I had planned to write a long post in honour of the Tour De France on Sunday when the race wrapped up. Instead I was in and out and in the Summit E.R.
I was crazy mad with pain in a way that only a person who has been there can understand. At one point I was on my hands and knees screaming in someone’s office, because the E.R. had no more beds. (People without regular doctors use the E.R. as their primary care physician and were all being treated for sore throats at roughly the same time I was trying to give birth to a 3mm piece of rock.)
I thought of two things during the times that they waited to make sure I wasn’t “drug-seeking” (heck, I WAS drug-seeking, insofar as the drugs lessen your desire to have your throat slit by a rusty green penny) and poking me with needles to find a vein. The first thing was that verse in Revelation, which I am probably misquoting:
…there shall be no more death. Neither sorrow nor crying, and no more pain. The former things are all passed away. He that sat upon the throne said “behold! I make all things new”
The second thing was Floyd Landis. He had an amazing comeback earlier in the week, pushing himself beyond all conceivable limits to acheive the once-impossible and win the race. I was inspired by Floyd, even during the moments when I begged my husband to let me die. (I know this sounds dramatic, but I promise you if you’ve ever been there you’d understand how utterly mundane it is to want to give up when faced with this.)
Now they say that Floyd may have cheated. I am both sad and relieved. I’m sad to think that he could desire glory so much as to sacrifice his honour. But I’m more relieved. Because when I see other people do the impossible it makes me feel as though I’m chained to mediocrity in a very petty way. Cheating acknowledges that it is called “the impossible” for a reason, and makes me feel less ashamed to be mired in the possible.