Healing my heart

As with most things these days, it started with a text message.

"mom was having trouble breathing and had a fever so she is in the hospital."

The message came from my aunt, and "mom" was my grandma.

After taking a nasty fall a couple weeks before Thanksgiving, my beloved grandma has been plagued with problems. Her legs are swollen, breathing is labored and a wicked cough has kept her up during the night. The once spry woman was moving slowly around her house, sleeping in a chair and only going out for doctor's appointments. But she promised to bounce back. She said it might take some time but she would.

Now, I am not so sure she can keep that promise. It's been six days since that text message, and she is still in the hospital and I have heard on mention of when she'll be released. Doctors have told us that the right side of her heart is not functioning and is merely a garage in her body; the heart troubles are causing hypertension in the lungs and the difficulty breathing; her tremors are Parkinson's; and she has second-hand emphysema. The woman who so valued her independence might not ever live alone again.

It was heart breaking to hear those things over the phone from my aunt but nothing shattered my heart like listening to my grandma's voice but not hearing her. The steroids have made her confused, temporarily, my aunt said, but I fear they have taken her away. And, to be honest, I'm not ready for it. My grandma has been a rock throughout my life, and we developed a unique and close relationship when I moved in with her at age 15. I call her every day and count down the days when I can see her. She is an amazing woman with more faith than I will ever know.

It's all I can do not to break down in tears at work, to not hide under the covers, to not run to the drive-thru and order an extra large shake with a side of hot fudge sundae. To turn to the coping mechanisms I relied on for so long. It's only the knowledge that those things will not change the situation, they will not make things better, that keeps me sane. Or as sane as I can be.

Running helps, too. I put one foot in front of the other and move. This morning I went out for a slow 4 miles. The first dusting of snow came over night and the white and red lights that adorn the festive houses in nearby neighborhoods set the frost aglow in a spectacular winter picture. The air was cool and moist as I breathed in and out, in and out. For 39 minutes I thought of nothing but the sound of my feet on the wet pavement, relaxing my pace and why my bred for running dog who seemed excited to leave for a run was dragging at a barely sub-10 pace.

Note: For all of you animal activists, Denali merely needed to warm up and happily trotted along after reaching the first mile marker.

I came home refreshed and let my heart rate come down as I brewed a cup of Donut Shop coffee in the Keurig. I drew a bath, thankful that Mark was kind enough to save some hot water. I dipped my toes in cautiously before sinking into the tub. I read a few blogs on my Kindle Fire and sipped my coffee. (Yes, I do this in the tub.) When I went to dip my head below the surface, though, my thoughts began to resurface. I violently sat up out of the water, desperate not to drown in the sorrow ... in the fear. I took a deep breath, anxious to find that emptiness, free-ness that I had on the run.


The next few days, weeks, months ... years, if I'm lucky ... will be trying. I am going to have to find my own ways to come out the other side of this strong and healthy. To search for such ways is an almost futile task. Most advise to not keep bad foods around and to avoid triggers as if the stress in "stress eating" is because your boss isn't nice to you and you want to run to the vending machine for a cupcake - not, my grandma might be dying and sugar makes me feel good.

Ho, ho, NO!

Cheese. Crackers. Choo choos.

I'm not sure there's anything Miles loves more in the world than those three things. I mean, besides me.

And while he gets regular doses of string cheese, graham crackers and episodes of "Thomas and Friends," Mark and I had a special outing for our little conductor. Complete with cheese and crackers.

By the glories of Google on Friday, I discovered that the Fort Wayne Railroad Historical Society invites families - as well as Santa and Mrs. Claus - for a ride on a vintage train, allowing them to "pay homage to a great Fort Wayne tradition and create brand new ones while visiting the home of the largest operating steam locomotive in the Midwest: Nickel Plate Road No. 765."

For $4 a person, families are treated to a 20-minute ride and a visit from Santa. There are also other activities - coloring, train sets and self-guided tours of the locomotives - on site though those weren't of much interest to an impatient 17-month-old.

Note: He did like the 25 cent train whistle, which I'm sure is a choking hazard but it kept him engaged as we waited in line. Go ahead, nominate me for mother of the year. While I was enamored with the overall experience, my only complaint was that you couldn't buy tickets for a particular ride. It was first-come, first-serve with rides about every 30 minutes. The setup works with older kids but makes it hard to manage younger toddlers.

I will say that we were lucky and managed to get on a train with an hour. It was a festive looking caboose, with wrapping paper on the walls and candy canes awaiting the child. Self-important as I am, I tried to sit in Santa's seat rather than the benches.

Miles thoroughly enjoyed riding on the choo-choo and looking out at the fields of rural Indiana as we went down the tracks. He (safely) stood on the bench, peering out the small window saying, "choo choo. CHOO CHOO!" When we reached the turnaround, the train stopped and the car readied for a special visitor.

Santa! (Or, as Miles says, "Hhahnta!")

The jolly old fellow made the rounds, shaking the hands of excited, eager children and Mrs. Claus passed out candy canes. He took a spot in my, I mean his, seat and began to entertain the wishes of the youngins. I should have paid attention to what kids these days want but I was trying to amp up Miles for his visit, whispering in his ear that he should ask for Nike Pro Hyperwarm print training tights in a size small. Matching half-zip, too.

When it was finally his turn, Miles let out one more "Hhantaa" before turning into a screaming mess.

I was slightly embarrassed and felt sort of bad for the kind gentleman underneath the beard but I happily snapped pictures. I might be a terrible person to say this but I love, love, love photos of kids crying on Santa's lap. Actually, I think photos of crying babies are, in general, quite cute.

I do fear that Miles' general disdain for Santa will not bode well for the Nike tights but his enthusiasm for the train and Santa (he seriously won't stop saying the word) means we might have ourselves an affordable Christmas tradition.

And next year, if he doesn't cry, I'm pinching his butt.