Tennis in the heat, weird dreams in bed

At my happy place, Holyoke Canoe Club

I dreamt I was in Atlantic Beach (Long Island) site of idyllic summer days. My father was gone. My mother didn’t own the house anymore but had an agreement with the woman who did own it that we could use it on weekends. We went for a weekend. I planned to run on the boardwalk and take a walk with my mother. 

We heard that the woman was coming earlier than expected, with her kids. I have seen this woman before in my dreams. She isn’t nice. She wants to rearrange the furniture. We have to “butter her up” so she lets us continue to use it. I say to one of her daughters, “I grew up playing kickball in these streets. I need to keep coming back.” 

She says she will take care of it. But they want us to leave early. There will be no time for the run or the walk. I ask my mother if we can stay an extra couple of hours and maybe hang out with our neighbors, the Lublins. It doesn’t seem likely.

In another part of the dream, I am down at the ocean. It is supposed to be calm. But the waves are rough. A tidal wave approaches. I dive into it, then come up for air. I run to dry land, into a room, but the water seeps through. Then I am standing under an overhang. The wave crashes over it. Tiny droplets fall onto my head. Tidal wave dreams seem to be about surging emotions. I have a lot of variations. I think I did OK in this one.

I also dreamt that I walked into my mother’s jewelry store and stood back in shock when I saw my aunt Cinny behind the counter. I thought, “But you’re dead!” When I walked closer, I saw that it was a woman with red hair, with a strong resemblance to my aunt. 

Out of the blue, a voice said, “You believe in Jesus!”

I said, “I do not believe he is the son of God, but I do believe he was a good man.”

NEWSPAPER DREAM alert! 

My friend and editor Mimi thinks I should stop already, but I don’t know how to tell my subconscious to get out of there.

In the dream, I went into the newspaper office and talked to some reporters who were there. I asked if (managing editor) Wayne would let me write three reviews a week. I said I really missed being in the office and would even do it for free. A reporter said they were letting go, not hiring. I decided to go to the library to look for other newspapers that might accept a review. Then I remembered that I was a freelancer and could pitch anywhere I wanted.

In real life, I have been playing a lot of pretty good tennis. It is a little crazy to do this in the heat. It is of course not good for my skin. But I don’t see how you play tennis this summer without getting sun. I finally found a relatively comfortable sun protection shirt, made in Australia. I wear sun protection gloves. I use sunscreen. It is my therapy and so I continue to do it.

I have skipped a couple of George’s Wednesday clinics at the Canoe Club in favor of yoga with Meghan at the Hampshire Y. The clinics are like summer camp for adults, and a lot of fun, but it is also so much sun despite starting out on George’s “air conditioned” court near the river. He makes it really difficult if you say you need to leave early. (I know, I’m a big girl, but if you know George, you’ll know what I mean about how hard it is to do the opposite of what he says. Note to self: Next time just do it, to save your skin.) Also: Do not neglect the yoga. It provides an important balance.

I had to play singles in a summer league match. I haven’t played singles in a long time. I have a claim to fame in winning at the Districts in singles. A long long time ago.

When I was practicing on the Mount Holyoke courts, I chatted with the coach running the summer tennis camp. I told him I was a little nervous about playing singles. He said, “I always tell people, 'You’re a tennis player, not a singles or doubles player.'" That made an impression.

Out on the court, I said “bounce, hit,” a method I learned from reading The Inner Game of Tennis. It helps quiet mental chattering and calm nerves. I reminded myself that I was strong. I fixed my strings (not really because there is nothing to fix; it is just another technique that improves focus.) I bounced around on my toes, despite getting tired. It helped me keep energized.

We played the whole two hours. I have to admit that by the end, my back was stiffening up. 

I won in two sets, in a “timed match,” meaning we ran our of time when I was ahead by two games at 5-3. I think I won the first set 7-5, but it is mushing in my memory with last night’s winning match in the heat, this time doubles, with my summer team, the Paper Dolls, with a fun partner. I had already played in the morning with a regular Monday group. When we stopped, the sweat was dripping into my eyes to the point where I couldn’t see.

I mentioned to my partner that at Dana-Farber, my home-away-from-home, they wouldn't be happy about all the sun on my skin. I can't remember who knows what.

She asked if I was in treatment. I have a good nutshell summary that consists of past leukemia and current side effects including problems with my skin. If there is time and it seems appropriate, I throw in four bone marrow transplants. She said you would never know it.

When we were done, I walked very slowly out of  Forest Park . You could say I trudged. I headed straight to Friendly's for a mint chocolate chip ice cream cone.  By the time I got it, that ice cream tasted pretty great.

Dreams...on the court and in the kitchen

I dream I am inside, playing a doubles match. I am at the net. A long point is playing out cross-court, out of my reach. I get almost hypnotized watching the ball go back and forth. Suddenly the ball comes to me! I am not prepared. But I recover. Whack! I hit a sharply angled volley, unreachable. Whew. Wow. My partner and I win the point, and the game.

At the changeover, I look around and realize there are lots of people watching and, for some reason, others just milling around. It’s crowded in there. I remember that I am not supposed to be there. I have to get out of there. I panic. I find a woman who looks official and I stammer out an explanation. Not feeling well. Not supposed to be here. Bone marrow transplant. Germs.

A substitute materializes. The match will go on, without me. I feel guilty about interrupting the match and scared that I will get sicker. But I'm still happy about that volley.

***************************************

I dream that we are emptying out the apartment in New York. My father is there; my mother has just died. (In reality he died first, and both parents were gone when Diane and I cleaned the apartment out more than two years ago). I look through a dining room cabinet. Crystal punch glasses. Miniature tea sets. Delicate napkin holders. Beautiful china. Cocktail napkins with pretty designs.

My father and I go into the tiny galley kitchen (so small that four of us could never fit there, although three could squeeze in like sardines.) I look in the kitchen cabinet, full of the things I remember, right where they belonged. Calcium pills, vitamins and prescriptions on the bottom shelf. Above, Saltines, LeSeur peas, tuna, tea biscuits, dark-chocolate-covered "Little Schoolboy" cookies.

I start crying. “I wish I could be 13, no maybe 14, and go to school and come home and all of us have dinner together,” I say to my father.

He smiles, warmly, sadly, lovingly. “Don’t we all,” he says. “Don’t we all.”

When I wake up, I lie under my quilt, thinking about this second dream for a long time.
In reality, of course, 13 is not exactly always a picnic. But who doesn’t wish to go back to a time before anything really bad happened, a time when someone else took care of us?

If I went back, none of the bad things would have happened.
But none of the good things, most notably my children, would have happened either.

Talking Turkey Race makes me want to run

I took this photo at Holyoke's Ashley Reservoir with my
cell phone while walking there with a friend a few weeks
ago. Today, runners will pack the trail.

Holyoke's 30th annual Talking Turkey 6-Mile Cross Country Race, taking place today, is expected to draw close to 1,300 runners.

I won't be there, but I will be thinking about it.

That race, which circles the beautiful Ashley Reservoir, is a must-do for many area runners, along with March's St. Patrick's Road Race, also in Holyoke.

I've run the Talking Turkey many times. It has a special resonance for me: When I ran it in 2005, it marked my comeback to racing after my chemotherapy and stem cell transplant in 2003. I wrote about the events leading to the race, and about what it meant for me, in a piece for the New York Times magazine's Lives page.

I was just talking to my friend Emily about it. She said, "Next year, right?"

That's my goal, along with one day getting back to the St. Pat's race, a hilly 10-k.

Whatever you're trying to come back to, you figure out different ways to build back up. (I admire you Pilates people. Ouch. I couldn't do it.) Tennis came back easily this past summer and fall, probably because, unlike running, it allows for frequent stopping to catch your breath, and in doubles, it has the built-in capacity for shouting "Yours!"

When coming back to running after each of my three Caesareans and my first round against leukemia, I tried two approaches. First, of course, I walked, slowly, and then aerobically, until I got to the point where I thought I could jog.

After the babies were born, I just went straight at it and ran the half-mile or mile (I can't remember exactly which). After leukemia, I took the walk/run route; quarter-mile walk, quarter-mile run, for about a mile until I could do one mile at a time. The rest followed naturally, as I built back up to my usual level of six miles or so on weekends and shorter distances during the week, mixed in with tennis, yoga, weights, biking, and, oh yes, did I mention my full-time job?

With my hematocrit currently about 28 (normal is 34.8-43.6) I actually feel fine, but I obviously don't have it in me to do more than a fast walk with maybe a few minutes or so of jogging between trees. So, I guess I need to be patient. It's not always easy, but of course we all need to remember to be thankful for what we can do rather than spending too much time fretting over what we can't do.

I wonder what approach others have taken to getting back to running or whatever activity that makes them feel like themselves.

Runners at the Talking Turkey Race usually get a really nice long-sleeved mock turtleneck. The last year I ran it, in 2006, they gave something a little different: a maroon fleece vest that I wear all the time. This year, for the 30th anniversary, they're giving out something super-special: a windbreaker. Sigh. I'd really have liked one of those. Sure, you can buy your own windbreaker, but it's not the same as earning it at a race. And as most runners know from an unwritten code, you can't wear the T-shirt or windbreaker or vest or whatever unless you finish the race. Not that I need any more T-shirts, but I do need to at least have a plan about how to get back to running.

Going for a drive on roads where I used to run

My daughter, Katie, is doing well behind the wheel

I realized that I’ve been writing much more about tennis than about running or biking. That’s because with a hematocrit of around 26 when last checked, playing doubles and walking the dog are all I can do when it comes to exercising outdoors. I have been doing some stretching, yoga and light exercises in the house.

With doubles, you don’t have to be constantly moving, plus you can save your energy by shouting “yours” to your partner. I took the bike for a little spin but couldn’t make it up a small hill, so I put it away for now. Just for a test, I’ve run maybe five or six steps, but I don’t have the energy.

Instead, I’ve been a passenger on the roads where I used to run. Katie got her learner’s permit earlier this summer, and she’s been practicing on quiet streets around us. Some of them are on my running route. The driving has actually been going fine; she’s my third child, and I am past the white-knuckle stage.

I kind of mumble the same thing every time, having a conversation with myself. “I used to run here,” I say. “Well, you will again,” I answer.

When the other runners glide by, I feel a pang of jealousy.

After we switch seats and I am driving again, I change my focus by retelling my own Driver’s Ed story. We did our on-roads on the streets of New York, navigating traffic while learning the basics. The instructor took us to the Gracie Mansion area (home of the mayor) because the streets around there were among the quietest. This part may be apocryphal, but this is what I remember: My friend Amanda and I are in the back seat, and our friend Johnny is in the front, taking his turn at the wheel. Manda and I lean our heads together and giggle. One of us pulls out a water gun and starts squirting Johnny. Somehow, nobody got hurt.

My mother loved to retell the story of the day I took my test. “I was wearing my good red wool suit. It got ruined because I was sweating so much,” she’d say. Then she’d explain that she had let me drive downtown to where I’d take the test, and I did a terrible job – hence the ruined suit. She hoped the instructor would fail me. But I passed.

“Just because you were pretty,” she’d say.

This is where I’d roll my eyes and say “Mommmmmmm,” just like Katie does today when she’s annoyed with me.

Now here I am watching my own daughter learn to drive. The running, I hope, will come. The driving outings are kind of fun.