Sometimes Life Is Just Like A Marathon

As noted in the previous post (yes, a prompt to read it if you haven’t), the taper week before the 26.2 Run with Donna Marathon was going to pose a special challenge. The race for breast cancer was being held on February 23, the 36th anniversary of my dad’s death. I promised myself that the goal I would set going in would be to finish. Just to finish. I feared setting too high a bar would result in disaster.

I arrived in Jacksonville on Saturday, and ran some costly errands thanks to my dependence on cabs for transportation. As I had for the Clearwater Marathon, I attended 5:30 Mass and was at least 30 years younger than 99 percent of the other parishioners. That might explain my strong impulse to walk out and immediately purchase Maalox and a LifeAlert.

After a restless night, I set out for the race before the sun rose with nervous legs and an even more nervous mind. At the race site I dropped off my bag and huddled around the heating lamps with the other runners. Since it was a breast cancer race, most of the runners were adorned in pink, a color which for most of my life has elicited revulsion. I am not a “pink” kind of person. I, on the other hand, looked as if my sponsor was the Cincinnati Chamber of Commerce – a Reds shirt and a Bengals hat. You can take the girl out of the city . . . .

So, I waited. And waited. And then wished I had more time to wait, but 7:30 arrived and the race began. I set out slowly trying simply to warm up my legs and put my mind in a good place. I noticed at Mile 1 that setting out slowly meant an 11-minute mile, which if was my pace throughout the marathon would result in my slowest time ever.

The plan to simply finish? I knew putting pressure on myself was not a good strategy, but old habits are hard to break. I made a deal with the stubborn voice urging me to speed up that I would see my time at Mile 5. Before I reached that point a curve ball was thrown. Thrown right at my head. I was unaware that when the race description said the course went along the beach that it quite literally was along the beach. That would be the sandy beach. Sand-in-the-shoes sandy. Good God, what have I gotten myself into?

I tried to take in the beauty of the beach and the ocean and thought of the countless images in movies of people running along the beach loving life. The only problem was I was not in a movie. There was no inspirational background music. No flowing locks. No massive smile plastered across my face.

There was a snicker however. Life is filled with unanticipated events, such as losing a parent. So, what do you do? You deal with it, make adjustments and move along. So I did. Grudgingly, but I did by deciding this race time would have an asterisk to explain my dismal time.

It also occurred to me by Mile 6 when we were back on concrete that I was wrong to think this race should be run to mark dad’s death. Why should it represent just one event in his life? Why not run it to remember all of those moments shared sitting on the couch? Why not run it to remember the time my dad accidentally locked my mom out of their flat in London thanks to one-too-many holiday beverages? Or the time he took me to the office one Saturday and I got to sit in the “big” chair?

Thomas Francis Michael Hickey died on February 23, 1978. That is a fact. But it is also a fact that for 42 years he lived. He lived a full life and laughed a full laugh. He loved my mother and his first-born son. He mourned the loss of two other sons – one that died as the result of a miscarriage and the other who was still-born. And he loved his only daughter.

As I ran through the memories I found the weight of the taper week ease. The weight of my legs did not, but there are some things over which the mind has no control. As with other races, I broke the race into segments setting the halfway point as the first goal, then mile 18 because that meant I had less than 10 miles to go. Once I passed Mile 20, it was as much that we were running in the middle of nowhere, so bagging out was not really an option.

The course then veered off onto the highway, which was on a slant so it felt as if I were running half-drunk. I kind of wished I were half-drunk. Actually, I really wanted to be fully-drunk. I looked at my watch only to realize that (a) I would finish in time to catch my flight; and (b) that I had picked up time. The last mile was scheduled as a take-it-slow-just-finish mile, but the torrential rain resulted in a readjustment. As I neared the finish I saw a man 500 yards ahead of me who was losing steam. I heard the voice and told the voice to shut up. No, I will not start sprinting to beat him across the line. No, I will not. And then I did.

From somewhere I found the “kick” and sprinted the final 800 yards and did not even think to check my time as I finished. I looked up to the sky and nothing. No tears. No sense of sadness. Just satisfaction.

It is said that every marathon is a lesson. This marathon taught me what might be the most important lesson — I can get so much accomplished if I honor dad’s life, rather than his death.

I am not a fan of tapering. I am not sure there are a lot of runners who actually enjoy the pre-marathon week. For those non-runners, the taper is the period of time leading up to a marathon when runners begin to scale back on their mileage. While it might seem like a welcome vacation from the demands of long runs, it also means straying from the comfortable routine of training.

For me, running affords me an outlet, a way to purge the stresses of the day. Frankly, I also gain satisfaction from the rush of endorphins that running produces. During a taper, I find myself with too much time to think. That is one reason why my taper tends to be shorter than most. This week has been more stressful than past tapers. I am more nervous about the next marathon than usual because Sunday’s race brings with it an enormous weight.

As with all the races planned this year, I will be running to raise awareness and funds for kids who have lost their parents. For this race, I also will be running on the 36th anniversary of my dad’s death. So, the taper has been as much about the actual marathon as it has been about the marathon that is life.

My mind is filled with questions about the race – will I finish? Have I properly prepared for it? Will my shoes fit properly? Will it be warm or cold? All the usual pre-race worries and doubts.

Crowding out those questions are the more personal doubts that many people have – are my parents proud? Have I lived up to their expectations? But those are questions to which there are no answers. Nonetheless, they are questions asked innumerable times over the years. I am not sure my brother asks those same questions or has the same doubts.

The answers will not be found in any of the 5,000 or so steps that I will take over the course of the marathon. Perhaps the real victory will not be in crossing the finishing line, but in leaving some of the doubts and thoughts behind with the discarded water bottles.

When I learned of the death of Shirley Temple Black last week, I did not feel sorrow for she lived a long and full life. For me, the news evoked memories of the rare occasions that my family dined out. It was not that my parents spent every night at home, but they were old school when it came to taking kids out to nice restaurants. When we did go out, I saw it as a special occasion and knew I was supposed to act like “an adult.”

In this child’s mind, being an adult meant ordering a fancy drink. It being a special occasion meant that Coke would not suffice. So, when the waiter came to the table I bubbled up with excitement and ordered in the clearest and proudest of voices a Shirley Temple. I loved the fact that it came in a fancy glass. I equally loved the Maraschino cherry and savored as much as I could that single bite.

The fond memories of those “fancy dinners” may be one reason while I always liked Shirley Temple. As an adult, my affection did not fade as she transitioned from child star into a respected diplomat.

Just as Shirley Temple reminds me of Big Girl Dinners, every time I see a yellow golf sweater, I envision my father sitting on the couch in the den of our house in Cincinnati watching whatever sporting event was on television on a given Sunday. Too young to appreciate the pleasure of watching football or golf, I was not too young to enjoy positioning myself next to him or on his lap. Just sitting there was enough to delight me. It is not complicated. In fact, it is quite simple. What little girl does not enjoy a little bit of quiet time with their dad?

Of course, not all times were so quiet, which brings me to the Christmas tree lights. Or, more specifically, the Curse Of The Christmas Tree Lights. As I have mentioned before, my dad, like my brother and I, are quick to temper. And really quick to temper when it comes to uncooperative inanimate objects. Each Christmas featured the same epic showdown – Dad versus the multiple strings of Christmas lights. I don’t think he ever won.

The showdown began the same way each year with my mom suggesting she take over the lighting duties. Her suggestion was naturally met with my dad’s stubborn insistence that “he had it covered.” Round One was the untangling of the lights. Round Two was finding the errant bulb that was conspiring against my father. The battles were marked by words that he probably should not have been uttering – or screaming. He would throw the string of lights to the ground and curse. He would take a drink of whatever he had available and curse. He would return to battle and curse. Every year – lather, rinse, repeat. But he would not be defeated by the lights. Just by cancer.

And that is why Shirley Temple, yellow sweaters and Christmas tree lights continue to hold special places in my heart. Not only was my father alive in those memories, he was living life. They remind me that while death would not wait, my dad did not spend his time waiting to die. He lived and he lived with passion and a fullness of spirit. And I am grateful to have had the pleasure in sharing in part of that life.

It is an image now ingrained in my memory. Last week I attended the funeral of a friend whose life ended suddenly and too soon, particularly for the twin eight-year old boys who are now fatherless. At the conclusion of the service, the pallbearers accompanied the casket toward the back of the church – as did the boys. Their hands were placed lightly on the back of their dad’s casket, much like the thousands of times they held his hands walking on the beach or across the street.

I could not see their faces as they walked by, so cannot determine whether they comprehended the events of the day or the days after their dad died. It was a surreal experience, but not because it reminded me of my dad’s funeral. In fact, I remember little to nothing about his funeral.

What will they recall twenty years from now? Does an eight-year old have a better grasp on what was happening than a seven-year old? My sense is that it all depends upon the individual child and their particular relationship with their parent.

It probably also differs when boys lose a father or when girls lose a mother. And it probably matters how dependent a child is on a parent and how doting a parent is on their child. My father was a lot of things, but I do not think he was doting. Nor was I a terribly dependent child. He was gone before a real relationship could be established. How deep our bond would have been I do not know and likely never will.

I know we shared a love of sports and of competition. We might have bonded over hours spent in the backyard with the soccer ball. Or not. Who knows if I would have been lured by the glorious game had he lived. If he had lived, I might very well have played with my Barbie dolls, rather than throwing them off the balcony every time my cousins came to visit. Those are scenarios that reside in the netherworld of conjecture. We live in the real world.

It is my mother who can recall the real world, the logistical details of those days. The funeral was on Saturday. A nun from Summit Country Day School, where my brother and I attended, came by to run through passages to be read at the service. They were read by classmates of my brother’s.

She can remember the conversation she had with the priest about what Catholic doctrine was relative to taking “extraordinary measures” to keep my father alive. She did not want to extend his life, which meant she did not want to extend his pain. Thankfully, Catholic teaching was aligned with her wishes, so my father could remain at home with hospice care.

Unlike my friend, my father was not buried until spring because the ground was still frozen. For some odd reason I have always referred to that fact as my father being put on layaway. I think he would appreciate the humor in that. He would also appreciate characterizing the post-funeral gathering at our house as a “party.” No, there was no open bar (we are Irish, so I am confident there was alcohol). People came by the house, but all I remember were two girls playing with my Star Wars action figures. And being protective of my valuables, I promptly hid them in my closet.

Why I remember that, but cannot grab ahold of any other memories is a question that will have to be answered by St. Peter. It was been a week since the funeral and my mind remains busy reliving the service. And that image of two boys and their father together for the last time.

There I stood at the gate enviously entranced by the interaction between a little boy and his father. The boy was fitted with a Bob the Builder backpack, a teddy bear hanging from the strap, and the air of excitement often associated with a first-time flyer. He seemed to be about seven or eight, about the same age as I was at the time of my inaugural solo flight. I can’t recall where I was going, nor why I was flying alone. But it was an adventure, so the details were irrelevant.

As much as I could relate to his exuberant anticipation, I cannot deny the feelings of envy reverberating throughout my body. I was setting off for the first marathon, the first which I would be running with a purpose and that purpose was in the front of my mind. Every parent travelling with a child was a reminder of the relationship with my father that I never had.

Leading up to the race I thought a lot about Thomas Francis Michael Hickey. I thought a lot about all of the stories that have gone untold and all of the stories about him that could be told by people who were mere acquaintances. I knew this race would be a challenge on several points.

I was functioning on little sleep before I headed to Florida and did not have a good night’s rest before the race. That is never good. I was still fighting a chest cold and felt like the waste product of a farm animal. And looked no better. But the stubbornness that I inherited from my dad prevented me from backing out. Besides, I had paid the registration fee and made the trip, so backing out . . .

At the starting line I was focused on keeping my legs warm and trying to mentally kick myself into gear. My strategy was simple – finish the race in time to catch my flight back to DC. Hell, that would be a mortifying story to tell if I were so slow that I missed my flight. As usual, I held the option of cutting out at the halfway point. Let’s see how the race goes and decide at Mile 13.

The majority of the race ran along the road, so there were houses and neighborhoods to distract me from heavy legs. And there was the radio. The first miles were rough, so the battle against negative thoughts was fierce. I kept repeating in my head, “Take it one mile at a time, one mile at a time.”

Clearwater resembles many Florida towns, including Boca Raton, where my father’s older sister has a home. I recalled the vacations my mom, brother and I took to Florida as a child. I remembered the one trip we took with my father. Of course, I remember very, very clearly when I jumped off the side of the pool cracking my head open on the side of the pool.

Note: My middle name might be grace, but that is where it begins and ends. The scars on my head from subsequent head-cracking incidents is a testament to that fact.

With the blood from my head came the fury of my father’s temper. Like my brother and I, my dad felt screaming was the best way to handle a crisis. It is like people who raise their voices when speaking with the deaf or foreign speakers. And it gets you nowhere.

But thinking about it got me through a mile or two. And beyond Mile 13. And I knew what was next – the hills. There were two steep declines that lay ahead and I knew it would require more mental than physical strength to get me over those. My chest was not loosening up and each time I coughed my right leg would jerk back. Yes, I could have stopped to cough but that would be no fun at all. Frankly, I probably looked a lot like Elaine dancing in the classic episode of Seinfeld.

The fatigue was not so funny though. Once I got beyond Mile 20, I found myself digging deeper and calling on my dad and grandmother, after whom I was named, for strength. Please just get me through this. Please. I was getting angry at the course at this point. Each mile seemed to get longer as I prayed that my legs and heart would carry me forward. The Mile 26 marker was a most welcome sight, particularly since my legs had less in them than any other marathon I have run before. I was certain my time would be pitiful – I had stopped keeping tabs on my time at Mile 23.

I crossed the finish line at 4 hours and 6 minutes, which was the second fastest time I have run. Go figure. You never know your ability to overcome challenges until you take them on and take them head-on. I did make my flight back to DC and was happy to have the first marathon in the books. I also felt more convinced that this journey will be worth it. It might not change the world, but I will be happy if it can change one person’s world.

It was inevitable. And it was dreaded. I had arrived late to a friend’s birthday party being held at a roller rink. Yes, it was the 1980s and roller skating birthday parties were “in.” As much as a roller skating party can ever be considered “in.” Because I was late, my friend’s father had to drive me some ten or fifteen minutes from their house to the roller rink.

That meant there was ample time for stilted conversation, including the inevitable question – what does your father do? It was not the first, nor the last time the question would be posed. Nevertheless, it was always uncomfortable for me. Do I want to answer the question honestly? If I do, what words do I employ that will not result in the look of pity or the standard “I am so sorry” response?

As a kid, I wanted to avoid making others uncomfortable as much as I wanted to avoid that feeling of being “not normal.” We were no longer a nuclear family, unless nuclear was a reference to the Irish temper that my brother and I share. My response was more a product of instinct than thoughtful consideration.

“He’s retired,” I said bluntly. My thinking was that it really was not a lie because he was retired. Permanently. It made sense in my morbidly Irish brain. But it also opened the door to the equally dreaded follow-up question. “So, what does he do now that he’s retired?”

Had not planned on that, so I replied that he golfed. Golfed a lot. That made sense because my dad often wore a yellow golf sweater on the weekends. Did he golf a lot? I can’t remember if he did or he didn’t. And I have no clue – nor did I then –  whether my friend’s father knew my dad was dead. I do know my mom never got a call asking, “Does Jennifer know her dad is not alive?”

As I have gotten older, the question is not any less uncomfortable. But I am more comfortable in answering it and answering it bluntly. I am not fond of euphemisms and even less fond of the phrase “passed on” or “passed away.” To me, it sounds like a way one would describe sour milk. I appreciate the simplicity of “he died.”

It is not flowery or poetic. But death at its very core is simple. It is a simple and brief moment in time. And I am not sure I ever want to be comfortable with the fact his moment in time came before I got to know him.

Mind over matter is a common phrase first used in the 1960s when discussing paranormal phenomena. In running, it is the phenomena that occurs somewhere around Mile 20 when a marathoner’s legs develop a true animus to the individual to whom they are attached. Like a stubborn child, they simply might refuse to budge or just give out. This is the point when marathon running shifts from a physical challenge to a mental one.

When I first set out to complete my first marathon, I sought some advice from a friend who had multiple marathons in the books. By registering for the 2012 Marine Corps Marathon, I had answered the question of whether I was insane (or stupid) enough to attempt to run one. I had always scoffed at marathon runners by asking, “Why would anyone paid to endure the pain, the blisters, the aches?” These people are nuts I thought.

Then I lost my job and needed a goal, a purpose. Sure, there are lots of things I could have chosen but being a runner I figured why not. My friend told me that all of the preparation will help, but when you reach mile 20 and on, it is the mental aspect that comes into play. It tends to be where runners hit the wall and the fatigue kicks in. The ability to will your legs forward should not be underestimated. When I reached the 20-mile mark, I opted for the one-mile-at-a-time strategy – until mile 23. Then my stubbornness kicked in. I have run this far and there is no way on God’s green Earth that I am going to quit this close to the finishing line.

The mind seizes on any topic, any memory, any idea to distract itself from the pain. Visualize the finishing line, visualize the chocolate milk that will soothe the aches when the journey is complete.

Mile 24, Mile 25. No way in Hell I was quitting now. Because my goal was to finish and do so under 5 hours, I slowed my pace for the last two miles. When I approached the finish line, which is uphill, the sight of The End awakened my legs, leaving me with some “kick” to get me across the finishing line.

The feeling was amazing and my emotion was amazement when a US Marine place the medal around my neck and offered me congratulations. It was special. No marathon will ever be as special as the first. But they are all mental challenges of one sort or another. The Clearwater Marathon that would mark my first of 2014 was truly a mental challenge. But more on that later . . . .

Another cold February morning brought nothing new. Or, so I remember it. Truth be told, I do not remember much about the morning of February 23, 1978. It was a few weeks beyond my 7th birthday, so clear memories are few and far between. That said, living in Cincinnati, Ohio it is a good bet that it was cold and that my mom had made oatmeal for breakfast. Oatmeal with milk and sugar. Full-fat milk and sugar, not sugar substitute. Those were the simple days.

Mom sent my brother and me off to school with the carpool and the day went forward like any other school day. Until we came home. Memories are a little clearer, but still somewhat hazy. I remember sitting at the kitchen table with my mom and brother Tom. I remember my brother screaming and pounding. And slamming the door at the top of the stairs so hard it dented the wall. And I remember sitting on the edge of my bed wondering whether I was supposed to cry or not.

What I do not remember is the moment that my life changed forever. I do not remember the words used or the sound of my mother’s voice. For the life of me, I cannot remember how my mom told Tom and me that my dad had died that morning.

I did not know that when my mother placed the bowl of oatmeal in front of me that my father had succumbed to cancer. And I will never, ever know how my mom was able to remain composed during one of the worst periods in her life.

What I know is how different that day impacted my brother, who had just turned 13, and how it impacted me. The lesson is that the death of a parent impacts us individually, but that we need each other to move forward. Over the course of the next year I will write about the marathons I am running and the marathon that is life.