Sunday, September 25, 2016
I was simply going too fast, hurrying home, nobody’s fault but mine. Ironically it was because I wanted to rest the knee instead of forcing it through a long cycle that I decided to take the train back, and I was on my way to the station when it happened, when what I was cycling on suddenly gave way to thin air.
It happened and can’t be unhappened. As soon as I hit the ground I knew it was over. Fuck. I hit everything except my head. I picked up the bike, hobbled the rest of the way to the station, sat in the carriage, still probably in shock, slumped over.
There was blood gushing from my hand onto the floor and a girl sitting opposite must have been a trainee nurse or something. She came straight over, took bandages out of her bag and wrapped them around my finger, like some sort of random angel plugging the leak. I mumbled thanks, still thinking marathon marathon marathon.
I even tried running the next day, yesterday, knowing it was over but trying to force another reality over this one. I winced my way around the block, but no alternative universe opened up and I admitted defeat. I was beaten. I am beaten.
I worked from home, got blood all over the keyboard, got through the day and the night and realized this morning I had to go to hospital when I still hadn’t stopped bleeding.
They had to do an operation on my finger. The nail had come off, the wound was open, still bleeding. Somehow the surgeon cut the skin and forced the nail back in and stitched it all up. Blood everywhere. I couldn’t look. He told me not to look as if I could. When he’d finished I told him I couldn’t thank him enough.
“Es ist kein schöne Arbeit, es tut mir Leid.”
A subsequent x-ray showed the top of my finger is also broken. They x-rayed my hip too and think that’s ok, though there’s a chance it’s not. Time will tell, the doctor said. But I know it’s ok. The finger hurts like hell, the hip only hurts when I walk. I can barely notice the knee anymore, so that’s something. I got painkillers and antibiotics and have to go back to an Unfallchirurgie tomorrow.
The surgeons gave out to me for taking so long to go to the hospital, seemed genuinely pissed off. I told them I was an optimist and believed everything would be fine. I still believe everything will be fine.
I was more down about it yesterday but people have rescued me. This whole marathon thing has been an incredibly humbling experience. I’m surrounded or in contact with so many wonderful people, people who have sent good wishes, showed their love through donations and/or messages and/or kind words. People have been there for me big time and I’m so grateful for that.
Apart from the personal side, this was all for Syria, to raise money for Médecins Sans Frontières. And tomorrow I’ll be able to transfer €1,500 that they’ll put to good use there. €1,500!!! I think that’s great. Thank you :)
I’ve signed up for the Madrid Marathon on April 23. I’ll be over my injuries by then, all of them except the blow to my pride, but I’ll overcome that by running 42.195 kilometers that day. Nothing is guaranteed in any life of course, but I’m pretty confident. I couldn’t do it now, this instant, but I’ll prepare properly and I’ll be ready. And I’ll fundraise for MSF/Syria again. They need it now more than ever.
Thursday, September 22, 2016
Thanks to the generosity of friends and strangers, I’ve raised €1,163 for Médecins Sans Frontières (Doctors Without Borders) in Syria so far. Hopefully there’s more to come.
I’ve run 1,199.2 kilometers but I might have run too many. I have to be honest – I’m not in good shape. I screwed up my right knee two weeks ago, couldn’t even walk, possibly an aftershock from the 34.5K I ran the Monday before. It was only 34.5K because I was stopped by cramps. It was 100K for the week. Mentally and physically I could not be in worse shape for running 42.195 kilometers.
I went to a knee specialist yesterday, fully expecting him to tell me to forget about it all. But he injected some clear liquid into my right knee, which was found to be bigger than my left, and he prescribed anti-inflammatory drugs that I have to take up to the morning of the race.
“You don’t need to run it in two hours!” he told me. But of course I want to run it in two hours. Gunter Frenzel was his name. He gave me the thumbs up, told me to stop and walk if I had to.
The knee seemed worse after the injection and even walking today is difficult. But I’ll keep taking the drugs and see what happens. Conversely, beer seems to help. My self-imposed beer-verbot ended that Radiohead weekend. I’ll try drinking my way through the marathon if nothing else works.
I picked up my starting number today, along with a bagful of promotional shit I don’t need.
None of this is important. It’s not about me. It’s all for Zahra and the millions like her, trapped in Syria and beyond, people who really know about sleepless nights. Life is littered with corpses but it goes on. The world keeps turning. And people need help more than ever.
I’ll give it my best shot. It’s all anyone can do.
Donate below or through IBAN DE09500105175554452542 (BIC: INGDDEFFXXX). All donations still very welcome.
Many thanks to AP for permission to use the photo above, taken by two-time Pulitzer winner Muhammed Muheisen, of Syrian refugee Zahra Mahmoud, 5, from Deir el-Zour.
Thursday, September 15, 2016
I think too much, always have. Think about the thoughts, wonder where they come from. Then I think about thinking about the thoughts and what I did to deserve them. Nothing. Everything. I think too much.
It’s dangerous territory, I know. Maybe I’m going mad. Everybody’s mad in some form or other. It’s easy to feel sorry for yourself after a few knocks and I need to snap out of it.
It’s the last day of summer. For the first time I’ve brought my laptop to a café and I’m sitting writing in the sun. Beckett used to sit in cafés, I think. I’ve decided to write a book. Not right away but sometime, some day in the future when I’m good enough.
For I’m not good enough yet. One good thing I can say about that love story is that it made me want to be a better person. I signed up for a German grammar course at the VHS, faced up to certain weaknesses, sought improvement.
There’s no bitterness or anger, just a parasitic sadness immune to rational thought. Some things just cannot be explained and so it is with love. It’s hard to believe it can be destroyed so quickly, in one week or less. She wrote to me Monday to say she’d fallen in love with someone. Ja, I replied, I thought it was me. I wished her good luck and hoped that she’d find happiness and keep it. Then I spelled Tschüss wrong. Fuck it, nothing’s perfect, it fits.
I started reading the Murakami book she recommended to me yesterday. It’s great. I’ll always be grateful to her for that. She introduced me to good music too and shamed me into giving blood. I’ll get a donor card. They’ll throw away the liver but they can use the rest. It’s not all bad. It’s so easy to laugh, it’s so easy to hate, it takes guts to be gentle and kind…
Writing helps, words, forcing thoughts to work for their keep. Fuck you thoughts! Where are you running to now?
I’ll write, I’ll learn, I’ll love (the young fella saved me Monday), I’ll run. The marathon’s in just over a week. I screwed up my knee last Friday but I’m running anyway. I’m lucky I have two. Many of the people I’m running for don’t have any. Donations have dried up but hopefully they’ll pick up again when people see me running with a broken heart and banjaxed knee.
There’s no escape from your thoughts. You can only replace them with other thoughts. In the silence you don’t know. You must go on. I can’t go on. I’ll go on.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
It was wonderful, that’s what got me. We were in a film, magical moments, actors in a screenplay, a clichéd love story.
One night we walked and walked, neither of us wanting to go home, till we got to the top of Volkspark Friedrichshain. We sat on a bench and looked at the night sky through the treetops and she put her head on my lap. I kissed her and held her and neither of us said a word for ages, even though we were both fucking freezing. The last frost before summer, she called it. The cold clawed at us from outside, I was shivering, but the moment’s warmth was so special we stayed. I sat there savoring it and nothing else.
I didn’t know I loved her at the time but I guess I must have. I sent her postcards from France, one from each city I went to during the Euros. Fuck! When I think of it…
I thought I really liked her, nothing more. There were no expectations, ever. She had a boyfriend and I dared not think ahead. Everything was present tense. We made no plans. We met and talked about the here and now, the past, life, never the future. The future’s too scary, too grown up. We stayed in our bubble.
I knew to savor it, to savor us, and even learnt to savor the pain of her being away. Not really, it hurt, I fucking hate it.
It took me a while before I admitted to myself that I loved her, the realization a shock that set off alarms in my head. I’d been hurt before and it’s shit, said I’d never let it happen again. But I ignored the fears, pushed the doubts away, took the risk and dared believe she might actually be interested in me despite my faults and weaknesses.
She seemed to be interested, said she was, dumped her boyfriend and told me about it in a text because “just maybe it might delight you in some way.” Not that it mattered. I was still in the bubble, enjoying every moment we had together. What she did in her own non-bubble life was up to her.
Reticence prevented me from rushing in but finally I told her I loved her when she’d all but told me she felt the same. Hab dich lieb. We kissed. No words, no thoughts, just happiness. We held each other, nothing more precious than our closeness.
Of course it didn’t last or I wouldn’t be writing these words. I don’t know why it didn’t last, it doesn’t matter. She fell out of love again for some reason, it happens. But it happened in a heartbeat. At least I savored the moment. There won’t be any more.