My Life Needs a Soundtrack

The last few days it's been the "Cops" theme.

I just got back from my hometown, where I helped move my mom out of my dad's house. In a frantic, when-does-he-get-home-from-work, where-does-he-hide-the-guns, holy-shit, grab-what-you-can-and-run, they're-coming-home-early kind of way.

I could go on for a very long time about the details, but it's an old story played out in countless abusive marriages. My family would be mortified that I even said that much about it, because of near certainty someone who knows who I am back back home might read this blog and spread the info around our small town. (So I gues I should say here if you do know who I am back home, please forget you read this post.) Anyway.

There was geniune fear. And a lot of tears. Threats, both physical and legal. But she stood in front of me enough times growing up, and it was my turn to stand in front of her. I went there fully prepared for him to start something ugly, and fully prepared for things to end with him in jail. However badly I could have gotten hurt, I would have enjoyed putting him there.

The saving grace was my brother. (Well, sort of brother. While we have no actual blood in common, on paper he is my brother. I've got one of those families you need a full-color diagram to explain.) He's the only one my dad will listen to, and he talked him into backing down from his impending violent tirade. For the moment he's being kind of civil.

My presence changed the dynamic of the situation in ways I would not have predicted, but was not actually surprised by. The fact I made the trip, that I came so far in the middle of a work week and was there for days... I guess that made it real for a few people, my dad included. It was hard on me - people clinging to me for strength and me with nobody to cling to. My poor husband feeling frustrated and helpless, still stuck on another continent for an extended business trip, getting updates only through my extremely limited internet access.

It was hard and scary and stressful but I'm glad I went and I would do it again. It's far from over, but at least I could make the trip back knowing she was, for the first time in many years, safe and sound.

I know this has nothing to do with triathlon, but the reason I decided to write about it is because as it was all happening all I could think about was how I would not have been able to handle this if I hadn't become a triathlete. Every time I picked up a huge box I thanked my training. Every time I ran from the van up the front porch steps through the house up the stairs to grab the next set of clothes from her closet, I thanked my training. Every time I passed my aunt and sister-in-law running while they paused for a breather and (to my dismay considering the urgency) a cigarette, I thanked my training. And every time I started to feel myself failing, slowing down, hurting, crying with pain and frustration and exhaustion and hunger and found it inside me to keep going until it was done, I thanked my training.

I had to do one thing my training taught me not to - I had to play through the pain. Last weeked I planted a bunch of landscaping and the patello-femoral cartilage problem in my right knee flared up badly. So I had to do all this running and stair-climbing and lifting and carrying with a knee so stiff I'd been limping for days. I knew I'd have a price to pay and I am paying it now, but a few weeks off biking and running is more than worth what I was able to accomplish.