I trained for 16 weeks. I ran three 20 milers. I sacrificed countless hours of sleep and nearly every Saturday morning in preparation for one day, one race, one chance at 26.2 miles. It was all supposed to come together yesterday. It was supposed to be my reward, my day of glory, my proof that I really can do anything. The day began full of promise and anticipation, and ended with defeat, frustration, and fortunately…a glimmer of hope.
I woke up at 4:30. My blood sugar was 202. I calibrated my sensor, took one unit of insulin and took a shower. My pump alarm went off indicating a calibration error. I started to panic, tested again at 180, entered it into my pump, crossed my fingers and went back to getting ready. Another calibration error and a sensor end alert sent me into a total panic. I restarted my sensor and said a little prayer that it would work during the race. I didn’t want to have to slow down and test. If I had only known what was going to happen later, I would have been thankful to have only had the problem of being without my CGMS.
I ate a banana and half a yogurt and bolused for my still over 200 blood sugar. I figured it would come down as we walked to the start corrals. I allowed myself an hour and a half before the race started to use the port-a-john, secure a spot in the 9:00/mile corral, calm myself down, and prepare mentally for what laid ahead.
I was feeling jittery, uneasy and nauseous. I tested at 343. I was literally freaking out. I did not know how to get my sugar in control before the race started. It’s unsafe to exercise when your sugar is above 250. Running a marathon is way more than simply exercising, and I knew that this was dangerous. I bolused another unit, afraid to put too much insulin in my system before taking off to run. I sat down in the corral, tried to center myself and focused on relaxing my nerves. I tested again…298. Relief washed over me. I texted the news to Kyle…thankful that the numbers were coming down. Then the crowds really started pouring in. We were like sardines (seriously, runners can really stink…that technical fabric packs a punch). I could feel my chest tightening so I took some deep breaths, but it was so overwhelming. I tested…337. That couldn’t be right…I tested again…371. Shit. I knew I was doomed. I couldn’t stop before I started. I had to run. One more test before the pack started to move…312. My heart was pounding out of my chest, my muscles were already screaming at me, and I was about to take a gamble with 26.2 miles.
I saw my sister and Marc cheering for me on the bridge at the start and I forgot about my sugar. I was ready to do this. Despite the thousands of runners around me, I was able to stay ahead of my 9:09 pace. The spectators were overwhelming. They lined the entire course, sometimes as many as five rows deep. I had taped my name across my chest so I heard people yelling “Go, Erika” the entire way. From the moment I started, it felt like the finish must be close ahead…why else would everyone be so excited, so quick to cheer me and everyone else on? The adrenaline rushes were not helping in my battle with blood sugar, but the crowd support was like nothing else I have ever experienced.
I saw Kyle, Brittany, and Marc at mile 2 (thanks to my sister’s “most awesome sign of the Chicago 2008 marathon”) and knew I wouldn’t see them again until the halfway point.
I also knew that I don’t usually settle into a run until 5-6 miles in, sometimes more. I decided to test at mile 3, just to see if my numbers were coming down. I was already at 173…a vast improvement. My body felt like it was battling sky-high sugars though. My muscles were getting tight. I was stopping at every water stop and drinking from my water bottle, but my mouth was still dry. I was in a losing battle with my body. I kept running, but it had really started to hurt. At mile 5, I decided to use the restroom. I watched the clock as I went. After 1:30 of continuous flow, I knew that it was bad. I was dehydrated. My morning of high blood sugars had left it’s mark and the increasing heat of the day, and 21 miles ahead were not going to make re-hydrating an easy task. I got back on the course, still on pace for a 4:00 race. My legs were getting heavier and the flames were moving up, deeper into my muscles. I concentrated on breathing…trying to ignore the pain. I kept testing my sugar every two miles and it stayed in the 150 range. I was amazed that it was at such a safe level…according to the numbers, I should have felt great…instead, I felt like I was falling apart. At mile 9, just as I was about to stop and walk, I saw a friend who took my mind off the building fire working it’s way up my legs. Despite that, and an effort at gritting my teeth, I had to stop at the medical tent at mile 10. I needed to find out why my body felt like it was running with high blood sugar when in fact my sugars were right where they should be. I asked for ketone strips, which of course they didn’t have. They didn’t even have a glucometer (thankfully, I never leave home without it). I asked for I.V. fluids. I knew that it would set me back, but at least it would allow me to finish. I was dehydrated and the only way to get re-hydrated quickly was directly through my veins. They told me that I’d have to go back to the med tent at the start to do that. Hell no. I was not giving up now. I self-treated with a salt packet, some gatorade and water. They took my blood pressure, which was 110/60 and my heart rate was 94…both good. I took off to conquer the next 16 miles. I started to feel worse, though. I grabbed some more gatorade at the next aid station. I even stopped to walk for a bit. Finally, I was at the halfway point and saw Britt’s towering sign in the distance.
I focused on making it to them. I knew they were worried about me because I called Kyle from the medical tent at mile 10 so they would know I’d be later than they expected. I put a smile on my face, pumped my fists in the air, and swallowed the lump in my throat that came every time I thought of the pain.
I was walking a half mile later. The fire in my legs was too much to handle. It burned less when I walked. My heart was pounding faster and my arms started to tingle. I was scared. I tested at mile 14 and was 140. Why was I feeling so badly when my sugar was finally in control? There was a medical tent there, but it was full of people so I decided to keep going. By mile 15, I was in tears. My chest was tightening, I was feeling nauseous, and my muscles felt like they were being ripped apart, the burning flames were too much to ignore. I couldn’t even lick my lips, my mouth was so dry despite the constant effort to hydrate myself. I thought about Kade and Liv, Kyle, my sister and Marc, my mom and dad, all of my friends and all of the support they had given me. I didn’t want to let them down, but I had given all I could give. Every time I blinked, I worried that my eyes wouldn’t open again and I would go over. I made the decision to stop at the medical tent at mile 16.5. I knew that I wasn’t going to finish the race. Leaving that course was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.
I was dizzy and could hardly catch my breath enough to tell the medical staff what was wrong. They sat me down on a chair (all the cots were taken) and took my blood pressure and heart rate, which had increased to 150/85 and 130 respectively. I was begging for an I.V. I haven’t felt that helpless since the day I was diagnosed. All I wanted to do was drink. I was desperate for fluid. The nausea was building too. I put my head between my legs hoping to avoid the inevitable. They told me they weren’t letting me back on the course. They were taking me by ambulance back to the main medical tent at the start where they would do some bloodwork and get an I.V. hooked up. I watched the throngs of runners go by through a wall of tears. I was only 10 miles from the finish. I could not believe this was happening.
They got me on an ambulance with another female runner. She was on the gurney so I had to sit on a bench against the wall. The space was very cramped with the two of us and two medics. They said we had to go to the nearest hospital because the med tent at the start was filled. I kept looking at the ambulance door. I gave serious thought to jumping out and trying again. I was in such denial and wished that I had passed out on the course so the decision to stop would have been out of my hands. They tried to start an I.V. on me and couldn’t get a vein. After two attempts, I passed out and awoke lying on the bench, covered in sweat with an oxygen mask over my face. I was scared. My legs were shaking and the fire in my muscles was still burning. Once I was in the E.R., they hooked me up to an I.V. and I finally started to feel better. After two bags of fluid they let me go home. No one tested my sugar in the hospital. No one tested me for ketones. No one even mentioned diabetes until the resident came in to discharge me. I just wanted to get out of there, get in the shower, and forget all about the huge and utter disappointment.
I shed a lot of tears yesterday and today. I’ve gone through every possible scenario, every alternate outcome. I’ve beat myself up by going through the events over and over in my mind, re-playing the pain, the defeat. In my heart I know that I could never have finished that race. I’m lucky that I made it as far as I did. I’m even more lucky that I didn’t go into ketoacidosis and end up in the I.C.U. for days, or even worse… It doesn’t make it any easier, though. I didn’t finish what I started.
A friend of mine told me that “it’s not the destination, it’s the journey that matters.” She’s right. I learned a lot about myself the past 16 weeks, and I learned even more about myself yesterday. I was prepared to run a 4:00 marathon. It just wasn’t my day. For once, the 90% mental, 10% physical rule didn’t apply. No matter how much I willed myself to keep going, my body just wouldn’t allow it.
I’m hurting. The mental anguish of not finishing is almost worse than the physical pain of my shredded leg muscles (honestly, I can barely sit…let alone walk). But I got to experience this…
I got to run in one of the world’s largest marathons. I got to hear thousands of people I didn’t even know scream my name. I got the chance to see the pride in my husband and sister and brother-in-law’s eyes as I ran past them. I got to run with people from all over the country and all over the world. I got the opportunity to witness the power of running.
I also got to meet Brian Sell…bonus.
I have a score to settle, though. I will finish what I started, even if it is a year later…
