Breathing

I hate jogging. All I feel when I run is the pain. What’s the point? And still I do it. I’m on sabbatical and there is a part of me that knows that the exercise rules and habits I adopt now might add decades of quality to my life.

I found a soccer ball while on a beach run a few months ago. Now, I push it ahead of me when I run on the beach. It makes me forget my pain. I kick it as far along the beach as I can (not very far; I played my first real soccer game in my 30’s), and run after it. Sometimes I kick it crooked, and it starts to roll down the beach slope into the ocean. NOooooo. I can’t let it go. This ball is saving my life! I sprint to catch it before the briny does. Almost every time I succeed, but the effort creates such an oxygen debt that I stand there at the seaside, arms akimbo, breathing hard, just trying to catch my breath, softly kicking the ball with my foot straight toward the high-tide line, and walking to where it rolls back down. Over and over I repeat this little kick-and-retrieve exercise till I catch my breath, and then start kicking it down the beach again.

Breathing hard.

Breathing hard is not what it used to be. I used to think, shit, what the hell did I do so wrong that I’m breathing so hard? I really blew it. Whatever I was doing, stop doing it.

But now I realize that breathing hard (short of a coronary) is exactly what you must do, at least once a day to keep from going down hill.

The last few weeks, I’ve been studying my Mom’s breathing. She’s going through bouts of breathing really hard. Not the good kind. This is the breathing hard that lung and liver cancer make you do.

Last week she was tossing and turning in her bed. My older brother describes it as her just wanting to crawl out of her own skin. Kicks off the bedclothes, breathing so hard you think she will burst. Jumps up. I gotta pee. Then she quiets down. Then she gets cold. I put the covers back on her and the cycle starts over again.

But the last few nights, she has taken another ratchet downhill. She is not getting up anymore. She can’t. She’s too weak to stand.

But still I listen to her breathe. Soft, peaceful; followed by labored, heavy, pained breathing. Cycles go on and off. Maybe 5-10 minute interval.

The other day, in spite of my best effort, my poorly kicked soccer ball rolled into the sea. It immediately floated away. I watched for a moment hoping it would come back, but I soon realized that the wind and current and waves were taking my ball farther out.

Somehow, this made me totally desperate. I swam out after this silly ball, soaking my brand new running shoes and shorts, totally ruining the rest of my run. But I saved the ball.

I still have it.