‘Just’ a Tonsillectomy…

I must acknowledge first off, that Kate and I recently celebrated the birth of our sixth child, Phillip.  Details to come, I promise.  Things have certainly been busy at the Shirley’s casa on La Casa. 

When Kate arrived at the entrance to the ER yesterday with Patrick, I was stunned.  My oldest son could barely walk.  I had been working when Kate sent me a picture of a toilet bowl full of fresh blood and a note that she was on her way to Primary Children’s Medical Center.  I walked across the bridge and got there before she did.  She needed me to park The Behemoth, and as I pulled away from the curb I looked back to see Patrick shuffling his feet as Kate supported him.  His pajama pants and Kate’s jacket were baggy on him and he was as white as a ghost.  He carried a barf bag full of blood. 

After parking the van I reentered the ED lobby and was told by the registrar that they had already taken him back.  The volunteer escorted me to the room.  I was surprised when she took me to the right, toward the trauma rooms.  I was even more surprised to find nearly twenty people in his room.  Everyone from radiology to anesthesiology to social work to security was there.  In the time it took Kate to give the registrar her insurance card, they had taken Patrick back, put him on a bed and started two IVs, one for each arm.  There was no room in the bay for me, so I stood in the hallway, Kate’s purse in my left hand, and Phillip’s car seat at my right. 

 Kate told me they were taking him to surgery.  Surgery?  For what?  Before I could ask, the anesthesiologist was asking me questions about Patrick’s prior history.  A moment later the doctor who had performed Patrick’s tonsillectomy 6 days prior appeared.  He put a tongue depressor in Patrick’s mouth and removed it, bloodied.  As fast as I could pick up his Crocs and Kate’s sweatshirt they were wheeling his gurney out of the room.  Though he had a blanket draped over his bare chest, he continued to shiver as they rushed him down the hall, an army of people in tow and us trying to keep up.  We spilled out of the elevator on the second floor and followed him into the surgery holding room, right up to where we were stopped by a black and yellow striped piece of tape on the floor that restricted our access.  I signed a piece of paper as he was wheeled out of sight.  All the while the staff at Primary’s reassured Patrick that he would be fine.

After checking in at the desk in the waiting room Kate and I looked around for a place where we could sit apart from all the other parents.  We didn’t want Phillip exposed to too many people.  Eventually we found a spot in the hallway.  After waiting an eternity (it was a really long hour) Kate was allowed to go see him in recovery.  Eventually they came to get me and I packed up the purse, Patrick’s belongings, the diaper bag and Phillip and trudged over to recovery. 

I passed into darkness as I stepped through the curtain and found Patrick on his side, half sleeping.  He was okay.  When his tonsils had been removed a week earlier I was told by the surgeon that Patrick’s left side had been a challenge, due to excessive scar tissue, and that P Man would be pretty sore because of it.  And ultimately it had been the left side that had punched his return ticket to the hospital.  In surgery they had cauterized the bleed.  Fortunately it was a venous bleed, instead of arterial, which could have been fatal. 

Kate had just fished Phillip out of the bath when Patrick first vomited blood.  Her plan had been to go to the store to get Patrick some strawberry milk.  Had she been 5 minutes faster, she would not have been there when it started.

After sitting with Patrick for a while I looked at Kate and we decided that a hospital was a bad place for a newborn.  So Kate left with Phillip.  Of course, I rode the train to work that day, so we had to make transportation arrangements, hoping that he would get to go home that night. 

After Kate left I had nothing to do but sit while Patrick recovered.  I could only do so much work from my phone, so Cormac McCarthy’s The Road kept me company while Patrick zoned out and watched The Avengers.  It was a good distraction from the ‘what-ifs’ that surge through any parent’s head after a scary event.    

Seven hours after he went to surgery we were cleared to take him home.  Thankfully he did not need a blood transfusion.  They did pump him full of fluids, though.  As we waited for our ride I watched him, already a thin boy, emaciated from lack of eating over the last week and weak and pale in his wheelchair.  I knew he was really feeling crappy when he stopped laughing at my wickedly funny jokes.  We were glad to have him sleep on the spare mattress at the foot of our bed last night.  And for once, I didn’t give him a hard time for sleeping past noon…

Comin’ Down the Mountain

Chris looked up at overhead clouds for the tenth time. They look like they’re breaking up. He thought. He had been standing next to a campfire for the last hour with a dozen complete strangers, wondering if he was going to get soaked. Walking out the door at 3:15 that morning he wondered if he would need the black plastic garbage bag he had packed the night before. Standing at the starting line as dawn broke, listening to the light pelt of drops against the plastic, he was glad he had it, no matter how ridiculous he looked.

He stood quietly eating an energy bar. He had to eat slowly. Year after year he had struggled with fuel for his marathons. Chris was not used to eating breakfast, as it usually nauseated him. His doctor told him it was due to his acid reflux. But the morning of the race he was between a rock and a hard place. He risked vomiting from forced eating on one side, and a lack of fuel on the other. Reflecting on the leg cramps that were the result of a lack of fuel the year before, he opted for the former, and munched away on his bar.

It was getting close to gun time. It was time for last preparations. First was the last trip to the port-a-potties. He got in line just in time. Next he shed the plastic bag and sweatshirt, tying them in his drop bag. A slight breeze added to the chill, but he did not want the extra weight of the sweatshirt, and tossed the drop bag into the U-Haul truck. He had added the names of several people in whose names he was running, and wanted people to see them as he ran along. For better or worse it was a running shirt and shorts. Looking at the dark clouds that were pushing in from the west he thought it might be for the worse.

Chris lined up along the road near the ‘9 minute’ pace flag. He inserted his ear buds and set the volume on his iPod. During last minute adjustments he realized that his phone was still in his pocket. He pulled it out and turned it off. He forced it into one of the pouches on his belt, in between some packets of Gu.

It was 5 minutes to gun time. He was ready, except for one thing: He needed to pee again. Really? He thought. He had worked hard to hydrate all week, and the night before the race had been up each hour to void his bladder. He mused about how the experts all said to hydrate well all week before the marathon, but also said to get a good night’s sleep the night before. Did they not know that you can’t do both? Chris looked out across the cow pasture to the restroom lines. As he looked over the heads of the other runners he realized that he was much taller than the average marathoner. He also realized the lines were too long. He wouldn’t make it before gun time. He would have to wait.

But he couldn’t wait. As the clock ticked toward start time he noticed several men running up the hill to urinate on the shrubbery. He didn’t want to be one of those guys. Too bad, he was going to be one of those guys. He came back down the hill just in time for the gun.

It took a full minute before he crossed the start line. He was not one to start running in place while waiting to cross the start line. He waited until the crowd thinned to where he was able to pick up a running pace. Immediately he began to get pelted with raindrops.

The first couple of miles featured gently rolling roads, more downhill than up. He remembered what his running coach Elfi had told him, which had also been echoed by running professional Jeff Galloway at the start line that morning: don’t be tempted to run fast down the hills. Keep a steady pace. Otherwise you’ll expend too much too early and pay for it in later miles. Chris settled in to his comfort zone and plodded away. He had noticed on his long training runs that the average song length on his iPod was equivalent to a half mile. Every two songs he looked to see where he was in relation to the mile markers. For the most part he did well.

One mile, two miles, and then three. He noticed that he was getting passed. But he didn’t care. He found his pace, settled in and enjoyed the run. The clouds hung to the mountainsides and continued to dump. He couldn’t help but laugh when he heard Shirley Manson’s voice come through his ear buds: I’m only happy when it rains…Pour your misery down…pour your misery down on me… On the drive in that morning he had listened to the Jane’s Addiction song ‘Coming Down the Mountain’ and wished he had added that song to his playlist.

At the four mile marker he took out a packet of chocolate flavored Gu. He was not hungry, but had learned from his long training runs that he needed the fuel every four miles. In years past he had waited until 5 miles, and paid for it. The thick slime of the Gu was washed down with orange Gatorade from his water bottle. The two flavors did not mix.

Chris made a conscious effort to wave at the cheering spectators, most of whom were crouched under umbrellas and plastic ponchos. Because of the rain there seemed to be fewer people along the route, and he was even more grateful for those who were there.

By the time he passed the 7 mile marker Chris’ jersey was soaked and plastered against his chest. He began to worry about the phone on his belt, wondering about the waterproof integrity of the pouch. In the distance he saw a Utah Jazz umbrella. This signaled to Chris that he had found his support team: his father, sister Kat and her daughter Janessa and Chris’ son, Patrick. He reached into his pouch and found his phone. It looked to be in good condition. He handed it off as he ran past. Usually he would stop for a moment to say hello, but not today. He was feeling good and wanted to keep things moving.

He left his support crew behind, turning north at Huntsville and beginning his route around Pineview Reservoir. He took stock of how he was feeling working from the bottom up. Feet: fine. Shins: good. Calves: great. Hamstrings: A little tight, not too bad. Stomach: settled. Finger:  frozen.  Shoulders: fine. Neck: sore. He had never experienced neck pain while running, and was puzzled by it.

As he approached the 11 mile marker he realized he was on the heels of a large group. At the head of the group was the four-hour pacer. He held his sign up, and Chris saw that the red and white balloons had deflated and were hanging limply. He was encouraged by this sight. Without even noticing, he had made good time. But he was also cautious. He had to run his own race, and if he tried to keep up with this group when he was not meant to, he would get into trouble. Slow and steady wins the race, he thought.

He could hear the bands playing at the midway point before he could even see it. As he rounded the bend and approached Eden Park he could see throngs of spectators and well-wishers. One held up a sign that said ‘Chuck Norris never ran a marathon’. The crowd narrowed as he approached the sensor, and one even reached out to pat him on the back as he passed. Chris looked up at the timer, and then at his own watch. Almost exactly 2 hours. He was doing well.

Trouble first came just moments later as he turned on to 2200 north and headed west. As he tried to swallow a pineapple flavored Gu, he gagged, and his stomach wrenched and would not accept the much needed fuel. He had to stop to a walk and force the gel down. He was suddenly nauseated, and had to walk for a few minutes until it passed. He loaded up on Gatorade and began back into a trot. As quickly as the sickness approached, it passed.

Chris curved around the Eden cutoff and headed south. He knew that this would be the greatest challenge. It was a nearly four mile stretch of uphill climbing. It wasn’t steep. But the previous year it had been where Chris’ cramps had started and he knew it would be a challenge. He determined to plow through, not stopping for walking breaks. If he was able to conquer the hill, it would be a huge mental boost, and it would also be all downhill from there. He couldn’t help but laugh at a series of signs posted along the road. One featured Nacho Libre and read ‘Smile if you are not wearing underpants’. They were well placed.

Approaching the 16 mile marker Chris looked at his watch. He was surprised at his time. He had actually made up some time on the uphill climb. The Beastie Boys were telling him “…you can’t, you won’t and you don’t stop!” I can do this. He thought. The rain had never stopped, and though his shoes were starting to squish, he was grateful. One of the mental issues he had had the previous year during the climb was the sun beating down on him. A slathering of sunscreen hadn’t helped him, and he had suffered a nasty sunburn on his neck. This year the pelting rain was keeping him cool.

Approaching the causeway he kept a lookout for his support crew. Kat held Janessa, whose shyness prevented her from waving. Patrick jumped up and down. Chris pointed at his watch and nodded his head. A new PR was in sight. Chris made some quick calculations in his head: if he could cover the next 9 miles in 75 minutes, he would finish in less than 4 hours. Though he recognized that this goal was a bit lofty, he also knew that if he finished in less than 95 minutes he would have a new personal record.

Soon after he began his descent into the canyon he discovered the cause of his neck pain. Because of the angle of the rain he had been tipping his head down, to keep the droplets out of his face. Without realizing it, he had been running with his head completely lowered. He laughed in spite of himself. He could just imagine the marathon photos of himself. He would be the one who could only be identified by number, with his face obscured by the brim of his cap.

As he continued on through the canyon, with the high water of the river to his right he found another reason to keep his eyes lowered. Construction in the canyon had contributed to a hazardous roadway. Pools of water had formed throughout the construction zone, and at several points the asphalt had been cut away, leaving drop-offs. Chris splashed through the water puddles, but was wary of the cut sections of roadway and mud.

At one point he passed an aid station and was handed a cup of Powerade from a woman in Egyptian garb. The Bengals’ ‘Walk like an Egyptian’ played from a loud speaker. It felt like a strange dream.

He was elated to see the 20 mile marker. He had lost time, but still found that he was passing people. He focused on picking up his feet, as he had a tendency to shuffle as he reached higher distances. He was an hour away. He took another Gu and swallowed the last of his SCaps, for a little extra sodium and nutrients. His Gatorade bottles and his pouches were empty. The only other fuel he would get would be from the Powerade stations.

Chris found himself watching the raging waters to his right as he ran. At mile 22 he noticed a lump in his right shoe. By this time every muscle in his right leg was sore, though his left leg, while tired, was okay. He realized that the lump had been formed by the sole of his shoe bunching up. He wondered if it was due to the fact that he was running downhill and had involuntarily curled his toes to push the liner back, or if it was due to the rain, or a combination of the two. Regardless, he was annoyed that his shoes were falling apart. He bought them just in time to get them broken in for the marathon. He decided to run through, instead of stopping to take the shoe off.

He came around a bend and nearly lost his breath (he had little to spare) at the sight of Ogden Canyon Falls. Because of the rain, the falls were swollen, and provided a spectacular sight as the water coursed down the side of the canyon wall.

The static startled and confused him. As if someone had moved the radio dial, Stone Temple Pilots disappeared into garbled fuzz. Except there was no dial. He pulled his iPod from his pocket and examined it. The unrelenting rain had finally penetrated and shorted out the device. He would have to run the last few miles without music.

He exited the canyon and passed through a tunnel under the roadway. Several dozen people greeted him with cheers as he came up and on to the footpath. He had studied the route on a map several times, yet suddenly felt disoriented. His strength was failing him. Not his physical strength, but mental. He was spent. He tried to rationalize that it was only three miles. He could do that in less than half an hour. But it was no good. He needed a rest. He slowed to a walk and checked his watch. It would be 2 minutes of walking, and 2 of running.

He picked up the pace just in time to stop again as he rounded a bend at the last aid station. He choked down the last blueberry Powerade. He continued, 2 minutes on, 2 minutes off. He ran through another tunnel, emerging to see signs cheering on Huntsman Hometown Heroes. That’s me! He thought. That’s why I am here. I am running for those who have fought cancer. He was a mile out. It was time to go all in. You can’t walk across the finish line. He had to give it the rest of what he had.

Finally he rounded the last corner on to Grant Avenue. Up ahead in the distance he saw the finish line. The bands were playing and the crowds were thick. The din of cheers reached and energized him. I made it! He thought. He could walk the rest of the way and still beat his old PR. He could even cartwheel and make it!

As he approached the finish line he looked from left to right, scanning under the umbrellas for people he knew. Young children came to the side of the road to give him high fives as he passed. He saw a man three stories up in a parking terrace yell out “Great job!” to which he waved. He knew that the grin on his face was as big as it could be.

He finally spotted Tim, one of his fellow Hometown Heroes, who was always at the finish line to take pictures of his friends. “Way to go, Christopher!” someone else yelled out, having read his name from his bib number.

Dozens of people held their hands out to slap his as they narrowed in on him just before he reached the barricades. “Hey!” He heard. Looking over he saw Elfi, Lori and several other organizers of the Huntsman team waving at him. Chris looked up at the timer and then pointed at his watch.

“I know!” Elfi called out. A moment later he saw his support crew, waving and cheering like mad. He saw 4:14:01 as he passed the electronic sign at the finish line. As he slowed to a walk he held his arms out behind him ala Tim Robbins in The Shawshank Redemption as he lifted his face to feel the drops of rain coming down.  Unlike Robbins, he did not peel off his shirt.

Chris paced around the finish area for a time, unable to stop smiling. He had not set any land speed records. He had not even broken the four-hour barrier. Yet he had set a personal best in conditions that were less than ideal. He had topped his personal best by over 5 minutes. It was a PR that had stood since his first marathon, 9 years previously. He had beaten last year’s time on the same course by over 40 minutes. And most importantly, he was uninjured. The training had paid off. The effort was worth it. The sense of euphoria would last the rest of the day.

Chris exited the finisher’s area and found his family. After a short bout with post-race nausea brought on by an empty stomach, he proceeded back to the finish line with his support crew to cheer on his friends.

Patrick handed him a dry sweatshirt, which he slipped on while he fought the shivers. Together they stood at the finish line, watching for the yellow-green running shirts that signified the Hometown Heroes. One by one they came across. Here was Jason wearing his Mickey Mouse ears. There was Neil. Here came the girl whose name Chris did not know, and who was so focused that no one from the cheering section could catch her attention. Each of them had worked hard to train for the event, and equally as hard to raise funds for cancer research.

Chris was grateful that for once he had for once been able to finish in time to cheer on the rest of the group. He didn’t want the moment to end. And he was almost disappointed when the sun poked through and the rain stopped.