I couldn’t figure out why I was dreading last Saturday’s Rocky Ridge half marathon.  Yeah, it’s a tough course, but I’ve never felt this way before ANY race.

For a few weeks prior, I just had this feeling of impending doom.  Maybe it was because I felt like dying at my last trail race back in August.  Or maybe it was because I knew there was no way I was gonna be able to finish anywhere close to my  Rocky Ridge PR (personal record) three years ago.  It really didn’t even matter that just a year ago I had won my age group and finished seventh in the Ultra Series women’s division.  This whole year I had been running eight to eighteen minutes slower in all my races, so what did I really expect for Rocky Ridge?

If I’m being honest with myself, there’s other things I’ve been dreading more lately.

I feel like a horrible person even as I’m writing this, but I dread when I see my mom and dad’s phone number pop up on my phone.  It’s almost never a good thing when either of them call.  And this year it’s just gotten worse.

Unbeknownst to us, my mom has been showing signs of dementia for probably ten years…maybe longer.  We all just attributed her forgetfulness, repetitiveness, and delusional rants to normal aging.  If I had been more proactive in spending time with mom doing stuff that she enjoys and talking about things that interest her, maybe I would’ve clued in sooner.

And I’m realizing it doesn’t even need to be deep, meaningful conversations or major outings.

Just little visits focused on mom.  Small talk.  Silly, corny joke telling.  Updating her on Natalie and Meagan’s lives even if it’s answering the same old questions:  “How is Natalie’s swimming class?”  “Is Meagan still doing  cupcakes?”

Somehow after twelve years swimming on a team, Mom still calls it “class” or “lessons.”  And Meagan’s booming entrepreneurial endeavors in the cupcake world always boil down to whether it’s taking too much time and energy away from school.

And don’t even get me started on how she asks me if I’m still doing that “jogging thing.”

Yes, all family members feel their patience tested to the limit when we get together.  I rationalize it as some sort of grand sacrifice we’re making.

So, then I think I’m being SUCH a good daughter for “putting up with” all her redundancy.  Actually, her repetition doesn’t bother me as much as her commentaries on what we should or shouldn’t be doing – which means we can’t talk about ANYTHING that’s important to me.

If I’m choosing my battles, I would take her asking me twenty times if I want more food over her recent behaviors…

Which brings me to my poor dad.  And how we realize the dementia is progressing.

My dad is a retired civil and structural engineer.  After retiring over twenty years ago, he routinely played golf almost every day.  My dad and I used to go biking from his house in San Ramon to the Danville Farmer’s Market and Peet’s Coffee.  We enjoyed walks on the Iron Horse Trail and day trips to Half Moon Bay.  He loved vacations and traveling.  A devout Christian and former deacon at his church, Dad also wanted to be an overseas missionary in his retirement.

But these days a trip to Costco is considered an adventure.  His glaucoma specialist is in Concord, so doctor’s visits followed by lunch are the farthest he travels.

At his last eye appointment, the doctor wanted to speak with me about whether there were other medical conditions or circumstances going on with my dad.  It had only been three months since his last visit, but the doctor noticed significant changes in my dad’s appearance and energy level.  I didn’t want to go into all the sordid details of the situation at home with mom, so I just said that I would make sure dad got a check-up with his general practitioner soon.

Ironically, his eye doctor confirmed an eye problem that I was experiencing:  seeing my dad’s strength and confidence erode right before my eyes.  Now it’s so obvious.  The shuffling when he walks.  The staring into space.  The drained expressions.  The repeating of himself.  And the phone calls.

I see his number appear on my phone, and I just know that he and mom had another fight.

Last week it was because Mom forgot she had finished some food in the fridge and accused Dad of stealing it.  A few days before that, she threw a cup at him because “the bad lady” she imagines my dad secretly seeing must have gone into her closet and stolen some clothes hangers.  I admit that these incidents don’t surprise or phase me anymore since I’ve been hearing about them for years.

However, the most recent incident really caught me off guard and grieves me like nothing else.  My dad was upstairs in his study when he heard my mom in the backyard screaming at their rear neighbors’ house.  No one was there.  She was just screaming about how she “knew” they were stealing stuff from her and trying to take Dad away from her along with his money.  All my dad could say was that he was thankful she was yelling in Taiwanese and praying no one could understand her.

I was thinking about all of this in my car an hour and a half before the race last Saturday.

I had planned on arriving early to get a decent parking spot and avoid having to take the race day shuttles.  It’s actually kind of peaceful to get to a race a little earlier and just have time to reflect, read the Bible verse of the day, and pray.

The sun had not come up yet and there was no cell reception where I had parked.  As I sat in my car finishing my bagel and soy latte waiting for enough light to read my Bible, I just felt heavy.  No, not from excessive carbo-loading all week.  Heavy hearted.  Heavy spirited.

I still had not pinpointed why I was so anxious about this year’s race.

It was my fourth year running Rocky Ridge, the finale of Brazen Racing’s Ultra Half Marathon Series.  My fastest time was that first year with a 3:10 finish for a trail race with 4,000 feet of elevation change.  I didn’t realize what a gift that day’s weather was until the second and third year’s 90 plus degree heat.

The weather wasn’t really my concern that day.  Getting a new PR was not realistic or a concern either.

When the sun allowed me the first glimpse at my Bible verse of the day along with a short devotional, it revealed these words:

“If You can do anything, have compassion on us and help us.”  Mark 9:22

The accompanying devotional penned by the late Oswald Chambers had this to say:

“After every time of exaltation, we are brought down with a sudden rush into things as they really are, where it is neither beautiful, poetic, nor thrilling.  The height of the mountaintop is measured by the dismal drudgery of the valley, but it is in the valley that we have to live for the glory of God.  We SEE His glory on the mountain, but we never LIVE for His glory there.  It is in the place of humiliation that we find our true worth to God – that is where our faithfulness is revealed.”

Hmmm…

I started to reflect on the many times a good race has given me that “rush” aka that “mountaintop high.”  And they haven’t always come as a result of a new PR.  In fact, I haven’t PR’d at all in 2015.  Not even close.  Yet, I have gotten some of the highest of highs and crystal clear clarity during races this year.

I continued to read:

“Most of us can do things if we are always at some heroic level of intensity, simply because of the natural selfishness of our own hearts.  But God wants us to be at the drab everyday level, where we live in the valley according to our personal relationship with Him.”

Stop.

It suddenly became crystal clear that I wanted to be my mom and dad’s “hero.”  Their first born child coming to their rescue.  Dramatic breakthroughs – mountaintop experiences – as I sacrifice my time to take them on day trips to Half Moon Bay or to Sweet Tomatoes or to the doctor.  So I can feel like a good daughter.  So I can alleviate my own guilt.

And that was exactly it; I just wanted to do the minimum with maximum effect to not feel guilty.

Funny, but that is a parallel to how I’ve trained for races this year.

I’ve blogged before about my love-hate relationship with any sort of drills, mostly speed work.  Weird that I would rather run 20 miles than do 20 minutes of speed work.  But as I have discovered the hard way, simply banging out miles doesn’t make you faster.  Sure, your running log graph looks more impressive; but that’s about it.

If I’m going to truly come alongside my mom and dad in this next season of their lives, I’m realizing it’s going to involve a lot of drills and targeting places that have never been worked.  And most importantly, putting aside my own pride.

I debated with myself on whether to even mention specifics about my mom’s condition.  Some may think it humiliating or disrespecting a very private matter.  Oh wait, you meant humiliating to my mom.  I was actually referring to me.

Yes, all this came to me in that hour and a half before the race.  By now, race shuttles were dropping off runners and my bladder was telling me I better go get in line for the porta-potties soon.

So, I wrapped up my pre-race devotional time by asking God to forgive me for my pride and selfishness with my mom and dad.  I asked Him to help me put aside my desire for the dramatic and be more willing to seek out the mundane and simple tasks that might bring joy to my mom’s day and peace to my dad’s mind.  I asked God to help me be content with the day to day stuff…and to not dread phone calls.

And before I got out of my car, I realized why I had been dreading this race.  I was so consumed with the mountains that I had forgotten about the valleys.

In addition to calling my folks more and doing the “little things” better, I’m hitting the track, treadmill, and cycle studio each week.  I’m thinking of bringing over our old Chinese Checkers set to play with my mom.  One of her favorite games.  Maybe I’ll ask her to teach me how to make Sticky Rice.  Maybe we’ll even cut coupons together from Sunday’s newspaper.

As for last Saturday’s race, I enjoyed it more this year than any other year – hands down.   Did I PR that day?  Nope.  But I came down from the mountain stronger than I had started.