those crazy runners

Since I started running, I’ve only had one condition: Running must be fun.  However, two Sundays ago, I went for a run that was definitely not fun.

It had been awhile since I had gone out for a long run and I was well overdue with my half marathon coming up in just a couple of weeks.  The weather was okay, high 30s and a slight mist.  I planned on starting out in downtown Juneau and running out to North Douglas until I hit five miles and then I’d turn around and head back.  I was dressed fairly warm with two layers on top, gloves and a hat. I thought I needed the extra warmth, but by the time I reached my house on North Douglas, I was overheating.  I took off my outer layer top and my gloves and shoved them in my mailbox with the plan to pick them up on the way back.  I kept running along the highway thinking life was good and then I hit five miles and turned around to face what would soon become utter hell.  


About a half mile in headed south, the weather decided to go all ape shit on me.  It couldn’t make up its mind if it wanted to rain or snow, so it did both.  The wind picked up to about 25 out of the Southeast taking my breath away with every gust.  I would run about 15 feet and then WHAM, another gust would come making it nearly impossible for me to run into it and leaving me gasping for air.  Going head first into the wind was the least of my problems, I was now freezing cold, and without any gloves or outer layer, I was in for a long three miles back to my house.  My hands turned as red as tomatoes and I couldn’t move my fingers.  I kept trying to clench them and then stretch them to keep the blood flow going, but they would barely move.  Pretty soon I couldn’t feel my toes and my lips followed suit and went numb too.

I admit I started to panic a bit.  I’m a slow runner to begin with, and being up against the wind, snow and cold, I was at least 30 minutes from my house and I honestly thought I wouldn’t make it and that someone would find me dead alongside the road having suffered from hypothermia.  I started scanning the cars headed out to Eaglecrest hoping I’d know someone so I could flag them down and ask for a lift back to my gloves and shirt.  I didn’t see anyone, but later I got a text from my friend Mendi that read, “Hey!  Saw you running on my way out to Eaglecrest.  You looked pissed!” 

I was.  I was really pissed.  And cold.  Very cold.

I convinced myself that if I made it back to my house, I could grab my gloves and shirt and that would be enough to warm me up enough to finish my run back downtown.  I’m pretty sure I was crying by the time I made it back to my mailbox, but I’m not really sure because I could no longer feel my face.  I grabbed my gloves and tried to put them on- no go.  I couldn’t feel my hands, and though my brain was telling them to do one thing, they were rebelling and not going in my gloves.  I decided to go inside my house and try to warm up before heading back out to run back downtown.  The house was locked and I didn’t have a key.  I found the hidden spare and attempted to unlock the door.  It took forever because I kept dropping the key meanwhile Yasha stared at me through the door thinking I’d gone mad.  


I finally made it inside and went and sat by the remnants of the fire I had made earlier that morning.  I was eventually able to get my gloves on and feeling started to come back to my toes, so I stupidly convinced myself that I could head back out and finish my last two miles.  My body wasn’t hurting after running eight, and I had renewed energy, so I bid farewell to Yasha and sprinted out the door patting myself on the back as I chugged up the hill.  “I am bad ass!” I thought to myself.  I took a beating and I didn’t give up, in fact, I came out for more!  Bring it on!  Yeah me! 

This feeling of empowerment was short lived.  By the time I crested the hill, I was ready to fling myself into traffic and put myself out of my misery.  After a mile, I once again could not feel my body.  Conveniently, I passed by my friend’s Bob and Kris’ house and found myself knocking on their door.  Kris looked and me and could see I was in distress without me needing to say a word, which is good, because I was a little incoherent and couldn’t move my lips to talk.  Kris invited me in and told me her daughter could drive me the rest of the way.  During the five minute ride, I rambled on like a mad woman thanking Jessica for the ride.  I literally could not stop thanking her and just repeated it over and over.

It took me plopping down in front of a monitor stove for a few hours and sipping tea my friend Sonia made for me to finally snap out of it.  I realized my run was not fun.  In fact, I hated it.  I wasn’t even proud of myself for running nine miles in craptastic weather.  I was mad at myself for leaving warm clothes behind in my mailbox and putting my body through a run in a walk in freezer. I had broken my cardinal rule: Running must be fun.

I usually love running.  I sing along to songs, play air drums, and even dance a little when cars are not passing. I’m typically smiling- not frowning and looking pissed.  I’ve seen those runners who are out there forcing themselves to run and hating every second of it.  It’s all over their faces and they are not happy about it.   (I admit to having this face while running on a treadmill.)  My question for them is, “Why?”

The day after my hellish run, I went to Barrow for work, and on the long flights up (It took three), I started reading Born to Run.  I literally could.not.stop.reading.it.  I stood in line at the gate in Anchorage with my nose in the book shuffling forward with the herd to board the plane.  I didn’t even mind that when we stopped in Fairbanks, the Barrow boy's and girl's basketball team boarded whooping and hollering and carrying enough McDonalds to feed the entire community of Barrow.  The kids were toting giant plastic McDonald bags filled to the brim with hamburgers, McNuggets and fries.  They stuffed them in the overhead and under the seats.  They probably even checked a cheese burger or two at the gate.  When the door of the plane shut and the smell really started to circulate, I still didn’t mind because I was still happily reading the book.  I was too enthralled by what I was reading that I didn’t even notice a Happy Meal had slid its way under my chair and was wedged snug  between my feet.  This book is good, and I mean really good.

On the cover there is a quote from another writer that says,  “This book reminds me of why I like to run.”  That pretty much sums it up.  Even if I weren’t already running, this book would have inspired me to start.  Seriously, pick it up and read it, you won’t be disappointed.

On Christmas Eve I started to develop heel pain in my left foot, and my right foot (the dog bite foot) was aching again.  I knew I had to do a long run on Christmas day, and with my spirits recharged after reading the book, I refused to allow myself to dread it.  I dressed for the weather and vowed to not stow my layers no matter how hot I got.  I ran out to Costco and back, which is about eleven miles.  My feet hurt, and of course I blamed it on my fancy new running shoes that I’ve been wearing for two weeks.  (Read the book!) 

Even though my feet were sore, the pain was not nearly as bad as my brush with hypothermia the previous week.  The only real bummer part of the run was at the halfway point where I stopped at the lake to drink water at the fountain, only to discover they had been shut off. Damn. Eleven miles is a long way to run without water.  Note to self- I need to buy a Camelback if I’m going to continue to go on long runs.

My Christmas day run was probably one of the better ones I’ve had.  My smile stayed on my face throughout as I concentrated on the run, not on my pain. I admit my heel was quite tender afterwards, but it’s getting better now and I’m looking forward to my next long run- in my old worn out running shoes. 

I can’t believe my race is in less than two weeks!  There are days I still wake up and can’t believe that “I” the self-proclaimed non-runner is one of those crazy runners you see out on Christmas day, running through the snow with a smile on their face.

Forcing myself into the spirit

It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas and quite frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.  I’m not into it this year and to be quite honest, I wasn’t in to it last year either.  I’m tired of the insane amounts of gifts that pile under the tree, so many that the girls start to glaze over halfway through opening them and we have to take a break.  Take a break opening presents?  Yes, it happened last year and I declared I would never let that happen again.  It’s grandparents.  They can’t stop themselves and tend to go overboard. My mom is starting to get the hang of it and has migrated to the one gift rule.  One gift is all they get from my parents.  God bless them!  God Bless us everyone!  I already know my mom made a sock monkey for Aurelia and Lena is getting a princess dress.  They will love their gifts and they will be able to remember what my parents gave them.  

I want to bring back the simplicity of Christmas.  Cutting a tree down, decorating the tree with homemade ornaments, making cookies with friends, attending a Christmas Eve service to belt out Christmas songs, being around people you love, and giving a few meaningful or useful gifts is all I really want Christmas to be.   That’s it. 

Since moving to Juneau, getting a tree has never been fun.  The most commonly used Christmas trees here are spruce and I don’t like them because they are too pokey and the needles fall out fast. Once, I broke down and bought a tree and it just seemed fake to me.  I grew up with Bull Pines.  A good Bull Pine Christmas tree is hard to find here because they are slightly different from the ones in Ketchikan. 

Growing up, my dad and I, along with another family, would all pile in the skiff and head across the channel over to Gravina Island.  We went to the same spot every year and always had luck.  We would cut down a bunch of trees, load them into the skiff and drive them back to the dock.  I truly feel that getting a tree needs to involve a skiff.  Screw strapping a tree to the top of your car!  Loading a skiff so full with trees that you can’t see the person operating the outboard in the back, is definitely the way to go.

My Mountain Billy Goat

I do own a skiff, but I figured we have a perfectly fine muskeg directly behind my house.  I carried Aurelia on my back, Addison carried the saw and snowshoes and Lena carried her ladybug backpack filled with chocolate.  I was worried that Lena was going to breakdown and ask to be carried, but she impressed me so much!  There wasn’t a trail to follow, unless you count the deer trails, but Lena flew up that hillside with agility and strength. 

Watching her reminded me of the first time I went into the woods when I was about her age.  My dad took me deer hunting and I remember being mesmerized by the rich green damp forest as I climbed over mossy logs, trying to avoid the snapping branches my dad was setting into motion.  When we got back to the boat, my mom asked my dad how I did.  He told her that my new name was “Mountain Billy Goat,” a nickname that stuck, and I held on to it with pride whenever dad and I would go in the woods.  I remember being so happy that my father was proud of me, even though I was too talkative for us to get a deer. 

Lena was my “Mountain Billy Goat” as she climbed over logs, took blueberry bushes to the face, sunk in the mud up to her knees, and kept on going singing all the way.  However, she asked me not to call her a goat and said it was offensive.  Sigh.

Aurelia's Chariot

We hiked about ¾ of a mile up to a muskeg that would hopefully produce a tree.  I strapped on my snowshoes and off we went to find a tree.  The snow in the muskeg was about three feet deep, and Lena was light enough to walk across the snow without sinking, most of the time.  Looking around the muskeg, I got worried because all the Bull Pines were warped and very funky resembling trees from a Dr. Seuss book.  Finally we found one that would do.  It’s a bit “Charlie Brown-ish,” but those are the best kind.  Addison cut it down and we headed back down the hill.  Lena did have a bit of a meltdown on the way back down, but we worked through it and eventually she was jumping off logs and excited to put up the tree.

Today, while Lena was at the Nutcracker, Aurelia and I went to a friend’s house and made cranberry and popcorn garland while listening to Frank Sinatra croon Christmas songs.  Aurelia carefully poked the cranberries with a threaded needle, and with minimal help from me, she made a beautiful garland. 

Swimsuits, the new "it" wear

Tonight we decorated our tree while listening to Handel’s Messiah.  The girls were wearing swimsuits, of course, because that’s the most sensible attire while trimming a tree.  Meanwhile, Chillcat was eyeing the tree, plotting his midnight adventure to climb up it.   It was simple, and perfect.

I can’t control how many gifts the girls are given or how fake Christmas fanfare is jammed down their throats every time they turn around.  But, I do hope that they will see through the plastic garbage and candy coated Christmas goo, and instead hold on to memories of picking out a tree from our backyard, stringing cranberries and popcorn together to create garland, and the Christmas their grandmother gave them a homemade sock monkey. 

There’s the true meaning of Christmas that we’re constantly reminded of, but I also believe the true meaning of Christmas is how it makes us feel and how we make others feel.  We shouldn’t feel overwhelmed or disgusted.  We should just feel happiness, kindness and love.  If I can stay steady on that path, I think I can start digging Christmas again.

Not another restaurant

Club sandwich with nitrate-laden meat?  No.  Hamburger with a bun infused with corn syrup and corn fed beef?  No thanks.  Buffalo chicken salad made from chickens that were fed chemicals to help them be able to survive in an overcrowded chicken pen overflowing with chicken shit?  No way in hell.  This is what was going through my head as I was sitting in Chili’s at the Anchorage Airport trying to decide what I wanted for lunch.  As my coworkers all dished out their orders to the waitress, I was still trying to figure out what I would actually be willing to eat off the menu.  It all of a sudden became quite apparent to me that I have indeed become one of those picky eaters I’ve always made fun of.  No, I’m not on a diet, I’m not a vegetarian and no, I’m not on the gluten-free bandwagon.  I just care about what I eat and what I put into my body.  I also want something that tastes good, which I don’t feel is too much to ask.

Growing up in the Leach family, dining out was typically reserved for occasions such as my father and his crew’s successful and safe return from a halibut or herring trip. Occasionally my brother and I could talk my parents into a trip to the Pizza Mill after church if we were really good.  Because we rarely went out to eat, I used to savor it, drooling over menu items and waiting for my 7up to arrive with a square ice cubes and a straw.  Sometimes if I was really lucky, I was allowed a Shirley Temple!

Oh, but times they are a changin’!  Now, eating out is a chore.  In fact, I’ve pretty much grown to hate it.

I’ve been traveling a lot lately and trying to find a place to eat has become increasingly difficult.  I have this deep seeded need to eat food as close to the real thing as possible.  I wasn’t always this way.  I was raised on Wonder Bread, Kraft cheese singles, Campbell’s soup, canned fruits and veggies and Doritos.  In all fairness, my mother did cook real food, and it was good food.  She made her own spaghetti sauce, schnitzel, enchiladas, homemade mac and cheese (never Kraft), and of course we ate a lot of fish and venison, but there was also no shortage of processed foods in my house.

The evolution of my choice not to eat processed foods isn’t only because I know they are bad for me. I don’t eat them because they taste like garbage.  I can actually taste the chemicals as I’m chewing and after I eat them, I feel terrible.  If you eat this stuff on a regular basis, your body is used to it and you don’t recognize the taste of chemicals that are used to preserve the food.  My body used to be accustomed to the occasional fast food and processed heat and serve food; that was until I lived in Haines and aside from the occasional greasy burger and fries at the Bamboo Room, I made everything I ate.  I rarely bought anything that was premade and I stayed away from ingredients that I couldn’t pronounce or that were not natural.  This was not only a health choice; it was a financial choice.  Salad dressing and bread was expensive, so I made my own.  It was the pre-made things that were the most expensive and I learned buying whole foods was a much better bang for my buck.  Whenever I’d go to the big cities of Juneau and Whitehorse, I’d get excited to hit the restaurant scene.  But, after the second or third meal, I would feel lousy.  My stomach would start to churn, I’d feel groggy and fuzzy headed, and almost always, I developed a headache. Once you step away from the land of preservatives, it’s hard to cross back over that line because the food simply does not taste good.

So what do I do when looking over the menu at Chilies?  I order a soup and salad with dressing on the side feeling a bit like Meg Ryan’s character Sally from When Harry Met Sally.  “Do you make the soup from scratch?  Do you add real bacon to the baked potato soup or the kind of bacon that comes in a bag crumbled and pre-cooked?  Is the lettuce iceberg or something leafy and green that actually contains nutrients?  Is the cheese in the soup real cheddar or processed cheese?”  No, I didn’t ask those things, because I am at Chilies, and OF COURSE the bacon comes in a bag.  I crunch on my tasteless iceberg lettuce and sip the Velveeta potato soup off the plastic spoon and I dream of the old 5 Star Café in Ketchikan or Mountain Market in Haines, and occasionally Rainbow Foods or Silver Bow in Juneau- that is when I feel like spending way too much money on lunch. 

I’m not embarrassed by my food pickiness.  Why do something that makes you feel lousy and isn’t good for you, especially when you have to pay for it? Maybe initially, that corn dog, all crispy and golden brown tastes wonderful, but you’re going to pay for it sooner or later.  I’m not saying I’m a purist.  I don’t eat everything organic and I admit there are things in the Rainbow Food salad bar that scare me because I didn’t know one could actually eat tree bark and I’m not quite sure I’m willing to give it a go quite yet.  I’ve also been known to scarf down a donut or scrape the leftover Costco birthday cake off the cardboard platter after the kids have had their share.

There’s an argument that it costs more to eat healthy.  When dining out, that may be true, but I’ll immediately call B.S. when it comes to making food at home.  A few months ago I was in Fred Meyers and a young couple in front of me had a week’s worth of groceries which included frozen pizzas, frozen lasagna, bagged salad, a few cans of corn, a box of Pepsi, frozen ice cream cones, frozen burritos, chocolate milk, a few bags of chips, Fruit Loops and a few other similar items.  Their total was over $100.  I was up next.  Now granted, I didn’t have meat because I mostly eat venison and fish, but I did have an organic whole chicken, potatoes, lots of fresh vegetables (some organic, some not), organic yogurt, organic milk, organic eggs, granola from bulk, cheddar cheese, ice cream (Ben and Jerry’s) and a few other things that I can’t remember.  My total was under $60.  Now, I have rice at home that I buy at Costco and other things that I would incorporate into my meal planning for the week, but I’m sure even with those items factored in to my weekly purchase, I’d still be under $100. The other big difference in our shopping carts was that their food didn’t have to be prepared; it just had to be unwrapped and heated.  I have to prepare mine, which does take time.  But, even after working a full day and coming home to two hungry kids, there are meals I know I can make from scratch in less than 30 minutes, and that’s with a 28lb two year old clutching my leg as I shuffle about the kitchen.  It can be done.

There are some really good documentaries out there right now about food that might even scare the McRib out of a McDonald lover’s hand.  I just watched Forks over Knives and I highly recommend.  Others worthy of mention are Food.inc, King Corn, and of course, Supersize Me. There are some good books out there too.  I read Omnivores Dilemma on my cruise with Penny and at one point, I loudly blurted out on the sun deck, “Oh that’s absolutely disgusting!” when I read what was in McDonalds chicken nuggets.  I then read to Penny that chicken McNuggets contain TBHQ, a form of butane (lighter fluid), which is derived from petroleum gas.  Penny frowned and said that little James and her love chicken nuggets and they are a special treat.  I scolded her and said “You’re feeding your son processed corn and lighter fluid along with thirty-eight other ingredients!”  I think I broke Penny’s heart that day.

I could go on my food rant all day and by doing so, I will probably make people afraid to invite me over to dinner, if I haven’t already ousted myself from all future invitations.  Like I said, I’m not a purist.  However, I do admit that right now, sitting in my hotel fridge is a quiche I made in Juneau that I packed carefully in my suitcase and brought with me to Fairbanks to eat for breakfast for the next four days.  The thought of eating cardboard muffins and sweet over-processed doughy bagels from the hotel continental breakfast was just too much for me to handle.  Okay, maybe I am a food snob.  There are worse things to be.

I know everything and absolutely nothing about you

Thanksgiving- a time of thanks and stuffing our faces with lots of food. I spent the day mostly outside running in the Turkey Trot 5 K and snowshoeing up Mt. Jumbo.  I spent a lot of time in my head thinking about what I'm thankful for.  There are lots of things that come to mind, but one thing that ranks high, is having good friends.

Not too long ago Penny texted me and said, “You know I’m coming to Juneau, right?”  I replied back, “No!?”  The next text I received from her was a photo of her itinerary. This is a classic Penny maneuver and one of the things I really do love about her even though it also drives me absolutely crazy.  Penny’s always been a fly by the seat of her pants kind of girl- which has gotten us into good situations, and some not so good situations. 

-Befriending of the random travelers who hooked us up with sweet situations- good. 

-The befriending of the bikers outside The Arctic Bar in Ketchikan- not so good. 

-Convincing the conductor on the train from Nice to Paris that her friend was sick and needed a room- good and absolutely hilarious. So freaking hilarious.

-The commandeering of a stick shift car in Juneau that she didn’t know how to drive- not so good and definitely not so fun.

There are several Penny stories that I can recount and all of them have hilarious endings even if they were not amusing to me at the time.  I love this girl with all my heart and though it’s sometimes interesting to step into “Pennyland” and fully get where she’s going and what she’s up to, it’s something I’ll never take for granted.

Penny’s visit was a one day only affair so we tried to fill each other in on what each of us has been up to.  We ended the day at the Bubble Room in the Baranof Hotel.  I like it there because it is typically empty and you can carry on a conversation without getting groped by a stranger.  Penny was drinking white zinfandel and I a cucumber martini, informing each other of all the happenings in our lives since we last saw each other when she reached across the table, put her hand on mine and said, “Franny, I know everything and absolutely nothing about you.”

It sort of stopped me in my tracks because I was pretty sure that Penny knew all there was to know about me.  What was she getting at? Did she think I was hiding something from her?  I wanted to say, “What do you want to know and I’ll tell you.” Instead, the conversation sort of fell silent. 

Penny makes a valid point.  How much do we really know about the people we consider our closest friends?  Or our families for that matter?  The reality is, does it even matter?

Penny and I are so incredibly different in every way that it’s often a wonder we ever became friends at all.  We could be used as the primary examples of Type A and Type B personalities.  She tells me crazy stories that I have a hard time following.  She gets mesmerized by the VitaJuicer sales rep at Costco for an ungodly amount of time. And, she will spark a conversation with anyone and everyone.   Meanwhile, I dive into lengthy soliloquies about food and food preparation that leave her wondering what ceviche is. I bore her with politics, and I won’t even make eye contact with the VitaJuicer guy as I walk by fighting the urge to flip him off out of sheer annoyance.  Aside from music, we have completely different interests and views on the world.  Penny is always dreaming of the future and I’m always trying to stay grounded in the moment. 

A friend once told me the whole purpose of a relationship is to take care of each other.  I thought that definition was limited to romantic relationships, but during that snowshoe climb up Mt. Jumbo, I came to the realization that taking care of each other is really the staple to any relationship, be it romantic or friendly.

Penny always has my back- always. While traveling in Amsterdam, a man came up to me from behind, grabbed me and started touching me..  We were in Dam Square in broad daylight and I was so stunned, I just stood there like an idiot unable to move.  Penny was ahead of me and she turned around to tell me something when she saw what was happening.  Immediately she went after the guy and started beating the pulp out of him with her Van Gogh poster tube.  He let go of me and fled down an alley where Penny started after him, prompting me to start after Penny to stop her from getting into an alley fight with the guy.  While Penny brings the guts to the table, I have always brought the voice of reason reminding her to not get in the car with the stranger and to not jump off the dock by herself at 3 AM for “fun.”.  Unfortunately, I often remind her of these things after the fact or while I’m riding in the back of a Porsche with Penny and three guys who don’t speak a word of English.

Penny and I, late 90s resting on one of our singing walks

After dining on camembert cheese baked in puff pastry with a fig jam drizzle and steamed manila clams in a white wine and garlic broth served with crusty sourdough bread (see there I go with the food talk) we left the Bubble Room and drove around listening to music and singing.  Penny mentioned that she was singing in the Monthly Grind in February and I suggested it would be fun if I could come down to Ketchikan and sing a song with her as a guest.  Next thing I know, we’re sitting in the parked car writing a set list, forming a band, arguing over harmonies and rehearsing songs.

Penny and I may not have a lot in common besides our love of music and singing.  We don’t have similar personalities, run in the same social circles, share interests or know everything about each other. What I do know is we take care of each other and we live in the moment enjoying each other’s company.  Knowing that is really all that matters.


…"And maybe that's all that we need is to meet in the middle of impossibility.  Standing at opposite poles, equal partners in a mystery…" -Indigo Girls

Short, sweet and thankful

Message on phone today from Valley Medical: Lab results normal. Whoop, Whoop!


Happy Thanksgiving All! May your day be filled with friends, family, good food, lots of love and thankfulness.


Since my favorite memories of Thanksgiving were those spent at Don's house, I'm going to spend the day honoring him by spending as much time as possible playing outdoors in this beautiful snow that has blanketed Juneau. Perhaps a very slow and light Turkey Trot 5K through the snow and then a long snowshoe trek.


XXOO

I'll take a burrito with guacamole, hold the angst please

Since getting my cancer “all’s clear” back in July 2010, I’ve had four blood draws that are required every three months to make sure I’m still in remission. Each time, there’s been angst leading up to them. I had one today and there was a bit more anxiety than the one I had in August. I’m not quite sure why. But I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because in the past two weeks my luck has kind of, well, sucked. It's been so iconically sucky that I've been channeling a quote from Emily of the Indigo Girls, “You have to laugh at yourself, because you'd cry your eyes out if you didn't.” Needless to say, I've been laughing a lot. But seriously, in the past two weeks I've fallen off a trail and rolled down a hill, I was bit by my dog, Lena got a mild concussion, my roof started leaking, it was discovered during a cold spell that my entire winter’s wood supply is drenched, and my washing machine imploded spilling water all over the floor forcing a late night and early morning repair session which included having to take the entire door frame off the closet the machine was wedged into. To top it off, it was exactly two years ago this month that Dr. Fisher delivered the dreaded news that I may have cancer.

Some people have asked me what it is I experience when I go in for my quarterly check up, so here is how it shakes down. (Note for the squeamish: it’s not bad.)

I go Valley Medical for my quarterlies. Dr. Fisher the Great does a thorough physical examination and asks me how I’ve been feeling. She pats down my lymph nodes on my neck, stomach, and groin to make sure none of them have swollen to abnormal sizes like the grapefruits they turned into the last go around. Next, I go to the lab to get blood drawn. I’m not afraid of needles, but I am afraid of the smell of rubbing alcohol. The lab techs at Valley Medical know this about me and give me plenty of advanced notice so I can turn my head away from the smell and breathe through my mouth. They pull out two vials of blood while I stare at the latest Gary Larson cartoons they have posted on the wall. They do three tests on me: CBC (Complete Blood Count) which checks on my white blood cell count; a Chem 12 test, which contrary to its name actually consists of 14 tests and is an overall comprehensive panel that looks at liver, kidneys, and many other things; and lastly they do a test to make sure my thyroid is still working since radiation to the neck often causes thyroid failure. And then, there’s the wait. It’s usually two days for lab results.

So that’s it. That’s what I do four times a year. It doesn’t seem like it should be that big a deal. But it is to me because it makes me feel like I’m never out of the clear, and I don’t like having that little control over my health. It’s only four times a year, but truthfully, I feel like I’m going in every week.

Today was pretty much the same as it always is, except today I made a huge mistake of picking up trashy People magazine in the waiting room. It was that or Better House Keeping, and quite honestly, I don’t need a magazine to tell me how disorganized my house and life currently is. (There was not one, but TWO dead mice under that damn washing machine. However, I do blame the previous owner of the house because they had been there for quite some time!) As I was catching up on all the stars (most of whom I’ve never heard of) I came across an article on someone named Ethan Zohn, who apparently was on the reality TV show Survivor. The article was about his Hodgkin’s Lymphoma coming back after being in remission for 20 months, but he was still going to run the marathon he had planned for November. Seriously?! And it just had to be the same type of cancer I had. This is not what I need to read right before going in for my check-up.

Dr. Fisher felt no lumps and said things looked good and they’ll let me know about labs. She did scold me about my weight because I’ve dropped over 20 pounds since my last visit in August. I told her I’m not concerned that it’s related to cancer. I’ve been under a lot of stress lately and loss of appetite is fairly common when I get stressed. Plus, I’ve been running a lot. I promised her I’d eat more, gave her a hug, wished her a Happy Thanksgiving and went on my way. I held to my promise and went to the Breeze In and got a burrito and a few donuts (one for me and a few for my coworkers.) The burrito alone is so huge that I’m sure it alone has taken me off the underweight chart.

I’m told that with time, these routine check-ups will get easier. I sure hope so. And thus commences the waiting game for the lab results. Honestly, I'm not concerned at all now that the appointment is over. I just get freaked out going into them. Right now, I'm more concerned about eating a 5lb burrito and donut for lunch. Ouch.

Every Dog Gets One Free Bite

My friend Libby called me on Sunday night to see how I was doing. She had just read my latest blog about Yasha and said she was all choked up and wanted to know how we (Yasha and I) were doing. I love Libby. She is one of my new friends that Lena set me up with as a result of her friendship with Libby’s daughter. Libby was born and raised in NYC and somehow ended up in Juneau practicing law for the State. I have always been intrigued by people who are able to move to Alaska and choose to stay here, not because of the “harsh environment” but because of the “harsh reception.” As Alaskans, we pride ourselves on our hospitality and friendliness, but I find a lot of Alaskans judge transplants before getting to know them and that mentality drives me crazy. What I’ve discovered is that most of the people who are doing the judging are transplants themselves and they are still out to prove themselves as someone who can “hack” living here. What I find most amazing is I don’t think anyone needs to be owning bragging rights about living in Juneau, or any place in SE for that matter. Juneau has several grocery stores, a few commercial flights in and out every day (weather permitting), we are always guaranteed a few hours of daylight (even if it’s sheltered through clouds), we have doctors and veterinarians, we get fresh produce (though not always the best), and God Almighty, we have high speed internet. Living in Juneau is not like living in Alakanuk or Gambel. I don’t know how long I could hack it there and I’m a lifelong Alaskan. Now, I admit to being turned off by Libby’s husband’s New York Yankee’s Hat the first time I saw him wearing it, but I decided to let it slide because I really liked his wife. I like Geoff too, he is a nice guy and a great cook who often feeds me.

Libby is a straight shooter and has the best advice for everything. Really, she does. I just wish I listened and always took her advice. I have never been good at following advice from others and typically remain polite and give a stressed smile and nod my head. With Libby, I actually do take what she says with a grain of salt. That’s why when Libby asked me what I was going to do with Yasha, I was really curious to throw it back at her and ask her what she would do. Libby is not a pet person. It’s not that she doesn’t like them, she just physically can’t be around them due to severe allergies. I’m not talking the annoying puffy eye allergy and sneezing fits. I’m talking Anaphylactic shock where she can’t breathe, her eyes bulge out of her head and her skins turns into a violent hell storm rash. She came to my house once and lasted about an hour before I sent her home booting her and her inflamed skin out my door. Now she drops her daughter off at the door. I was interested in hearing Libby’s take on the dog situation, mostly because she doesn’t know Yasha all that well, and she sends her daughter over to our house on a regular basis to play amongst what could now be viewed as a vicious beast of a dog. Libby basically said, “Look, Yasha obviously felt threatened by you and thought you were going to kick her. She was being protective of herself just as you or I would have been if we thought someone was going to kick us. Putting her down for this would not be the right choice.” And then she said it, “Every dog gets one free bite.”

Then there was my father's opinion. My father, who adores my dog, gave quite a colorful rant on how he would have killed Yasha right then and there. Dad really loves Yasha, he loves her so much that once on a week long halibut trip, he rowed Yasha to the beach each morning and night so Yasha could go to the bathroom because Yasha refused to go on his boat out of respect. My dad loves my dog, but he loves me more.

I started thinking about it and Yasha went 7 years without biting anything other than her stuffed toys. She doesn’t bite the cat when he pounces on her head and bites her ears. She didn’t bite the pit bull that knocked me down while I was 8 months pregnant with Lena. And she didn’t bite the freak that touched my leg in the fair office. She also, not that I am aware of, hasn’t bitten the people who live behind me who I am almost 100% sure have harmed her making her terrified of them. Not much terrifies Yasha and she pretty much loves everyone. If my house is ever robbed, Yasha will gladly let them in and show them where all the valuables are kept. But there is something about the trash burning Quonset Hut dwelling neighbors living off a single extension cord that scares the living daylights out of her. She’s not so afraid that it stops her from going up and nosing through their garbage burn pile, but whenever I see her interact with the owners, she is frightened of them. I have never had a bad interaction with them, in fact, they recently dropped off a bunch of wood at the house and they once stopped by to tell me my renter left his headlights on. But each time they come to the door, Yasha wedges herself carefully between me and them and acts extremely skittish to each move they make. When they leave, she sits at the door and growls for quite some time. Either she has seen things up there that she knows are bad, or she’s been directly impacted by something bad.

Yasha is the third dog to bite me. The first was a Doberman Pinscher named Kona who bit me on the ear when I was a little girl. Kona had bitten before and no one seemed all too concerned by it as my ear bled like a stuck pig. My dad was there and he didn’t even kill the dog with his bare hands. The second was a German Shepherd with a bad attitude who jumped over a fence on 2nd Avenue in Ketchikan as I was walking by minding my own business. That dog had bitten several people and everyone knew it was a terror, but it was not put down. Then there is my very own dog who I worked long hours with as a pup training her not to bite, rubbing her gums with my fingers because that was supposed to “calm her urge” to chew/bite as a puppy.

As humans, we do stupid things all the time. Whether it’s say nasty things to one another or even deck someone in the face. Some of us still haven’t learned from these mistakes and continue to inflict harm on each other be it verbally or physically. We have been given second chances, third chances, so on and so forth. Which is why I want to give Yasha a second chance. This doesn’t mean I’m not going to be making some changes. First the kids need to know that we need to treat Yasha a little differently. She can’t be hung on like she used to be which means dress up is probably out of the picture. They also will need to leave any and all disciplining of her to an adult. Sometimes Yasha still gets excited and inadvertently knocks over a kid en route to the door or her dinner bowl. In the past, Lena or Aurelia would scold her tell her to watch it, but they can’t do that anymore. And, when we have other kids over, Yasha will spend some quality time in a bedroom or the shed with a chewy bone. Lastly and probably most important, Yasha got a wellness exam at the vet yesterday. She is now on anti-inflammatory medication to help with her terminal neck pain. This will hopefully make her less protective of her body. I can’t ignore what happened, but also can’t end her life based off what she interpreted as a threat to her body.

On another note, I am off crutches. I’m probably not ready to be yet, but I threw a riggin’ fit on Monday after having to crawl over a snow berm during rush hour traffic in downtown Juneau. My crutches sunk in 3 feet deep and I sunk along with them. In my attempt to dig my way out, I fell over and did a face plant in the berm. I dug out a crutch and started to throw it into the Goldbelt parking lot in a fit of rage while cursing up a storm when a taxi driver pulled over and asked me if I wanted a ride. I thanked him and told him I had one, I was just trying to reach it. He drove away and then came back and said, “I wasn’t going to charge you, you know.” Kindness in strangers is alive in Juneau. Friends also offered to be my chauffer, which I really appreciate, but I’m good to go. I drove myself to work on Tuesday and am hobbling along. My foot is still pretty sore, but it’s definitely getting better.