running

Race Day

/ alpenglow80 / Leave a comment

563479_241761068_xlarge

The New York City Marathon was this past Sunday. When I committed to running in this race in April, I thought that by this time I would be leaner, faster, and wiser. The reality is a bit different: I’ve gained weight (and, no, it’s not all muscle); I was slow and afraid that my legs would give out on me; and in terms of wisdom, I am sure the lessons of the past few months will continue to unfold their depths, but right now, I’m just tired.

To be honest, I didn’t have the time or the energy to train properly for this race. Working full time and caring for CR competed with building the endurance and strength I needed to cross the finish line in Central Park. I followed a training plan but completed only about 75% of the prescribed miles. Re-building my running legs was torturous, and I had to take whole weeks off to recover, but still had lingering pain in my joints. At one point in July, I thought I was having a heart attack: I was sitting at my desk at work, and I felt an intense squeezing pain in the center of my chest that radiated up to my jaw. If you Google those symptoms, which I did after the pain subsided, Google will answer, “Drop everything and get to the ER!” An EKG, blood work, and a cardiac stress-test later, my doctor concluded that my heart was just fine and I had experienced an esophageal spasm, which can be brought on stress-related acid re-flux. She asked me if I was seeing a therapist to help me manage the stress of losing Patrick. I told her, “Running is my therapy.”

My run on Sunday started out well. The City put on it’s best face with blue skies and perfect, cool running temperatures. The camaraderie on Staten Island before the race, all of the runners watching the sunrise behind the Verrazano Bridge, was palpable and heartwarming. I felt good the first half of the race, which tours through Brooklyn streets packed with cheering spectators. I painted my name on my running jersey, and I heard encouraging calls of “Go Collins!” as I ran past joyful strangers.

image1By the time I got through Queens and was crossing the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan at about Mile 15, I knew I was in trouble. While training, iliotibial (IT) band inflammation and tightness, particularly in my left knee had me limping and unable to run. The balance of letting it heal and trying to run the miles I wanted to resulted in recurring ligament stress and presented itself as severe knee pain. On the downslope of the bridge, I could feel the familiar twinge that I knew would only get worse. I ran pretty steadily to Mile 17 where my family and friends had gathered on the corner of 78th and 1st Avenue to cheer. Seeing them waving and wearing sky blue “Paddy Power” hats brought tears to my eyes; I ran up to greet them, and after a moment, turned up 1st Avenue to continue the run. At the water station a mile up the road, I almost turned out of the course; the pain so sharp that I was tempted to quit. I stopped by a barrier to stretch for a bit, and the lovely people on the sidelines murmured encouragements.

The rest of the race was powered by raw grit and will. A good friend of mine had told me to take in the sight of the thousands of runners and spectators on the long 1st Avenue stretch, but I mostly looked at my shadow on the road ahead of me, saying “Hail Marys” to keep from crying, and hefting my increasingly stiff leg in heavy, arcing strides forward. I walked through the next couple of water stations, but I realized that walking hurt even more than running, so through the Bronx and the last six miles of the race, I skipped stopping for water and kept running through the crowd. The turn into Central Park was at once relieving and daunting: only four miles left to go, but I knew I would be suffering every step. The incline between Miles 24 and 25 nearly broke me, and I had to walk. A man wearing a back bib that read “70 year old runner” jogged relatively easily past me. I could barely bend my left knee, and my breath was wheezing and labored from trying not to cry. At the Mile 25 marker, I started running again, and the first ten steps were lurching as I tried to regain my stride and bend my knee.

I am proud to say that I ran through the finish line, and I was able to look up and smile (grimace) for the cameras.

563479_242235004_mediumOnce past the official timer, I immediately broke down. Ugly, gasping sobs of agony and relief shook my whole body, and I couldn’t stop crying for about twenty minutes as I walked with the other runners through the finish corral. My whole body hurt, but that was only part of the overwhelming emotion. So much of my training the past few months became a way to process and grieve Patrick’s death. I know that I suffered from some post traumatic stress, and often while running, a memory from Patrick’s final months would flash through my mind, recalling some awful trial that he and I endured. The purpose assigned to training and raising money for brain cancer research was fulfilled once I crossed the finish line, and while that will be satisfying at some point, in the moment, I felt another great loss and emptiness.

After I retrieved my bag and put on dry clothes, I still had to walk another two miles down Columbus Avenue to meet my support team. I had a hat and hoodie over my head with the foil finisher’s space-blanket tied around my shoulders. Groaning and limping as I went, I’m sure I would have looked homeless and deranged if not for the thousands of other runners on the sidewalk in similar garb and attitudes. When I got to Columbus Circle and saw I was in the dark shadow of Trump Tower, I startled a man next to me when I yelled, “Ugh! Where am I? I didn’t want to be HERE!”

Hours later, after I had had a shower, a martini, and a wonderful meal, I finally started to feel happy and proud of my accomplishment. I would have liked to have trained better, run faster, and had avoided injury, but I had just finished the New York City Marathon!

That feeling of joy and relief carried me through my trip home on Monday and my workday yesterday. CR greeted me with such love and sweetness, and I was so glad to be home having completed a major feat. Unfortunately, the results of the election have deflated my elation. I, like so many Americans, am feeling depressed, shocked, and terrified for the future of our nation and democracy.

2016 has been an awful year.

I am going to take a break from social media and news outlets for a while. I need to focus on what is within my control: my daughter, my home, my relationships with family and friends, my health.

Thank you all for supporting me on this marathon journey: I could not have done it without you! I will continue to write, and I’d love to be in touch with you via email, phone, and in person.

Backup. Move Forward.

/ alpenglow80 / 1 Comment

img_7430

My home desktop computer is showing signs of age, and a couple of nights ago, I decided to deliberately backup all of our digital photos files. I got my first digital camera in 2005, and I averaged about a 1000 photos per year until the year CR was born: that year, the file burgeoned to over 4500 photos! We buried Patrick’s ashes this past weekend, and since we met in 2003, going through the pictures was a review of nearly our entire life together.

The past few months, I have been relatively happy: CR and I have established a better routine; I’m feeling much healthier as a result of running regularly; I’m enjoying my work. Having a burial plan in place, however, settled a bone-deep sadness on me again. Patrick’s ashes have been on our fireplace mantel since the funeral in February. I got to a point where some days I didn’t consciously notice them as I rushed around in the fog of daily have-tos. The ashes, though, were a solid presence of Patrick in our home, and knowing a fixed date when they would be gone brought back waves of grief.

The burial rite itself was beautiful. Family and friends gathered on a crisp, alpine morning to say goodbye again. CR helped place Patrick’s urn in the ground, and we both scattered a handful of freshly turned dirt on top. Everyone in attendance did the same, and as I watched the others, I felt a deep calm in the tradition and ritual of laying the dead to rest.

On Monday night, a thunderstorm woke both CR and me. CR got back to sleep, but I stayed awake listening to the thunder for hours. I have been meaning to backup my photos for months, and perhaps the fear of a computer-frying power surge spurred me out of bed in the early hours to start. Browsing the images was at once wonderful and sad. As I got into the more recent years, I found myself bracing for what was to come: “This is from the week before Patrick had his seizure; these are from the months we spent away from home while Patrick received radiation treatment; this must have been the last week he was able to navigate the stairs in our home; Patrick’s smile here is from just three days before he died.”

The pictures from this year are more sporadic, and in some ways, depict a life in chaos. I was struck by the difference in what I chose or had the energy to document compared to years past. Most, despite the background of loss, show CR and me smiling, striving to build happy memories, and choosing to love and be grateful.

May Patrick’s soul and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

 

MARATHON UPDATE

Well, I’ve taken yet another week of training off after aggravating inflamed IT bands. I’m planning on running today, though! The marathon is less than a month away. I have my longest run planned for this coming weekend, and we’ll see how it goes. My plane ticket is booked, so whether I’m ready or not, I’m going!

The Beach

/ alpenglow80 / Leave a comment

CR and I traveled to one of Patrick’s favorite places during the last week of August: Priscilla Beach in Plymouth, MA. His grandfather built a home on top of a hill overlooking Cape Cod Bay, and their family has been going there on summer weekends ever since. The last time Patrick was there was in November 2015 over Thanksgiving. His mom, siblings, first cousins, and families decorated gingerbread houses in teams — the kids eating more candy than they attached. We ate and danced, talked and cried (a little). The time together was happy. As we were leaving, Patrick stood with his mom and looked out over the ocean for a long time, and though he didn’t verbalize it, I knew he was saying goodbye.

img_7163

Returning to Priscilla Beach without Patrick was bittersweet. He wanted CR to enjoy the place and the time with family, and I hope we will be able to return for years to come. CR spent the week running with cousins, wading in the ocean (which was surprisingly warm, for once), digging in the sand, and laughing. Patrick led her to touch the water soon after she had learned to walk, and now she runs in on her own.

img_7166

MARATHON UPDATE:

The New York City Marathon is two months from today! My training has been lurching forward, at best. I’ve been beset by a sore hamstring, terrible blisters, and now an irritated IT band. I had hoped to run 12 miles this past weekend, but had to stop after 8.5 miles. Ugh. A note for all marathon running hopefuls: It’s a better idea to ALREADY be in shape and then start training for a marathon rather than get in shape WHILE training for a marathon. Onward, HO! Please support B*CURED!

These are the wages of mortal love

/ alpenglow80 / Leave a comment

This past Wednesday evening, I was in the audience for a conversation between author FullSizeRender (2)Ann Patchett and Dr. Lucy Kalanithi. Lucy’s husband, Dr. Paul Kalanithi wrote When Breath Becomes Air at age 37, the last year of his life; the book was published in January 2016. I was invited to the event by Patrick’s colleague Peter who wrote in his invitation, “I read the book (When Breath Becomes Air) and it so reminded me of both the beauty and sadness of Patrick’s journey.” With those words, I knew I had to, one, attend the event, and two, read the book.

When Breath Becomes Air is Paul Kalanithi’s memoir and account of his battle with terminal lung cancer. He was a neurosurgery resident at Stanford and 36 at the time of his diagnosis. Dr. Kalanithi’s reflections on his work as a neurosurgeon offer and extraordinary window into the life and caliber of doctors that treated Patrick. But more powerfully, how he faced his diagnosis mirrored so many of Patrick’s (and our) struggles with a terminal illness at a young age. Neither of these men feared dying, and they approached their living with a terrible cancer similarly. Dr. Kalanithi wrote, “I would have to learn to live in a different way, seeing death as an imposing itinerant visitor but knowing that even if I’m dying, until I actually die, I am still living.” Patrick, determined to live each day of his life, would greet the morning with joy, hope, and a sense of purpose.

Dr. Kalanithi wrote, “Because the brain mediates our experience of the world, any neurosurgical problem forces a patient and family, ideally with a doctor as a guide, to answer this question: What makes life meaningful enough to go on living?” Throughout his book, Dr. Kalanithi probes both neuroscience and literature for that answer. Patrick spent much of his own professional career trying to understand and share with others what makes a meaningful life, and having brain cancer distilled that purpose into his day to day existence. Perhaps Paul and Patrick are now contemplating this existential question together; perhaps, now, they don’t have to. They might also share their passion for the written word and how they bathed their infant daughters in that love: Patrick read passages of Anna Karenina to CR; “Paul would hold Cady in his writing chair, reading aloud works by Robert Frost, T.S. Eliot, Whittenstein.”

PATRICK's Favorite Photo of Clara

Throughout Wednesday’s event, Lucy spoke in terms that resonated with my experience: a young widowed mother grieving. Lucy and Ann talked about how being in the presence of someone dying forever changes one’s perspective on living. Ann put words to a phenomenon that I experienced with Patrick during his final months: Being in the room with him, I entered “a light that [I stayed] in, and that clarity [was] gorgeous.” Our priorities were clear: one another; our daughter; our families; time together.

Ann continued, “That light and clarity linger, and it is jarring to be in the noise of people not living in that light, crushing to hear the babble of idiocy of normal life.” I had that sense in those final months and shortly after Patrick died. I would go out on errands and overhear the banal frustrations of people in public areas (railing at crowds, traffic, petty slights, or irate at not being able to remove the wrapper from a tuna sandwich). I would roll my eyes to hear people so upset by the trivial, and I would have to stop myself from yelling, “Do you have any idea how stupid you sound!? Do you have any concept of the REAL suffering in MY life, in countless lives worldwide!? Shut up! Get a grip!” But in entering the public sphere with my own silent pain, I also became more aware and sensitive to the fact that every person is walking around with an unknown, unspoken burden; I tried to interact with each stranger I encountered accordingly, recognizing that a small kindness could make just the needed difference.

A phrase was quoted during Ann and Lucy’s conversation, and I only captured its essence: These moments of grief and pain that we bereaved endure are “the wages of mortal love.”

I will close with a quote from one of Patrick’s favorite authors, Wendell Berry, from his novel Jaber Crow: “I don’t believe that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.”

MARATHON UPDATE:

I am running again! I have gotten up to regular 5k runs, which is an improvement from last month. I still have hamstring discomfort, but the longer I run, the looser and more comfortable my stride becomes. Weekly physical therapy appointments will continue in the near term. Summer has been hot, even in the high country, but I have enjoyed the time outside.

I am running the New York Marathon for Patrick and to raise money for B*CURED, a wonderful organization funding brain cancer research. Please support the cause!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Keep the Bright Memories

/ alpenglow80 / Leave a comment

In quiet moments in the past months, I have found myself dwelling on the difficulties of Patrick’s rapid decline. I saw the suffering and burden he bore by first not being able to use his right hand, next walking with difficulty, and finally not being able to support weight on his right side at all. The traumas of his last days sometimes crowd out the happy memories of years together. I have to deliberately shift my mental focus to the multitude of joys we shared, but often the stress and sadness of his final days seep back to the fore.

12633554_10102100890151093_5887978298985833659_o

Mother/Daughter adventure boots. January 2016

I am thankful for the slide show of photos that play nightly on a digital frame in our kitchen. The images recall the joy and the adventures of our lives: Pictures from before we met; our first summer together; our first apartment; friends; trips; and hundreds of CR. In the background, though, the echo of Patrick’s death reverberates loudly in our home and in our thoughts. Day-to-day, however, we are happy, and my daughter and I will continue to enjoy and capture moments that will one day rotate in our slide show.

CR picked up a rock at her preschool yesterday, black and river polished, and as she held it out to me she said, “This is my Daddy Phone. He called me from Heaven and said he would come to see me. I can call him and talk to him whenever I want.” Moments and conversations like these have been frequent with CR the past few months. I know that she was aware of his illness and of his increasing debilitation (she notices and comments on people with slings or canes: “Just like Daddy,” she’ll say). Her memories of her father are happy and, for her, normal.

Adjusting to life as a widowed parent has been a separate challenge; more often than not we are late getting out of the house in the morning, and I end up late for work. CR and I recently traveled to attend the funeral of my aunt, who also had lost her battle to cancer. There were moments of cajoling and carrying my daughter so we could stay together in airport terminals. She had an accident on the plane, and I didn’t have a change of clothes for her, so she deplaned wearing my sweatshirt as a skirt, which she had to keep hitching up as we made our way to baggage claim. Managing her and our bags was both comical and harrying. I was initially concerned that CR would not react well to attending another funeral so soon after her father’s, but we approached it as a celebration of my aunt’s life, and framed it for her as a party where we got to see our family. Again, she amazed me with her resilience and joy.

My uncle, too, will most likely suffer from the trauma of witnessing a difficult death. I hope for him that he is able to keep the bright memories of his wife’s life at the ready.

MARATHON UPDATE:

The marathon training has insisted that I pay attention to my body. A lingering ache in my right hamstring led me seek-out a physical therapist, and my weekly appointments bring Patrick to mind. Patrick never resigned himself to his diagnosis or to the physical manifestations of his tumor. At every turn, he looked for help to maintain and strengthen what he could for as long as he could. I gained a deep respect for the work his physical and occupational therapists did with Patrick, and I’m glad to be working with a physical therapist on my own body. I have given up two weeks of running already to build strength and gain flexibility in my legs, which pales in comparison to Patrick’s efforts to be well. I am frustrated by my own set-back, and yet, it is a reminder of why I signed on for a marathon in the first place — to honor Patrick’s struggle with cancer.

You have everything you need

/ alpenglow80 / 1 Comment

The very last text message to me from Patrick was sent on January 6, 2016 and reads, “Go ski! Maybe that’s already your plan for the morning!” I was trying to recreate that day from memory, and I couldn’t. I must have driven CR into daycare and gone into my office for a few hours. I hope that I did go ski on the Nordic track in town before I headed home, but I can’t be sure. Chances are I didn’t go.

12977000_10102238649864523_8698626684607419925_o

Springtime in the Rockies

That’s the way Patrick was—always encouraging me (and many others) to do the things I loved. I didn’t always listen to his advice. Like most mothers and caregivers I know, I put our young daughter’s and my sick husband’s needs before my own. I bristled at the encouragement because I had a “to do” list in my head that didn’t include time for myself. In training for a marathon, I feel I am finally heeding Patrick’s advice to just “GO!”

I’m three weeks into the training, and I wonder how I will ever get up to a marathon distance! I am still walk/jogging a 5k, and it feels like work. There was a time when running was effortless, but given the past few years of relative inactivity, my body is protesting, hamstrings and hips particularly. But, I am determined. I can hear Patrick saying, “What’s holding you back? You have everything you need to make this happen!”

Language of Loss

/ alpenglow80 / 1 Comment

I am currently at a professional conference. My daughter, who is three, is with my mom at our home. This is the first time I’ve been away from her for more than the workday since Patrick died. I got a FaceTime call last night from CR, and she was gasping sobs, wanting me to be there as she went to sleep. I sang her some songs– ours are “Twinkle Twinkle” and “Over the Rainbow” — and my mom reported that she went to sleep pretty easily after we had said goodnight.

img_0518The opening speaker at the conference was CNN’s Anderson Cooper, who was promoting his new book about his relationship with his mother, Gloria Vanderbilt. Cooper lost his father when he was only ten years old and lost his brother to suicide when he was a senior in college. He said two things during his talk that I found haunting:

  1. Regarding the death of his father, he said he realized that “all things are possible and nothing is safe.” CR is much younger to have suffered our loss, but I think her tears last night may have been rooted in a fear that, like her father, there is a possibility that I might not come back.
  2. After his brother’s suicide, Cooper sought out war zones to report on because, as he put it, “I wanted to be around people who spoke the language of loss.” CR and I talk about her father on a daily basis, and she usually initiates the conversation. This is our shared experience. My three-year-old and I speak a language of loss that none of our peers have yet learned; Her friends all still have daddies; My friends are either recently married or still single. In my family, I am the first faced with raising a child without a spouse.

Tonight’s bedtime phone call was much better–no heart wrenching sobs–but the anxiousness in CR’s voice about my absence is evidence of this new language she’s been forced to learn. Does the death of someone you love make you instantly fluent in the language of loss, or like all new languages, does it take years to learn?

P.S. The running continues. I am sore, and the soft skin of my feet is tender, but as I alternated walking and running in the crisp air of early morning, I felt hopeful and happy and glad of the effort.

P.P.S. I promise I wrote my blog’s tag line BEFORE I saw Cooper’s book cover!

26.2

/ alpenglow80 / Leave a comment

My husband died at 6 am two months ago today. I was sleeping near him and was
awakened by a change in his breathing. I was able to hold his hand as his chest rose and fell for the last time. He was so peaceful and unlabored, surrounded by love and the warmth of our home. Our daughter awoke and called for me at the same moment of his last breath, and I have to believe that we both sensed his passing – a blessing from our wonderful man. He was fully himself until the last day, including his ability to speak and laugh with us.56b3ac43a589b4e5222f65d0.jpg

We sat with him for two hours before the hospice nurses arrived. Our daughter was able to hold his hand and to tell him goodbye. I know she does not fully grasp the impact that today will have on her life, and we will continue to process her father’s death and absence for years to come.

Witnessing my husband’s death carried its own beauty and power. He was my best friend, a deeply devoted son and brother, and the most loving father. He touched so many in his life with his calm manner, attentive listening, and deep intelligence. He faced his terrible brain tumor diagnosis with courage, grace, and hope. His faith remained unshaken, and he faced the end without fear or regret. May we all be so blessed.

The summer I first met my husband, Patrick, I was training for a marathon. I had been a competitive athlete in college, and after graduation, I decided I was going to train for and run a race. I had a summer internship near my college town. All of my friends had left to start their lives. So, at 22, I felt like I didn’t have much else to do besides work and run. There is more to that summer to write about later.

Patrick’s cousin sent around an email last week that he is going to start training for this year’s New York City marathon; he is running to raise money for brain cancer research, and he emailed the family to see who wanted to join the team. I remember thinking after I finished my first one that I would never punish myself in that way again. Never say never. The last week has brought blizzards to our mountain town, but I am planning to strap on my running shoes! The arrival of our daughter, Patrick’s illness, work, and other excuses have sidelined my more athletic ambitions of late. Enough! Fighting cancer is an ultra-marathon! I witnessed Patrick fight so hard, give clinical trials a chance, and endure physical discomfort for nearly two years to try to beat his tumor. What is training for and running a marathon compared to that?!

I am basically starting from zero, but I’m going to start training and fundraising to run. My family, Patrick’s memory, the race, and the cause are just the motivators I need. What I hope will come is a chance to grieve, to reflect on our lives together, and to rebuild my strength. An e.e. cummings poem was central at our wedding and during our marriage: i carry your heart with me. Patrick, I carry your heart into this endeavor and into all things.