Teach Them To Fly

"Wanna pack your bags, something small
Take what you need and we'll disappear
Without a trace, we'll be gone, gone
The moon and the stars will follow the car
And then, when we get out to the ocean
We're gonna take a boat to the end of the world
All the way to the end of the world

Oh, and when the kids are old enough
We're gonna teach them to fly."

--"You and Me," Dave Matthews Band

Sunday, July 15, 2018. Fairfax, California. I had spent much of the day chilling in the sand and walking up and down Stinson Beach. As relaxing as that sounds (and it was), there was a huge part of me that really wished I was with my honey riding bikes all over Marin County. Legitimately, the #1 and #2 things besides people that I (we) miss about living in the Bay Area are 1) riding in Marin and 2) riding down the Peninsula. If only we could rent the entire house and not just a 400 square foot apartment in Palo Alto. But sigh, I digress.

(Hubby) had been riding most of the day, and I drove down from (Aunt's) house in Forest Knolls to meet him in Fairfax for dinner. We were grateful for (Aunt's) generosity in letting us stay there while she was on a road trip. It was a calm and relaxing place, and we had many awesome memories of visiting (Aunt and Uncle) there and riding together. Staying there was part of our recipe for success.

I had biked Bolinas-Fairfax Road dozens of times but never once stopped anywhere but the Roastery or the Police Station (coffee and bathrooms, duh), so I was kind of excited to find a spot for dinner. Fairfax is the kind of place where, if we win the lottery and California figures out the wildfire situation, I'd want to live there forever.

We chose a place at relative random. I ordered a salad with arugula, goat cheese, and pepitas. Because, of course. They had a GF beer on tap that (Hubby) ordered, and I drank half a glass of rose before making him drink the rest. Never you fear: the Marine always makes me drive even if he's had just one. It took a while for us to notice what was happening next to us, but the tables were quite close together, so once we allowed their boisterous conversation to find our ears, eventually our eyes wandered over as well.

One baby, in mama's arms, looking about 4 months-ish. My eyes locked on. But wait.

Another baby. In daddy's arms. Looking about 4 months-ish. One baby dressed in hues of blue. One baby dressed in hues of pink. My eyes widened.

"DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE?" I spoke in a whisper scream to hubs. When we locked eyes, we both had to fight the water welling in them.

"I don't believe in signs," he said. "But that's a sign."

I couldn't stop looking at them. I'm sure my staring became obvious. Eventually I gave into my magnanimity and I told them why I was staring. Why we were freaking out and almost crying. How crazy it was that we should sit down at a random table at a random restaurant the night before we were going into our fertility clinic for an embryo transfer of one male and one female embryo and sit next to opposite gender twins. How everything we hoped for was sitting right at the table next to us. Yes, of course, I'd like to hold the babies. I still remember their names: Oliver and Paloma. It was so hard not to comment that a paloma is like one of the best cocktails ever.

Monday I woke up and took myself on a hike through redwoods in Samuel P. Taylor park--another place I've only ridden through. I hugged trees.

When I got back to (Aunt's) house, I ate and showered and put on a tank top that was a gift from a dear dear friend that says, "The Time is Meow."

Meow, indeed.

The second half of the IVF process is harder than I had allowed myself to believe. I had convinced myself that the egg retrievals I had done in 2015 and 2016 were "the hard part." Sort of like deciding to do a second Ironman, you have to convince yourself that "this time won't be as bad" before heading into it. Honestly, having known women who went straight from egg retrieval into embryo transfer I can't help but feel shock that anyone would do it that way. Five days after my retrievals I still felt like absolute hell and I couldn't imagine being in the right state for a transfer. Holy hell.

When we lost an unexpected pregnancy in October of 2017, we had a lot of decisions to make. Hubby's proposal just days after we found out that the pregnancy was not viable had been planned for months, and the timing was beautiful in so many ways. But what would we do? Try again the old fashioned way, knowing that the risk of another loss was high? Use the science now? Get married first? Try to start a family first? If you wondered why we planned our wedding in just four (!) months (!), it was because the process of that loss helped us understand how much we didn't want to wait any longer to be parents.

After our (beautiful and glorious!!) wedding, we decided to get the ball rolling with the baby science. With my frozen eggs in SF in (NOT THAT CLINIC!), we had decisions to make. Ship the eggs? Fly to SF? The thought of LITERALLY putting ALL MY EGGS IN ONE BASKET was overwhelming. Not to mention: the packing and shipping costs were like $5000, and I freaking loved my doctor in SF.

So. I called my doctor and arranged for my eggs to be defrosted. "All of them?" she questioned. "Yes, all of them." I said. All 37. We were all in for this. We flew to SF and confirmed that we had arrived before they took the eggs out of the freezer. All of this made me nervous. I prayed that there wouldn't be an earthquake that day.

Making embryos out of eggs means fertilizing them. The male "retrieval" process is less challenging than the female retrieval process. I'll spare hubby any embarrassment and leave it at that (LOVE YOU, HUN). My doc ran a few tests on me to make sure that everything looked good after my miscarriage 6 months prior. After her evaluation, we were cleared to start.

Basically, here's the math. It's not kind, but it's real.

37 eggs out of the freezer.
35 survived the thaw.
29 eggs fertilized when injected with hub's genetic material.
On day 3 of cooking, there were still 27 embryos dividing and growing.
On day 5/6, only 16 had made it to blastocyst stage.

Gulp. I remembered the math I had done three years prior that convinced me I needed to do two retrievals. I knew the statistics for 38-year-old eggs. I knew that a percentage of a percentage of a percentage meant that we needed to start with a big number of eggs in order to have a reasonable number of embryos to make pregnancy realistic.

On day 6, each of the surviving blastocysts was biopsied and refrozen, and the 1- and 2-cell samples were sent for genetic testing. The testing identifies euploid (normal, with 23 pairs of chromosomes) versus aneuploid (having monosomy or trisomy chromosomes where a pair should be) embryos. Yes, it can identify Trisomy 21, also known as Down's Syndrome. When our results came back, we had 8 euploid and 8 aneuploid embryos. Yep: from 37 eggs, there were just 8 normal embryos.

I think about this sometimes, and what I think about is the time and the emotional energy that we saved. Probably, money, too. See, transferring most aneuploid embryos results in a pregnancy loss. That's anywhere from 1 to 4 months of waiting, testing, and recovery before another attempt can be made. Not to mention the heartache.

We lost our first transfer attempt. We tried one embryo on June 5, and he didn't make it. We found out it was a male embryo after the transfer. The part about the genetic testing that freaked us out a little was that, in testing all the pairs of chromosomes, the crazy scientists can look closely enough at pair 23 to determine not just that there are 1, 2, or 3 chromosomes there, but whether they are Xs or Ys. For our first attempt, we only transferred one embryo, and we didn't want to know the gender until after it was transferred. We didn't want to choose. When they told us it was male, we kinda flipped out because of our 8, we knew only 2 were male.

The heartache of that loss brought me to my knees. In public. We were walking around the park when my doctor called to give us the test results. I don't even know how long I sat in the grass sobbing. It doesn't even matter.

The process for preparing for a frozen embryo transfer (FET) was more hardcore than I expected. After a month on a super powerful birth control pill to "quiet the ovaries" (which made my face puffy and to this day I can't look at our honeymoon pictures), I started on STRAIGHT UP ESTROGEN in pill form, 8 milligrams a day. They were little blue pills (not THAT little blue pill), and I called it my "bottle full of tears." I mean OH MY HOLY HELL that stuff made me crazy. On the few rare occasions when I completely lost my sh1t and hubs was like "why are you so crazy" I shook the bottle in his face. The purpose of that medication was to thicken the uterine lining to prepare for implantation. After a few ultrasounds to monitor the thickening process and ensure that my ovaries remained "quiet" with no follicles forming, I was cleared for medication #2: intramuscular progesterone injections. Daily. Some clinics use progesterone suppositories (doesn't that sound lovely), but the injections are the "gold standard" in terms of raising the blood levels, and my doc was all about proven science.

Here's where the science gets crazy. I think about it sometimes and wonder what nut person thought this would work, and what nut people went for it before it was proven. "Hey, I have an idea..."

All of these medications are intended to trick your body into thinking you ovulated and then accept an embryo that is released into the uterus. You start the injections 5 days before the transfer to "match" the age of the 5-day blastocysts. Apparently that's about how long it would take a normal fertilized egg to travel down the Fallopian tubes and then implant. Huh.

Arriving at the clinic, we were ushered to a small room with the familiar stirrups and ultrasound machine. There was a heating pad for me to hold on my belly. I had to have a full bladder (good times) so that everything was more visible on ultrasound. A catheter was placed into my uterus by my awesome doc, which we could see on the screen. She then radioed to the lab that they could "load" the embryo, and a few moments later the embryologist entered the room with a syringe with long, thin tube on the end, filled with saline and a single embryo. He announced it: "One embryo for Abigail Sanford. Do we all agree?" After a roomful of yeses, the small tube from the syringe was run through the placement catheter, and all the contents injected. The embryologist returned to the lab to look at the syringe under a microscope and confirm that the embryo had been injected. Once he radioed back "clear," I was returned to my normal state, instructed to use the restroom ("I promise it won't fall out"), and then ordered to relax for 20-30 minutes.

Lest I skip over the injections part, let's differentiate from the retrieval injections. Those were subcutaneous, relatively thin liquid injections that I did myself each night before bed. Progesterone is delivered in a SESAME OIL preparation (it's often abbreviated "PIO" for "progesterone in oil"), and the stuff is thick and you have to use a larger needle to deliver it to a muscle. Thank goodness for hubs, who willingly gave me shots in the bum every night (alternating cheeks). Two nights before our first transfer attempt we landed at SFO and couldn't find a family bathroom for him to shoot me up, so I had to do it myself. I hadn't yet practiced giving myself a shot in the bum, so I went for my thigh. There I was, in a bathroom stall in SFO, pants down, staring and the needle, and then my leg, and then just had to jab and go. Like standing on the pool deck in winter, I decided the water wasn't going to get warmer if I waited. I could barely walk for two days. Ouch. Also PS by the way... one must continue the estrogen and progesterone FOR THE ENTIRE FIRST TRIMESTER if a pregnancy is confirmed. They don't put that in the brochures.

Once we found out our first transfer didn't work, I was able to stop the medications right away, but then we had to decide: would we attempt another transfer... RIGHT AWAY? Once the body cycles, you can jump right back in taking the estrogen, monitoring lining thickness, and eventually injecting the progesterone. Again. Right away.

Talk about a roller coaster.

We spoke to my doc a few days after the negative test results. She is the perfect doc for me because she is all about the research and she doesn't dumb anything down. She's completely matter of fact about the process--and this is why I loved her from the beginning. I didn't want someone to give me warm fuzzies. I wanted reality and truth. Yes, she is also kind and caring and friendly and warm, but she gave it to me straight.

She said it all looked good. I looked good. The process went well. The embryo was excellent quality. "There are factors we can't yet test for." She said. She wanted to just go for it again, with small changes. She wanted to double my progesterone dose from 1mL per day to 2mL (GOOD LORD), and she wanted to try two embryos instead of 1. "The statistics are really good that at least one will implant. They seem to encourage each other."

We went for another walk around the park to talk, connect, and try to figure out our next steps. After our first transfer failure, we asked to see the genetic testing report. Indeed, those 8 were all high quality, according to the existing tests. The 8 that were aneuploid had multiple complex abnormalities. Of the 7 euploid embryos left, there were 6 female and 1 male. Ugh. What to do? What to do when we've both said we want a child of each gender? What to do when the next few in "rank order" (whatever that means) were all female? Were we bad people to think about this?

Hubs posed an important question: "If they both implant and we have twins, and they are the same gender, would you want to go through this again to have a third child of the opposite gender?"

Wait, what? Oh, no. Heck no. Please, no.

So we asked the what if. What if we pick the best female and the remaining male? Will that decrease our chances?

"There's hardly a difference among them. They are all high quality."

Are we horrible people for doing this?

"Couples do this every day."

Ok then, we'd try. We'd mourn our loss, recommit to the process, cling to each other, and go for it again. So just 5+ weeks later, on July 16, we were back in California, back in the office, with the same full bladder and the same ultrasound machine, and the same 20-something embryologist entering the room with a syringe full of saline and "Two embryos, one female, one male, for Abigail Sanford."

A roomful of yeses, indeed.

Another day of laying on Stinson Beach on July 17th, and a dinner in Pt. Reyes Station.

An attempted sunset watch thwarted by a thick layer of Karl.

When my first beta HCG test came back at 251, my doctor called to congratulate us: we were pregnant. When my second beta HCG just 48 hours later was 637, my friend Heather exclaimed "TWO BABIES!!"

Indeed, now mid-December, I'm nearly 25 weeks pregnant with a GIANT confirmed boy and and GIANT confirmed girl. When the ultrasound technicians comment on their size, I make my husband stand up and demonstrate his height. And I ain't no shorty. Everyone has all their pieces and parts and nothing extra. At this point, we just need them to stay cooking as long as they can and grow as big as possible possible (oh dear lord). March seems both right around the corner and very far away at the same time.

SO WAIT, HOW LONG DID YOU HAVE TO TAKE THE INJECTIONS???
I was actually let off the hook at 11 weeks because the babies had strong heartbeats. Some women go all the way to 13 or 14 weeks. MY bum was very very happy to not have any more injections. 2 mL is a lot of mL, and I had to do it to myself at least 10 times.

OK SO, DID YOU BREAK THE BANK??
I was honest about the retrieval costs, so I'll be honest again. $13,500 to defrost, fertilize and refreeze. $3000 for genetic testing. $3500 for an additional transfer attempt. About $400 for all the meds. I had nearly 3 years to save for this since the last expenditure, but yes, in the end, in total, the whole business was over $40,000, all out of pocket except for the progesterone once I was confirmed pregnant. Apparently, progesterone to sustain a pregnancy (even if it's an IVF pregnancy) is covered by most insurance. Ok, thanks. It was a drop in the bucket, but I'll take it.

WHAT'S IT LIKE BEING PREGNANT WITH TWINS?
That would take another several hundred thousand words to describe accurately. In short, I'll say it's hard--harder than I expected. I'm grateful to that very same Heather (who has had 4 pregnancies: two singles, two sets of twins) to regularly remind me that this is harder than just one and not to be so hard on myself. My current physical job is to get Lemon and Lime here large and healthy, and then I can worry about getting back in shape for Ironman #3.

ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO ADD?
IVF is hardcore. Bring pregnant is hardcore. I'm sure parenthood will be the same. We are excited to find out!

The Hardest Part

"The waiting is the hardest part
Every day you get one more yard
You take it on faith, you take it to the heart
The waiting is the hardest part."

--The Waiting, Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers

The funny thing about talking about pregnancy loss—if there is anything funny at all—is that most people didn’t even know we were pregnant. For most women, like me, pregnancy loss happens early in the game (confirmed just before 8 weeks), before you’ve even had the chance to share the good news.

The response is mixed. In addition to the compassion, there is a lot of surprise: “We didn’t even know you were trying!”

In our case, there are lots of questions about how it all happened… literally, how the baby was conceived, because two years ago, I froze my eggs.

And then we get to say how it was just a little surprise, just nature doing Her thing, and how we were so happy, and how we hoped we’d defy the odds. Because plenty of women over 40 have healthy babies all the time, on their own, just by doing the things that humans do to make babies.

As much as we can console ourselves with how “this was a bonus” and “we weren’t even trying (!),” we cannot escape the reality that once we knew we were pregnant… we really wanted it to happen RIGHT NOW, JUST LIKE THIS.

But we didn’t defy the odds. Our little Nugget just didn't grow.

My logical, rational brain can say:

“This is the least bad of all the bad outcomes.”

“We didn’t do anything wrong. This was completely just a matter of the chromosomes not lining up well.”

“At least Mother Nature knew that the little Nugget wouldn’t thrive and made the decision for us.”

“Wow, at least we know how quickly I can conceive, and this bodes well for the future!”

“My body did all the right things.”

“We can totally try again, and if it doesn’t work, we still have the frozen eggs.”

Yes, my brain can put all those thoughts together, over and over and backwards and forwards and on repeat. But they just will not touch the hole in my heart that is left by the absence of that little life that was part him, part me, and the most beautiful idea we ever had.

I know they will come. Those little toe-headed, blue-eyed, life-embracing, future-athlete, future geniuses are right around the corner. I can see their sweet little faces in my mind already.

I know this little Nugget wasn’t meant to be this time. But, I still cradle my arms, imagine kissing his or her little forehead, offer thanks for the hope that s/he gave us, and wish that I could really hold him or her in my arms next May like we thought we might.

Goodbye little Nugget (1.0). You will always be so beautiful to me.

Everything we hoped for

"All the things we know and
Everything we hoped for
All the things we wanted
Everything that was sure
Now there is a scar where the old men used to be."


--Dave Matthews Band, "Alligator Pie."


In August of 2001, I walked out of a courtroom, turned to my attorney, and joked that the title of my memoir would be “Divorced by 25 (and all the other things I never meant to accomplish).”

At the time I would hardly know how perfect that title would truly be for my life.

Plans, shmans. Thinking we know where life is going to take us is life’s funniest joke on us. The most amazing, most refining experiences of my life have been the many things I never thought I’d do. Such as:

• Divorced (again!) at age 32
• Becoming an athlete and finishing two full Ironman races
• Moving around the country, from Utah to DC, Michigan, Texas, DC, Wisconsin, DC, California (AND!! More to come!)
• Finishing a second master's degree at 38

I have another accomplishment to add to the list of things I never thought I’d do. Drumroll please…

• Preserving my fertility through two rounds of egg freezing, including 26 days of self-administered hormone injections and trigger shots in the (rear) by my loving boyfriend.

I’ve learned and experienced a lot in the past 3 months. I’m not going to pretend it was easy or fun or cheap. But if you are a woman over the age of 30 who has any interest in motherhood--and there are any number of reasons you aren’t able or ready to embark on that journey right this minute (or if you know already that you must embark on IVF)--you are probably really curious about what I’m about to share.

There is some information “out there,” but not a lot. Not really, about the process. I’ve shared this with a lot of people already, and every time I speak to a friend or colleague who meets the description above, the conversation starts with “Hey, I just wanted you to know what was going on with me” and ends with me sharing every detail... because the person across the table or desk wants to know everything, because they know someone or ARE someone who might want to know all about it.

Getting to the place where I could make this decision took a while. The first time someone mentioned “egg freezing” and “maybe you should think about it” I was 35 and recently out of a relationship. I was fairly significantly bruised by that break up, and I was not emotionally in the right place to seriously consider fertility preservation as a POSITIVE option for my future. I was offended, actually, that someone would think that I wouldn’t find a partner “in time” to start a family.

But, the best part about that particular break up was that I realized I wasn’t really getting the love I deserved. Not from him or the 3 men before him who said they loved me. I finally decided that I was absolutely not going to waste another second in a relationship where I was not loved for who I am or treated the way I should be. And the resulting 3.5 year period of being **really** **super** **single** in my late 30s wasn’t exactly what I had planned in life.

But, I finally fixed “my picker.” I stopped wasting time with men who weren’t good enough for me. I had all the freedom in the world to do whatever (or whomever) I wanted, and I didn’t really date anyone for more than a few weeks. Because that’s all it took for me to realize “this guy ain’t it.” A married friend from high school didn’t understand why I wasn’t bringing randoms home with me every night (since I could). That was exactly the OPPOSITE of what I knew would make my heart happy. I decided that I really HONESTLY would rather go to sleep alone than wake up next to the wrong man. So I slept alone.

And then I was 38 going on 39, and I had to get real with myself. In my heart of hearts, I have known for many years that I am called to be a mother. I’m independent and capable, and I don’t necessarily think that motherhood is defined by “baby in belly,” but it is something I always imagined I’d do. So I started looking into my options.

Aaaaaaaaand I was also training for Ironman Maryland.

Aaaaaaaaand simultaneously I (re)met the love of my life.

So, fast forward to about 6 weeks before Ironman Maryland, about 4 ½ months into our relationship, when I say to boyfriend, “So, I’m planning to freeze my eggs as soon as I finish Ironman.” Boyfriend wouldn’t still be boyfriend if there was anything less than support. And the support was enthusiastic and loving and rock-like during the swings that the hormones brought on. I’m grateful for boyfriend’s prior training as an EMT, as well, for the administration of the two injections I just couldn’t do myself… the intramuscular trigger shot(s).

And with that, let’s get into the science. (And PS I literally started the Tuesday after Ironman.)

Egg freezing (oocyte cryopreservation, fertility preservation) is pretty hardcore. Maybe there are people out there who would rather go into these things blindly, but I wish I had a little more detail when I embarked on it. The clinic I chose was amazing, and the nurses and my doctor were kind and friendly and incredibly supportive, but none of them have actually personally been through fertility treatments, and they didn’t really have the language to describe what I would experience.

After some baseline blood tests and a baseline ultrasound, I was determined to be a “good candidate” for the process. Not everyone my age is. Let’s face it: I’m old as far as fertility goes. As I write this, I’m less than a month from turning 40, and 39-year-old eggs are not as viable as 19-year-old eggs. My age is the reason I did two cycles.

See, the math ain’t good. I should say, “I’m too good at math to know that the statistics aren’t in my favor.” It’s estimated that only 80% of my frozen eggs will eventually fertilize, and less than half of those will be chromosomally normal. Future efforts will consist of taking 12 eggs out of cryopreservation, attempting to fertilize them (yes, with boy juice), and implantation. The numbers suggest that only about 9-ish of those will become embryos, and then 4-ish might be free from genetic abnormalities. And then implantation has a success rate of less than 50%.

So I knew I needed some quantity. With two successful rounds, I now have 37 little oocytes in the freezer—enough for 3 attempts like I described above.

Okay now, here’s how it works.

Each month/cycle, (normal) ovaries offer up several follicles for stimulation by brain hormones. Eventually, one will start to grow bigger than the others, and the egg inside that follicle ends up hoarding all the brain chemicals to grow and mature. This is the egg that would eventually get ovulated during that cycle, and the other follicles die off. A 19-year-old might have 40 follicles volunteer during a given cycle, and a 39-year-old is lucky with 15-20.

In an egg retrieval cycle, the doctor will monitor the follicle growth. The process begins when most of the follicles and eggs volunteering for that cycle are roughly the same small size—before any of them start growing bigger than the others. This is usually regulated with birth control pills for timing. Then you flood the body with enough hormones to grow ALL of the volunteers (or as many as you can). About halfway into the process you add an additional medication to prevent ovulation, and then when “enough” of the eggs are large/mature enough, you administer a trigger dose of hormones to prep them all for retrieval. And then you have a procedure where the doc takes them out. If you're going straight into IVF, your eggs are mixed with boy juice and immediately fertilized. In my case, the eggs went straight on ice.

Sounds… fairly straightforward and scientific.

It kind of is. Except that it’s not.

First of all, we are talking about an organic process (one that has to be monitored with transvaginal ultrasounds every 2 to 3 days, in fact). Women will respond to the stimulation medications differently. My normal hormone levels are quite low—perhaps because of the athleticism—so my body was slower to respond. This means that it took longer for my follicles to grow to the appropriate size… which means higher and more doses of the medications… which directly translates into: more days injecting myself + higher doses of medications = more expensive + more….everything.



Cheer signs on my bathroom mirror

More needles. More bloating. More weight gain. More tears. More nightmares. More physical discomfort. Just more.

It takes an iron woman to do this. Because you have to want to. I hear that Google and Facebook (and recently: the military) are offering to pay for the procedure for female employees. That’s great and awesome and progressive. But this is not something I recommend doing “because everyone is doing it” or “because it was free.” Just like Ironman or getting a PhD, you have to WANT it to give what it takes. It’s HARD. CORE.

And it turns out, I do. It’s expensive, too, so unless Facebook is paying for it (which they didn’t for me), you have to hand over some cash.

So let’s discuss that for a second. I have been brutally honest so far (and way more to come), so let’s just go there.

It cost $21,000 for the two cycles. The doctor’s fees and a year of storage cost $12,000, and then you pay separately for the meds (for me, about $9000 for two rounds--and I shopped around to different fertility pharmacies to get the best prices). All 100% OUT OF POCKET. Yes, these are qualified tax-deductible expenses once you get past the threshold of 10% AGI, which I will. My clinic offered a fairly sizable discount if I paid up front for 2 cycles, and considering the statistics and the number of eggs I wanted to have “in the bank” to feel like I had a “reasonable chance” of carrying a child someday, I figured I would need to do this twice. It’s probably a good thing I paid in advance… Not that I would have backed out on the second cycle, but I had really good results from my first cycle, and committing to this process means:

• No swimming or running for 3 weeks (no twisting or flipping activity at all, and the running would hurt too much)*
• Self-administering hormone injections for 10-13 days (13 if you’re like me)
• Gaining weight (15 pounds for me)
• Potential ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome (which I got the first time)
• Mental and emotional swings
• A pretty yucky recovery, with very painful and uncomfortable bloating for a day or two after the procedure, and then slowly diminishing discomfort and getting back to my normal self.

[*Side note: some clinics say “NO EXERCISE AT ALL” because of this thing called “ovarian torsion.” I knew I’d lose my sh1t, so I rode the bike and did elliptical, with my doctor’s (and coach's) knowledge. She advised against excessive duration or intensity, and I mostly abided.]

I was 100% willing to do this and take on the difficulties that came with it. Sure: women get pregnant in their early 40s all the time, but it turns out (due to hypothalamic amenorrhea--another story) I was going to have to do IVF anyway. So why not do the first half while I’m still in my 30s? When the eggies are aging every single day, and the chance of genetic abnormality increases every single day, and “the oven” will be good for another 6-8 years, why not stop the clock on the eggs, now?

Right now?

I am lucky (OH SO LUCKY) to live in a time when this science exists.

I am lucky (OH SO LUCKY) to have the means to exercise this option.

I am lucky (OH SO LUCKY) to have the strength and determination to take on this challenge… and the love and support of my amazing boyfriend, good friends, supportive co-workers, and some family to get me through.

I am OH SO LUCKY to have 37 (!!!!) eggs in the freezer so that someday, I can give the “baby in belly” thing a shot.

Of course, it might not work. I know that. In spite of the money, the time, the discomfort, the weight gain, the fantastic doctors, the determination. It might not. But given my options at this point in my life, this is the decision I’m making, to buy a small insurance policy and a little extra time to give it a shot.

SO REALLY, YOU HAD TO INJECT YOURSELF WITH HORMONES?

Yep. Thirteen days in a row each cycle. Days 1-6: Mix 300 iu Gonal-F into 75 iu Menopur, dilute with .5 mL sodium chloride, draw into syringe, inject subcutaneously. Days 7-13: Mix 300 iu Gonal-F into 75 iu Menopur. Reconstitute 25 iu Cetrotide with 1 mL sterile water. Mix all medications together, draw into syringe, inject subcutaneously.

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN, “INJECT SUBCUTANEOUSLY???”

It means into belly fat. For me, I have less fat on my belly than I do on my back above my hips (“the love handle” or “top of muffin”), so after bruising myself several times during the first round, I did all of my injections the second round into my low back. Per instruction, I alternated right and left sides for a total of 7 in the right side and 6 in the left. No bruises the second round.



Clockwise from top left: Cetrotide 25 iu kit; Menopur 75 iu powder and Sodium Chloride for dilution; the needle that is used for injection; a Q Cap for mixing vials; an injection tip for the Gonal-F pen; a Gonal-F pen; and a syringe for mixing and drawing medications. You DO NOT use that huge needle for the injections, thank goodness.

DID IT HURT?

Meh. I’m an Ironman. What is pain?



NO BUT REALLY.

Ok, the poke hurts a little, and the Cetrotide stings. There’s nothing gained from pushing the medicine in slowly, so just get it done. I would get a little light headed and braindead for about an hour after the injections. Since they also recommend that you take melatonin (contributes to egg quality, as do massive doses of CoQ10, DHA, and Vitamin D), I did this all at night right before bed, so I could just pass out.

DID ANYTHING ELSE HURT?

Besides my soul? Yes. My ovaries did actually hurt. They were tender and sore, and by Day 9 the pain is constant and low-level, with occasional bouts of sharpness. The follicles grow to almost 2 cm in diameter, so it’s like having a bunch of extra marbles in there. The ovaries themselves swell up to nearly 3 times their normal size. And then you retain a lot of water… I’m also very body aware, and I can feel my own blood pressure. It was high for both rounds, and I had a lot of body temperature swings, too.

The first 4 or 5 days of each cycle were not terribly painful physically. By Day 6, the discomfort was fairly constant. It’s a little hard to describe. At first it’s like there were water balloons in my belly, and someone was trying to get just One. More. Ounce of water in them. Occasionally it was slightly sharp, or even prickly, like trying to pull a burr or a cactus out of your skin.

During Round 2 I knew what was coming, so I had less stress about the physical sensations. However, I was more quickly gripped with emotional stress. I had two or 3 solid breakdowns and several bursts of random tears. My boyfriend is a *CHAMP.* That part was pretty challenging for me. All the dark thoughts and fears reared their heads. All the anxieties about life showed up in living color. All the reasons about “why am I doing this” were occasionally suffocating and drowning, and staying on top of it required some serious self-awareness and presence of mind, and I didn’t succeed every time.



A flow chart for analyzing random crying.

But then there’s hope.

A triathlete friend who recently did IVF coached me through Round 1 with pictures of her little baby girl (she’s 41!!!). Around Day 7 or Day 8 of Round 2, the wife (she’s 41 also!!) of one of my boyfriend’s best friends from (not college) sent a video of their 3-month-old baby girl cooing and laughing. Boyfriend hesitated to show it to me, but it was what I needed. Sometimes I would just burst into tears for no reason, and we had worked it out in advance that I just needed to be reminded of why I was doing this, and it was for ALL THE BEST REASONS IN THE WORLD.

Gain 15 pounds? FINE!

Cry my eyes out every other day for no good reason? NO BIG DEAL!

Feel mild to moderate pain in the ovaries for 2 weeks? OKAY!

It’s all worth it. Because there is NOTHING like the feeling of amputating the elephant that had been living on my chest for the past 4 years. The one that left a crushing feeling in my soul whenever I thought about (and feared) never being a mom.

WHAT ABOUT THE RETRIEVAL?!??

The procedure itself was nbd. Look, I’ve had 8 colonoscopies. This was similar in that, “once you have the needle in your arm, it’s all downhill.” Right? I mean, you show up on retrieval day, they stick a needle in your arm, and then you get Fentanyl and Propofol and then you go night night. For my first retrieval, the anesthesiologist willingly gave me morphine. The second time, none at all. Pain set in right away with Retrieval 2, but I had a few hours of reprieve the first time.

Fill the Vicodin in advance. Have lots of electrolyte drinks available. And chicken broth and applesauce. Look, it’s not pleasant. It took about 4 days before I really wanted to leave the house. But it only took about 4 hours before I wanted to sweat. My body had retained so much water that I just wanted to sweat. It. Out. So I jumped on the recumbent bike for an hour or so every day, and by 10 days out from Round 1, I was chasing boyfriend and some of his friends (who are Cat 1 racers) on bikes in Georgia.

(Round 2 recovery is still in progress. :) )

So, Oceanside is too early in the race schedule... But I will be ready by Boulder 70.3.

OKAY, NOW WHAT?

Now what? BACK TO ENJOYING MY LIFE! Building my life with my boyfriend. Getting back to race weight (egg whites and green juice anyone? BRING IT). Training for World Championships. Offering my personal counsel to any and every woman who wants to talk about her fertility, the process, and her options. For real. Just call me.

And then there is adding to the list of unexpected accomplishments. Who knows what’s next? All I know is that there are 37 little frozen oocytes who will NEVER TURN 40 waiting for me when it’s time to give it a go.

A few of the retrieved oocytes. :)

Xoxo,
Abby

And now for something really different

Dairy-Free Gluten-Free Pumpkin Flan

 1 1/2 cups sugar, divided (if coconut sugar is available, use that for flan)

2 cups reduced to 1.5 cups full-fat coconut milk
1 cup pumpkin puree
4 large eggs
2 large egg yolks
1 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp each: nutmeg, clove, allspice
1 tsp vanilla extract
1/4 tsp salt

1.      Place the oven rack about ¾ of the way up in the oven. Set your water bath by placing a large baking dish or roasting pan on the top rack, and then set a 9-inch pie plate into that larger baking dish. Pour hot water into the dish to go 1/2 way up sides of pie plate. Remove pie plate and close the oven. Preheat to 350°F.    

2.      In a small heavy sauce pan, cook coconut milk over high heat until it comes to a boil, then reduce to active simmer until it reduces by ¼. Let cool.

3.      To make caramel: add 3/4 cup of the sugar and 1/4 cup water to (another) small heavy saucepan. Cook over high heat (do not stir) until mixture comes to a full boil. Slightly swirl pan as needed to help incorporate ingredients.  

4.     Reduce heat to active simmer and cook until caramelized sugar turns amber (about 15 minutes). Watch pot carefully as the sugar will turn from amber to black quickly!

5.      Best with two people: one person uses hot pads (IMPORTANT as burned sugar is HOT) and holds the pie plate as the other carefully pours and scrapes the caramel into it. Swirl to coat the bottom of the pie plate. The caramel will harden quickly. Set aside.

6.     (This can be done while the caramel is cooking or after): Add the remaining 3/4 cup sugar (or coconut sugar), cooled reduced coconut milk, pumpkin, eggs, yolks, spices, extract and salt to a mixing bowl or blender. Mix well.           

7.     Gently pour pumpkin mixture into the pie plate on top of the caramel. Place the plate in the center of the water bath. Bake for 60 minutes or until a thin knife inserted in middle comes out clean (my last one took 70). Cool flan in baking dish on wire rack. Place in the refrigerator for at least one hour or overnight.

8.     (This can be very dramatic, so make sure you have an audience.) To serve, heat bottom of flan in hot water for 2-3 minutes. Remove from water and run a thin knife around the inside edge of pie plate. Say a prayer. Quickly invert pie plate onto serving dish. Tap or shimmy the pie plate to release flan. Scrape any escaping caramel sauce onto flan with rubber spatula.

Where I've Never Been Before

"I want to be where I've never been before.
I want to be there and then I'd understand;
Know I'm right and do it right--
Could I get to be like that?
I'll know what I don't know with nothin more to gain.
Will I get better or stay the same?
I find I always move too slowly."

--Guster, "Two Points for Honesty."

"You are... AN IRONMAN!"

Around 7:11 PM on the evening on Saturday, October 17th, I crossed the finish line at Ironman Maryland with a final time of 11 hours, 28 minutes, and 59 seconds. That was about a half hour faster than my *super-secret* time goal of 12 hours. The minor asterisk is that due to TERRIBLE WINDS and a SMALL CRAFT ADVISORY on Saturday morning, the race was delayed by about 45 minutes so the officials could set up a slightly short (sad face) more safe (happy face) swim course. My coach did the math and applied my average swim pace to the usual Ironman swim distance, and came up with a "distance-adjusted" finish time of 11:45:00.

I'll take it. I'll also take 7th place in my Age Group. Woop woop!

I won't bore you with the minute by minute details of the race, but I'll share some highlights, since you have followed this far!

Friday debacles galore, from minor bike damage in transport, to re-mounting (boyfriend)'s Garmin so I could see my power data in a better eye-line, to losing my athlete wristband. "Better to get all the bullish*t out of the way today!" I joked. The forecast was pretty awful, with a high of 58, morning lows in the 40's, with clouds and wind. "Better to take a few extra minutes putting more clothes on in transition than to get hypothermia and have to pull out of the race." I packed almost everything I had and delivered my transition bags. My sis et al arrived in time for dinner, and my ritualistic single glass of red wine was consumed (quickly). Sleep wasn't too elusive, either.

Saturday, oatmeal and coffee o'clock was 3:45 AM, and my chauffeur, err, sister, delivered (boyfriend) and me to the race site at 5:15 AM. With bags packed and bike set, there isn't really all that much to do on Ironman morning compared with other triathlons... so by 6:00 AM I was heading out of transition and a little short on activity to occupy my brain. I went for my warm up run at 6:15 to prime my asthmatic lungs and calm my anxious brain. Family arrived and found me just in time for the announcement that the swim would be shortened. I said a bad word in front of my nephew.

"You will still be an Ironman," the announcer said. "We still have Kona slots." These are important words to an anxious crowd about to race. (Boyfriend) distracted me by making me take photos for my sponsors, Hincapie Sportswear. By the time the new swim course was set, the winds had calmed, and the new distance was extended from 1.2 miles to 3000 meters, just short of 2 miles. Okay, whatever, let's just start the party already!!

The order of my strengths in triathlon events is decisively in this order: bike, run, swim. I'm not last out of the water, but I'm certainly not first, and I've had attacks of hyperventilation in open water more than twice. For me to say "the swim was really fun" and likely the event that was LEAST impacted by the ridiculous winds from the north... you know what's coming next. This was definitely the most crowded swim I've done, and the chop was quite noticeable by the finish, but it was easy to sight the buoys, and I swam strong and consistently. Getting out of the 63-degree water into the 47-degree air was a wake up call.

Swim time: 1:01:44
Place after swim: 31
Transition to bike time: 14:07 (sweet baby deity)

The women's changing tent was hilarious. Lots of freezing, wet, unclothed women trying to pull on layers and layers of clothing before heading out for several hours of cold windy riding... yeah. I was thrilled I decided to add a base layer and knee warmers to my T1 bag that morning. I wore a full Hincapie cycling kit with arm warmers, gloves, knee warmers, and toe covers. And... I was still freezing. We headed out south with a tail wind, and it was fun to see 26 mph and 110 watts on the computer, but that lasted about 8 miles, and then we were smacked with crosswinds and headwinds and crosswinds. I tried to maintain 20 mph average, but when I popped watts too often, I remembered the wise words of a friend who reminded me to be patient with my race and to keep the demons at bay. I cursed at the wind. I told it to F-off. "You won't ruin my race, you demon wind!" I yelled. Because "Plan A is: it's all about the run." And so is Plan B. And Plan C. And... Plan Q.

"Marathon legs," I told myself. "You have to get off this bike with marathon legs." I dialed back the gears, picked up the cadence, and let the miles per hour fall a bit, if reluctantly.

Memorable moments from the bike:
Multiple compliments on my socks (neon and teal stripes, shout out to my stylist(boyfriend)).
Guy on bike as I'm passing him: "Wow, I'm actually getting chicked right now." Me: "I hear that happens sometimes."
Me, to guy I'm passing at mile 105, heading due north into the wind at the SUPER SPEEDY pace of.... 13.8 miles per hour. "How about another hundred-and-five miles of headwind? Does that sound like a plan?" Guy: "I MEAN F*CK THIS!"
SHOUT OUT to Rebecca Allyn who returned the hug I gave her in Bike Special Needs at Ironman Arizona 2014. Along with the hug, my salt and vinegar potato chips and a Starbucks iced coffee hit the spot.

By the time I got back to transition, my cheer squad had been waiting close to 45 minutes. The Ironman tracking went haywire for most of the bike, so they arrived for my earliest possible dismount. Turns out only one woman in my Age Group went under 5:30 that day, so I don't feel too terrible about it. I had hoped for a slightly speedier bike time, but I stuck to the plan, stayed patient with my race, and ate a lot and drank a lot. And then it was marathon time!

Bike time: 5:47:54
Place after bike: 12

I did a complete change in T2. See previous: "I drank a lot." I was a wee bit over-hydrated on the bike. Pun intended. Interpret what you will. It's a badge of honor, and I will never deny it. ;)

Transition to run time: 10:05 (sheesh, really?)

Being able to run the marathon with healthy hips was a huge goal of mine this season, considering where I was 2 years ago. Having to walk 26.2 miles on a femoral stress fracture was... humbling. This time it was indeed ALL ABOUT THE RUN.

The Ironman Maryland marathon was FULL OF LOVE... oh, and headwinds. I saw my family and (boyfriend) coming out of transition, and then Ed Moser and Adam and Holli--good friends from DC Tri Club! Then I high fived Mackenzie, who was a few miles ahead of me. Then HUGS from bestie Heather at the Annapolis Tri Club aid station at Mile 2. I make it a point to spread the love around on the run, so I lovingly smacked the bums of people who had slowed down to walk in those first 5 miles, telling them "You got this." A 62-year-old guy almost lost it when I did that. Then more HUGS from Heather back through the aid station. Then flying hugs for Adam and Holli. Then cheers from Cat Myung in a Hot Dog costume and Robin Myers about a mile before the corner where my family camped out (high fives from the kiddo and a kiss for my honey)! The 2.5-loop course meant high-fiving Hugh three times, getting different signs and cheers every time I passed my family, and then at mile 21, seeing PAMELA who had literally just gotten off a plane at Dulles from Hawaii where she had been supporting our friend Bryan at world championships. She ran with me through about half of mile 24 and said she had to speed to get there because I was going too fast. When I passed my family at the corner at Mile 25, and yelled at them to get their butts to the finish line. :)

Entertaining details: I completely threw my nutrition plan out the window. I forgot to grab my handheld bottle out of T2 (duh) which forced me to walk through almost all of the MANY aid stations. For some reason, potato chips and bananas and water seemed like a good idea, and a few bites of each and quick sips held me through the first 13 miles. I've learned to let my brain make nutrition decisions (and NOT my stomach), so when I got to the second half, I alternated Pepsi and watermelon GU Chomps with chicken broth and potato chips from every other aid station, and that worked really well. It sounds disgusting, I know. I mean, artificial watermelon is about the most foul flavor on earth (second only to artificial "green apple" which tastes absolutely nothing like an apple). Folks unfamiliar with Ironman on-course nutrition will probably be grossed out by the chicken broth concept, but it works. The aid station at mile 20 had SWEDISH FISH, my all-time FAVORITE CANDY, and so I grabbed a giant handful of those, no shame.

The funny thing about racing is that the closer you get to the finish, the more damaged your brain is, and the more likely you are to attempt complex math to figure out "Just how fast do I have to run to make my goal time...? Divide by 6, carry the 1... Wait. Start over." When I looked at my watch with just about 3.5 miles to go and I was still under 11 hours... I thought, "Well, shoot. I could walk and still beat 12 hours." But I didn't walk anymore after that.

On my last turn around the corner where my cheer squad was parked, (boyfriend) said, "Get it!" He had done the math, too. And he was in on the secret goal. As I made the final turn through town, I heard some athletes talking about how they were going to space themselves out so they could each get their names called as they came through the chute. I thought, "Well I'll just run faster and go first to get out of your way." So I did. ;)

Run time: 4:15:09
Place after run: 7


Ohhhhhkay that was more detail than I planned. Hope I didn't bore you.

Thank you for your constant love and support! I'm announcing my OFFICIAL RETIREMENT from the FULL IRONMAN DISTANCE, on account of, I LOVE YOU ALL and I LOVE MY LIFE. The "half Iron" distance is a bit more manageable, fun, and sane, and Ironman70.3 races will be my focus. I'll be racing Ironman70.3 Boulder on June 11, 2016 and Ironman70.3 World Championships in Australia on September 4, 2016, and enjoying life and riding my bicycle with (boyfriend) in between.

You may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

Love,

Abby

Don't Miss The Point

"The wood is tired and the wood is old,
and we'll make it fine if the weather holds.
But if the weather holds,
then we'll have missed the point;
that's were I need to go." 
--Indigo Girls, "The Wood Song."

On Wed, Oct 14, 2015 at 12:19 PM, Abby wrote:

If you will forgive me for getting all philosophical one more time...

Late on Monday, October 5th, the race directors confirmed that, for the first time in the 37-year history of Ironman, a race would indeed be rescheduled, and Ironman Maryland would run two weeks later on October 17th.

The day after the day after tomorrow.

And so two weeks have passed, like they always do, one 24-hour day at a time. Staying mentally focused and physically healthy has been an active process for me. I've been trying to sleep a lot (some success, some NOT). I've nearly overdosed on Vitamin C. Mentally, I've had some ups and downs. Up: getting to ride the 85-mile course of Levi's Gran Fondo and cheer for my boyfriend and his friend as they crushed the century on October 3rd. Down: waking up on October 4th and having a 2.5-hour run on the training plan when I was *supposed to be done.* :)

"The Wood Song" has popped into my head almost everyday.

This delay, this unexpected additional challenge, is exactly what Ironman is about for me.

I've trained a lot. I've done lots of amazing and fun long rides, some hard-to-believe-I-swam-that far sessions in the pool, and ENOUGH long runs. I've also raced a lot in the past several years. I've learned a lot about how to manage myself, what my physical limitations are, and what both "success" (standing on the podium!! qualifying for Worlds!!) and "failure" (panic attacks in the water, cramping on the run, flats on the bike) look like. Without a doubt, I have *super-secret* time goals for each portion of this race, known only by my coach and boyfriend.... if everything goes according to plan.

But that's the thing about Ironman. Kinda nothing is going to go exactly as we imagine. All we can hope is that we've prepared ourselves for the physical challenge, we've planned what we will do in a variety of scenarios, and we have the basic skill set and arsenal of tricks to manage whatever happens when the weather doesn't hold.

Speaking of weather: thankfully Joaquin didn't make landfall, and thankfully Dorchester County, Maryland, has extensive experience producing long distance triathlons. Also to note: for athletes who couldn't make it back for the rescheduled event, Ironman offered other options. Not everyone will be happy or satisfied, but it's hard to argue with Mother Nature.

Mother Nature is offering up a much chillier day than I would prefer for riding my bike really fast, but it should be an AWESOME DAY for a long run!

I'm SUPER grateful that my family was able to flex their plans, and they will all be in Cambridge to ring bells for me in their custom "Ironmom," "Irondad," "Ironsis," "Ironnephew," and "IronBIL" shirts. I am almost without words at how awesome it is that my cheering squad will now also include "IronBF." Thank you for making the trek, love!

Thank you for your constant support!!

Abby

__________________________________________________________
"Knowing others is intelligence; knowing yourself is true wisdom.
Mastering others is strength, mastering yourself is true power."
~Lao-Tzu

On Thu, Oct 1, 2015 at 10:25 AM, Abby wrote:

The plane that I was supposed to be on has departed SFO, and I'm unexpectedly at my desk at work today. As you may or may not have heard, the race directors announced yesterday that "Ironman Maryland will not take place this Saturday."

On account of heavy pre-event rainfall and the projected path of Hurricane Joaquin, emergency officials in Maryland determined that they could not guarantee their availability to properly monitor the race because they might be called to deal with hurricane-related circumstances. Further, the area may need to be evacuated, and bringing a bunch of athletes and spectators to the area would be counter to that directive, if given.

For the safety of the athletes, spectators, volunteers and support crew, it was wise (IMHO) for the race directors to make this decision.

The race has been tentatively rescheduled for Saturday, October 17, pending an evaluation of the area once the storm passes. I have already changed my plane ticket, and my dad was able to reschedule our accommodations. Cross fingers that Joaquin settles down or heads east.

Many people have reached out to see "how I am" considering this turn of events. My friend Naomi, who is also racing, put it aptly: "Bummed but dealing." After many months of training, it's a bit of a head fake to not race this weekend. But, Mother Nature will have her way, and there is not much gained in the wringing of hands or shedding of tears.

True statement: I don't want to do an Ironman in a hurricane. :) The thought of the swim/ride in gale force winds and rain is scary.

Another true statement: I don't want my friends and family to spectate in a hurricane!

So... What now??

I'm both hopeful and relatively confident that the race will indeed run on October 17. Though I had a really good taper going, I will pull back in the training plan (per coach's instructions) to "one more big weekend" and roll back into taper mode next week.

Staying healthy remains my #1 goal--no illness, no injury--so if you have any pull with the Up-Above, consider requesting GRACEFUL LANDINGS, both of the hurricane and its descent upon the East Coast, and of my feet upon the ground for

JUST TWO MORE WEEKS.

I will keep you posted.

Love,
Abby

From: Abby
Date: September 29, 2015 at 06:29:58 PDT
Subject: Ironman Maryland: Gratitude and Grace!

Dear friends and family,
It’s hard to believe that in just 4 short days I will be finally racing Ironman Maryland. It has been quite a journey since the last time I completed this distance. Many of you know that I suffered a stress fracture in my left femur, diagnosed just 10 days before Ironman Mont-Tremblant in 2013. Despite the injury, my heart wanted to finish that race badly, so I swam, biked, and walked (yes, the whole marathon) to the finish line. I was proud of myself for not giving up on something I had worked so hard for, even though it didn’t go exactly as I imagined. I ran (without pain) for the last 500 meters, and I heard Mike Reilly call me an Ironman.

My good friend Kris and I used to philosophize about how “triathlon is like life” because you never really know what is going to happen, and you just have to deal with it. Swim on, pedal on, keep putting one foot in front of the other—no matter what obstacles or hardships come your way—and the finish line will eventually come. I often joke that one of the reasons I am a good government employee is because I’m an endurance athlete—when most people would give up on a cause, I’m just getting started. An endurance athlete knows that success is measured in millimeters.

On Saturday October 3, I’m hoping to string together 2.26274e+8 millimeters, err, 140.6 miles of swimming, biking, and running through Cambridge, Maryland, at the 3rd running of Ironman Maryland. This time, I will be healthy at the starting line!

If you care to follow my progress, I will be racing bib #683, and there will be an Athlete Tracker and live finish line coverage on the Ironman web page. http://www.ironman.com/triathlon/events/americas/ironman/maryland.aspx
The journey to the starting line of this race has been fairly typical Ironman training, as I can tell. I’ve been exhausted, elated, excited, panicked, and all in all, I had a good case of the “Ironman Crazies." I venture that anyone training for Ironman experiences the gamut of emotion and stress, and while getting sick at 6 weeks out and crashing (quite badly) at 5 weeks out challenged me mentally and physically, all this pales in comparison to what others have overcome on their journey to the starting line.

Thus I will begin my gratitudes!

To my coach, Rob Falk, for absolute unwavering faith in me as an athlete from the first moment we met. For a consistent attitude of, “Well, duh,” when I perform well at races. For applauding my success at taking rest days above all other accomplishments. Thank you for always replying to my panicky text messages. Thank you for putting Ironman 70.3 World Championships on the 2016 calendar already. (PS: Add Boulder 70.3. June 11.)

To my mother, for finally understanding—45 races later—that triathlon is indeed survivable. Thank you for reading the athlete guide from cover to cover.

To my father, for finding a sweet house for all of us to stay in for the race, and to my sister, her husband, and my nephew (and mom and dad!), for wearing hot pink shirts with my name on them and ringing cowbells all day. You have no idea what it feels like to have “people” there for you. Thank you for coming.

To Heather, who is my kindred spirit in song and in racing, thank you for volunteering!! Please be prepared to deliver hugs when I see you at the aid stations.

To Kyrsten, for being a badass, and reminding me that I am a badass whenever I need it—work, life, triathlon. Thank you to you and Lindsey (and Kyle) for forcing me to go to Lake Stevens roll downs. Thank you for knowing exactly what to say no matter what the situation. Because, America. GO KICK SOME KONA BUTT, YOU BADASS!! (And same to Dana, and to Lindsey at IMAZ!!)

To Kortney, for racing Ironman Arizona so I had a reason to go last year and decide not to race that race. :) Thank you for your friendship, your support, and for a ride to the airport. You are a champion in so many ways. :)

To Blythe and Norm, for cleaning me up after my crash! I am grateful for the opportunity to get to know you better, and let’s hear it for iodine and tequila! I am lucky I was so close to your house when it happened.

To my roommate, Jenn, for general tolerance. And for forgiving me for occasionally snitching milk for my coffee. I always apologized! :)

To my coworkers, for never questioning my damp hair and lack of make up. Thank you for putting up with me, especially these last few weeks! Highest volume of training in the most stressful work times ever? Because, Ironman.

And last but certainly not least, to my boyfriend. For... everything. For thinking 4:30AM alarm clocks are acceptable, and for the sunrise bike rides that followed. For never letting me go on a long ride alone. For singing Marine drills or Jefferson Starship when the climbs were just too long. For stopping to take selfies. For salt and vinegar potato chips. For gadgets and data. For recovery drinks and green drinks and drinks with vodka in them. For believing in me. For tolerating the Ironman crazies. Your support has been unfathomable. May your legs carry you quickly to the finish line of the Levi’s Gran Fondo so you can obsessively hit refresh on Ironman.com to watch me cross the finish line on the internet. ;)

I have two general platitudes to the Up-Above: grace to walk my chosen path no matter the adversity, and gratitude for assistance to the other side. Ironman is far from graceful, and in the ups and downs of my journey to the starting line, I’m sure I have faltered in my goal of grace in adversity. For this I ask your forgiveness.
I am grateful for your support.

Let’s do this.

Love,
Abby

Make It Good

"In this proud land we grew up strong
We were wanted all along
I was taught to fight, taught to win
I never thought I could fail

No fight left or so it seems
I am a man whose dreams have all deserted
I've changed my face, I've changed my name
But no one wants you when you lose

Don't give up
'Cause you have friends
Don't give up
You're not beaten yet
Don't give up
I know you can make it good."

--Peter Gabriel and Kate Bush, "Don't Give Up."

Last September at the Big Kahuna Half Iron Distance Triathlon, (now the Ironman Santa Cruz 70.3), I got third place in W35-39.

And I was shocked (shocked!). I hadn't even checked the results.

I had only attended the Age Group awards ceremony because my friend Kortney was being awarded third place in W30-34. I had just snapped some photos of her on the podium, and I was walking away when the announcer started reading the times for W35-39. When I heard the third place time, the thought in my head was "DANG! I was so close! My time was very similar to..."

And then I heard my name called. The photos of me on the podium capture me doubled over in laughter. When I heard the time called for the woman in second place, laughter turned to a sigh of regret. She was only 61 seconds faster than me. In a race that took us each about 5 hours and 43 minutes to finish, 61 seconds is a drop in the bucket.

I was mentally kicking myself, because in my heart of hearts, I knew that I could have easily found 61 seconds on that course (and remarkably, not all of them in T1!).

I knew deep down that there were two times on the course where I gave up on myself and took my foot off the proverbial gas.

I had a tough day out there, much tougher than I was expecting. I'm not suggesting that I would ever think a half iron distance triathlon is easy. It's not. It's 1.2 miles of swimming (and that race, my first "true" ocean swim), 56 miles on the bike, and then a half marathon run. Not easy ever. I was in pretty stellar shape, I started the race in a good mental place, and I had the impression that the course was "just what I liked:" rolling hills and flat-ish run.

Not so much.

I set a personal record on my swim that day--though the official time says I swam like 41 minutes or something, it includes the fairly long run from the beach to the transition. Out of the water in under 40 on a half is ridiculafast for me. Celebrate good times, come on!

But then I hit the bike--usually my strongest leg of the race--and I was immediately struck by the conditions. The course was an out-and-back on Highway 1, and we had a tailwind with a net descent to the turnaround. I was torn between maximizing my strength (bombing a hill) and saving energy for what I knew would be a tough return. Rather than a course of rolling hills, we were challenged with long stretches of low-grade descents and climbs. This equates to a loss of momentum and sloggy grinding.

About 3/4 of the way up one of those slogs, I mentally threw in the towel. Of course I had to keep turning the pedals over lest I FALL DOWN, but in my mind, I told myself "this isn't happening today."

Once on foot, I slogged through a hilly dirt path. When I saw other athletes already on their way back from the turnaround, I gave up again. I saw my near-9-minute splits (slow for me), shrugged, and told myself I was "only in it for the scenery anyway," and I smiled genuinely at the beauty of the views from the cliffs over Santa Cruz.

I crossed the finish line and jumped in the ocean.

When I saw the final results, I discovered that I actually had the fastest bike split of any woman 35-39. And the second place woman only beat me on the run by a few seconds.

Son of a gun.

Coach Rob said, "If you're having a tough day out there, everyone is."

And, "Always check the results." Noted, sir.

I will be racing the Ironman St. George 70.3 race in 10 days, and I considered giving up on the race. The past few months have been unexpectedly difficult. In February, the thought flickered across my head that I would CRUSH IT, that it was an "A Race," and that I might even set a personal record on the half distance.

Life had a different idea for me. The stress of living in San Francisco has worn me down. I broke down mentally and emotionally long ago, but kept trying to pretend that I was holding it together. A human being (which, to my chagrin, I am) can only compartmentalize mental and emotional stress for a short time before it begins to take a physical toll.

Stomach troubles.
Sleep troubles.
Iron deficiency.
Energy... bottoms out.

Moving.
Training.
Doctor appointments and procedures.
Car woes.
Apartment hunting.
Stress.

I nearly gave up on a lot of things in the past few months.

A friend (who cares about me) suggested that I consider backing out on St. George. And I considered it.

I'm going. It's not going to be my fastest race. I likely won't win the bike for my age group, or PR my swim. But deep down, my love of racing has never been dependent on whether I stand on a podium. It's a new course in a beautiful place in my "home" state, and a dear friend will be traveling to support me.

I'm not giving up on myself. I might be approaching this race like it is a very expensive, well-organized training day, but I'm not giving up. I'm not going to hurt myself, either. I will get through it, just as I have the challenges of the past few months.

Race day is the best day!

See you out there.