Squishy Warrior Down

winter warriors

The email came in around mid-December, “Join the Winter Warrior Challenge! Sign-up Today!!!” As a squishy gal of the advanced forties with bad knees, asthma and a penchant for wine and chocolate, there is nothing in my being that screams “warrior.” At the very least I might scream, “negation team,” but definitely not “warrior.”  Still, I read on. The challenge was for each school divisions to form teams of staff and students. These teams would compete for the most miles covered by walking or running in the month of January. Solid idea right? It would fit well with my standard, be healthy, eat better, become less fat new years resolutions I make every year. Then, I read further.

“All miles must be completed outside, every day. Students can miss a day and they remain on the team but adults who miss a day of outdoor walking, running or biking are dropped from the competition and their miles are no longer add to the team total.” Hubba whaaaaaa? Outside? In January? In New England? Bitch please.

Sure I was born on the icy tundra of Iowa and I was forced to do farm chores in the sub-zero temperatures until I was spawning snot-sickles from my nose, but that is exactly why I left. (And while New England is cold, it doesn’t hold a candle to the cold of Iowa.) My ass has now developed a fine appreciation for central heating and heated steering wheels. Ain’t no way Mama’s goin’ back to the snot-sickle days.

That whole “outside” thing was where I decided this was the most ridiculous challenge of all time. Who would do this? Why would anyone do this? Oh, and what was the grand prize for braving frostbite for 31 days in a row? Amazon gift card? No. Cash money? No. Pizza party? Hells no. The grand prize for this torture was…bragging rights, freakin’ bragging rights. Let me say it again, bitch please.

And then it happened, “Hey guys, I think we should do the Winter Warrior Challenge. We can make a middle school special ed team.” My perky blonde co-worker with two working knees and not a squishy part on her body made the proclamation as I stuffed a piece of post-lunch Godiva into my pie-hole. I tried to take a hard pass but she kept coming back. “We can all do it together and get the kids involved too. It will keep us on track and make us accountable. Great way to start the new year right?” Did I mention how not squishy she is? If you’re not squishy do you really need to be kept on track and accountable? No. But once she’d managed to muster a growing team, pride would not allow me to be the squishy one in the corner, avoiding exercise and spending lunch with Godiva instead.

*Massive sigh* “Fine. I’m in.” I regretted those guilt-driven words the moment they passed my lips but there was no going back. I was about to be a squishy warrior.

Day one, 1/1/20 – *Ding* “Did you get your mile in girls?” the text read. Accountability sucks. But I’d treated myself with some Sherpa-lined sweatpants so I had that to motivate me. (PS – no size 14 butt needs the extra 2” on all sides provided by Sherpa-lined pants but damn, they’re warm.) Day one, done.

By day three, against my intentions, I was actually enjoying my time strolling through the neighborhood cemetery, amid the deceased founding fathers (It makes me feel alive.) listening to my true crime podcasts and waiting for my watch to give the 1-mile buzz and end my task. By the second week I was all in. I walked the track at school, braving sub-zero temperatures at lunchtime and if I couldn’t get my mile in during lunch I would hike up and down my driveway (The only advantage to a massive driveway.) as I waited for Nugget’s bus and on the weekends. Around the 18th  the thrill was gone but I pressed on. I’d come this far and I only had 12 more days to completion and damn it, I was a sub-zero soldier. I was going to see this challenge through.

Day 22: It was Arctic cold and I had no desire to do anything outside, least of all walk for a  stupid mile, but I had only 9 walks left once I finished this one. Even though I began as the most reluctant warrior on the roster, I was adding up the miles at a nice steady pace.  I donned my Sherpa pants and parka and headed out. Instantly, my tears froze and my mascara solidified. As I walked I hurdled patches of ice and remnants of the weekend snow but I pressed on. Until it happened. It was like a scene from Rambo when he gets hit, stumbles but doesn’t quite go down. I couldn’t breathe. I tried to push through like Rambo in a parka. I slowed my pace. I was going to finish the last .10 of a mile no matter what was happening inside my chest. The single digit temperature threw me into an asthma flare and mama needed some albuterol STAT. Crawling up the driveway, I hit the mile mark and rushed inside.

I spent the rest of the day sucking on my inhaler like I was tokin’ on a pipe. When that didn’t work I moved to the nebulizer. For the next two days I was a nice shade of blue as I struggled to get my lungs working again. I had more steroids coursing through me than the WWE in the ‘80s.

Day 23: It was over Johnny.  The squishy warrior had fallen. Only 8 miles left and no matter how much I wanted to, my lungs wouldn’t let me. And after a harsh lecture from my doctor, I accepted defeat. But at least the 22-plus miles I banged out would have helped me shed a few pounds, right? No. I gained three and spent $150 in asthma medicine and $200 in co-pays. Suck it warrior challenge. Next year when that perky blonde mentions the words Winter Warrior again, I will simply slink back to the corner with Godiva and accept my reality. Squishy for life.

 

If You Need Me, I’ll Be In My Iron Lung

CDC Iron Lung “You should’ve come in sooner.” This is what my doctor said as I wheezed into her stethoscope. “You really need to work on your self-care.” I tried to argue my case to the petite little flower I call my primary care physician, explaining that due to my possession of the same metabolism as those in the sloth family, I eat pretty healthy and do exercise. (For reals, it’s bad. One lapse and I could totally be the next contestant on My 600 Pound Life.) I thought I was doing pretty good at self-care.

“That’s not the kind of self-care I’m talking about.” She corrected. “If this was one of your kids with these symptoms you would’ve had them in here last week. Why did you wait so long for yourself?” Ah yes, petite little flower, you know me well.

I’ve never been great at putting my needs before those of my family but once the crap hit the fan with Nugget’s health last summer, I definitely lost any grip I might have on self-care. (Though I really think it should be called something else. Self-care sounds kind of dirty and it makes me think of weird things like Gwyneth Paltrow’s promotion of vagina steaming.) I blame my deeply-rooted lapsed Catholicism for my self-inflicted martyrdom. It’s one thing to believe your kids need you, but it’s another when you actually do serve as your kid’s primary language interpreter thus allowing him to communicate with the rest of the world in addition to being his advocate and protector. Between the whole deaf thing, the apraxia of speech and Nugget’s bum kidney, my mama bear genes have been in hyper-drive for about three years so it’s no surprise the crap had to hit the fan eventually.

I’m well aware of the adage; “You can’t take care of them if you don’t take care of you.” But let’s be honest, anyone who has been on the frontlines of a full familial bout of the stomach flu knows that is just crap. Moms don’t get to be sick and that’s that…until mom loses something important like a limb, heart function or the ability to breathe. That’s what happened to me this week and landed me in the ER for one of the very few times in my life.

I’ve had asthma for over 20 years and it’s usually pretty maintained but every few years I need to wheel out the old iron lung and take up residency for a bit. It’s been about four years since I’ve been hit hard so I was feeling cocky. A few weeks ago Wheezy started to rear her ugly head and just kept getting worse so after hitting the inhaler like a crack-pipe (Is that a thing still or is crack whack now and I’m showing my age?) for a week, I decided I might need to see the doctor. However, when I did, my doctor determined it wasn’t my asthma but instead it was my heart.

When your father drops dead of a heart issue at 37, every doctor you see for the rest of your life will panic at the first sign of chest pains. I’m aware of this but this time around the mere suggestion of my heart failing me sent me into a tailspin. I mean I was weak and fatigued, had massive chest pains on the left side, was short of breath and at my age, Web MD as well as my real MD said it could go either way – asthma or heart failure. It was enough to send this old girl reeling. What if I really was like my dad this time? Who would take care of my babies? Oh dear God don’t make me leave them with the Turk!

My doctor ran a couple tests and sent me for more and while I awaited results, I began mentally writing my will, lamenting the fact I have no quality possessions to bequeath and getting pissed that Brexit just tanked any investments I might have left my beloveds. (Stupid stock market wussies.) Being a planner, I determined I wanted Elvis Costello played at my funeral and decided I should go shopping as the Turk really couldn’t be trusted to pick out a stylish yet flattering ensemble for my internment. Just as I was about to start Googling a replacement wife for the Turk (I love that man but God knows he cannot handle things on his own.) things took a turn and this very stubborn woman determined it might be time for an ER run.

Fortunately, my potential demise coincided with the same time grandma got off work so I didn’t have to schlep my offspring with me to the ER but I did make the Turk go – just in case I died behind the wheel. I’d hate to be responsible for a 40 car pile-up on my way to meet St. Peter.

20 minutes and a flurry of activity later, I was getting a rush of IV roids and a breathing treatment that left me feeling like what I imagine a heroine junkie feels like after a fix. I had been so short of air for so many days; I forgot the simple euphoria of oxygen. Three hours later they determined it wasn’t my heart, “just asthma” – though as anyone with asthma will tell you, saying “just asthma” is moronic as it’s like saying, “oh, it wasn’t anything big, just an inability to perform a task essential to sustaining life.”

I was home for bedtime with an armload of drugs and strict instructions to take it easy. So I’ve spent the last two days lounging about (as much as one can with a Nugget and family of Turks to care for), sucking on a breathing machine like it’s a hash pipe and popping ‘roids while warning my family, “Keep Mommy calm or she’ll get roid-rage!” I’ve also promised my family I would attend to my health before the Grim Reaper stops off for a cocktail again. But in the meantime, if you see a good price for an Iron Lung on Amazon, let me know. It looks like I might be due for an upgrade.

FullSizeRender-23