I Want To Give Up

I've been discouraged this week and I just feel like giving up. Of course I'd like to be done with my vestibular disorder, but I also feel like giving up writing.

I received some negative feedback both publicly and privately about a post that I wrote. I also lost a few followers on my Facebook page too. And it's all weighed very heavily on me.

Now, I should also say that I have received some positive feedback too. However, it's always the negative voices that scream the loudest. And those are the voices I've been listening to.

Writing has become very important to me recently. It's somehow been a way for me to process my feelings about living with this disorder. But these last few days have made me wonder if it's worth it or why I even bother. I thought about deleting both my blog and my Facebook page, and with my finger hovering over the delete button, I was reminded of another time when I came close to quitting something important to me. I almost quit my first marathon.

I started running on my 40th birthday My initial goal was just to lose a little bit of weight. But eventually I fell in love with running and joined a running group. Within in few years I'd run five half-marathons, so running a full marathon seemed to be the next logical step.

Throughout my twenty four weeks of marathon training, I was one of the slowest runners the group. I found the training really difficult, and always seemed to be straggling behind. Most of the other marathoners in my group had set a specific time goal for the day of the race.. As for me, I personally didn't have very high expectations of myself. I simply wanted to finish. 

Marathon Group ready to race.

The day before the race, I had an accident while gardening and spent three hours in the emergency department. I'd badly burned three fingers of my left hand on the engine of the lawn mower (don't ask!). I expressed my concerns to the attending physician...he simply laughed and said "Unless you're planning to run the marathon on your fingers, you'll be fine"

But I wasn't fine.

Right from the start, I was having a hard time keeping up with my running partner, Chae. We had trained together, and if anything, I'm a usually a little faster overall. But by the 21 km mark, I was falling behind. I told Chae to go ahead and promised I'd be right behind her.

By 25 km's, my fingers hurt, my legs felt heavy and the first signs of fatigue began to set in. I slowed down even more.

I don't remember much about the next 10 km's, except that I was going through a busy park with very narrow paths. I saw lots of families, strollers, people on skates, people walking their dogs, but no runners or mile markers. Somehow I must have taken a wrong turn. I was lost. 

Eventually I got back onto the the right path and crossed the timing mat at 35 km's. I was now on the highway and stared at the long road ahead of me. I still had 7 km's to go. I'd been running for hours and my legs had turned to Jell-O. I was exhausted.

Close to tears, I started to walk. Thinking that music might be a good distraction, I got out my sons iPod. But since I could neither run nor walk to the beat, I found the music irritating. Actually it was annoying. I tried putting the iPod back in my pouch, but it wouldn't fit right. I then tried to tuck it inside my shirt, but it was too uncomfortable. In a fit of frustration I  just threw it to the side of the road. Yes, his new iPod discarded like a candy wrapper. I'd had enough. I think this is what they term "hitting the wall". The point in the race when you run out of physical energy and have to rely on mental strength.  I'd heard about "the wall" but it was supposed to be for a fraction of the race. For me, the entire race felt like the Great Wall of China. I wanted to quit.

At around 37 km's I came to an intersection. The police officer who was directing the traffic, blew his whistle and raised his arm to stop the cars so I could safely cross. I tried to run the few metres it took to cross the street and couldn't even do that. I was so embarrassed. The police officer yelled at the drivers "Stop - marathoner coming through..." I angrily spat back at him "I am NOT a marathoner". He took my hand and very quietly and very kindly said, "Young lady, even the last marathoner is still a marathoner"! And then I completely lost it.  I took one step toward him, buried my face on his shoulder and burst into tears. Right there in the middle of the street, I sobbed my heart out on a police officers shoulder. After a few moments, he said, pointing to his watch... "I have a job to do, and so do you..."   Gently pushing me forward, he said "Keep going..." while the drivers clapped and honked.

Although running was difficult at this point, I managed to alternate between a slow jog and a faster walk. His kindness and his words had strengthened me a little. I began to think that it might be possible to finish the marathon after all. Yes, I would have a very slow finishing time, but it would look a lot better than seeing DNF (Did Not Finish) on the results page.

On and on I struggled over the next few kilometres. Each step just seemed to get harder. There were a few runners ahead of me, but fewer behind. I started to see people who had finished the race walking back smiling and wearing their medals. Cars honked and the drivers told me to keep running. Run? I could hardly walk. My legs had turned from Jell-O to cement. Everything hurt. But mostly my pride. I was publicly falling apart and it was humiliating.

At 40 km's I saw my husband and son walking towards me. They'd heard from Chae that I was having a tough time and set out to find me. Upon seeing Roger, all the emotions came flooding back. I told him I wanted to quit. "It's over. I'm done. Go get the car, because no medal is worth this amount of suffering". My son, Ethan began to cry too and even offered to finish the race for me. My husband explained to him, that neither of them could do it for me,  but they could do it with me.

And that is exactly what they did. They walked beside me and encouraged me to keep putting one foot in front of the other when I so very desperately wanted to stop.

"Keep going..."

A few metres before the end, I turned the corner and at last saw the finish line. My husband and son stepped aside and let me cross the finish line alone. In that moment, everything became a blur. I remember hearing the announcer say my name. I remember someone placing the medal around my neck.  I remember feeling relief at finally being able to stop. But then, I heard cheering - really loud cheering. I wiped the tears away to see my marathon group in front of me. All of them. Every single member of my group had waited for me. Some of them had finished their own race two and a half hours before me, but they heard that I was struggling and waited to see me finish. They were happy for me they celebrated with me but mostly, they were proud of me. What I saw as weakness, they saw as strength. I was speechless.

I'm a marathoner!

But perhaps the most touching part of my marathon story took place afterwards. Two weeks later I found a message in my Facebook inbox that I'd somehow missed. It simply said this:-

Hello Elaine,

You don't know me, but I saw you running the Toronto Marathon yesterday. I noted your bib number, and then searched  for your name and was happy to see that you finished the race.

When I saw you, you were crying and having a hard time. I didn't think you would make it, but I'm glad that you did.  I'm not a runner myself, but I've decided to run a marathon.

Thank you for inspiring me.

Michael 

Wait, what???

He was inspired by me? How? Why? I was struggling. I was crying. I was walking!

Then I realized he wasn't inspired by the fact I struggled, he was inspired because I didn't quit.

Again, speechless.

I feel that running a marathon is a lot like living with a vestibular disorder. It isn't a one time event that you train for, complete and then receive a medal and a t-shirt. No, a vestibular marathon is something that you live daily. And it's hard. Very hard. For each one of us it's an individual journey and for some of us it is much harder than others. People can have these debilitating symptoms for years. Even decades. It is both physically and emotionally draining. And sadly with a vestibular marathon, there is no finish line.

If you find yourself struggling in your vestibular marathon today, it is my hope that there is someone who will give you words of encouragement, like the police officer did for me. I hope that during your most challenging moments, there will be someone who can come alongside you and walk with you, like my husband and son did for me. Finally, I hope that you will find yourself surrounded by a group of fellow vestibular warriors, that know exactly what you're going through, and can celebrate both the struggles and the victories with you.

So, although I've been discouraged about my writing lately, I probably won't quit. Why? Because there might be someone reading this right now, who sees that I'm struggling and is inspired to keep going. 

And since every marathoner is awarded a medal, here is one for you. Congratulations on surviving another day of your vestibular marathon.