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very January, social media floods with advice about resolutions and “new year, new you” propaganda, but at Brick & Elm, we are realists. Transformation is slow. Sometimes it looks more like rehab appointments or runs that turn into limping walks. Sometimes it looks like flights bought in faith and adventures booked with apprehension. Sometimes it’s waking up at 60 and wondering if it’s time to do something for yourself.
In this first issue of the new year, we’re setting aside talk of resolutions. Instead, we’re just telling stories that inspire us. You’ll meet familiar Brick & Elm contributors as well as local people who’ve come back from health setbacks, made enormous sacrifices, and chased down adventures they once thought were out of reach. Their paths aren’t perfect or linear, but they’re proof that a turn of the calendar doesn’t change us. We change ourselves, one determined step at a time.
One Kidney, Unlimited Potential
By Jason Boyett
Every journey requires a first step, as the saying goes, and of all the places for Kaci Alvarado’s life-changing health journey to have begun, hers started in an automotive shop in Pampa.
Six months later, in 2013, she willingly gave up a kidney to a virtual stranger. Then she lost 100 pounds. Then she took second-place in a bike race at the 2024 Transplant Games of America. Last summer, she hiked 22 miles into and out of the Grand Canyon.
In June, this Amarillo resident plans to ride across the United States.
The past dozen years or so have been a whirlwind of activity for this Amarillo-based nurse, living kidney donor and accidental health advocate.
“I was not very active at all back then,” she says of her journey’s starting point in 2012. “I was in Pampa getting my oil changed. My friend asked me to proofread a letter that she was going to put on Facebook for a friend that needed a kidney.”
Kaci read the letter. She didn’t know the man who needed a kidney, but she knew he’d been sick for more than 30 years. And as a single mom, she couldn’t stop thinking about what it would mean for that man’s children to lose their father. If she ever needed a kidney transplant, she’d want someone to step up on her behalf.
“Halfway through the letter, I said, ‘I’m O-positive. How do I get tested?’ Six months later, we had surgery,” she says.
At Memorial Hermann in Houston, in 2013, Kaci became a living organ donor. “It was a surgical suite. He’s in a room, there’s a room in the middle where they take care of the kidney, and then I’m in a room,” she says. “They started out both of our surgeries at the same time, and as soon as they took it out of me, he was already open. It went straight into him.”
The kidney recipient woke up immediately feeling better, she says. For Kaci, however, the recovery was a little more difficult. “It was easier for him than me, because he was sick and got better. I went to the hospital well and left sick,” she says.
For most living kidney donors, recovery post-surgery takes just a few weeks, and donors like Kaci typically end up living normal, healthy lives with just one kidney.
The months after her donation kick-started Kaci’s own health journey. She’d been going through a few personal issues during the months surrounding the transplant, including a failing marriage. “After donation, I gained a lot of weight, went through a really ugly divorce, and found myself at the doctor finding out that I was borderline diabetic,” she says. It wasn’t related to the kidney donation. It was simply related to her lifestyle choices and the poor physical and emotional health that accompanied them.
She got a wakeup call when a doctor told her she might end up on the kidney transplant list herself, Kaci recalls, “if I didn’t get it together.”
In the transplant center, she had seen a flyer for the Transplant Games of America, an Olympics-style gathering with dozens of events for both transplant recipients and donors, intended to show what’s possible after a transplant.
“I was, like, that’s something I could do someday,” she says. Kaci set a goal of moving her body for 30 minutes a day, three days a week. She stuck to the goal. Then she began expanding it. She took up roller-skating in her neighborhood. She got on a bike, determined to ride a little further each day. She began weight training at the gym.
“I just fell in love with feeling healthier,” she says. “I call it ‘adult-onset athleticism.’”
Over the next several years, Kaci ended up losing 100 pounds, and in 2024, found herself competing in the Transplant Games, where she won the silver medal in a cycling competition. “I had no delusions of winning anything,” she says. “My only goal was to participate.” Taking place in Birmingham, Alabama, the temperatures on race day exceeded 100 degrees, and the cycling track was brutal.
“When I finished the race, all I wanted to do was sit down and rest. And my teammate was standing there yelling at me to get to the podium because I had won a silver medal,” Kaci says.
She’s now a member of Kidney Donor Athletes, a national organization made up of living kidney donors who participate in high-level, endurance athletic events to raise awareness of the safety and impact of living kidney donation.
Over the summer, Kaci had the opportunity to join a KDA group of 15 kidney donors on one of the most iconic hikes in the United States: a grueling, 22-mile rim-to-river-to-rim hike in the Grand Canyon. The group descended into the canyon from the South Rim, followed the Bright Angel Trail to the Colorado River, and then headed back up. The trek represented an elevation change of more than 10,000 feet, requiring around 18 hours to complete.
Kaci and the other hikers hoped their example would remind people that a kidney donation doesn’t limit their lives, but empowers them to live more fully.
“We started it just before sunrise, and so going down was so amazing, and so beautiful because the light was just filling the canyon,” Kaci says.
A citizen of the Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma, Kaci felt in the canyon’s landscape a deep connection to her roots. “Being an indigenous person myself, to be there where hundreds of years of Indigenous people have lived and crossed—it was just beautiful,” she says, her eyes brimming with tears.
The night before the hike, she and her trekking companions each told their donation stories. Some donated to a loved one. Others, like her, gave kidneys to strangers. “Some people had no idea who they donated to. It was just inspiring in so many different ways.”
Her list of personal accomplishments isn’t yet complete. Kaci was recently invited by Hilary Baude—the first living kidney donor to complete the Ironman World Championship in Hawaii—to join Baude’s team on a major endurance event this summer. Kaci is mum on the details, but says the advocacy event combines a physical challenge with the advocacy that’s so important to who she is. “It’s a chance to show what one kidney can do,” she says.
She’s already training for the event, grateful for the opportunity to honor the donors and families who make miracles possible.
Would any of this have happened if Kaci hadn’t decided, inside a Pampa quick-lube, to donate a kidney? She might have ended up getting into better shape. But she certainly wouldn’t have had the opportunities to compete in high-profile athletic events.
Willingly giving up an organ changed her life and transformed her body. And perhaps surprisingly, it restored her health.
“My doctor jokes that he doesn’t believe I ever donated because my labs don’t even look like I donated a kidney,” she says. “To have the benefit of getting healthier and having fun, it’s just so amazing.”
More than 90,000 people are on the waiting list for a kidney right now, and Kaci points out that around a dozen of them die each day. “And that’s just in the United States,” Kaci says. The average wait time for a transplant can be up to five years. “Some people don’t live that long on dialysis. There’s so many people who feel like an appliance because they have to plug into a machine for four hours a day, three days a week.”
Kaci competes, she says, because those individuals can’t.
“They can’t do this. They can’t go and ride a bike all day long or cross the Grand Canyon because their body won’t filter their blood,” she says. “We all have two kidneys, and so many people are healthy enough to donate one. I’m proof that you can live an amazing life afterward.”
Escape from Alcatraz
By Jon Mark Beilue
Local residents Tom Harris and Sue Schevikhoven were not among the five “missing or presumed drowned” in the restless waters off Alcatraz. The Amarillo swimming enthusiasts were not among the 23 captured either, nor the six shot and killed. As a matter of fact, they never spent a day behind bars.
But in July, the two did brave the cold waters of San Francisco Bay, swimming from famed Alcatraz Island to the welcoming shores of San Francisco. It’s the most famous—or infamous—two miles of water to be found in the United States.
“Before we did it, my goal was to complete it,” Schevikhoven says. “I was nervous because I didn’t know if I could do it. It was like being in a giant washing machine. It was very rough. I drank a lot of the bay that day. It was hard, harder than I expected.”
For nearly 30 years, from 1934 to 1963, famed Alcatraz Federal Penitentiary was a foreboding presence on that island. Seen as inescapable, it became the subject of documentaries and even a movie, Birdman of Alcatraz. For more than 60 years since closing, it has become a tourist stop—and lately, a starting point for intrepid swimmers like Harris and Schevikhoven.
“It’s intimidating, psychologically intimidating,” Harris says. “The water is cold, rough and choppy, and the water is dark. San Francisco is kind of cold anyway. The wind was blowing, and it’s ugly on Alcatraz.”
Which is part of the reason experienced swimmers like Harris, 73, and Schevikhoven, 65, embraced the physical and mental challenge. Harris, who retired from the Marines in 1992, is always looking to push himself physically.
“I’m a little bit of an adventurer,” Harris says. “I was an infantry officer in the Marines and later found out civilian life can be a little boring. I needed some adventure in it.”
He started swimming while stationed in New Jersey in 1980. Later, around 2012, Harris was into mountain bike triathlons and got involved with an organization, Total Immersion, that trained triathletes to swim better. That took him to open water swimming and winter trips to the Virgin Islands.
By 2016, Harris was living in Amarillo with previous stops in Pampa and Dumas. It didn’t take him long to start swimming at first Gold’s Gym and later at the Amarillo Town Club. He is part of a masters swim team that he also coaches.
In 2023, looking for that next adventure, Harris found it through Odyssey Open Water Swimming where Alcatraz swims are a busy part of their business. Harris was among 100 swimmers who jumped off boats into 55-degree water with the St. Francis Yacht Club in San Francisco as the hoped-for destination. That swim is from north to south, with a four-knot current from the east and wind blowing from the west. Eventually the current helps, but it can be tricky. Harris completed the two-mile endeavor in 55 minutes.
“It’s a challenge for me from start to finish,” he says. “If you don’t swim fast enough, the current will carry you past the exit beyond Golden Gate Bridge, and that would be embarrassing. You get in and swim your butt off as hard as you can.”
Early in 2025, Schevikhoven said arm-twisting from Harris convinced her to try Alcatraz. A lifelong, self-taught swimmer and breast cancer survivor, she started open water swimming two years ago, having been told swimming would help lower returning cancer risks.
She joined a group taught by Harris. With retirement two years ago, she’s found more time to devote to the sport. Since Harris’ encouragement, they’d been swimming in Lake Meredith once a week starting in April.
“When I joined the team, I did take it up a notch,” Schevikhoven says. “Tom kept talking about Alcatraz, but no way could I [do it] the first year. The second year I was more confident. The worst-case scenario is the boat picks me up and takes me to shore.”
In July, they donned wet suits and joined around 30 others who dove into the San Francisco Bay at Alcatraz’s shore. The water was slightly warmer than normal at 61 degrees, but the current was stronger. The two churned through two miles of waves for 75 minutes before wearily reaching the destination.
“A lot of people said to me, ‘Are you kidding?’ What are you doing?’” Schevikhoven says. “When I’d finished, they were still amazed that anybody would want to do it, and then anybody could do it. But bragging rights come with it.”
Harris is preparing for another Alcatraz swim in July, which he hopes to make an annual challenge.
“The first time I did it, I felt bullet-proof for three months,” he says. “I felt like I could do anything.”
Bypassing the Widowmaker
By Jon Mark Beilue
Around Thanksgiving 2024, something felt a little off on one of my morning runs. I was a 30-mile-a-week runner but felt a little more out of breath than usual. My left arm felt heavy and the back of my neck was stiff.
Must be those enchiladas from the night before. Then I got that same sensation while running two to three times over the next couple of weeks. In a rare moment of medical common sense, I made an appointment with a cardiologist. Since I was a new patient, I could not see Dr. Lane Cox until late January.
In those following weeks, I felt fine. I never had any pain, and never had any reoccurrences in those runs. The old me would have canceled the appointment. The older me thought I should keep it. What would it hurt? That I did keep it is why I’m typing this right now.
After my EKG test, Dr. Cox drew a picture of my heart, which looked nothing like a valentine, by the way. He pinpointed a right bundle branch block, considered “the common cold” of heart blockages. He’d see me in two weeks for a stress test. Should I do anything differently as far as exercise or diet, I asked?
“No, just keep doing what you’re doing,” Cox said.
Two weeks later, I was injected with dye and walked some on a treadmill. I felt surprisingly sluggish, but not concerned until I got a call from Brenda Stoddard, Dr. Cox’s nurse practitioner later that same day with the results. I wrote down “abnormal” and “significant,” words I didn’t expect. They asked me to return that day. I was fitted with, of all things, a precautionary Life Vest—a personal defibrillator. A heart cath was scheduled a few days later.
In a heart cath, a catheter is inserted into a vessel in the leg and guided to the heart to get X-ray videos of the valves, coronary arteries and chambers to detect any abnormalities. The procedure is supposed to last about an hour. I was under moderate sedation and barely settled in when I was wheeled back out.
In 15 minutes, Dr. Cox had seen enough. He said my left anterior descending artery, which goes by the foreboding “widowmaker” nickname, was 70 percent blocked. It was like he was talking to someone else because I felt fine (although I certainly wasn’t). They scheduled me for heart bypass surgery four days later.
On Feb. 20, 2025, I underwent a 3 ½-hour four-bypass surgery—a coronary artery bypass grafting surgery—performed by thoracic surgeon Dr. Michael Bibler. He took a blood vessel from my right leg, and used that to bypass my LAD artery. Dr. Bibler is to bypass surgery what Paul McCartney is to rock-and-roll.
The post-op chest soreness was real, especially with enough hoses in my chest to stock a shelf at Home Depot. When my chest was basically turned into Carlsbad Caverns in the surgery, yes, it’s going to take some recovery. But there is recovery, and I was blessed.
Five weeks after surgery, I attended BSA Cardiac Rehab three days a week, where Teresa King and a group of nurses led closely monitored 45-minute workouts for about 10 of us. I was assigned 36 of them, including elliptical, stationary bike, treadmill, rowing and weights for arms and chest. By mid-April, my soreness was gone. By mid-June, I completed my 36 workouts. At that point, the only time I thought of my heart bypass was when taking meds or seeing my surgery scar.
The nurses’ encouragement to continue wasn’t necessary. I had every intention to continue workouts. Reasonable diet, consistent workouts and taking prescribed meds are the big three for a newly humming heart.
I’m no longer running 30 miles each week, and that’s more than fine. That ship has sailed. I continue my elliptical/bike/treadmill/rowing routine three days a week, run/walk three miles three other days a week.
Exercise is not a contest. It’s simply maintaining a level of fitness. It’s about listening to the body. It’s being aware of the difference between fatigue and overexertion. I’d call it “gently pushing.” There’s something out there for everyone.
Most bypass patients have artery blockages of 90 to 95 percent or higher. Mine was 70 percent when something felt amiss. In a sense, it was early detection, and likely from working out. No doubt I’ve been fortunate. I’m back in the game, but with sensible limitations. Fine, maybe not all that sensible. Stringing Christmas lights on the roof in late November was a testament to stubbornness, not fitness.
Changing My Pace
By Kelli Bullard
This year marks the fifth anniversary of my brain tumor diagnosis. When people ask how I’m doing, my typical response is, “I’m doing great, thanks for asking!” And considering the possible outcomes of such a serious medical condition, I really am grateful to be alive and doing so well. But at the same time, I’m learning the importance of being honest with myself and others. My brain and body have been through a considerable amount of trauma and will never be exactly the same as before.
In her memoir Between Two Kingdoms, Suleika Jaouad explains that “recovery isn’t a gentle self-care spree that restores you to a pre-illness state … it’s about accepting that you must forsake a familiar self forever, in favor of one that is being newly born.”
My newly born self has been making it abundantly clear that there are new limitations I need to respect. In the past year, the most noticeable change has been a loss of balance and spatial awareness. A couple of clumsy moments resulted in two trips to the ER, one broken wrist and a minor concussion.
On the positive side, the orthopedic surgeon let me choose the color of my cast, and I went with the brightest hot pink they had. And I had a nice conversation with the EMT on my ambulance ride and got to congratulate him on his upcoming wedding. I also learned that wheelchair services at major airports are super-efficient and a real time-saver.
Sensory overload is another struggle for me. Noisy environments with bright lights and constant motion send my brain into shutdown mode. I become non-functional. So I gravitate toward peaceful, quiet spaces where I can connect with people in smaller groups and for shorter periods of time. Spending time outdoors, going on hikes, and exploring the beautiful places in nature are what nourish my brain and calm my body. It’s something I am prioritizing in this new season of life.
Thankfully, I am still able to be physically active, but I’m learning to respect my body’s limits in that area, as well. A hike of several miles that I would have enjoyed a few years ago is now modified to a shorter distance, usually 2 to 4 miles. And I use hiking poles faithfully, to hopefully avoid any future falls. My orthopedic specialist is a very kind and capable surgeon, but I still don’t want to be on a first-name basis with him.
Setting goals and making plans for future outings helps me stay motivated and engaged. I purchased a Texas State Parks passport booklet, and have already visited 16 state parks. There are 89 in total, so that should keep me busy for a while! If you have any favorites you’ve enjoyed, please send your recommendations my way.
Another recent purchase I made was a coffee mug that I intended to give to a friend but then decided to keep for myself. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who does this!) The text on the brightly colored mug really spoke to me: “Life is better with a friend like you.” I decided it’s a message I need to hear.
I am striving to be a friend to myself. Instead of negative self-talk and frustrations with my inabilities, I am choosing to be kinder and gentler to myself, much like a good friend would be. Reminders that I’m doing my best, encouragement to slow down and stop trying to be superwoman, accepting help when people offer—these are all important steps in the recovery process.
That process is ongoing, and I have regular MRIs to check for tumor regrowth. A recurrence in 2024 was quickly deterred by another round of radiation, and I’m hopeful this reprieve stretches on for quite a while. After all, I’ve got a lot of state parks left to visit. That passport book isn’t going to fill itself.
Rewriting Her Story
By Meaghan Collier
“I’ve never done anything,” Linda Jones Haworth says. “I mean, not nothing but pretty much nothing.”
That feeling lingered for Haworth as she entered her early 60s—a sense of emptiness and a lack of purpose. “I was the typical get married, have kids, go home,” she says. “I did some college. I didn’t have a career. I didn’t do all that. I have three kids, raised them. Everything was for them, and I’m grateful, but I was always in the back.”
She couldn’t let go of two questions: Had she accomplished much apart from raising her family? And if not, why not?
Linda grew up in a small town, so she played several sports. She didn’t develop a particular affinity for any of them and didn’t have any longstanding interest in running. But with what she describes as an overwhelming sense of mediocrity at 61, she decided one day to lace up her shoes and go for a run. She hasn’t stopped since.
“It was Oct. 10, 2024, when I decided I was going to run different streets in Amarillo,” she says. “Five days later, I thought, well, if I’m going to do that, why don’t I try for a mile every day for a year and then register my streak?”
A quick study in running apps, Haworth took a cue from local running enthusiast and friend Mike Flores and began logging her runs by using CityStrides, an app that tracks every street a runner completes. She set her sights on running every street within the Amarillo city limits. Then, she raised the stakes by using RunEveryDay.com to keep her commitment of running at least one mile every day.
“If you have a goal and want to see different streets, it gives you a mission,” Flores says. “It’s a cliche—life is a marathon, not a sprint, but it is a competition. It gives you a myth to chase after.”
Flores’ journey to finish all the streets in Amarillo took him a year. On CityStrides, he’s in first place locally; Linda is in third. The apps, she says, changed everything.
“At first, I didn’t tell anybody because I didn’t want to explain it if I was a failure,” she says, laughing. “I ran in snow, in rain. There were two dust storms, and I had to wear an N95 mask, but I was out there. People started asking, ‘What are you doing? Are you crazy?’”
Haworth has now run 69 percent of Amarillo’s streets. She has completed 46 of the city’s 72 neighborhoods and ranks in the 90th percentile of CityStrides users worldwide. Of Amarillo’s 2,030 streets, she has run 1,388.
“My three kids were born and raised here, so every time I go by a random place it brings back a memory,” she explains. “I’ll see a house and remember who lived there. I find out where things are that I never knew. Talk about interesting.”
Pace isn’t a priority. She is quick to note she isn’t fast. Her runs often include conversations with mail carriers and city workers or waves to police officers along her routes. Known as “GiGi” to her grandchildren, she’s often joined by one or more grandkids on her runs. Her only real complaints involve loose neighborhood dogs that sometimes cross her path.
“I moved to Amarillo in 1981. This is a wonderful city to live in,” she says. “As my birthdays kept rolling around, I started thinking, ‘What do I like to do? What do I want to do? So I started doing things I like.’”
Flores, a local physician, encourages Linda—and new runners in general—to start at their own speed. “Left, right. Left, right,” he says. “Do something fun for you. Start from where you are and build on your foundation. Start low and go slow.”
Linda says she isn’t sure she’ll hit 100 percent of the city’s streets, but she’s confident she can reach 85 percent. Along the way, she’s surprised herself by entering local races. She has even won first place in her age group in a few. This makes her smile. “I didn’t even know they had awards like that.”
Paired with her steady cycling schedule, Haworth has become a model for rewriting your story later in life and opening a new playbook in her second half.
“I have so many friends who have inspired me, and I think they’re more inspiring than me,” she says. “But I’m grateful for this opportunity to share my journey. You’re never too old to try something new. Find friends who will cheer you on, learn new things and make new memories. Life will be so much
more rewarding.”
A Mile a Day
By Matt Morgan
The distance of one mile carries a certain mythology. To truly know someone, after all, you have to walk a mile in his or her shoes. Your worth in work, athletics or service to others is found in going the extra mile. Less-than-savory types cannot be given an inch, lest they take the whole mile. Magnificent miles. Miraculous miles. “I saw you coming from a mile away.”
On New Year’s Eve in 2020, a childhood friend bet me that he could walk at least one mile a day, every day, for longer than I could. The bet’s stakes were steaks, and the rules were simple:
Run or walk a mile every day. You cannot walk two miles today to walk zero tomorrow.
Your mile must be outside of any steps you might make in the natural course of daily activities.
Pace does not matter—only the distance.
The mile must be completed in full before midnight.
My wife, Jenny, joined me the following morning for our first mile. That year, our streak lasted into mid-July. 194 days in a row. Admirable, but I still owed my friend steaks. We mourned the end of that streak, and although we continued walking on most days, the walks had lost a bit of luster. At the end of 2021, with no gambling incentives required, we vowed to start a new 2022 streak that lasted, at least, to 195 days.
On Jan. 1, 2022, we determined that nothing would derail us. In June that year, Jenny had surgery scheduled in Lubbock at 6 a.m. on a Monday morning. At 4 a.m. that morning, Jenny walked a mile on a treadmill in the hotel. The next day, after she was released from the hospital, we walked a mile. Our average mile lasts 15 to 20 minutes. The post-surgery mile took more than an hour. In July, merely one day after exceeding our previous streak, we moved into a new home. We left a crew of family and friends unloading boxes for quick laps around the nearby elementary school. The week before Thanksgiving, I tested positive for COVID-19. On my worst day, battling a 102-degree fever delirium, I stumbled my way around our neighborhood between two 14-hour sleep sessions.
On Dec. 31, the young couple who had purchased our previous home joined us for walk number 365 through our old neighborhood. I cried.
In 2023 and into 2024, we became a bit more aware of these milestones (pun intended). For walk 500, we covered 5 miles. For walk 600, we walked our intentional mile down Sixth Street before turning back and actually strolling it the way you’re supposed to. For walk 777, we walked to a nearby convenience store to buy lottery tickets. We walked miles from Turkey, Texas, to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. We walked laps around our neighborhood and laps around neighborhoods we’d never seen before.
For walk 1,000, we flew to Chicago (which happens to be approximately 1,000 miles away from Amarillo.) That afternoon, we walked up Michigan Avenue in downtown Chicago—an area known as The Magnificent Mile. Jenny cried.
That was in September. Today, we are well over 1,400 daily mile-long walks in a row. The number of miles we’ve covered could take us to Calgary or Acapulco. We are lucky in our health, physical ability and understanding friends and family, but I am proud of the discipline we’ve shown over the past four years.
A friend asked me recently, “When is the end?”
And I replied: I think we’ll walk until we can’t.
Walking It Back
By Nick Gerlich
It was the year of recovery. But if I wanted to get to heaven, I had to go through a little hell first. My string of 250-mile months of walking near home and hiking in Palo Duro Canyon were fading into the rear view. My personal fitness, a noble pursuit, had been cast to the curb and cactus.
By January a year ago, I had spent more than seven months with gradually worsening pain up and down my right leg. It became nearly impossible to walk, much less hike the trails of the canyon. Physical therapy did not address the problem; the pain increased.
I called an orthopedist’s office, hoping I could get in. Luck was mine. I filled someone’s cancellation, was X-rayed, and then referred for an MRI. The results showed a pinched nerve and arthritis, specifically in the area of L5/S1. The surgeon told me that unless he performed a laminectomy, I would never get better on my own.
And he just happened to have an opening at the end of the month.
On Jan. 29, I lay on a cold surgical table, praying I would wake up ready to resume my normal lifestyle before this all started. A guy could dream.
Not so fast there, old man. Days shy of my 66th, it turns out that a laminectomy is major surgery, and there would be no bouncing back in a couple of weeks. This would take time. The surgeon’s recommendation was to walk daily, stimulating blood flow and healing, but his script said to start with only to the end of the driveway and back. I could graduate to a city block later.
My surgeon didn’t know me very well, that I was stubborn and committed to lifelong fitness. Four times in the 24 hours following surgery, nurses held my arm as I did laps around the hospital. They had to slow me down. Upon discharge the next day, we went straight to Westgate Mall, where I walked a mile.
I won’t mince my words. It still hurt. Stairs were out of the question. No lifting, twisting or bending. Getting out of bed was a major production. Slip-on shoes and elastic-waist pants became my fashion statement. But once I was upright, I was ready to go, albeit slowly.
I took the doc’s advice. Kind of. Since I live in the country, a “block” is a square mile. It was my little secret. A year earlier, I could pound out a mile in 14 minutes. I had to settle for 22 on good days. At two weeks, I got the OK to drive, and went to Palo Duro to walk the park road. After four weeks, I returned to the easy trails with trekking poles. Slowly, I regained strength and added distance. Eight weeks post-op, I was given the green light to “resume normal living.”
As if I hadn’t already.
Two artifacts I did not anticipate were balance issues and foot drop, which found me lightheaded at times, and stumbling over things. In April, I tripped over an exposed tree root on a trail, landing on my lower lip. A week later, I experienced vertigo while hiking up and down the very steep CCC Trail. But these only made me more determined to recover, and I finished the month with nearly 190 miles.
It was time to start setting goals. In July, I climbed the Manitou Incline in Colorado (2,768 steps, with 2,000 feet of elevation gain), and hiked Mount Bierstadt (14,066 feet). Over Labor Day, I summited Wheeler Peak (13,167 feet) in New Mexico.
These were all warm-ups for the 25K Palo Duro Trail Run in October. While I tripped again, I soldiered on in pain. It wasn’t pretty, but I finished. I can work on speed next time.
Recently, I completed a rim-to-rim-to-rim hike in the Canyon with two B&E colleagues, and was able to keep up with these speed goats. The recovery is nearly complete; only a few lingering balance issues remain, but I have had some 14-minute miles. I also finished the year with more than 2,000 miles since that day in the OR.
Looking ahead, I have signed up for the 20-mile Mammoth March hike at Dinosaur Valley State Park this February, and am looking for other mountains to climb. Metaphorically and literally. I have learned that you have to want recovery.
