On Patience

I was scrolling through my old Instagram photos tonight and stumbled upon this one and started crying.

Not because this run was recorded in a park, a place no longer open to New Jersey runners during the pandemic.

I cried because of the time it lists.

Twenty-four minutes.

***

The activity at the top might say “walk,” but I was trying to run that day. This was recorded three months after my foot surgery.

I remember being slightly embarrassed to post it. For several years before this, I usually posted 10- to 11-minute miles.

I also remember being scared. When I got back on that course again, I didn’t know what might happen. But my physical therapist told me I had to make myself walk, particularly on grass, if I wanted my toe to cooperate again.

***

I’d torn a tendon in it trying to check off “beat a number-one seed in tennis.” Basically, the series of events went like this:

Back in March, a month after I’d been laid off by my employer of seven years, I was frustrated. So many things had changed in my life so rapidly since starting the list. How could I now handle being jobless, too?

One morning, on my train ride to work, I got a text from a friend. He wanted me to do something I didn’t feel comfortable with for his business—actually, he’d already assumed I’d feel comfortable doing it, and given my email address to a stranger with the assumption doing so was just fine. I wasn’t really annoyed by this, but I didn’t like it that one more thing was happening to which I hadn’t given my permission. So I said, “no.”

It was uncharacteristic of me to do that—most people know that if you ask me to help with something, I say “yes,” probably 95 percent of the time. But in this case, which felt like a minor case to me, I rebelled. I said I’m sorry, but I don’t feel comfortable doing that.

My friend was shockingly livid with me. He thought I was accusing him of stealing my identity. He couldn’t understand why I couldn’t do this simple little thing.

But I’d had enough. Of life. I was exhausted. I didn’t like the expectation that I’d cooperate anymore.

***

This same friend is a tennis coach, and a few months later, I needed his help.

We’d since patched things up. We’d both apologized. We’d had an awkward hug. Things were fine.

But they weren’t really fine for me. I was still annoyed that he’d been annoyed.

Before I went vegan, and sometimes on rare occasions even now, whenever I was secretly angry about something, my stomach would balloon. My digestion would just plain shut down. Doctors called it IBS, but I’ve often thought it was just my body imitating what my heart was doing: holding something in. Refusing to digest it.

So the day we were supposed to play tennis, to help me check off this list item, my stomach filled up. My husband and I went out to the courts. We played a few rounds. I’m usually better than Steven at tennis—I knew this was just a warm-up for playing my friend. Who actually charges money for lessons. He claimed he was no “number-one seed,” but I was certain he must be—or at least was at one time.

After an hour, my stomach determined I needed to find a bathroom. So Steven and I took a break.

As I walked around the high school, searching for an open door or a Porta-potty, he decided to run one mile straight, without walking. He was inspired by all the running gurus he’d been studying. Steven was a runner before I ever was, but he usually walked a little…and often gave up after a few miles. It never caught on for him, as far as long distance went. He always blamed this on his severe asthma. But I had a hunch that, like my IBS, some of it was mental.

Still, I was nervous leaving him alone on the track to accomplish this. Mostly I was nervous he wouldn’t make himself stop in time and die of an attack.

After one long walk around the high school, I gave up on finding a bathroom. I found him on the school’s track and he told me, out of breath, “I’ve almost done a whole mile!” Warily, I walked back to the tennis court and let him finish it.

Once I considered turning back. But I needed to trust that he could do this. And that he’d take care of himself if he couldn’t.

***

That was the day Steven ran his first mile.

He was so pumped by the accomplishment, and I was so sick, that when our friend arrived, he decided he’d better be the one to play tennis with him instead.

I was not OK with that arrangement.

***

I insisted I still play, despite my stomach now resembling a beach ball.

We did OK for a little while. He was taking it easy on us. He hit from one side while Steven and I hit from the other, the same way my dad always played with my brother and me when we were kids.

My dad always said I had the best backhand, despite having no peripheral vision in my right eye (so it was often blind), and my brother had the power forehand. My brother almost always played on the right side of the court and I on the left.

The right-eye thing is an impairment, but it’s not that big of a deal. I just have to turn my head a lot. I was born with it—it’s a rare birth defect. Somehow, it didn’t often hurt me in sports growing up, I guess because most sports are right-handed. I had some trouble with the surfing and sailing list items, though. And my tuxedo photographer only photographed me from the left when I told him I’d go cross-eyed on the right side.

But overall, it’s never been a big problem—except when it came to my confidence as a teen. I never saw myself as attractive, because of this one defect that, when it happened, made me look a little odd. It made me focus more on controlling how others saw me than on exploring my own view.

But that’s what lots of teenage girls do.

***

On the court that day, I couldn’t remember for the life of me how I’d done so well with that blind backhand for so many years. I actually got good at tennis—I played on my high school team. But now, at 40, it wasn’t going so well.

My friend played me alone. He stopped being as easy on me. He started playing for real.

I couldn’t score a point on him. Not one.

And when he hit a short lob into the far left of the court, I ran for it, certain my blind backhand could swipe it.

Instead, when I caught up to the ball and stopped short, I felt a pop in my left foot. I swung and missed.

“Damn it!” I yelled.

***

I ignored the partially torn tendon between my second and third toes for two months. Thanks mostly to my penchant for rushing around everywhere, wearing preposterous shoes and not being able to see to the right, I’d broken toes at least three times, maybe four. Enough that I couldn’t remember how many times. I assumed this was a similar injury and just taped the gradually spreading toes together.

When the very mild pain got annoying enough—aka, when I ran a trail 5K with Steven that August, much of which was through mud and down steep hills, and the tear got even worse—I finally saw a doctor.

***

Dr. Larsen gave me a steroid shot on my first visit. He said if that didn’t fix it, to come back.

It didn’t fix it.

I went to see him again. This time I got a second steroid shot and was offered stem cell implants. My insurance wouldn’t cover that, and it would have been thousands of dollars, so I asked for the alternative.

“There’s only one,” he said. “Surgery.”

The doctor said he liked putting off that option as long as possible because foot surgery can be tricky. So often, it goes wrong. Those little bones and tendons and ligaments are so tiny and so numerous, it’s pretty amazing they do all they do to help us function, to help us do the most basic thing most of us take for granted every day: walk.

Despite the risk, I knew I needed these toes fixed. I still had to check off tennis. I still had to check off golf. And sailing. There were multiple physical list items left, not to mention the travel, not to mention that I’m a runner. Not to mention that I’d committed to become a triathlete and complete an Ironman once this is done.

So I got another steroid shot for my trip to London. And we scheduled surgery.

***

I’ll save the details of the surgery and recovery for my book, but let’s just say it wasn’t pretty.

I was ill-prepared for how serious it would be, as were most people in my life. Being stuck on a couch for two months changed me drastically.

I was afraid. Everything felt so uncertain. What if I’d made a mistake getting the surgery? What if my toe never looked/worked the same way again? What if I’d made a mistake doing this list at all? What if it robbed me of the thing I loved to do more than anything else (except writing and drawing): run.

Meanwhile, my husband was becoming a runner.

***

Steven would come home from a run exalted. He’d tell me about all of his stats, astonished by his improvement. He’d developed a real love of the sport that had absolutely nothing to do with me.

This is it, I thought. I’ve now entered my hell.

I had no job. I had barely any money. I couldn’t think straight to write because of the painkillers. I was in withdrawal because of the painkillers and probably getting depressed. I needed help getting to the bathroom. I showered sitting on a bucket.

I couldn’t walk, much less run.

And all because of a stupid tennis match.

***

As Steven improved, I gradually learned what it was to be the supporter. Not that I hadn’t supported him in his endeavors many times before, in an equal capacity as he had mine. But I’d been a marathoner a few years, so it was mostly him at my finish lines, taking photos, being a pit crew, doing everything he needed to do when I took on these races. And he was there again, in a similar capacity, when I started the list. And he was there every night, walking me to the bathroom, making the meals I ate, my new definition of success.

Surely I could suck it up enough to cheer at his first sprint triathlon. And at another 5K he did without me the next spring.

And I did.

And it felt good. It was healthy. I knew it was good for me to let myself lean on him the way that I did. And I knew it was good for my faith to support him while I waited to get better—if I ever got better.

***

My second day at physical therapy, my therapist made me cry.

The first session, with his wife, had been so wonderful. She’d massaged my foot so gently and used soothing words. She was the first person who’d touched my foot in two months.

But her husband was a different story.

This guy was telling me I was an “aging runner” and I had to stop pushing myself as hard as I had when I was young.

“When I was young?” I asked, surprised. “I’ve only been doing this for five years!”

As my foot received its massage from the machine, he demonstrated some stretches I could do to get ready to go run again, and I burst into tears.

“No!” I said. “I’m not ready for that yet! I can’t even walk right now!”

The mere idea that I’d ever be out there again was too heartbreaking. I’d gotten through the whole experience by not thinking about it. By just accepting my new normal.

***

By my seventh week, Oscar had me on the treadmill. We’d gotten to know each other. He’d told me he used to be a great soccer player, but injured his Achilles. That was when he discovered physical therapy would be his life.

I’d tried to explain my journey with the list, which he seemed alternately inspired by and nervous about. After all, this guy made a living keeping people safe. He couldn’t believe I’d jumped out of a plane—he was afraid of heights. He said there were lots of things he’d dreamt of doing but never done. I always told him, “It’s never too late.”

It was hard for him to shake this idea that I was a type A woman who needed to slow down. Most of his clients were injured football players, who’d done nothing in their lives but focus aggressively on one pursuit. He talked about them like they needed balance but were too hard-headed to find it.

I’d gotten this injury because of trying something new, I’d remind him. Everything with the list came with a risk—I wasn’t going after one thing aggressively. I was doing the opposite of that now.

Focusing only on my career was what I used to do, I told him.

***

By our final session, as I lay on the weights machine pushing with my legs, Oscar told me my form was wrong.

Countless times, he’d joked with me about how great it would be when my husband could see me in stilettos again. And I’d groaned.

When he said I needed to pull my knees further apart, I joked, “But Oscar, I’m a lady.”

“Nah,” he said. “You’re an athlete.”

***

So many times I’ve wondered if list items are meant to help me or help the person who’s helping me. So often it seems to be both.

Injuring myself playing tennis helped more people than most.

It helped me in a multitude of ways, despite being my greatest failure. Because of being my greatest failure.

These days, I don’t just say “no” to someone because I feel like it. I hear them out.

I don’t berate myself for needing help anymore. I let myself ask for it.

And I don’t feel some kind of pressure to always be achieving, athletic or otherwise. Oscar was right about that part.

I’m OK with being the audience. I’m OK with taking care of myself, with feeling things out until I feel well enough. I don’t force things like I used to. I trust the process.

It absolutely helped my husband. Though he’d likely say otherwise, I think not having me be the runner in the family gave him enough space to find his love of running on his own. He proved to himself what he need to prove, he set off on his own journey with it. And it had nothing to do with me at all.

See, he understands something I didn’t when I set out to run, and especially when I set out to do the list: patience.

***

When we run together now, he waits for me. I’m slower than he is. Though not as slow as I was two years ago after surgery, at that 24-minute pace.

That’s why I cried when I saw that tonight.

Most nights this week when I ran a mile with my husband, my mile was back to 11 minutes.

My old time.

***

We’re training together now, he and I. That’s not something we ever did before. I suppose this is partly because we’re stuck inside. But I’m mostly following his lead.

And pretty soon we’ll be holding our own tennis tournament—inside our apartment.

***

We always play tennis on the Fourth of July, and by the first one after my surgery, I was nervous. I was doing pretty well with walking. And I could even jog a little bit. I’d gone for one run. My time was hideous, but I was doing it.

Surely, though, once we were back on the court, I’d reinjure my toe, I thought.

My doctor said it would take “something extreme” to do it. I’m known to do “extreme” in the best of times. So that didn’t calm me.

I looked at the list once more and realized something I’d missed before—the paper was folded beneath “beat a number one seed.” I took the notebook paper out of the frame and unfolded it.

“In a tournament” it said, on the next line.

“Steven!” I yelled. “I read the list item wrong. It says I have to beat the number one in a tournament!”

That day on the courts, I thought all I had to do was beat my friend in one game! I thought it would be my quickest list item yet! Instead it’s been my longest.

Not really thinking about it, I joked with Steven, “Well, I guess you’re the number-one seed in this house now.”

“…wait a minute…” I said. “You’re the number-one seed! That means all I have to do is beat you!”

“Yeah,” he said. “In a tournament.”

***

I joked a few times the next year that I’d check off “have my own tennis court” by buying a Ping-pong table. Considering my dad’s sense of humor, it makes sense that this joke is now coming true.

My brothers miss sports. We need something to keep us occupied. And a Ping-pong table is a hell of a lot cheaper than my own country club.

The only problem: Steven is genuinely a number-one seed at Ping-pong.

***

I’ll post in the coming weeks photos and videos of our tournament. I think we will play 13 games. We played two real tennis matches last summer, and he beat me each time. It wasn’t even close—6-3; 6-1. I was lucky I got one or three sets, given I was letting most backhand shots sail right by, too afraid to jump after them.

What Steven doesn’t know yet is I’m not afraid anymore.