Archives for December 2012

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A Letter To My 2013 Self

Dear Me,

This letter comes to you from exactly one year ago. Today is December 29, 2012, and I wonder what you are up to, there on December 29, 2013. Perhaps you’re sitting in this same hotel room I’m in now, reflecting on the year just past and the year that is to come.

What have you accomplished in the last year? You set some pretty lofty goals for 2013. Which of those goals have you accomplished? Which ones did you modify as the year went on, and which ones did you just decide to ditch altogether?

You had a phenomenal running season in 2012, and you were hoping to surpass that in 2013. Did you? Did you beat 2:15 in a half-marathon, and have you broken that elusive one-hour mark in the 10K?

How is the long-term plan to run a marathon in 2015 going? Are you registered for the 2014 Around The Bay 30K? If you’re not, you should get on that soon.

How is work? I hope you have managed to hold onto your job in a time of great uncertainty and many layoffs. Are you making a reasonable supplementary income from your freelance writing?

Here’s a question I feel very weird asking: how is school? I would venture to say that no-one was more surprised than me when you decided to pursue post-graduate studies. By now, you should have completed two courses and you should be preparing for your final exam in a third course. I feel very excited to be embarking on this. A year in, I hope some of that excitement still remains.

And now for a tough question. Have you managed to get a handle on your eating difficulties, or do you still have this intensely uncomfortable relationship with food? You have spent virtually all of your adult life vacillating between eating disorders – it’s about time you sorted this out once and for all. Maybe something in the last year has helped you.

What’s up with the kids? For you, one year in the future from now, George is 10 and James is 8. Did you try the Talkability exercises to get George conversing more? Have you been reading every day with James to help him with his spelling? Did you get them both into swimming lessons like you’ve been wanting to?

And what are your goals for 2014? No matter how good or bad 2013 was to you, I hope you never lose the ability to have hopes and dreams for the future.

Regards,|
Your Younger Self

(Photo credit: Somegeekintn. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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2012: My Year In A Nutshell

2012 was an eventful year for me. It featured some highlights, and some definite lowlights.

January… I receive a new training plan from my friend Phaedra, who I have enlisted as my coach for the coming year. My training does not start well, though: on the day I am supposed to do my first run in the schedule, I come down with the mother of all stomach bugs.

February… I receive a devastating phone call: my beloved aunt Ann has died in a freak accident. I fly to South Africa to lend support to my mom and say my farewells to Ann. It is intensely emotional. I cannot believe that someone who has been such a big part of my life since I was born is no more.

March… I am back from South Africa, and my training can finally get underway properly. I feel like I am back on track, and ready for my first race of the season.

April… I run two races and make personal best times in both of them. On the same day as the Toronto Yonge Street 10K, another person dear to my heart passes away. Margaret, who was a phenomenal actress – a far better Shirley Valentine than the original Shirley Valentine –  has succumbed to cancer.

May… I survive a major organizational restructuring at work. I am shuffled to a new manager, but in an environment where people I know well and work closely with are being let go, I manage to keep my job.

June… I am admitted to the Professional Writers Association of Canada (PWAC). This is a big, big deal for me. I want to get into the freelance writing business, and this affiliation will help me enormously.

July… The kids are done with school. James has finished Grade 1 and George has completed Grade 3. We find a rare gem: a reliable and dedicated respite worker. The boys take to her quickly. They respond well to her kindness and natural intuition with kids.

August… I run the Midsummer Nights Run 15K on a course that has been my personal nemesis. Instead of crashing and burning like I have in every other race along the Leslie Street spit, I find that thing known to runners as The Zone. I run a great race and beat my previous best time by 14 minutes.

September… The kids go back to school, and although I worry about the transition for both of them, they adjust well to being back. At work, I manage my first implementation since being assigned as Implementation Lead for my project. There are some glitches but it goes well. It counts as a big virtual checkmark against my career. George turns nine. Where has the time gone?

October… This is an eventful month. I run my fourth annual autism run, raising a personal record amount for the Geneva Centre for Autism and running a personal best half-marathon time. The following weekend, I attend my first Blissdom conference and make many, many new writer friends. And the week after that, I attend the Geneva Centre for Autism symposium, and learn a ton of new things.

November… I meet with both of the boys’ teachers. George is progressing as well as he can at school, considering that he is a child with autism adjusting to a completely new school environment. James is struggling with his reading, and a plan is put in place to help him.

December… I celebrate completing my 43rd orbit around the sun on the same day we throw a birthday party for James. I run my final race of the season – the Tannenbaum 10K – and have a great deal of fun. I get all teary-eyed as I watch live-streaming of my friend Margie’s graduation that she worked so hard to accomplish. The world fails to end. James turns seven. Where has the time gone?

Some big things are in store for 2013. I have some lofty goals and I am quite excited to get started on them. I was going to make them a part of this post, but decided that 2013 deserves a post all of its own.

Watch this space to see what’s afoot for the New Year…

(Photo credit: Carlos Van Vegas. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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Rebuilding

Today’s post is in honour of a very special person on a very special day.

I have known Margie for about a decade now, and in that time both of our lives have undergone some dramatic changes. We have leaned on each other through difficult times, celebrated accomplishments and engagements, and we’ve both resorted to “tough love” when the other one has been caught using negative self-talk.

Margie and I have never met in person, but we have spoken on the phone, we have exchanged many texts and literally hundreds of emails, and I once watched Snakes On A Plane vicariously through Margie (we instant-messaged through the entire movie while she watched, so I followed the plot without having to actually see the film).

When Margie’s life imploded a few years ago, I was there for her as best as I could be.

And when she started to rebuild her life – showing the most incredible strength, courage and determination – I was her enthusiastic and very willing cheerleader.

Today, Margie is going to the University of Arkansas at Little Rock to receive her Bachelor’s degree. She has worked incredibly hard to achieve this, and she has done it while parenting her two boys, holding down a full-time job, and building a solid relationship with her husband-to-be. Not to mention that she done all of this while building herself up from the inside.

I am truly honoured to be able to count myself among Margie’s friends, and I am so grateful that she has allowed me to be along for the ride from then to now.

Congratulations, Margie. May this amazing accomplishment open many doors for you.

(Photo credit: CarbonNYC. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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How A Different Mindset May Save Lives

Everyone, it seems, has an opinion on what is or is not to blame for the Sandy Hook shooting.

I have seen arguments and statistics on both sides of the gun control debate. While I am not personally a fan of every man and his dog having a gun, I have to remind those pushing for gun control that this year we had two shooting sprees within a month of each other. In Toronto. Where there is gun control. On the other hand, countries with gun control do have fewer mass shootings than countries without it.

Then there’s the religion argument. Apparently, “keeping God in the schools” would solve the problem. I don’t mean to sound cynical – not much, anyway – but do proponents of this view really believe that saying the Lord’s Prayer before class every day would have stopped the perpetrator from doing this? Let’s also consider the fact that shootings of this nature rarely happen in secular countries where there is strong separation of church and state.

The shooter “may have” had autism and OCD. Really? Well, the shooter “may have” had hayfever. Does this mean we have to start perpetuating discrimination against people who have hayfever? Yes, the whole idea of autism being to blame is that ridiculous.

We need better access to mental health care. With that one, I think we’re getting closer to the root – or at least one possible root – of the problem. There are some people who are just inherently evil, and nothing we do short of incarcerating them or killing them will stop them from committing unspeakable acts. But there are people who are genuinely sick, who do not get the help they need, and who end up doing things like this. I am in no position to say whether the Sandy Hook shooter fell into this category – I am just making the point that mental illness, when left unchecked, can have terrible, tragic consequences.

Mental illness is like just about every other illness or condition on the face of the planet. The earlier it is detected and treated, the better. We could talk all day about how mental health facilities need to be more easily available to those who need them. Few would argue the validity of helping people who need to be helped.

But the challenge begins before the mentally ill person even gets to the point of discovering that the help they need may be hard to come by.

We live in a society that, say what you like, is not very accepting of mental illness. I mean that in a very literal sense: there is a deep-seated reluctance in many people to acknowledge that there is such a thing as mental illness. I have a list of mental health issues, including no less than four different kinds of depression. When I have tried to enlist the support of those around me like the websites say you should, I have been hit with stuff like this:

* “You’re depressed because you’re dwelling on the past.”

* “All you need to do is change your attitude.”

* “You need to have more consideration for your family.”

* “You need to choose to be happy.”

And my personal favourite:

* “You need to snap out of it.”

When people with mental illnesses are bombarded with messages like this, what are the chances of them actually being motivated to seek professional help? If someone has depression, anxiety, PTSD or any other mental illness, the last thing they need is for a doctor to tell them they are imagining it, or that they are somehow to blame. Many people in that position do not seek help because that is exactly the response they fear.

The truth is that mental illness is very real, and very frightening to those who experience it. It is not something that can be fixed through a simple change of attitude. You cannot just “snap out of it”. People who commit suicide are not, as many believe, “just thinking of themselves”. They have simply reached a point where they cannot see a way forward.

Just over a decade ago, when I was a new arrival in Canada, Toronto news was full of a terrible story about a woman who had leaped into the path of an oncoming subway train while holding her six-month-old baby. The baby died instantly, but the mother hung on in hospital for a while before succumbing to her injuries. The public was outraged. How could this woman have deprived her child of life? What kind of monster was she?

The story unfolded to reveal a woman who was so desperate that she didn’t know what to do. Following the birth of her child, she was caught in the grip of post-partum depression. She did not receive the help that she needed in spite of having told her nearest and dearest that she was depressed and frightened. They just didn’t understand the depths of the problem, and in all likelihood, she was too ashamed to go to a professional.

Do I condone what that mother did? No, of course not. I never think it is OK for someone to kill their child or anyone else. But having gone through post-partum depression (which, by the way, was untreated for over a year because I felt too ashamed to seek help), I can appreciate just how scared and depressed and absolutely hopeless she probably felt.

People with mental illnesses need to be encouraged to seek help for their conditions. In order to accomplish that, we need to change the way we think about mental illness. People who have mental health problems need to stop being told that it is “all in their head” or that they have the power to change things under their own steam. They need to be given the message that help is available to them and that there is no shame in seeking it out.

Reducing the stigma surrounding mental illness would not fix everything that is wrong with the world. It would not eliminate all tragedies. But there is a very good chance that it would save some lives.

(Photo credit: Steven de Polo. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

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A Letter To My Sons

 

My boys, my heart, my life

To my dearest boys,

I was going to start this letter by telling you about the things that happened today, but it will be easy enough for you to find out if you are so inclined. Just Google today’s date – December 14, 2012 – and “Connecticut”. I am afraid that if I try to describe the events for you here, I will drown under the weight of my own sadness, and I won’t be able to tell you the stuff that you really need to know.

When you were newborn babies, I held you in my arms and promised you that I would give you the best life I possibly could. I would provide for you, support you in whatever you wanted to do and help you reach your full potential, whatever that might be. I would keep you safe and warm, and I would do everything I could to protect you from the uglier side of life.

But sometimes the uglier side of life kind of forces itself on us. People do things that are so unspeakably terrible that the effects penetrate to the deepest parts of our souls. It reminds us that sometimes we cannot protect the ones we love – sometimes we just have to do the best we can and then go on faith.

Today I feel like the luckiest mom in the world. When I got home from work today, you both came running at me, and I wrapped my arms around you and held you as close as I could. You hugged me back, kissed me on my cheek and told me you loved me. Right now, there are some parents who will never feel the warmth of their children’s hugs again.

We all spent some time romping around on my bed, telling jokes and wrestling with each other. I scolded you when you started jumping on the bed, all the while feeling immensely grateful that you are here for me to scold.

We went out to dinner, the four of us. We went to our usual restaurant, sat in our usual booth and ate the food we usually eat. We were all together – an intact, whole family. I thought of the families who have new gaps at their dinner tables and in their hearts.

As I sit here now, I am thinking about how tomorrow, I will finally get around to putting up the Christmas tree. I will be doing it with you boys, but instead of bossing you around about how to decorate the tree like I usually do, I am going to let you do it however you want.

You see, I get to decorate the Christmas tree with you. I will get to give you the Christmas presents I have bought you, unlike some families who have gifts hidden in their closets that will never be opened.

Right now as I write this, you are both in bed. You are supposed to be asleep, but one of you is trying to play with Lego quietly, and the other has a colouring book and crayons under the blankets with a flashlight. In a little while, I will go into each of your rooms and tell you to go to sleep.

While I am there, I will hug you tightly and tell you I love you.

With all my love, with all my heart, with everything I have.

Mommy

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A Story About Wine

Dad

Yesterday, December 6th, was the 8th anniversary of my father’s death, and as always on these anniversaries, I had a glass of wine in his honour. Now, me drinking wine in the evening after the kids are in bed is nothing unusual, but when I’m toasting Dad, I go to a bit of extra effort. Instead of opening any old plonk that happens to be handy, I take the time to find a bottle of nice wine, the kind of wine Dad would enjoy.

In life, Dad had a true appreciation for fine wine, and he had an impressive collection. Where I’m the kind of person who will buy a bottle of wine and promptly drink it, Dad actually collected it. Every bottle he got was meticulously marked with the date of acquisition, and if it was a gift, it would also be marked with the occasion and the name of the person who had given it to him. The wine would then be put into one of the wine cabinets and left to age as appropriate.

Dad belonged to the Wine Of The Month club, and the bottles he received from them were treated to the same attention to detail. His last shipment arrived about three weeks before he died, and as sick and fragile as he was, he waved away offers of help and lovingly made his annotations on each bottle.

A love of wine is just one of the things I shared with Dad. We spent many evenings sitting out on his patio, enjoying the last of the day’s warm South African sun, sipping wine as we discussed the other interests we had in common, like running or books. Even after I moved to Canada, we chatted to each other about what wine we were drinking. It always felt as though I was still drinking wine with him, even though he was on the other side of the world.

And so, the first time I opened a bottle of wine after he died, it felt a little odd. It didn’t feel right, somehow. Dad clearly didn’t think it was right either, because judging from how that particular wine-opening went, he was there and he was trying everything in his power to prevent that wine from being opened.

The scene unfolded two days after Dad’s funeral. My mom, my brother and I were having lunch at my aunt Ann’s house, along with some of my cousins. Lunch at Ann’s house was always a feast. She was – may she rest in peace along with Dad – a master in the kitchen. Her fine food had to be accompanied by fine wine.

While the others sat chatting at the dining room table, I was in the kitchen with Ann. She was transferring food into serving dishes, and I was opening the wine. In those days, most bottles of wine had corks. Not that weird composite plastic stuff you get these days, but real, honest-to-God corks.

I did my thing with the corkscrew, and the cork came partway out of the bottle, and then it just stopped. You know how corks sometimes just get stuck, and no amount maneuvering will get them to budge? This was one of those corks. I was not deterred, though. I had several years as a university student behind me – I was capable of getting any wine out of any bottle, no matter what impediments stood in my way.

I extracted the corkscrew from the cork, grabbed a breadknife, and used it to saw off the bit of cork that was sticking out of the top of the bottle.

I could almost hear Dad spinning in his coffin.

I set about using the corkscrew on the remaining piece of cork. I got it firmly in place and then started the process of getting the cork out.

The corkscrew broke.

So to sum up the situation I had the following: a wine bottle with half a cork in it. Said half-cork had half a corkscrew in it. And most importantly, there was wine inside the bottle that was stubbornly remaining inaccessible to us.

By this stage, Ann and I were in absolute stitches of laughter. Ever the graceful hostess, Ann did a skilful job of politely heading off anyone who tried to come into the kitchen wanting to know what was so funny.

Fortunately, Ann was a great believer in contingency planning, so she had a backup corkscrew which she produced with a flourish, like a magician. Through a series of hit-and-miss stabby attempts, we finally got the cork out.

The good news was that we had freed the wine within the bottle. The bad news was that it was riddled with cork.

No problem.

Ann and I strained the wine into a plastic measuring jug, rinsed the bottle to get rid of any stray bits of cork, and then restored the wine to its rightful receptacle. I mean, we had to. There was no way we could show up to the dinner table bearing a plastic jug full of wine.

That hard-earned wine was some of the best I ever tasted, as if the person whose life we were toasting had sprinkled a little bit of magic into it.

 

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Race Report: Tannenbaum 10K

Rain at the start-line!

It did not look like a good day for a race. Truth be told, it did not even look like a good day for getting to the race. It was raining, the start-line was a good 12K or so from my house, and the wipers in my car were broken. Public transit does not run early enough on Sunday mornings, so I had no option but to cab it to the race. An expensive proposition with Toronto cab fares being what they are.

Good thing the race registration fee was so low.

By the time the cabbie dropped me off, it was raining harder. This was not the gentle, drizzly kind of rain that I actually enjoy running in. It was real rain, the kind that gets into your shoes and soaks your socks before the race has even started.

Fortunately, shelter near the start-line was plentiful. The race started on the Martin Goodman Trail beside the lake, and there is a big gazebo-thingie that seemed to have room for everyone. I stood there drinking my water, looking out at the weather and thinking I must be mad to be voluntarily running in this.

But that’s runners for you. I’d have shown up to the race in a blizzard.

The race was a small event with a strong community feel to it. There were about 500 runners braving the elements, and because of the reluctance of runners to emerge from the shelter, I thought the race would start late. But with two minutes to go before the start, we all lined up, and right on schedule, the starting siren went.

I expected this race to be a bit rough. I had not run in a while, and for about a week I had been staving off a bug. In addition, this was the day after my birthday and I had a birthday-related hangover. That plus the foul weather would surely make this one of my most dismal performances ever.

Sometimes, though, an enforced rest can work wonders. I did a great deal of running this season. I ran a lot of races and clocked up a whole new set of personal bests. After my half-marathon in October, I was tired. The break from running was just what I needed.

As soon as this race started, I felt great. There was none of the stiffness I was expecting, none of the discomfort that sometimes takes a mile or so to ease off. I got into my rhythm right away. I wasn’t going fast, you understand. I was never going to achieve a personal best on this particular day. But I maintained a respectable enough pace while jumping over puddles. After 3K or so I realized that the rain had let up, and I was thoroughly enjoying myself.

I ran the first half nice and steady – not fast, but not slow either. I was staying more or less with the middle of the pack. Somewhere between 4K and 5K there was a giant puddle pond going right across the road. There was no way around it. The only course of action was to go through it.

Or perhaps over it?

I approached this body of water thinking that I really didn’t want to soak my feet. I kicked up my speed a notch, and while runners all around me were splashing through the water, I made myself airborne and took a balletic leap over the puddle. By some miracle I managed to clear the water.

Shortly after that I reached the 5K turnaround point. The aid station there was a welcome surprise – the race website had advised runners that they should bring their own water. I gratefully accepted a cup, chugged it down, and started my return journey.

By this point I was starting to feel a little tired, and I knew I wasn’t going to be able to repeat my impressive leap over the big puddle. But I only had about 4K to go, so I just ran through the section that seemed to have the least water.

I ran on, maintaining a reasonably steady pace, and all of a sudden I found myself with just 1K to go. I pride myself on my finishing kick, and so I decided to belt out that last kilometre as hard as I could.

After running most of the race at an average pace of about 6:40 minutes per kilometre, I ran the last kilometre in 5:23. Seems like my recent break from running hadn’t adversely affected my ability to sprint to the finish. I crossed the line with a time of 1:06:03. Not my best time, but definitely not my worst.

Small races are sometimes surprisingly well-organized, and this was definitely one of those. The marshalling was fantastic, and the course was accurate and well-marked. The volunteers manning the aid station were cheerful and friendly even though they had probably been there in the pouring rain getting set up. For a very reasonable registration fee, I got a warm winter hat and a finisher’s medal that ranks among my favourites. I was even lucky enough to win a draw prize, which was presented to me by none other than Santa Claus himself.

I have been searching for a late fall/early winter race to round out my running season, and with this one, I think I have found a gem.

(Photo credit: Kirsten Doyle)