The lost days

I developed chest pain two Saturdays ago while lying in bed (we had slept in instead of going on our usual run). I gripped my chest all the way to Fort Green for a doughnut at the Brooklyn Flea. Surely it's just a pulled muscle, I thought. l had to ask Shawn - repeatedly - to slow down on our walk to Brooklyn Heights Saturday afternoon. And then on Sunday morning, as we started out on our run, even a light jog caused an excruciating vise-like sensation in my chest. The possibility that this was a muscle pull grew dimmer with each footfall. After only a few blocks, I dejectedly threw in the towel. I was pissed that this mysterious chest pain was cutting into my running - so pissed that after some anxiety-inducing Googling, I decided to spend a beautiful afternoon in the emergency department to get to the bottom of it.  Shawn thought I was being a bit of an alarmist.

I'm glad I sought out good care instead of heading to the closest hospital. An x-ray and an ultrasound showed that I had primary spontaneous pneumothorax (a partially-collapsed lung), and before I knew it, I was being sedated in order for two cardiothoracic surgery fellows to insert nine inches of tubing into my chest cavity (via a space between my ribs). For three days, I stayed at the hospital as fluids (mainly blood) were suctioned out of me into a little box that went everywhere I did (and because that tube was so painful, everywhere consisted solely of my gurney and the bathroom 10 feet away from it). As for the cause, it could have been a fluke, or pulmonary endometriosis, which I met all of the criteria for.

I had a collapsed lung and all I got was this lousy pillow

Between Sunday and Wednesday afternoons, I was often distracted from the pain and boredom by sweet emails, texts, calls, gifts, and visits. Shawn was a fixture at my bedside, winning the nurses over after an initial Terms of Endearment-style tantrum about my staggeringly high blood pressure (it was 180/110 at first) and lack of pain meds. He brought me my favorite foods because the hospital meals were unsurprisingly awful, and tried to steer guests away from questions about my health and toward gossipy, lighter conversations. At the time, I was thankful it was in me that hospital bed and not him, but then it dawned on me that my husband actually had it worse than I did. He was so terrified for my health, and hated those times when I was in agony, that the whole experience took more of a toll on him than on me. I hope none of my loved ones ever have to spend time in the hospital - it's awful for everyone involved.

This contraption helps me build up lung capacity

The moral of the story? If you think something is wrong, don't ignore that little voice in your head.

Ice Cream Social

After a year and a half of living in our Park Slope apartment, I decided it was high time to entertain. The house was coming along (I'll share some photos soon!) and I had several separate groups of girlfriends I wanted to bring together. An artisanal ice cream-tasting was admittedly precious, but I wanted to give guests a task to focus on in the event of conversational lulls (which ended up being few and far between).

I set out pints (nine in all) and many, many little spoons for sampling. There were also scoops and bowls for those who decided to commit to a flavor. The long ice-filled tray of ice cream on my big farm table was quite a sight to behold; regrettably, because I was scrambling to get ready, I didn't have time to take many pictures.

It's not a party without prosecco

With Usha and Shawn's help, I converted one wall of my husband's office into a photobooth of crepe-paper streamers, since much of his photography gear, including a giant lightbox, was set up there already. Guests naturally gravitated toward the ice cream one room over, so pictures were once again an afterthought.

Rachel and me

I ordered the crepe paper from PaperMart.com and spent an evening cutting it up while glued to the news (at the time, authorities were closing in on the Boston marathon bombing suspect). The metal tray was purchased from Jamali, a treasure trove of vases and other garden-supply accessories that I pass when I take the long way in to work. I'm currently trying to figure how to utilize it for my next party (too bad we can't stand seafood; it would work wonderfully as a raw bar). Cash and Carry Paper, an amazing store in Indianapolis, came through for me on the tasting spoons when so many other retailers failed. I had taken an impromtu trip there two days before the party (not for spoons of course, because that would be certifiable). Sadly they don't ship.

P.S. Daina has more pictures of the party on her blog.

Day Trip to Napa

About a week before we left for San Francisco, I confessed to Shawn that I had done something a bit impulsive related to our trip.  "Tell me you didn't register for a race there, did you?" he asked wearily.  See, in 2012, Shawn chauffeured me to three different marathons, logging over 3,000 miles behind the wheel. For one of those races, we were supposed to fly, but Hurricane Sandy changed our transportation plans. With those unused plane tickets, I promised Shawn we'd go to a destination of his choice - and there would be no running involved.  He chose San Francisco.  We timed it to coincide with our eighth wedding anniversary.

Fortunately, he needn't have been exasperated - I had booked us a rental car to drive to Napa for the day.  It wasn't initially on our trip agenda, but it ended up being the perfect way to spend the last day of our vacation, which happened to be our actual anniversary.

A Day and a Half in San Francisco

I had an incredible tour guide on my first trip to San Francisco, so for Shawn's inaugural visit, he and I essentially retraced the steps Lauren took me on. From our hotel, we walked up Fillmore to the Marina District, where we had lunch at Tacolicious (we were on East Coast time, and we were famished). We walked back and forth on Chesnut Street then headed to the water, where we strolled along the Embarcadero to Crissy Field. We gazed at the Golden Gate Bridge from the beach for a while, then headed over to the Palace of Fine Arts, which Shawn found as impressive as I originally did. (It didn't help that the weather was absolutely perfect.) From there, we talked up Lyon Street. "This street is rather....unremarkable. Does it get better?" Shawn asked. A minute later, he saw the famed steps looming in the distance. He was incredulous: "Are we going to climb those?" We were sweating by the time we reached the top. A stroll through Pacific Heights took us back to our hotel. That night, we had dinner at State Bird Provisions (a tough reservations to come by back in January, but luckily I'm both a planner and an early-riser). It was deemed the best new restaurant of 2012 by Bon Appetit, but no one who worked there let that go to their heads. Everyone was so nice. (Our server, who could have passed for Chris Parnell: "You've never been here before? You're going to love it. This place is off the chain!")

On Sunday morning, we rode the bus to the Mission and hopped on line at Tartine. The forty-five minutes flew by because of the sweet girl in front of us who struck up a conversation. A gentleman in front of her and the couple in front of him joined in too. Again, we marveled at how friendly San Franciscans were. Figuring we might as well make our time in line count, we ordered a morning bun, a frangipane croissant, and a double pain au chocolate by the time we finally got to the pastry case. After breakfast, we traversed the blocks of the Mission (Shawn stumbled upon lots of street art, minutes after remarking that San Francisco lacked it), until a downpour (apparently uncharacteristic for San Francisco) forced us into Farina for several drinks. We had hoped to watch the Sexy Jesus contest in Mission Dolores Park, but alas, it had been cancelled. That night, after climbing the hills to Union Street to window shop, we met up with Lauren and Taylor for a meal at flour + water. As they drove us back to our hotel the long way, I realized how much more of San Francisco there was to explore. It would have to wait for our next visit, because we had planned to spend our last day in Napa.

San Francisco: Where We Stayed

Shawn and I spent last weekend in San Francisco, and since a highlight of the trip was the very first place we landed (not including the airport), I thought I'd start there.

When I visited my friend Lauren in San Francisco a year and a half ago, we spent some time on a pretty stretch of Fillmore filled with boutiques and restaurants. It's the area I zeroed in on right away when searching for a hotel for us. Most of the lodging in the city seems to be concentrated in the Financial District, Union Square, and Fisherman's Wharf - three areas we didn't even plan to visit, let alone stay in.

I used Yelp to find hotels near a block on Fillmore I remembered liking, which led me to Artists Inn. Usually I'm willing to pay a little bit more for character, but this time it wasn't necessary - the rates were very reasonable. When we arrived, we were welcomed by the owner, Denise, who walked us through her home, out the back door, and through a lovely courtyard to show us to the Studio room. (There was a back entrance so that we didn't always have to come in and out of her house.)

I wish we could live in that studio (it would actually be possible - there's a kitchen and a full bath). It had high beamed ceilings, was filled with light, and there was art everywhere.





My husband couldn't help but look through all the art. He remarked "this guy is obsessed with a redhead" (we knew the artist was a man because there was a stack of his business cards on the counter). When Shawn said, "I wonder what his story is," I googled the artist to find out he was the late husband of the woman who had shown us to our room. (The obituary even included her nickname - "redhead.") I had a nice little cry from that realization.


This hotel made a wonderful trip really spectacular. We liked it so much that we ended up cancelling our restaurant reservation and celebrating our anniversary there on our last night with takeout pizza and a bottle of wine purchased in Napa earlier that day.

An Update

Here's what I've been up to...

Following the Rehoboth marathon, I took a two-week hiatus from running. Shortly after resuming my favorite pastime, my right knee decided it had other plans for me. I had to cease running for two months. There's a particular kind of grief associated with running injuries; I would add anxiety (already in no short supply!) to denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. Fortunately, unlike last time, I've cycled through the stages quickly - quite literally, in fact.

I have joined the ranks of those who are addicted to SoulCycle. My love for SoulCycle is not unapologetic; I'm often justifying it to myself and sometimes even to others. It's outrageously expensive. SoulCycle so very carefully calibrates their brand and cultivates an aura of exclusivity, practices that usually make me bristle.  Plus, I've never been a fan of the pack mentality - there's a reason I didn't join a sorority in college.  But I'll be damned if those 45 minutes aren't the highlight of my day.  Still, at $34 a pop, I still really hem and haw over the cost.  I don't belong to a gym, don't have daily a Starbucks habit, and I brown-bag my lunch on weekdays. SoulCycle dates with my husband (who went from reluctant to fanatical after one class) have supplanted our dinners out. For now, this line of reasoning justifies two rides a week (I am fiercely loyal to Stevie and Ben T).

Recently I started physical therapy to strengthen and stabilize my knee, and I'm beginning to build my mileage back up.  Shawn has been running with me again, so even though we're only logging five miles three times a week, at least we're doing them quickly - he really pushes the pace. I may curse him at the time (in between gasping for breath), but I'm thankful for his company, and for making me a stronger runner.  We've been ending our weekend runs at one of our favorite restaurants, where you can buy pastries and coffee from their to-go counter and eat it in the posh adjoining hotel lobby. (True story: Rachel and I once saw Bradley Cooper AND Leonardo DiCaprio there while nibbling on muffins.) 

Lest you think I eat nothing but baked goods, let me disabuse you of that notion.  Since the New Year, I've been carefully monitoring my caloric intake (I love the My Fitness Pal app).  1350 calories don't go very far, so the old days of wining and dining are no longer. With the extra time on my hands I've taken on some apartment-beautification projects (and well, yes, we've been streaming plenty of television series, too). 

I've sewn pillow covers and shades for the living room with the Singer I got for Christmas. I painstakingly gold-leafed desk legs only to unbox the desktop to find a huge crack in it. Thanks, Ikea! And I finally painted my dressing room.  What color did I paint it, you ask?  I went wild and chose...white. Bright white. (It was a dingy off-white before).

This past winter I found myself more anxious than usual. Much of the time I was on edge, sure that I was about to witness some sort of calamitous event. The city that I loved so much started to look like an obstacle course of potential tragedies. I took a break from news (including twitter), which helped (though it had the understandable effect of leaving me pretty ignorant). Besides my ever-supportive husband, a contingent of girlfriends also really stepped up to keep me from completely retreating within myself.  Rachel is my Soulcycle partner in crime; instead of getting together over wine and sushi, we spin and then indulge in softserve, our first shared obsession. Usha, Vanessa, Amanda, and I have a formed a supper club of sorts; dinner dates with them are always a treat. I also recently met up with Laurel, who I'm not entirely convinced isn't my sister from another mister, for a manicure at Valley Nails (below).  I see lots more nail art in our future. And even though they're farther afield, I can always count on Lauren and my dearest, oldest friend Emily.      

Spring holds so much promise; I'm looking forward to it.

Marathon #5

I finished the Indianapolis marathon hungry to run another, so I signed up for my spring race right away. It soon became clear that I couldn't wait til March to scratch the itch. A crazy plan began germinating: why not run another marathon asap? My best friend Emily raved about Rehoboth last year, and it met all of my requirements: flat, (ostensibly) cold, not crowded, and near enough that my poor husband wouldn't feel the need to accompany me. I impulsively signed up.

That night I blurted "IregisteredforaDecembermarathonbutdon'tworryyoudonthavetocome," hoping Shawn wouldn't be too exasperated. Even though I was giving him an out, he worries about me overtraining and injuring myself. I also felt guilty that we would be "losing" a weekend to running yet again. As soon as he got wind of the beer-soaked afterparty, he decided he didn't want the reprieve. In fact, he once again embraced his role as ground support with gusto (so much that my fellow runners "awwed" when he handed off my supplies to me).

Leading up to the Indianapolis marathon, I was a woman possessed. I studied the course map obsessively. I watched a time-lapse video of the course every day. I kept my social calendar clear the week before, lest any of my friends pass on a cold to me. The marathon consumed every waking moment and many of my sleeping ones, too (in the form of dreams). This time around, the most thought I gave to Saturday's race involved the weather forecast. Each time I checked it, the projected temperature had gone up. Then possibility of rain rose steadily too. Because my ideal running temperature is a crisp 30 degrees, I was positively panicking.

My lack of mental preparation (other than hand-wringing over the weather) meant that crossing the (unadorned) start line on Saturday was when it hit me: I had 26.2 miles ahead of me. It was an uncomfortable revelation. For the first 9 miles or so, I ran alongside Emily, who is much faster than I am. My (admittedly rather vague) pacing plan was already out the window and I worried my quick early miles would come back to haunt me. At the turnaround point for the half marathon, I contemplated taking it. I feared when I saw Shawn at mile 11, I'd throw in the towel - not because I was hurting (yet), but because the road ahead of me seemed endless. I simply couldn't fathom it. I did the only acceptable thing: shut my mind off, turn my shuffle on, and put one foot in front of the other.

These guys finished fourth, fifth, and sixth, respectively.
Knowing I would see Shawn again at mile 20 helped. The course was also quite pleasant: every few miles, the scenery changed drastically. There were wooded trails, neighborhoods, and a path through the dunes of Cape Henlopen State Park. It was an out and back course, but it wasn't soul-crushing the way the Toronto Goodlife Fitness marathon was. In fact, because I like familiarity, it was nice to double back over the same terrain I had already covered. As I had predicted, the time I borrowed at a very high interest rate for the first nine miles with Emily came due with 6.2 miles to go. Those last miles were a test: like the Austin and Toronto marathons, the only thing that kept me running was knowing the faster I went, the sooner I'd be done.

My fourth marathon was the most fun I've ever had while running, but in signing up for my fifth, I was chasing more than just that runner's high. I hadn't left it all out there in Indianapolis. It never felt hard. Only a few months ago I ran a 4:06. I wanted to see if I was really a 4:12 marathoner or if I had a faster race in me.

Gun time/chip time discrepancy of about a minute.

I can now safely say that yes, I am indeed a 4:12 marathoner, at least this season. Although it was a very different experience (certainly not as painless or euphoric), I replicated the end result from five weeks earlier: I crossed the finish line 4 hours, 12 minutes, and 29 seconds after I started, a whooping 23 seconds faster than I did in Indianapolis.

Double-fisting it. (Kidding! Those are Shawn's. No alcohol for me!)

A PR will have to wait. Another reason I ran this race is because I knew I needed to take a break from marathoning. Rehoboth was my swan song: I've vowed "no more marathons" for a year (though my conviction wavers with each passing day). This temporary, self-imposed restriction on distance isn't because I've lost my desire to run long, it's because I know myself well enough to realize I need to reduce my mileage for my health's sake. The more I run, the more unbalanced my body becomes.

With my running inspiration/childhood best friend Emily
I'll be back to Delaware in a year for my triumphant return to marathoning. I just pray it'll be colder next time.