I have been approached to by a car company to be one of 160 a sponsored athletes. This is normally an honor that is reserved for the most elite athletes, not weekend warriors like myself. I won't be getting a big check, fancy car, a personal DJ, or any other really lucrative rewards stars receive, but for every media appearance I would make I'd get paid. I'd need to do 4 tri's this season (by October 31) . In exchange I'd get some free stuff (pricey tri apparel & a little more), plus the honor and privilege of being among the elite (the folks who will readily run over my ass when the start gun is fired).
Is this selling out? Selling my story? I can read the bi-line now, hometown girl on her way to becoming the next Lance Armstrong. All for a moment of glory.
I'd be endorsing is hybrid cars (who's against that!?)
I’m pretty excited by the possibility, and I’m trying to contain my enthusiasm until I can figure out if I'm really up for the challenge.
Friday, June 29
Wednesday, June 27
stop it.
A good friend's husband just got diagnosed with brain cancer.
I am so mad that it happened again.
I'm mad it happened to them.
I'm sad that they have to go through all the crap I did.
I want to wrap my arms around them and tell them it will be okay.
I want to protect them,
I want to give them everything I learned.
Most of all I want for them never to have to go through any of this.
Suddenly becoming like the couple that helped us get through cancer makes sense to me. They were a couple from church who just went through breast cancer. Their passion, compassion, and wisdom helped us through the foggy roads we went down. I think this has got to be what survivorship means.
I am so mad that it happened again.
I'm mad it happened to them.
I'm sad that they have to go through all the crap I did.
I want to wrap my arms around them and tell them it will be okay.
I want to protect them,
I want to give them everything I learned.
Most of all I want for them never to have to go through any of this.
Suddenly becoming like the couple that helped us get through cancer makes sense to me. They were a couple from church who just went through breast cancer. Their passion, compassion, and wisdom helped us through the foggy roads we went down. I think this has got to be what survivorship means.
Tuesday, June 26
The Learning Curve of Gratitude, Mary Chapin Carpenter
Weekend Edition Sunday, June 24, 2007 · I believe in what I learned at the grocery store.
Eight weeks ago, I was released from the hospital after suffering a pulmonary embolism. I had just finished a tour and a week after returning home, severe chest pain and terrible breathlessness landed me in the ER. A scan revealed blood clots in my lungs.
Everyone told me how lucky I was. A pulmonary embolism can take your life in an instant. I was familiar enough with the medical term, but not familiar with the pain, the fear and the depression that followed.
Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crew members go. The record company, the booking agency: I felt that I had let everyone down.
But there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well.
I tried hard to see my unexpected time off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn't concentrate. I would turn on the radio, then shut if off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head, and I couldn't make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse, filling me with anxiety, fear and self-loathing — all of the ingredients of the darkness that is depression.
Sometimes, it's the smile of a stranger that helps. Sometimes it's a phone call from a long absent friend, checking on you. I found my lifeline at the grocery store.
One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him and I knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and I sat in my car and cried.
What I want more than ever is to appreciate that I have this day, and tomorrow and hopefully days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude.
I don't want to say "have a nice day" like a robot. I don't want to get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don't want to go crazy when my Internet access is messed up. I don't want to be jealous of someone else's success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don't want to be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.
I don't know if my doctors will ever be able to give me the precise reason why I had a life-threatening illness. I do know that the young man in the grocery store reminded me that every day is all there is, and that is my belief.
Tonight I will cook dinner, tell my husband how much I love him, curl up with the dogs, watch the sun go down over the mountains and climb into bed. I will think about how uncomplicated it all is. I will wonder at how it took me my entire life to appreciate just one day.
Eight weeks ago, I was released from the hospital after suffering a pulmonary embolism. I had just finished a tour and a week after returning home, severe chest pain and terrible breathlessness landed me in the ER. A scan revealed blood clots in my lungs.
Everyone told me how lucky I was. A pulmonary embolism can take your life in an instant. I was familiar enough with the medical term, but not familiar with the pain, the fear and the depression that followed.
Everything I had been looking forward to came to a screeching halt. I had to cancel my upcoming tour. I had to let my musicians and crew members go. The record company, the booking agency: I felt that I had let everyone down.
But there was nothing to do but get out of the hospital, go home and get well.
I tried hard to see my unexpected time off as a gift, but I would open a novel and couldn't concentrate. I would turn on the radio, then shut if off. Familiar clouds gathered above my head, and I couldn't make them go away with a pill or a movie or a walk. This unexpected time was becoming a curse, filling me with anxiety, fear and self-loathing — all of the ingredients of the darkness that is depression.
Sometimes, it's the smile of a stranger that helps. Sometimes it's a phone call from a long absent friend, checking on you. I found my lifeline at the grocery store.
One morning, the young man who rang up my groceries and asked me if I wanted paper or plastic also told me to enjoy the rest of my day. I looked at him and I knew he meant it. It stopped me in my tracks. I went out and I sat in my car and cried.
What I want more than ever is to appreciate that I have this day, and tomorrow and hopefully days beyond that. I am experiencing the learning curve of gratitude.
I don't want to say "have a nice day" like a robot. I don't want to get mad at the elderly driver in front of me. I don't want to go crazy when my Internet access is messed up. I don't want to be jealous of someone else's success. You could say that this litany of sins indicates that I don't want to be human. The learning curve of gratitude, however, is showing me exactly how human I am.
I don't know if my doctors will ever be able to give me the precise reason why I had a life-threatening illness. I do know that the young man in the grocery store reminded me that every day is all there is, and that is my belief.
Tonight I will cook dinner, tell my husband how much I love him, curl up with the dogs, watch the sun go down over the mountains and climb into bed. I will think about how uncomplicated it all is. I will wonder at how it took me my entire life to appreciate just one day.
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