Tag: relationships

Pulling the Goalie

Recently, my husband and I were invited on a weekend trip to hike with friends in Arches National Park. Oh, how I had been looking forward to it! I love hiking almost as much as I love running—that toxic lover of mine. And to do it surrounded by my husband and friends felt like such a gift. We even managed to snag coveted permits for the Fiery Furnace, a maze of sandstone canyons with no marked trails.

Aaron and I made the four-hour drive to Moab almost giddy, ready for a much-needed getaway and some time outdoors before the holidays. We arrived as night fell, greeted our friends with enthusiasm and began making preparations for the next day. We were buzzing with excitement.

After a not particularly restful night, we woke early, divided into carpool groups and headed to the park. We wandered through the Fiery Furnace for hours, climbing over boulders and squeezing into narrow slot canyons, before I began to slow down. Even with peanut butter and honey Uncrustables and Reese’s peanut butter cups fueling me, my energy started to fade. My quads burned in a way that didn’t feel normal. I was more tired than usual and so, so thirsty.

Still, the conversation drifted toward the next hike and tomorrow’s plans. Which arch should we explore next? Who wants to see Delicate Arch?
Me, my heart shouted. I do!
But my mind countered with reason. I needed rest.

That night, as we gathered in the Airbnb swapping stories and playing games, a brutal migraine struck. The nausea, the pounding pain—it all hit at once. Ugh. Why now? By the time Aaron and I headed to bed, I knew I wouldn’t be able to join the group for their hikes the next day. Even though I understood it was the right choice for my body, the sadness settled in deep.

The next morning, Aaron and I made an early retreat and headed home. As we made the four-hour drive we listened to Malcolm Gladwell’s Revisionist History podcast where he talked about hockey. I don’t know anything about hockey. I don’t even like hockey; I’m in no way particularly interested in hockey. But what they were talking about caught my attention. Pulling the goalie. I’ll try explaining.

In hockey, when a team is down late in the game, the losing coach might pull his goalie  and substitute them with an extra attacker, so instead of having a full offensive team and a goalie, the coach now has six offensive players and no one guarding the net. It’s a risky move that, while making it easier for the other team to score, also increases the losing team’s chances of scoring a goal and tying the game. The coach is making a calculated risk. Pulling the goalie too early will undoubtedly upset the fans in the short term–possibly in the long term if things don’t go well. But if things play out the way the coach would like, well, then who’s the hero?

I’m the type of person who suffers from Fear of Missing Out (FOMO). When people gather, I want to be there. I want to share in the laugher, get in on the inside jokes, make all the memories. You see, as a child, I spent most of my time with just my sister as my companion and friend. Due to divorce, job changes, moving, and general upheaval, we found ourselves separated from family and frequently changing schools. While teaching me how to adapt and quickly make new friends, I also took on a fear of being left behind.

For three years—while I waited for a heart transplant and later recovered—I was, out of necessity, left out of get-togethers and girls’ trips. I watched friends and family travel and enjoy activities that felt so exciting, yet out of reach for me. From home, it all felt distant, and I often felt lonely and left behind. Even now, during our walks, my friends sometimes reminisce about jokes and stories from the trips they took while I was unable to leave the area. It’s no one’s fault, but hearing those memories still hurts in a quiet, complicated way. Since then, I’ve fought hard—both mentally and physically—to rejoin the world: joining groups, getting active again, going on walks, hikes, and weekends away.

Until I have to pull the goalie.

Another way to explain this—drawing on an example Malcolm Gladwell uses, without getting political—is through America’s gun laws. In many states, there is a legal principle called “Duty to Retreat,” which requires a person under attack to retreat safely, when possible, before resorting to deadly force in self-defense.

It feels counterintuitive, right? Your property, your safety, your family may be at risk—and you’re expected to back away? To rely on retreat as your defense? Yet research shows this is actually safer. In states where “Stand Your Ground” laws have replaced the Duty to Retreat principle, homicide rates have increased, according to Gladwell’s podcast. 

I cried when the migraine hit. I cried again when I realized my health wouldn’t let me join the group on another hike. More than anything, I wanted to stand my ground, take some pain medicine, and be right there with everyone in the national park the next day. But logic was the rule of the day. I needed to take the calculated risk of leaving–choosing my health and well-being over my social standing. I might miss the jokes, the memories, and maybe next time even the invitation. But if I stayed, the risk could be far greater.

After my transplant, I had a lot of expectations for myself–most of them centered on participating again. I wanted to run again, to race, to take classes and teach classes again, to join every activity that crossed my path. If people were doing something, I wanted to be right there with them. But life never unfolds the way we picture it. It unfolds the way it will. And so we adapt–something I’ve become very good at. Sometimes the wiser choice is that quiet, calculated retreat. Sometimes we have to pull the goalie. Stepping back isn’t failure. Sometimes it’s survival.

In the end, I’ll be better for having made the call. My friends will be there on Monday with another invitation–I know they will. Hopefully I’ll be well enough to join them. And if not, I have faith that the people who love me will always hold space for me, just as I hold space for them.

The Toxic Ex-Boyfriend

I have this toxic ex-boyfriend, and he haunts me. In fact, I run into him almost every day. It’s becoming problematic.

We were first introduced in elementary school. I hated him then. I couldn’t understand the kids who liked him—mainly the boys in my class. He was always chosen for all the teams, and all the boys loved to play with him at recess. I personally never understood the attraction.

In junior high, he started drawing the attention of some of the girls. Not me, however. I tried steering clear of him, but no matter how hard I tried, it seemed we were always partnered up in gym class. It was torture.

In high school, my sister started hanging out with him a lot. She and her friends spent quite a few summer mornings and Saturdays with him. Their time together looked so easy—so fun and refreshing. Though I didn’t understand at first, you could say I was intrigued; maybe there was something there. Maybe if I gave him a try, I’d understand the appeal. And so I began a flirtation, if you will. Sometimes I’d join my sister and her friends when they’d hang out with him on a Saturday, hoping maybe there’d be a spark between us. He was kind of popular, and I wanted to like him and really wanted him to like me.

Let me tell you, in the beginning it did not go over well. I guess you could say our chemistry was lacking. Yet time and time again, we’d continue to ask each other out—I’d chase him, he’d chase me. Around and around we’d go. This went on for years, until one day it all clicked, sometime after the birth of my first child.

Most weekdays I’d set aside at least a little time for just the two of us, usually in the morning after my husband left for work. I’d put my son down for a nap and sneak off to spend time with him. But there were other times when I’d bring my son along, figuring that the early introduction was somehow good for him. Our relationship was easy and flourished then. Those mornings were so fun; sometimes I’d add an afternoon. With just one young child and so much free time, I put a lot of focus on him, and our relationship was strong.

But with the birth of each additional child, our dates became more difficult. I couldn’t just put a child down for a nap or bring one kid along to meet up with him. Suddenly, I’m juggling schedules. I’ve got preschool and soccer carpools. I’ve got toddler meltdowns and orthodontist appointments to work around. Timing things got harder and harder. Sneaking away to find time with him became more difficult. Our time together became more precious, so when I did find time, I wanted to really make it worthwhile. I hung on longer, or more intensely—anything to make the time more meaningful.

Eventually, I found ways to add dates to the weekends. I might sneak away for a Saturday morning with him. And that’s when things became torrid. That’s when my friends found out.

Once my friends got involved, we began planning weekend getaways. Aaron managed the kids while I went away with my friends and met up with him. I still feel guilty admitting that those were good times. I felt wild and alive. Adventurous. I was another person away with him and my friends. We ran free, and we laughed until our breath caught in our throats and our heads throbbed. And at the end of the trip, we almost felt hung over from the experience. But there was a price to pay.

This went on for more than twenty years. Over two decades of our love affair began taking a toll on me. And Aaron began noticing.

I began feeling tired. A lot. But this boyfriend demanded my time. And, oh, how I wanted to spend that time with him. I felt young with him. He validated me in a way nothing else did. But eventually, he broke my heart—completely destroyed it.

Wouldn’t you know it, as soon as my health began to fail, he left me high and dry. There was a part of me that thought I could hold on to him until I was an old lady, that I’d go to the grave with him by my side. At least I’d be able to tell my grandkids about my love affair, and they’d blush and whisper about it to their friends, secretly proud of their grandma.

Nevertheless, when my health went south, I came to peace with ending our relationship. I’m a happily married woman of a certain age, I figured I didn’t need him anymore. Believe me, I mourned the loss—I grieved, for sure. I felt broken inside. We had been together for so long, he had become a part of my identity. But I did blame him—his toxic nature. And there was a piece of me glad to be rid of him. I put that relationship firmly in the past.

But then my heart transplant surgeon brought him up, named him by name. Said he’d like to see me get back together with him. Perplexed, I turned to my husband, who sat beside me. He nodded his head in agreement. “I think you should try again.”

And so, after completing thirty-six sessions of cardiac rehab, I laced up my running shoes and tried again.

With a new, young heart and with ARVC in the rearview mirror, I jumped on the treadmill and began cranking up the speed. I started with just a few awkward, toddler-like steps for only thirty seconds at a time, eventually working up to running a full mile. My stride was clumsy, my cadence slow. But I did it.

Did I love it? No. In fact, I’d say we’re back where we started, with me watching all the runners around me making it look so fun and so easy, making me wish I liked it. Just like those days in elementary school, those boys at recess who ran with so much freedom and ease—at least now I know the feeling. My sister and her friends in high school who made their Saturday morning hill runs seem fun—now I understand the appeal.

I know I’ll try and try again. Some runs will be good, and other runs will be horrible. I might chase him; he might chase me. We might go around and around like this for a while. I don’t know if my love affair with running will ever be rekindled. But I hope one day to tell my grandchildren about my love affair with running and make them proud of their strong, resilient grandmother.