Reality Check

So I had this dream the other night. Like most of my dreams since the surgery, it was incredibly detailed, life-like, and completely unsettling. Unlike the other dreams, however, I don't think I need a PHD in psychology to interpret this one.

Back to my dream. I had entered a race comprised of the bike and run portions of a half-Ironman: 56 miles on the bike followed by a half-marathon. Just as in real life, I was only several months from my aneurysm clipping, and fully aware that I wasn't ready for this level of physical exertion.

So I came up with a plan: I would ride and run very, very slowly, even if it meant finishing dead last, as a way to keep from harming myself.

The bike course was made up of 5 repeats of a 5-mile out-and-back (I know the math doesn't work, but it was a dream, after all!) As the race started, I stuck to my plan, and let everyone fly by as I slowly plodded towards the first turn around. Making matters worse, the "out" section of the course was steep; absurdly steep in that unrealistic yet realistic manner that dreams allow.

As I stood out of the saddle and applied as much pressure to the pedals as I could, I became acutely aware that I had bit off way more than I could chew, and was in very real danger of hurting or even killing myself if I kept up this level of intensity so soon after my surgery.

But I kept pedaling, because in my mind, the most important thing wasn't how I raced, but that I finished. Because it was only at the finish, at least in my dream, that the rest of the racers and spectators would learn that I was only five months removed from aneurysm surgery. I became more exhausted and certain I was doing irreparable harm to myself, yet I kept going and going simply because I wanted to make it to the end for the satisfaction of being recognized as having "overcome" the aneurysm. Once I finished, everyone in attendance would know it was possible to ride 56 miles and run a half-marathon five months after brain surgery.

And this was the only thought repeating in my brain as I pedaled and pedaled and pedaled. When I had finished the first 10 miles of the ride, I found I had gone so slowly that other racers were already out on the run portion. But it didn't matter: I had to keep going no matter how long it took, to prove to everyone -- to prove to myself -- that it could be done.

When I woke, I was covered in sweat and breathing heavily, a position I have found myself in far too often in the middle of the night recently.

Why I am I writing this? Because a few months ago, I wrote the following:

To be able to process hearing a surgeon tell us three weeks ago that everything is fine and I can return to a normal life, after everything we've been through, takes an element of faith. Faith that this was the end of something, rather than the beginning. And in my mind, in order to procure that faith, I need to look forward rather than back. I need to accept this aneurysm for what it was: a medical condition that, while terrifying and potentially life-threatening, has been properly treated. Only then can I stop defining myself by what I've been through, and start living again like I did four months ago: excited for every day to come rather than apprehensive of what may go wrong.

I'd like to believe that at the time, I genuinely believed that this was how I'd approach my recovery. But four months later, nothing could be farther from the truth.

This has been, to say the least, an emotional ass-kicking. There's not a day that goes by in which I'm not paralyzed by fear that this will all happen to me again. As illogical and nonsensical as it is, every little pain in my head makes me want to run and have a test done to prove there's nothing there.

Even worse, I've gotten into a vicious battle with myself. In an effort to prove to myself that life will return to normal, that I can be just as I was prior to May 9th, I've really pushed the recovery. I've run almost every other day since the 8-week mark, I've been swimming since July, and I recently tried to re-introduce weight lifting.

Each workout is met with fear that I'm doing too much, that I should be taking it easy until at least the six month mark, but each day I go out there and do it. Because I feel I have to. I have to prove to myself that I will do these things again, and the simplest way to do that is go out there, do it, and see what happens.

And that is what led me to run a 5K last Saturday. And to lift weights harder on Sunday. And, of course, to the inevitable bad headache on Sunday night, the first real "headache" I've had since the surgery, and one that led me into a week-long emotional tailspin of convincing myself I had done significant damage.

My dream followed on Tuesday night, and I can't help but think my subconscious was doing everything in its power to send me a message. Maybe it's time to back off, and stop feeling like I have something to prove. Perhaps taking that pressure off will make this time easier.