Inspiration

I have added to my running repertoire since last year's great treadmill experiment; now I am running outside.

This is a major step forward for me. I have tried many times to be an outdoor runner and it just didn't click for me. Today, I am not a runner who makes it look easy but I am a runner who is outside enjoying fresh air and the sights and sounds of my neighbourhood.

It's been just over a month since I started running outside and sometimes it has been a real struggle to keep one foot moving in front of the other. When I have those moments, when I think of how easy it would be to stop, I think of Terry Fox.

I have always considered Terry Fox a hero. One of the few that deserve that label. He struggled through pain and sickness to run his Marathon of Hope.

Since I have been back in Canada I have taken part in the annual Terry Fox Run every September. And since that time I have learned that the Terry Fox Run is held globally including in my old home base, Bangkok.

Terry Fox is a true inspiration, for me as a novice runner and for thousands of other people in many different facets of their lives.

Today I posted his picture on my Facebook page making note that he is my inspiration to take the next step. I did this not only because Terry Fox truly is my inspiration when I am out on the trail but also as a protest. I despise all the fitness inspiring posters that pollute my Facebook feed on a daily basis. The posters generally show a woman, who is in absolute peak physical shape, with some bland inspirational message written in bold script.

The reason I hate these types of posts is that they are unrealistic and once again have women perpetuating unreasonable expectations on the female body. These posters are a sort of pornography that we are spreading among ourselves. It's unhealthy and I wish it would stop. Like the porn industry, these pictures are distorting the female body; what it is and what it can be.

And to add a little more fuel to the fire—we don't even know these women in these pictures. I doubt they are women with jobs and families. These bodies are achieved through hours of training a day; that is if they are true depictions and not an airbrushed fantasy. Most women don't have that much time to invest in their bodies and some will give up on exercise if they find themselves failing to meet this unrealistic depiction of how a physically fit woman should look.

I want to be inspired by real people, with real lives. I am inspired by Terry Fox and if you want to inspire me to exercise with a post on Facebook, upload a picture of yourself doing your body some good. I know you and I will respect you and be inspired by what you are doing.I'm not inspired by some gym bimbo I don't know who doesn't have a life outside of the gym.

I know some of my friends who post these types of pictures on Facebook may disagree—but I ask you to post pictures of yourself and see how much more inspiring that can be.

Guysborough run

Today I took a walk on the route I usually run. I start on a little path through a marsh near my house.

The pussy willows are out in the marsh.

Then onto the dirt road --Prince Street.

And down the Trans Canada Trail.

See the water for the trees.

Like any good course there are water hazards.

And it would not be Guysborough without a Christmas tree farm.

Go past the Mill Pond. Every other day there have been ducks on the water--today out and back, no ducks.

Inter-species tree hugging.This birch is wrapping around this spruce. Feel the love.

And a seed that survived a squirrel's very thorough demolition of a winter stock pile of spruce cones.

Tree fall--great place for little critters to lodge.

And almost at my turning point.

I see the sign.

I see civilization--time to head back into the woods.

This is my run--I hope you enjoyed this preview and come out on the trail soon.

Nice girls

I felt threatened. I felt uncomfortable but I didn't say anything.

It is the unwritten law that we as women were brought up with-- be nice girls. Nice girls don't make a scene. Nice girls are polite. Nice girls don't offend or make others feel awkward.

Nice girls, if they are nice enough, will end up stalked, raped, and/or dead. I don't want to be a nice girl any more. I don't want my daughters to be nice girls but I failed to stand up to sexual harassment yesterday and I've been feeling miserable about it ever since.

Later, in the safety of my own house, I thought I should just have said, “Your making me uncomfortable.”

As this imagined conversation formed in my mind I prefaced that with, “Sorry, but your making me uncomfortable.” Why should I be sorry that his unwanted attention to me and my children is making me uncomfortable? Shouldn't I just be able to say that instead of putting up with this man politely?

I comfort myself by vowing to never let this happen again. Never be nice in the face of unwanted advances. But, of course, this is not the first time this has happened and I have not yet learned the lesson that I so desperately want to impart to my own children, “Don't be nice, be safe.”

Why I am not a doctor

This morning when my daughter coughed and then said in a very weak voice, “I've got boogers in my throat now.” I replied, “It won't kill you. Get ready for school.”

As I carried on with my morning routine I thought to myself, “Now that is why I am not a Doctor.”

This may not be your automatic reaction to a less than compassionate comment but it is mine because doctoring was once in the realm of my possibilities.

In another lifetime I was a kinesiology (study of human movement which leads into occupational therapy, sports medicine etc.) student at Dalhousie. In my first year I found that although anthropology was my hearts true love, human biology was my actual intellectual strong suit. I memorized, I analyzed, I dissected. I got straight As and was on the Dean's List.

For me it was easy, it only required time—the concepts and facts of human biology were simple. They were a story. Every process in the body had a beginning, middle and end; similar to the construction of the simplest fairy tale. The Krebs cycle; a story. The digestive system; a story. Hormones and their feedback loops; a story. The body is a story if only you know how to read the book. And I did.

Stories have always been part of my life and part of what I do. I have been writing stories since elementary school and it was only natural to bring this perspective to my pursuit of biological knowledge. It was a strategy that worked and it worked so well that I found myself thinking outside of the kinesiological box and looking at MCAT (Medical College Admission Test ) prep texts.

With such a command of biology one may ask what kept me from scaling the heights of medicine all the way to the top of the heap as an MD? Books, labs and exams were all great—in fact I loved them all-- but in actual medicine, on the ground, in the hospital medicine, you have to deal with sick people. And I hate sick people.

I must revise that sentence, I hate sick people who are only moderately sick. Sick people who are dealing with their illness stoically while their bodies are wracked with pain—those people I love. I often am one of those people and that is why I hold the other kind of sick people, the sick-enough-for-the-hospital-but-still-mobile type of sick people, in contempt. It is this sort of sick person, who are the majority of sick people, that I knew I would never be able to face on a day to day basis with any compassion or bedside manner. I would tell them, as I have told my slightly sick, over-exaggerating child who wants to spend the day at home from school, “It won't kill you. Suck it up.”

My lack of compassion for the slightly sick comes from, as I mentioned above, my many experiences in the horribly-sick, wish-I-was-dead-to-end-the-pain category. As a life-long sufferer of bowel obstructions I know pain. I know sickness. I know how to keep my head down and get through it. I know that if you can talk, it doesn't hurt that much. If you can walk, you should keep moving. If your not almost dead, keep living.

One incident from my teen years is particularly emblematic of the kinds of experiences I have had that have lead me to be such an unsympathetic person vis-a-vis sick people. I was 17-years-old and in the Misericordia Hospital in Edmonton. I had a bowel obstruction as usual. I had an NG (nasal-gastric) tube stuffed up my nose, down the back of my throat and into my stomach to pump out all the accumulating gastric juices which were prevented from exiting the body by way of the normal route due to the obstruction. Beside my bed was a 4-gallon jar with a small pump attached which was emptied of the dark, green, repugnant sludge that was sucked from my body several times a day.

I had a intravenous drip. The insertion point was constantly getting infected and my forearms were swelling from the fluid that leaked out of my unnaturally small blood vessels.

I could not eat anything. Could not drink anything—not even ice to relieve a dry mouth. I was NPO.

Stabbing pains in my stomach were only slightly relieved by needles of Demerol every four hours which resulted in pains at the injection site that still ache on extremely cold days.

After a week the NG tube was pumping fecal material (I hope you all know what that means). There was nothing left to do.

I went home.

I was starving. Yet I could not eat. Everything I did eat was retched back up in short order.

I was desperate. I began just to chew food and spit it out. At least I could satisfy my taste buds if not my hunger pains.

After a week of not eating at home I went back to the hospital again. Had an NG tube inserted again. IV again. And returned to the same hospital room, again.

Now here is the thing I have not told you yet about this experience which turned me into the I-hate-slightly-sick-people person that I have become; in this room I had a roommate. She was a senior lady with a head of wooly white hair. She was slight in size but her complaints took up the entire room.

She paced our room everyday from window to door only pausing at the window of our 8th floor room long enough to say, “I want to jump out the window,” or a variation of that theme.

I never knew what was wrong with my roommate. She looked perfectly healthy to me. She had no IV. She could walk on her own unaided. She slept through the night. The only problem this lady really had, as far as I could tell, was that the minute I could get out of my bed I would head over to the window hoist it open and invite her to jump.

I think this experience and others like it over the years have sucked the compassion for sick people out of me. I am compassionate in other instances but not this.

Knowing this about myself was a good thing. I'm not saying it's a positive side of my personality. A little more compassion for the slightly sick would come in handy—particularly in the profession of parenting. The saying is, 'Physician, heal thyself'. It should also be: 'Physician, know thyself,' because if you are like me and love the biology, the pathology, and the labs but not the people you should never go down the MD trail.

I write this as a cautionary tale. An aptitude for biology does not indicate a future practicing medicine. Research is a perfectly respectable profession. Just saying.

Lucky people?

This morning on Facebook I saw this post by my cousin Dan Haley who is a State Trooper in Colorado:

Tonight was one of those nights where I really felt I had an impact on a few lives. Feels good and reminds me why I do what I do.

I replied:

Lucky people have professions where they can see the positive impact of their work. It's very rewarding.

After a little thought I decided this would be a good topic to write about—how lucky it is to have a job that touches other people. When I had originally seen Dan's post I was going to respond that in both of my accidental professions—teaching and journalism-- I had occasionally had the same feeling; the work I was doing was having a real impact on a people's lives. In the end I made the above response because I didn't want to appear to reduce the importance of what he does by comparing it to what I do. I do impact lives in my work but my job doesn't ever require me to put my own life in danger.

So I started thinking about how I would begin this post and my first thought was:

Lucky—people who win the lottery aren't lucky, people who find money on the street aren't lucky, etc, etc...People who are lucky are the people whose professional lives make the world a better place.

As I searched the internet for other 'lucky' examples I could use in the previous paragraph, I realized that people whose professions make the world a better place are not lucky, they are idealistic, ethical, political, compassionate and a few more adjectives I can't think of at the moment none of which relate to luck.

People who do the type of work my cousin does don't do it because they are lucky, they do it because they want to make the world a better place. What is lucky are occasional glimpses of the beneficial results of their work.

As a teacher it often takes years before I see the success of a student. I am just adding bricks to the foundation of their lives—it takes a lot of bricks to make a house and I may never see the finished product. In rare, extremely special cases, I can see a student's mind open, see a concept grasped, and confidence expand. Those are the moments I teach for.

As a journalist/writer it is often harder to see the direct impact you have on someone's life. I have been fortunate enough to have had a few stories that were so immediately important that they made a noticeable impact. Those are rare moments and I cherish them.

I am not exactly sure what the point of this post is except to serve as a declaration against luck as a force for good in the world. Good comes from the people that make it happen. It's not lucky that my cousin is a State Trooper. It was his choice. A choice we can only hope others will also make. What we need in the world is not more luck but more Dan Haleys.

I can not finish this piece without linking to an article about my cousin Dan who was awarded a medal for heroism by the Carnegie Hero Fund Commission in 2012 for saving the life of a child. It's my privilege to call this man family.

Past lives

There is a package carefully wrapped in brown paper sitting on my desk. It has been there for almost two weeks but I can not open it; at least not yet. I am hoping that writing this may help me get to the psychological finish line that will allow me to tear the paper and read what I know is inside. Inside is a book and that book is tangible proof of everything I left behind in my last incarnation; my Thai life.

The book, Bangkok Blondes, was a project the Bangkok Women Writers Group published in 2008. For the year or so before its publication I, and several other key members of the writers group, worked furiously researching publishers, writing book proposals and calculating funding requirements for self-publishing. We held semi-regular meetings outside of regular group meetings and frequently overloaded ourselves with research on publishing to further the goal of the group.

We were close to getting the book off the ground when my relationship with my partner became untenable and I decided the best thing for me and my child was to leave the country—there was really no way to leave my partner and stay in the country; I needed distance, I needed half a planet between us to regain my sanity and ensure my safety.

In a period of just over a week I decided to upend my life and return to North America where my family would welcome my daughter and I with open arms. This was not an easy decision. It not only meant putting an exclamation mark at the end of the relationship with my partner it also meant leaving behind a life in which I was very comfortable.

Asia, and Bangkok in particular, had been where I had spent the majority of my adult life. It was in that place that I had learned who I was and what I was capable of doing—artistically, academically, and professionally. Leaving that all behind, particularly when I was on the cusp of fulfilling a major life dream (the book), was a personal catastrophe.

Some might suggest that I needn't have run so far as to cross 12 timezones but those are people who have never been scared of their partner. Never had him follow you down busy streets, on trains and taxicabs to work. Never had him accuse you of having an affair with evidence that he had unearthed by examining the trash of an entire apartment building. Never dealt with jealousy, obsession and anger everyday.

I left the country I loved because I felt I had no choice. I felt there was no other way to get my life back.

I left with one suitcase, a stroller and my baby.

I flew over continents and through time sloughing off my old life like a snake skin you might find in the jungle. My reincarnation to a life more ordinary.

This week I am free. I have sole custody of my children and my former partner no longer has a say over where I go or what I do in my life.

Through this ordeal—the back and forth between the lawyers—my former partner stated that he felt I didn't like him much. My immediate reaction was that—of course I didn't like him; his actions were constantly causing my children mental anguish. But yesterday as I sat looking at the unopened parcel on my desk I realized I also resented him for the life I lost. My friends, my writing, my work—it was a life I loved. Bangkok, I miss you daily.

The package remains a painful reminder of what I lost, what I wish I hadn't had to give up:

Slow mornings eating banana pancakes at the Atlanta Hotel.

Fast rides on motorcycle taxis.

Lazy brown river flowing past my favorite tree at Wat Chai.

River taxis.

Chulalongkorn, the calm campus in the middle of the city.

Easy, affordable child care.

Street food—som tam, Larp moo, Mussaman curry.

Students with names like—Bomb, Bank and Benz.

Rock climbing at Railay Beach.

Sitting in the open door of a train heading up country watching the paddy fields drift by.

In my new life I walk through town with a good friend and come home to a house that is mine. I pick my children up after school and my father drops in for a visit.

I love it here. I have a new list; a list of loves in this place. It is a long list.

Today might be the day I open the package. Am I ready to examine past lives? Perhaps I'll wait until I am through this turn of the wheel.

Get off my planet

I subscribe to Vanity Fair. It is a guilty little pleasure of mine that I have been fostering since my teens. While the magazine does not, to the unaccustomed eye, seem to fit in with my usual reading list—The New Yorker, The Economist, Harpers and The Atlantic-- it is an anomaly in that it features fashion pages and Hollywood fluff alongside serious feature articles about politics, art, business and in depth reporting on contemporary issues.

That being said, two articles in the February issue of Vanity Fair have made me seriously consider the audience of the magazine and whether or not I want to be counted in that number. The first article was about Sadistic Chefs: Tyranny-it's what's for dinner. While the article went on about the appalling trend of diner's being held hostage to the whim of the maestro behind the stove what I found most abhorrent was the lengths people went to and the money people spent for the privilege of being so abused.

Author Kummer described $700 dollar meals and flights to Chicago taken for the express purpose of getting a table at a top tier restaurant in Chicago. Is this not conspicuous consumption run amok? The cost of this three hour dining experience would be enough to send a child to school, to feed a family, to pay my home heating oil bill for one winter. How do people spend money in such a frivolous manner and sleep at night?

In another article, same issue, The Kelly, a handbag that cost $8,000 was demonstrated to be worth it's astronomical price tag because the leather was hand dyed and the bag hand stitched with the craftsman’s signature sewn in the lining as proof of authenticity. I had to read the paragraph with the price twice and the comments from wealthy patrons visiting the shop only once to know that something was really wrong with the world. What has happened in our culture that a functional item like a bag to hold your money can cost more than what a majority of people in the world earn in their entire lives?

When we talk about global warming, gun violence, etc....it is the people who insist on $8,000 hand bags and $700 dollar meals + airfare that I blame for the inequalities that have lead to a multitude of social and environmental ills. My compact fluorescent light bulbs don't amount to much in the face of such flagrant misuse of planetary resources.

And who, you may ask is the real object of this rant; surely not the jet set, Kelly bag swinging readers of Vanity Fair. I wrote this post for you, dear friends, for the people I can reach, because I want to ask you to consider this: look at the things you own. How much do they cost? Are they necessary to your life? Now look at how much money you have donated to worthy causes this year. If your luxury spending outweighs the amount you spend trying to make the world a better place--Please get off my planet.