Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Surgery enables ‘pay it forward’ ops

When last I wrote, my 14-year-old daughter was heading into surgery for a third attempt at a bone graft into her hard palate. Having been born with a unilateral cleft lip and palate, surgery is a common occurrence.

While we can talk and act as if this type of corrective surgery is “no big deal,” when you stop the foods and fluids at midnight, gown her up the following day in a pre-op room, the chin will inevitably quiver.

To help bolster our spirits, I intended to put out the typical Facebook plea for prayer, but as we headed west, I was hit with the following idea surely hatched in the heavens:

“We know there’s oodles of positive vibes being rocketed into the Universe for her, but what if those thoughts, vibes and prayers were put into action? If interested, do one nice thing for someone today to show you believe in humanity! While Mo is totally healthy . . . we’d all fee better knowing good deeds are on the rise today.”

As we waited for Moira to be taken for surgery, her operation was delayed from 1:30 to eventually 4 p.m. During those hours, I read Moira Facebook updates from friends and family who were doing good work in her honor.

A friend of my husband’s told us that she and her coworkers were volunteering to serve a community meal.

A previous co-worker of mine said she sent “cute cards to two elderly friends who don’t have much family” and added she was working on a gift quilt for a person preparing for a bone marrow transplant.

Then one of her doctors came in to discuss the previous week’s pre-surgery appointment in which x-rays taken showed Moira’s wisdom teeth had come in.

After getting our consent to remove those teeth the doctor proceeded to explain a possible change to the graft plan: rather than open her hip and shave bone from the pelvis, doctors would attempt to harvest bone from her lower jaw.

Not only would that alleviate the need for a second surgical site, but the doctor added jaw bone was more dense then hip bone.

All three of us were pretty excited at the idea of no hip surgery, but nothing was for certain until she went in, and the waiting to do so dragged on so we regaled Moira with more Facebook well-wishes.

There was the friend who treated his co-workers to an afternoon snack of hot wings; n aunt, who herself has suffered much more than most of us, shared she’d seen a friend of hers that day.

This friend was upset so my aunt told her about Moira. “Her problems seemed little compared to precious Moira and her journey endured so bravely,” my aunt wrote. “It certainly helped cheer up my very sad friend.”

Then the nurses came to take her back to surgery. Now that she’s older, I no longer get to accompany her into the O.R. so we gave hugs, kisses and Hi-5’s and kept smiling and laughing with her until she was out of sight.

Both Marty and I felt very confident in the University of Iowa’s dental team, but admittedly it doesn’t get any easier watching our daughter be wheeled away. In typical Moira fashion, however, we could hear her continuous chitter-chatter with the nurses awhile after the gurney disappeared around a corner.

The surgery was estimated to take up to four hours so we headed off for food and enjoyed reading a few more Facebook messages, one from a teacher friend of mine who wrote of giving a picture book to a student. Given Moira’s book-worm nature, she thought Moira would appreciate a book-sharing act of kindness.

This student who received the book has a younger sibling living in another state who has no books at home. My friend helped her student read the picture book aloud to their sibling via the wonders of technology and a little thing like video chat.

Then a message from a running buddy popped up. She wrote of the “very nice man who sometimes panhandles for bus money.” The morning of Moira’s surgery, this friend found herself at a Davenport Walgreen’s near where this gentleman was “so I grabbed him some fruit, protein, some cash and a note of caring.”

Finally, another friend wrote of having books to return to a local library and was inspired to ask the librarian to choose someone who owed a fine they couldn’t pay.

“She immediately chose a young woman who recently lost her mother, got kicked out of the place they had been living (and) lost her car,” my friend shared. The young woman also tried to go back to school, but couldn’t maintain her studies. She’s also been unable to find a job.

The mammoth fine she was unable to pay? $3.70. The librarian asked my friend to write a note to the young woman: “Good luck and God bless you! In honor of Mo.”

She then added, “Of course, I cried the entire way to my next stop. It’s so sad that $3.70 is insurmountable to someone out there AND I’m grateful you asked us to do this today because it’s easy to forget the value of ‘little’ kindnesses.”

After about three and a half hours, Moira’s surgeon met with us and appeared relaxed and pleased with how events played out. He told us her jaw provided enough bone that he could place pieces into the hard palate, but also mill additional bone into a sort of cement he packed around the graft.

But the even better surprise was learning part of her second bone graft five years ago was not a painful waste of time. Enough bone had “taken” that it saved a few teeth from falling out and actually created a bridge between the edges of the cleft, requiring less bone for this graft!

Even as I sit and write, I’m amazed at how different this bone graft has gone compared to the previous two! Moira feels so good that we have to remind her not to run, not to wrestle, not to pester her brother.

The change is so drastic that I have to believe these wonderful, random acts of kindness played a part. That we are blessed to know such caring people who refuse to harden their hearts.

I don’t know how the idea came to me or from where it originated, but one thing’s for certain, it inspired beautiful people to shine their lights into the lives of others.

May we all live so inspired . . .

Originally published 7 June 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Skeffington Race keeps getting better!

We’re less than a month away from the 27th annual running of the Paul Skeffington Memorial Race! Are you registered?

I remember when it first started, way back in 1988. It was the summer before my senior year of high school, when acid-washed jeans, Guns ‘N Roses and big hair were the rage.

Back then, I played volleyball and golf, I ran neither cross country nor track. My, how times have changed! Who knew that in 27 years, the Skeff Race, originally thought to have just a few years of life, would last over a quarter of a century with participation reaching well over 700 in recent years!

I didn’t know Paul Skeffington, but I loved the grocery store, especially after my daughter was born. Just a couple of blocks from where my husband and I first lived, “Skeffs” was just a quick walk away. And after Moira became mobile? To trail behind her as she pushed one of those miniature little shopping carts down the aisle was hilarious!

As for the race that honors Paul Skeffington, it’s only recently that I started getting involved, but once I joined the fun, I fell in love.

First, there are the “options.” Anyone can enjoy the Skeff Race: there’s the fun run for the kids, the two-mile run/walk and for the braver souls, the humbling five-mile race.

Second, last year’s new time: what started as a Saturday morning event is now in the early-evening! I’m sure there are some who enjoy heat and humidity. I’m not one of them. Just remembering the heavy, thick air on some of the Saturday morning Skeff Races makes my chest tighten. By 6 p.m., the heat is usually letting up, and with the day’s work behind you, it’s time to have some fun!

Finally, the route: I’ve never minded the many changes it’s taken, but I love that the five-mile race course includes the Paul Skeffington Memorial Trail. And new for this year, the two-mile route will venture along DeWitt’s 3rd Avenue, giving residents a reason to come out and watch the parade of runners and walkers.

During last year’s race, as the five-mile course wound around the north section of the trail, I saw one of my close friends, Kristi Klinkhammer of Clinton, struggling. When I stopped to check on her, sudden foot pain was preventing her from running. Despite stretching and kneeding the sole, the foot just wouldn’t cooperate, but quit? Pfft!

Sometimes shuffling, most times walking, we hung together. No matter how bad it hurt, Kristi was going to finish. Sure, it can be a drag coming in last, but it’s far worse to give up. I’d say Kristi, unaware of who Paul Skeffington was, honored him with her grit.

Praised by previous editors of The Observer, first after his passing in a 1988 column by Bob Parrott, then again in 2001 by Mary Rueter, Skeffington was lauded as a community hero.

The late Parrott wrote about Skeffington as a kindred spirit with an undying love for DeWitt and its residents, eager to see his community survive the farm crisis of the 1980s.

Rueter, witnessing DeWitt’s survival and flourish since those dark times, told of the scholarships and park improvements the race that bears his name has funded. Both writers painted a picture of a man who loved his town and would do anything to keep it going.

With the Paul Skeffington Memorial Race already in its next quarter century, it remains an excellent way of experiencing DeWitt’s fun side while also honoring the legacy of one of the town’s great heros.

Come June 21st, I hope to see you all there!

Originally published 24 May 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Local 24-Hour-Run: crazy & worth repeating

For the past 33 years, the Cornbelt Running Club has hosted its 24-Hour-Run at the North Scott Track in Eldridge. That’s right, 24 hours of running or walking, around and around and around a high school track. Through rain, wind, sunrise, sunset, bugs, rabbits and birds; through night, through day; through burgeoning blisters, bad backs and sore hips; through chilly temps and blazing heat.

When I initially joined Cornbelt in late 2009, such an event didn’t even register with me. I’m sure I read about it in the newsletter, but because I was so far from considering anything beyond a marathon, I failed to see the event as anything other than LOONEY TUNES! The notion of doing something for 24 hours, paying to do so . . . and not even for a charity? I was completely unable to grasp such nonsense.

20140505_104216_AndroidWithin a couple years of joining the running club, I began to volunteer at a few events and eventually I found myself at a table near the North Scott Track counting laps in the wee hours of a Sunday morning.

As runners and walkers completed the last three hours of the challenge, I began to see the 24-Hour-Run as something I needed to try. Back in January, when I made a list of specific goals for 2014, the 24-Hour-Run was part of my four-goal list.

Because I’ve done a few long events since March, I didn’t consider any specific type of training, rather I focused on staying healthy, listening to my body and in the week prior to the May 3-4 event, squeeze in a daily nap and carb load responsibly.

At 7 a.m. when I toed the line with 24 other individuals from as nearby as DeWitt and as far away as California, I had one main hope: to last all 24 hours.

In talking with others who had done it, I was interested in how pain would affect my psyche. I’m not a masochist and do NOT enjoy pain and/or suffering, especially the self-inflicted kind. But I’m curious about my limits. Back in 2009 when I set my sights on the 2010 Chicago Marathon, I assumed I’d find my limits there. Sure it was tough, running 26.2 miles is hard, but it wasn’t the mythical, life-changing “Everest” I’ve heard others claim it to be.

What if I were faster? Nope. I still don’t think it’d be any of that reverential stuff, it’d just be less fun.

And I’ve pretty much come to grips with the fact that if I’m not having fun, I’m not going to bother. But I must admit, I didn’t expect to have fun at the 24-Hour-Run. I expected myself to morph into some senseless, muttering, sleep-deprived ball of pain.

20140505_104829_AndroidI was most concerned with my feet, given they’d suffer the most. I knew I needed to have a variety of shoes and unfortunately I chose the wrong one to start in: a thin pair of Brooks Ravennas that, while fine for a 10k, have no business staying on my feet beyond that. Though no blisters appeared, the Brooks laces cut into the top of one of my feet, setting it on fire.

Not sure how long each of my three pairs of shoes would last, I kept the Brooks on for seven hours, 112 laps totaling 28 miles before changing into a newish pair of Asics Kayanos.

While the Asics have always been a good long-run shoe for me, and my feet did feel better getting out of the Brooks, the damage was done. I kept them on for another nine hours, another 108 laps totaling 27 miles before breaking out my ace-in-the-hole, a pair of Hoka Conquests.

These moon-like shoes have a sole that’s crazy thick. Its massive cushion helped me run much of that final eight hours. Except for a brief time in which I pulled off my socks and popped blisters on my toes (and then slathered a layer of A&D ointment on my soles) running the straights and walking the turns made for a comfortable way to pass the hours.

But if it was all physical, where’s the fun in that? Eventually everyone walks and it’s when falling in with another participant that the glory of the event comes to the surface. Visiting with DeWitt resident and pastor Curt Girod who was doing his fourth 24-Hour-Run, he told me about his prior experience and what got him to achieving the 100 kilometer/61 mile mark. He finished with nearly 77.5 miles logged.

Then there’s the character who convinced Curt to do the event in the first place, DeWitt resident Scott Hoag. I remember counting Scott’s laps last year, but getting to talk with him and soak up his experience of having completed well over 20 of 24-Hour-Run events, was much more fun. Curt, Scott and the vast majority of everyone else exhibited for me, how much stronger the mind is than the body.

The event defies logic, reason, and has most people thinking we all needed to be locked in a padded room.

Scott’s hips and back were aching and more than once I watched friends work on his lower back as he laid face-down on the in-field. And yet he never quit, logging a final tally a couple tenths shy of 78 miles.

I think Curt and Scott would agree that we powered on, not because our mental fortitude was so immense or our bodies, temples of greatness. We kept circling the track because of the people who joined us . . . the ones who love us, in spite of our quirky hobbies.

Curt’s wife kept him company and walked with him, Scott’s kids were there. Marty brought the kids down, holding signs that read, “Mom is 24 hours of awesome!” My parents came out and walked me over the 50 mile threshold, Charlotte resident and racing buddy Nancy McClimon came twice, first to walk with me, the second time to drive my car home afterwards.

Seeing so many friends and families come out to share in the experience brought real meaning to the term “team effort.” Even while I sat popping blisters, I was loving it.

I think it was Curt who said, “You’re hooked, aren’t you.”

Yep! My 81.65 miles were 323 laps of fun! A fun that was parsed into bits of endurance, slices of sharing, a chunk of eating, a heap of pain, a dollop of suffering, and a huge helping of joy!

Whether you’re a walker or runner, want to do 10 miles or 100, I think the 24-Hour-Run is our best-kept, most neurotically-loved secret . . . and I would love to see more of us out there in 2015!

Originally published 17 May 2014 in The Observer.

Posted on by Jennifer Reed

Poetry triggers gratitude for fearless mom

In May 1970, my mom was at the halfway point of her first pregnancy. Back then, I don’t think expecting mothers were honored like they are today. My mom was probably focused on honoring her own mother.

I used to think Mother’s Day was just a made-up Hallmark holiday, but a quick Google search told me it was started in 1908 by Anna Jarvis to honor her late mother, Ann, who was a peace activist and nurse of wounded Civil War soldiers from both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line.

Wikipedia reports Jarvis’ intention was to honor her mother’s life by continuing her work with “Mother’s Day Work Clubs to address public health issues.”

20140503_212626_AndroidIn the Land of the Free, as with so many good-intentioned efforts, capitalism and commercialism quickly turned Jarvis’ vision of Mother’s Day into a money-making opportunity for greeting card companies, candy makers and all sorts of other peddlers eager to cash in on the desire to show Mom how much she means to us. Ugh.

Even now that I’m a mom myself, I don’t think much about Mother’s Day because of the stupid pressure media and vendors put on people to prove their undying devotion to ‘the She who gave us life.’

As if with one day, we can wipe away the prior year of being too busy, too tired, too grumpy, too lazy, to simply take a few moments out of our busy lives to fold our arms around our mothers’ shoulders and sit with her, listen to her, ask her about a memory or take her out to lunch.

Recently I was listening to the public radio program “Fresh Air” in which Terry Gross interviewed poet laureate for the state of New York, Marie Howe. Of the poems featured, the one that struck me was about the death of the author’s mother titled “My Mother’s Body.”

Prior to reading it, Howe shared that she was the oldest of 9 children and that sometimes, when the oldest is a daughter, women can struggle separating from their mothers.

I don’t think Mom and I struggled. Rather, it was like Thor and Odin, lots of shouting and ranting and screaming. I couldn’t wait to get away from my mother and off on my own! God forbid I listen to her, recognize her discipline as love, see the fear behind her efforts to tame her wild daughter.

Listening to the poet Howe talk about her mother, I found myself wondering about my own, about the woman she was before she became “Mom.” Those nine months when her working and walking would rock me like a soft cradle, when her talking was the muffled song that lulled me, when her slumber was undoubtedly the time for my fetus-self to jump around and party. Who was she?

I’m sure she had all the universal thoughts, fears, hopes, dreams, hesitations and questions so many of us do when we’re carrying our precious cargo.

There’s only a few things Mom has shared about her pregnancy. One, that in 1970, doctors let women labor for hours until the urge to push came and then they were sedated.

Those of us who have labored know the relief the urge to push brings and how frustrated Mom said she was, “You labor for that long and when you’re finally ready to push, they put you to sleep!”

Mom also gets perturbed remembering that at just 2 weeks old, her doctor ordered her to feed me skim milk because I was too fat. “Can you imagine?!” she’d sigh, “but you just didn’t question things back then.”

We all get a good laugh out of it, but there’s a part of me that feels bad . . . not for me, but for Mom. Obviously she was doing a pretty great job of taking care of me and how was she rewarded? By being told she was doing it too well!

While I’m sure she was a little scared about having a child to care for, when it comes to babies I’ve never thought of Mom as anything other than fearless. Like when our own Moira came home from the hospital and I was totally freaked out and clueless. With her host of feeding issues, I felt a constant panic that she would die at any moment.

Mom instinctively knew when to step in and help. Whether it was doing dishes in the kitchen while I fed Moira in the living room, I never felt more safe then when my mom was at the house. Whenever she was there, I knew that for the time being, Moira would live and everything would be ok.

When all else fails . . . when the sky is falling and you’ve nowhere to hide . . . when you’re beaten down and no one’s in your corner, Mom arrives and things are instantly less scary.

Though I’ve never admitted it, I’ve always needed her, and no Hallmark card or flower arrangement can ever express that. My mom is in me . . . in my own hands starting to weather with age; in my own eyes, that squint shut when we laugh; in the smile wrinkles on my cheeks that no longer smooth out once our laughter subsides.

I watch her, and see that everything is, and will be, okay. . . And for that, no thanks will ever be enough. I love you, Mom.

Originally published 10 May 2014 in The Observer.