Run when you can, walk if you have to, crawl if you must; just never give up.
~Dean Karnazes
I spent four months on the trip of a lifetime. I sold my house, threw a few duffle bags into my old Jeep Wrangler, and set out to see the 18 states I hadn’t been to yet. Along the way, I watched a sunset from the top of a dormant volcano, ate pie at the Pie Town Café in Pie Town, New Mexico, threw a snowball in July in Colorado, and near the end of my trip, adopted a dog I named Annie Oakley Tater Tot in honor of both her western heritage and the state where I found her.
What I didn’t do much of was run, and by the time I was back in New Jersey at my mom’s place, figuring out my next move, the New York City Marathon was less than a month away.
So I plugged along on a mid-week eight-miler and was just about to turn home when what felt like an ice pick plunged into my back. I screeched and swatted at the spot, and knocked a bee out from under my shirt.
I sprinted back to my mom’s house. I’d been stung twice in my life — once when I was three and tried to pet a bee, and again when I was 13 on the day I also got my first period. I hadn’t had too bad a reaction, but I knew my allergies had changed as I aged. Plus, the point where it stung me burned.
“Bee sting! Bee sting!” I cried as I threw open the front door. My mom was in her pajamas making oatmeal and rushed over. I threw off my shirt and struggled out of my sports bra, which was still suctioned to my body with sweat.
“Benadryl!” she yelled.
“Meat tenderizer!” I called back, which is what she’d used on me when I was 13.
I lay down on a beach towel on the floor out of both deference to her carpet and modesty, which was ridiculous since this is the woman who had given birth to me. I choked down two Benadryls while Annie, oblivious to my pain and happy that I was on the floor at her level, licked my face. Mom spread a paste of water and meat tenderizer on my back.
“It looks like you got out the stinger,” she said.
“But it hurts!” I cried.
“I know,” she said and patted my head in a tone that made me feel three again. “Are you having trouble breathing?”
“No,” I said.
“Any swelling in your fingers?”
“No,” I said again.
I lay on the floor for about a half-hour while the sting started to burn away. My mom talked constantly as she got ready for work to make sure I wasn’t having a reaction. Annie settled back into her favorite spot on the couch. As the adrenaline receded, I started to feel like, yes, I’d just run eight miles on a warm day and should probably eat and drink something. She gave me a baggy T-shirt, and I sat up to drink a glass of water and eat some granola. I still felt shaky and a bit drowsy, but not like I was in any dire need of help.
“You sure you’re going to be alright?” she asked as she walked to the front door.
“Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m going to take a nap,” I said.
“Good plan,” she said and left.
I sat at the dining-room table, which was my temporary desk, and figured maybe I’d get some work done. I’m a writer who can take her job anywhere, and I could at least answer a few e-mails while I drank more water before taking that nap.
But just as I sent out a tweet about the bee sting, the edges of my vision started to blur, and a chill blew through me. Oh, no, I thought and tried to grab the table.
Next thing I knew, I woke up on the floor.
In more than 10 years of running, I’ve injured myself in a lot of weird ways. I snapped a branch halfway through a 50K ultramarathon and ran the rest of the race like I was stepping on glass. I fell down a mountain while running by myself on a trail along the Blue Ridge Parkway. I even flopped off a treadmill at the gym. But getting whiplash after knocking myself out because I passed out after taking Benadryl on an empty stomach now occupies first place on the pedestal.
When I came to, I pulled myself up the chair and grabbed for my phone off the table. I called my doctor’s office, and they advised me to come in. I called my mom and asked her to turn around and pick me up. I lay back on the floor and checked my phone. Based on when I sent the last tweet, I’d been out for 15 minutes.
My dog stared at me from the couch, where she’d sat the entire time I was passed out. Lassie, she is not.
“You fainted,” said my doctor, who admitted that he faints every time he gets an injection. He ordered rest, water and ibuprofen.
I never got back into a running groove after that. My neck hurt too much for me to get in a planned 20-mile run that weekend, and then, three days before the New York City Marathon, my grandfather died after a long illness. There was no funeral, and I know he’d have wanted me to run, so I did. My race started to fall apart around mile 18, and when I saw a friend at mile 23, I started to cry.
“It’s okay!” she told me as she walked with me for a block. “You’ve had a rough time of it. But this is what marathon of yours?”
“My ninth.”
“Your ninth. You got this,” she said, and that was enough for me to start running again.
“At least all the bees are gone for the year!” she cried at my back as I shoved off to the finish line, which helped. I did finish my ninth marathon, and then my 10th the next year. I run mostly on trails now, and have been swarmed by mosquitoes and biting flies, but I haven’t been stung by a bee since. But if it happens again, I won’t let it keep me from running. I will reach for the Benadryl — but with a big glass of water and a protein bar, too. And then I’ll get back out there.
— Jen A. Miller —