I. Am. Enough.

I ran with my grandson for the first time ever the other day. Tuesday dawns with his very first cross-county meet, and I wanted to make sure he was prepared. After traversing the two kilometers, I was completely spent. Logan, however, remained filled with enough youthful energy to attempt to teach me the moves of the “floss.” For those fortunate enough not to be familiar with the floss, it is a dance that resembles an upright grand mal seizure punctuated by flailing Frankenstein-esque stiffened arms in a specific, yet what some may describe as spastic, sequence. Sadly, and somewhat obviously, I was not a quick study.

So, I am experiencing some trepidation before heading out on what would be my longest run since the diagnosis of my ACL injury: 7.5 kilometres. Can I do it? I start the morning by reading a blog by A Medic’s Mind, and its core—its somewhat ethereal message—permeates my grey matter, just resting there, percolating below the surface, waiting to spill out at just the right moment. My thoughts are interrupted by my daughter Charity’s call. Her friend’s house just down the street from her had caught fire that morning (Happy Thanksgiving). Luckily all escaped unscathed, but the damage was extensive. Charity busies herself corralling help for the family of 6 humans and 2 dogs—gathering clothes for the baby, asking me to buy formula, talking to those who may be able to help to find the displaced and shocked family a place to stay.

I love a lot of people, deeply and fiercely: family and friends. (And even though I run alone now, I still love you, Karen and Lyndsay, despite that fact you both deserted me for such trivialities such as finding your life’s cruelty-free purpose or creating and raising an incredible human. Yes, I am able to overlook these obvious displays of blatant abandonment.) 

This morning, as I watch Charity run towards disaster, I realize that my kids love deeply, too. They are really good people. I am proud of them. I watched when Jason held and shielded his wife after their devastating loss, I see as Charity advocates relentlessly for her special needs kids, and I observe how patient Candice is with her two-year-old, who believe me, requires more patience than I can muster some days. I know, because they live with me.

I believe my kids are this way, at least in part, because of the army of people who helped to raise them: their biological parents who gave them life, who did the best they could while battling their own demons—and loving deeply enough to know that their kids would be better cared for elsewhere; for my parents who always supported my kids to the nth degree, and took Jason into their home for years; for my brothers, my sister-in-law, my nieces and nephew and their families. Countless times they have run to our disasters, proving time and time again that action-oriented love is the best kind of all.

I decide to go for my run, earbuds in, Garmin set. Left foot, right foot, slow, very slow, I start. My mind wanders to a few months ago when I had a cardiac “event.” I have no idea why they call it an event. It really is a misleading term. To me, an event is a party, a concert, a gala, something fun. This was not fun.

The only time I will go to the hospital is if someone around me is in distress. I will drive them. I do not go, as a general rule, if I am to be the patient. Even when I had sliced my hand open to the bone, splicing my tendon, I exhausted three walk-in clinics who refused to see me, before conceding that maybe I needed to go to Emerge. I was extremely surprised to learn I had to get stitches inside and out. I honestly thought it was nothing. So when a few months back, I was overcome with excruciating and unexpected pain in my chest and stomach, I actually asked someone to take me to the hospital and no one questioned me.

I was triaged right to the ECG machine, checking to see if I was in the middle of a heart attack. Slightly irregular but not alarming to the nurse. The doctor was a little more cautious. Blood tests and hours to wait for follow-up blood tests, looking for dreaded enzymes.

I arrived at supper time, but was still littering the hallways with my reticent presence in the early morning, waiting for more results—and the only thing on my mind? When will I be able to leave because I promised Charity I would babysit because she finally got a specialist appointment for one of her kids. It was 5 a.m., I spotted the doctor, and I couldn’t help myself…what happened next was involuntary: moth to flame, gambler to casino, a forty-something female to an episode of “This is Us.”

“Hi. Excuse me,” He looked at me.  I continued, “Would you happen to know when I am being released? My granddaughter has an appointment that we have been waiting months to get, and I have to be at my daughter’s house by 8 a.m…” I heard myself talking but had no control over the words coming out of my mouth.

He may have been an emergency physician by profession, but he had the angry principal look down to a T. “You are a fifty-one-year old who came in here presenting with severe chest pains and your ECG has some irregularities. I. Think. This. Is. More. Important.” His enunciation really was impeccable.

Touche.

At 6 a.m. I phoned my daughter, “Hey, nothing to worry about, but I am in the hospital…I had some chest pains... I am really, really sorry. I don’t know if I can make it to babysit. Is there any way someone else can help out?”

A voice that could only be described as incredulous answered, “MOM, I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ARE WORRIED ABOUT BABYSITTING. Are you okay? What happened?” It had never really occurred to me that she might prefer me to stay in the hospital and figure things out.

Finally, after Sargent Major ended his shift, a new, more laid-back physical released me with a return date for follow-up testing.

No one is sure what happened. My slightly irregular heart sings in flawless rhythm when it is stressed, however. I watched as I began to run on the treadmill, the scrawling picture of my imperfect heartbeats blossoming into strong, uniform, shining examples of my heart contracting, pumping oxygenated blood throughout my body. Turns out, my heart is happiest when I am running. But, I didn’t need a stress test to find that out. My soul already knew that to be true.

So today, while running, reflecting on the blog I had read in the morning, and thinking upon the blip I had with my heart, I started to realize and think about the fact that I am loved. It may sound crazy, but I had never really given much thought to that concept before in my life. I had spent my entire existence being so busy loving people, I had never taken stock of how fiercely I am loved. And, not because I deserve it. I have failed every person who has come into my life at one time or another—repeatedly, largely, deeply, profoundly.

So, on this day of giving thanks, I allow this realization to permeate into my being for an inaugural visit with my soul. I think of all my family and friends who love me…for no other reason than I am on this planet. Letting this thought in can only be described as expcruciatingly humbling. At exactly 3.5 kilometres into my run, this experience reduces me to a blubbering puddle of tears (well, that and maybe the fact that I am trying to go up a hill and a dead skunk is perfuming the air with a nauseating musk—one can’t be completely sure). I am loved by the simple virtue that I exist. I am enough.

And with this thought that blankets my being with joy, I push through. I push through the intensity of the emotion willing me to stop. I push through the hill. I even push by the dead skunk. And, I finish the 7.5 kilometers with enough energy left over to try to attempt a victory dance of the floss with the grace of a one-year-old eating birthday cake with their hands.

I am enough. You are enough. We are all enough.

 *Please take a moment to read the original post by A Medic’s Mind that inspired this post, click here.

PS. If you are either my mother or father and you are reading this, please note this is not a real tattoo.