The Sickies

I'm sick. Really sick. The sickest I've been in years. Dr. Craven has diagnosed me with full blown influenza. Ick. Achy, coughing, stuffy head, fever, lathargic...I've spent almost two days in bed with one more day in store. I even missed Taco Tuesday last night.

However, I'm on the mend and have given up hope on any kind of sleep, so I'm going to finish this post. The last time I was significantly indisposed was almost one year ago, but I wasn't sick. Well, at least not in the traditional sense. Let me set the stage:

Boston Marathon, 2007. It was a dark and stormy night. For at least a week previously, Katie and I had been receiving emails from the BAA advising us of the incliment weather on its way and how to prepare for it. Upon our arrival at the expo, we were bombarded with pink sheets on how to recognize and rectify hypothermia. Katie and I not only chose to not dwell on it, but we mocked it. We had been training in the snow and sub-freezing temperatures all winter. It wasn't anything we hadn't seen before. No big deal. Scott tried to get us to take it a bit more seriously, but we wouldn't.

The day of the marathon we were all up in plenty of time due to the howling wind (I'd never heard anything like it) and pouring rain. The sky was dark and ominous as the day dawned. Barely a word was spoken as we cooked our oatmeal and packed our bags. A marathon in and of itself is a fairly daunting experience. This was my fourth and I knew the pain I was in for, even if the weather was cooperating. Add in the wind, rain, and freezing temperatures, and I knew I was in for a rough three-and-a-half hours (our goal time). As I considered the rotten weather, I reminded myself that I was in the best shape of my life. A little rain wasn't going to hurt. (Lies, all lies.)

We left Scott at home, expecting to see him at some point towards the end of the race, while Bill (our host for the weekend) dropped us off at the corner of the Boston Common on his way to work. It was still pouring; I was having second thoughts about the harmlessness of this rain. Katie and I made a break for the lines already forming for the busses. We got in line, staying as still as we could to conserve energy and to keep water from running into places it shouldn't. After about 5 minutes, I happened to glance across the street and saw deliverance. I made a beeline for the orange and pink sign across the street: Dunkin' Donuts. I ordered two extra-large hot chocolates and returned just in time to get loaded on a bus. We finished our vats of heavenly warmth near what we thought was the end of our bus ride. We soon discovered our bus driver was lost (how a bus gets lost amidst a caravan of hundreds is beyond me, but whatever). Meanwhile, the rain only increased in intensity and one of the joints above our seat started to leak – right into our empty hot chocolate cups. Drip. Drip. Drip. We burst out laughing, praying we were close and that the port-a-potty lines were short. We got both wishes, thankfully.

We made it to the starting corrals right on time. The crowd was incredible, horns blaring and cow bells clanging. Once we got through the mess of mile one, shooting through open holes, trying not to cut people off too badly, we were running even splits--7:45 pace. It had stopped raining about 10 minutes before the race, so by mile two I had already tied my windbreaker around my waist. The rain started back up around mile 8, but by then it was a refreshing change; despite the chilliness of the day, I was roasting as usual.

Katie and I talked about everything: boys, school, infectious diseases (she is Dr. Craven, after all), and quoted many, many movies ("what fer? there's only three little ones!"). I know it sounds crazy, but we were having a great time.

Then we hit mile 17. I could feel my legs fatiguing in an unfamiliar way and at an unfamiliar time. I ignored the feeling as best as I could; I knew I was in better shape than to be tired already. Mile 18 passed, and my steps were coming with increasing effort. I shook out my arms a little and rolled my neck, trying to loosen up a little bit. Katie shot me a side glance and asked how I was doing. I lied and said I was fine, our normal shtick.

Scott burst out of the crowd around mile 18 and annouced he was going to run with us for a while, an unexpected surprise. We hit the first hill at mile 19. The Seven Brides for Seven Brothers "what fer, it's just three little ones" joke was long since over as I felt like I was plodding through mud. I had just barely recovered when hill number two came. The fatigue hit hard at the top and I cut Katie loose. I knew she was feeling good and wanted to take off, and I couldn't go with her. She told me she'd meet me at the top of Heartbreak. I pretended to believe her. She left me with Scott; we were still running at a pretty good pace – I had slowed to about 8:20 – but I felt like crying.

I have very few memories of miles 21 through 25. Scott tried to distract me with stories but I couldn't get over the fact that something was not right. As soon as we had come over the last hill and began our descent into the city, the wind picked up something fierce and I had neither the presence of mind nor the capability of putting my windbreaker back on. I barely heard his last story. I could only think about how cold I was. The tears spilled over. My only memories of the last two miles are of Scott running along-side me yelling to the crowd to “cheer for Julie!”

The last mile is deep with fans. It is the perfect place for "bandit" runners like Scott to disappear, and I knew he was planning on leaving me there. I told him he couldn't leave because when I crossed that line, I was going to pass out and I needed him to catch me. I know, it sounds dramatic; I had never passed out without a blow to the head before, but somehow I knew it was true. He agreed to stay. We rounded the last corner, the roar of the crowd defeaning.

“Julie! Look! The finish line! Isn’t it beautiful?”

I couldn’t say anything. I could barely see anything. The finish line was a blurry light at the end of a very foggy, dim tunnel. When we crossed, I had the presence of mind to stop my watch; I needed to know my time. I won't pretend I wasn't disappointed when it finally registered: 3:41:17. I had missed requalifying by 18 seconds. 18 measely seconds.

“Ma’am, do you need help?” I registered the female voice and answered in my head, ‘No I don’t need help,’ but the words wouldn’t form on my lips.

“Ma’am, do you need a wheelchair?” A wheelchair? Of course not. Still, I couldn’t form the words.

“Julie, can you hear me?” Scott's voice. I looked up at him, my mind screaming defiantly I didn’t need help, but still no words. I looked at him helplessly before I swayed; he caught me.

“Put her in the wheelchair,” I heard him say. I couldn’t even fight them. I was lowered into the wheelchair and taken into the medical tent, fighting muted feelings of humiliation. I vaguely remember seeing rows and rows of beds and registering the blessed absence of wind. I tried to talk again.

“I don’t know what happened out there.” My words were thick and slurred. I stopped and tried again. “My legs felt like lead.” I sounded drunk, unintelligibly drunk. I stopped trying to talk; it took far too much energy. One volunteer asked Scott what I had said. He just shrugged.

I was placed on the edge of a cot and was poked and prodded by a volunteer who noted that I was soaked all the way through. My brain rationally thought out, ‘Well, I should get out of these clothes then.’ I calmly and silently stripped off my wet hat, jacket and shirt; Scott just as silently walked away. The volunteers quickly wrapped numerous blankets around me and laid me back on the cot. They then announced they were going to take my temperature. I thought they were crazy; I was freezing, not hot. The woman stuck a thermometer in my ear. When it beeped, she pulled it out and looked at it. She shot a grave look at the second volunteer at my side.

“92 degrees,” she said quietly as she handed her the thermometer over my body. The second lady took my temperature in my other ear. 92.1 degrees. I knew the number was all wrong, but I couldn't figure out in which direction.

“We need a bear hug over here!” The first woman yelled. Immediately there were three new people at my side, one taking my blood pressure, one touching my feet asking if I could feel them (I could but just barely), and one trying to get my personal information. I got scared and started crying; I hated feeling so helpless. I asked Scott through my tears what was going on (it sounded more like "wuzgoinon"). He explained that I was just a little cold and that I needed to get warmed up.

The first volunteer came back with a bear hug, which was this blanket with a tube attached to it. The tube blew in hot air and enveloped my body's core in immediate warmth. As soon as that got situated, the questions from the volunteers began. Scott translated the unintelligible answers. The warmer I got, the clearer my speech became. However, my filter was broken; I was delirious.

Example #1:
"Do you watch Grey's Anatomy?" I asked the nurse.
"No. Do you?"
"No, terrible show. But I saw this one episode when Meredith fell in the freezing cold water and died. McDreamy brought her back to life. I've always been afraid of drowning. And dying of hypothermia." Neither of which is true.

Example #2:
[after I'd been in the medical tent for a while]
“Scott?”
“Yes, Julie.”
“I’m starving.”
“Well, what do you want?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “I want a donut.”
“Uh, Julie, I don’t think they have donuts here. But let me ask to see what they do have.” He grabbed our volunteer as she rushed by us again. “Excuse me. She says she is starving. Do you have anything she could eat?”
"A donut!" I yelled from my cot.
“No, we don’t have anything to eat, but we do have broth. Would you like some?” She proposed this option as if it was ten times better than a donut. (By the way, the lack of food was a total lie. Once my body temperature was above 95, they let me eat as many potato chips as I wanted.)
“Broth? 26.2 miles and I all I get is broth?” The volunteer's look told me that was exactly the situation. I thought about pointing out that if I'd walked through the finishing chute they would have given me food, but instead I responded, “Fine, I’ll take the broth." Unreasonable and surly.

Example #3:
Scott went over to a table in the middle of the tent and grabbed two cups full of broth. I was still mummified in blankets and the bear hug, so he set one down on the ground to free up a hand to put behind my head; he carefully pressed the cup of broth to my lips. The liquid was like manna from heaven, nectar from Olympia; I could feel myself being warmed from the inside out as it made its way down my esaphogus. I closed my eyes in delight. He was my savior.

“Scott, I love you.” Yep. Still delirious. He was getting a huge kick out of this.
“I love you, too, Julie," he replied patronizingly. "Drink your broth.”

Example #4:
My temperature had risen to 95 degrees in about 30 minutes. They took away my bear hug to revive another runner. I had gotten warm enough to start shaking uncontrollably. It seemed inconsistent to me for them to take away my warmth just as I started shivering, but that response indicated to them that I was in the clear. Scott, no doubt cold himself, offered me his sweatshirt. According to him, my eyes lit up like it was Christmas morning as I exclaimed, "I had a dream you had a dry sweatshirt for me!"

There were several other incidents. Almost an hour in a delirious state provides years of entertainment in storytelling. Such as Scott telling the nurse all of my food allergies and making up their side effects to get me to start revealing more information (we're not in the car anymore...); me realizing the nurse thought Scott was my boyfriend because he knew so much information about me (when in reality it's just a function of spending countless hours together on runs) and blurting out my observation, effectively mocking the nurse; I'm sure there are others that Scott is just holding in his arsenal for the perfect moment.

Lest you think marathoners are crazy...well, I have no defense. We are. There is a certain satisfaction we derive from pushing our bodies to their outer limits and beyond. However, that being said, I think I'm done pushing those particular limits. :) I've banked enough running stories to last me a lifetime. And now I think it's time for me to go back to bed. A donut sounds really good right about now.