Here’s me actually zip-lining.  (I love how it looks like I’m only 3 feet  above the ground.)

And here…..is a very crude drawing of the cardiac monitor that I removed before lying to the zip-lining company about whether or not I had a heart condition.

Wait a minute.  What???

I’ll try to keep this short.  About two months ago I went to the doctor with symptoms that concerned me.  A resting EKG spit out that there might be some damage to my heart.  (The doctor didn’t say heart attack, but of course that’s what worried her.)  Fast forward a few days (during which time I was instructed to keep 911 on speed dial and cease half-marathon training).  I see a cardiologist.  (Yeah, because I’m 100 or something.)  The cardiologist disagrees with the EKG but starts a battery of tests.  Plus I was hooked up to a portable cardiac event recorder (pictured above) for two weeks.  (It was called the “King of Hearts”.  Who names these things?)  So, no heart attack but still something wrong, and I feel like crap all the time and we were waiting for answers. Which is why we lied to the zip-lining people.  We really didn’t know what to say.

In the midst of all this, I had a routine mammogram come back with a suspicious density on my left breast.  Further diagnostic tests eventually showed that everything was benign, but it was a long few days wait from phone call to test.  Plus, when you have to remove your heart monitor in order to have a cancer-screening ultrasound…well, it just starts to feel surreal.

Right now it is believed that I have a supraventricular tachycardia.  Not fatal (usually) but it means that sometimes my heart is just not working quite right in an electrical sense.  It messes up the way it beats and as a result works much less efficiently.  That would be an annoyance to anybody, but is particularly irksome if your hobby is endurance racing.

The doctor prescribed medication that I didn’t want to take.  He was afraid it would make me sluggish.  A casual conversation with my mother didn’t help.

Mom: “What’s the medication?”

Me:  “Toperol…or something like that.”

Mom (an admittedly youthful 67, but still 67):  “Oh, I’ve been on that for years.”

Me:  “Oh good, that makes me feel so much better.”

But I’m on the medication, which does seem to be helping.  I’m supposed to be off caffeine, which is not helping anybody.  Mostly I figure this is the first step to me having to carry one of these:

And that makes me want to scream.

But there it is.  That’s a little more sharing than I tend to do on here, but I felt like I should explain myself to people who I see in person and who also might read this blog.  (I think there are 2 of you.)  If I have seemed particularly distant, aloof, moody, mercurial, or just generally useless lately (more than usual)….well, now you know why.  All of this on top of football season, fall portrait season, and an extremely tough quarter at Ohio State has overwhelmed me.  Some days I am tense to the point of paralysis.  But all days I am grateful that it’s not something more serious and that we seem to have it under control.

“So, how did you get that gig?”

That’s pretty much the first thing people ask me when I tell them that I’m covering high school football for the local newspaper.  The simple answer is, “I applied for it.”  But the truth is, I really don’t know how – out of the thousands of people that live in our area – I ended up landing the job.   The editor – by way of giving me a tryout – sent me to a game that otherwise was not going to get covered.  If I turned in nonsense, or just didn’t get anything in on time, then I wouldn’t have gotten paid and they would have been out nothing.

Here’s another truth – my sports-writing career almost ended as quickly as it began.  As part of my duties, I have to keep offensive stats for both teams, which basically means that I have to write down – in shorthand – what happens on every single play, as well as break out and compile yards by individual players.  Do you have any idea how fast a high school football game goes when you’re trying to write it down?  I can tell you…it’s fast.

So there I was at my first game, having cajoled my way into the press box, and nervous as hell.  My hand was actually shaking as I tried to write things down, and within one minute of play I was already behind.  I was panicked.  There was NO way I was going to be able to keep up with this.  Then…a miracle.  The great lightning storm of 2009 blew in.  The game I was covering was postponed just 2 minutes and five seconds in, by which point I was already three minutes behind on the stats.  Whew!  A reprieve.  Eventually the game was postponed until 3:00 Saturday.

By Saturday afternoon I was more mentally prepared for the speed of the game and what I needed to be watching for on each play.  The record-keeping went much better, though it was by no means great, and I still wasn’t keeping up with the player-by-player numbers.  I had to compile them later.  The game ended at 5:00, which gave me 7 ½ hours until my deadline.  (On a normal game night I would have about two hours to submit my stats and the story.)  I made it with 8 minutes to spare.  *eye roll*   The editor was pleased with my article but was concerned with how long it took.  (Duh, me too!)  I assured him that the main problem was the stats and that I knew I could get much, much faster at it.  (Was that really true?)

I spent that Sunday practicing.  How?  I watched the Herbstreit Challenge (high school teams from across the country) on ESPN and practiced keeping stats for hours, getting quicker and quicker with each quarter.  And when the next Friday night came around, I was ready – game stats and article were turned in on time, and my story was front and center on the sports page.

Now, I suppose it was just blind luck that my very first game was delayed because of weather.  But the fatalistic (and clearly egomaniacal) part of me still sometimes thinks that a lightning storm came through – postponing nearly a hundred local football games – just so I would get a second chance at being a sports-writer.  Granted, it’s probably not true, but you might want to think twice about crossing me.  There’s a remote possibility that I can conjure lightning. 

Our mornings go something like this: the six year-old pops out of bed when his SpongeBob alarm goes off and wanders into our bedroom (where I may or may not still be in bed) carrying at least three stuffed animals and a blankie. He is abominably cute and he knows it. He also knows that he needs to rack up some cute credits because the next step of the morning is getting dressed. This is where it all falls apart. He dislikes and/or is afraid of (not necessarily in this order): buttons, jeans, corduroys, belts, buttons, shorts, collar shirts, Superman underwear, tube socks, buttons, and shoes. Whatever clothing he agreed to the night before has already been dismissed and either tosssed on the floor or hidden somewhere in the room if he thinks we might force him into it. The clothing negotiation takes anywhere from 5 to 35 minutes.

Meanwhile, in a room down the hall: the nine year-old is still asleep, hard. When you go to check on him he is so out cold – face buried in the pillow, limbs splayed about – that you’re pretty sure he must’ve just gotten in around 5 AM. (If you know our nine year-old, this is a legitimate concern.) I turn on the lights, open the curtains and move his alarm clock right next to his head. He stirs, moans, and then waits for whatever threat is coming from me. The only thing that saves him is that he puts on whatever clothing has been laid out for him. (Within reason. A pink polo shirt would prompt an argument.)

Eventually we make it to the kitchen, which may be sun-drenched, but is never a place of happiness or order. The six year-old is probably wearing something horribly mis-matched, but I’m just grateful he’s not wearing a Clone Wars, Ninja Turtle, or Jack Sparrow costume (costumes being the only form of clothing he’s not afraid of) and let it go.

I try to feed them breakfast but it’s nearly impossible to get their attention since they have engaged each other in what they refer to as a “butt battle.” (Yeah, it’s pretty much what you think. At this point, those of you with daughters who complain about having to do their hair in the morning, might want to rethink your position. =)) If I do get their attention they claim that they’re not hungry, which is just so unfathomable to me that I won’t get into it. There is some yelling involved, followed by reluctant eating, followed by them wandering around aimlessly as though this is the first time EVER that they’ve had to get ready for school.

My husband was home this morning during the ugliness (because “work” for him today consists of a golf outing) and was so concerned about the mounting tension that he tried to bribe the little one into agreeing to buy his lunch today so that I wouldn’t have to pack it. (Theoretically my husband could have packed the lunch but that would’ve just resulted in more aimless wandering. Then I would have had all three of them doing that, probably bumping into one another like video game characters.)

Eventually we got teeth brushed, bed-hair tamed, and I launched them out the door to the bus. But it wasn’t pretty. It never is. I think I’m focused on it a little more today because I was excessively grumpy, even for me. It’s not entirely my fault. The nine year-old yanked a tooth out of his head around 11:00 last night – the second one in two nights. Then the six year-old was up three times in the middle of the night, the third time sobbing uncontrollably until I got in bed with him. So sleep (for me) was limited.

Last night was a little bit of an anamoly in our house, so I’m trying not to judge myself based solely on this morning’s boys-to-bus launch. But are other mornings really all that different? Not much. It’s just a matter of degrees. In a weird way I still enjoy it. I know I will miss these mornings someday.

But the bottom line is, peanut butter commercials lie. Or do the rest of you have happy, easy mornings with your kids?

For me personally, it was a tremendous experience, and I couldn’t have done it without the help and support of family and friends, and especially the donors who ponied up money for the cause.

If you don’t know how The Pelotonia works (or how much your donations meant to me), here’s how it goes. When you sign up as a cyclist (and it takes a donation just to sign up) you choose the distance you want to ride (25, 43, 103, or 180 miles) and you commit to a corresponding level of fundraising. Then…you give them your credit card. Any amount of your commitment that you don’t raise by the deadline, gets charged to your card. This year – lacking confidence in my fundraising abilities – I chose the 25 mile ride, which still committed me to raising $1200. $1200!!! It seemed like so much. But I needn’t have doubted. I should’ve know that all of the amazing people in my life would come through for me. As of now I have raised almost $1300.

So now you know.

I spent some time snooping around the profile pages of some of the other riders to see how they were doing with their own fundraising. (Not the Les Wexners, I mean the normal people like me.) And do you know what I found? Most of the people who had really succeeded with their fundraising – approaching several thousands of dollars – had done so not because of a few giant donations, but because of many, many small ones. These are tough economics times, and some people really have to stop and take a look at their finances before donating to yet another cause. But many found it in themselves to contribute, even just a little. And these $25, $15, $10 donations really begin to add up. It is amazing and awe-inspiring to see how much can be accomplished when we all just do a little….do something.

Lots of people seem to think that those of us who ride in this event are just short of crazy. They insist it’s not something they would think about doing. And that’s okay. You donate. I’ll ride. I’ll do the 180-mile gruel-a-thon if the donations are there.

So for those of you who were able to donate this year (either to my ride or someone else’s), thank you, thank you, thank you for whatever you were able to contribute. It matters. Because of you a doctor or researcher will have the money and equipment they need to pursue new ways of battling cancer. Because of you, cancer patients will spend time talking to their doctors about treatment plans, not futility. Because of you The James Cancer Center – right here in central Ohio – will continue to charge forward in the fight.

What might we accomplish in 2012?

On August 20th I will be riding in The Pelotonia, a grass-roots effort to raise money to fight cancer. I’m riding in honor of our friend Brett Jump (brettandhertatas.blogspot.com) who was diagnosed with breast cancer in May. As part of my participation I have committed to raising $1200, and 100% of the money raised goes to fund research at the James Cancer Center at The Ohio State University. 100%!

But here’s where your donation can really make a difference. You can help fight bad facial hair on men – or more specifically, one man – my husband Mark. For every $100 that I raise he will shave off the mustache – that has been permanently encamped on his face for the last 30 years – for one week. If I raise all $1200 of my goal, that’s 12 weeks of ouchie-free kissing (not to mention the added benefit of him not looking like a serial killer or porn star).

For those of you who need visual aids, here’s a picture of him with the mustache.

Here’s an artist’s rendering of what he will look like with it gone.

Do you see what I’m getting at here, people?  The situation is desperate. Please consider going to my Pelotonia profile page and making even a small donation.   http://www.mypelotonia.org/riders_profile.jsp?MemberID=121730

Seriously though, I’m not trying to make light of this terrible disease. Nor is it my intent to be dismissive of the millions of people who have battled it and won, or the countless moms, dads, grandmothers, grandfathers, brothers, sisters, and (God help us all) children who have fought it and lost. This is my coping mechanism – humor in the face of horror. I simply don’t know what else to do.  And for Mark’s part, he is an awfully good sport to put his appearance (and dignity) on the line for the cause. 

We can beat this. We can. One weekend, one day, one event, one goal, one mile, one stroke of the pedal at a time. What can you do? Pray a little (or a lot). Donate a little (or a lot). Send positive thoughts and energy out into the world, and remember all the cyclists on August 20th as we ride until our fannies hurt.

We can do this.

But I just got a shiny new iPad. I’m not even sure why. I ventured into the Apple store with a friend and it bewitched me – the store that is. It’s luminous in there and bright beyond peaceful, and flecked with rainbows. And the iPad itself responded so quickly, all I did was touch it and it knew me.

So now I have one. But I’m not a Mac. I’m a PC, and I made this painfully and embarrassingly clear in front of some Macs. We were discussing our iPads, and the various “apps” available, and all that this magic slate board of dreams can do, and I felt like one of them, like I was fitting in to a whole new world. Then I made the critical faux pas.

“So,” I said, “what are the options for backing up my iPad?”

Grim silence.

“W…why would you need to do that?” one of them asked, now suspicious and on edge. He has been clued in. I’m just a pretender.

“In case it crashes,” I replied.

Gasps. Raised eyebrows. One of them clutched their chest like Fred Sanford calling to his dead wife.

I backtracked quickly. “Uh…I didn’t really mean that. What I meant was, what if it gets stolen? Or lost? I lose things sometimes. Or dropped in the toilet. I’m notorious for dropping technology in the toilet.”

They started to breathe again. “Well,” another one answered. “The toilet thing won’t happen. iPads have a special force field that makes them incapable of being damaged in such a manner. But,” he acknowledged, “I suppose it’s possible it could be stolen.”

“Right. That’s all I’m saying.” But it was too late. I wasn’t part of the crowd anymore. I had broken faith with the faithful and insinuated that there may be some flaw in the flawless.

And so my first fumbling effort as a Mac was over quickly and was not all that encouraging. (I’m making myself laugh right now by extending the virgin metaphor in my head.)

I have so much to learn about the Apple world.