On Ironman

Some folks will tell you that what it takes to be an Ironman is the ability to swim 2.4 miles in the open ocean, ride 112 miles on an unshaded asphalt trail in the blaring sun, and run 26.2 miles -- a full marathon -- in total darkness after you've completed the first two. All three, of course, in the same day and, in fact, in the span of 17 hours, from 7:00a to midnight. That, they say, is what it takes to be called an Ironman.

I have just returned from Kona, Hawaii, where the Ironman 2010 World Championship was held. My son was participating in the Ironman for the second time. He has had four separate cancer diagnoses, a hip and shoulder replacement, and a heart transplant.

The first time he competed (in 2009), he was pulled off the course because the 2.4-mile swim took him seven (7!) seconds too long. Not only must you complete all three events in 17 hours, each individual event is individually timed.

So my beloved son, who faces down all odds, trained and trained and trained. This time when he competed he shaved 20 minutes off of his swim time, emerged from the ocean to a cheering crowd, showered and changed, and headed off on his bike. All of this we could see. The joy was overwhelming. So was the anxiety about what still lay ahead of him.

The rest of it we didn't, couldn't, see.

He got about to mile four on his bike (with 108 miles still to go) when he gave in to wooziness, sat down by the side of the road, and waited for the dizziness to pass. As he sat there, two medics approached him. They took his vitals and found his blood pressure to be 80 over 60 (when it is usually 130 over 85). They laid him down with his feet up for ten minutes, then took his blood pressure reading again. Nothing had changed. He went prone for another five minutes, during which they debated with him about whether or not he should leave the course and give up his 2010 goal.

He didn't want to. They did want him to.

Eventually he was given no choice. He was pulled off the course. We found him in the medical tent, receiving intravenous hydration.

He is supremely disappointed. He feels he has disappointed others. He is sorry for the ruckus. He devoutly wishes the end had been different.

I think he was an Ironman before he even entered the race in 2009, and that he would go back and face it all down again in 2010 just reinforces that truth.

On Coping

Someone recently told me that "coping clocks" run out. She meant that, psychologically speaking, some of us simply can't handle anymore than we're already handling.

I know this to be untrue. All of us can handle more than we're already handling. Of course, most of us don't think so. Or we don't want to think so.

We not only can handle more, we will have to. The troubles of life are unforeseeable, but they will come -- often in downpours. And we will have no choice but to cope.

That doesn't mean we can't allow ourselves the occasional meltdown. A good cry might be evidence of terror in the clutch of darkness, but it also adds to our innate, God-given (and God-driven) ability to cope.

A friend sent me this Buddhist prayer, which he always carries with him. From now on, I'm carrying it too.

May all things be happy and at their ease. May they be joyous and live in safety. All beings, whether weak or strong -- in high, middle, and low realms of existence, small or great, visible or invisible, near or far away, born or to be born -- may all beings be happy and at their ease. Let none deceive another, or despise any being in any state; let none by anger or ill-will wish harm to another. Even as a mother watches over and protects her child, her only child, so with boundless mind should one cherish all living beings, radiating friendliness over the entire world, above, below and all around without limits; so let [us] cultivate a boundless goodwill towards the entire world, uncramped, free from ill-will or enmity.