing else to say. Nobody can make you talk."

She nodded but was still crying on my shoulder. I hugged her and let her cry.

"What can I do for you, honey? How can I help you feel better?"

She shrugged. 

Then the cat jumped on the bed and went into a downward dog position (downward cat?), with his paws stretched in front of him and his ass up in the air. It made me chuckle.

"Shall we ask Scooby if he would show us his butthole?" I asked. "Would that make you feel better?"

She started to laugh a little bit.

"Maybe if we ask really nicely."

She giggled some more. 

"I think we should ask him. I bet he'd be willing. You could use it. Buttholes are always funny," I continued. "I think they should be identified as a treatment for depression."

"Take two cat buttholes and call me in the morning," she said.

"Absolutely."

She started laughing really hard. 

"See? It's working already!"

"They should put it in the medical books."

"Here's what we're going to do," I said. "I'm going to take a bunch of pictures of Scooby's butthole. And then at random times during the day tomorrow, I'm going to text one to you. And it will keep you from feeling too down."

We continued that way for a while, laughing and joking around. She calmed down and smiled and went to bed. 

When I woke up this morning, the cat was walking around. I managed to take a few pictures of his butt even though he wouldn't sit still. 

I dropped Josie at school this morning and said, "be ready. They're coming."

She laughed and said, "bye mumsie. I love you."

"I love you too. And so does Scooby's butt."

And all was right with her world, at least for a little while. 

I was in a bit of a pickle, but give me a month.

 Greg and I were noodling about something fun to do this past weekend. He called me and asked, "do you think you would be able to handle the stairs at Red Rocks?"

Later, when I told Zeke about this, he laughed and said, "Damn, I love that guy."

And truly, his confidence in my ability to do just about anything is wonderful, and one of my favorite things about him. But in this case, it was too much. 

Now, for those of you who aren't from these parts (or have never been to Red Rocks), it is nothing but steep stairs. The seating is set into the rocks on a steep incline. You climb endless steep uneven stairs to get to the upper entrance, and then walk down steep stairs to get to your seat. If you go in through the lower entrance, you climb endless steep stairs once you pass through the gates. You walk up the hills from the parking lot, and then climb steep stairs from there.

So many stairs. So much steepness.

Red Rocks is a truly magical place to see a show. But three weeks out from knee surgery, I didn't see it as being anything but a miserable, grueling experience. 

"I think it would be really difficult for me," I said. "I can still only climb stairs one leg at a time. Getting up and down the stairs of my house is a pain in the ass. I love Red Rocks, but I don't think I'm ready yet. Give me a month."

So instead we went and drank whiskey (with pickle juice chasers) and listened to rootsy bluegrass at a funky general store in this mountain town up in the hills west of Boulder. 

I have long felt that as a society, we don't take enough advantage of pickle juice. It's great for replenishing electrolytes. It has a bright, tangy flavor. I grew up eating sour kosher dill pickles made with plenty of garlic and spice, and I would always suck the juice out of the pickle before eating it. It's the best.

What I didn't realize is that pickle juice chasers are having a bit of a moment. I googled it and found numerous recipes and articles singing its praises. Who knew?

Anyway, it's delightful.

As is hanging out in a small town general store, drinking, eating pizza, listening to bluegrass, and chatting with the locals. 

Everyone was super friendly and down-to-earth. It was a blast. It also did not require me to to climb any stairs.

But I wasn't kidding when I said to give me a month. The progress, she is steady. 

Every week when I go to rehab, the PT checks my range of motion and my stability, and gives me exercises for the coming week. I do the exercises as assigned. The next week, I've made improvement, so he gives me more and different exercises. I do them. The next week, I've made more improvement, so he gives me new exercises. 

Lather, rinse, repeat. 

I can now walk unassisted (no crutches or brace) with a barely perceptible limp. Today I started climbing up stairs with alternating legs, and it felt pretty good. I can't quite go down stairs with alternating legs, but I'll get there soon. I'm able to do short rides on the Peloton. I do wall squats and leg extensions with resistance bands to strengthen my quads.

When my injury happened, and when I was in my initial days post-surgery, I lamented that summer was coming up and I wouldn't be able to do all of the outdoorsy things I love to do in the summer, like hikes and bike rides. it was overwhelming and felt impossible. 

Now I think that I will be able to. I'm fairly certain I'll be able to climb a 14er for my annual Emma climb in September. I'm confident I'll be able to ski next season. 

And apres ski, I'll be sure to order my whisky with a pickleback. 

Day Ten: Humility, and why it's good to have a brother who is an athletic coach

 From an intellectual, left-brained perspective, I was and am fully cognizant of the road ahead of me, and prepared to walk it. From emotional perspective, reality kicked me in the gut.

Friday was my first physical therapy appointment. I walked in with my brace and my crutches, and was encouraged and energized by the room full of equipment. 

Let's go.

I lay on the table while Matt, my PT guy, manipulated my leg. First thing was to measure my range of motion.

"One week out, we want to see knee flexion at 90 degrees. And when you extend your leg straight we want a bend of less than 10 degrees. The extension is the thing we really want to focus on first, but you're going to be working on both. Your bend is at about 85 degrees, and your extension is at around 11 or 12. So you're in good shape. You're doing well."

The numbers are everything to me. I thought to myself, dude, you have NO idea how task-oriented I am. There's no way I'm walking out of here without hitting those targets. 

I was lying on my back with my left knee bent. I scooted my heel back towards my butt in small increments. 

Scoot scoot. Rest for 10 seconds. Scoot scoot. Rest for 10 seconds. Scoot scoot.

"Where is it now?"

He measured again. "Ninety degrees. Nice job."

Then he put a bolster under my Achilles heel so that my leg was extended as much as possible. I tried to focus on relaxing the muscles to let gravity work to pull the back of the knee down. It was extremely difficult and uncomfortable. I couldn't hold the position for more than a couple of minutes at a time.

"You're going to need to do this multiple times a day, trying to hold it for longer and longer as you can tolerate it." 

We did that for a while.

"Where's the extension now?" I asked.

He measured again. "Nine degrees. Excellent."

I mentally patted myself on the back.

We worked on a few other things. He unlocked my brace so that the knee would bend and I could start trying to use a more normal gait, bringing my left leg up to take a step and then landing with a proper heel-to-toe.

They use a digital system that sends exercises to an app, so he loaded up my account with exercises for the week. The app is great - it tracks your activity and includes video so you can follow along and imitate the movements.

I left feeling good. 

The next day, I did a PT session on my own, and I broke down and cried.

It was so hard. It was so humbling. I can barely lift my leg up from a lying-down position. I can't contract my quad muscle. There's one exercise that involves lying face-down on the floor and lifting the leg up, and it took all of my concentration to be able to lift it a tiny bit.

The dreaded leg extension

I felt like a baby learning to walk. 

I had a vision of the next 6 months. Limping along. Constantly being uncomfortable. Not being able to do anything. Feeling weak and puny.

It reduced me to tears.

Greg came over to help me move my ice machine down the stairs from my bedroom - basically, a little cooler filled with freezing cold water that flows through tubes into a pad that I can wrap around my leg. It's on a timer that I can set, so I ice the knee for 10-15 minutes every hour. It is my new favorite thing that I own. But I use crutches to get up and down the stairs, and I can't use the crutches and carry the ice machine at the same time. And if I can't get it downstairs, I'm stuck in my room all day, which is a drag.

When he came in, I lamented that I felt awful and weak and helpless. I hate that my muscles won't do what I tell them to do. I hate that I have to ask people to come help me with basic tasks.

He gave me a hug and assured me that I would get stronger and more self-sufficient. He said that it was ok to ask for help, and that I have many people in my life who love me and are happy to help me.

Later that day, I called my brother Josh. Josh had this same surgery about eight years ago, so he's a good resource and sounding board. He is also a high school lacrosse coach, so he's good at motivational pep talks. 

We talked about the rehab timeline and the experience he had. He said that full recovery would take many months. But I can't focus on the end goal or how long it will take me to get there. 

I have to take it one workout and one day at a time. Don't worry about increasing your knee flexion by 30 degrees. Try to improve by one degree. And then one degree the next day. It feels insignificant but it adds up. After a month, you've improved by 30 degrees. Treat the PT like any of the other exercise programs I've done. Do what's on the calendar for today, and then don't worry about it. Tomorrow, do the same thing. By the end of the program, you'll see the results.

I know this. Of course I know this. I've used those same principles to motivate other people. When one of the kids is overwhelmed by the fact that they're supposed to have read eight chapters of the book but are only on chapter two, I tell them, "just read one chapter. You can do one chapter. And when that's done, you can focus on the next chapter." 

But I needed to hear it from someone else, because I wasn't listening to myself. 

"Will you coach me through this?" I asked. "Could you send me a text or some kind of meme or whatever to help me stay motivated and on the ball? That's never really been my thing, but I think I need it."

"Absolutely," he said.

After we hung up, I ordered a whiteboard to put up in my workout room. I can track each day's workouts and write motivational quotes. 

I told Greg about this and he told me I was a nerd. 

"You like that I'm nerdy," I responded, laughing.

"I totally do," he smiled. 

On Sunday morning, Josh sent me an audio of clips of different motivational speeches by coaches. I did my PT sessions on Sunday, and felt good about them.

I love my brother.

I woke up this morning and did another session. I lifted some weights for shoulders and arms, and then got on the Peloton and did 5 minutes of partial revolutions back and forth (I can't yet do a full revolution in either direction). I use my right leg to push the pedals in each direction, getting as far as I can and then holding it for 10 seconds before going back the other way. I do this at least twice a day, and try to move a little further each time.

Giant nerd alert

I took the ice machine downstairs by myself and started work (I'm working from home after taking last week off). The whiteboard will arrive later today. I've got my set of colored dry-erase markers ready. 

Keep the motivational quotes and memes coming my way. I am in full dork mode and I am here for them. 

Day Five

Day one you're powering through on adrenaline and heavy drugs. There's still a lot of swelling and numbness that is keeping your body from feeling what you would actually be feeling after having tissue pulled from one of your muscles and stray fibers shaved from one of your ligaments and scopes and knives poking and prodding your knee. The narcotics are powerful. Things seem like they will be ok. 

It was a whole new ballgame on Day Two.  We had a nice morning when Greg came over for brunch, but after that, the swelling and numbness started to abate, the nerves started firing, and the pain flooded in. Like, the walls of a dam breaking - that kind of flooding. Notwithstanding that I was maintaining my scheduled regimen of drugs, on Sunday night it was so overwhelming that I lay on the couch crying and trying to breathe. It was like someone slowly was dragging knives into the inside of my leg between my knee and my groin - honestly the worst pain I've ever experienced in my entire life, including childbirth. My poor mother sat with me and stroked my hand and tried to talk me through it. I took some more Oxy and eventually was able to relax enough to get upstairs into bed.

pretty flowers from my coworkers

Monday was an improvement over Sunday, but anything would have been. I napped and watched Derry Girls. I had a phone consult with the PT, who assured me that what I experienced was relatively normal. I hadn't expected that kind of pain, and my big fear was that I had re-injured something, so talking to her was a big relief. She gave me some exercises to do, and I did them. The pain was easing up, so I decided to start weaning off the narcotics because they were starting to make me feel sick. 

swelling is going down

Yesterday was when days of constantly pumping my body with nasty chemicals caught up with me. I felt nauseated and groggy and couldn't eat anything. I didn't do much but lie around and resist my mother's efforts to feed me. I did, however, get tickets to the two Dead & Company shows coming to Boulder in June, so all-in-all, the day was a win.

waiting to be let into the website 

Today I have been off the Oxy for 24 hours. I feel much more human. I was able to take a proper shower by sticking a chair in the tub and wrapping my knee in Saran wrap. Mom and I walked over to Zorba's (a diner that's a block from my house) - or rather, she walked and I crutched - and we had some breakfast. Later I'm going to do my rehab exercises and lift some weights for my upper body, because I'm definitely using those muscles quite a bit.

using the time to learn by watching the new Ken Burns
docuseries about Benjamin Franklin on PBS

Baby steps.

Day One

The surgery went perfectly. The surgeon talked to Mom while I was still in the recovery room and told her that there was a little more damage than he initially anticipated, but he fixed it all and said I will make a full recovery. He was great. Before I went into the OR, we were chatting and I said, "how are you feeling today? Everything good in your life? Feeling confident and happy going into this operation?"

He laughed and said, "absolutely. We're going to crush it." And we did.

Pre-op, rocking the sexy socks.

But it was a rough evening. After I woke up, I was groggy and in pain. The anesthesiologist had focused on two nerves along the front of my thigh because that was where the bulk of work was going to be done, but it was harder for the pain medication to spread to the hamstring, which was where the tissue was harvested for the ACL reconstruction. 

That was the part that was in a ton of pain. They administered fentanyl and some other powerful drugs, but they wear off quickly. And the next thing I was allowed to take was Tylenol, and not until 8pm. I would be able to take another dose of Oxycontin 3 hours after that.

It was 5 o'clock.

Coming out of surgery is miserable. Your body is in trauma. You can feel it being angry at you. "What are you doing? Why? Whyyyy? Fuck you!!"

So I went home and suffered. It hurt to use the crutches. It hurt to sit. I had a hard time finding a position that was comfortable to keep my leg elevated that. 

Ouch.

Everything hurt.

But! 

There were positive signs. After a few hours, I got my appetite back and ate some toast and Greek lemon chicken soup. I found a comfortable position and turned on my cold therapy machine, which is the greatest contraption ever. My mom and I watched the women's Final Four, which was entertaining and distracting. 

And we got in bed and I took two Oxycontin pills and the world became a brighter place.

After I took the dose, I said, "Alexa, set a timer for 3 hours."

Three hours later I took Tylenol. 

"Alexa, set a timer for 3 hours."

Three hours later I took Oxy.

"Alexa, set a timer for 3 hours."

Three hours later I took Tylenol. 

Etcetera.

The hurt abated. My body calmed down and stopped cursing my name. I got some sleep. 

When I woke up, I read my post-op instructions. Today I am to continue icing my knee. I am to get up and move around every 2-3 hours. I am to try to bear some weight as I am able. I am to start working on range of motion, slowly bending and straightening my knee and raising my leg several times a day.

So I got up and moved around. A couple of times I stood straight on the leg without the crutches. I laid down in bed and bent my knee - range of motion was pretty good. I raised my leg about ten times. I made it down the stairs on crutches. The knee doesn't feel stable, but I wouldn't expect it to today. The hamstring hurts, but with the meds the pain is tolerable. 

All in all, I'm encouraged. Here we go.

 

Time to do the damned thing

It was extremely distressing to discover that not only had my little black dress not made it into my bag - though I distinctly remembered getting it out of the closet and putting it on the pile - but neither had my underwear. 

So all I had for our fancy dinner was a flimsy cotton dress that has moth holes in it (but which I keep to schlump around in because it’s still pretty cute and oh so comfortable) and the pair of undies I was wearing, which are bright neon orange and show right through the dress. 

We were at the Broadmoor, one of the loveliest hotels in the world, as a last weekend hurrah before I have knee surgery (tomorrow) to reconstruct the ligaments I destroyed while skiing a month and a half ago. And I really REALLY did not want to go into a swanky restaurant wearing a ratty dress with loudly colored underwear glowing from beneath.

The skiing injury was heartbreaking to me. It was only my fifth day of the season on the mountain, and came after an incredible day of skiing all over Vail with some of Greg’s friends who were visiting from out of town. The next day we were a little tired and decided to have a mellow day. 

“Let’s do some easy runs to warm up before heading over to the back of the mountain,” we thought. 

After which I proceeded to blast into a mogul field going much too fast, because I came over a ridge and for some reason thought the terrain below was groomed rather than bumpy. 

It wasn’t. I lost control and made a twisting fall. I felt and heard the “pop” that is the sure sign of a ruptured ACL. Ski patrol was called, they pulled me down the mountain in the sled, and I went to the hospital. I drove back to Denver with a big heavy brace on my left leg, crying most of the way.

Greg likes to take pictures of me when I've busted ass.

No more skiing. No more long summer hikes. No more Triple Bypass, which I had been really looking forward to. Maybe no Emma climb. I cried for the next two days.

I have spent the ensuing seven weeks doing my damndest to “pre-hab” my knee by doing strength and stretching exercises and riding the Peloton every single day, often multiple times a day, so that my range of motion can be as good as it can be before heading into surgery. 

And after the surgery, I will have to do it all again, only with much more pain and much more hard work for seven or eight months, with the goal being that I can do my Emma climb in the fall and ski again next season.

Hence the fun weekend. And the missing undies.

I went to the concierge and told her my predicament. Was there anywhere nearby I could go to buy some panties that weren’t visible from space?

It being the Broadmoor, she didn’t hesitate to say, “of course! The boutiques are closed but we’ll just open them up for you and you can shop for whatever you’d like.”

Of course!

So a nice young man took me to the boutique and opened the doors and turned on the lights. I wandered through the empty store and picked out some non-neon-orange underwear to wear with my slightly moth-eaten dress, which cleaned up nicely with some heels and jewelry. And we had a lovely romantic evening wandering through the hotel looking at their incredible art collection, and having drinks while watching the NCAA tournament at the bar, and strolling around the lake holding hands, and eating a delicious dinner. We came back to Denver the next day feeling refreshed.

A painting at the Broadmoor called "Staging." I don't remember who painted it.
We both liked it but also felt very anxious looking at it - that ride would be terrifying.

The landscape around Colorado Springs. Stunning.

Sculpture in the yard of a house near the Broadmoor. The neighbors might not love it
(it's huge and draws cars full of gawkers), but it's really cool. 

Tomorrow is my surgery. I’m nervous the way I’ve always been nervous when I’m about to be sedated so that somebody can cut into my body. I’m nervous about what a pain in the ass it's going to be to get around for the next few months. I’m nervous about the long and difficult rehab that I’m facing.

But! I am strong and healthy. I’m a fast healer with a high tolerance for pain. I have friends and loved ones who will take care of me. I’m extremely disciplined when it comes to exercise. The doctor and the physical therapist only need to tell me exactly what to do, and I will do it. I’ll eventually be able to ski and bike and hike and do all of the things that I love. 

Most likely wearing brightly colored underwear. 

Feliz año nuevo!

For our last night in Mexico - New Year's Eve - I did my research. 

Greg had initially suggested that we drive from Guanajuato City to the pyramids at Teotihuacan, spend the night there, and then go to the airport the next day. 

There were a number of reasons why that plan would have ended up being a bad choice. 

The pyramids are an hour from the airport, and while our flight left at 9:30 in the morning - not too too horrible - we had to return the rental car (which we had slightly damaged). We also needed to get there early enough to deal with COVID checks (which it turned out I had, despite having tested negative the day before) and all of the bullshit that international flights entail. It would have made for a stressful morning.

Plus, New Year's Eve! Fun! Party! I doubted that there was going to be much going on out by the pyramids. But according to all of the articles and blog posts I found, there was fun to be had in Mexico City.

For example, Newyearsevelive.net posited the question, "where do you head for on new years eve to find the biggest party to welcome 2022?" They answered their own question thusly:

In Mexico City there's only one answer, and that's the enormous street party on the famous Zocalo, the main square right in the heart of the city.

The party area spreads out right across the central area, with roads closed from Palacio de Bellas Artes to Paseo de la Reforma Boulevard.

The party itself gets underway earlier in the day and contains everything you would expect to find at a Mexican street party, live music from popular bands, dancing, colourful costumes, a plentiful supply of food and of course the huge fireworks display at midnight.

It sounded very promising. 

So I booked us a room in a cool hotel half a block off the Zocalo. We drove from Guanajuato, saw the pyramids at Teotihuacan (which we weren't able to climb because of COVID), drove to the airport to return the car, and then took an Uber into town. We showered and put on our party clothes and headed out to the Zocalo. 

No one was there. 

Well, maybe there were 100 or so people milling around. But you have to understand that the Zocalo is absolutely enormous. A vast square surrounded by big, imposing old colonial buildings - it holds over  100,000 people. So 100 or so people is nothing. It's like some ants scurrying around a tennis court. 

It was clear that preparations had been underway. There were amusement park rides set up and evidence that a party was going to happen. But the centro was dark and blocked off. It was almost eerie. 

Not exactly the scene we were expecting

Had the party been planned but canceled at the last minute because of COVID?* Where were the people? Where were the bands? Where were the "colourful costumes" and the "plentiful supply of food?"

We were disappointed and confused. We were also hungry.

We decided to look for something to eat. Greg would be on his phone and find something promising, but we would head over there and it would be shuttered. This happened a couple of times. Then we just started meandering down different streets, and I am not exaggerating when I tell you that nothing was open except for a KFC and maybe a Starbucks. We were in the heart of downtown on New Year's Eve in one of the major cities of the world, and every single restaurant was closed and boarded up. 

"What is going on?" I wailed. "This is one of the biggest party nights of the year! Don't people want to make money?"

It was completely baffling.

We were walking down a street and it sounded like there was a party on the upper floor of a building we passed. A guy in front of the building saw us looking up at where the noise was and said, "are you interested in going to the event?" 

Our hunger and our desire to participate in something festive won out over our suspicion that we might end up lying in a bathtub with missing kidneys, so we went in a back door and up some stairs to a big room blasting music that made a bass-heavy oontz-oontz sound. It was sparsely populated and felt dingy. We paid our 80 pesos (about $4) to get in, found seats by the window and away from the speakers, and ordered what turned out to be aggressively mediocre hamburgers and aggressively weak margaritas.

Not only was the food shitty, but it was served on plates covered with plastic so the dishes wouldn't get dirty. In an act of rebellion, we removed the plastic and smeared ketchup all over the plates, because we're mature like that. 

"This is ridiculous," Greg said.

"Is this really what our night is going to be like? I can't stay here," I said. 

More phone research told us that one of the super tall buildings nearby had a swanky party in their rooftop restaurant, so we headed that way to see if we could get in. At the entrance, we met a security guard who told us it was sold out. 

"Where is everyone?" I asked. "Why are all of the restaurants and bars closed?"

"Because it's New Year's," he said. "People stay home on New Year's."

I wasn't inclined to argue this patently absurd assertion, so we left and took a stroll in the Alameda Central, a huge, lovely public park right next to the Palacio de Bellas Artes. The Palacio is stunning. The park was quiet and peaceful, with a canopy of trees overhead.

After admiring a Diego Rivera mural on the far side of the park, we started to walk back towards the Zocalo. When we saw a Hilton hotel, we figured that at the very least, we could get a drink at the bar. It was worth a shot.

Inside, it looked encouraging. There were some people were hanging out and watching college football. We walked up to the bar and tried to order drinks, only to be told that they had closed 3 minutes before. 

Of course. I mean, it was 9:33 on New Year's Eve. What possible reason would they have to be open? 

"What the actual fuck," we muttered.

"Is there another restaurant in the hotel that might be open?" I asked the bartender.

"You can try the restaurant upstairs," he shrugged.

So we took the elevator upstairs. The floor was dark and empty and quiet, and naturally, the restaurant was closed. But I heard music and party sounds coming from the floor above. We decided to investigate. 

The closest way up was an escalator that had been turned off. We stumbled up it in the dark, sliding around barricades at the top, and found ourselves at the end of a floor. At the other end was a party! Yay!

What we had discovered was the Hilton's official New Year's Eve party - the big cheesy kind you buy tickets to because you can't think of anything else to do. There was a band and a huge buffet and assigned tables and drinks. It seemed like nirvana.

We loitered out in the hall, watching people have their pictures taken next to oversized inflated bottles of champagne or whatever. Finally, Greg and I looked at each other, decided that "act like you belong" was our strategy, and marched in with confidence.  

We stood for a while at the side of the room checking out the scene.  Men in sports coats, women looking like they were dressed either for the prom or as a mother-of-the-bride. There was a woman singing covers and working the crowd like a lounge act. It was exactly what you would expect.

We weren't going to sit at somebody's table - that would have been weird. We were trying to figure out what to do when a waiter-looking dude approached us. 

"Can I help you?" he asked. "Can I show you to your table?"

"Oh, we just wanted to stand up here so we could hear the singer," I said. I looked at Greg and he nodded at me encouragingly.

We're going to be so busted, I thought to myself.

But then the guy said, "can I at least get you a drink?"

"Um, yes! That would be great!"

A waiter walked by with a tray of tequila shots.

"Could we have some tequila?" I asked.

"Of course!"

So we each had a tequila shot. They were delicious and much-needed, if perhaps not the greatest combination with the questionable food we had eaten earlier. We hung out for a little bit and decided that we shouldn't stay too much longer, but that at least one more free drink was in order. 

Act like you belong.

I walked over to a bar stand with a bunch of shots set out.

"¿Podemos tener alguna, por favor?" I asked the bartender.

"Claro," the bartender responded. 

I grabbed two, and we each did another tequila shot. Feeling warm and loose, fortified with decent liquor, we decided to venture out to see what other mischief we could get into. 

 One of the more random things we encountered as we made our way through the streets

After strolling down the street and people-watching for a bit, we found another party, this time with a crowd and salsa music. The restaurant was full of people drinking and dancing. The music was hopping. We stayed and had some fun. I danced around as Greg sat on his bar stool, and we laughed and talked about our trip. 

Then a band gathered on the stage - they had some horns, so we figured maybe it was a mariachi band. We were excited - mariachi music can be really fun and wonderful. 

But it turned out that they were, in Greg's words, the loudest and crappiest Mexican high school marching band ever. So loud. So unpleasant. 

"When they headed onto the stage, they had so much promise," he sighed. I could only laugh. 

It was 11:30 at that point, so we decided to go back to the Zocalo and finish the night there. 

A little crowd had gathered near a countdown clock. At midnight, everyone smooched and wished each other a happy new year.

We kissed and smiled at each other. It was a beautiful night and we were a little tipsy. We agreed that on reflection, and in spite of all the craziness - because of it, actually - it had been a great and unforgettable night. 

Or at the very least, it made for a great story. 

*It turned out that's exactly what happened. The mayor of Mexico City had decided at the last minute to cancel everything, which surprised us because the COVID protocols in Mexico were strict and everybody followed them, even outside.