Sometimes Life Is Just Like A Marathon

Nothing caps off a long day like receiving an email from your mother with the subject being “Directive.” Kind of makes one long for a solicitation from a Nigerian “businessman” or an email informing me that single Asian women think I am “hot.” On second thought . . .

Truth be told, it was not a complete shock that my mom sent me her last will and testament outlining her wishes for the after-the-inevitable. For many years my mom was honestly and adamantly expressed her desires. There will be no funeral under any circumstance. She wants to be cremated, not buried. And my brother and I can fight until the last breath over the inheritance.

It is not like she has been looking forward to it, but Mom wants to be prepared. Ironically, I have been preparing for her death since I was young. No, I have not been writing out lists or anything of the sort. But I have always carried with me an awareness of the fragility of life and how quickly life can become death. How it takes only a moment for life on earth to become life in Heaven.

For many years I have practiced the three-day rule, which is that I will always call mom if I have not heard from her in three days to check to see if she is still alive. Ghoulish? Not really for someone of Irish heritage. Quirky and a bit odd? Sure.

There have been a number of occasions when extreme panic and fear have overwhelmed me after some radio silence. And there have been a couple of other scares. One, in particular, comes to mind.

One of my mom’s guilty pleasures is The Nap. It is as the title indicates – my mom would “close her eyes” for a bit mid-afternoon or early evening to refresh her energy stores. (Took a lot of energy dealing with a moody, sarcastic teenage daughter)

Well, one evening my mom decided to “close her eyes” in between the television programs we were watching. We were living in London at the time and Channel 4 would air episodes of The Golden Girls and Cheers, but a half-hour apart. They also aired Miami Vice, the Cosby Show and NFL football, albeit a week after the actual games took place. Remember, this was the 1980s and satellite television and the Internet were not commonplace.

When it was time to awaken Sleeping Beauty from her sweet slumber, I turned and yelled in my dulcet tones, “Mom, get up.” Nothing. Repeat. Still nothing. I raised my voice several octaves and still no movement. The panic set in as thoughts that my mom was, in fact, lying dead on the couch rushed through my mind.

I stood up, paced around frantically and called again for my mom to get up. Nothing. I ran down the stairs, opened the front door with the intention of going next door to alert the neighbors that my mom had died.

For no reason in particular it occurred to me that I might look like a right idiot if she was not dead and I had all but lost my wits. No, I had not shaken her because the idea of touching a dead body kind of freaked me out.

Back upstairs I went and after taking in a deep breath I screamed, “Mom, get up!” She did not get up, but she did open her eyes and ask me, “Why are you screaming, I am awake!”

It was a few years later that I told my mom the story. The notion of my mom dying has less to do with being abandoned. It is the phantom pain that strikes unease. It is seeing something in the paper that only she would appreciate and going to pick up the phone only to realize she is gone. It is not having to call her every Saturday to inform her of the Sunday political show schedule. We lived together for so many years and have talked almost daily when living in separate cities that her absence will leave an unimaginable void.

It is not her death that I fear, but my life after it. While it is important to plan for one’s death, it is more important to plan for one’s life. So, I shall file the directive and spend every day from now until then appreciating every moment I have with her – good or bad.

As I watched Tim Howard block shot after shot after shot, my mind went back to my own childhood. I recalled the many afternoons spent facing my brother as he fired shot after shot after shot at his little sister.

Knowing my brother, he might very well have enjoyed the experience of launching a soccer ball at me more than a brother should. With six years between the two of us, this qualified as an opportunity to bond.

But it was an opportunity I relished. Not only was I able to steal some attention from my big brother, but I was able to play the sport which gave me purpose and a sense of place.

Growing up, the soccer field was home. It was a place where I felt comfortable and where I felt normal. As with many organized sports, how much time you played did not depend on looks, on smarts, or on having a normal family. It all came down to your ability to perform on the field. Many fathers did not attend the games, so it was less obvious that mine also was not present on the sidelines.

It would not be hyperbole to say that I was an odd child. How odd? Think of the daughter in Little Miss Sunshine. Although my family was not as unique as her family, ours was not traditional. And that was a fact of which I was deeply aware. On the soccer field, however, it did not matter. And I did not care, nor did I give it much thought.

I continued to play soccer throughout grade school and into high school, except for a few years in London where there was no team when I arrived at Marymount. While it would seem logical that a school in London would have a soccer team, Marymount was an international school and had no team. After a lot of lobbying and griping and a fair bit of whining on my part, that changed after three years. We finally got a team. Even though we often resembled the Bad News Bears more than a World Cup squad, it was still home.

To many soccer is a foreign sport that has little scoring and makes no sense. To me, soccer was that anchor. It was the place where I could escape as a child from the realities of life, which is important for all children. But for kids who have been forced to grow up too soon, it is critical for them to find an anchor, something stable on which to hold. While my father never stood on the sideline, never saw a single shot blocked, or a single goal scored, I still believe he never missed a single game I played.

Why do I run? The broader answer to that question is that I run for peace of mind. I do not mean “the Birkenstock-wearing, transcendental meditation kind of peace of mind. I mean the “prevent my admission to a psychiatric facility” peace of mind. It would be disingenuous to assert that is the sole reason for going through the daily ritual of putting on my shoes and testing the limits of middle-aged knees battered by years of playing soccer.

Yes, I run for physical health. I run to escape the stress of life. But I have not always been a runner. It was in college that I started jogging, which is a different breed of exertion than running. And every runner will make that clear. It was about a decade ago that entered my first race – a 3k. For the next few years, I ran more 5ks and 10ks. And I began to enjoy the races.

And running always seemed to provide me a sense of control, particularly at a time when my world was increasingly out of my control. It is true that in every storm, we seek stability. We seek something to aid us as we brace against the disruptive winds of change. And it gave me the opportunity to be close to the rock that was lost in the wind years ago – my father.

What made my first trail marathon, the XTERRA Big Elk, so difficult physically and mentally was the complete lack of control. The nerves began earlier than usual and were as intense as the storm clouds that had gathered before the race started.

About 400 races set off down a paved road and into the woods. It was about 10 minutes into the race when I seriously wondered what the heck I was doing.

First, I am legally blind. I have viewed the world essentially through one eye for my entire life. While I can see through both eyes, the left is dominant. That means 95 percent of what I see is through that eye. (As a conservative, the irony of a dominant left eye is not lost on me). When you are running down hills that are littered with branches, rocks, and uneven ground, having good eyesight is kind of helpful.

It was about three miles in that the rain began and made the soft, muddy ground even softer. The real fun came between mile 6 and 7 when a handful of us discovered we had made a wrong turn. Add another mile to the race as we retraced our steps back onto the course, which was a double loop.

About half of the field were half-marathoners and when I reached the halfway point I seriously considered joining their ranks. It was my first trail marathon anyway. It was not a qualifying race, so what would it matter if I quit? No one is holding a gun to my head forcing me to complete the second loop.

I remained at the water station for about five minutes mulling over the decision. What would it matter if I quit now? Quit. Quit. Quit.

Or face the challenge head on. Deep down I knew the pain of disappointment would be greater than the pain of another 13 miles through the woods. I knew the pain would be less than the pain a child would feel when they learn their family has been broken and their world is, at least temporarily, in shatters. So, off I went.

The woods were muddier and lonelier with fewer people on the course. Like the first loop, going down the hills was an exercise in futility as I tried to “control” my speed. But gravity was a greater foe. There were several occasions when my arms and legs were going in four different directions and the mantra running through my head went something like “God, please don’t let me die!”

There were also more than a few less-than-feminine utterances that echoed through the woods after a painful misstep.

But God – and I like to think Dad – kept me moving forward. Just as they have my entire life. Despite the many obstacles which fall along the path of life, they have kept me from quitting. Like running, they have afforded me a sense of stability.

I cannot say the journey was enjoyable, nor can I say that after the race I did not resemble Pig Pen. But I did not allow the doubts and the despair to dissuade me from the mission. Most importantly, I did not quit – on myself or the children on whose behalf I am running.

It is the day when sons and daughters buy a bottle of Old Spice, perhaps a tie or two, or some tool for the man they call dad, father, daddy, pops.

As a little girl, every year the purchase was a bottle of Old Spice. The funds were not my own, nor was I the one who actually bought the signature scent.

But it was I who anxiously held the bottle in my hands, approached him in his yellow sweater and handed over the gift as if I were passing along an ancestral treasure. If the size of his moustached smile were any indication, a gift from his daughter was far more valuable.

It is not what I remember, but what I think I remember. There may be clarity to a memory of a five and six-year old, but the veracity is much harder to gauge.

The memories I do not have are much clearer. There is no memory of my dad standing on the sideline of a soccer game screaming with excitement  – or more likely – screaming in anger at some real or perceived injustice.

There is no memory of sitting with him at a baseball game or hearing the sound of his laugh as we watched and watched again an old Monty Python movie.

And there are no memories of shared words of wisdom offered as I set forth into the world after my high school graduation. Those are memories that were lost on the February morning that he succumbed to cancer.

Like the anniversary of his death and his birthday, my thoughts are usually more focused on him than on any other day. Every year for the last decade or so I have called my Aunt Barbara and Lois, my dad’s older sisters, sent my mom flowers and shared quality time on a long run with the man I call, but never knew as, dad.

This year differed slightly. That long run came a day earlier and took place along a 26.2 mile course which wound through the hills and mountains of Wet Virginia and Kentucky.

In setting off to run 14 marathons in 2014, I wanted to ensure it was more than just a personal challenge borne of selfish motivations. I sought to give the journey a purpose and meaning. I was seeking a reward that was not as tangible as the finisher’s medal.

People run for different reasons and for different causes, from saving lives to saving rain forests. I decided I would run for that seven-year old girl who spent months asking her mom when dad was coming home from his work trip. For the girl who could not shed a tear because she was convinced the last kiss good night was not the last kiss.

I would run for the little girl who felt she didn’t quite fit in because the familial dinner table would forever have an unfilled chair. I would run for the girl who will have to share the “father’s dance” at my wedding with my brother.

I would run to make as many people as possible about the amazing work of Comfort Zone camps, which offer children aged 7-17 a weekend away from “being different.”

Founded in 1998, Comfort Zone camps provide kids who have lost parents or family members an opportunity to spend time with other kids who “get it.” Campers do the normal camping activities, such as roasting marshmallows and trekking through the woods. But they also offer sessions in which children can talk about – or not talk about – their loss. More importantly, the camps help them find their way forward.

As with the seven pervious marathons, my eighth offered both perspective and a lesson.

The perspective came shortly after the race. Along the marathon route I noticed stars affixed to the outside of houses, but could not figure out the reason. Walking around the tiny town of Belfry, West Virginia it occurred to me the stars were all gold – meaning the houses were inhabited by Gold Star families who had lost a son or daughter serving our Nation. They, like I, would forever view each day differently.

And that for many, this will mark the first Father’s Day when Dad won’t be around to hug, to hang with and say “I love you.”

The lesson is one which I continue to learn — that getting over dad’s death is as futile a pursuit as spending my life chasing his ghost. But I also realize that focusing on what I lost is a waste of my life – and his.

So what do I wish for on this Father’s Day? I wish that every child who doesn’t have a dad to buy a gift for this year can see the hope in tomorrow and feel their father’s presence in their hearts. I pray that the day they realize their father’s love did not end with his death comes sooner than later and that they are able to find joy in the life that he lived, rather than the pain that is associated with his death. And I hope they know they are not alone. Even on Father’s Day.

With just a few days before my eighth marathon, the nerves, fear, and subtle panic have settled in. This upcoming race will be different for a couple of reasons. First, every race is different from the previous and from the next race. No matter how identical my preparation might be, external factors have an impact. The weather, the terrain, stress from work. Whatever.

What I know already is the challenge ahead will come in the form of Blackberry Mountain. Yes, Mountain. One mile uphill. Not a gentle rolling hill, but a Mountain. I have incorporated hills into my runs for the last two and a half weeks, but am scared expletive deleted.

What I also know is that the race comes the day before Father’s Day, so Dad will be on my mind. And failing Dad by not finishing weighs more heavily on the mind and the heart.

Logic tells me that he, like any father, likely would be proud for merely engaging in the race. But life and death defy logic.

Logic also tells me that paying the registration fee, paying for lodging, and paying for travel for the sheer pleasure of pounding out 26.2 miles is asinine. Which is why I will choose to ignore logic.

On race day, however, I will have to choose how to process the fear of failing Dad. Will I run from his death and its impact on me and my family? Or, will I run for his life – the life lived and the life lost. And will I continue to run for the lives of the many children for whom the Comfort Zone camps can provide a home where they do not feel alone or “different” from other kids.

That, after all, is why I am running in 2014. Sure, I would run anyway for my own sanity and illogical pleasure. But I am sure Dad would be more proud if I ran with purpose and for others. I hope to remember that every step up Blackberry Mountain.

When I think of Old Spice, Jujubees candy, and yellow golf shirts, I think of my dad. Did he sport Old Spice? I have no idea, but I seem to remember “buying” it every year for Father’s Day. Did he eat Jujubees? I have no real idea, but my mom tells me he did. She was and is partial to Jujyfruits. I do remember, however, that he had a yellow golf shirt. And then the list stops.

There are few other things I associate with him. Oh, except for Elton John. Both he and my mom shared a love of his music and the lyrics of Bernie Taupin. It is a love that was passed down to my brother and to me. Although I must confess to taking a pass on the period in the 1980s when Elton kind of strolled off the musical reservation.

Honestly, I am not sure whether it is more frustrating that I do not remember my father or that I have no memories to remember. In one sense, they are one and the same. I can spend hours looking at an old photo expecting a memory to arise just as I spent hours as a child waiting for him to come back from his “work trip.” The work trip he never took.

While it would be nice to have a list of “Dad’s things,” what I and others who have lost a parent at a young age truly wish for is a different kind of list. It would be nice to be able to pull out a tattered, worn piece of paper containing the wishes he had for me. I imagine that he, like many fathers, give thought when holding their newborns to the hopes they have for their son or daughter.

Did he ever spend a moment or two imagining walking his only daughter down the aisle? I know I have.

Did he watch me playing in the yard and think of what career I would choose when I grew up?

Did he have a piece of advice he wanted to share with me when I became a teenager?

Did he want me or my brother to follow in his footsteps?

As noted in previous posts, there are many questions for which there are no answers. With any death, time spent regretting “what could have been” is time and energy wasted. It would be a good use of time for any parent, however, would be to go old school and write down ten things you would want to share with your children if you died.

Sure, it kind of sounds morbid. Okay, it sounds morbid. But think of it as creating a truly “living” will. I am lucky enough to have some letters to read and reread. Today the only lists people spend any amount of time on are random Buzzfeed lists of which Star Wars character you would be. Make tomorrow different. Put in writing your wishes and hopes and dreams for your children. And the list could always serve as a toast for that day when you walk your daughter down the aisle.

Once upon a time Memorial Day was more than mattress sales and barbeques. The practice of placing flowers on the graves of the war dead began as Decoration Day, but would be renamed Memorial Day in 1966 by presidential declaration. My mother tells me that it was practice in her family to go to the cemetery every year. The family would don their “Sunday best” before heading with neighbors to place flowers on the grave of her grandfather.

The solemn expression of thanks is in stark contrast to the occasion when my mother and I visited my dad’s grave. As I noted in a previous post (yes, you can read that one too), as my dad died in February, the frigid temperatures in Cincinnati – more specifically the frozen ground – prevented a gravesite burial, so I never saw his actual “final resting place.”

Much to my mother’s chagrin, his final resting place was outside of Cincinnati. She did notice the irony that because she had an adjoining plot that she would spend Eternity in Cincinnati, a town which she spent years trying to leave.

A few years ago I got it into my tiny brain that a visit to the Gates of Heaven cemetery was needed. I don’t know why and I don’t know why my mom agreed to the trip, but she did. And off we went. The trip was one that travelled down memory lane. We drove by our old house on Keys Crescent, drove by my old school – which is where I would have attended high school if we had not moved, and enjoyed laughs and stories with former neighbors and current friends.

On a brisk and rainy morning mom and I set off for Gates of Heaven. We arrived and proceeded to obtain the plot number and headed to his grave. Mom parked the car and we sat until the unrelenting rain relented. We walked up and down. And up and down. And up and down. Like the infamous Chuckles The Clown episode of Mary Tyler Moore, an occasion of reverence devolved rather quickly. We could not find the grave. It certainly could not be that hard. It was not like we were trying to find the cure for cancer. And it was not as if his grave was a moving target.

Soon we could not stop laughing at how stupid we must have seemed to any onlookers. In our defense, the grave marker was fairly nondescript, just a plaque provided by the US Marine Corps, of which my dad had served very, very briefly. On it was written Thomas Francis Hickey – his confirmation name, Michael, was not included which seemed off because he was known to everyone as Mike.

I thought seeing his grave would mean something. I thought it would mark some closure or bring me closer to him. It did not.

It did not remind me of the man on whose lap I sat. It did not emit the scent of after shave that I cannot remember. It did not tell me the stories I have never heard about his time in college. The grave was flat and one-dimensional, which only made me yearn more for the stories and details about my father that would make him less one-dimensional.

My mom can tell me about the rituals and traditions of her childhood, but she is less able to identify those of my childhood. What did we as a family do each Easter Sunday? Were there Memorial Day picnics we attended as a family?

The absence of color and contour of her memories is understandable. So too for my brother. Sometimes remembering can be more painful than the loss itself. Besides, there were not many years we spent as a family.

When a family loses a parent, the focus often is on dealing with the death and not on preserving the life. On this Memorial Day, I cannot help but think of the son or daughter who will for the first time mark this day with a trip to their father’s grave. Or the mother who pays her respect with a newborn who was born after his father’s ultimate sacrifice. They will never know him, not even the bonding first touch or kiss on the forehead. For them, I offer a prayer and the hope the coming years are filled with friends and family sharing stories, memories and mementos that give fullness to their heart and depth to their understanding of the life lived by their mother or father.

May God bless the path of those who serve and sacrifice for our freedom.

If there is one universal fact in life, it must be that no one can escape being challenged in life. Whether large or small, monumental or insignificant, we all face an obstacle or two in life. And then there are those challenges that we take on willingly and voluntarily. No one pinned me against a wall and said, “You must run back-to-back marathons.” In fact, according to the number of articles provided to me by the Great and Wise Google Search Engine, it is not an entirely smart idea if you are not an elite athlete.

And I am elite at few things. Actually, I am elite at nothing. But my competitive (or stubborn depending upon your point of view) nature tends to get the better of me. So, after running the Providence Marathon, I was scheduled to run the Delaware Marathon on Mother’s Day. Thrilled. Excited. Positively joyful. Nope, none of the above. Frankly, I was scared out of my dimwits. But I was more scared of failing to at least meet the challenge.

I arrived in Wilmington on Saturday afternoon just before the skies opened up. Upon arriving at the hotel I checked in and inquired about the closest Catholic Church so I could attend Saturday evening Mass. I asked for the concierge to call a cab. Both I and my wallet were delighted to learn that the hotel shuttle could take me to and from Mass. As usual, the pews were filled with members of the Blue Plate (and hair) Club. The Church also was filled with flowers to honor and celebrate Mother’s Day and special intentions were offered for all mothers, alive and dead.

Thankfully I get to celebrate, rather than honor, my mom on Mother’s Day. While virtually everyone seems or professes via social media to have “the best mother in the world,” I do not.

Now, before you think I am unappreciative or do not love my mother, let me clarify. She is not perfect. But life is not perfect. My mom grew up in a small town with dreams of moving to larger pastures. For her those larger pastures were found on the campus of Marymount University in New York, where she would be swept off her feet by my father. Life was good and got even better when my father was relocated to London and shortly thereafter she gave birth to a healthy son.

But life is not perfect. Her second pregnancy — another son — ended with a miscarriage. And then I was born, which could be seen as a blessing or a curse. For the next two years, my parents enjoyed a good life living, entertaining and relishing the life of Americans abroad. Proof that God indeed has a sense of humor, my father was relocated again – to Cincinnati. Not quite the Big City.

The biggest challenge would come when my father died and mom had to shoulder raising two children on her own. Unlike my marathon challenge, this was one which she did not choose. It was, however, one which she chose to take on. It is said there is no guidebook to parenting and there certainly is no guidebook to single parenting.

Mom took to her new role with a full spirit and an even fuller heart. But, like any parent, she made mistakes, she slipped, and she fell. She was and is not perfect. And that is why I say she is not the best mother in the world. Honestly, I don’t think anyone can be.

She was perhaps the best mother for me because she taught me to be independent and independent-thinking. She showed me how to have an opinion and to give voice to my principles. Stubbornness likely was a genetic trait I inherited from my father, which is why I fight so passionately for those principles. And she got up every day and embraced each day good or bad.

And that is what I did last Sunday. I got up at the crack of dawn to meet the challenge that 26.2 miles poses. And I did not quit – although I did consider it on several occasions during the race. It was a beautiful course and a beautiful day. The course was lined with energetic volunteers who encouraged the runners to take one more step and one more step. To my surprise I finished the race with juice left in my legs and under the four-hour mark.

Delaware reminded me of the most important lesson my mother taught me – that the greatest failure is to give up. Life presents challenges big and small and it is in each of us to choose whether to fight or take flight. I choose to fight.

A few years ago I was sitting at my desk at The Washington Times when the phone rang. The number on the phone was not immediately identifiable, which as any staffer at The Times could tell you was not always a good thing. I had received my fair share of what I termed an “All Caps” caller.

They are the type who used an abundance of exclamation points, lacked an intimate relationship with proper punctuation when expressing their point of view. They probably had sent more than one letter using letters clipped from ads from the newspaper and magazines. And they also believed The X-Files was a documentary series.

But it was my lucky day. The voice on the end of the line asked if he were speaking with Jennifer Hickey and I confirmed he was. He asked if I was the daughter of Mike Hickey. I again confirmed I was.

“You may not remember me, but I saw you on O’Reilly last night and knew from your face and last name that you had to be Mike’s daughter,” he proceeded to tell me.

A chill went down my spine and throughout my body. It was not an uneasy chill, but a sensation of elation. The blood was racing to every point in my body like a young girl running into the arms of her father – with reckless abandon.

The man was Mort Libby. He had worked with my dad at Cato-Johnson, the ad firm that brought our family from London to Cincinnati. I had so many questions, but they were held hostage by my inability to verbally express them. That in itself was an odd occasion. He told me I had handled myself with Bill O’Reilly and that Dad would be proud. There are many things I have forgotten in the years since, but those are ones that will stay with me.

And they are words in stark contrast to those uttered by another work partner of my dad’s.

“What the Hell do you want from me? You want the money?” snapped one William S. Altieri of Menlo Park, California.

He is not Bill, or William. He will always be William S. Altieri of Menlo Park, California because that is the name and location I typed in to any number of search engines over the years. And I am talking in the days before Google. Some years ago my mom told me the story of one of my dad’s colleagues who had gone to him several months before his death to ask for money. More accurately, he had gone to him after his stroke to ask for money, which my father gave him.

Mom learned of the loan from Dad’s secretary after his death and he said he would repay the loan with interest. Years went by and we moved from Cincinnati back to London and William S. Altieri disappeared. Disappeared with the loan unpaid.

When I heard this story I was not pissed, rather I was astonished that someone could ask for money from a terminally ill man with a wife and two children. I wanted to know how someone could be so callous and amoral. So, the quest was started. Every time I went someplace I checked the phone book for a William S. Altieri. Every once in a while I would pick a random city, call 411 and ask for a listing. Year after year after year.

And one day I found William S. Altieri in Menlo Park, California. Perhaps with a little divine intervention, my discovery came shortly before I was headed to San Francisco to visit my brother. Long story short, Tom, my mom and I piled into the car one afternoon and drove to Menlo Park for call on Mr. William S. Altieri. We went to his apartment complex and knocked on his door, but there was no answer. We waited a bit and then got back into the car.

Upon returning to DC, I called every day. And then one day he answered the phone. I told him who I was and why I was calling.

“What the Hell do you want from me? You want the money?” he asked. No, I told him. What I want is an explanation and an apology.

He let me know in no uncertain, but in very indelicate, terms that he would not. He told me if I wanted money I was not going to get it. It was clear he was the one who “did not get it.”

I would like to think his tone was the result of a lifetime of guilt. But it probably was more of a consequence of his being a real and true “insert expletive here.”

At the end of both calls I hung up with a sense of satisfaction. Mr. Libby had left me with a wonderful gift of the notion my father would have been proud of his daughter. And I like to think Dad would have been equally proud of me for making sure that William S. Altieri of Menlo Park, California did not have the last word.