Mourning Run - 10th Anniversary

Ed Note: I originally wrote this ten years ago following my mother's death. It hardly seems possible that it's been ten years. Each year, on this day, I share this post in Traxee. I am not really sure why, but I think it reminds me of everything I have to be thankful for - and that in life, there is ultimately nothing we can't overcome. 

The sun seemed impossibly hot for 6 AM.

As I found my stride and my breath evened, that wonderful familiar feeling of flying came to me. I settled into a comfortable pace, and moved steadily along the shoulder, unaware of the constant stream of traffic whizzing by. A faint smell of alcohol seeped from my forehead, the result of the two scotch and waters I’d had last night at three AM with my father. That was after the two men in the ambulance had taken away my mother’s body – so small now that her six-month battle with cancer was finally over.

Ask any runner and she’ll tell you that there are a few runs she’ll never forget. Running provides an outlet – for some, a singular and cherished hour of solitude - a time to get straight with oneself, to plan and to dream. Today, I ran to mourn.

The last several months had taken a visible toll on my father. In many ways, having my mom home with hospice care was more difficult than having her in the hospital. The wheezing of the hydraulic bed and the gentle coaxing of the nurse as she attempted to feed my mother were 24 hour a day reminders that things were never going to be the same in any of our lives. Even when we were told that the end was very near, my father and I somehow didn’t believe it.

My mom was an intelligent, talented, funny, stubborn, adventurous woman who had taken up photography late in life. She had an excellent eye for pattern and color and had exhibited her work in several shows over the last few years. Her constant, solo travels to exotic places amazed me and worried my dad. But, after weeks of hearing very little more from her than a postcard or two, she’d always show up at the appointed time - there at the international terminal of LAX – bubbling with excitement about the things she’d seen, the people she’d met and the shots she’d taken. And always, gifts for me.

When the doctor delivered his prognosis just seven months earlier, he told my parents not to cancel their long-awaited trip to China. “Its important to have goals,” he’d said. “There’s always hope.” The day my father finally cancelled their plane reservations, we all turned a corner. The terrible truth became real. The aggressive black thing that had interrupted my mother’s life was winning.

My love of running always seemed to baffle my mom; “Don’t your knees hurt?” … “Isn’t it boring?” She’d sit up in her bed and stare at me, red-faced, sweat dripping from every part of my body. But when I described the feeling of freedom, of aloneness and the thrill of meeting a personal goal everyday, she’d get a faraway look on her face and say, “Yeah, I can understand that.”

As I rounded mile three, I never even noticed the tears streaming down my face. Surprised, I realized that this was the first time I had allowed myself the luxury of tears. Trying to be strong for my mother and my father, I had held the pain of this tremendous loss inside until it could no longer be contained. My best friend was dead. There would be no more three hour Sunday morning telephone conversations, no more mother daughter confidences, no more talk of upcoming race plans or trips to faraway places.

Although I hadn’t run more than four miles at a time in the past year, I must have run about seven miles that morning. Looking around, the neighborhood was unfamiliar. I turned the corner and headed in the general direction of my parent’s house. A man, driving slowly by, rolled down his window and asked if I was all right.

By the time my parent’s house came into view, my tears had stopped. I realized I had run farther and faster than I had in months. Running, my ever-present friend, had been there for me once again; ready to listen to the aching of my heart and bearing witness to the pain that characterizes human relationships. I couldn’t get over the sense that my mother was with me, urging me to go one more mile, telling me that I could reach whatever goal I next set out to achieve.

Now, many months later, that August morning is still as clear in my memory as it was that day. Something tells me it will be with me forever. Even now, every time I lace up my shoes, I can feel my mother watching over me, urging me to go just one more mile.

• Currently 4.0/5 Stars.