A little over five years ago, I was drifting through the halls of Dana-Farber Cancer Institute as my mother was receiving chemotherapy. I was restless walking those halls, as many people were. Watching a loved one suffer both from a disease and the medicine that is supposed to make them better is extremely frustrating and disempowering. I was walking those halls because there was nothing else I could do.
I came across a poster for the Dana-Farber Half-Marathon Team, and I knew right away that it would be a perfect outlet for my restlessness as well as a way to keep athletics in my life. A part of me wanted to put myself through something as painful as what my Mom was experiencing.
I ran my first half-marathon in the fall of 2004, and my second the next year. My Mom was there both times cheering me on. The second time it was freezing and raining, and she still made it out to the race course. She was at the 12 mile marker, clapping her hands and smiling. I ran over and gave her and hug and kiss and then continued on, finishing the race in 1:39, 14 minutes faster than the previous year. I knew I was ready for a bigger challenge. I was accepted to the DF Marathon Team the same day.
My Mom's health started to deteriorate that fall. Although she hadn't told me or my sister, she had been feeling so good through the summer and early fall because she had stopped her chemotherapy. None of it had worked. The cancer had spread to her lungs and liver. Maybe it was for the better, because thinking back to that time, she seemed really happy. Her hair had grown back. She wasn't feeling nauseous. She had an appetite again. I will never ever forget the weekend my fiance, Joe, and I met her on Nantucket in early September to pack up our cottage because it had been sold. We pulled up to the cottage and got out of the moving van. It was a beautiful, warm, late summer day. Mom appeared from around the side of the house smiling; she had been sitting in the sun, sketching. She looked so happy and content. Joe turned to me and said "your Mom looks so great."
That December is a blur to me. It started with my Mom not getting out of bed for two days straight and Joe convincing me to call 911. From the front seat of an ambulance, I watched the snow fall in the streets of Boston. I don't have the energy to go into all the details now, but at the hospital we learned my Mom had stopped her chemo months ago, and that she was in fact, going to die.
Once Mom was back at home, I had trouble leaving the house. I would try and make it out on the weekends for my long runs, but I would rush through them, trying to get home as quickly as possible. I felt exhausted all the time. By Christmas, my mother had entered hospice care, and was no longer awake. Two days after Christmas, she was gone.
To say that my running kept me sane is an understatement. I had signed up to run the marathon in honor of my mother, and would now be running it in memory of her. It was something she knew I wanted to do, and I was going to do it, even though she wouldn't be there to cheer me on. My training was cathartic. I liked the challenge of ice-covered paths and biting winds; I wanted it to be as hard as possible. I was irritable and angry if I didn't get out for a run. I still wonder how Joe tolerated me during that time.
The marathon was the one of the most thrilling, challenging, and exciting four hours of my life. I had been grasping at memories and dreams of my mother for months after her death, but during the race, I really felt like she was with me. There was a lightness in my heart and power in my legs. I knew I would finish the race. The support from family, friends, and complete strangers along the course was incredible. I made the final turn onto Boylston Street, and saw my sister screaming and waving a sign. I crossed the finish line a few minutes later and took a deep breath. I tried to stay composed as I thought about the one person who I hadn't seen along the course that day, but who I knew had been with me. I turned in my chip, got my medal, and knew I would be back the next year.
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