I never realized how many excuses I made for myself regarding physical activities until I had a baby. I do have some issues. At the age of ten, I was diagnosed with cancer – a brain tumor – and subsequently had three surgeries, radiation, and a year of aggressive chemo before the age of seventeen. My left side was dramatically affected during my last surgery to the point I had to learn how to walk again. The muscles in my left knee are pretty much useless past walking, and I can’t raise my left arm directly straight into the air (without a lot of pain). I also have balance issues and a loss of a degree of peripheral vision on both sides, which only helps me lose my balance quicker – a lovely mix with my weak knee.
But, all of that being said, most people don’t know about these things until I tell them. I’ve learned to deal with them and can pretty much mask them from prying eyes – I never walk down steps without a guardrail or support. I never get on ladders or go near edges that I could fall off of. I don’t run, jump or jog. I don’t do anything that would draw attention to my issues.
This past spring, however, a friend asked me to participate in a Dirty Girl Mud Run. For those of you who don’t know what this is, a mud run, typically, is a 5K with obstacles and, of course, mud. There are different levels of mud runs, ranging from the Tough Mudder, a serious athlete event where participants have lost fingers and toes and have been mildly electrocuted, to the Dirty Girl, which is the powder-puff version of the latter. The Dirty Girl is a national event, is only for women, not timed, does not have a winner, you’re encouraged to help everyone around you, no obstacle is mandatory, and most of the profits go to breast cancer research. The point is to prove you did it and have fun for a good cause.
My first thought was to say no, but after a week of internal debate changed my mind. What was I saying to A, my daughter, if I, once again, used an excuse rather than trying? Would she grow up always thinking there was an easy way out? I was added to team ‘Got Mud’ that day.
There were 12 obstacles, and I made sure my friends didn’t let me back out because of fear, except for one obstacle I knew I couldn’t do because it took an immense amount of balance and coordination. Other than that, they held me to it.
What did I do? I climbed up a ten ft.(ish) bounce house-like “wall” and bounced my way back down into a mud pit, climbed up and over a 12-foot cargo net, shimmied through various narrow and muddy tunnels, got myself up and over a 6-foot wall, walked at least 1-1/2 miles through muddy terrain, made my way through a bungee maze, crawled through mud under netting, repelled myself down a hill, and climbed up and over a flat, metal net.
It was hard, and I’m still feeling the pain in my right knee months later – a trip to the orthopedic surgeon has occurred, and minor knee surgery is on the books. I would probably still be there if it weren’t for the help of my friends, but, in the end, I finished. I DID IT! I did something I NEVER thought I could do. I made no excuses for why I couldn’t do it and just did it.
I want my daughter to know she is capable of everything-even if something seems like a huge deterrent. I want her to have experiences and not sit things out. I promise to be there every time she says she can’t (fill in the blank) to remind her of what I did. I’m guessing that I’ll get the response of an eye roll for the teenage years, but I do not doubt that I’ll be planting a valuable seed in her brain. That’s all I want. Well, and for her not to laugh at the picture of her mother covered in mud and wearing a pink tutu.
