This is late. You’ll soon see why. Or perhaps not.
When I was a runner–when I was running– I had a little thing that I did near the end of the race. As I rounded the corner, crested the hill, and reached the point where I could see the finish line, the bright letter-emblazoned banner, the whites of their eyes if you will, I would put my head down, speed up with everything I had left in the tank, fly past the last few competitors as if seconds made any difference, and step across that rubberized strip that time-marked the end of my race. No matter how the run went, I’d leave it all out there at the end.
As I sit in the dark, nursing my daughter back to sleep for about the ninth time this week, a sinking feeling comes over me. There’s something called DMER, dysmorphic milk ejection reflex, where some nursing mothers feel sadness or some feelings as they nurse. I’d thought it was all in my head. I thought about how the last months of the year always feel like the end of the race. January 1st is in sight but somehow you have to muster up the chutzpah to finish strong. If labor was a marathon, and the first year of motherhood was an ultramarathon, then this month is the last mile to the end.
I started running in the snow. The winter of my third year in medical school, I wanted to do a couch-to-5k. Having played sports but never having been a runner, I read Chi-Running, flipped through some magazines, and decided to go out in Vibram Fivefingers, barefoot shoes that would strengthen my soles. What started as 30 seconds of walking and 30 seconds of running soon turned into 1-5-10-30 minutes of running at a time. I ran in slush, in the rain, in known neighborhoods and some unknown. Those first years I ran a 5k for the month. I did it for the bling, I know, but I did it.
Recently, we were on a cruise with our daughter. We were playing with some other kids at Toddler Time when another mom, scouting out the competition, noticed that our daughter was a fast crawler. She asked if we would enter the Diaper Dash. Her daughter had won some years before, and her son was now in the running. Of course! we said, completely confident of our daughter’s abilities. We knew she was fast, smart, and motivated.
The morning of the race, we brought her down to the ship’s atrium. We didn’t expect throngs of parents, grandparents, friends, and family, almost 200-strong, lining the race track. In the first heat, babies lolled around, barely holding their heads up, or sat and cried. We brought our daughter up to the starting line, certain of her victory. As the horn blew, she… froze. Ran back towards her mama, while the girl in the lane next to her darted to the end. (We later found out the winner probably should have been disqualified because she was so old she walked off the track, but that is beside the point.) As parents, we wondered what we did wrong. We had done trial runs in our stateroom, massaged her shoulders, and sang the Rocky soundtrack. When we were alone, our kid did so well. And therein lay the rub. We had prepared her to run but did not prepare her to run in the right environment.
So, there’s always next year, though, she’ll be walking by then, because she just took her first steps yesterday. Maybe the next kid. But it just makes me think that we all run our races our way, don’t we? We all get where we need to go in the end. These last few months of holiday upon holiday, colds upon flus, travel upon work parties and gift-buying and money saving, and trying to rest, restore, are a total disaster. Perhaps you’d like to speed up, put your head down, and get through it, or perhaps you’d like to slow down and smell the balsam candles, or redirect to go to the Port-a-Potty (and hide there). Maybe you’d twirl across the final few yards, or stop and help up someone who’s tripped. Maybe the end has changed for you altogether, and instead of running into a crowd of riotous cheers, you’d rather run into a field of daisies. Maybe you’d like to stand atop that hill and look back to see how far you’ve come. I’d recommend it. The view is amazing. However you do it, wherever you go, just run. I’ll see you at the finish line.
Speaking of the view, my wife made me list all the things I did this year because I complained that it felt like I hadn’t accomplished anything. Well, here are a few of the highlights:
I wrote a book (yes, the manuscript is done and submitted to the publisher!). I started a new job. I had a baby. We raised said baby. We traveled with the baby, almost every two months. I went to Nashville to think about Early Onset Colorectal Cancer. I made a video for the Young Surgeons Committee. I threw a baby shower. I met my newest niece. Our daughter went to three new countries. I started collaborations. I read books. I reviewed a lot of journal articles. I wrote some poetry. I wrote a bunch of other things, a lot of which didn’t get published and didn’t win prizes! But mostly, I wrote that book.
Here’s a few links to things you might find interesting.
Carmen’s Fix for Mommy Thumb— Emory interviewed me about my wrists, LOL.
Stories of Gratitude I wrote one tiny story.
Stories of Gratitude 2 I wrote another tiny story.
Ursula K. LeGuin’s Carrier Bag Theory of Fiction (a really cool read sent to me by a writing mentor)
When Surgery Meets Superstition Most recent Op-med about superstitions in surgery.
Report Cards and Colon Cancer A webinar where I spoke about surgical pathology
Until next year, always go black tie.