Today I’m posting the email I received from my friend Sara, and amazing, selfless woman for 4 billion reasons I simply don’t have the space to include here on the internet. 

Read. Help. In any way. Thank you.

Paxton Andrews

Family, friends, awesome human beings, I need your help.

My dear friend, and former trainer and physical therapist, John Andrews’ 3 month old son, Paxton was brought to the pediatrician’s office on May 8th for what appeared to be a common cold and possible eye infection. The doctors found cancer in several areas of Paxton’s tiny body. He has tumors behind his eyes and in his abdomen. The cancer has not spread into his ribs, and a biopsy of the liver was inconclusive, but appears to be simple celled (benign) at this time. The initial belief it that the cancer started in his head.

On his very first Mother’s Day, mom Danna held him as he received the first infusion of chemotherapy. Although his little body has been ravaged by biopsies and bone marrow tests, pic line, and drains behind his eyes, he is taking it all like a champion, his vitals remain strong, and he has eaten on his own a few times.

The doctors at Children’s Hospital of Wisconsin have been working with pathologists around the country to confirm a specific diagnosis. They want to be 1000% sure before they deliver the diagnosis and prognosis to the family. We expect that in a few days time. The chemo had to be started ASAP because the tumors behind Paxton’s eyes are fast growing and time is not on his side.

Augie and I decided (with 100% support from Grace and Nora) that it takes a village to raise a child, and it is time for the villagers to report for duty to try and save this child, and other kids with cancer. We have started a group called Team Paxton to raise money for the family, raise awareness of childhood cancer and the need for research, and to raise money for the MACC Fund, The American Cancer Society, The Blood Center, Pablove, RACC, and St. Jude Hospital through a series of events and a sustained PR and awareness campaign. We have formed a steering committee of 10 people, and held our first meeting last night. The interest in the community has been overwhelming, and we haven’t even gotten our website up yet! (Hoping to finish it by next week.) We think that Team Paxton is going to help turn the tides in the fight against childhood cancer, and change the lives of many. We’re starting with Paxton, because we love him, and, as the villagers, he’s our baby, too.

HOW CAN YOU HELP?

Donate to Paxton’s Angel Network Fund. This fund goes directly to the Andrews family to cover out-of-pocket costs for treatment and care, lost wages, travel, second opinions, anything they need. Please, if you have it in your heart and in your budget, donate today: https://www.wepay.com/donations/paxton-s-angel-network

Like our “Team Paxton” Facebook page and/or follow @TeamPaxtonWI on Twitter. This is where we’ll keep you updated on other events and activities that you can volunteer time, resources, or funds to support kids with cancer everywhere. http://www.facebook.com/TeamPaxton (You can also visit Paxton’s CaringBridge site for updates from Uncle Jeff. http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/PaxtonAndrews)

Share. Share this email, or the links, to your friends and family. Whether they can donate money, or they want to join Team Paxton, we want as many kind hearted folks as we can get!

Pray. Please pray for little Paxton.

Thank you. Thank you for being the wonderful family and friends that I love so much. And thank you for helping a little guy who needs an army to fight this battle.

I’ll eat you up, I love you so.

Sara

#TEAMPAXTON

#ARMYOFLOVE

Nothing is impossible.

There is no message that could have better spoken to me today than that one. Except maybe, “Want a free massage?” or “Here’s a million dollars!” But I digress.

Yesterday I surrendered. I surrendered to my very first race day DNF (did not finish). I surrendered to my beat up, trashed legs, my incredibly weak mental strength and my whole damn well-being. I surrendered myself to the Ice Age Trail.

I was prepared, I thought, for this 50-miler. I felt good, I felt ready and I felt confident. After my last great 50-mile adventure, how could I not be excited? I had some of my best friends along for the ride, and it was going to be our day. Turned out my day ended at mile 40.3, while I sat defeated, but overwhelmingly relieved, eating aid station cookies and potato chips while they snipped the timing chip off my shoe, removing me from the race.

I hit rock bottom before the halfway point, and halfway is a long way when you still have 25 miles to run. Dehydration set in, the sweat stopped pouring, my legs were screaming from the rocks and ruts and tree roots and hills that all required strength and focus and one hell of a good balancing act. It wasn’t just a physically exhausting course, it was a mentally exhausting course, as well.

The brief moments at the aid stations with my friends and family brought a rejuvenation to me, and at one point I had my hydration under control. I felt great. We had 19 miles to go, and dammit, we were on track. It was happening. There’s an odd sense of calm that comes over you in the moment you know you’re going to finish a race. You know you have it in you. But the next 10 miles devolved. Quickly, and painfully.

When you’re busy climbing and balancing and dodging obstacles and pounding your feet on the rocky trail, things get exceptionally tougher when you add crying to the mix. But I think I spent a good third of those 10 miles in tears. Silently. I hurt. Every step took effort. I could count in my mind the number of hours and miles I had left, and it physically made me ill to think about. I remember climbing up a hill trying to get my breath under control between the effort and the crying and thinking, “I can’t do this. I am done. This is me, finished.” I wanted to stop there. Lay down. Let someone come rescue me another day. That is the opposite moment of when you know you’re going to finish a race.

But I ran.

I took the course aid station by aid station, making sure to have my meltdowns in between so my parents wouldn’t see me cry. I knew if my mom saw me cry out there she would’ve dragged me off that course herself. I didn’t want that. I didn’t want to worry her. Tears fell and took the dried salt off my face with them. I tried to wipe them as we came across other runners, but mostly I just didn’t waste the effort. I only had so much effort left to waste wiping tears of pain and exhaustion off my face.

As we were nearing the aid station at mile 40.3 I made the decision. I couldn’t go on. Not another step. I was so incredibly OK and satisfied with that conclusion that I shocked myself. Suddenly the aches melted into relief. I didn’t cry. I didn’t think twice. I didn’t regret. My body was done, and I was letting it be. We had 9.7 miles to go, and could I have made it? Could I have hammered it out within the 12-hour limit? Maybe. But I just couldn’t. I couldn’t fathom the torture of the next 10 miles. Instead, I surrendered. I sat down in the grass, I let the volunteer cut off my timing chip, and I ate some fucking cookies.

I was done and I was happy. That was coming full circle: relief, knowing I was done with the race.

I spent some time with the ifs, ands and buts. If I didn’t already have an amazing 50-mile experience under my belt, would I have so easily let this one go? But what if I could have finished?

But here’s the thing: it doesn’t matter. I didn’t easily let this one go. I fought to the core. If I’ve learned anything in my years of running, it’s that my body knows what it wants out there, and yesterday it wanted to be done. I ran 40.3 miles yesterday. FORTY. That doesn’t happen every day, and I’m proud of every little step and stumble I took on those trails. I learned my weaknesses, I learned my strengths, I learned my abilities and I learned my limits. I am happy, and looking forward to what’s next (and that will not be a 50-miler, I assure you).

We can’t tell running what to do, running tells us what to do. It holds all the cards and deals them at will. I have grown to respect that.

My friend left me with one nugget of wisdom as we sat on the grass eating cookies once we were relieved of all racing duties. He said, “This is not a failure. It’s an 80 percent success.”

You’re damn right.

I digress.

I will never stop being entertained and amazed by what beautiful imagery can be captured with a few simple filters and effects.

My phone's camera snapped this shot.

Instagram turned it into this.

And that’s OK with me. Get your Instagram on, yo.

Have a scab? PICK. A zit? POKE. A settled argument? LET’S TALK ABOUT IT AGAIN. I continue to beat dead horses, for lack of a better cliche. I don’t know the root. I don’t feel like I need the last word. Or need to win. I apparently just need to exhaust things to their very death, defeat myself and leave my forehead smacked square on my desk.

I have a past relationship that’s etched into my every fiber, apparently. I can’t drop it or let it go. Just when I feel its grip loosening, it crawls back inside with a text from him. A message. Communication. Then I revert back to a puddle of my former self. I want to fix it. Rekindle. Crawl back. Pull. Grab. Keep. It’s all very dramatic. The comfort, the familiarity, the intensity, the love — all things I want back, gimme, now.

The pros and cons are blurred, and I don’t know right from wrong when I’m drowning in that puddle. He is the rational, voice of reason. But, of course, I find his reasoning irrational. I see what I want to see. Want what I want. Etc.

At the root of this very problem is the lack of closure surrounding the relationship’s end. Without closure, how can it be closed? My mind will not close it. But really, I won’t let my mind close it. I don’t want it closed because I don’t want it to disappear forever. I’m not ready for that. I am a lunatic, grasping at nothing.

This is the epitome of missing someone you can’t have.

File this under: Life Lessons I Still Haven’t Learned. Where’s the “dislike” button?

My family is close. It’s just the four of us — mom, dad, sister and I. I’ve always considered myself lucky to have that. Still do. While I can be wildly independent, and have, for the most part, taken care of myself as a grownup (with a few nudges and pokes here and there), I sometimes very much consider myself my parents’ child. At 30 years old. I need them. While not necessarily for things like money or food or life, but for me. I need to know they’re there. I need to know that in the darkest of dark of times, nothing bad will come of me, because I have my parents. They will save me. Always. I believed that as a little girl, and I believe that now.

When, for the briefest of moments, I thought my mom might have cancer, my entire reality spun around. For the briefest of moments I had to imagine what that would mean. And in that briefest of moments I forgot how to exist.

For as long as I can remember, I’ve considered myself like a balloon. My family is who holds tightly to the string, keeping me from floating away.  If something happens to them, it’s like letting go of the balloon. I float away with no direction, no rescue and no foundation. I am attached to my parents, literally and figuratively. 

I had this conversation with one of my best friends last weekend. She had a similar scare with her own mom. We were scared we were too attached to and too dependent on our moms. And dads. And families, in general. So much so that life without them seems not only unimaginable, but unlivable.

Is it because I don’t yet have a family of my own to focus my attachments? Am I too attached? Or is this simply the aftermath of growing up loved and protected and happy?

I don’t want to change it, and I won’t. And I don’t want to have to revisit the thought. Not any time soon. In the end, I feel blessed to have the relationship I have with my family. Like they say, if you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. 

When it comes to family, I have everything. I’d really rather not lose it.

If you’re a runner, perhaps you came across the drama that escalated around Jon Gugala, an apparent freelancer for Running Times, Runner’s World and Competitor magazines, or so said his Twitter bio, which since has been revised to include no such info. But a quick Google search yesterday showed that, in fact, this guy is pretty prominent in the literary world of running. Probably good, even.

He is also, as you’ll see, a complete asshole.

Go ahead, take the time to read through his Twitter feed from the last two days. Also read this post about how the offensive, obnoxious and belittling commentary began after he made sexist remarks about the elite female runners while live-tweeting Monday’s Boston Marathon. After he was called out on his actions by a few Twitter followers, things escalated quickly.

And it continues:

Had enough? Oh, OK, keep reading:

Name-calling, belittling. He, who only had just over 200 followers at the beginning of yesterday, called the rest of us amateurs. Amateur writers, amateur bloggers, amateur runners. We clearly don’t understand how “this works,” he said, when advised that he might want to be careful how he behaves as a representative of largely popular running magazines.

I have 2,091 Twitter followers. I’m a writer. I run, it turns out. Social media is my game. Let’s talk about how this works, dude.

This is how social media works, hotshot: You rile up a whole bunch of active and influential people with your childish, mouthy remarks while representing publications we all support, those people create calls to action to have your commentary and work shunned, and then you’re publicly shamed, forced to “apologize” and, word has it, removed as a writer for Runner’s World moving forward.

All he had to do was apologize for his initial, offensive remarks, which, honestly, were the least of most peoples’ concerns once all was said and done. But what bit him in the ass was the continued commentary that portrayed him as a pompous, awful person. Hell, he could be a great guy (I’m doubtful), but he dug himself into a hole.

I sent an email to the editors of Runner’s World and Running Times yesterday, receiving this response last night:

Something like this never would have happened ten years ago. It likely wouldn’t have happened five years ago. This simply goes to show the absolute power of social media.

When the flame burns out on this, will Jon Gugala’s career be ruined? Probably not. Will he feel the negative repercussions of this for a while? Probably. Will the publications actually discontinue work with him? That remains to be seen. But I’m damn impressed with what the running and social media communities were able to accomplish in a day. Word spread, calls-to-action were made, people were influenced. We were heard.

And for that, we all get a high five.

WHO’S EXCITED?

Oh. Just me? OK, just checking.

We’re traveling to St. Louis via vehicle without a functioning radio, so instead she’s toting along a boombox for the back seat, and we’re going to jam out like it’s 1997. We’re running the Go! St. Louis Half Marathon together on Sunday, and I have to fill in Saturday and Sunday with some additional training miles, but otherwise we’re going to spend the extended weekend being neat, staring longingly at the Gateway Arch, and inundating Instagram with our fancy-filtered photos of it.

In other news, I hemmed and hawed about possibly maybe almost joining an online dating site again, which, given my previous experience, I thought I’D NEVER DO IT AGAIN, NO WAY, ARE YOU KIDDING? Let it be known I did not give in to my boredom or moment of desperation. Instead, I continued to sit on my couch and devour an entire bag of Skittles. With a cat in my lap. Watching The Vampire Diaries. 

Why Krista Remains Alone is a question you’ll never struggle to find an answer to, you guys.

Also, for fun, and if you’re from Wisconsin, go to www.ProjectWisconsin.com and just LOOK. Just look on in wonder and amusement and joy. These guys are incredibly creative and talented, and as you’ll see, HILARIOUS, as they depict their own brand images for towns across the state.

For example, Waldo, Wis.

I KNOW, RIGHT?

It’s also important for you to know I’ve developed a completely unhealthy and concerning infatuation with Zac Efron of High School Musical fame BECAUSE HAVE YOU SEEN HIM LATELY? Please note I’ve never seen High School Musical or any of its 32 sequels, but I just don’t think I can now because it’d be completely inappropriate to know I’m now lusting after a former, underage twerp.

But feast your eyes on this preview for a new movie based on a vomit-inducing, sugary Nicholas Sparks novel and tell me TO MY FACE that you don’t want to touch him. Do it. Tell me. I will wait.

Click here to view the video on YouTube.

Watch it again and basically ignore everything but the part where he’s not wearing clothes. In a moment I’ll pick myself up off the floor and continue writing this post, but give me a minute.

Oh nevermind. I can’t.

• Jennifer Lawrence as Katniss. Firstly, dang, she’s pretty. I don’t know much of Jennifer Lawrence, but I think she’s a phenomenal actress just from this movie, alone.
• Katniss is a badass. I now want her and Lisbeth Salander as my new posse. And that braid. I need it. Except my hair will never be that long, so, sigh. I remember not actually liking Katniss much in the novels. Intriguing.
• The Rue scene made me cry. In fact, I cried more the SECOND time I saw it, as if I wasn’t already prepared. I don’t remember crying during the book. I never cry in books. But when it’s all in-my-face, visual: [WEEP]. See also: That Time I Cried For Three Days After Watching Marley & Me.
• The movie was dark. I liked it. I liked that the horrifying concept of the trilogy was portrayed as horrifying. The reaping scene made me actually terrified for all the children. Related: that Prim actress is a damn good little actress. Also, adorable.
• Peeta is not cute.
• Gale is hot.
• Aside from Lenny Kravitz being sexy as hell, he made a great Cinna. Oh, Cinna. Sigh. His scene with her right before going into the arena gives me goosebumps. What a scary moment.
• That Clove is a violent, little bitch.
• Seneca Crane. Excellent facial hair. Also hot.
• I like the name Seneca.
• The one cringe-worthy moment for me was during introduction of the tributes. I thought the flames on Katniss and Peeta’s outfits looked plain silly. The movie was otherwise so visually appealing (super special effects), I thought that could have been more awesome.
• I want every last one of Effie’s fingernail get-ups.
• I’m sorry, what? I’m still crying over Rue.
• Although I’ve read the books and know exactly what’s going to happen into the very end, I still found myself nervous as hell watching the movie. When Katniss was saying goodbye to her mom and Prim and Gale? Ahhhhhhhh. The countdown to the start of the Games? I sort of wanted to throw up. That is a sign of a well-made movie.
• Katniss is still pretty.
• She could totally kick Bella Swan’s ass.
• I can’t wait to see who they get to play Finnick.
• I bet he’ll be hot.

OK, friends. Did you see it yet? Discuss.

• Additional random observation: in the books, the transformation from Katniss as District 12 Slum to Katniss the Tribute was very grand. I almost found Jennifer Lawrence to be too pretty to begin with for her transformation to be glorious in the movie. I was a little sad about that. I suppose it’s very hard to be too pretty.
• Also yes, Peeta looks like a hobbit. We need a taller Peeta up in here.

Two points for healthy life progress!

But while I don’t actively think about the relationship or it’s ending, I certainly dream about it frequently. Like, I literally have dreams about it. If I were to count, I’d say I’ve been dumped while catching my Zs about 94 times. Or 11. Whatever, who’s counting? (Me, I suppose). Just last night, in fact. Every time it’s the same. He ends it, just like in real life. My reaction, however, varies. I fight it, I let it happen, I cry, I scream, I get over it. Depends on my mood, apparently. In real life, it all went down very anticlimactically. My dreams are always much more dramatic.

WHAT DOES IT MEAN, INTERNET?

The dreams don’t upset me. They don’t bother me. They just are. But that doesn’t keep me from wondering what goes on in that mind of mine whilst I sleep.

I’d worry more, I guess, but then the next night I’ll carry on with my recurring dream of living in a very large, rundown house full of windows that don’t close, therefore allowing for critters and creatures of all kinds of get into the house and attack me and my cats.

So. Perhaps the breakup dream is the lesser of two evils?

Or I’m crazy.

Debatable.

Carry on.