Finished Being Fat: An Accidental Adventure in Losing Weight and Learning How to Finish (16 page)

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It would probably be unreasonable to expect that I will always be within one pound of my lowest number. In fact, I’m pretty sure all of those holidays like Valentine’s Day, Easter, Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas are all heavily promoted by the candy and weight loss companies. They’re are out to get me, I swear. It’s like supply and demand: supply me the candy, and then I’ll have to demand the weight loss. But I’ve got a plan for that too. I now weigh myself once every two weeks, because if at any time I reach 150, eight pounds more than I am now, then I’ll know that I need to reevaluate the budget. Why the arbitrary eight pounds? Supposedly ten to twelve pounds equal one dress size, and I am not about to go and buy bigger clothes. So I planned a fail-safe to make sure I don’t have to. At the eight-pound mark, I redo the math and start moving more and eating less all over again. It’s a whole lot easier to lose eight pounds than seventy-five.

But what if it’s a holiday five pounds? Then I’m not going to worry about it. Why not? Well, for one, because I’m happy with where I’m at now, and five pounds is not going to change that. For another, I know I have a sound plan to ensure my success, and for me that means no longer spending countless hours worrying over what could go wrong. I have a commitment to succeed, and if something should dare get in my way, then I will make a new plan and another and another until I get it right.

Let me tell you what happened to Pandora’s box. I opened it and found all the evils (the muumuu) but also found hope (my memories). So some clothes I donated, but others had a different destination. Currently on my to-do list, after completing this book, is to make a quilt. A fat quilt. Yep, with the squares made from pieces of my favorite fat clothes. My anniversary dress, the embroidered Pooh bear from my overalls, and more. They can keep me warm at night with their happy memories, without being a safety net. Because I know I don’t need one anymore, but I do need to keep warm because I get a lot colder in winter without the extra built-in insulation.

As for the blue muumuu and a few other choice pieces with some not so good memories attached—I burned them. Some things are too ugly even for a patchwork quilt. But seriously the experience was cathartic and once again cheaper than therapy. I was burning my safety line and effectively killing any last whispers from my little voice saying I thought I might get fat again. There were no prayers offered for the crematory of my things, but I think the weight-loss gods approved of my sacrificial offering. The fire burned with intensity and unnatural hues, so I was either getting a big thumbs-up, or it was a sign that polyester and rayon should not be burned. Either way, the blue, green, and orange flames were beautiful to watch.

I
had been taking yoga now for months so I could get my body more flexible. Too bad it did nothing for my flexibility when moving around life’s little obstacles. I was still rigid in my determination and in my goals. I had a vision of what my marathon would look like and nothing was going to alter that because I was in control of my life. Right? Well, even though I was the driver on the road of life, that didn’t mean there weren’t potholes and flat tires.

Three weeks before the marathon, things were looking up. Jarom and I finished our final long run of the training program, eighteen miles equaling three hours and forty minutes. It was my favorite run of all time. My legs felt great, I had the right amount of energy, and at the end I still felt like I could squeak out the other eight miles to complete the required twenty-six point two. I was ready, and I knew with an absolute certainty that I was going to finish a marathon. Jarom was still a little iffy and had not felt at ease with the distance, let alone doing eight more. I told him that I’d drag him across if I had to.

We both breathed a sigh of relief at completing the high mileage portion of the training. For the next three weeks instead of getting bigger, the runs would get smaller, allowing our legs to heal from any small strains and micro-tears. It’s called tapering. According to running experts, running eighteen miles is no different than running the whole twenty-six, at least as far as your endurance and body are concerned (yeah, try telling that to my legs after the extra hour and a half). The point was that you risked injury by stressing out your body with any more high-mileage runs before the race. I was cool with that; I could use a break.

I really should know better than to tempt fate. It’s like saying, “What else can go wrong?” or “I sure hope it doesn’t rain.” About a week after the long run, I ran the absolute fastest I have ever run in my life… to feed the parking meter. We were at a local university, registering Jarom for classes. I must be a good influence on my husband, because he decided to be a finisher too and go back to college and get his degree. The visitors parking is meter based, and our time had run out while we were waiting to meet his advisor; so it was my job to run to the car, toss a few quarters in, and get back before they called Jarom’s name. (He needed the moral support.)

You’d think I would be smarter than to run full speed without stretching, but no. I opened up my inner throttle and let loose, pleased to be running fast for once and not at Jarom speed. Pride will bite you in the butt every time. We were in a hurry because after the meeting we were all headed out to Yellowstone on a camping trip to celebrate Jarom’s birthday. I wasn’t thinking. Running fast would be do-over number one.

There was no sharp pain or any indication of injury while I was running. I had no clue anything was wrong until about two hours into the drive to the national park. That would be re-do number two, to not stay in an uncomfortable seated position, inflaming the injury more. When we stopped at a rest area, I knew something was off. I hopped out of the car and my eyes flew open from the sudden influx of pain. My left leg collapsed underneath me. I could not physically make it to the restroom without Jarom’s help. At this point I had no clue what was wrong. I was putting my money on my leg being asleep or some blood circulation thing. Since I hadn’t felt any trauma at the time, it didn’t occur to me that I had injured it sprinting.

After the potty break, I walked around for a minute, and that seemed to work out most of the pain. Now it was just sore and uncomfortable but manageable. I chalked it up to sore muscles frozen up from the drive. When we got the RV parked, I would be sure to stretch out. That night, I iced my leg with the frozen corn we’d brought. The next morning was my long run, but it was only nine miles. (How crazy that I was thinking only nine miles?) Jarom had decided that his version of tapering meant no running at all for three weeks, so I was going to be on my own. If my leg was still sore in the morning, then I would swap runs with the short in two days and do four miles instead, just to be safe.

Four miles was still a wee bit optimistic. After exiting the RV, I made it down the trail maybe one hundred yards before my eyes were tearing up in pain. Perhaps if I walked a slow lap around the campground, my leg muscles would warm up and I could try a slow jog. Step and wince, step and wince. I would not give up, so I tried running again. Exactly eight steps later I had to stop or drop. This couldn’t be happening to me. For the first time since beginning of my adventure, I quit a run early. I hobbled back to the RV in tears from the wrenching pain in both my hamstring and my heart.

I had slipped out that morning without waking Jarom or the kids, but when I tripped over the stairs attempting to get into the RV, the thud woke everybody. Why is it that the low points in my life all have the figurative thud and the literal crash? Just an observation. Anyway, this time I was not naked when he gathered me up off the floor, but my soul was laid bare. Even though I was afraid to give voice to me fears, something was seriously wrong with my leg. The girls woke up and cried with me. They had no idea what was going on; they just knew Mommy had an owie and was crying. I calmed myself down so the girls would calm down too and so our next campsite neighbors wouldn’t wake up from my children’s siren-like wails.

Jarom made pancakes, and we all sat down, ate, and discussed what the heck was going on. I finally put my finger on the culprit, a pulled hamstring, most likely from the parking meter sprint. Next, I quizzed my nearest source of information, Jarom. Surely he had read some book on the subject, so maybe he could play doctor and diagnose and fix it. He had, of course, read a sports injury book and examined my leg and asked a hundred questions. Is there bruising? Does it burn? Is there a stabbing pain or more of a rending pain? In the end he gave his non-expert opinion, which was later confirmed by the sports people. I most likely had a second-degree strain of the hamstring.

Well, super. How long would that take to fix? The answer was four to eight weeks, depending on the severity. I didn’t have four weeks! The marathon was in sixteen days. For probably the first time ever, I hoped that Jarom was stupid and had no idea what he was talking about. I was mourning the loss of my dream, and the first stage is denial. Maybe if I pretended that it wasn’t really hurt, the pain would go away. Yeah right, because that had worked
sooo
well that morning.

Then I was mad at Jarom. If I hadn’t had to hold his hand at school, I never would have run to the car and my leg would be just fine. Then I was mad at myself for running to the stupid car in the first place. It wasn’t fair! I had put in six solid months of training and one five-minute mistake could ruin it all.

While we were driving around working our way to Old Faithful, I entered the third phase, I started to pray. The Lord and I had been on better terms recently since I had been changing my life. I’d even been a Sunday church regular lately. I figured that God owed me one (dangerous thought to have, never ends well). I prayed and prayed for God to please heal my leg. I had read many other accounts of miracles and people being healed by the laying of hands. This was just a silly old tear in the hamstring, and surely the Lord could manage fixing that. I broached the subject with Jarom, but since he was a man of science, he didn’t put too much stock in faith.

“You’re more than welcome to try, but I wouldn’t pin my hopes on it. The only thing you can do is stay off it and see where you are in two weeks.”

I closed my eyes and prayed more. I got the distinct impression that the answer was no. My eyes started leaking around the edges again.

“Do you think I’ll be able to run?” I asked quietly.

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“What do you think, though?”

Jarom considered for a moment. Probably trying to figure out whether to tell the truth or try to give me hope. He opted for the truth. “No, if it’s what we think it is, then I don’t think you’ll be better in two weeks. I think you’ll have to try again next year.”

Slow trickles turned to steady streams. I tried to stay quiet, since the kids in the backseat were both engrossed in the movie playing. But I was crushed. Just the week before, I had been ready to run the whole marathon; but if the race had been today I would have been carted off the course before the first quarter mile. What was the point in being a finisher when life threw roadblocks in your way? I wanted to finish, but life didn’t seem to want to let me. Everything I had worked hard for that year centered on completing the race. Without it, I would be nothing. The whole year wasted. Try again next year? Not likely. Not when I could make it so close and be thrown a curveball at the last minute.

I allowed myself the rest of the day to wallow in the depression stage. That night I lay in bed and prayed with earnest and openness, ready to hear what the Lord’s reply would be. I had to be on my back since I currently couldn’t bend at the knee without flexing the hamstring and crying out in pain. Last time I had basically commanded God to fix me; this time I laid bare my soul and asked for help.

“Please, Lord, this is very important to me. Is there anything I can do? Should I go to a doctor? If I have enough faith will I be healed? Tell me what to do.”

I waited for an answer or a sign, or perhaps for a little relief of pain. None came, and that was probably an answer in itself. After the perfect eighteen-miler last week, I had envisioned my marathon going the same way. I needed to let that dream go, because there was no way that was going to happen now. I would even settle for walking the marathon, but if today was any indication that too seemed iffy at best. I had the feeling I was not receiving an answer because I was asking for the wrong thing.

“If my leg can’t be healed, then please heal my heart, Father, because it is broken. Soothe my soul and help me to deal with my disappointment. Please help me to feel that my best is enough and accept whatever I can do.

Before I got to the “Amen,” a warmth spread through my body. I had finally asked for the right blessing. I had the firm impression that no matter what happened, I was going to be okay, and he would make it okay. He wasn’t going to fix me so I could run my dream marathon, but he would help me feel okay if I couldn’t. Calm for the first time since the injury, sleep quickly overtook me.

***

When we got home, my leg had improved some, but stairs still took four times as long and I needed a handful of ibuprofen afterward. I took Jarom’s approach to tapering and laid off the running altogether, skipping the final two weeks’ worth of runs. Even though the odds were not in my favor, I wanted to give myself the best chance at success. I sought the opinion of sports trainers at the gym, a physical therapist, and a massage therapist. They all said the same thing: one, it was a moderate hamstring strain and, two, there was a good chance that if I ran the marathon, I would injure it further and put myself out of commission for months.

I didn’t particularly like what I was hearing, so I opted to ignore. If I hurt myself further so what? This was not a training run, this was the real thing. I didn’t need to be able to run after next Saturday, so if I was laid up for a few months and unable to exercise, I could deal. A decision needed to be made and only I could make it.