(Not) walking in Mom’s shoes

Is this a Sandwich Season crisis?

<Welcome to Sandwich Season, adventures in middle age, sandwiched between aging parents and growing children ... and other duties as assigned.>

Hi friends—

I hope you don’t mind me reporting a recent accomplishment.

On June 1, I achieved my personal best time in a 10K (6.2 mile) race:

I’m well aware that in the wide world of sports, this accomplishment is no great shakes. (Let me give a shout-out for Jon, though, who came in second for men in our age group!) But as one who has long considered herself a sporting imposter, it is amazing to me that I finished in the top quarter of women in my age group.

And it adds fuel to my little dream that if I can just stay healthy and active long enough—like into my 70s or 80s, by when most people have stopped running—I might eventually achieve “athletic” status.

More importantly, though, this 10K experience taught me two things:

1. Real training makes a difference. For the previous 10Ks I’ve run, all three of them, I trained by increasing my mileage week by week until I got up to 4 or maybe 5 miles. Then I said “good enough” and dropped back to 2 or 3 miles every other day.

I justified this plan by telling myself that a 10K is just a 5K run twice, so I would “save my energy for race day.”

What did race day then look like? Starting out strong and … then tiring and dropping down to an unplanned walk. Or starting out strong and … then experiencing brand-new leg cramps, which forced me to limp and stretch my way to the finish line.

A 10K is absolutely not a 5K run twice.

This spring, I found a beginners “easy eight-week 10K training plan” online and stuck to it, rain or shine, dog or no dog.

By race day, I felt ready. I started out strong and continued at a better clip than in my practice runs, until about mile 4. That’s when my app shows my pace (in minutes per mile) slowing more and more precipitously, tracing the shape of Mt. Hood, which indeed it felt like I was climbing as I neared the finish line.

My running pace superimposed on a photo of Oregon’s Mt. Hood (photo credit: Uday Mittal on Unsplash)

Of course we were all running on the flat prairie that is Fargo, with no mountains in sight. The course elevation ranged from 895 feet to 899 feet above sea level. Still, a couple of miles in, one wannabe comedian called out to us runners, “Not to worry, you’re coming into a nice downhill stretch.” Haha.

Mt. Hood climbing sensations aside, I ran this race all the way to the end. And according to Jon, who keeps track of such things, I beat my previous personal record by 5 minutes. Wooh-hooh!

So YES to training.

At the beginning of the race. Don’t even bother looking for a photo from the end of the race.

2. The second lesson I learned is that this achievement is probably part of a Sandwich Season (some might say “mid-life”) crisis.

As I mentioned a couple of weeks ago in “What gets us through: on decluttering and defragging,” running is one of my go-tos for processing thoughts and feelings, especially in challenging times.

But running is also about something else.

It’s a way I’m trying to ensure that I’m not becoming my mom.

Those of you who have read more than a couple of my posts know that my relationship with my mom was a bit complicated. We shared a deep bond and lots of love, but we also drove each other nuts.

From a young age, I felt driven to become my own person, not a miniature version of her. One way I identified for doing that was to become a jogger. I started my kick when I was maybe 11 years old. I didn’t go far, but I got up early and ran around the neighborhood before the bus came to take me to school.

That activity stuck, and I’ve jogged on and off—mostly on—ever since.

My mom was a relatively active person in her younger years. When I was a child we would go hiking through the woods, walking through art museums and historic sites, bicycling, canoeing and sailing.

She even took on brief fitness kicks at times. She had a cassette tape of Jane Fonda’s workout, and she took group exercise classes here and there.

But a jogger she was not.

As Mom grew older, she complained about creaky knees and other aches and pains. I think she regarded housework and gardening, cooking for friends and family, going out to movies, concerts and shows to be her exercise program. And she seemed happy with that, come what may.

As dementia and the covid pandemic settled in, she grew more and more content to stick around home. Jon, Max and I moved back to my hometown in autumn of 2020, and I realized just how sedentary she had become. I invited her to go on walks, to do that thing she always asked me to do—let’s see what’s in the garden—but for the first time ever, she declined.

In the fall of 2020 or 2021, I remember encouraging her yet again to go on a walk. With Dad nudging her along as well, the three of us and Max stepped outside. Dutifully wearing our pandemic masks, we shuffled slowly toward the park located just down the block from my parents’ house. Her lack of energy was clear. Soon, her eyes started growing frantic.

“I need to sit down,” she said quietly, accusingly, looking at me. I was the instigator of this journey, after all. We were about 20 feet from a picnic table, but getting her to it felt like cajoling someone across a wide field. The way she was breathing and moving, I wondered if I’d need to perform CPR in the park.

We got her to the bench, and we got her home again. Over the next couple of years she spent increasing amounts of time sitting and reading or watching TV, then just sitting, and then lying in bed in the months before she passed.

The question I kept asking myself then and continue asking myself now is, How can I age differently?

I’ve come up with lots of answers, and I don’t even care if they’re based in reality. Having heard years ago that aluminum might play a role in brain disease, I got rid of lots of her pie plates, and pots and pans. And I’ve long used non-aluminum deodorant.

I read every label, carefully choosing the most natural-seeming foods, personal care products and makeup, home cleaning products and furnishings. I try to eat somewhat like the Mediterraneans, and I do yoga, teach yoga and at least make plans to meditate.

All this in the hopes that my choices will spare me from the end-of-life my mom—and by extension, all of us—experienced.

And, having heard over and over that what’s good for the heart is good for the brain, I keep running.

I have wondered at times, with a pang, whether this habit is a metaphor for running away from her.

But the truth is, so much of my mom remains with me. Her aesthetic sense. Her way of putting meals together. Her way of arranging a room. Her sense of humor. Her expressions and gestures. I hear all the time from family and friends that I carry so much of her with me.

And when I am not wearing my running shoes, when I am just out and about, walking Leo, going on errands or attending events, sometimes I look down and feel a splash of joy.

Because I’ve caught a glimpse of my feet, and they are wearing a pair of black leather Mary Janes that my mom left behind.

I think happily, I am walking in her shoes.

She is with me, she is with me, she is with me.

In so many ways, I will forever be walking in her shoes.

My feet in Mom’s shoes, as I checked out the daisies this morning in her garden.

With all my best wishes to you and yours,

Sarah

P.S. See below for the answer to last week’s question about a mystery gadget.

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Share your thoughts

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Just for fun …

My mom loved kitchen gadgets. Can you guess what we used this one for? See below for the answer …

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It’s an eggshell cutter! Penny Juve guessed it correctly and offered a better explanation than I ever could:

“We have one of those gadgets. We bought an egg set in Germany. A soft boiled egg is put in an egg cup. This gadget is used to cut an opening in the top of the egg. Then the egg is eaten with a small egg spoon from the shell.”

Well done, Penny! :)

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