Last Rites and Hill Repeats

It’s Friday.  Friday is supposed to be my rest day from running and training.  It’s supposed to be the day I sleep a little longer and spend a bit more time with my coffee and my laptop before the kids wake up and chaos ensues.  But today, I wake up at 5:03 a.m. and think, “I really don’t want to take today off.  I feel like running.”  I just want to go.  Move. Think.  Pray.  So, I head out with no particular route in mind – simply thankful that it’s Friday, that the kids are happy, that the sun is yawning awake, and that God has granted me the opportunity to do this one more day.

I run up and out of the neighborhood and find myself across the street heading toward the little community park.  While I’m not sure exactly why, I detour from the main path and stride up the steep hill toward the playground.  As I’m running up the hill, a flood of memories hit me so hard I feel like the wind has been knocked out of me.  This was the same hill that I walked up every day for at least four years pushing a double jogging stroller – and I remember that every day, the hill seemed to get steeper as the two little passengers, my boy/girl twins, began to grow up.

When I crest the top of the steep incline, I’m out of breath, walking the last few feet thinking about the twins – McKenna and Jack.  These two decided to come into the world in 2002 with a flourish – six weeks early with their own agenda about who is in charge and who will prove to be the weakest of the three of us.  It took me only a few moments to realize that, indeed, I was the weaker.  Then, it took me only a few more days to realize that these two bundles of joy might possibly be the death of me.  In fact, four days after their birth and four days as their vigilant watchman in the neonatal ICU, I was admitted to the hospital with streptococcus pneumonia.

I was now quarantined from my babies even though they were only two floors below me.  I was quarantined from anyone with a weakened immune system, but quite frankly, most people quarantined themselves from me.  I was grossly sick – from how I looked to how I sounded.  My lungs were only working at about 50 percent capacity because they were filled with fluid from the bacteria and I had sepsis which literally caused my skin to boil.  On the first night, in my semi-lucid state, I remember waking up to “Touched by an Angel” on the TV with a nurse by my bedside helping rouse me awake so he could administer a breathing treatment.  The coughing fits that ensued after these treatments were so violent that an injection of some narcotic was always required.  But, the breathing treatments helped me feel like I was finally pushing myself up to the surface after a long dive underwater.  After a few minutes, I would finally feel relief from what I called ‘bubble-breathing.’

Sometimes when life gets really burdensome, I still think about bubble-breathing – it seems like a fitting way to describe the effort and strain of something that’s supposed to be so natural.

Now as I’m running back down the steep hill with full, healthy lungs and a grateful heart, the words of the doctor come back to me. He said, “You are a very sick girl.  You will get better, but you will not walk without discomfort for a year and you may never run again. The lung scarring from this type of disease will take its toll.”  The only thing I heard during that short conversation with the doctor was, “You will get better.”  I didn’t hear anything after that because at that time, in my twilight daze, my focus was to simply survive – the rest would be a bonus.  Yes, a bonus I think as I’m running so fast down the hill that little giggles are squeaking out from the rush of speed and the thoughts that my out-of-control spinning legs may not actually keep me upright.

Where the hill took us.

At the bottom of the hill, I’m readying myself to head back up – as fast as I can.  I’ve cued my music to play “Hey Now,” by Above and Beyond (London Grammar remix), on repeat so that the ‘drop’ occurs just as I’ve hit the top of the hill and the manufactured sound of the going-crazy-crowd cheers for me as I fly back down.  As I’m pushing myself back up the hill, I recall one more thing that happened during my lengthy stay at Littleton Adventist Hospital.  On my second day, I remember waking up to an unfamiliar voice telling me that he’s here to read me my Last Rites.  With my limited Catholic school education – which succeeded in showing me only how much of a disappointment I was to God – and my drug-induced semi-consciousness, all I could think was that this priest was here to prepare me for my death – God’s final plan for the girl who was of no value to Him.

Eased by high doses of intravenous antibiotics and Dilaudid, with pure oxygen flowing through a tube into my nose, I tried to focus on the foggy image leaning up against the window sill.  I may never know exactly what I said to the priest that day, but this is what I remember – even if it was pure delirium.  “Please go away and leave me.  I’m scared.  And you’re scaring me more.  If God wants me to die, I will die without his prayers.”  As I drifted back to sleep, I was certain that what happened to me from that point on would simply be up to fate.  Then, I dreamed about Heaven and angels and God.  When I was gently awoken for my 2 a.m. breathing treatment, “Touched by an Angel” was again on the TV.  Strangely, like last time, I had no idea where the TV remote was nor was I in any condition to try to use one.  I honestly didn’t know how the TV even got turned on.

I’m on my sixth hill repeat, and while my body is weakening, the images in my mind are strong.  Although I am working hard, this hill doesn’t seem nearly as steep and as hard as it was ten years ago.  Sure, I’m not pushing a baby jogger with two toddlers, but it’s something else.  I feel lighter – in my heart.  You see, I recovered from the pneumonia and I did get better.  I was discharged from the hospital after eight days, picked up my babies from the NICU and settled into a new routine with two infants and a 6-year-old.  It took me six weeks to walk a mile without getting out of breath and light-headed, and a year to run up this same hill.  But, each day I ran up that hill with the playground as our destination, I thought about how ‘lucky’ I was to be here.  Maybe I wasn’t exactly thinking about God in those moments, but I’m pretty sure he was thinking about me.  Unfortunately, it took me the next ten years to believe I was really worth anything in the eyes of God.

 “I gave in, and admitted that God was God.” (Author C.S. Lewis)

Today is a different story, I think as the breeze blows the tall, feathery grasses along the path.  I know what’s in my heart.  Then and now, I have been protected by a loving God.  And, doing these hill repeats creates profound perspective from which I can look back on the journey and see things with new eyes.  My softened heart and my renewed faith give me such relief as I finish the last hill.  With the drumming beat of “Hey Now” motivating my tired legs and the bright sunshine washing over my cheeks, I slowly head back home thinking about the chaotic and crazy day that’s ahead – but I’m at peace, feeling so blessed and thankful that it is.