Over the years I have enjoyed pretty good health. Part of this is due to what some might think is a too-literal response to the, “your body is a temple,” part of the Bible, and part is due to good genetics. I admit, I’ve been reluctant to take medicine and expose myself to chemicals, apart from that brief time Parliament Lights were part of my identity. Yikes. I’ve also been picky about sleep and food and movement. My body is something I try to treat with deep respect and love.

Recently, I have realized that there are strings attached. I treat my body well and, in return, I expect it to look and move as I ask. Although, it never has looked how I want I’m starting to accept it. It has, however, responded when I’ve demanded it moves over many miles, sometimes quickly. I am grateful for that, but I find that my patience and respect become tested the moment my body doesn’t live up to the assumed deal we have. Currently, I am living in one of those moments. In reality, despite my hesitance to admit it, I will be moving through these moments for the rest of my life.

I have Hemochromatosis. Along with my basically great DNA, my parents each passed me one quirky gene that simply cannot get enough iron. I have two of these quirky C282Y genes which means that not only have I completed an Ironman triathlon, I literally am an ironman. My body can’t get enough. It’s like my daughter in a candy store or my husband in a craft brewery, there is no control. I’ve tried all the ways I know to avoid iron loading, including ignoring it, which is a terrible idea. It is unpredictable and uncontrollable. Of course, my body does not behave as I want it to and I find it extremely frustrating.

I get it. In reality, it could be worse. The knowledge of that doesn’t change how I feel. It feels unfair. Just typing that makes me feel better. I do all the things to take care of myself and my body sometimes throws a fit causing more than a minor disruption to my life. This particular disruption is therapeutic phlebotomy because there are times when normal blood donation doesn’t remove the iron quickly enough…but sometimes it does, and I never really know what time it is, so we test every three months and everything is good until out the blue it is not good, and I am left wondering what happened, what I did wrong, and why all the sudden did my body break the &*#$%@* deal? I know. That sentence. Whatever.

So, it’s June, and I’ve been working really hard. I’ve PR’d an open half marathon, I’ve won my age group twice at the 70.3 distance, I’ve crushed two time trials on my beautiful new bike, and now I’m going to spend the summer dumping blood. I might have to dump what amounts to all my blood before Thanksgiving and it won’t fix it. I think this is the hardest part. It isn’t ever fixed. It’s being managed, but only for an undetermined, always-changing amount of time. This hits hard for an extremely organized type-A person with a potentially unhealthy love of all things planned.

How am I going to make this work? How am I going to keep racing, have fun, and get better? I don’t know, but I want to. I need to set my focus on what is possible. This obstacle is the way. I can’t remove it. I will not waste my energy trying, so instead, I will ask different questions. Is my body asking me to go one step deeper in respecting it? Can I do that? Is this an opportunity to ask for help? Can I do that? Is this another chance to truly accept this reality? Can I do that?  Is this the time to show more gratitude for what my body allows? Can I do that?

I don’t know. I do know that there is one word that wraps possibility in hope and always gives me the power to dream. Maybe.