The Journey (10): Ambivalence and Contradiction
Sep2120068:09 p.m.
I can even listen to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers at the same time. But of course, this doesn't even begin to compare with running through stillness, on the pale morning slopes behind Les Salces.
My self-diagnosis was confirmed recently by a woman in a white coat with an x-ray: Inflammed Achilles tendon. The prescription? Rest, rub cream into it, REST. (But there isn't time to rest!)
I tell the doctor about the Great North Run, 'How long?' I ask her.
She shrugs in that eloquent way the southern French are born to. She is sympathetic, but also slightly amused' 'Two, three months'. She catches the glint of steel in my eye. 'Ten days. You must rest it for ten days, minimum'.
That's when I resign myself, for the time being, to a view of the wardrobe.
*
Marmaduke has just told Chris that he did his own injection for the first time yesterday. He's going to demonstrate his newfound capability for his dad before breakfast. He does his blood sugar level check first and makes me and Chris guess the result. Chris guesses 1,38 and I guess 1,50. The result's actually 1,48, - so we didn't do so bad! (And more importantly the reading's normal).
In the kitchen a few minutes later I watch Marmaduke prepare his injection and pull down his pyjama bottoms. Chris is also watching closely and Marmaduke shoots me a look of triumph I feel privileged to receive, just before he releases the needle.
When Marmaduke finishes his second count of ten, he pulls the needle out. He puffs out his chest and looks at his dad. Chris grins and congratulates him.
Although I am also proud and pleased, I am more an observer than I was yesterday when Marmaduke did this for the first time. Perhaps that's why I'm suddenly very aware of the ambivalence of my emotions: I am happy - this is a happy occasion, something I have hoped Marmaduke would eventually want to do for himself. But I am also terribly sad, to see my seven year old with pyjamas pulled down to his knees, sitting on a kitchen chair still way too big for him, sticking a needle into his thin little thighs.
Of course it's important my son sees only my pride and pleasure in his achievement and I make sure I show it. This is an important milestone on Marmaduke's journey, even if the path is one I wish he didn't have to take.
*
I'm writing this part of the blog longhand, (I'll transfer it to the computer later), in a field by a lane which leads from one small village to another. The vendange (grape harvest) has started and from where I sit I can see a small group of people bent over the vines. Now and then little red half-tractors trundle by on the lane, pulling trailers full of dusty-ripe grapes. It's a sign that summer's coming to an end.
As I write I have, in some ways, the sensation of coming to an end of some part of my own journey. I've been able, through this blog, to express some of my thoughts and feelings concerning the diabetes and I wonder how much more, if anything, there is to say.
What I can say is I don't know how this GNR thing is going to end yet. And I'm being forced to admit possibilities I never wanted or envisaged. Is it a coincidence that the diabetes involves me in the same way? (That is to say in a need to, 'admit possibilities I never wanted or envisaged').
Looking back, my experiences of the last couple of weeks also seem characterised by ambivalence: I received my race number, rather late, last week. (Someone had forgotten to write 'France' on the envelope). I was excited. I'm red, number 1013 - right near the front in Zone 1! If I were to run at the same average pace as I achieved in the Great South Run five years ago, then I'll finish the Great North Run in one hour and forty-five minutes.
But when I think about my ankle my inner sunshine disappears. Will I even be able to run? And if I do will my ankle last the course?
Getting ready for bed one night, Chris asked me how I was feeling about running, or not running as the case may be. (Oh! how can he use the words 'not' and 'running' right next to each other like that?)
I cleared my throat, 'Well at the moment I'm trying to accept what's happening with my ankle as part of my journey. Not in a fatalistic way. Just, I'm trying not to force anything.'
'You're trying not to force anything'.
I'll give him this he didn't put any sarcastic stress on the 'you're'. But it's no wonder he's surprised. My usual response in the face of adversity is to stick rigidly to my plan, blasting any obstacles to kingdom come,( for which characteristic Chris will refer to me as a 'death or glory merchant').
'D'you think this Achilles thing happened for a reason then?' he said.
'Yes, probably.' (So let me hurry up and find out what it is so I can get on with running a half-marathon).
It's hard because I hate namby-pamby wissie-woosie people with injuries. It's hard because I haven't had the daily rush of running up the mountain-side for a couple of weeks. It's hard because this is just not the way it's supposed to be. It doesn't fit my picture of crossing that finishing line, red-faced but triumphant, or wearing my medal to collect my offline sponsorship money. And it's hard because I can't un-imagine the glorious successful culmination of everything I've been working towards.
Chris went to check Marmaduke's blood sugar before we went to sleep. He was gone for a while because he had to wake Marmaduke to give him a snack. When he came back he said, 'So what do you think the reason is then - the reason you've got an inflammed tendon?'
'I don't know. I think I just need to accept it if I can. Hope for the best and accept it'.
As I drifted off to sleep I felt quite impressed with myself - until I remembered what I had to say about acceptance in Blog Five. I didn't get much sleep after that.
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Comments (2)
Russell_Nimbus 'I really hope your ankle recovers sufficiently to enable you to run. I know you will do it if there is any possible way.' added 21st Sep 2006
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Tim_Broughton 'I think it's more about overcoming than accepting. Through your journey you have described the ending of the perfect life for your son in that touching poem, but things still continue and he is overcoming what is thrown at him, like being able to inject himself. It's not as you planned, but you can still cross the finish line, red faced and triumphant. And ambivalence? I can't believe you would have got this far, achieved what you have through ambivalence. That really is a contradiction. I look forward to the next steps in your walk. I guess that we have all gone through a journey on our training. Mine is ongoing, but wouldn't be the same without the shared journeys of my fellow travellers, the times they stumble and then get up, dust down and carry on. Like Bunyan's Pilgrim, I need to make progress or I get caught in the mire of doubt, but it doesn't stop reflection on how far I've come.' added 22nd Sep 2006
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