Yesterday my friend Patti gave me a handmade photo album chronicling my team’s participation in the Breast Cancer 3-Day Walk in September.
There’s a picture of our friend Sally with her sister Carrie, who flew in from Los Angeles to join us on our 60-mile trek. There’s one of me with Patti, Kelli, and Laurie — all friends I’ve made at my son’s school — plus one of Maria, another friend of Patti’s.
In the pictures, we’re smiling and excited, ready to get started on the adventure of walking with 2,500 others from Bellevue to Burien and on to Seattle, 60 miles in three days.
Later pictures show Kelli with her knee wrapped and Sally and Laurie suffering with blisters. The last photo, taken the last night of the walk, shows the whole team in matching flannel pajama bottoms and hooded sweatshirts with our team name — Best of the Breast — emblazoned across the back.
Everyone looks tired but proud of having completed the day. Everyone but me. I’m not in that last picture.
Instead, my teammates are holding up an empty sweatshirt and pajamas where I should have been standing. Despite weeks of training (24 to be exact), tireless fundraising (you have to raise at least $2,200 to participate in the Breast Cancer 3-Day event), and a waist-pack full of moleskin and ibuprofen, I was unable to finish the walk.
You always hear the inspirational stories about people who manage to finish these events against all odds. People talk about the woman who crawled barefoot across the marathon finish line, or the man who won the bike race with two flat tires and no brakes.
You never hear about people like me, the people who don’t finish at all, shoes or no shoes.
I injured my foot somewhere around mile 18 on the first day. I’m not even sure what I did. All I know is that I was fine, and then I was not. It seems like I should have a dramatic story about how I hurt it, but I don’t. The pain in my foot got worse with every step, but I managed to walk all 23.5 scheduled miles on that first day. I figured I would have it taped, load up on ibuprofen, and be ready to walk again the next day.
I was wrong.
Overnight the pain got worse and my foot started to look discolored. I only made it about half a mile from camp the second morning before I realized I couldn’t go any further. Even then, I was too proud (or stubborn) to flag down a support van. Laurie and Sally had to do it for me.
By lunchtime my foot was swollen and a nurse from the event’s medical team told me that she was sending me for X-rays and that I wouldn’t be doing any more walking. She suspected a stress fracture.
I don’t know why I was so frustrated. I’d raised the money, and it wasn’t a race, right? But in my mind, I had failed.
When I signed up to participate in the walk, there was a nagging voice in my head that said, “What are you thinking? You’ll never be able to walk 60 miles!” As the weeks went on, I trained and got stronger and more confident. I dealt with knee and hip pain and sore feet and was able to keep going. I started to think that maybe I could do it after all.
When I injured my foot, it was like that old voice of doubt came right back.
“See? You were a fool to think you could do this,” it reminded me.
I felt like I had let my team down. I had let myself down. And though while I was walking I felt like I was part of something bigger than myself, after I injured my foot I felt all alone. My teammates called me regularly from the road, trying to include me on their adventures. That helped, some, but what I really wanted was to be walking alongside them, not getting updates by phone. I had set a goal and I had failed to meet it.
To say I was disappointed is an understatement.
Moving the goal posts
Now that some time has passed I realize I need to reframe the way I think about the situation. Maybe I need to move the goal posts, to think about what I did accomplish, not what I didn’t do.
Even though I didn’t finish the walk, I did train for 24 weeks and got in shape. I did bond with my teammates and others I met along the way. I did listen to my body and respect my limits (eventually). And I did raise money to support breast cancer research and honor the many — too many — women I know who have been touched by the disease.
I may not have crossed the finish line, but I walked 23.5 miles for them. And if my foot ever heals, I’d gladly walk a million more.
Writer’s update: I ditched my crutches after two days and spent the next two weeks hobbling around the house in a boot. I won’t be going on any long treks for awhile, but as long as I’m wearing supportive shoes, my foot feels pretty good these days. I’m even
(dare I say it?) thinking about training for a triathlon.
– Jennifer Donahue |
