I decided a few weeks ago not to run the Country Music Half Marathon. Don’t want that much pressure on myself right now. The health and fitness journey is going well, however. I’m down 54 pounds. I ran 4 miles today with an average pace of 10:45.
Lost 2.6 pounds this week. That makes me very happy. What makes me even happier is that I jogged a little over two miles this morning before I had to take a walk break. Yay!
I wogged (my word for jogged/walked) 4.34 miles in 57 minutes. It was the perfect early fall morning with bright sun and a cool breeze-my favorite running weather. It reminds me of running cross-country in high school.
Little by little I’m starting to feel good more often than not. Some days I almost feel like an athlete again. LOL!
Next Saturday I run my first road race in 10.5 years. I’m registered for the Sam’s Sprint 5K. Even though I’m nervous, I’m looking forward to it. I’ll try to take some pix, but no promises.
See you next Sunday. 
Planning some changes to my blog. Over a month ago I mentioned that I realize my blog lacks focus. I’ve spent some time trying to figure out what focus I can bring. I’ve come up with a couple of ideas. One, dogs…I’m crazy about dogs, animal rescue, dog training, responsible pet ownership. So, I plan to post articles about dogs and dog training. I’m also currently getting in shape and losing weight. Therefore, I plan to post about fitness and health, about regaining fitness in middle age, running, and road races.
On my birthday, September 16, I plan to start a new page on the blog called ‘Fit by Fifty.’ Next Sunday I turn 48. My goal is to reach my goal weight of 120 pounds by next summer and run a whole marathon by my 50th birthday. I’ll chronicle that journey on my new page.
I will also post about my writing journey from time to time. But that won’t be the focus of the blog.
My plan is to post two days a week to start-one day about dogs and one day about fitness. So stay tuned-posts are coming later this week.
Yes, I ended the title of this post with a preposition. With apologies to my Mom, it’s intentional and I’m leaving it that way.
I’ve determined the reason I haven’t blogged consistently in, oh, ever, is because my blog lacks focus. Really. It does. That’s where I’m at–trying to find a focus for this blog that will keep me posting.
In the mean time, I’ve started eating healthy, cutting my caloric intake, exercising, and getting fit. I’ve lost 17 pounds since Christmas! I’ve set a fitness goal for myself that I will run the Country Music Half Marathon in April 2013.
I’ve done it before–in 2002. Anyone want to join me for 2013?
Crossing the Finish Line in 2002
In October 2009, totally on a whim, I entered a short story contest. The prize was Kindle 2. I really wanted a Kindle and couldn’t justify the $260 price tag. (Wow, has the price come down since then-paid $199 for my Kindle Fire last year.) On the last day of the contest I sat down at the computer and wrote the story that ultimately won the contest. The contest hosting blog is now defunct, but I still have that Kindle. Even though I have a newer Kindle version now, I can’t bear to part with that old Kindle 2. It serves as some kind of validation of my writing.
The title of the contest was Cats Write Good and Stuff. To enter, I had to write a short story from the point of view of a cat writing the story.
Here’s my entry as I submitted it then. (Took all my willpower not to do a little editing…)
I don’t have much time, so pay attention. I can feel myself growing weaker by the hour, but I want to leave this warning for the rest of you.
The humans call me OC, short for Orange Cat. So little imagination.
So how did I come to be in this sorry state of affairs? Quite simply, I was hungry. The humans with whom I traded small rodents for Cat Chow seemed friendly enough. They squealed with gift I left on the mat outside their door. Out of reverence and honor, they refused to tough my gifts with their bare hands, but instead, they scooped each rodent onto a small, mobile altar and took it inside.
I had so hoped the might share an occasional mouse with me, but the poor dears must have been starved as they never even offered me a bite of rodent. But they did often leave small bowls of Cat Chow outside for me. While it was tasty enough, I longed for the taste of warm, fresh blood.
One day they did not collect the mouse I gifted. I sat in the tall grass watching for the alpha female to come outside, see the gift, squeal and, well, you understand. But she did not. Nor did the smaller, more active humans come outside.
The next day the mouse still lay outside the door. Thus followed the week. I soon realized that in my zeal to provide for my charges, I had woefully over hunted my territory. With winter coming on, I knew the mouse population would remain depleted until spring.
I decided to follow a large fellow, white with light brown patches, home to his humans’ abode. He was friendly enough, but not very bright. His humans also traded Cat Chow for rodents. To my delight, they didn’t question my presence. In short, they sucked me in.
So here I find myself on my last night replaying in my mind the path to this point in my life. Booger, my large, not so bright friend, sits with me, though he is not trapped in a small, single roomed prison as I am. No, he sits outside my cell trying to convince me I will survive this ordeal, this trip to the sadist known as “The Vet.” I know I will never be the same. Booger tells me The Vet will stick needles into me to inject stinging liquid into my bloodstream. He tells me too, The Vet will give me drugs to produce sleep so he can remove my…my…my cajones. Oh, I do not think I can survive the night just thinking of it. Oh, how will I live in such an unholy state?
But I will finish my sad tale now. Take this as a warning. Do not let the humans trick you. They look weak and innocent. But they are vile tricksters.
Run, my friends. Run far away.
After months of thinking about cleaning up my writing cave, I finally took action this weekend. Here are some before pictures:
As you can see, I barely had room to walk to my desk!
What a mess!
The mess made it hard to write and was actually depressing.
What a difference a day and a half make. Now I feel much better about using this room to do what I planned for it-to write.
Wow-I can see the top of the desk.
My large Post-It board and supply cabinet within easy reach of my desk.
Much less clutter. I can breathe!!
My writing room is now a place I want to spend time.
In January 1981, as a result of spending a week in the hospital for a severe case of scarlet fever, I decided I wanted to be a nurse. I was 16, a junior in high school in Apache, Oklahoma. All I knew of scarlet fever was that it made Laura Ingalls Wilder’s sister go blind. Thanks to the nurses at Grady County Memorial Hospital in Chickasha, Oklahoma I made it through that horrible week.
I can’t recall any of the nurses’ names who took care of me, but I can recall their actions and how they made me feel. I knew I wanted to be like them, smart, caring, decisive, warm, healing. They seemed like angels, only more. They knew best what would make me heal and feel better even if I didn’t want to hear it.
Those were my first nursing mentors. I’ve had so many more since then. I can think of no better time than National Nurses Day to remember a couple of them.
When the attendant wheeled me into my hospital room that January day in 1981, a student nurse stood at the bedside ready to help me into bed. Her teacher entered the room right behind me and asked the student to try to start my IV. I didn’t really know what an IV was and was so sick I couldn’t really follow the student as she tried to explain to me what she was about to do. Her first attempt failed. I cried. She apologized. Her instructor asked her if she wanted to try again. I’ll never forget what happened next. The student declined. She told her instructor she knew she couldn’t start my IV because her skills weren’t up to the task of starting an IV on someone as dehydrated as I was. She told her instructor that since I was so sick and scared she thought it would be better for me to have someone else get the IV started and get my fluids and antibiotics going. The instructor nodded, left the room, and then came back in a few minutes later with another nurse. The student held my hand and talked quietly to me while the staff nurse expertly started my IV and got my fluids and medication going. At that moment, I didn’t recognize what had just happened.
Looking back years later, I realized the nursing professor wanted to see if the student would recognize the needs of the patient and respond only to the needs of the patient. I’d say she passed that test.
After a zig-zaggy road full of dead ends, I finally entered a practical nursing program at Tennessee Technology Center in Harriman, Tennessee in October 1993. I was 29, a little beaten down by life, but trying to get myself together. I’d been on the waiting list for nursing school for two years and had started to think I’d never get in.
Classroom-only studies filled the first few weeks of the program, then clinicals started. The day finally came when I had to give my first intramuscular injection. My patient for that shift was a surgical patient in her mid-thirties. I went to her room to perform my first assessment of the morning and could immediately tell she was in pain. I did a quick set of vital signs and checked her incision. When the patient confirmed she would, in fact, appreciate a shot of her prescribed narcotic I left the room to find my instructor, Alma Johnson, RN, to help with the injection. Mrs. Johnson joined me in the medication room where I presented her with the patient’s medication order sheet. The staff nurse who worked at the hospital obtained the medication from the narcotics cabinet for us. I had already assembled my supplies, syringe, two needles, two alcohol swabs, a cotton ball, and a Band Aid. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t stop shaking.
With trembling hands, I picked up the vial of medication and the syringe. I looked at the syringe, looked at the vial, looked at the syringe again. Mrs. Johnson leaned over and whispered to me, “Miss Shackelford, you’ll need to uncap your needle in order to draw up the medication.” If the staff nurse in the medication room with us heard, she gave no indication. Mrs. Johnson smiled at me, encouraging me to continue.
Something clicked into place in that instant. Even though I was scared out of my mind to stick a one and a half inch needle into a live human being, I took a deep breath, compartmentalized my fear, and realized every moment I stalled was another moment that woman would spend in pain. I realized this was all about that patient in pain, not about me being scared.
Mrs. Johnson stood quietly beside me, her hand resting very gently on my shoulder, as I confirmed the dosing on the medication order sheet, confirmed the medication by reading the label on the vial, then drew up the dose into the syringe. I presented the order sheet, vial, and syringe to Mrs. Johnson to check. She reviewed them and said nothing, just met my eyes with a smile and a nod. She walked beside me to the patient’s room, stood beside me while I identified the patient, located the landmarks for the ventral gluteal site and gave the patient her injection with steady hands.
When we walked out of the room, Mrs. Johnson turned to me and smiled.
“Well done,” she said. I knew she referred to more than just my injection technique. It was the first time I felt like a nurse. Not that I gave the injection, but that I did something that helped another human being cope with her illness.
At graduation in September 1994 I told Mrs. Johnson that I wouldn’t have made it through nursing school without her kindness and what she taught me that day. I wasn’t kidding. She’d taught me the most important lesson of nursing school with only two short sentences and her gentle presence. It’s a lesson I carry with me still.
Many nurses since then have inspired me in many different ways, but these women stand out as some of the most important in starting me on the path I continue walking today.
Happy Nurses Day!
Wow-hard to wrap my head around how fast the first one third of 2012 flew past me. The year left my goals and me in the dust back, oh, around February 1.
But, the good news? Two thirds of 2012 remains, holding my hand, patting my back, saying “There, there, dear. It’ll be okay.”
Time to revamp.
Again.
I’ve reassessed where I’m at with my writing. (I hear my mother’s voice saying “Behind the at!”) And I’ve adjusted my 2012 goals.
Here they are:
Blog three times a week.
Complete one more novel length draft.
Complete six short stories.
Submit at least two short stories for publication.
Attend an average of one MTCW meeting per month.
Attend Killer Nashville conference this fall.
Since I’ve already blown my goal of blogging three times a week, I’ll just let it go and try not to beat myself up over it. Alright? S’alright…
So what’s going on, you ask? I’m trying really, really, really hard to get back on the writing horse. Not sure what happened when I finished the draft of my novel in January, but it was like the words just stopped. Now I’m trying to get them flowing again.
Maybe I lived with that story for so many years, starting and stopping, that once I vomited it all out my mind had to take a short break. Sound reasonable?
Anyway…think I’m ready to push myself a little and get back to writing.
In spite of the to do list notification set on my phone, I forgot to post this week. 
So that means I won’t get three posts this week-unless we count Sunday. 
Getting the itch to write again since finishing the draft of my story in January. Although I’m not sure that I have a story, I do have something brewing in my brain. I’ve made a few notes, but nothing I can take off running with. But it’s brewing and brewing is good.
