In Memoriam: Austin Marathon 2015

I had absolutely no expectation of running a marathon any time in the first few months of 2015. The year had already been quite busy. The first two weeks of January were consumed with packing for a long-distance move. The rest of the month was filled with driving from Indianapolis to Seattle and unpacking, along with searching for a job. In addition, my eldest kitty finally reached the end of his year-long decline, and we had to say goodbye January 31.

The first weekend in February I decided it was time to get down to Texas to visit my parents. I hadn’t been since Thanksgiving, and I knew my ailing father (congestive heart failure and COPD) had been struggling more than usual lately. He was getting ever nearer the end, but he had already held on far, far more longer than any doctor would have dared dream, so I was feeling only a little more anxious than usual. The plan was to fly down there mid-week, depending on availability of seats. My dear brother, who has been looking out for both parents for years, sent some concerning texts early in the week, so Wednesday afternoon I went ahead and purchased a ticket to Austin. By this time, I knew my Pop was likely having his last ride on the downward side of the roller-coaster he’d been on for so long, but still didn’t expect to lose him for another few days. I landed in San Jose early Thursday morning to find a text from my brother.

Ugh. Now it’s a race to say goodbye. Dammit. Of course the flight was 20 minutes late and we had a never-happens Easterly headwind, so I just had to cross my fingers that I wouldn’t miss him. Thankfully, Pop was still alive, and was keeping his promise to hold on until I got there.

He was clearly miserable, laying in his recliner, covered in blankets just trying to be as comfortable as possible. By now he was too weak to speak with any voice, but he was completely present and aware of his surroundings. He was able to rouse and open his eyes, and we said our goodbyes. He told me he was proud of me, and said “I love you” many times, to everyone. His mind was there until the end.

He gave up the fight and died at around 6:30pm Thursday. He had defied the odds for many, many years and had far surpassed many doctors’ expectations. His will to live was extraordinary, and we had benefited from that will for a very long time. He never stopped smiling and finding joy in being alive, no matter the circumstance.

So how does this relate to the marathon? Well, Friday I decided to do the marathon, after the following conversation with my brother.

Me: I don’t know which to do, the full or the half.
Bro: Are you trained for a marathon?
Me: [Laughing] Oh heck no!
Bro: But you can do a half, easy, right? Isn’t that like a long training run?
Me: Yeah...I can get through a half without too much trouble.
Bro: Well, a full would probably be really good at burning off stress. Would give you more time.
Me: Oh what the hell. Gonna hurt anyway.

I had packed a minimal set of running clothes, in the hopes of getting a training run in, but no fuel belts or gels or any other typical racing items. The route is laid out such that if, by mile 12, I was severely hurting and needed to bail, I could simply turn off and finish the half. Given that my “training” had essentially consisted of 4-5 30-minute or so trots around Seattle and zero bike training for two months, my expectations were quite low. I just wanted to finish. My father had always enjoyed my spontaneous (lack of planning) nature, and got a kick out of the fact that his baby girl does endurance events, so he would have loved it that I just decided to do this race to remember him and try to burn off some grief.

Somehow I survived, resisted the urge to turn right at mile 12, and trotted to the finish line. My slowest marathon ever, but I finished. I had five hours and 44 minutes to reflect on how lucky I was to enjoy my father’s presence for 53 years. The day was pleasant, I was surrounded by several thousand people who each had their own story, and it was easy to enjoy being alive.

This one was for you, Pop. I love you.

Sorry For Your Loss

"I'm sorry for your loss." These words seem so trite when they don’t apply to you. I’ve heard these words many times, as I’m a huge fan of TV programs whose characters often utter these words. (You know the ones: CSI, Law & Order, etc.) As a viewer, I’ve felt that these words sound so contrived and empty, and have wondered if it was better to say nothing at all.

I've concluded that it isn't.

My sweet and cherished father passed away two weeks ago, and many people have said, "I'm sorry for your loss." And it has mattered. It helps. It doesn't matter if I'm close to the person uttering those words, or if they're a new acquaintance, or if they even knew my father. It helps.

This seemingly trite phrase conveys far more than the simple words. It conveys a visceral understanding of something that happens to all of us: we all lose people we love. It’s unavoidable, yet we rarely speak of it. We don't talk about grief, or sadness, or how we suddenly deeply miss the person at the most inopportune times. We don’t talk about how surreal it feels, how hard it is to truly believe that we will never see or speak with the person again, how blindingly final the death is.

Yet it's a universal experience. None of this is unusual or special. It just is. And everyone who lives long enough shares the pain. "I'm sorry for your loss" is an acknowledgment that the pain goes to your core and there's not a damned thing you can do about it besides outlast it. It's an acknowledgment that this is a shared experience that ranks at the bottom of human existence. And it's a reminder that we all suffer together, in different ways and at different times, and that we all empathize and care for each other.

Saying nothing is denial of reality.

So. Please. When we know there's nothing we can do to help, say "I'm sorry for your loss." In its own small, but significant way, it helps.

Group hugs, on the other hand...um, no!