The Difference

For everything I've lost, it'd be easy for me to quit fighting. For as difficult as my battles have gotten, it'd be understandable if I let go of my goal of completing my second marathon.

But I can't. I just keep chugging along.

It's not been easy, though. The difference between this year and last is like night and day. Last year, Botox was working for me, I wasn't on any meds, and the dystonia was staying above my ribcage. This year? Botox is not helping, I'm on narcotic painkillers that suck the energy right out of ya, and I'm battling exercise induced spasms in my abdominals.

I didn't know what I was getting into last year and was learning along the way how to properly fuel my body and recover from the impact of the long runs. I know what I'm doing now and my legs seem to be accepting the fact that I'm putting them through this again. But this year is so much harder on the rest of me.

It hasn't stopped me, though. I made it through the second half of my long run today and actually enjoyed myself, despite 50 degree temps, rain, 85% humidity, and 25 mph winds gusting to 38. Sounds miserable. But to me? It meant a warm hat, an empty parkway, and miles of nothing but solitude.

It gave me lots of time to think. About what I'm doing. About what I'm battling. And about all the folks out there battling the same condition I am, but who aren't physically able to run the miles I am.

It made me grateful. And just remembering how lucky I am can make all the difference in the world when it comes to seeing the glass as half full.