Introducing Chopper

Henry has been an only child for five years now. We got him from a hobby breeder in the middle of nowhere and brought him home at 8 weeks old. He has always been ours, always had a warm home, plenty of food and lots of love. All that said, he's still a nervous little guy. He's a very typical dachshund. They're territorial, vocal, alert and full of personality. He thinks he's a rottweiler. We got a pure bred because neither of us had raised a puppy in a long time, and a pure bred gave us a better idea of the traits we'd be getting. There was no way anyone could have predicted the wild ride Henry would end up being, but he's ours and we love him as much as most people love their children.

After a great deal of thought, we decided to get another dog. Our hope was that Henry would bond with another dog and relax a bit. At the very least, he would have a playmate. We wanted to rescue a dog this time, and started working with beagle and dachshund rescues to get approval and find our new addition. It was a three year old, 15lb black and tan doxie that took us out to the Petsmart near Mount Vernon. Lost Dog and Cat Foundation was having an adoption event there at 1pm. We got there at 1:10pm to find the dog already adopted.

Ethan and his boys, Jack and Mack, were with us. Henry was along for the ride, since he'd cast his vote before we brought anyone home. We were all a little annoyed at our luck. The folks from Lost Dog told us there were a couple of other doxies at an event in Sterling -- no where near Mount Vernon or our house for that matter. We had 45 minutes to get there.

When we got there, Jack and Mack were bouncing off the walls ready for us to get Henry's brother. It didn't take long to figure out that Henry had no interest whatsoever in the other doxies or any of the smaller dogs for that matter. We were on our way out when I saw a face that melted my heart. His name was Derek, and Henry just sat down beside him. Other than the fact he was going to need a new name, it seemed like we'd been led on a wild chase across Northern Virginia to find our boy.

We filled out the application, passed our interview and walked out the proud parents of a 25lb, 5-month-old Vizsla mix. He wasn't exactly what we'd planned, but it seems like the stars aligned to bring us to him.

After about a week, we finally settled on the name Chopper because his tail wags in a circular motion instead of back and forth. It took a couple of those days for Henry to really warm up to him. Until then, Henry just kept giving us a look like, "When is that leaving?" Then, they started playing. They've only stopped to eat and sleep since.

Chopper is a chill, affectionate and smart. He is a loving and loveable creature that exudes happiness. It's apparent he wants to please and just wants to be close to us and loved. I'll never understand how he ended up in a kill shelter in West Virginia. It's tragic to think this lovebug could have been put down had Lost Dog not taken him. We were given all sorts of cautions about issues a rescue dog can have -- not eating, anxiety. Many dogs never really get over being abandoned, but luckily, Chopper seems unphased by his experience. He's slept well, eaten well and taken to his brother and the good life like a duck to water. Yes, I'm pretty sure it was meant to be.

If you're considering bringing a pet into your home, please make sure you know what you're getting into, make a commitment to loving it like a child and making it a member of your family, and most of all, please consider adoption. There are more fur babies than will ever find homes. Too many don't find their way to rescue. From the look on that face, I think Chopper knows he's one of the lucky ones.

All that matters

Joe is on his way to Newport News tonight. He's got an early morning meeting with the city manager, and it didn't make sense to try and drive down there before the meeting tomorrow, so he's staying at a hotel tonight. That's not really my point though.

Every time, Joe packs a bag and leaves to go anywhere without me it takes a great deal of intellectual assertion and mental control to keep from panicking that I will never see him again. I try to remember every detail of telling him goodbye in case it's the last memory I have of him. I'm always sure to tell him to be careful and that I love him. Nothing left unsaid.

My head knows that I am reacting to an engrained reaction to having lost my father at a very young age. I know that I'm projecting my mother's life onto my own. I know there is no family curse that puts him in danger. That doesn't keep my heart from feeling like it's being squeezed by a large hand. It doesn't mean my soul doesn't feel like it's being ripped in two. It doesn't stop the headache that I get from fighting the anxiety.

I am grateful to have the intelligence, rationality and cognitive training to handle the irrational emotions behind my anxiety, but it doesn't really matter what I think or do. All that matters is the person who means the most to me in the entire world is away, and nothing will be right again until he's home.

Never say goodbye

Heading to Nashville for the Country Music Half Marathon was surreal. I was ready. I'd been training for six months, but it always seemed like it was in the future, out there lingering. I could barely believe when I was standing in my corral the morning of the race. We had all separated by the first mile. I was hot and miserable, and this wasn't my usual quiet morning run with familiar faces. Breathing wasn't easy, and by mile 4 I was on the verge of a panic attack. I felt claustrophobic, except I was in the wide-open outside with lots of people. What was wrong with me?! It's taken a week for me to piece it all together.

Just before mile 12, I was falling apart. I realized training and the race was what was holding me together about losing so much last year. I didn't want it to be over. I was dreading finishing the race. I didn't want to say goodbye.

I kept moving my feet, and in the last mile I came to grips with the fact that the race was going to end whether I finished or not. I started running. I ran faster and faster, and I sprinted the last quarter mile. I crossed the finish line at a pace I've never run before. Most importantly, I finished on my terms.

Last night, I dreamed about Mark. It's the second time in the last few months. The first time, he was lying on a couch, unconscious and obviously sick. People were there and I kept checking on him. I was confused because I knew in some corner of my subconscious that he was dead, but I was hearing him breathe.

Last night, I showed up at this place, and Mark was standing at the door. I just grabbed him and hugged him as long and as hard as I could. I heard his voice tell me he was still here and he was fine. Then, we were back in the room again with Mark on the couch only this time I paid attention to who was in the room with me. It was Marie and Stephanie and Kim and Bethany and Robb and Jennifer and Ryan and a bunch of other people who knew Mark. We were laughing and talking, and Mark was quietly lying on the couch, awake this time, and smiling.

I went for a run when I woke up. Along the way, I found clarity. Mark is still here, and he's OK. I think he was awake and smiling in this dream because we'd all spent last weekend talking and laughing and remembering. We weren't wearing our grief like a burden; we were celebrating, and I think that made Mark happy. He lives in our hearts and our dreams now, and the more we remember and celebrate the more awake he is and the brighter he smiles. Mark lives on in Team Mark -- the runners, the cheerleaders, the donations, every person who still loves and remembers Mark.

Mark helped me find faith in myself. He helped me find my worth, when I was quite sure I had none. He fought for me, when I wouldn't fight for myself. He never stopped trying to help me find my place in this world, my happiness. In a round about way, he helped me find Team In Training, a group of people that have filled a void in my life and helped me find purpose and passion again. He did one last thing for me, I think, and that was bringing me back home.

Like Mark, I haven't gone back home much since I moved to DC. This is where I'm meant to be, and I didn't think I could go back. I thought I had to let go of "back home" to be here and happy. I've always been different, but one more time, Mark showed me I can still fit, even back home. I feel closer to my friends from high school now than I did back then. Mark brought me back to them. He'll remain a part of me, telling me to find the things that make me happy -- and telling off anyone who gets in the way of that.

I know I don't have to, but I'm going to keep running. I'm going to stay involved with Team In Training. I'm going to stay close to the people who have known me longest. I am not, however, going to say goodbye. Ever. I don't have to.

Long live the King. Long live Team Mark.

Time to go

"Coulda" and "shoulda" won't get me anywhere now, but it's obviously time to go. It has been, and I've let myself believe there was more because I was afraid. Afraid of change. Afraid of new. Afraid of me.

One of my favorite movie quotes is from Fried Green Tomatoes: "Miss Ruth was a lady, and a lady always knows when to leave." Time for me to get back to being a lady, quit giving into fear, embrace the hurt and get on with what's next.

Never alone

This season has been a life-changing experience on so many levels. The staff, the coaches, and my mentor, Jenn, have made a huge impact on me. I want to do more.

I was so lost at the beginning of training, and Jenn walked, ran and hobbled along with me until I got my legs under me (literally), even though she badly needed to get her own training off to a good start. She taught me to slow my pace, stuck by me, and without her, I'm not sure I'd have gotten past my first five mile run.

The coaches have been amazing running me in on the long runs the last few weeks. The first time I ever ran 10 miles Joe Shanahan was out on the course as we tromped though ankle-deep mud checking on us and cheering us on. (Unfortunately, he was also taking pictures.) Christie always asks how I'm doing and tells me how she marvels that I'm running with asthma since she is now fighting it,too. I'm pretty sure Mike and Jim willed me to finish the last mile and a half the week we ran 12 because there was no part of my mind, body or soul that wanted to keep moving. Last week, Joe Funk ran every step of my 10 miles with me.

I've not worried about raising $3,000 (Which I will finish doing very soon, I promise.). I told Ben when I signed up that I knew how to raise money. I have to admit that I was seriously doubtful that anyone could teach me to run the distances I've been racking up week after week. I'm going to run 13 miles in two weeks, and while I'm still nervous, I have no doubt that I'll finish -- and it won't be on my own.

I've reached out to TNT to ask about being a mentor in the fall. I want to participate again, but this time, I want to lend the support to others that I've been shown this season.

Only and Just

As people were gearing up to run their races St. Paddy's weekend, the distances were really starting to look daunting. The week they were all doing their "dress rehearsal" the coaches were giving us plastic medals at the finish line. I figured I wasn't supposed to get one since I was "just" running 6 miles, not 13 or 20. Then, I started thinking that really I wasn't doing that much in comparison to the people running a full marathon. I'd gotten through my first ever 10 mile run without great incidence, so again, I started thinking I was "only" running a half.

St. Paddy's weekend as my teammates were running races, I went to training to run 12 miles. Don't get me wrong, every mile I'd run to that point had been work, but my body decided to show me just what only a half marathon could be like.

It's obvious that running will take a toll on your legs and feet, but you may not realize how much your core -- mid-section from shoulders to hips -- works when you run. About mile 8, I found out. First my chest and abs were a little tight, so I stretched and moved around to loosen back up.

Mile 9. Achy legs at this point is pretty normal, but I started noticing my hips getting sore, too.

Mile 9.5. I start huffing and chuffing because my diaphram has just about had it.

Mile 10. I'm having trouble keeping my posture because my abs have officially told me to kiss off.

Mile 10.5. I see my coaches at the final turn. I've never been so happy to see two people ever. I'm breathing like a woman in labor. I'm pretty sure my coaches can tell I'm about done because Mike decides to run my last mile and a half with me. I don't speak. Every step is excruciating because my hips are so inflamed.

Mile 11. Mike is talking to me, being reassuring me and telling me I'm doing great. I have the urge to hit Mike.

Mile 11.5. Jim passes us on his bike heading back to the parking lot. I consider knocking him over and stealing his bike. I can see the finish line, and I'm literally chanting like the Little Engine that Could. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this.

And I did. I apologized for thinking about hitting Mike or stealing Jim's bike. They laugh at me. Once I got home, I crawled out of the car and into the house. I was starting to get cold, so I took a very long, very hot shower, the whole time praying I'd be able to walk later. I managed to get my shirt on barely, but I could only get one leg in my pants. The other wouldn't bend enough. Thankfully, my husband was able to stop laughing at the sight of me long enough to put my sweats on me.

For the rest of the afternoon, I iced my hips, took ibuprophen and ate everything I could get my husband to bring to me. The next morning, my physical therapist worked me over trying to make sure my hip pain was only soft tissue, not bursitis or some other injury. When she was sure it was, I did muscle stem and heat. I'd shuffled into her office, and I was up to waddling on the way out.

It took a full 3 days for me to start feeling somewhat normal again. I was still sore, but manageably so, and I had a whole new perspective on the words "only" and "just." I have to give myself more credit. I'm doing a half marathon, and that's a pretty big deal regardless of what anyone else does.

I'm asking

It's not often that I ask for help, and there has to be something special behind the request for it to happen. Today, I'm asking.

February 2011 was a banner month for me. In four short weeks, I lost three people to cancer. Today is the one-year anniversary of the first. Mark King was just 37 years old. He was one of my oldest friends and my high school sweetheart. Next week will mark one year for Don Harmon, who was one of my mother's oldest friends, a man I knew from when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I had not seen him in a number of years but felt his loss in that part of me that remains a little girl. February 27th will mark one year since we lost my father-in-law. Glen was an amazing man who showed a level of strength and courage in his battle with cancer that will influence me for the rest of my life.

With Glen, I know I did everything I possibly could have for him. My husband and I went to all of his doctor appointments and procedures, all of which were in another state. The last hours of Glen's life were my shift, and I took care of his every need, administering his medication every hour, keeping him comfortable, singing to quiet him. I suctioned his throat, so he could take what would be his last breath. I have no regrets. I miss him like crazy, but I gave Glen everything I had.

While Glen fought for more than two years, Mark's fight was much more brief. Few people even knew he was sick at first. It wasn't his way to broadcast his business, and to the very end, he only allowed a very few people in his room to take care of him. I sat in DC, hundreds of miles from the nearest person who even knew Mark. I was glued to Facebook and my phone waiting for any news after he went into the hospital. I was isolated and helpless. There was nothing I could do to stop what was happening to Mark, nor to ease his family's pain. It was heart-wrenching and infuriating. In the end, Mark was gone, and I felt like I'd given him nothing. I'd done nothing.

Anyone who knows me, knows that doesn't go over so well. Dealing with the loss of Mark has been more difficult because I feel helpless and guilty. I know that in my rational mind, but it does nothing to sooth my heart.

A few months ago, I lucked across something that spurred my craziest idea ever, but that has also turned out to be my way of fighting back against the sadness and frustration of losing too much to cancer -- Team Mark. I've recruited a group of Mark's closest and oldest friends to join me in Nashville on April 28 to run the Country Music Half Marathon as a part of Team In Training to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. Recruiting, organizing, raising money, these things are easy for me, and I wouldn't feel like I'd done enough if I wasn't also going to do something that will test the outer limits of anything I thought I could ever do -- run 13.1 miles.


I was not kind to my body in my youth. I'm out of shape, overweight, arthritic and asthmatic. I've never been a runner, much less a long-distance runner, and two months ago when I started training, I couldn't run a solid minute without having an asthma attack. When I signed up, LLS kept reassuring me that I'd be able to meet my fundraising goal with all the support they'd lend. I looked very seriously at the man and said I wasn't worried about $3,000 in the least, I'm much more worried about getting 13.1 miles on something besides wheels! Well, this past Saturday, I ran 6 miles.


I'm under the supervision of two doctors and a physical therapists. I have three inhalers, plus a couple of pills, and a stubborn streak a mile wide. It was one of the things that Mark most loved and hated about me. (He had one, too.) It won't be in record time, and it may be ugly, but I'll finish. And end the end, not only will I have done the easy stuff to help end cancer and care for those who fight, but also I will have left every last ounce of sweat and tears I have on the road to the finish line. I'll know I gave Mark everything I had, even if it's too late.


Whether you're cheering from the sidelines (or Facebook), offering up advice or a "Go Team!", chanting and praying or best of all donating, I hope you'll support me. Together we can beat cancer.