I kept signing us up for more races, and I was so glad that I had a husband who understood this sort of thing. Most of them went without a hitch (pain, yes, but whatever), but every now and then my body just wouldn’t cooperate.
I was sick all of March with a lupus flare-up and a chest infection, but I was able to get on with it anyway. Things came to more of a head in April. My blood pressure was spiking, but because of my ongoing panic attacks and pain, it was hard to distinguish that from other causes. If I went running to a doctor every time I had a symptom, I would have been at the doctors’ offices every single day. It took a lot to make me seek help, but that day finally came when, the morning before a half marathon, I couldn’t get out of bed. I was exhausted and had a fever, terrible back pain, and nausea. Then came the nonstop vomiting. I vomited often because of all the scar tissue built up in my stomach, but this was a bit much even for me. Sean took me to the emergency room, where—after a four-hour wait—we found out I had an enlarged, blocked, infected kidney that would need to be seen by a surgeon the next week.
“But if I’m feeling better, can I still run my half marathon tomorrow?” I asked the doctor.
She stared at me blankly. “You need to take it easy,” she said.
“How about if I just do the five-K portion of it?”
I have no idea why she said yes, except that she consulted with my trauma surgical team and they probably told her that I was going to do it anyway. I was feeling a bit better by the next morning, so I went ahead and ran the 5K and then made it to the finish line with my camera so I could video Sean’s half-marathon finish: an impressive 1:52 on a very hilly course in Danbury, Connecticut.
Despite my physical setbacks, two wonderful things happened for us that month: We were having so much fun with our puppy, Jamis, that we decided to adopt another golden Lab, Coda, named after the kind of Jamis bicycle I’d been riding; and my leg wound closed up enough that my wound care was able to be completed with just two giant Band-Aids and Neosporin. Just like that, $400 worth of wound care supplies each month were no longer needed. It felt like freedom. After almost two years, I could exhale and stop doing wound care until another surgery.
We took the dogs to the beach to celebrate. Amazingly, adding another pet to our household was so easy: All three dogs and the cat got along just fine. Sedona’s health was up and down—some days she wouldn’t eat; other days she scarfed down donuts and ham with enthusiasm. Basically, I would tempt her with anything just as long as she would eat. I knew we were nearing the end of the road, but I kept looking into those eyes of hers and trusting that she would tell me when it was time. I didn’t want to keep her in prolonged pain, but I also didn’t want to give up on her too soon. I knew what it was like to beat the odds, and I figured my dog did, too.
My next surgical team appointment didn’t bring the greatest news. They determined that I was going to have some level of incontinence for the rest of my life. And when I say “incontinence,” I’m not talking about peeing.
So…yeah.
It really wasn’t sexy, and the idea that I was not going to be able to control my own poop forever was damn depressing. But that’s not where the bad news ended.
“Colleen, your kidney is dying,” my urologist told me. “I think the scar tissue is closing off its ability to do its job and if we don’t do something soon, we will need to just remove it.”
“What options do I have?”
“I want you in surgery on Friday. We can try inserting a stent into the kidney, through the ureter, and into the bladder to see if that improves functionality.”
It wasn’t much of a choice; of course I needed to try whatever he suggested to keep my kidney. We had also seen the fertility team at Yale, who clearly determined we needed to use a surrogate if we still wanted a baby. It was a lot of finality at once, and hard to take in.
Carrying a baby was just one way of becoming a mom, I knew, and there were other options in the world…but they weren’t my chosen options. I had always dreamed of what it would be like to have a big, round belly, feel little baby kicks. Despite knowing on some level that my body was torn apart in all the wrong places, I had still held out some hope for a miracle. This marked the end of hope. It was one more thing I’d never have, and one more thing I couldn’t do for Sean.
Even though I had successfully changed my overall focus from depression to gratitude, that didn’t mean every day was perfect. I still had lots of days when a lesser emotion bubbled to the top. Anger, sadness, loss, jealousy. Each time, I’d have to fight my way through the feelings and choose a different one as soon as I was able to refocus. It would have been easy to stay stuck on all I’d lost, but what good would that have done me?
The more good I did in the world, the less time I had to feel bad for myself, so I just kept finding ways to be useful. I visited a food bank and noticed how much processed, canned food they had on their shelves.
“Do you ever get any fresh produce?” I asked the man running the place.
“Nah. Too expensive,” he said.
“How about if I grow some fresh vegetables from my garden and I bring them to you in the mornings on the day the pantry is open?”
“You’re going to grow food for other people?”
“Yeah!” I said.
I knew that if I started now, within two months some people who would ordinarily get a selection of mostly unhealthy goods would get a beautiful bounty like what we ate—the foods that helped to heal me. The right food is so good for not only the body, but the mind, too. People who are dealing with hard times should get good nutrients, I figured.
It gave me an outward place to focus when my inward focus got too scary. As I headed into my nineteenth surgery in nineteen months, I thought, I should be used to this by now. But I’m not sure if you ever get used to the idea of being unconscious and losing control of your body. Once again, I would be under anesthesia, counting on the surgeons to have steady hands and know just what to do, and for my body to react as well as possible without complications.
When I woke up, the news wasn’t great. They had succeeded in inserting a stent to open the pathway from my kidney to my bladder, but they’d also found massive scar tissue from the trauma, and that would require a longer, more extensive surgery soon. This would be a stopgap measure, and there was uncertainty about how effective it would be. We’d know in a couple of weeks, after follow-up testing. In the meantime, I now had a ten-inch tube inside me that was a whole new source of pain.
I hoped the pain was just temporary and would ease up as soon as my body got used to it, but nope. Every time I laughed, jogged, sneezed, or did anything else that moved my belly, it felt like I was getting stabbed. Intimacy with my husband, which had been off the table ever since the trauma, was pushed back even further. I felt so frustrated that there was something else standing in the way of being with the man who had done so much for me.
The things that were happening medically were in such stark contrast to the other things in my life at the time. I got a phone call out of the blue one day from a producer of The Dr. Oz Show, asking if I would come on the show to talk about my experiences. I assume they learned about me from local media. I was not a daytime television watcher, so I didn’t know much about the show except what I’d heard from relatives, but I recognized a good opportunity when I heard one.
They sent a crew out to my house first to film the intro and commercials, and it was a great experience. It ran much longer than they had originally told me: eight hours of filming, which I knew would have to be whittled down to just a brief segment. Then we headed to New York City, where the show put us up in a terrific hotel for the night before the taping.
I met Dr. Oz in the hallway the morning of the show, and he told me that I was an inspiration.
“Do you know my story?” I asked.
“Yes, I know you died,” he said.
“Do you know how I died?”
“I know you got run over by a truck.”
“Okay, sorry. Just checking,” I said with a smile. I knew television personalities are busy people, and I didn’t know how much prepping they got.
After that, I was sent to hair and makeup, where I was curled and sprayed as a man came and sat down next to me and said, “Hi! I’m the expert.”
That confused me. “Expert what?”
“I’m an expert on the afterlife.”
“Oh. Did you die?”
“No, but I’ve researched it extensively and written books about it. I’ve had several patients who’ve died and come back, too.”
“So your work is based on…?”
“I think there’s some good, strong data.”
I had no idea there was going to be an “afterlife expert” on the segment, and I have to admit I was skeptical about the idea. I just hoped it would be an accurate depiction of what I’d gone through.
The on-set interview lasted about half an hour, and I told Dr. Oz about all I’d gone through on that day—the terrible fear, the pain, the awareness of what was happening around me and how hard I fought not to die. We talked about my heroes, and how I now worked with the Red Cross to encourage blood donations, and about my commitment to advocating for bike safety and safer roads. I left feeling pretty good about it all, but also nervous about how it would be edited.
My episode, “What Comes After Death?” aired on May 15, 2013. All that we had recorded was whittled down to just a few questions that highlighted one small piece of my experience: the time in the ambulance when I felt warm and safe. Without a doubt, that was a meaningful spiritual moment for me, but it was thirty seconds. The rest of the time, I was terrified, in severe pain, and aware that I was dying. The show seemed to want to paint a more comforting picture of how we die.
I was still thankful to have had the chance to talk about my story on a national level, but I was frustrated that the things I cared about were left on the cutting room floor.
“They didn’t talk about blood donations or bike safety at all,” I said to Sean.
“We’ll know better next time,” he said.
I decided that from then on, I wouldn’t agree to do interviews like that unless they were live, or unless I had some measure of control over the final edits. It was still a good experience in many ways, though, especially because I had so many people from all over the country contact me afterward to ask questions or say they were inspired by my story. My Facebook page was slammed with requests, which made me a little self-conscious; I’ve always been a very open sharer, so I wasn’t so sure I should let hundreds of strangers into my life that closely. I started a public “fan page” for that purpose instead.
Soon I was also featured in Runner’s World, which was a thrill, and Connecticut Magazine named me as one of the year’s top “40 Under 40” movers and shakers. Both magazines sent photographers, and I wore a belly-baring running outfit for the Runner’s World shoot. My scars and body imperfections were going to be on full display, which made me nervous, but I also knew that the magazine would do a respectful job. I had earned my right to be seen as an athlete despite all those scars.
The scars on the outside weren’t the worst of my problems. A couple weeks after my surgery, my urologist called at 9:15 p.m., which is never a good sign, to let us know that the procedure hadn’t worked. The follow-up testing revealed that my right kidney was functioning at less than 10 percent of normal capacity, which meant that I now had ten inches of tubing in my body and had gone through another surgery for nothing. They were considering removing the kidney altogether in the next surgery. Most people can live with one kidney, but of course it’s a risk. Even worse was the news that if my left kidney failed, I wouldn’t be eligible for a donor kidney because of my extensive pelvic damage.
“What next?” I asked him.
“We’ll reassess in two months with another scan. If you’re still at ten percent or below, then we need to remove it.”
“Is this going to limit me in any way in the meantime? Can I still be as active as I am?”
“Live the life you were meant to live.”
I loved that he said that.
Once again, the news was a lot to take in, and I was glad I had things to get my mind off it. I cooked up a storm—garlic lentils, asparagus and goat cheese soup, wheat berries with herbs, roasted vegetables, a green salad, and fresh bread—and invited company over. I didn’t want to dwell on bad news. I wanted to live the life I was meant to live.
With that in mind, I signed up for my first post-trauma triathlon, the “Oh My Goddard!” Olympic Triathlon in Rhode Island. One of the biggest dangers to me was the contact that often happens during an open swim. As people jockey for position, arms and legs go flailing everywhere, and it’s very normal to get kicked or hit in the face or body. I was very nervous about getting nailed in my good kidney, so Sean agreed to be my “bodyguard.” He would swim next to me and make sure no one got too close.
He ended up taking quite a few hits himself—what he called “taking one for the team”—leaving me unscathed. The triathlon committee was nervous about my being a liability, but there were already so many barriers to people of different abilities being able to compete—I didn’t want to have to argue with the committee over what I might need. I knew I’d be okay with Sean by my side. I called him my “eagle” for all the ways he guided me, and for his big “wingspan.”
In the end, despite a lot of the usual pain, cramping from the kidney and bladder stent, a couple of wound changes, and needing some extra assistance getting onto the bike, I finished that race.
“You are an Olympic triathlete!” Sean told me. “I’m so proud of you.”
You know what? I was pretty proud of me, too. And I still looked good in a wetsuit.
Chapter 17
Rainbow Bridge
I DIDN’T THINK I WOULD ever have a harder day than October 8, 2011, but then came June 26, 2013, the day I finally had to say goodbye to Sedona. She had been my steadfast companion for thirteen years, and as I watched her lie on the floor, panting and drooling, I felt selfish for wanting to keep her longer. She could no longer see or hear, she rarely wanted to eat, and it was difficult for her to walk. She just didn’t seem to enjoy anything anymore. The puppies did a good job of tending to her when they thought she needed care, but it wasn’t any kind of life for Sedona.
My heart was shattered as I brought her to our trusted vet, knowing that I was doing the right thing, but nevertheless feeling miserable about it. She had been my best friend through so many changes and life phases, so many new places. She’d made friends at my work, alerted me when I was about to have a seizure, gone running and hiking and swimming at the beach with me, and snuggled me through every broken heart. How do you say goodbye to a dog that special?
I was thankful to her vet for being so respectful, and I watched Sedona take her last breath with a sunbeam touching her forehead. I prayed that she was in a better place where she could see and hear again, where she would run along the beach and eat ice cream to her heart’s content.
The next morning, once the rain cleared, I went for a run…and I had a new shadow by my side. Then I kissed my puppies and made them promise to stay young forever.
It was tough to do much of anything that week, but I kept my body moving anyway. The cadence of the bike was always soothing, despite everything. Just the rhythm of it was meditative for me. The rest of the world would fall away with every circle, circle, circle.
I decided to take on a new challenge: my first solo road race in two years. Sean had to work the day of the race. Normally I just wouldn’t have signed up, but this time I knew I was ready to test the waters. I signed up as an able-bodied athlete and didn’t let on what had happened to me. Shortly before the race, I had my stent removed, so at least there was one source of pain that wouldn’t be there this time.
After I signed in and prepared to run, two different volunteers approached me to ask if I was sure I should run in my condition…they were r
eferring to the fact that I was limping. If they only knew!
As I ran the course, a race official called out to me, “No wonder you’re so slow—you’re smiling! Fast runners don’t smile. You can pick it up!”
“Actually, I can run, so I smile,” I said.
I came in sixth to last. The following day, I topped myself: I did the Rhode Island Crabman, my first solo triathlon in years. Sean was there, but competing at his own pace this time. We were so thrilled to have finished and didn’t hear the news until the following day that a seventy-year-old athlete had died of a heart attack during the swim portion of the race. It was awful to find out, and the only thing that brought me any comfort was the idea that he went out doing something he loved.
It was something I loved, too, which was partly why I was ignoring phone calls from Yale…they were calling to try to schedule my kidney surgery, and I knew that meant six weeks of no exercise afterward, not to mention whatever side effects might come along. I was in such a good groove that I didn’t want to have to interrupt it. I also didn’t know if I was ready to face the idea of losing my kidney. It had become symbolic in my mind—we had lost the ability to have a baby because of the trauma, and now I had this other piece of me to protect. In a strange way, it became like protecting an unborn baby. I didn’t want it to die inside me, and I didn’t want to wake up to the news that I’d lost something else forever.
Finally I emailed my chief surgeon to ask if I could postpone it a bit, since I’d just been under anesthesia three months ago. “Sorry if I’m being whiney,” I added.
He simply wrote back, “Have some cheese with that whine and get the surgery scheduled.”
That’s it. No frills. That’s why he was a trauma surgeon and why I was lucky to have him as my quarterback. I got the stupid surgery scheduled. It was also why it was so hard to hear that, the following week, Dr. Kaplan was leaving Connecticut to go to Pennsylvania to work at a veterans’ trauma hospital. Without his decision not to give up on me even after twenty minutes of CPR and then a second round of ten minutes of CPR, I would not be here. I knew that Yale would bring in another experienced trauma surgeon, but I was sure going to miss him.
Gratitude in Motion Page 19