Surf's Up

Surf’s Up

Me, Donna, Paula

A) Just past 9 am on a cloudless, yellow-egg-sun day, I meet my friends, Donna, Paula and Michelle at the car parks near Leisure Island. The Mount is already starting to sizzle: it’s 22 degrees Celsius (72 degrees Fahrenheit) and rising. Already, I want to jump in the water. Even without a wet suit, which I’ve borrowed from Pete, I’m ready for the sea. I strip to a string bikini while standing beside my van. I pull on the wet suit, which fits perfectly. Pete says he bought the black neoprene suit many years ago when he was thinner. Works for me.

Donna provides a land lesson before we wade into the water.

            “Draw a line in the sand, like this,” she says. “This is your center line, like the one on the surf board. You’ll need to balance on either side of that line.”

Michelle watches while Donna, Paula and I lay in the sand, feigning balance while performing mini-windmill strokes with our arms. Michelle’s a physio (physical therapist) and has a client in 45 minutes. She’s loaned us her board.

Donna continues the lesson: “When you feel the wave pushing you, pop your feet on the board and grab the sides. Standing’s overrated. You want to stand, eventually, but for now, just practice popping to your feet. You can keep holding onto the sides if you want.”

Michelle snaps our picture, wishes us luck, and leaves.

The three of us wade into the water up to our waists, then jump on boards and paddle. I steer myself so I’m facing the beach, looking back for the first wave. A big green roller’s churning towards me. I start paddling like a hyperactive duck. I hear the rush of water, smell the tang of salt. I’m atop the wave. I brace my hands on either side of the yellow surfboard and pop – first to my knees, then to my feet. I can’t believe I’m on my feet! I’m exhilarated – so this is why the surfies bob out here in pouring rain or broiling sun. I’m riding on water. I’m like the Whale Rider. The Wave Rider. A surfer chick. I’m, I’m…. falling over. I ride several meters before toppling sideways.

I repeat the thrill several times. I can’t believe I’ve been in New Zealand, living at the beach for a year, and this is the first time I’ve surfed.

B) Just past 9 on a gray-cotton-cloud day, I meet my friends, Donna, Paula and Michelle at the car parks near Leisure Island. The Mount has been cool and drizzly all morning: it’s 16 degrees (61 F) without a hint of sunshine. I’m not sure I want to jump in the water. Even with a wet suit, which I’ve borrowed from Pete, I’m wary of the sea’s chill. I strip to my swim team-style black tank suit while standing beside my van. I pull on the wet suit, which fits oddly –snug around the thighs and loose in back. Donna looks at me and says,

“Isn’t the zipper supposed to be in back?”

Of course, I knew that. In my haste, I rolled the suit on backwards. I peel off the wet suit and start over. I use the long string on the zipper to pull the zip closed. I look down to ensure everything’s in place. Yep, the suit fits, except in the crouch, where it’s a bit long.

Donna gives us a land lesson before we wade into the water, then shows us how to strap the board so it doesn’t wander too far from our bodies:

            “Take the strap and pull it snug around your ankle. Make sure the cord’s facing away from you, so you don’t get tangled in it,” she says. We’re tethered to our boards.

The ocean’s cold, but bearable. As I walk deeper into the sea, I notice the wet suit actually works – I feel good in the water, even on an overcast day like today.

            “Paddle really hard once you get on the wave,” says Donna. “Wait until you feel it under you to try to pop up.”

Okay. I can do this. I have upper body strength – I do pump (weights with high reps) classes at the gym, after all (um, I missed two months of pump over the holidays, but I’m hoping to tap into my strength residual). I lay face-down on the board, feet hanging on either side, and rock back and forth, trying to center myself. Someone told me surfing takes heaps of balance and coordination. These are two qualities I lack. Let me know if you find a sport requiring instability and incoordination, because I’d surely excel.

A kid-sized wave heads our way. It’s smaller in circumference than a bicycle, but bigger around than a toaster. Perfect practice size. I paddle, paddle, paddle to catch the wave, then pop – to my knees. Where I stay before dumping off the board. The waves are small enough for me not to damage my body, save maybe for bruised knees.

I look behind again – there’s a bigger wave coming. Can I catch it in time? I clutch both side of my board and – oops – get a face full of water. Not quick enough, mate.

There’s always another wave. But for several minutes, the rollers avoid us. We spot green walls, white water to our left and right. Still, our particular cove south of Leisure Island lies calm. I look at the Mount, which stands out among the clouds like a green beacon.  It’s all-weather beautiful. What a gift to stand in the ocean at 9:30 on a Wednesday morning!

Donna gets to her feet several times. Paula’s nearly there. After just over half an hour in the water, she asks,

“You want to give it one more go and then go in? I’m getting knackered. I understand why surfers are so fit. It’s exhausting!”

Just for fun, I paddle, paddle, paddle to grab a bicycle-sized wave. I’m on top. Instead of trying to rise, I remain prone, treating the surf board like a boogie board. Woo-hoo! I’m riding into the shore.

Which story is true? A or B? A’s the fantasy. Today. Someday, it may be reality.

Surf’s up.

Great Lake Taupo Relay

Great Lake Taupo Relay

13 Women, 155 kilometers, 1 naked guy

Mt Jogas (not pictured: Naked Guy)

We Start at What Time?

It’s 2:30 am on a Saturday, and the Mt. Joggers team is waiting for our lead runner, Jackie, to charge the hill. 12 of us mill outside our rented Price-Rite van, looking at watches, chatting to other runners. One man says his team name is Ho Chi Mihn, after the city in Vietnam. We decide “Mt Jogas” isn’t exciting enough. “How about Angry Bitches?” I ask a couple of my teammates. “We could be the AB’s.” [just like the New Zealand rugby team, the All Blacks]. AB’s is a joke, of course. Even in the middle of the night after little or no sleep, we’re not angry. We’re excited to take part in the 17^th Great Lake Taupo Relay. 13 of us, all women, will run 155 kilometers around New Zealand’s largest lake.  450 teams comprising 4,000 runners are pounding pavement with us.

“Look out – she’s fast!” shouts Debbie out the window to a man running beside Jackie. The van ambles for a few minutes at 20 kilometers per hour - just long enough to yell encouragement to Jackie . During these early morning relay legs, we alternate between cheering the runner, chatting and closing our eyes for scraps of faux sleep. I’ve had an extended nap at the Camellia motel – about four hour’s worth – followed by coffee and porridge. It still doesn’t feel right to be awake, thinking about running, at 3 am.

I think about the last relay I ran, in 2004. The Ameri-cana stretched 220 miles from Nelson, British Columbia, Canada to Sandpoint, North Idaho, USA. My late husband Sean, having pulled a groin muscle during the relay the year before, decided to come as support, rather than run. He drove what we referred to as the “prison van,” a boxy truck outfitted with bunk beds. Around 3 am, we lost the course in North Idaho near the Canadian border at Bonner’s Ferry. I unfolded a map and turned it round in circles before we deduced we were heading the wrong way. Our team mate Joel later told us,

“You guys handled that well. A lot of other couples would’ve been squabbling over directions in the middle of the night.”

Jackie (in blue) tagging Mary

Jackie finishes her hilly 14 kilometers just before 4 am. She tags Mary (another speed demon) who’ll also run 14 k. Race organizers have outfitted each team with two flashing red lights and two head lamps for runners on the course before 6:15 am. Few lights illuminate the highway – it’s blackness, save for blazing generator-powered lights at transition points and runners’ head and tail lights. The lights allow us to see the more than six-foot-tall pink pig strolling the course. It’s a team mascot, which fits well with a quasi-carnival theme: Sprinkled like confetti along the course, we spy women in hula skirts and brown face paint; men wearing “Phar Kof” t-shirts and a man dressed in a Jolly Green Giant spandex figure-hugging running suit.

Mr. Happy Flappy

Several kilometers into Mary’s run, our van erupts in “HAHHHHH!!!!” I peer into the dark: it’s a runner in black shorts and t-shirt. What’s the big deal? Then, just ahead of him, I spot the subject of laughter: A 20-something man wearing shoes and a reflective vest. He lacks shorts or even undies. His bare white bum is on the run. As the van passes Naked Guy (NG), we crane our necks to get a frontal view. Nary a jock strap in sight. 'Free-ballin’, yeah he’s free-ballin’ (Channeling Tom Petty here). More squeals of laughter. Suddenly wide awake and giddy with excitement, I yell,

 “I gotta get a picture!”

“It’s not just a naked guy,” one of my team mates says. “It’s a HOT naked guy.” Another runner predicts, “We’re all piling out for this one.”

We scramble from the van to await NG’s flapping arrival. He never comes. Someone has slipped NG a pair of shorts by the time he reaches our waiting vehicle. Bugger.

I hear another male runner say,

“It’s not for fat people, this hill.” He’s nearly summited a long section of pitched road. We cheer our fully-clothed team mate, Mary, who bounces up hills in lieu of slogging them. We drive to the Leg 3 transition point.

No t.p. in Taupo

The morning is cool – not cold enough to require gloves and hats for running, or even tights, but cool enough for runners-in-waiting to snuggle under blankets in the van. I’m wearing thick sweatpants over my running gear, plus a fleece jacket. At least I’ll be able to see where I’m going by my Leg - #12.

We walk 100 meters to the porta-potties, which are placed at each transition point. We’ll soon discover these repositories of filth almost never have toilet paper and are foul-smelling enough to require a clothes peg (clothespin) over the nose. Thank God for cover of night. Many runners are obsessed with bodily functions, with cleaning out the system before a race or long run. We’ve been chatting about that very thing, prompting Mary to say, “I’ve never heard so much poo talk from women in my life.” Donna responds, “Stick with me, Mary. I’m a poo-er.” We crack up and clamber from the van for the next transition.

Denise (left) and Penny in the mist

It’s misting by the time Penny starts Leg 3 (10 km) at around 5 am. I click a fuzzy shot of her handing off to Denise, who tags Debbie, who’ll run 8.3 kilometers. Sometime between Denise and Debbie’s run, the sun rises. It’s still cool, but now, we can see the road. And the landscape. Rolling hills dotted with pine trees guard either side of the highway.

Debbie: Going straight ahead

Real Runners, Real Life

Debbie speeds in from her hilly, twisty leg to tag Donna, who’s running 2 legs, smashed together. Donna’s left breast remains bruised from a series of biopsies a week earlier.  She’s running with the shock of a woman newly-diagnosed with cancer. Her trial is another reminder we slog this human race together. Mary and Debbie flank Donna as she summits a hill; Paula runs alongside several kilometers later with water; I pant up yet another incline, asking Donna how she’s doing.

 “I’m okay. I’m gonna cry at some stage,” she says. I advise: “Wait ‘til the end. It’s really hard to catch your breath when you’re crying and running.”

Debbie hands off to Donna

Donna later tells me she started crying one kilometer before her last leg ended. She’d spotted the sign indicating her race was almost done. She finishes, red-faced from exertion, cheeks streaky with sweat. It’s starting to get hot. The sun is beaming, spreading golden rays on grass and trees, baking pavement. Donna says,

                “This is the first 14 kilometer race I’ve ever run with breast cancer.” Kerry, another runner who’s a nurse, tells her, “Next year when you run this, you won’t have breast cancer.”

Donna's double leg is over!

Donna tags Paula, who strides ahead in her camouflage visor and sunglasses. Paula, too, will run two legs (many of our team members ran more than one leg because the race has 18 legs and our team consists of 13 runners). She’ll run nearly 13 kilometers, total. Paula’s a billy goat who thrives on hills and later reports she enjoyed the course. Even the dreaded Kuratau Hill.

Paula: Charging the hill

Don't Fear the Rooster

Next up is Angela, who’s never run an event before. She has a newbie’s enthusiasm. She downs a can of energy drink called Big Cock during the race, saying,

“That’s all I needed was a Big Cock in me and I’m ready to go!” She runs almost seven kilometers (she was originally down for just 4.7), later telling us she walked a bit when she needed a break.

Newbie Angela

“It’s not a race,” our team manager, Dara has told us several times. “We’ll do whatever we can.” Jackie chimed in at the team meeting, half-jokingly saying, “But we wanna WIN!” Each runner runs her own race at her own pace. For some of us, just going the distance is enough. For others, setting a fast pace is the goal.

The weather has morphed from pleasantly cool to not comfy anymore, to oh-shit-I-gotta-run-on-asphalt-in-this-heat.

Angela to Dara

Angela tags Dara, who’ll run 11 kilometers under a shimmering sun. I’m up next. I’ve been awake since 1:30 am and it’s almost 1 pm. I’ve been drinking a mixture of water and Raro (a sugary mix, like Tang), plus two cups of instant cappuccino. Over nearly 12 hours, I’ve eaten two servings of porridge, a nectarine, muesli bar and one-quarter of a Panini leftover from last night’s dinner at the Fat Dog café in Rotorua. The sandwich contains pumpkin, feta cheese and sundried tomatoes. We’ll see, if two hours later, it returns to haunt my run.

Twitching and Jiving

I start to get nervous. Do I go for my third whizz (pee stop) of the hour? Sure. Drink more water/Raro? Yep. Slather more sunscreen? You betcha. I crank up Janet Jackson’s Design of a Decade CD and open the van doors. I’m groovin’ to Escapade –

Come on baby, let’s get away. Let’s save our troubles for another day. Come go with me, we got it made. Let me take you on an Escapade.

 How fast can I run the escapade? I’m not in this just to finish. I don’t know how other runners feel when they race, but if I don’t feel like I’m pumping, pushing, gritting, working (hating life for a brief time on the course), then I’m not pushing myself fast enough. Someday, when I drop my extra Kiwi kilos, maybe that feeling will change. I don’t know if Joggers has made me fitter, but it has increased my running pain threshold.

My turn to fly

Dara propels through the transition and tags my hand. I’m off. About 100 meters into my run, I realize I forgot to start the timer on my GPS watch. I hit the button and I’m away. The next 10.1 kilometers are mine to push the pace or slog.  My leg is mercifully flat – for this course, anyways. My only request was that I not run something that included a “famous hill.” Leave me the anonymous slight inclines. I check my watch about one kilometer into the run to check my pace. Five minutes. It’s definitely faster than my normal speed, but this isn’t a walk in the park. It’s a freakin’ race. If I can keep this up, I’ll finish in about 50 minutes. I double-pinky promise myself not to look at my watch for at least four more kilometers.

The shoulder becomes as narrow as my eight-year-old daughter’s hips. I’m running on the right side of the road, opposite traffic, trying to stay right of the white line. The road’s edge is cambered, leaving me no choice but to run the paint strip. The asphalt feels rocky and rippled under my size 10 ½  Adidas trail shoes. I focus on not tripping over the small metal reflectors embedded along the highway’s edge. And not tripping over a rock. Basically, not tripping, period. Heat rises from the pavement. The day would be pleasantly hot if we weren’t running. Coaxing my body through the intensity of warmth and sunshine seems crazy. I thank members of one of the Pukeko teams, who mist me with water three times along the course while waiting for their team mate to pass.

I make a game of picking off other runners: Can I pass runner number one? No problem. How about number five? See ya. I glimpse number eight about 300 meters before the transition point, my finish. She’s wearing a coin belt that jingles while she runs. By now, I’m tapping reserves to finish strong. I’m not letting a jingly-belt-wearing runner beat me to the finish. I sprint ahead of Jingles, then look for my team mate. Where’s Lee? I’m ready to be done. There she is. I tag her hand – she’s off. One race over. Another begins. I walk 100 meters or so to recover, then return to where my teammates stand, sipping their first real coffees of the day, bought from a café across the street. “Do you want a coffee?” someone asks. “Probably not,” responds another Jogger, before I can spit out any words. No coffee. Just water with Raro. Lots of it.

Minutes later, we reach the pretty part of the Great Lake Taupo relay – the part where you can actually see water besides what dribbles from your drink bottle. To this point, we’d played peekaboo with the 616 square kilometer lake (big enough to plop all of Singapore within) from the hills above. Now, on Leg 13, we parallel the lake, soaking in views of calm, blue water and 2,800 meter (9,200 feet) Mt Ruapehu. 

Lee's lookin' strong

We stop to wait for Lee. I’ve only imitated a cool-down stretch. I’m still a little stiff and probably a lot smelly. I peel away my shoes and socks, plus GPS watch and wade into the water. Just past my knees, I remove my royal blue Mt Joggers singlet and fling it to a teammate on shore. I miss her outstretched hand. The singlet hits the water. I dive into the cool (but still warmer than ocean) water wearing a black sports bra and skort (combination skirt/shorts). Bliss lives here. The sun is shining, my run is over and I’m swimming in an enormous, clear lake. Jackie jumps in, too.

 “It’s fabulous, isn’t it?” she says.

Lee hands off to Nicola for 7.5 kilometers which race organizers describe as “dangerous.”

What’s dangerous mean? We’ve been asking. Finally, we see what they’re talking about: the route is windy without much shoulder. Nicola survives the run unharmed.

Nicola, running in the afternoon sun

Denise runs Leg 15 – her second time on the course. She’s a trooper, since this part includes a famous hill - Hatepe. While not viciously steep, the hill keeps going and going… It reminds me of Doomsday hill on Spokane’s Bloomsday course. Only there’s no vulture waiting at the summit. The big bird must’ve taken a coffee break. Denise later tells us Hatepe,

“…wasn’t that bad. It sure wasn’t as hard as running the Mount.” The Mount. That 232 meter (760 feet) extinct volcanic dome is our Friday training run and our benchmark for hills.  Run it regularly, and you, too, may extol its beauty while cursing its relentless pitch.

Teamwork: Debbie, Kerry, Jackie

Denise tags Kerry, whose furthest event distance to date is a 12k. She’ll run two legs, a total of 13 kilometers. She keeps a steady pace, but from inside the air-conditioned van, we wonder if she’s up for this heat, these hills. Maybe another teammate should run her second leg? Debbie, Jackie, Donna and I run from the van to Kerry to encourage her progress and confirm her desire to continue. Kerry smiles and assures us she’s fine. She looks peppy for someone who’s been awake most of the night and run eight kilometers in the searing Southern hemisphere sun. To cheer her, we pile out of the van, line the side of the road and do what Kiwis call the Mexican wave (a.k.a., ‘The Wave’ in the US). Kerry passes the transition point and keeps running to her triumphant finish where we hug and congratulate her. This brings us to:

Dara: Almost home

Leg 18 – The Final Frontier

Dara runs the last 7.5 kilometers. She’ll run rolling hills that rejoin the lake’s edge. We motor from sparse surroundings to the tourist bustle of Taupo, where a row of motels and cafes announce we’re entering town. We pass the Jolly Odd Fellows pub, where someone asks, “Anyone know if the food there is any good?”

We drive to the finish line. We’re all supposed to cross together. Several of us walk about a third of a kilometer to encourage Dara up the last hill. I jog another half-kilometer to use the toilet and run with Dara until we reach our group. It’s almost 5:30 when I spot her alongside the lake.

                “You’re almost there,” I say. “Looking good – keep going.” 

I can barely contain my speed on comparatively fresh, twitchy legs. I can feel Dara’s fatigue – that last kilometer taps into every muesli bar calorie, training run, self-talk... Your legs and lungs need to BE THERE ALREADY. Especially in this heat.

The "Chariots of Fire"hill climb

We turn right at the marina and run alongside yachts (sailboats) and power boats. We meet the group at the base of the final hill and climb the short incline. We start singing the theme from Chariots of Fire: “Da-da-da-da-DA-DA; Da-da-da-da-DA….” At the crest, we hang another right, where the red finish banner’s in sight. I say, “I’m gonna run ahead and get a picture at the finish.” No one hears this.

 My teammates see me take off and they give chase like a just-pulled-from-retirement-FBI-agent chasing his last bad guy in a movie.   I turn around just in time to snap a few pictures of “Mt Jogas” crossing the line.

At 5:34, it’s over. We placed 100^th out of 127 teams (we’re shooting for at least 80^th place next year). So we lost to the Ron Jeremy Running Club, Palmy Tards and Nek Minute. Still, we beat WTF- Witness the Fitness, Slow’s the new Fast and Catcha-Breaths. Next year, we’ll attach lead weights to Ron’s Jeremy and then see-how-he-runs…

Donna and Jackie pop corks on two bottles of bubbles. We toast and drink and laugh about eating REAL FOOD (i.e., anything but muesli bars and bananas). We bask in the glow of accomplishment and delight in the lake’s tingle. We have run our own races and supported each other while shuffling in and out of the van 90 times (according to maths whiz Jackie). We emerge sore and sleep-deprived and ready to do it all again. Next year.

2012 Great Lake Taupo Relay: February 16^th. Bring the Janet Jackson CD.

http://www.relay.co.nz/

Ten Ways to Leave Your Lover

Ten Ways to Leave Your Lover

New Zealand

Our days are numbered. You know this acutely when you’re leaving a place you’ve lived. You prepare for goodbyes, for letting go of the city’s (or country’s) particular beauty; for releasing stuff and summer and the bubble of this-is-where-we-are-in-our-lives-right-now. It’s the hard head work your life has already trained you for, whether you chose the training, or not.  You’ve done this before – here’s how to do it again.

1)  Take another look

Once you know the plane tickets are bought, or movers arranged or the new job starts on a certain date, everything in where-you-are-now-land looks different. The palm trees that had started to seem ordinary start swooping and swaying again in interesting ways; the Pacific Ocean moves from supporting character to one of the lead roles in your mind’s landscape when you realize that soon, these waters will roll hundreds of miles from your doorstep instead of five minutes’ (or less) walk. Barefooted children in the school yard, the park, even in cafés and supermarkets regain their novelty, especially when you consider the climate you’ll return to – Spokane in will-you-please-arrive-already spring is likely to be cold, wet and even snowy. Stare at your kids until they ask, “Why do you keep looking at me, Mommy?” To memorize your six and eight-year-old faces, noting freckles, auburn hair, blue eyes, thick eyelashes, spindly legs (Fiona), and blackened feet (Finley).

 2)   Feel again for the first time

Soak in the Southern Hemisphere sun (when it’s not bucketing rain- as it often does. Wear heaps of sunblock – as you always do). Burrow your feet into the sand. Do NOT let a day pass without wiggling your toes on the beach (except maybe during torrential rain days). Pay attention to the wind: Is it a warm gust, blowing from the North? Or a cool breeze cruising in from the South? Give your children big, sloppy kisses despite their protests (“Ugh. It’s too WET!”) Squeeze their cheeks and tiny bottoms. Nuzzle your partner’s neck. Squeeze his cheek and tiny bottom. Get physical as often as time, energy and sleeping children permit. Notice your stomach doing front flips – the same kind it used to perform daily when you first started falling in love.

Boogie board day at the beach, Mt. Maunganui

      3)  Listen

 The ocean’s outside your door. You’ve grown so used to it you’ve forgotten it’s there. Stop that. Can you hear waves greeting the shore? They never grow tired of meeting the sand – again and again. Listen to the beating of rain on rooftops at night. Hear how the natives speak: “eev-ah for “ever”; “beet-ah” for “better,” “haht” for “heart.” Let the sounds bounce around your brain like a pinball in a machine to “beet-ah” remember this Kiwi life.

Mum's homemade sushi

4)   Taste

Chocolate velvet kid

Take time to savor quotidian pleasures: the morning’s bowl of porridge; morning coffee; the lunch-time salad; the yogurt you shook to life with water and mix; sushi you rolled for family lunches (which the kids begged you to make). Snack on a cracker with Vegemite and avocado. Crunch a crispy-edged crumpet, fresh from the toaster. Slather it with passion fruit curd. Bring the kids to the gelato counter for an after-school treat. Eat Finley’s chocolate fish and the remainder of Fiona’s chocolate velvet kiddie cone.


 5)    Take a whiff

      Smell everything again for the first time: your partner’s cologne; his scent in the morning; the coffee at your favorite café; the ocean’s salty, fresh aura; the heady aroma of bacon and pancakes at 9 am Saturday; the scent of marinated meat wafting from the barbecue on a Sunday; the grease of fish and chips on a night no one wants to cook.


      6)   Wear rose-colored glasses

Trying to forget about 3 days of rain-soaked laundry

      Romanticize the hell out of the place you’re leaving. Forget about the cockroaches; the hours spent hanging and removing laundry from a clothes line; the high cost of living; the damp chill of unheated, uninsulated homes in winter. The beach is warm (most days) and it’s free. Summer’s beauty remains. Embrace her while you can.

    7)   Rest

      You can’t enjoy life when you’re tired. Grab a book and read ‘til you’re eyelids get heavy. Nap for 20 minutes. At night, turn off the TV, get off the computer and GO TO BED. Don’t fill each square in your calendar – the unfilled squares await serendipity (ooh, this last one’s especially difficult for me). Smile when one of those unfilled squares becomes a 2-hour impromptu café chat with a smart, funny migrant mum.

      8)  Make peace with your to-do list

      Realize you won’t visit every place, meet every person, (ahem) finish the book before you leave. Trying to do so will drive you nuttier than a bin of trail mix at Pak ‘N Save. No one greeting you on the other side wants to hang with a crazy person. You’ll return to finish the essential elements and white-out unimportant bits.


       9)  Write it down

You’ll forget what your kids said, names of places you visited, what you ate and drank and how it all made you feel. Keep scribbling.

"Did you see me on the wave? I'm a good surfer!" -Finley

10)  Say it

The advantage of leaving a place while you’re still alive is getting to say goodbye to your friends and allowing them to farewell you, too. It’s like attending your own wake. It’s okay to feel sad to leave, excited to move on and okay to enjoy the spot light for a night or two. Think of the attention you’ll receive at your funeral – pity you’re not around to witness.

One more thing: the umbrella overlaying the entire list is love. One of my favorite pieces of advice came from an Episcopal priest, who said, “The best we can do is love as much as we can love in a day.” How to spend these numbered days? Love – the place you’re in, the people you’re with, the sweet, small moments that comprise our lives, no matter where in the world we bare our souls and our feet.

Haere ra – Farewell, but just for now

2 minutes of Silence at Tay Street Café

2 minutes of Silence at Tay Street Café

A server with a blond ponytail walks over to shush two women who continue chatting past 12:51. ‘Oh, does it start now?’ a 20-something with alabaster hair and dirt black roots asks. Yes, now. No music, no chatter, no sounds from the espresso machine. Two minutes of silence at the time the magnitude 6.1 earthquake struck Christchurch last year: February 22^nd, 2011. 185 people died. Thousands of homes and buildings were destroyed. Aftershocks continue.

Christchurch, April 2011

 I stop tapping my keyboard and look around the café’s back room, which is drafty and reminds me of a garage, with its large, louvered front door and ceiling resembling aluminum siding. Ahead to the left, a table of 70-somethings hold court. Two men, their bald heads feathered with wisps of gray hair, sit across from each other, arms folded, while two women sit beside them. One woman sports butterscotch-colored, close-cropped hair. She wears a navy and white striped top and white sandals. She’s thin. The other woman has short white hair, a red, black and white striped top and gray pants whose contents fill the entire bottom of her open-ribbed plastic chair. A scruffy 30-something guy with a beard and board shorts sits a couple tables to my left. He appears to be texting on his cell phone while everyone else truly pauses and looks ahead, or at their companions. In front of Scruffy Guy is a table of three 30 or 40-something year-old men dressed in business casual. They look at each other. Look around. 

One minute gone. One minute to think, to disengage from phones and computers. The café’s front room is full of diners in mid-repast or mid-drink – knives, forks and cups rest on tables and plates. No one eats, drinks or talks.

Black-clad servers, all women, stand in the middle of the room and stare outside. I don’t know what they’re looking at. A large arrangement of pohutukawa flowers stands on the counter. The red spiky blossoms contrast the white wall behind them. Green leaves and brown branches stick out beyond the flowers. I wonder where they got pohutukawa, since they’re out of season.

 I think of our friends, Jenny and Don and Annie and Mick, living high above Governor’s Bay near Christchurch. Their homes have been shaken over and over but still stand. What’s it like to dwell above a trembling earth? Inside my head, I mumble a silent prayer for those who died in the quake’s rubble and their loved ones.

Two minutes. Silence. Over. Music and chatter resume. The espresso machine squeals back to life. It’s 12:53.

Boobs in Paradise

Boobs in Paradise

Another Ordinary Day in Aoteroa

*Some people and place names changed

I’m holding the underside of my friend’s arm while a doctor plunges a needle into her breast. I’m not looking at the needle. Must-not-look-at-needle.

            “Do you faint at the sight of needles?” Dr. B had asked.

            “No,” I said. “Because I never look at the needle.”

I had sat beside my late husband, Sean, two years ago, while nurses and technicians pierced and poked him.  His four-and-a-half month hospitalization featured daily testing. Everything was checked and re-checked. Despite aggressive, expensive medical intervention, Sean died in-hospital due to complications of surgery. All the kings’ horses and all the kings’ CT machines…

Call me skeptical, ungrateful – call me whatever you like – anything except “patient.” I’ve been stuck with more syringes than you can shake an IV pole at.  Far more than the average 41-year-old. By age 30, I’d already endured dozens of scopes and scans – in one end, out the other… Each test peeled away another layer of dignity. I won’t belabor the misdiagnosis that followed these many procedures, but I will tell you the whole shebang has conferred upon me a healthy mistrust of Western medicine.  It’s also dispensed a whopping dose of empathy. And gratitude. Family, close friends and not-so-close friends have sat beside me, delivering pizza and jokes during hospital stays (mine and Sean’s) and outpatient testing (mine).

Thanks to these ministers of mirth, I’ve learned to offer the same presence to another during a health trial. No one should hear the words, “…found something suspicious,” or feel the pressure of a biopsy or sting of a needle without a friend, partner or family member close by. Hell, I’d take Bugsy the Clown if it meant I didn’t have to face the White Coats alone. Anything to distract from the hum of the scanner or click of the needle as it finds and extracts its millimeter of flesh.

One of my running friends, Rebekka*, had been called by the breast health center February 6^th, Waitangi Day (a holiday in New Zealand). Her first mammogram, at age 45 (the recommended age to start screening in NZ), had turned up something requiring further investigation. The next day, over coffee at Providores, Rebekka tells our table of a half-dozen runners she must return to the radiology center for a second screening the next day.

            “Is someone going with you?” I ask.

            “Well, they did say I might want to bring a support person,” Rebekka says. “You don’t have to come, though.”

Yes, actually, I do. I think of my friend, Cheryl, who cracked jokes while I waited to climb onto a steel table to get my midsection CAT-scanned.  The test, suggested by two well-meaning general practitioners, turned out to be entirely unnecessary (according to my specialist, who later asked, “Why did you get this done?”)  I had panicked beforehand, thinking the results of this particular exam would scuttle my BIG WORLD TRIP. Bastards. I’ll show ‘em. I’ll run away and perish on an outer island of Fiji, far from medical machinery. I’ll drink kava and eat coconuts, get cancer and die.

Then, there’s Mom. One of her yearly mammograms revealed a one centimeter lump deep inside her breast near her armpit. It’s the kind of small, sinister nodule she couldn’t have discovered herself. Early detection saved her breast and spared her chemotherapy’s horrors. Ten years later, she’s clean.  So yes, testing can save lives.

It can also scare the shit out of you. The doctor tells Rebekka they’ve found six or seven microcalcifications, small calcium deposits in the soft tissue of the breast. I later read online 80% of microcalcifications are benign, but the way the tiny dots cluster can indicate a form of cancer called ductal carcinoma in situ (abbreviated as DCIS, it’s cancer in the milk ducts that has not yet invaded nearby tissues).  http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmedhealth/PMH0001911/ Rebekka’s clinicians during her first biopsy failed to mention the cluster/DCIS connection, leaving us to wonder why my friend was being screened so aggressively for dots we could only see via magnifying glass.

            “Another radiologist might have missed these, “ Dr. B says, pointed to barely-perceptible dots on the black and white film, which he’s clipped to a light box on the wall.

            “I’d like you to have a biopsy,” the doc tells Rebekka.  “We can’t do it here – you’ll have to go to Waikato, to Hamilton” [about one hours’ drive]

            Because these salt grain-like dots are so small, I ask if my friend can watch and wait.

            “You can’t leave it for one year,” says Dr. B. “One month is okay, though.” He turns back to Rebekka:  “You also have a fibroadenoma, which is usually benign. We can biopsy that here right now.”

Rebekka’s lip starts quivering. She thought she was returning to radiology for another scan, not to endure getting stabbed twice in the left breast with a large needle. Dr. B tells Rebekka the biopsy at Waikato will take about 20 minutes and be performed four or five times. Four or five needle plunges. Bloody hell.

Tears roll down Rebekka’s freckled cheeks. This is so NOT FAIR. I later tell her she got ambushed. She had no time to mentally prepare. Or down a shot or two of vodka. I ask Dr. B if he ever prescribes Valium before a biopsy.

            “No,” he says. “Because we don’t know how it’ll affect the patient. She might fall over, or something.”

This pisses me off. It sounds like the no-drugs stance is for the doctor’s comfort, not the patient’s. While I was willing to endure drug-free child birth, I’m firmly in the “Make-me-stupid/drug-me-up” before an icky medical procedure camp. Blame nerves. And too much experience as Patient Pincushion. I once underwent a bone marrow biopsy (where a large needle is used to pierce the hard outer layer of hip bone using pressure and twisting).  Despite an injection of local anesthetic, the procedure felt like Dr. Feelbad was trying to wrench the bone from my hip. I rank it on the child birth scale of pain. It required Lamaze-style breathing. I could hear the crunch of needle-on-bone. I later ask the doctor if he ever dispenses narcotics before the procedure.

            ”Yes,” he says. “We sometimes give intravenous sedation. But the test is over fairly soon and sedation would have you out of commission for the rest of the day.  I know you’re a busy mom…”

Hey, doc, I decide whether I’m too busy for drugs. I am NEVER too busy for narcotics where a painful (described by most clinicians as “uncomfortable”) medical procedure’s concerned.

Dr. B swabs brownish-yellow iodine on my friend’s breast and extrudes a bit of tissue using a fat needle and gloved hands. Meanwhile, a technician rolls an ultrasound paddle over the suspect breast. This is how the doc can see what he’s stabbing, since he tells us he can’t feel the fibroadenoma. In lieu of watching the needle, I glance down at Rebekka’s toned frame – she has a runner’s strong legs, a nipped-in waist and full breasts for someone so wiry. Rebekka has a body most 25-year-olds would wish for. Just a few days ago, she ran 18 kilometers (11 miles). She’s a tough chick with prematurely graying hair whose face has reddened with shock and pain. Tears continue forming in the corner of her light-blue eyes. I have no words. I remember what my friend, Rev. Jeff, said during Sean’s illness when I asked how he knew what tell families in crisis.

“God gives me the words,” he said. “But mostly, it’s not words we need. It’s presence. Being there is what counts.”

I am present. I stroke Rebekka’s forearm to remind her I’m there. Images of Sean in hospital, of my mom before her lumpectomy, flicker in my head.  Flash: I’m standing with Sean, holding his weakened body upright for a CT scan. Flash: I’m standing over my mom, who’s wearing sunglasses before her breast cancer surgery because staff told her she couldn’t wear make-up. Flash: My friend, Lucinda stands across from me while we flank Sean’s hospital bed. She is telling me to “Just breathe,” (You and your damned breathing), I’d later joke. Flash: Kathleen sits beside me in a hospital corridor, holding my hand before we enter Sean’s room. The presence of loved ones during these hellish medical experiences is proof the world is not an entirely evil place constructed to torture our frail human bodies.

A technician wipes away spots of blood on Rebekka’s breast and gives her an icepack to minimize bruising. Rebekka puts her top back on. We walk upstairs.

We sit across a desk from Allison, whose name tag reads, “Breast Nurse.” Allison asks my friend if she’d like to wait until soreness from today’s procedure eases before undergoing the next biopsy. Otherwise, Waikato may have an open appointment tomorrow.

            “I’d prefer to go tomorrow” says Rebekka.  “I just want to get it over with.”

Allison tells my friend she’ll be clamped in a mammography machine for 45 minutes: “They use mammography to line up the needle to get it in the right place,” the nurse says. “We sent another lady over in a similar situation [with microcalcifications] and she was fine.

Rebekka shouts me (treats me to) coffee and a dark chocolate chili biscuit at a café afterwards. We have about an hour to kill before she’s due to see the breast surgeon.

            “Just because we have you talk to the breast surgeon doesn’t mean you’ll have surgery,” Allison says.

We see Mandy, another runner, and her friend who has a months-old baby. In the safety of the sweet/roasted-bean-smelling café, we talk of other things: clothes and work and running and mutual friends. It’s a 60 minute time-out.

Rebekka has already called her partner to deliver the news. He’ll accompany her to Waikato for the next series of biopsies.

We return to see the breast surgeon, Dr. C. He says,

            “I’m not too concerned at this stage. The fibroadenoma is usually a benign growth. It doesn’t become cancerous or increase your risk. And calcifications are quite common in the breast. If the biopsy is benign, you can forget about this. If it’s fine, in two years, you’ll have another mammogram.”

I later ask Rebekka how much she expects to pay for the mammograms, the doctor visits, the biopsies…

            “Nothing,” she says. “It’s part of the government health system.”

Bloody  socialized medicine. Why should Kiwis, or anyone else, get off with subsidized health care when the same woman in America endures several shockwaves: the agony of diagnosis and treatment, followed by medical bills: “You owe 20%...30%... 50%...” Or, with no health insurance, 100%. At least in this instance, Rebekka won’t be stalked by a series of letters invading her mailbox (like Cancer’s second coming) in the weeks or months after treatment.

The surgeon feels up Rebekka in another room (we later joke the doc could’ve at least bought her a drink before getting fresh) while I scan a magazine article about pop singer Brooke Fraser’s happy life. In one photo, Brooke wears a sheer shirt over a clingy under layer. Her breasts look tiny. I wonder how they’d maneuver those suckers into a mammography machine. The boob talk makes you think of your own breasts. Even if they don’t point skyward, even if they’re a hindrance while running and no longer feed anyone, they’re still yours. They’re intact. If only for today.  You appreciate these sacks of skin, blood and fat because you know they may not be yours forever.

Rebekka had a second series of biopsies one day after her first biopsy. She says she was clamped in a machine for 45-minutes and got jabbed with a needle NINE TIMES. She waited to cry until the procedure was over. She must wait five days for results. We, her friends, watch and wait with her. It’s what we’ve learned to do.

*Postscript: Rebekka was diagnosed with ductal carcinoma in situ, or DCIS. She’s awaiting dates for an MRI and surgery. Meantime, we’ll keep running with her.    

Murder House

Murder House (MUH-dah House)

The deed is done

            “I don’t wanna go to the dentist. It’s gonna hurt,” says Fiona. I can hardly deny my eight-year-old the truth, but I can tiptoe around it.

            “They’re going to rub medicine on your gums to numb them,” I tell her. “And they can put your tooth to sleep with a needle.”

            Fiona gasps, “I don’t want a needle! No!”

Oops. I shouldn’t have used the “n” word. Fiona starts her high-pitched screeching if she thinks a needle exists in the next room. When I got the kids immunized in preparation for dragging them round-the-world, Fiona cried as the nurse swabbed her upper arm with iodine. You would’ve thought someone was whacking off her limb with a rusty saw, yet the needle lay feet from Fiona’s body.

New Zealand is not the place for dental work for a squeamish, sobbing little girl. I learned after bringing Fiona to a dental clinic during the Christmas school vacation (otherwise known as summer holidays) that school dental clinics do NOT use conscious sedation such as nitrous oxide (or "laughing gas"). Children with lots of cavities, abcesses or an overabundance of anxiety are sent to hospital and given general anesthetic.

Poor Fi, who has a large cavity on a baby tooth (likely a result of too many lollies and not enough fluoride) is made to sit still while the blonde-haired, gap-toothed dentist in her 50's rubs Lidocaine (a topical anesthetic) on her gums. 

            "I'm going to put a temporary filling on this tooth that should hold until her adult tooth comes in," says Dr. D.

During this time, Finley clips together large Lego-like pieces from his spot beside me on the floor. Click – click – click…

           "What about numbing that area with Novocaine [local anesthetic]? I ask.

            Dr. D replies, "We'd have to inject it through her gums, and I don't know if she'd tolerate that."

            All 45-pounds (about 20 kilograms) of Fiona are quivering on the blue plastic dentist's chair. Fi's wearing pink sunglasses the dentist gave her to shield her eyes.

             "We need to make your tooth better," says Dr. D. "I'm just going to clean it out and put in something like toothpaste."

             "Uh-uh-uh," moans Fiona, still quivering as the dentist's gloved hand approaches my girl's mouth with a drill.

Fiona's fillings

From my perch on a rolling corner stool in the school dental clinic, I scan the room: A large toothy replica sits on the windowsill; posters about the importance of proper brushing and flossing line the walls. The space is white, clean and bright, with the same equipment I'm used to seeing in the States.

The big difference though is, parents in New Zealand don't have to pay for their kids' teeth exams, cleanings or fillings: Free basic dental care is available for all New Zealand children and teenagers up to 18 years of age.

Free dental care is provided to all children- from birth to Year 8 schooling- at the school or community dental clinics.  Dental therapists provide dental examinations, fillings, extraction of primary teeth, applications of fluorides, placement of fissure sealants and, oral health education and promotion.

http://www.healthysmiles.org.nz/default,128,dentistry-in-new-zealand.sm

Kiwi kids' dental care is free of cost but not free of pain.

Most Kiwis can recount dental horror stories from their grade-school days. Pete, the Partner, says they used to call the school dental building (back in the 70’s when nearly every NZ school had its own clinic) the “Murder House” (which, in Kiwi, sounds like “MUH-dah House”). Pete says he received no numbing agent back then – everything was done with the attitude the kids had to open wide and suck it up. 

I've poked around online to learn whether it's illegal for dentists in NZ to administer nitrous oxide in their clinics. The NZ dental council website says:

The dentist may provide both the sedation and the dental treatment only if an appropriately trained assistant is present throughout the procedure to assist in monitoring the level of consciousness and cardiorespiratory function of the patient…The procedure must be performed in a location which is adequate in size and staffed and equipped to deal with a cardiopulmonary emergency.

 http://www.dentalcouncil.org.nz/Documents/Codes/COP_Sedation.pdf

So maybe New Zealand dental clinics are not equipped for a heart-lung emergency? It seems overkill to send a kid to the hospital and knock them out to fix a few cavities, yet it's cruel to work on kids' teeth without even administering a local anesthetic. Pete says his 9-year-old niece went to the hospital and had general anesthesia to have cavities filled.

Dentists in the US can, and often do, administer conscious sedation like nitrous oxide in their offices. Nitrous is mixed with oxygen and delivered through a small mask over the nose. The Colgate website states: 
It is safe and quickly eliminated from the body. Your child remains awake and can continue to interact with the dentist. When the gas is turned off, the effects of sedation wear off very quickly. 

The American Academy of Pediatric Dentistry website explains why a dentist would sedate a young patient:

Sedation is used for a child’s safety and comfort during dental procedures. It allows the child to cope better with dental treatment and helps prevent injury to the child from uncontrolled or undesirable movements. Sedation promotes a better environment for providing dental care.

http://www.aapd.org/publications/brochures/sedation.asp

Any anesthetic carries risks. Children have died from allergies to local anesthetic and complications from general anesthetic and even nitrous oxide. Deaths are rare and often linked to an underlying health issue.  It makes you pause, but doesn’t stop the pain.

                “That really hurt!” says Fiona after the dentist installs a temporary filling. And Fiona’s not done with dental work: she must return for two more fillings after school resumes. How will she handle the drill again without anesthetic, or react to a needle stuck in her gums to numb the tooth? Finley, too, requires work: he’d broken half a baby molar (we’re not sure how and when that happened) and a small cavity needs filled.

Unable to believe I can’t get something besides a long needle full of Novocaine for my kids’ dental procedures, I call the clinic the week before the kids are due for their appointments.

            “Do you ever use nitrous oxide?” I asked whoever answers the phone.

            The person responds as if I’d asked whether to shoot up my children with heroin:

“OH NO!” She said. “We can’t do that. We only do anesthesia in the hospital for children under six.”

I would resort to my own shlocky methods. The morning of the dental visit, I buy cough syrup with Pholcodine (the box says it has a “mild sedative effect”) that could be administered to kids as young as six.  That, along with the NZ equivalent of children’s Tylenol, might help dull the pain. I collect Fiona and Finley from school at lunch time and drive them to McDonald’s for a pre-Murder-House-Happy-Meal. I give them each a half-teaspoon of cough meds and a tablespoon of liquid Tylenol, which I mix into their black current juice. How sneaky and strange to drug my children at Mickey D’s!

My attempt at amateur pharmacy makes no difference whatever. The kids race around like puppies as we walk from the minivan to the clinic.

            Minutes later, Fiona's shaking while lying in the dentist's chair. Dr. D. decides against using Novocaine.

            “I don’t think she’d react well to the needle,” she says. “We’re just going to rub a little lotion on your gums, sweetie,” Dr. D explains to Fiona.

“Uh-uh-uh,” moans Fiona. Here we go again. The dentist shows Fiona the pink filling material she’ll pack into her back baby molars, plus the water drill she’ll use to “clean away the yucky stuff.” Everyone’s calm until Dr. D starts drilling. I’m standing at Fiona’s side, holding her small hand when Fi holds up her other hand in the “Stop!” motion while boosting the volume of her moan. This is where Dr. D turns-Mr.-Hyde:

            “You just STOP!” instructs the dentist sternly in a Kiwi accent. “I am NOT hurting you. You stop this nonsense right now!”

What do I do? Smack the dentist? Yank the drill from her grasp? No, instead I squeeze Fiona’s hand tighter and tell her it’ll be over soon. I am complicit in this procedure. A contributor to my child’s pain. In minutes, the deed is done. Fiona sports a patch of orange overlaying two back baby molars. She whimpers as she swings her twiggy legs from the dentist chair.

Dr. D initially told me she’d have to extract Finley’s half-broken molar. Now, maybe following Fiona’s distress, she’s rethought her plan. “I don’t want to put his tooth to sleep,” she says.

            I am NOT allowing anyone to yank out my child’s tooth without pain medicine (besides the aforementioned cough syrup which still has had NO effect whatever).

            “You’re NOT pulling out that tooth without numbing it first,” I insist.

Dr. D peers at me over half-spectacles and says, “No, I think we can leave it as-is.”

            I ask, “Can you just paint a sealant over the tooth to prevent the whole thing from decaying?”

Dr. D and her assistant look at each other as if they hadn’t considered the option.

Finley's half-tooth seal

            “Yes,” says the dentist. “We’ll do that.”

Finley endures the cleaning and sealing without moaning, or even whining afterwards. He needs one more small cavity filled before we’ve completed (for now) our Kiwi pediatric dental experience. Meantime, I’m faithfully administering fluoride each day while continuing to help Fiona and Finley brush and floss their teeth. The [kid] lollies are all but banished from the house. I still have the cough syrup, though. Next time, I’ll be the one swigging from the bottle before we enter the Murder House. At least I didn’t get a bill.