But I’m not.  I’m staying in Nashville, working a job I love and being part of an incredible community of friends and family.  There’s not one bit of me that regrets not being able to go to Africa.  I assume that’s partly due to the fact that multiple doctors have told me that I simply cannot attempt it.  With the diagnoses I’ve been given, I will likely never complete a climb like the one I was planning.

There are remnants of the trip strewn around the apartment.  I have books on climbing mountains, travel books about Tanzania, and prescriptions for scary medicines that reduce swelling in your brain.  But they’ve mostly gone untouched in the past weeks as my focus has shifted.

I don’t think I’m done with pushing my limits and boundaries.  I started Googling places to sky dive in Tennessee, because I think it would be fun to do again, especially in winter.  I signed up for a vegetarian Indian cooking class.  Not that I equate learning to cook samosas with jumping out of a plane, but it’s just another thing I didn’t think I would do.  And I’ve signed up for two more half marathons and am starting to think about how I can push the pace just a bit.

But then I’m also driving a bit more defensively than I usually do thanks to being rear-ended last week.  Add to that some ice and snow on the roads in a city that doesn’t have enough plows or salt trucks and suddenly I’m gripping the steering wheel with two white-knuckled hands and crawling down major thoroughfares at 20 miles per hour.

It’s strange trying to imagine what I would be feeling right now if I were actually going to Africa tomorrow.  Knowing the nerves I had before my trip last year, I can only believe that those would be magnified a few hundred times.  I would worry about the dog, I would worry about my parents worrying about me, there would just be a lot of worry.  And yes, I realize that there would also be some crazy anticipation, a whole new level of excitement.

I’m very thankful to be in a very different place than I was when I booked the trip three months ago.  I don’t need to run away to prove anything to myself or anyone else.  I don’t want to spend my birthday alone in the freezing weather struggling to breathe in the thin air.   I don’t constantly look for things to fill my time and I certainly don’t feel the need to make far off plans simply to fabricate a future.

So instead of buying climbing boots, I’m thinking of buying cowboy (cowgirl?) boots.  I’ve got snow and ice covering my front yard and I didn’t have to fly anywhere to see it.  I’ll likely get up unfortunately early tomorrow to get a run in at the gym because it’s too cold to run outside and then I’ll simply go to work.  No airports, no luggage, just Tuesday.  Tuesday sounds pretty nice.

In January, I got this crazy idea that I should run one half marathon a month for the entire year.  I wanted to run races.  For the past two years, I had trained for a marathon.  The training consumed me and I didn’t get to enjoy the fun of participating in races.  I missed the excitement of race morning, the feeling of satisfaction of crossing the finish line.  Running one every month seemed to be the perfect way to make sure that I didn’t get lost in the training and got to really enjoy running.

Over the course of the year, I ran races in Maryland, California, Washington, D.C., Tennessee, Virginia, and Wisconsin.  I didn’t repeat a state until September.  I ran in snow, in pouring rain, in humidity, and sunshine.  I ran up a mountain and trudged through mud.  I was handed slushy Powerade in January and gladly dumped cups of water over my head in June.  I wore purple to every race.

July and August were prohibitively hot.  A heat wave and an impending move kept me out of a July race I had already signed up to run.  I ran a 15K in August.  It was my first race back in Nashville on a thankfully cool morning.  The course had some brutal hills but it also welcomed me home.

I was registered for a race on Saturday, October 30th.  The Monday of that week, a cardiologist told me that I shouldn’t run distances.  My diagnosis included the possibility of sudden death.  I skipped that race and went for a tentative run close to home, feeling every heartbeat.

In between doctors, in November, I ran a half in Nashville, defying my doctor’s orders and, seemingly, common sense.  But there were a lot of things I lost in this year of changes, and I wasn’t willing to give up running.  I ran it with support and finished side-by-side with the person who stayed with me throughout the race.  Afterwards, my stomach churned and I felt lightheaded with relief and the realization that I was even more stubborn than I previously knew.  A couple of weeks later a new cardiologist gave me a new diagnosis,  one that didn’t include sudden death as a symptom.  He gave me new medications and warned that this would likely be something I will need to monitor for the rest of my life.  But I could run.

So yesterday morning I stood with 12,000 other runners under cloudy, muggy Memphis skies.  I ran down Beale Street and choked back tears as we passed St. Jude hospital with parents thanking us for running.  We wound past the Mississippi River and through Overton Park, home of the Memphis Zoo.  I sprinted down the last hill and in to AutoZone Park, feeling strong and confident.

I didn’t quite make it through twelve half marathons this year.  But I made it through nine in a year that could have brought me to my proverbial and literal knees.  There were a lot of mile 9 moments when those last 4.1 seemed to stretch endlessly before me.

I don’t know what my plans are for racing next year and I currently don’t have the next race on my calendar.  There are a lot of half marathons out there and I don’t intend to stop running them.  I’ve found my distance and I’ve found my stride.

Last Thanksgiving was hard.  I lost one of my best friends and was well on the path to losing another.  Family and home were fluid concepts that defied definition.  Traditions were uneasy.  The food was the same and yet the tastes were off.

Parts of that weekend are a blur, but there are moments that seem branded in to my memory.  I can see the living room, hear the phone ring, watch myself walk to the phone and hear those words we dreaded and expected to hear.

For nearly twelve months I looked forward to this Thanksgiving with a bit of desperation.  I needed to make up for the last one, I needed the holiday to feel like the other ones I remembered, the good ones.  Every moment was planned out in my head, every destination and taste and feel that would be necessary to start erasing the past.

Building a day up to such a degree can bring disaster.  Expectations are difficult to meet and disappointment is a painful way to spend a holiday.

But I got lucky.  Everything I wanted, every piece of my puzzle miraculously fell in to place.  Even the unseasonably warm weather had it’s upside, making the morning race more comfortable for spectators and bringing out more costumes than ever before.  It felt so natural to immerse myself in family, to need nothing more than what was contained in our home.  It was perfect.

This time of quiet reflection no longer intimidates me.  A year ago I fought the quiet, fought the whispers that are so clear in retrospect.  So much has changed.  New traditions are created, new bonds are formed.  I allow the quiet to surround me and watch the puppy sleep soundly next to me.  It is different, it has been difficult, and I am so thankful to be here.

My body is in revolt.  We’re talking full on coup d’etat.  Apparently months of living with daily (okay, hourly) stress doesn’t do a body good.

Know what the hardest working muscle of your body is? Don’t google it, I’m sure you actually know.

It’s your heart.  And mine has decided that it’s time for me to take better care of it.  In the past few weeks, I have seen two cardiologists and have appointments with two more.  The staff at one office now greets me by name, although I suspect that’s because I’m the only patient under 60.

The second time I saw doctor #2 (keeping up with that?), he told me that I shouldn’t run distances anymore.  He also told me that I shouldn’t have alarm clocks or telephones in my general area.  And no swimming or diving.  There may have been some yelling about that evening.

Once I fussed enough that I was told I could still jog (and we’ll talk about distance later), and I had a couple of runs that didn’t kill me under my belt, I decided to  get up early this morning and run.  Apparently this was not what my body had in mind.

While walking the dog after my run, I started favoring my right leg.  By the time I completed the neighborhood loop, I was limping.  Oh, hello tendinitis, nice to see you again!

So now I’m ensconced on my couch, icing my foot, and reading up on my various heart diagnoses.  Fine, body, you win this round.

Time used to move so slowly, but now I feel as though I can barely keep up with it.  I used to spend hours on the phone with faraway friends.  Now I spend face time with many of those same people.  Sasha used to bark at anyone who came to the apartment.  Now she has her favorites, people whose arrivals she meets with wags and wiggles.

There is one wall of my bedroom that is put together much like it was in Virginia.  Sometimes, when I’m half awake, just coming out of a dream, I catch sight of that part of the room and find myself panicking.  A glance around the rest of the room quickly shows me where I am.

When I first arrived in Nashville, it took me a while to get it through my head that I wasn’t going “home” to Virginia.  While I still read the Post often, I don’t check many of the other websites nearly as much.  I still enjoy hearing about what’s happening with friends up there, but I don’t check the weather and day dream about where I would run if I were there.

I’ve been to two Titans game, one Predators game, found two new beautiful greenways, and cooked countless meals in my new kitchen.  I’ve reconnected with friends, met incredible new people, and started thinking ahead by more than a week.

Everyone said it would get better when I got a job.  And it did.  They said it would get better when the weather and humidity dropped to a more comfortable level.  And it did.

There will always be bad days and battles.  I will never discard everything from my past – it’s helped to shape me and make me appreciate what I have now.

I’ve realized that it’s hard to live your life when you’re lost.  For months now, I have been lost without knowing it.  I doubted my choices, second guessed my heart, and lacked the confidence to see straight.  The change that happened when I realized that I made the right choice to pursue a career in museums, that I need certain things and people in my life to be happy, has given me back the person I thought I lost.

Someone once told me that blaming the economy when I talked about it being an issue while job searching was just using it as an excuse to take the blame away from myself.  When I arrived in Nashville, I worked down a list of the stars of Nashville nonprofits and met with whomever would see me.  I sent my resume in advance and most of them talked about how great it was and how I clearly had a lot to offer.  But each of them also told me that they didn’t have any openings and they didn’t know anyone who did, either.  They all spoke about being just months away from looking to hire, but there didn’t seem to be anything right now.

I have had comments made to me or about me referencing the amount of time that I have been unemployed in the past couple of years.  Sometimes people make it seem like I wanted to be out of work, I didn’t want to be a productive, helpful member of society.

I would have gladly traded those days of sitting at home, searching the internet for jobs to anyone who had a position that left them fulfilled and challenged at the end of the day.  They don’t understand what it is to question yourself day in and day out, catching glances from people who wonder why you are at the gym in the middle of the morning and not in an office somewhere and wistfully eying the afternoon commuters.

Going back to ZOOMA in April provided the respite I so desperately needed, while also making it hard for me to resume the life of the unemployed in Nashville.  I knew that it would take some time to find a job.  I figured that it might not be a dream job and it might not be in my chosen field, even when I figured out what that chosen field entailed.  With the support of my parents and friends, I kept plugging at it, with an intensity that I lacked in Washington.

Finally something clicked.  It wasn’t just a good job, it was a great one.  It wasn’t just in nonprofits, it was in a museum.  It didn’t just require sitting at a desk, it had movement and interaction with kids and other visitors.  I applied, taking extra time with my cover letter and going over my resume to make sure that it lined up with the job’s requirements.  And then I waited.

And then I interviewed.  And then I waited.

Nearly two weeks later, I went back for interview #2.  And the next day, interview #3, this time with the director.  A few hours later I got the call.  As I listened to my new boss over the phone, I danced around my house to the great amusement of my puppy.  I hopped up and down, careful to avoid the ceiling fan in my room.  I worked through my phone, finally spreading good news.

So here I am, three days in to the new job.  Tomorrow will be my first day without the training of my predecessor.  I have a badge, a parking pass, and will soon be signed up for health insurance again.

Just over two years ago, I left the museum world behind, unsure if I would ever return.  I loved my work at ZOOMA and the opportunities that came from it.  But now I’m back in the world of objects, history, and learning.  And I couldn’t be happier.

When I was in the midst of the eating disorder, my medical doctor was charged with making sure that my organs were keeping up with the demand I placed on them.  Somewhere along the way, we discovered that my heart and kidneys were taking a bit of a beating.  Given that heart issues run in the family, I went through a number of tests, including a treadmill stress test and monthly EKGs.  A while later, after I had gained most of the weight back, a new EKG showed that the issue had gone away.

While most people know how my first marathon attempt ended (badly), few know that about a month before the race, I actually spent the afternoon following a training run in the local emergency room.  I had had trouble breathing on the run and when I called in to ask about it and explained my history, I was told to head in to be checked out.  An EKG showed the same issue I had before, but it was gone again when I had a follow-up appointment with a cardiologist thanks to proper hydration.

Now that the tangents are done, let’s get back to the medical clearance form.  In going over my history with my new doctor, I mentioned the previous heart issues because I’m a good patient.  She decided we should do an EKG, just to make sure.  And wouldn’t you know it, the issue was back.  So she referred me to a cardiologist who then referred me to do more testing.

This afternoon, I headed to Centennial Hospital to complete two tests.  The first was a stress test.  Basically they have you walk on a treadmill until your heart rate reaches a point near your maximum.  They take measurements throughout the test and every three minutes, the treadmill speeds up and the incline increases.  I stayed on for just over 13.5 minutes, which is actually pretty good.  Then I headed out to wait for the next test and enjoy the end to my 24-hour caffeine fast.

Next up was an echocardiogram, basically an ultrasound of the heart.  If you’ve never had one of these, let me tell you, it’s really cool.  I could watch my heart beat and the tech would flip a switch and suddenly there would be color to represent which direction the blood was flowing.  He pointed out the various valves and chambers.  I was mesmerized.

At the start of the procedure, he told me it would last about 30 minutes.  Near the 40 minute point, he told me that he had one more test to do and that he wanted to explain it to me.  He pointed to the image of my beating heart on the monitor and told me that one of the walls doesn’t stay solid during the heart beat like it should.  He said that it could either just be a quirk or it could be a sign that there is a tiny hole in the wall.

To say that I was unprepared to hear that would be an understatement.  I go in to check out some rhythmic problems and I’m told there may be a hole in my heart?!?

So I trek out of the dark room, get an iv put in to one arm and then watch, even more mesmerized, as he pumped air bubbles through my veins in order to see if they would go through the wall.  One minute I feel the tech pumping the syringes sticking in my arm and in an instant I can see the left side of my heart flooded with white as the bubbles take over.  The tech wanted to do the test a second time, so he massaged my shoulder, trying to get the bubbles out before pumping in more air.  And again I watched as half my heart disappeared under a white cloud.

In the end he didn’t see any bubbles pass through, meaning he doesn’t think that there’s a hole.  I should find out more from the cardiologist tomorrow and will hopefully have an answer as to the fate of my trip next week.

The funny thing is, I won’t really mind if they tell me that climbing large mountains isn’t so good for my health.  In an instant, I saw everything change.  I imagined not being able to run, taking extra medicines, worrying even more.

As much as I understand the fact that every day should be savored, I’ve been guilty recently of wishing away large chunks of time.  While I know that there may be moments in the coming weeks when I want to be beyond this period, I do need to remember that there could always be fewer days and that isn’t really what I want.

Today I got to watch my heart beat over and over again.  It’s not broken and I’m lucky that it seems to be beating steadily day-by-day.  The stress test came a bit later than the one on the treadmill, but I would really like to think that I passed.

Today was a day that made me believe in the goodness of people.  Of family and friends.  Of sunshine and clear blue skies.

My friends came through in a big way today.  They called, texted, and hugged me to let me know that I am loved and I am not alone.   They encouraged me, propped me up, and helped me keep my chin up.

My parents welcomed me without question last night when I just needed to cry.  Two fuzzy dogs made me laugh until my stomach hurt.

I know that tomorrow or the next day or the next day may bring back the pain or anger.  It comes in waves, I’ve accepted that.  But today was far better than I ever thought it could be, thanks to the goodness of some incredible people.

To every one of you – thank you, thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I rarely saw my dad in his workplace.  Sure, I visited the Ingram Group, bragged about the fact that he was Chief of Staff to the Governor, and knew what he was doing.  But I never really saw him in his element.

Just before I headed to grad school, my dad took a new job as head of the local nonprofit management agency.  It was a career change and he was so excited to be a part of the nonprofit world after years in the government and for-profit fields.  He was soon busier than he’d been in years, and happier.

Returning to Nashville and looking for a job in the nonprofit world has given me a chance to see his world.  I have met with numerous contacts who are more than happy to spend an hour talking to Lewis’s daughter.  They tell me how much they respect him, the great work that he does, the passion that he brings to it.

Last night I volunteered at his agency’s main event, a dinner with over 1,000 attendees that honors the stars of the nonprofit world.  It is an awesome event, one that leaves you with a heightened belief that people are truly good at heart.  I arrived nearly five hours before the event and watched the army of servers, a/v techies, and staff members transform a giant ballroom.  I stood and helped hand out name-tags as people streamed in.  My dad worked the crowd easily, welcoming guests and congratulating the finalists.

I joked with his staff throughout the evening, poking fun at the fact that he doesn’t stop pacing before events.  But there was a reverence and a respect that carried through our jests.

The event was an incredible success.  Handshakes and hugs carried him through the evening as I watched a community embrace the work my father does every day.

It has been awesome to hear from so many people how much they appreciate the work he does.  It has been even better getting to see his work for myself.  I love getting to know him professionally while still reconnecting over football and books.

One of my favorite bloggers just found out that her father’s life is being cut short by leukemia.  I read this post today and thought about seeing my dad so happy last night.  I know I made the right choice in moving back to Nashville.  I cherish every moment that I get and will take every opportunity that I am given to be close to the two people who mean the most to me.

I have been in Nashville now for over a month and a half.  There is only one box left unpacked and the dog and I have fallen in to a sort of routine involving emailing (me), napping (her), looking for jobs (me), and sniffing every blade of grass in our front yard (her).  I have been mopey about the lack of movement on the job front, about the lack of future plans, and about a life that is far from what I thought it would be.

One of the best things that I learned from my marriage is that every day counts.  Every moment in your life should be used fully, leaving you with no regrets and many stories.  This was part of what made me travel by myself and jump out of a plane.

It was also this lesson that has spurred me on to my next adventure.  On December 14, just three months from now, I will board a plane in Nashville, connect in Detroit, then Amsterdam, and finally arrive at my destination nearly 23 hours later: Kilimanjaro International Airport in Tanzania.  I will join a group and over the next 8 days, we will climb Mt. Kilimanjaro.  We begin the summit climb at midnight as my birthday ends, under the light of a full moon.

I am equal parts excited and terrified.  I went out and bought four books yesterday, one travel book on Tanzania and three books on climbing mountains.  Kilimanjaro does not require technical climbing skills, which is the only reason I will be able to do it.  It’s just a lot of hiking at high altitude.  I use “just” very loosely in that sentence.

When I booked the trip yesterday, I wondered if I would wake up this morning regretting the decision.  But this morning I felt strangely peaceful with my plan.  I have something to look forward to, to set my focus on.  I get to add a new continent to my list and a new stamp in my passport.

Clearly I have already thought about how I’ll record the experience.  I’ll be looking in to cameras in the coming months and buying a good, mostly weatherproof journal.  I’m not going to take my laptop, I’m not that idiotic.  But I know that I want to document as many moments and memories as I can.

In the hours before I jumped out of the plane, I couldn’t bring myself to think about what it would be like to stand at the door of the plane looking down at the ground from 11,000 feet.  But now I try to imagine what it will be like standing 19,000 feet above the surface of the earth as the sun rises before me.  I can’t wait.