Sometimes Life Is Just Like A Marathon

The trip to Richmond held as much attraction to me as a frontal lobotomy sans anesthesia. But I had little choice in the matter, which also bothered me to no end. The root of my distaste in this midweek trip could be boiled down to one word – seminar.

More to the point, it was two three-hour training sessions that are required for anyone who wishes to participate as a volunteer at the Comfort Zone camps. I think running my first four marathons on behalf of Comfort Zone was more appealing than sitting in a training seminar for six hours. If I were going to run on behalf of an organization it seemed only logical that I learned as much as possible about it. What better way to learn – and I am not great at learning – than to experience it first-hand.

While I was seeking answers about the camp, I admit to also searching for a renewed sense of purpose and maybe some support that I felt absent from this marathon effort. Truth be told, I also was engaging in a little self-pitying. Was it just me or did no one give a damn about this cause? Not even close friends and family?

The first session was attended by about 20 people, most of whom were born after Reagan was president. Hell, most were embryonic or in diapers during Clinton too. The leader of the seminar was very, very peppy. At first blush, intolerably peppy. We introduced ourselves (sitting in a circle of course) and then went on to an “ice breaker” game that forced us to interact with other volunteers. During the first hour I looked often at the clock and wondered how I might survive.

And then the ice broke. I had looked around the room wondering why the other people were drawn to Comfort Zone. Were they in social services? Did they want class credit – yes, some were that young. Our next “game” was to craft a story about a family in which the father died one day at work. We were asked to create a story line. What did they do in the immediate aftermath, what was their life two weeks later, who came to help out, etc.

It was now clear – people were speaking from experience. They got it, so to speak. The ice had been broken. The second session a day and a half later featured two panels that included kids who had attended camp and another that included people who had been volunteers. They told their stories, talked about what camp was like and what impact the experience had on them.

After hearing from camp “veterans,” my view of the group leader had also changed. My first impression – and admitted aversion – of her peppiness had changed. Yes, she was filled with energy, but it was positive energy. It was joy in her work and in a passion for those in the Comfort Zone community. That is the kind of positive energy that is desperately needed to provide these kids a “bubble” in which they feel free to experience grief. And, more importantly, to experience joy, to laugh, to share and to feel less alone.

The three hours went by quickly and as I rode the cab back to my mom’s apartment the sense of purpose was coming back. When I arrived at the apartment my mom asked if I and Tom would have benefitted from going to a camp like Comfort Zone. Yes, I told her.

And I think I would have. But I did not. More to the point, volunteering at the camp and running these marathons is not about me. It is about what I can do to raise awareness so that other children can reap the reward of going to Comfort Zone. It is not about whether friends and family “support” my efforts. It is about what I can do to support the Comfort Zone and the kids who need an outlet for their grief, who need a weekend to spend with people “who get it.”

I hope and pray that I am able to volunteer as a Big Buddy at a camp this summer, but that is not a choice I can make. The choice I can make is to move forward and tackle the Providence marathon this weekend with purpose and determination.

Easter has always been one of my favorite holidays. As a child I think my love had more to do with the end of the forty-day absence of chocolate and candy from my life. It meant Easter baskets filled with Peeps, Robin Eggs, jelly beans and chocolate bunnies.

I even enjoyed the pageantry of the day – putting on my new patent leather shoes and freshly ironed Easter dress. Yes, I admit to enjoying wearing a dress, which is harder to believe than the fact that Jesus was crucified and rose after three days. There was something magical and special about Easter that even as a child I recognized. Whereas the importance of the birth of Christ may have been lost on me, for some inexplicable reason the joy and sanctity of Easter Mass resonated.

As the years passed, however, the passion for the holiday has dimmed. It is not so much that I dislike Easter, but the joyousness of the holiday is more bittersweet in recent years.

Unlike Christmas, Easter was never celebrated in a traditional fashion. One year we spent Easter in Florida with my cousin in a rental home that was anything but traditional. The home must have been owned by a hunter. It did not take a genius to deduce that from the candlesticks that were made from deer legs, the multiple deer and antelope heads that adorned the walls in the living room and the rugs that seemed to represent almost every animal on Noah’s Ark.

It was a great holiday. A week at the beach and a basket of candy? What child would not like that. Then there was the first Easter spent in London. Tom stayed in the States, so my mom and I and a friend from Marymount trotted off to Easter Mass. We were amazed to find an open parking spot near Sloan Square and proceeded to walk the two blocks to St. Mary’s Church, which was the same church my parents attended when they lived there in the 1970s.

We were a bit confused as we approached to see parishioners pouring out of the church. That was until it dawned on us, almost simultaneously, that it was daylight savings and we were an hour late.

There was no continuity to Easter. At least not the kind that a family fosters. Like years past, I shall attend Sunday Mass, get the paper and go for a run. And I shall spend much of Mass trying to focus on the meaning of the Gospel and the Resurrection. But I likely will be chasing rabbits.

Little boys in their little suits and little girls wearing the same new dresses that I wore many years ago. Young parents with their young children establishing family traditions that, God willing, they will enjoy year after year. I should not be envious, but I confess to being so. I cannot recall going to Easter Mass as a family and I cannot envision ever doing so with my own family.

I know the real meaning of Easter is to be found in the words spoken, the words heralding that He is Risen. And, like years past, I shall concentrate my mind on that meaning when I go out on a run. And rather than chasing rabbits, I will chase the dream that next Easter will be different.

Life being, well, life does not always follow the expected path. Since I set off on the challenge of running 14 marathons this year, the unexpected path I have traveled in the last few years has become clearer. The clarity of the past is a stark contrast with the uncertainty of the future. And the unease of the present.

Thinking in greater depth about my father as both a man who lived and a man who died has stirred many emotions. Two of the strongest are doubt and guilt. I am reminded of something a classmate told me in high school about a belief in Japan that guilt is nothing more than the disappointment of family who have gone to Heaven.

No, I am not Japanese. And, yes, I am Catholic and that notion runs counter to my beliefs. But we Catholics do guilt pretty well anyway. As the Charlottesville Marathon approached my mind was filled with much doubt. Doubt about my level of preparedness. Doubts about whether I could accomplish this goal. And doubts about whether any of my efforts would amount to anything or have any impact besides on my knees.

I needed and was looking for a sign that the path I was on was not a dead-end. I did not need a lightning strike, nor the image of Jesus in my toast. Just a small nudge.

I arrived in Charlottesville on Friday afternoon, proceeded to the expo to collect my bib and such and called a cab to take me to the hotel. I piled into the cab and it was clear from the get-go that my driver was a talker. Thankfully, not a close talker, but just your average talker.

So, I engaged in conversation channeling my mother who, if she set her mind to it, could drag personal details out of a dead man. My second question was how long the driver had lived in the area. He hesitated, then said, “I am not quite sure how to answer that.” It was clear I had stepped in the proverbial dog poop.

“Well, I came here when I was about 14 after my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer and we brought her home to spend her last weeks with her family,” he disclosed.

Seriously? Okay, it was not Jesus in a piece of toast and there were no burning bushes, but what are the odds I would get in a cab with someone who had lost a parent to cancer as well?

He went on to tell me that he had a connection with his grandmother and decided to stay in the area for high school instead of going back to Chicago with his father. I told him about Comfort Zone camps and why I wanted to run 14 marathons to raise awareness about them.

The day of the race my doubts had not subsided, but I was too stubborn to back out of the race, so set off for the start. It was all too evident by Mile 2 that Charlottesville was very hilly. Uncomfortably hilly. And on this Saturday morning it was hilly and windy. Mentally I fought back trying to think happy, positive thoughts. Frankly, each positive mantra was separated by some choice four-letter words and plenty of doubt.

I turned on the radio trying to find some station to distract my attention from the hills. First go was a program focusing on how to lose weight. Nope, don’t need that. Second station featured a discussion about the elections in Afghanistan, which I listened to for about a mile or two.

As I was in Charlottesville it was not a surprise that several stations were Christian-oriented. This part of Virginia has plenty of Bibles being thumped. The station was discussing the Book of Job and the use of prayer during times of struggle. Okay, maybe that was closer to Jesus in a piece of toast. I listened and tried to absorb the discussion.

I did not fall to my knees, raise my arms in the air and scream “Praise Jesus, I hear your message.” I am too Catholic for that. And I also was convinced if I stopped I would never get my legs going again. But the message that when ask God for help during difficult times the answer is not always clear. Just like the path forward. But, I figured that it was enough of a sign that I was on the right path. That each training run and each marathon might have an impact. Even if it is just on a chatty cab driver.

“We cannot pass our guardian angel’s bounds, resigned or sullen; he will hear our sighs.” — Saint Augustine

By definition, death is brutally simple concept. In medical terms, it is the cessation of bodily functions. Yet, as most of us know, death is much more than a singular moment in time. It is more than the second physical life ceases.

While we may never understand death, we come to accept it. For some acceptance comes sooner than later. For others, it never comes. For me, I believe the moment that I began to accept my dad’s death came when my mother uttered two simple words. Guardian and angel.

A few months after my dad’s funeral, I approached my mom in the kitchen – as she tells it – and asked, “Did I do something to make Dad leave?” Why would I think that, she responded.

“Because he wouldn’t have gone if he loved me,” was my explanation. There was no logic to the question, nor any logic in my answer. But only a fool would expect logic to come out of the mouth of a seven-year-old, particularly one who was trying to navigate their way through the multitude of emotions death produces.

As she often did, my mom fell back on her instincts. She told me Dad loved us all, and that God thought he could show even more love as my guardian angel. Admittedly her explanation was fantastical, a bit absurd, and exactly what I needed to hear at that point. For one thing, it gave him new life and it restored the father-daughter connection that death had temporarily broken.

He was still with me. He would still protect me. Even better, he would be with me always, at all times. Having been raised a Catholic, I had heard stories of saints and angels. I had marveled at the mystery of those stories and now I had my own special angel. Children dealing with death often feel alone. Having a guardian angel, having my dad with me always meant I would never be alone. The wonderment of that moment has faded over the years, which happens when we grow up. But I still believe in guardian angels and I have often called upon my guardian angel in tough times. I often plead out loud to my guardian angel during races to just get me through the damn race.

It has occurred to me on many a long run that while death may stand proudly victorious over the physical body, it can never conquer the soul. It cannot vanquish the spirit of the human heart. And it is powerless in the face of the simple love a daughter has for her father,

Entering into the final days before Marathon #4 – heading south for the Charlottesville Marathon.

Am I dying? was a question my mom never considered would be posed by the young advertising executive who chatted her up in a bar on a cold Sunday afternoon. Despite the fact she was on a date, the gentleman introduced himself, asking whether she was a Giants or an Eagles fan. She was neither. She was a Green Bay Packers fan studying in New York, and he was just out of college and working at a firm in New York City. She was on a date, but it did not seem to matter much after Mike made his interest known. She knew her life was about to change.

Am I dying? was not the question on my mom’s mind less than a year later when that young advertising executive asked if she wished to start a new life together with him. Although his death might have been on her mind a day later when he told her in the car on the way to his parents’ apartment in Scarsdale that he had gotten so loaded the night before he could not remember anything about the evening. She had returned to school after the proposal, told all her friends she was engaged and indulged in all of the dreams about her wedding. It was a joke, of course. And one which she would only appreciate in hindsight.

Am I dying? was the question my dad asked my mom just months after he called her from a payphone in Kentucky to tell her he was lost and could not remember how to get home. It was several months after they learned that the cause of the severe headaches he had experienced on vacation earlier that summer was a brain tumor. The cancer cells which had remained dormant in his lungs for years had metastasized, and formed a tumor in his brain that progressively grew larger. The tumor gained strength as it consumed more of the brain matter and more of the man she met in a bar before a football game years before.

Like warm butter on a freshly-toasted English muffin, the cancer infiltrated every nook and cranny of his brain in a swift and callous manner. The cancer wasted no time in crippling the man of her dreams. And time, which had once been an ally, had turned against them.

Am I dying? Yes, she told him. You are dying. It was evident less than a year after his diagnosis that the only foe which claim victory over the cancer was death. She was unsure what his mind could accept or even understand, but she loved him too much to give false hope. She had too much respect for the man he once not to be honest.

And that was a good thing because what my mom did not know at that moment was my brother was standing in the hallway within earshot. The next day the question would be asked anew. This time it was her 12-year-old son who inquired, “Is Dad dying?” She said yes. In a moment she had to make a very difficult decision — is now the time for honesty or a time to shelter him from the undeniable reality. Her gut would not lie and neither would she. It was a decision many parents face when dealing with a terminal illness. How much honesty can a child handle? When is it appropriate to treat the child as an adult and when is it better to swaddle them in well-intentioned fiction.

There is no easy answer. There is no playbook. But there is love and every answer should come from there.

A good idea in theory does not always translate into a good idea in practice. And for my family, this was the case more often than not. If someone had documented the number of family vacations taken and holidays spent together, it would resemble the trials and tribulations of Clark Griswold and his clan.

Consider one Christmas ski trip to Kitzbuhel, Austria. We landed in the late evening, promptly hopped into the van that would drive us 30-45 minutes to our hotel. Van might be a generous term. For all intents and purposes it was a bucket held together by a few screws and balanced by the grace of God on four wheels. The driver spoke no English but that was not enough to dissuade him from engaging fully in conversation as we set off from the airport. He was Austrian but his penchant for using his hands to illustrate each point made me think he was part Italian.

About 15 minutes into the drive the snow began to fall harder, the road (again, maybe too generous a descriptive) grew more narrow and my mother grew paler. She entered full panic mode when the driver opened the door with one hand and the other on the wheel. Visibility had gotten so bad that he was forced to keep his eye on the road by literally keeping his eye on the road. My mom started wondering aloud how her sister was going to get to Europe to identify the bodies and asking how she would get the bodies back to the States. Oh, and the driver kept on talking.

The first episode in the chronicles of the Dumb Family, however, may have occurred when my mom decided a visit to a family therapist was in order. I guess it was a few months after my dad died that my mom set up and appointment with the therapist. For many families, this is a good way to deal with a death and probably was a good idea at the time.

I cannot seem to recall if my mom prepped Tom and me for the visit, whether she explained why we were going or anything else. What I do know is that any plan went right out the window once I opened my mouth. We sat down in the therapist’s office, which like most resembled the living rooms they give away on The Price Is Right.

[Why I remember the office and not more important details surrounding my dad’s death escapes me]

My mom spoke first and talked about the early years of her marriage and their life in London before children arrived on the scene. She talked about what kind of father my dad was. And she talked about what being a father meant to him. Then it was Tom’s turn. He spoke fondly of his dad on the sidelines of his soccer games, how he wanted to be in advertising like his dad and what a nice family he had. To hear them talk, we were not the Griswold’s but the Brady Bunch. You could almost imagine my mom baking cookies from scratch in the kitchen.

The portrait of the all-American family shattered the moment the therapist asked me what I remembered most about life in the Hickey household.

“My mom and dad were always fighting and my dad liked to scream,” was basically my response. The ashen color my mom’s face was much like the color it took on as we drove along that road in Austria. I am sure the therapist was thinking the truth came out of the mouths of babes. The session ended shortly thereafter and we hastily returned to the car.

My mom would tell me later that she was absolutely mortified. While we, like most families, were not all flowers, sunshine and birds chirping, we also were not the dysfunctional foursome which I had described.

She got us outside and posed the obvious question, “What on earth were you talking about?”

As my mother tells me, my reply was simple. “Well, we were seeing a doctor, so I thought we had to have a problem.”

Needless to say, I did not quite grasp the whole therapy thing. And needless to say, it was the last time the Dumb Family went to therapy.

The request was simple. Mom, could you save a piece of my birthday cake for Dad? Knowing better, my mom took out a knife, sliced a piece, and set it on a plate. She put it in the cabinet with the rest of the plates and tableware. And I, as happens with most 6-year olds, quickly switched my focus to something else.

The cabinet doors were wood with glass panes, so every time my mom walked by she I could see the cake. She knew it would not be eaten as my father was no longer eating solid foods. She knew even if he could physically stomach the cake, his brain had been so assaulted by cancer that it would not register the fact that he was eating birthday cake. And he would not enjoy it either.

I would walk by, catch sight of the cake still sitting in the cabinet and ask my mom why Dad had not eaten it. For a few days she offered up some reason or another. Until it got to the point where the cake was moving quickly toward the degree of staleness that it could quite possibly take on a life of its own and climb out of the cabinet. She said it would have to be thrown away.

I did not understand why. I did not understand why he did not eat it. I did not understand why I was unable to make him happy. There was a lot in the coming months that I did not understand.

According to my mom, a few weeks after the funeral I inquired about when Dad was coming back from his work trip. Granted I am not the brightest bulb, but I credit the confusion to my mind taking the initiative to protect the heart. Rather than processing the reality that my dad had died, my mind created phantom realities. Akin to the phantom pain that amputees experience after they lose a limb, I still felt as if he were still alive.

Needless to say, it was not long after that exchange that I realized he was not coming home. While many years have passed – just how many I shall leave unmentioned – I recognize that I am still waiting for him to eat that piece of cake. Not literally, of course. Just as my mother knew that my father was incapable of responding to my gesture, I know that my father cannot respond with approval or praise (or disappointment). No matter how hard I strive to make him proud, I know that pride can never be expressed. I know that I can never live up to the dreams he had for me. And that pain is not a phantom pain.

But what I also know is that like the piece of birthday cake, the desire to please him, to receive his approval, needs to be placed in the trash. The truth is that the phantom reality that my mind created to protect my heart as a child will only harm it as an adult. Time to blow out the candles.

A recent Pew Research survey of the Millennial Generation – those aged 18 to 33 – found them to be more detached from tradition and religious institutions than previous generations. That detachment is celebrated by some and decried by others. I am grateful, however, that I grew up in a different age. The reason is simple — for me tradition served as a safety net. Tradition also was the foundation on which I could build a relationship with my mother.

A few years back a boyfriend asked why I always talked about my mom, yet only had photos of my father displayed in my apartment. I had not realized it until that moment, but he was right. Of course it made sense. I had thirty some years of a relationship with my mom compared to six with my father. Besides, it would seem a bit creepy if I were regaling him with tales of my dead dad. Did I tell you about the time at the funeral . . .

Like many other children who are for a variety of reasons raised by a single parent, there is a special kind of relationship that develops. The interaction between mothers and daughters – like fathers and sons – is often quite unique and often quite volatile. Would our relationship have been different had my dad lived? Definitely.

For one thing, after my brother left for college, it was just my mom and I living in our house in Cincinnati. And I was not at the age yet where I could drive, which greatly limited my ability to escape. As most of us have learned along the way is that there is a silver lining to most bad events. I have few good memories of my father, but have many of my mother.

Yes, there have been some Afterschool Special moments over the years, particularly during my teen years. There were also Gilmore Girls moments too.

There were the lunches at The Echo, a restaurant in Cincinnati at which we would frequently have lunch. We normally would sit at the counter and she always, always ordered a hot roast beef sandwich, open-faced with a side of mashed potatoes. I never walked into the kitchen, but can say with confidence that they were not “real” potatoes.

I would occasionally have dessert. Mom never did. As she liked to say (and say again and again), she had eaten enough ice cream growing up in Wisconsin to last her a lifetime. And that worked out well for both of us when we would take our weekly trips to Graeter’s for ice cream. If you ever visit Cincinnati, it is a no-miss stop.

Mom and I would pile into the car, I would jump out and run inside to buy a hot fudge sundae with vanilla ice cream. I loved, loved being assigned the task of going in on my own. I felt so grown-up. It took very little to make me feel like an adult back then.

At any rate, I would bring the sundae back to the car with two spoons. She would eat all of the fudge and I would eat all of the vanilla ice cream. It just made sense.

Sunday nights during the football season, dinner always was pancakes sans syrup, bacon for Mom and tea. There were several of those kinds of traditions we shared over the years.

And it might explain why I remain to this day a creature of habit. When we moved to London, The Echo was replaced by Europa lunches.

Every Sunday following 12:15 Mass, we would walk over to Europa, which was a grocery store just off of Sloane Square. And every Sunday we would purchase a baguette and cold cuts for lunch. The baguettes were unlike any I had tasted in the States. Whether it was the ovens or the ingredients they used, I do not know. But they were delicious. The outside was baked to a light crunch, and seemed to shield the dough inside from the oven’s heat. This allowed it transform into a consistency that would melt in your mouth.

A bottle of wine, a wedge of brie and some fruit completed the picture. Then we would take the 22 bus back home. Rain or shine, every Sunday this was our ritual. There was a comfort to these rituals. We would take about random things or about the news of the day. More importantly, we would simply share each other’s company. Even if no words were exchanged. Those were traditions that I treasure today.

And, for the record, not one of those lunches or dinners was ever photographed for the purpose of sharing with the whole world. They are experiences solely shared between a mother and a daughter.

CBS Evening News recently aired a touching story about Myles Eckert, an 8-year old Ohio boy who found $20 in the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel. He was delighted with his find and thought of the things he might buy. And then he saw a man in a military uniform. He wrote a short note explaining why he was giving the $20 to the soldier. He told the soldier his father also was a soldier, but that he was in Heaven. As it did to countless others, it touched me.

But what truly resonated with me was Myles’ comment that he imagined “him as a really nice person and somebody that would be really fun.” Myles’ father died days after he was born. For him, his father lives in his imagination, in the memories of family and friends and in small items his father left behind.

I have more real memories than Myles does. Yet, like Myles and many other children whose parents die before they reach either their teen or adult years, we see that individual through a lens that merges fact with fiction. To this day I struggle to differentiate between the two.

On the positive side, my dad can be anything and everything a girl would want in the most important man in her life. On the less-than-positive side, there is that lingering feeling of being cheated by time, as well as my own mind. Why can’t I remember the sound of his voice? Why can I remember the times when his anger flourished, but not the more frequent occasions of laughter.

It is a feeling similar to the unnerving sense that often occurs when you awaken from a deep sleep. Did that really happen or was I dreaming? Particularly if your dreams, like mine, border on the patently asinine and include a healthy dose of the absurd.

That struggle is one reason why I cherish, like the soldier in the story, the notes and letters that survived countless moves and spring cleanings. A few years ago my father’s sister Barbara sent me a few letters she had unearthed. There was a letter sent by my father to his parents expressing concerns he had about his decision to relocate to London. At the time, my brother was a toddler and his words were shaped by worry for his wife and his young son.

I am a bit old-school in that I lament the loss of the art of writing letters in this age of Twitter and no-caps emails. Not only do the words on the paper afford me an invaluable insight into the relationship he had with his mother and father, they allow me to imagine him as a young man with the same worries many parents have about providing for their children.

So much can be learned from the formulation of sentences, the words and phrases he chose. He penned the letter in cursive and in a handwriting that would lead the reader to believe he was a doctor and not an ad exec.

Not all of the letters were long. Some were short notes and a postcard or two sent by a young man on a cross-country drive to California. But none is more valuable than another. They feed my imagination and a heart that hungers to this day to better understand who the man I call Dad was.