run on sentences

In 2001, after 47 years of occupying its perch above my bladder, my uterus had enough and tried to leave on its own. In medical terms I had a “uterine prolapse” where the uterus drops down into the vagina. I knew something was happening when I felt a fullness or a pinch and some pelvic pain. I had just run a marathon and thought maybe all that bouncing around jarred it loose. Being curious and a nurse, I took a mirror into the bathroom and placed it between my legs. I saw something that did not belong there, protruding slightly from the opening of my vagina. “Sorry, my uterus said.” “No hard feelings, but I am done.” Oh that’s just like my uterus, I thought to myself. It had done its own thing my entire life and now was going to be the first of my organs to leave. My appendix and tonsils, commonly removed in my childhood era, stayed, quietly doing their job. My gallbladder didn’t mind if I ate fatty foods and faithfully did its work digesting them. My uterus did not go into

I never wanted a GPS watch when they first came out.   The first ones were big and seemed to be more trouble than they were worth.  I was satisfied with my estimates of how far I ran which later turned out to be grossly exaggerated.  My  sister got me a fancy Fitbit  for my birthday a few years ago.   At first I was skeptical but it became a welcome part of my day, documenting my runs, counting my steps, telling me my ass had sat down long enough on the chair and just generally encouraging me to move.  I looked forward to the nice little wrist buzz I got when it celebrated my walking or running 10,000 steps.   During races I loved that it ticked off the miles for me, making the run seem to go by just a little bit faster.  I didn't love it's truthfulness though.  I discovered that my 20 miler pre marathon runs were more like 17 or 18 miles.  But this goes to show you - running 20 miles pre marathon, or even thinking you ran 20 miles is probably better for you mentally than phy

Over the years the older women I sat with in church were cut and replaced - plucked from the pews by death or a serious illness that made it impossible for them to attend. I got to know and love many of them, sometimes painting nails or curling hair when arms could no longer be raised high enough to get those old fashioned brush rollers in. I spoke at some of their funerals. It wasn't a church calling or duty - these ladies were my friends. My church girls. One Sunday, a replacement older woman sitting next to me was dozing during the sermon. Her nicely made up eyelids were closed, pink blushed wrinkled cheeks puffed in as her breath made a soft purring sound. Being a retired nurse I often did a quick scan - color, appearance, work of breathing - which gave me a clue into their health status and sometimes their age. I noted her makeup looked expensive and skillfully applied. A matte type of foundation recommended by many websites that claim to know what is best for women

 No one  really knows why my uncle Jim was called Jab.  His youngest sister thinks it was because he talked a lot.  One of his friends says that his dad was also called "Jab".    Anyone that could have told us for sure is gone to wherever one goes when they leave this earth.   Jab died last week in the early morning hours.    He was my last uncle, my mom's youngest brother and I loved him a lot.  He was one of the kindest, most real people I have ever known.  Jab's real name was James Lynwood.   He was named after his dad, my grandpa who was James Valentine, and also an older brother, James Wesley, who died when he was less than a year old.    My sister and I probably are the only ones who still called him Jab. Left to right:  My sister, Barb, me, Uncle Jab.  I don't remember the dog's name Left to right:  Grandma Maxfield, Jab, his sister in law Delores, and me.  He wrecked his brother Kenneth's car when he came home on leave from the Marines. 

My daughter Kseniya and I were awake and chatting in the AirBNB we were sharing in Austin Texas.  We were there to run a half marathon, a tradition we started about ten years ago.  It was after midnight on a warm February night and neither of us could sleep mostly because of a strong cold brew coffee we had too late in the day at Mozart, a nice coffee place on a lake where we could sit outside and enjoy the warm air.  Not something we could ever do in Utah in February. There's something magical about being awake at night when others are asleep.  It's rare to share this time with a grown daughter and the darkness lends itself to interesting conversation that might not take place in the light of day. At first the night was quiet.  We could hear dogs barking and traffic, car doors slamming as people came home from wherever they had been.  There were some gentle snoring noises coming from the next room.  Kseniya argued that it wasn't snoring; it was the faulty air condition