You Believed in Me

Dear Carrie,

Most of the time I show up to the gym in a Supernatural-themed T-shirt, black mid-thigh shorts, and sneakers that have seen better days. My socks aren’t trendy. My hair is usually in a ponytail held by an 80s-style scrunchie, and I carry my Walmart bottle of water around. Around me I see the young women and buff men with enviable bodies, but I also see the older folks, working out and improving their quality of life.

You’ve never given up on me. Even when I come in grumbling about something trivial like approaching rain clouds or unending yard work, you keep me going. Even when I can’t look you in the eye because I know I had a forbidden frappe earlier in the day. Even when I’m sore and don’t think I can do anything…you push me in your gentle way, and I do it. You put me on machines straight out of a torture chamber, but I do it.

I’ve never been a fit person, and certainly never been called a gym rat before. But you make going to the gym something I can do and be proud of. We laugh, we have fun, I cuss, you count, I sweat, you make others get out of my way. The genuine concern you have for me, my weight, my diet, my lab work, and my stress level seems to go beyond what I thought personal trainers do. You share the joy in my successes and recharge me after my setbacks.

You take a lot of guff from me, especially when I see you sneak another wheel on the bar, adding another weight to my workout. “What are you doing? I saw that,” I protest, but you keep me on task. I do it and ask, “How much was that?” I’m always surprised when I hear the answer. Legs – pushing 385 pounds. Chest press – 20 pounds. Things I’ve never considered as important to do until yard work has me doing the same movements, and my muscle memory kicks in. Lifting a wheelbarrow, weeding, picking up fallen branches, lifting sandbags – I did these exercises before, and my body remembers.

You’re a warrior. You approached me last year with the idea of walking up a few flights of stairs and being part of the gym’s team to raise money for the American Lung Association. “Oh, I don’t know if I can do that.” You assured me I could. I asked, “Um, how many stairs?” Your reply of “43 flights” practically made my eyes pop out like a Bugs Bunny cartoon character. “FLIGHTS? Of STAIRS?” I can handle going up a flight or two, but 43? What the heck?

How many people are doing it, I asked, and you told me 20. We’d all have matching shirts with a team name. I pondered whether I could do that; my heart rate would spike after a minute or two on the Stairmaster. I asked people to sponsor me because it was a fundraiser for the ALA. Once people started giving me money, I knew I was obligated to follow through. Some of my friends looked at me and said, “You? 43 flights? Ha!” Then I replied, “Then you have nothing to lose. Sponsor me.”

We met in downtown Tampa early one April morning, and I looked up at the Bank of America building. I got dizzy just looking up at the tallest building in the city. The area around the front of the building had a county fair atmosphere: loud music, smells of food, people milling about. You led our team doing the warm-up for all the other climbers.

Our turn came up, and down we went. We started at a sub level for official time keeping, and then proceeded up. I had my Beats on, a backpack with water, and my phone. I made a special playlist for this event, but I had no idea how long it’d take me to get up all those stairs, or if I would even make it to the top. I wasn’t the most fit person out there, and I had my doubts, but the journey had started.

The first few flights weren’t bad at all. No problem, I thought. Piece of cake. Then around flights 12-13, I thought WTF did I get myself into? I’m dying here in the stairwell. I started running into the same people struggling as I did; we’d meet in a floor two, wheezing and holding on to the railings for dear life. A nod and a smile to a stranger. We’d meet again, and again, and again. Around each flight we’d struggle, pushing our screaming legs to keep moving.

I thought of how you, a lung cancer survivor, were doing this with us. I think I met God around flight 35 or so. My lungs were starting to sting. Touche, ALA, you made me experience what lung disease may feel like. It was getting harder to inhale, and I had to match my breathing to the steps I took. At each landing, there was a cheering squad to motivate us. Just a few more flights.

I could hear some noise, people talking, loud music up ahead. Did I die and this is heaven’s lobby? The sounds were getting louder as I pushed my body up, up, up. At the top floor, level 43, there were balloons, confetti, cameras, lights, people shouting, “You did it!” and “Congratulations!” I just probably shouted a pain-induced profanity as I collapsed in a heap in a corner somewhere, downing water from my backpack. I was done. I did it. I did the unthinkable because you, Carrie, thought I could do it.

I raised over $500 for the American Lung Association that day and got a cool hoodie. And bragging rights that I climbed 43 flights of stairs. April 2025 is just around the corner.

All because you believed in me.