Dear Monica,
Just a quick note to remind you of a few things. Please think of these as constructive criticism, not the heiney whomping you so richly deserve.
1. Confirm the start time of a race. Preferably the evening before the race as opposed to 30 seconds after you hear the starting gun fire.
Putting the race in your calendar (but not verifying all the details), printing out the confirmation ticket 4 days prior to the race (but not actually reading it), and thinking you know the start of the race is not the same as actually knowing the start time of the race. I'm jogging to the start when I hear the gun go off. I'm thinking "Oh, kids fun run!" Until I see lead pack of very post-pubescent men round the corner. Sprint in opposite direction ("she must have taken the small bus to the race...") about two tenths of a mile and somehow find the packet pick up. Which has been broken down. Nice lady goes into truck, gets number and chip. She's pinning my number on my shorts as I'm putting chip on shoe. She tells me “you better hurry to the start before they break it down…we've radioed down that you're coming” and I sprint toward it thinking that I’ve just used up about 75% of the energy I needed for the entire race…As I pass the starting line – alone - a dozen or so marines cheer me. Humilitation: I ran your gauntlet.
2. Turn on your Garmin well before you need it.
Realize my garmin isn't on. Power it up and it takes half a lifetime to synch. Make a turn onto a street and hope I can see people in the distance. I do, but…mirage? Warm and humid. I have no clue how fast I’m running or how far I’ve gone since Garmin is still scratching its rump. Realize I'm a slave to technology. Wonder how Phiddipedes managed without even the cheapest of Timex choronographs. Catch the walkers ...then the speed walkers...then the back of pack runners. Finally garmin synchs. I haven’t seen mile markers, so I start scanning the crowd of runners for signs of techno running geeks who can give me some clue as to time and distance.
3. As with starting time, make sure you KNOW the terrain.
At mile 2, make a turn into Prince William Park. I’m wearing racing flats which have the advantage of being nice and light, but the disadvantage of not having a lot of cushion. The pavement has been replaced by packed dirt and this big rocky gravel. Ow. Wonder how I'll handle many miles of this. Fortunately the nasty gravel goes away after a while. About the same time I realize I forgot the headband for my hair. While we have hills/trails it is shade covered which is great, and the glasses now are used as de facto headband.
4. In order to take care of essential pre-race business, see memo point #1.
Since I got to race late I was unable to attend to certain pre-race business. Take a bio break at the mile 4 fluid/aid station. It’s very warm/humid and I hadn’t had time to take my pre-race gel or drink as much Gatorade as I’d wanted, so I make the decision to hit every station: 3 gulps of Poweraid, dump cup of water on back of neck/head. One highpoint is I actually execute this in the correct order, which is good because it’s BLUE Poweraid and I would have hated to look like one of those blue smurfycats from Avatar in my race photo.
5. In order to not get frustrated at trying to pass a bunch of people on a narrow trail, see memo point #1.
The trail narrows and passing anyone is an exercise in patience. There are lots of up and downs and funky footing and it’s crowded on the trail. I keep weaving in and out of folks and try to be polite when I pass. There are times I wait rather than do the “gentle nudge past” (aka, ‘elbow shove’) because that person had the good sense to VERIFY WHEN THE RACE ACTUALLY STARTED. However, there is always the one guy. The one who is pissed when you try and pass, even though there is a mass of humanity in front of him. The one who thinks the only thing that stands between him and everlasting glory is NOT the 800 people in front of him, but the lady in the sweaty lime green sports bra next to him. We pass someone at about the same time, and then he tries to lose me. He speeds up and I just keep running my pace and eventually am even with him. He does it again. And a third time. I realize he is incensed he's getting passed by an old broad. I'm thinking "Dude, I started probably 5 minutes behind you." Cue eye roll.
6. Take a peek at the course elevation before the race.
Before I know it I'm about halfway thru. I have no clue what my elapsed time is so I'm just treating it as a hard workout. Then we hit hills. We'd had some up and downs but the trail is now road and these things are monsters. At 8.5 there is a hill so steep I can almost walk it as fast as run it (yes, I test the theory, what the heck, the race is a complete cluster at this point). Then steep down hills which are equally painful. And another half-mile long exquisitely painful hill. Exit park at about 9.5 miles into full sun. Move glasses from top of head to eyes: they are totally smudged and icky. Hit the 10 mile mark, and feel ok - legs are trashed from hills - I'm tired, its hot, and I just want to be done. But at least we’re on flat pavement. We make a turn on the street that goes to the National Museum of the Marine Corps and the finish. It’s uphill. At this point I want a quick death. Turn into entrance to museum - still uphill. And, well, I start grunting. Literally. Every exhale I'm sounding like Monica Seles hitting a killer forehand. Embarassing but I'm exhausted.
7. There is no grunting in road races.
Finally the uphill gives way to a gentle downhill. I see the finish line. I’m grunting louder and louder which is just disturbing. TO ME. I can't speak for those who were running near me. I cross the finish line and continue the gruntfest. A Marine hands me a bottled water and I hand it to another because I swear I can’t open it. He does it without asking questions because any Marine has good sense enough not to mess with a grunting, sweaty, stinky, exhausted, organizationally-challenged woman. And don’t even talk to me about the race photos…we're talking a Code Blue to the Makeup Unit.
8. Marines run great races.
All runners can appreciate a well-organized, well-staffed, well-stocked race. But there are also the very special ‘only the Marines’ intangibles that make these races so special: a strong "looking good ma’am", the funny signs planted at intervals throughout the race, my favorite pair being a photo of a barking drill Sergeant and “MY GRANDPA IS ABOUT TO PASS YOU…” followed by “IN HIS WALKER!!!!!”, a randomly called ‘OORAH’, and the finish line organization that is world class. Not to mention the fact that they bent over backward to the disorganized piker who couldn't even get to the starting line on time. And beer company race sponors. Which mean BEER AT THE FINISH. 9:15 am, Micholob Ultra, Breakfast of Champions. Oorah.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Enduring Love
It is early morning in Manassas, Virginia. The sky to the east is just showing the first colors of purple and red. Mickey Johnson, 47, makes his way to the end of the driveway, ready to set off on a morning run. Today holds 6 miles, part of his marathon training regimen. He reaches the bottom of the driveway and looks down a small hill. It’s the hill his 3 children would ascend on their trip home from the bus stop. Justin and Daniela, his two older kids, would be ahead, bickering, laughing, their packs bouncing on their backs with the rhythm of their stops. Cody would be behind them. He was quiet, and air of calm around this normally frenetic child. Mick would wonder if it was the work going up the hill, the weight of the pack, or just the fatigue from a full day of school. Mickey smells the air. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath trying to catch a familiar scent.
It’s August 13th, 2009 and 12 friends who have never met meet for time at a Forum Event. All of these runners post on the Masters Forum of the Runners World On-Line Discussion Boards. While they normally share daily workouts, training tips, and race results on line, this “FE” gives them the rare chance to gather and share a meal before a race. They all agree that the Masters Forum is a special place, that it fosters incredible friendship. They have a digital community of runners from different walks of life whose foundation for acquaintance are the common bricks of running, cemented by mortar of dedication and shared sacrifice. They tend to be over 40, but the Masters Forum attracts those younger than, those who are looking for the sweet, grounded advice of those who have been around the block or the track more than a few times. There is a sense not only of kinship, but that they have each others back: a DNF is met with words of encouragement, a PR is a group celebration. There are even non-running topics discussed and shared: a new job, a child’s graduation, a move to a new city.
The organizer of this group, Scott Reiss, lives in the events home state. The others have travelled from a confetti of locales - Indiana, Virginia, New York , Maryland,– and will run multiple legs and double digit miles in the ‘100 on 100 Heart of Vermont Relay’ that rolls through the Green mountains from the Trapp Family Lodge one hundred miles to Ludlow, VT.
The next day, race day, is forecasted to be warm and sunny. These newly minted friends eat, laugh, and share stories. They review details for the next day’s race, fret about the weather, terrain, clothing, and food. This is what runners do: they sweat the details as much as the miles. However - unlike other races - they are here not to chase a PR or win an age group. They are here to honor a child they have never met: Cody Johnson.
Cody Johnson was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroblastoma 3 days before his 2nd birthday. He was born on the first anniversary of the 9-11 terror attacks and grew to be a feisty, spirit-filled toddler. Neuroblastoma is an “orphan” cancer: it occurs almost exclusively in children under the age of 10 and as such doesn’t benefit from research done on cancers such as leukemia and lymphoma that strike both adult and child populations. The average age of a child diagnosed with Lymphoma is 17 months, so young the child can’t articulate their pain. Like Cody’s case, 70% are not diagnosed until the disease has spread.
Cody was admitted to Georgetown Hospital for 10 days of baseline testing. His radiology scans lit up, the cancer present in every part of his body. A round of high-dose chemo was ordered and required Cody to be in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for 31 days where Mickey slept every night in a chair next to Cody’s bed. Cody suffered from the treatment: he vomited a pitcher full of blood from cancer-infected adenoids. He suffered fevers and side effects from the toxic chemicals. Surgery was required to remove the remains of lung and kidney tumors, as well as his adrenal gland and surrounding lymph nodes. The final step in his 4 month treatment – during which he rarely was home for more than 24 hours at a time – was a stem-cell transplant. The transplant had complications - Cody had a reaction to one of the transplant drugs. His lungs filled with blood and he suffered congestive heart failure and partial kidney failure. His oxygen intake dropped to 30%; doctors worked through the night to save him. A priest was called to the floor to be on stand by. His condition was minute-to- minute for 9 frightening days. Mickey and his wife, Diane, kept vigil over their fragile son, praying for a miracle, praying for their 2- year- old to endure and pull through. He survived those harrowing days and greeted the nurses treating him by throwing anything he could reach at them.
The 100 –on-100 was not the first time the RWOL masters had come together to support Cody. In April, Bill Allen – a member of the 2009 US World 24-Hour Run Team - put out a call to the Masters Forum and organized a team for the Virginia 24 hour Run for Cancer - 24 hour Ultra and Relay. Bill had been deeply moved by Cody’s struggle and wanted to support the Johnson family. He found the race and was committed to participating, despite it being a few short weeks before the World Championships in Italy. Ten ROWL Masters made the trek – from Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Mississippi, New Jersey, and Virginia – to run for Cody. Bill made a flag that each would carry.
One participant, Shannon McGinn, 33, drove from Rahway, NJ to run in Virginia. Diagnosed at 29 with breast cancer, she survived and took up the sport of running. This race is special because she is raising money to fight the illness that has so personally touched her. In doing so, she abandons her bib for the 113th Boston Marathon to be contested the Monday after this relay. It was to be her first Boston, but it matters little to her: she understands all too clearly the fight for life against this disease; Boston can wait.
Nine of the ten participants complete 50 miles during the 24-hour relay and each carry the “Cody’s Crew” flag. During the dark hours on the trail, Mickey thinks often of the pain his young boy endured; these miles become spiritual for him, an act of contrition, perhaps, that parents feel for not being able to spare their children from certain pain. Cody’s Beach Bound Crew of Pirates raises $1200 for Neuroblastoma research.
Cody’s first treatment caused agony beyond imagination. While he’d learned to walk before the disease struck, he needed to re-learn the skill – twice – due to muscle atrophy caused by the cancer treatments. When Cody finished his treatments, Mickey looked at his own physical health and found it wanting. He took up running and put his sights on running the Richmond Marathon in November, 2006. Race day was unseasonably warm and as he struggled with cramps and fatigue over the last half of the course, he thought of his son – his image on his t-shirt and the words “Cody is My Reason” – and the pain he had endured. He thought of the treatments that would cause Cody’s lips to blister and peel, the mucositis that resulted in the degeneration of the lining of Cody’s mouth. Drinking milk from a bottle felt like drinking shards of glass. He thought of Cody’s first words, and how they related to the hospital, the drugs, his treatments. Mickey knew that his own fatigue and cramps were nothing, that the discomfort was temporary. He knew when his pain would end, that whatever agony he was feeling was but a small slice of what Cody had. Cody had survived his first brush with cancer; Mickey would finish this race.
Race day in Vermont dawns cool but the sun will quickly heat up the course. Each team member will carry the Cody’s Crew flag during the relay. Eric Cheung of New York City is the lead-off runner for Team 1 of Cody’s Crew. He’d met Mickey at a Masters FE at the 2007 Philadelphia Marathon, and found him to be as ebullient and warm as the man on the boards. Mickey believed with all his heart that Cody was cured, but his son’s battle for health was a constant, the disease has a frighteningly high rate of recurrence. Eric could feel this weight on Mickey. “When the 100-on-100 teams were recruiting runners, I felt a strong urge to do something, anything to help.”
Somehow, this 6-year-old boy has infected these runners with his toughness and determination. During each of the 3 legs of this hundred mile relay, they’ll think often of Cody, this boy they know but never met. They feel a common mission, a common a purpose. None can put a finger on it; perhaps it is that Mickey could have been any of them, that Cody could have been any of their sons. Tobey Hobbes of Indiana would later reflect “The emotional energy and sense of purpose from these other 11 people was so contagious that you couldn’t help feeling like we were all one big family.”
When Karen Faber, 42, of Bowie Maryland, signed up, she knew nothing about Cody or Cody’s Crew. She stumbled upon a thread in the RWOL Masters Forum looking for a runner to fill in for a participant who had withdrawn. “At the time I knew very little about Cody or Mickey or neuroblastoma. But I liked to run and I wanted to see Vermont.” During her preparations for the race she frequented the Masters forum more often. “I started learning more about Cody… I read about the 24 hour relay in Hampton, and I found out that there was this big, compassionate group of runners out there…”
It is 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2007. Cody is cranky, his belly is hurting. He’s a typical 5- year- old: he’s started kindergarten, he loves his teachers, he tests the rules. He gets tired and cranky at the end of the day but he loves getting on that bus with his siblings Justin and Daniela. Mickey and Diane take him to the doctor thinking he has nothing more than a virus. But the beast is back, Cody has relapsed: Scans show an enormous tumor on his liver. One of the top Neuroblastoma surgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering declares the tumor inoperable. Mick and Diane refuse to surrender. They find a surgeon at Georgetown University hospital who will perform an 85% liver resection. Before the surgery, Cody goes through additional rounds of chemo to shrink the tumor. Santa visits the children’s Oncology unit at Georgetown University hospital. Mickey is there and uncertain how Cody will react; he has been in a foul mood all morning. Cody is angry; his world has been upended yet again. He’s had to withdraw from his beloved kindergarten. He has to have the toxic chemicals with their nausea and hair loss infused in his veins. He wants to be home with his family. He submits to the treatment but has tantrums in between: he is incensed at this intrusion in his life. Cody sees the bearded man in red and hesitantly approaches him, then wraps his arms around him and hugs him for nearly half a minute. A Washington Post reporter is on hand to capture the moment.
The organizer of this group, Scott Reiss, lives in the events home state. The others have travelled from a confetti of locales - Indiana, Virginia, New York , Maryland,– and will run multiple legs and double digit miles in the ‘100 on 100 Heart of Vermont Relay’ that rolls through the Green mountains from the Trapp Family Lodge one hundred miles to Ludlow, VT.
The next day, race day, is forecasted to be warm and sunny. These newly minted friends eat, laugh, and share stories. They review details for the next day’s race, fret about the weather, terrain, clothing, and food. This is what runners do: they sweat the details as much as the miles. However - unlike other races - they are here not to chase a PR or win an age group. They are here to honor a child they have never met: Cody Johnson.
Cody Johnson was diagnosed with stage 4 neuroblastoma 3 days before his 2nd birthday. He was born on the first anniversary of the 9-11 terror attacks and grew to be a feisty, spirit-filled toddler. Neuroblastoma is an “orphan” cancer: it occurs almost exclusively in children under the age of 10 and as such doesn’t benefit from research done on cancers such as leukemia and lymphoma that strike both adult and child populations. The average age of a child diagnosed with Lymphoma is 17 months, so young the child can’t articulate their pain. Like Cody’s case, 70% are not diagnosed until the disease has spread.
Cody was admitted to Georgetown Hospital for 10 days of baseline testing. His radiology scans lit up, the cancer present in every part of his body. A round of high-dose chemo was ordered and required Cody to be in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for 31 days where Mickey slept every night in a chair next to Cody’s bed. Cody suffered from the treatment: he vomited a pitcher full of blood from cancer-infected adenoids. He suffered fevers and side effects from the toxic chemicals. Surgery was required to remove the remains of lung and kidney tumors, as well as his adrenal gland and surrounding lymph nodes. The final step in his 4 month treatment – during which he rarely was home for more than 24 hours at a time – was a stem-cell transplant. The transplant had complications - Cody had a reaction to one of the transplant drugs. His lungs filled with blood and he suffered congestive heart failure and partial kidney failure. His oxygen intake dropped to 30%; doctors worked through the night to save him. A priest was called to the floor to be on stand by. His condition was minute-to- minute for 9 frightening days. Mickey and his wife, Diane, kept vigil over their fragile son, praying for a miracle, praying for their 2- year- old to endure and pull through. He survived those harrowing days and greeted the nurses treating him by throwing anything he could reach at them.
The 100 –on-100 was not the first time the RWOL masters had come together to support Cody. In April, Bill Allen – a member of the 2009 US World 24-Hour Run Team - put out a call to the Masters Forum and organized a team for the Virginia 24 hour Run for Cancer - 24 hour Ultra and Relay. Bill had been deeply moved by Cody’s struggle and wanted to support the Johnson family. He found the race and was committed to participating, despite it being a few short weeks before the World Championships in Italy. Ten ROWL Masters made the trek – from Pennsylvania, Delaware, Maryland, Mississippi, New Jersey, and Virginia – to run for Cody. Bill made a flag that each would carry.
One participant, Shannon McGinn, 33, drove from Rahway, NJ to run in Virginia. Diagnosed at 29 with breast cancer, she survived and took up the sport of running. This race is special because she is raising money to fight the illness that has so personally touched her. In doing so, she abandons her bib for the 113th Boston Marathon to be contested the Monday after this relay. It was to be her first Boston, but it matters little to her: she understands all too clearly the fight for life against this disease; Boston can wait.
Nine of the ten participants complete 50 miles during the 24-hour relay and each carry the “Cody’s Crew” flag. During the dark hours on the trail, Mickey thinks often of the pain his young boy endured; these miles become spiritual for him, an act of contrition, perhaps, that parents feel for not being able to spare their children from certain pain. Cody’s Beach Bound Crew of Pirates raises $1200 for Neuroblastoma research.
Cody’s first treatment caused agony beyond imagination. While he’d learned to walk before the disease struck, he needed to re-learn the skill – twice – due to muscle atrophy caused by the cancer treatments. When Cody finished his treatments, Mickey looked at his own physical health and found it wanting. He took up running and put his sights on running the Richmond Marathon in November, 2006. Race day was unseasonably warm and as he struggled with cramps and fatigue over the last half of the course, he thought of his son – his image on his t-shirt and the words “Cody is My Reason” – and the pain he had endured. He thought of the treatments that would cause Cody’s lips to blister and peel, the mucositis that resulted in the degeneration of the lining of Cody’s mouth. Drinking milk from a bottle felt like drinking shards of glass. He thought of Cody’s first words, and how they related to the hospital, the drugs, his treatments. Mickey knew that his own fatigue and cramps were nothing, that the discomfort was temporary. He knew when his pain would end, that whatever agony he was feeling was but a small slice of what Cody had. Cody had survived his first brush with cancer; Mickey would finish this race.
Race day in Vermont dawns cool but the sun will quickly heat up the course. Each team member will carry the Cody’s Crew flag during the relay. Eric Cheung of New York City is the lead-off runner for Team 1 of Cody’s Crew. He’d met Mickey at a Masters FE at the 2007 Philadelphia Marathon, and found him to be as ebullient and warm as the man on the boards. Mickey believed with all his heart that Cody was cured, but his son’s battle for health was a constant, the disease has a frighteningly high rate of recurrence. Eric could feel this weight on Mickey. “When the 100-on-100 teams were recruiting runners, I felt a strong urge to do something, anything to help.”
Somehow, this 6-year-old boy has infected these runners with his toughness and determination. During each of the 3 legs of this hundred mile relay, they’ll think often of Cody, this boy they know but never met. They feel a common mission, a common a purpose. None can put a finger on it; perhaps it is that Mickey could have been any of them, that Cody could have been any of their sons. Tobey Hobbes of Indiana would later reflect “The emotional energy and sense of purpose from these other 11 people was so contagious that you couldn’t help feeling like we were all one big family.”
When Karen Faber, 42, of Bowie Maryland, signed up, she knew nothing about Cody or Cody’s Crew. She stumbled upon a thread in the RWOL Masters Forum looking for a runner to fill in for a participant who had withdrawn. “At the time I knew very little about Cody or Mickey or neuroblastoma. But I liked to run and I wanted to see Vermont.” During her preparations for the race she frequented the Masters forum more often. “I started learning more about Cody… I read about the 24 hour relay in Hampton, and I found out that there was this big, compassionate group of runners out there…”
It is 2 days before Thanksgiving, 2007. Cody is cranky, his belly is hurting. He’s a typical 5- year- old: he’s started kindergarten, he loves his teachers, he tests the rules. He gets tired and cranky at the end of the day but he loves getting on that bus with his siblings Justin and Daniela. Mickey and Diane take him to the doctor thinking he has nothing more than a virus. But the beast is back, Cody has relapsed: Scans show an enormous tumor on his liver. One of the top Neuroblastoma surgeons at Memorial Sloan Kettering declares the tumor inoperable. Mick and Diane refuse to surrender. They find a surgeon at Georgetown University hospital who will perform an 85% liver resection. Before the surgery, Cody goes through additional rounds of chemo to shrink the tumor. Santa visits the children’s Oncology unit at Georgetown University hospital. Mickey is there and uncertain how Cody will react; he has been in a foul mood all morning. Cody is angry; his world has been upended yet again. He’s had to withdraw from his beloved kindergarten. He has to have the toxic chemicals with their nausea and hair loss infused in his veins. He wants to be home with his family. He submits to the treatment but has tantrums in between: he is incensed at this intrusion in his life. Cody sees the bearded man in red and hesitantly approaches him, then wraps his arms around him and hugs him for nearly half a minute. A Washington Post reporter is on hand to capture the moment.
“A gift for Santa too”, Washington Post
Elizabeth Scott, 44, a native of Vermont, has been an active fundraiser for cancer research for years. “You start feeling powerless and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the march of this beast.” She relishes the opportunity to raise money to combat the disease, and with good reason: it has claimed nearly the entire side of her father’s family: Her grandmother, uncle, and father all perished from colon cancer. Her sister has fought breast cancer. A cousin had lung cancer, another is fighting an aggressive brain tumor. “Running races for cancer research funding has given me a bit of peace, and a feeling of control over this disease.”
Rick Knuth from Fort Wayne, Indiana competes despite a nagging hip injury. A devout Catholic, he feels participating in the event is a spiritual call, to give something. “I have been blessed with three healthy daughters and just can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Mickey and Diane during Cody’s illness. Nobody should have to go through that.” During the difficult parts of the day’s racing he falls back on traditional Catholic prayers, saying countless Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
Cody endures additional cycles of chemotherapy and radiation during that winter and spring. Cody never complains about going to the hospital, but he doesn’t always willingly submit to the treatments. He misses kindergarten, and is thrilled when he is able to attend his class’ Valentines Day party. He’s excited to be going back and when he arrives Cody had hugs for everyone: the secretaries, the school nurse, even the principal. He goes to his classroom and hugs both of his teachers. Back at the hospital, Cody is Jekyll and Hyde with the nurses, charming one minute, angry the next. Mickey worries at how Cody lashes out, at how angry his little boy can be. In hindsight he realizes Cody was fighting back the only way he knew how. He has such spirit – he enters a room and takes it over with his smile, his laugh, his devilish charm.
The day goes from cool to very warm with temperatures reaching the 90’s. The course is very hilly and there are stretches where there is no relief from the sun. The relay runners feel the fatigue and discomfort from the course and heat. They carry Cody’s flag and all think of him during the tough stretches. Elizabeth is suffering from nausea, as is Mickey. Despite his second leg of the relay being relatively flat, the lack of shade is crippling. “Although it was relatively flat the heat just sucked the life right out of me.” The thought of Cody and all he had gone through kept him from walking during this leg. After he finishes this part of the relay he finds an ice cold stream and jumps in. He thinks about Cody’s favorite place, the beach.
Over the summer, the Johnson’s take Cody on a trip to Ocean City, Maryland,. The beach is Cody’s favorite place and it is a wonderful chance to be together without the intrusion of hospitals and doctors. The trip is a respite for the marathon treatments to come. In September, the Johnson’s take Cody to Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital in NYC to undergo 3F8 antibody treatments. These treatments are designed to attack any remaining cancer cells in Cody’s body and are the best protocol available to fight neuroblastoma. It is a painful process, each infusion causing more and more pain, and morphine rescues are often needed during the 20 minute treatments. Cody is in MSK for 2 weeks and passes his 6th birthday in the hospital. The doctors are hopeful: the results of the tests show Cody is tolerating the treatments well. He returns to MSK in October, and again in November to undergo additional cycles. It has been a year since his cancer has returned and they feel a corner has been turned, that Cody is getting better.
While the afternoon conditions are tough, Cody’s Crew is smiling: they are having so much fun. They joke about not making unscheduled stops at the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory that they will pass. They crew for each other, provide water for their runners on the course. Other runners question Cody’s Crew about the flag, and they are happy to spread the word, to share the mission. Later in the day, they are cheered along the course by other participants who have heard of their cause. They feel like running evangelists, spreading the gospel of Cody.
The Johnson’s hope is short-lived. It is December, 2008 and they are looking forward to spending the holidays together as a family. Just before Christmas, Mickey takes Cody to Georgetown University hospital for some tests. The whites of Cody’s eyes have developed some yellowing and the tests indicate increased bilirubin: something is going on with Cody’s liver. The doctors conclude that it is inflamed due to a virus, and work to get it stabilized. Just after Christmas, Cody begins to limp. He’d hurt his leg the last time he had been to New York City and this same leg is giving him trouble. Mickey and Diane pray it is related to the injury and the doctor thinks it may very well be. However, on December 30, 2008, a scan shows the presence of a bone lesion: the beast has returned.
The sun sets on the runners in Vermont. They have each started the third and final leg of the relay; they are closing in on the finish line. Teams 1 and 2 of Cody’s Crew run the third leg together. Their legs are sore and tired from the miles. Their feet hurt and the heat of the day has sapped much of their energy but the cooling air and the colors of dusk lift their spirits. They wear reflective vests, head lamps, reflective arm and leg bands. They see the faintly glowing figures of other runners. It is a spiritual, - almost holy - time for them.
Time. Runners seem to be centered on it, measuring miles and kilometers run in hours, minutes, seconds. Marathoners trying to qualify for Boston know all too well how long one second can be, the difference between standing on the starting line and sitting at home on Patriots day. But this evening in Vermont, the time it takes to run the course has ceased to have meaning. While these runners would normally want to speed through the miles as fast as possible – minimizing time - they instead savor it on this night. They remember how Cody loved his older brother Justin, and how his one wish was to be ten years old like him. That’s all Cody wanted, just a little more time. They have a new clarity of just how precious it is; Cody’s journey has given them that.
The presence of the cancer so soon after the 3F8 treatments is not good news. More lesions are found Cody is scheduled for chemo and radiation to try and knock it out fast. However, the chemo can’t be administered until his liver resumes normal functioning. The doctors wait as long as possible, and then have to settle on half doses of chemo to prevent further damaging his liver. They are balancing the delicate scales of time: they need time for his liver to heal, but every day they wait is a day the cancer grows. Cody starts treatment at the end of January and is home in time to watch his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers play in the Super Bowl. Photos of Cody show him smiling wide, excited. But one can’t help but notice his yellowed skin. It’s incongruous, to see the beautiful smile on this evidently ill child. His liver numbers continue to deteriorate and the doctors have to suspend the chemo.
Bill Barnes of Boston runs the final stretch of the relay with Mickey. They will carry the Cody’s Crew flags over the finish line. It is dark out and they chat amiably about the relay, their previous runs that day, how they felt. The air is so cool they can see their breath. They get very quiet. At that moment, Bill experiences his first ‘runners high’. “It was extremely dark and our senses of sound, scent, and touch took over from our sense of sight. We ran in silence except for the perfectly cadenced footsteps and breaths… We were, simply, two runners doing what we love to do.”
2 weeks later Cody’s stomach begins to hurt. When the Johnsons call the doctor, she tells them to come in the next day. This gives them pause: why wait, why not take him in now? She tells them gently that it is most likely the cancer, that it has spread. Scans reveal cancer covering 50% of Cody’s lungs. There are new spots on his liver in addition to the lesions on his leg; the progression of the disease is frighteningly fast. They cease all treatment. Mickey and Diane go into ‘Memory Making Overdrive’. They quickly plan a final trip to Florida, to get Cody back to his beloved beach. The trip is hard, Cody is ill and irritable. His skin is deeply yellow and people stare at him. He is quiet and tired during most of the time there; the cancer is wearing him down. They play miniature golf and he sits after each shot. He is only well enough to go to the beach one afternoon. They return home on March 1st and take Cody to Georgetown University Hospital for an evaluation. The cancer is rapidly advancing in his lungs and liver. Two weeks earlier Cody’s doctor had thought he might have 3 months left. She now says he has a week, perhaps two. His breathing is becoming more labored and he is in continual pain. They take Cody home with a morphine pump and oxygen. He is sleeping when Mickey and Diane have the hardest talk imaginable with Justin and Daniela: they have to tell them their little brother is dying.
Mickey would reflect on this time, this last leg of the relay. “There is nothing like running at night, along a lake, in the pitch dark with a friend and just listening to the sound of your shoes hitting the road.” He and Bill approach the finish line and see the cluster of the other ten members of Cody’s Crew waiting for them. “I can’t explain what I felt or what I remember at that moment. It was all just a blur. I remember all of the Cody’s Crew members hugging each other and the tears were flowing. It was all I had hoped it would be. I know my son was watching me and was very proud of all of us. I felt closer to Cody at that moment than I have since the day we lost him.” They crossed the finish line together, each of them holding their “Cody’s Crew” flag high.
Elizabeth Scott, 44, a native of Vermont, has been an active fundraiser for cancer research for years. “You start feeling powerless and that there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop the march of this beast.” She relishes the opportunity to raise money to combat the disease, and with good reason: it has claimed nearly the entire side of her father’s family: Her grandmother, uncle, and father all perished from colon cancer. Her sister has fought breast cancer. A cousin had lung cancer, another is fighting an aggressive brain tumor. “Running races for cancer research funding has given me a bit of peace, and a feeling of control over this disease.”
Rick Knuth from Fort Wayne, Indiana competes despite a nagging hip injury. A devout Catholic, he feels participating in the event is a spiritual call, to give something. “I have been blessed with three healthy daughters and just can’t imagine how difficult it must have been for Mickey and Diane during Cody’s illness. Nobody should have to go through that.” During the difficult parts of the day’s racing he falls back on traditional Catholic prayers, saying countless Hail Marys and Our Fathers.
Cody endures additional cycles of chemotherapy and radiation during that winter and spring. Cody never complains about going to the hospital, but he doesn’t always willingly submit to the treatments. He misses kindergarten, and is thrilled when he is able to attend his class’ Valentines Day party. He’s excited to be going back and when he arrives Cody had hugs for everyone: the secretaries, the school nurse, even the principal. He goes to his classroom and hugs both of his teachers. Back at the hospital, Cody is Jekyll and Hyde with the nurses, charming one minute, angry the next. Mickey worries at how Cody lashes out, at how angry his little boy can be. In hindsight he realizes Cody was fighting back the only way he knew how. He has such spirit – he enters a room and takes it over with his smile, his laugh, his devilish charm.
The day goes from cool to very warm with temperatures reaching the 90’s. The course is very hilly and there are stretches where there is no relief from the sun. The relay runners feel the fatigue and discomfort from the course and heat. They carry Cody’s flag and all think of him during the tough stretches. Elizabeth is suffering from nausea, as is Mickey. Despite his second leg of the relay being relatively flat, the lack of shade is crippling. “Although it was relatively flat the heat just sucked the life right out of me.” The thought of Cody and all he had gone through kept him from walking during this leg. After he finishes this part of the relay he finds an ice cold stream and jumps in. He thinks about Cody’s favorite place, the beach.
Over the summer, the Johnson’s take Cody on a trip to Ocean City, Maryland,. The beach is Cody’s favorite place and it is a wonderful chance to be together without the intrusion of hospitals and doctors. The trip is a respite for the marathon treatments to come. In September, the Johnson’s take Cody to Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital in NYC to undergo 3F8 antibody treatments. These treatments are designed to attack any remaining cancer cells in Cody’s body and are the best protocol available to fight neuroblastoma. It is a painful process, each infusion causing more and more pain, and morphine rescues are often needed during the 20 minute treatments. Cody is in MSK for 2 weeks and passes his 6th birthday in the hospital. The doctors are hopeful: the results of the tests show Cody is tolerating the treatments well. He returns to MSK in October, and again in November to undergo additional cycles. It has been a year since his cancer has returned and they feel a corner has been turned, that Cody is getting better.
While the afternoon conditions are tough, Cody’s Crew is smiling: they are having so much fun. They joke about not making unscheduled stops at the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream factory that they will pass. They crew for each other, provide water for their runners on the course. Other runners question Cody’s Crew about the flag, and they are happy to spread the word, to share the mission. Later in the day, they are cheered along the course by other participants who have heard of their cause. They feel like running evangelists, spreading the gospel of Cody.
The Johnson’s hope is short-lived. It is December, 2008 and they are looking forward to spending the holidays together as a family. Just before Christmas, Mickey takes Cody to Georgetown University hospital for some tests. The whites of Cody’s eyes have developed some yellowing and the tests indicate increased bilirubin: something is going on with Cody’s liver. The doctors conclude that it is inflamed due to a virus, and work to get it stabilized. Just after Christmas, Cody begins to limp. He’d hurt his leg the last time he had been to New York City and this same leg is giving him trouble. Mickey and Diane pray it is related to the injury and the doctor thinks it may very well be. However, on December 30, 2008, a scan shows the presence of a bone lesion: the beast has returned.
The sun sets on the runners in Vermont. They have each started the third and final leg of the relay; they are closing in on the finish line. Teams 1 and 2 of Cody’s Crew run the third leg together. Their legs are sore and tired from the miles. Their feet hurt and the heat of the day has sapped much of their energy but the cooling air and the colors of dusk lift their spirits. They wear reflective vests, head lamps, reflective arm and leg bands. They see the faintly glowing figures of other runners. It is a spiritual, - almost holy - time for them.
Time. Runners seem to be centered on it, measuring miles and kilometers run in hours, minutes, seconds. Marathoners trying to qualify for Boston know all too well how long one second can be, the difference between standing on the starting line and sitting at home on Patriots day. But this evening in Vermont, the time it takes to run the course has ceased to have meaning. While these runners would normally want to speed through the miles as fast as possible – minimizing time - they instead savor it on this night. They remember how Cody loved his older brother Justin, and how his one wish was to be ten years old like him. That’s all Cody wanted, just a little more time. They have a new clarity of just how precious it is; Cody’s journey has given them that.
The presence of the cancer so soon after the 3F8 treatments is not good news. More lesions are found Cody is scheduled for chemo and radiation to try and knock it out fast. However, the chemo can’t be administered until his liver resumes normal functioning. The doctors wait as long as possible, and then have to settle on half doses of chemo to prevent further damaging his liver. They are balancing the delicate scales of time: they need time for his liver to heal, but every day they wait is a day the cancer grows. Cody starts treatment at the end of January and is home in time to watch his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers play in the Super Bowl. Photos of Cody show him smiling wide, excited. But one can’t help but notice his yellowed skin. It’s incongruous, to see the beautiful smile on this evidently ill child. His liver numbers continue to deteriorate and the doctors have to suspend the chemo.
Bill Barnes of Boston runs the final stretch of the relay with Mickey. They will carry the Cody’s Crew flags over the finish line. It is dark out and they chat amiably about the relay, their previous runs that day, how they felt. The air is so cool they can see their breath. They get very quiet. At that moment, Bill experiences his first ‘runners high’. “It was extremely dark and our senses of sound, scent, and touch took over from our sense of sight. We ran in silence except for the perfectly cadenced footsteps and breaths… We were, simply, two runners doing what we love to do.”
2 weeks later Cody’s stomach begins to hurt. When the Johnsons call the doctor, she tells them to come in the next day. This gives them pause: why wait, why not take him in now? She tells them gently that it is most likely the cancer, that it has spread. Scans reveal cancer covering 50% of Cody’s lungs. There are new spots on his liver in addition to the lesions on his leg; the progression of the disease is frighteningly fast. They cease all treatment. Mickey and Diane go into ‘Memory Making Overdrive’. They quickly plan a final trip to Florida, to get Cody back to his beloved beach. The trip is hard, Cody is ill and irritable. His skin is deeply yellow and people stare at him. He is quiet and tired during most of the time there; the cancer is wearing him down. They play miniature golf and he sits after each shot. He is only well enough to go to the beach one afternoon. They return home on March 1st and take Cody to Georgetown University Hospital for an evaluation. The cancer is rapidly advancing in his lungs and liver. Two weeks earlier Cody’s doctor had thought he might have 3 months left. She now says he has a week, perhaps two. His breathing is becoming more labored and he is in continual pain. They take Cody home with a morphine pump and oxygen. He is sleeping when Mickey and Diane have the hardest talk imaginable with Justin and Daniela: they have to tell them their little brother is dying.
Mickey would reflect on this time, this last leg of the relay. “There is nothing like running at night, along a lake, in the pitch dark with a friend and just listening to the sound of your shoes hitting the road.” He and Bill approach the finish line and see the cluster of the other ten members of Cody’s Crew waiting for them. “I can’t explain what I felt or what I remember at that moment. It was all just a blur. I remember all of the Cody’s Crew members hugging each other and the tears were flowing. It was all I had hoped it would be. I know my son was watching me and was very proud of all of us. I felt closer to Cody at that moment than I have since the day we lost him.” They crossed the finish line together, each of them holding their “Cody’s Crew” flag high.
Every runner at one time or another questions his or her reason for being out there, for running mile after mile without regard to weather, fatigue, discomfort. But what makes runners go out of their way to run for a child they’ve never met? It makes you wonder about the nature of friendship, particularly of these friendships. Are they friends because of the running, is the sport the cement that holds these people together? Or is it something more, that the running and the Masters forum were the springboard for all of this? They started out with a common denominator of running, but at the end it wasn’t about the running; it was about Cody, he was their reason.
Kerry Lambert, also of Vermont later reflects on the weekend. “Cody deserves more…he deserves a legacy, a positive legacy. If our run and this race can raise funds and awareness that get us even a smidgeon closer to helping another child with this horrid disease, then sign me up. Make me a shirt, give me the flag, point me toward the race. I’ll run because I can…and because Cody can’t.”
Karen Faber – who joined the relay so she could see Vermont – left knowing she had been there for something much more meaningful than a weekend sightseeing trip. “I get a little choked up when I think about the weekend… I realized that I wasn’t just there to run a few miles in Vermont, I was there for something much bigger. I was there for Cody. I was there for an amazing kid that even after his death is doing great things through his parents and his dad’s running.”
Despite his tremendous loss, Mickey is overwhelmed by the generosity of both spirit and body of these people. “Runners are not afraid to work very hard for something they believe in. Where many people would just write a check from their check book to help, our team members did that plus wrote checks with their sweat, tears and pain.” He is humbled by their gesture. He intends to continue his fight and while his intention was to raise funds for a cure for neuroblastoma, he also finds he has collected willing volunteers who spread his mission a step, a block, a mile at a time. They are, after all, runners.
Mickey loved the smell of Cody’s hair, loved the way it felt on his face when Cody would sit on his lap. He feels Cody with him, in his aching heart. He misses him so much. Mickey opens his eyes. He takes one last look down the hill; Justin and Daniela will be headed down to the bus later that morning. He turns and starts out on his morning run. Cody is his reason.
Cody Johnson died on March 6th, 2009. He was 6 years old.
Donations to find a cure Neuroblastoma may be made to http://www.codys-crew.org/
Despite his tremendous loss, Mickey is overwhelmed by the generosity of both spirit and body of these people. “Runners are not afraid to work very hard for something they believe in. Where many people would just write a check from their check book to help, our team members did that plus wrote checks with their sweat, tears and pain.” He is humbled by their gesture. He intends to continue his fight and while his intention was to raise funds for a cure for neuroblastoma, he also finds he has collected willing volunteers who spread his mission a step, a block, a mile at a time. They are, after all, runners.
Mickey loved the smell of Cody’s hair, loved the way it felt on his face when Cody would sit on his lap. He feels Cody with him, in his aching heart. He misses him so much. Mickey opens his eyes. He takes one last look down the hill; Justin and Daniela will be headed down to the bus later that morning. He turns and starts out on his morning run. Cody is his reason.
Cody Johnson died on March 6th, 2009. He was 6 years old.
Donations to find a cure Neuroblastoma may be made to http://www.codys-crew.org/
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Goodnight, Moon
I’m driving south on I-95, a few dozen miles south of Manassas, Virginia. I'm listening to an audio book, but my mind keeps drifting. It is dark out, and I glance out the driver’s side window and see the full moon, bright in the sky.
I’m reflecting on this evening and thinking of similar evenings I’ve had this past year. I’ve just come from the wake of a child who spent nearly 5 of his 6 years battling the vicious beast of cancer. I was trying to make sense of it and not making any headway. The moon caught my eye.
I think back to last spring, when my Aunt died. She was in her late 70’s, and had been bedridden for many years after a stroke. In some ways, her death was a blessing. People talk of “quality of life” and hers was not one I envied. She’d had a full – if hard – life. She survived the sinking of the Andrea Dorea. She married and had 3 children, although her third child – a girl – was born severely disabled and institutionalized nearly from birth. She had a loving family. Her death was sad – she was a beloved family member. But she had had her fair shot at life. It may not have been even close to perfect, but she got to the starting line and ran the race. I could do the math on this one.
In December, my family was hit with the sudden and very tragic death of my cousin Melissa. The last time I’d seen her alive was at her wedding, not 18 months earlier. A lifelong epileptic, her neurologist changed her medication so she could safely carry the baby she and her husband so wanted to have. Melissa was a feisty one, and I remember thinking when she was 12 or 13 that she was ‘an old soul’. I don’t know if I attributed it to her illness or her status of “first born’, but I had this vague notion that she was born a few years later than she should have; She always seemed to be a few squares ahead of her peers in the game of Life. As tough as she was, she was 10 times a sweet and loving and giving. She was the uber-aunt, adored by her nieces, the person ready to jump in and help at a moment’s notice. While she swore – as a 20-something year old – that she would never marry or have children, she fond her soul mate, a sweet, burly teddy bear of a man. At 37 she married, and from there they started their all-too-short journey. The medication switch fatally altered her blood chemistry, and shortly before Christmas, she collapsed. She was rushed to the hospital and put on life support. It was December in Milwaukee, and it was snowing. My Aunt later related while eulogizing her daughter that her condition was getting grim. Her niece pulled her over to a window – it was dark out – and she pointed to something under a lit street lamp: a single, perfect snow angel. There were no boot prints around the angel, and they grabbed on to this talisman of hope and comfort after Melissa died. I don’t know if we look for these ‘small miracles’ to help make sense of the senseless; as with so many situation, you find any port in a storm. I know – while it may have helped – there is nothing to balance out the loss of a child.
As I speed down the 95, I glance again at the moon. While still bright, there is a slight bit of haze covering it. I think about these deaths, and about the one I have most recently faced.
How do you reconcile the death of a child - a beautiful, lively 6-year old boy? Cody Johnson was this boy, a mere slipknot of a child who loved pirates, legos, and his family. The cancer was so vicious and without remorse it claimed 80% of his liver, his ability to live a carefree childhood, and ultimately his life. He endured more pain than most of us will collectively face in a lifetime. His parents are in awe of the courage of their son. His father, Mickey, told me he never complained, never ever put up a fuss of having to go to the hospital. That’s not to say that Cody was sweetly ignorant of his predicament: when he was subject to procedures he’d sometimes put up a fight, he’d lash out in anger, or be plain grumpy. He rebelled against this slice of his existence, the one over-inhabited with needles, chemo, nausea, and procedures that kept him from being ‘just a little boy’. I’m not sure if he was brave or didn’t have a memory that didn’t include a life without discomfort and pain. His resiliency was born of experience that predated memory. He just knew that this thing robbed him of kindergarten and soccer, and often interfered with swimming in a pool or his beloved ocean.
As I entered the funeral home, I saw an incongruous sight: a white hearse parked behind a blue minivan. I’ve never been to the wake of a child – I have no experience against which to draw. I’m lucky in that sense. I don’t know how parents face this; I know there is no chapter in any child-rearing guide titled “Burying Your Child”. I know enough to know there are no words for a moment like this: There is nothing for a moment like this. I walk into the viewing room and see Cody’s profile peeking out of an impossibly small coffin. I’ve never met this child, and this is not certainly the way I wanted to. My eyes fill. I can think only of a pithy sentence: It’s just not fair. I see my friend Mickey and he looks strong but the fatigue and grief are etched around his eyes. I hug him tightly, this tough, sweet, genuine friend of mine. I suspect he is in the numb antechamber of disbelief and denial. I guess he is trying to get through the next days, the next horrible few days of saying goodbye forever to his beloved son, to be brave and solid and be like his hero, Cody.
His wife, Diane, is beyond sorrow. When I embrace her I have a sudden realization that all the strength she garnered for her son is – for the moment – gone. She feels so thin and fragile, I want to hold her forever and help her support her impossibly heavy heart. I hold her face in my hands and I want to say something – ANYTHING – that will resonate, that will help her in the certain dark days to come. I believed he’d get better – it was easy for me. I could make the logic work, that the chemicals would do their horrible, wonderful magic and kill the thief that was trying to rob this sweet family of their child. But he wasn’t MY SON; I didn’t have that emotional investment. I could stand pat on the science and hope for the best. It’s emotionally cowardly, but I have to admit to its truth.
It is this heartbroken mother who says something of such simple ferocity that I am left nearly breathless: I can’t believe Cody is dead! I never thought he would die! Even when he was so sick, I believed he would get better, that one day he would wake up and just start playing with his toys… She hoped beyond hope, and was betrayed by her hope and her child was taken and he is not coming back…what do you say to this? Nothing. I hug her again, tightly. She has been so brave, and devoted, and caring and still her sweet baby is gone. How can anyone make sense of this?
I go to see the boy. While waiting in the receiving line, I watch streaming slideshows of him. Anyone can deduce from the photos he was a feisty kid, full of life, in the thick of everything. You see him smiling, mugging for the camera, kicking a soccer ball, wresting with his brother or his cousin, Chris. There is such LIFE to this boy. And when I approach the casket, I see that yes, the funeral home has done a nice job in preparing him, but it’s not Cody, at least the Cody I have come to know. Regardless of the genetic makeup of this tiny body lying so still in front of me, this is not CODY. Cody was perpetual motion, and animation, and LIFE. Like a blossom, the beauty is on the tree, in the air, near the sky; the husk of the flower is on the ground.
I have a sudden realization and kneel before the casket and pray - not for Cody - but for his family. I pray for those left to mourn this brave, sweet child. I pray for his parents - for Mickey and Diane - that their grief will not consume them, that the beast will not further add to its tally of this family. I know this is a wound that will never totally heal, and like the beginning of his life, they will be living the horrible mirror image of a year of “firsts” where they will be desperately missing their boy and saying too often the word without. I know many people believe in heaven and an afterlife, and if there is one, then Cody is surely in it. If there is a God, I believe he is one that ushers children in without the scrutiny that is leveled on adults. I want to believe Cody is there; but even if there is no afterlife, Cody is still at peace and free from the pain, needles and chemicals. He may be gone from the earth, but he is most certainly not out of the orbit of those who love him.
I speed down the I-95. That moon is still there. I reflect back on how I believed in Cody’s treatment, I firmly believed it would work. I’m trying to make sense of something that is senseless – it is the ultimate exercise in futility. There are those who try and find some meaning in such tragedies – but regardless of whether Cody is an angel in heaven, or his illness causes a philantrhopic streak to raise funds to cure the disease – there is NO WAY you can convince me that there is some earthly math that will balance each side of the equals sign. Regardless of the aftermath, there is nothing that will mitigate the ultimate loss of this child. There can be redemption and solace, but not a loss of memory; It is the very definition of grief.
And now I look at the moon and wonder if my belief and hope were of any substance, like the light of the moon. I get angry for a moment – this moon is a fraud. It creates no light – it simply reflects the light of the sun. It hijacks it and passes it off as its own. Without the sun, the moon is nothing but a gray, barren, crater-pocked rock in orbit around our Earth. It’s a cold, lifeless place. But of course the moon doesn’t steal the sun, it redirects its light. And then it occurs to me: we are all like the moon. We would orbit this Earth, cold and barren but for the light and beauty of the warmth of something bigger than us all: LOVE. We are nothing without it.
I want to believe - regardless of the final resting place of the souls of those who leave us too soon – that we carry with us an ember of their love and humanity. And I throw up a silent prayer to the moon and beyond for these parents of stolen children that they not feel some sort of misplaced responsibility to live for their lost child, but to live life – with joy – for having had the blessing that was this child, for however unfairly short was their time on our Earth. And that in reflecting the love for their child, it will light their way.
For Cody and Melissa
I’m reflecting on this evening and thinking of similar evenings I’ve had this past year. I’ve just come from the wake of a child who spent nearly 5 of his 6 years battling the vicious beast of cancer. I was trying to make sense of it and not making any headway. The moon caught my eye.
I think back to last spring, when my Aunt died. She was in her late 70’s, and had been bedridden for many years after a stroke. In some ways, her death was a blessing. People talk of “quality of life” and hers was not one I envied. She’d had a full – if hard – life. She survived the sinking of the Andrea Dorea. She married and had 3 children, although her third child – a girl – was born severely disabled and institutionalized nearly from birth. She had a loving family. Her death was sad – she was a beloved family member. But she had had her fair shot at life. It may not have been even close to perfect, but she got to the starting line and ran the race. I could do the math on this one.
In December, my family was hit with the sudden and very tragic death of my cousin Melissa. The last time I’d seen her alive was at her wedding, not 18 months earlier. A lifelong epileptic, her neurologist changed her medication so she could safely carry the baby she and her husband so wanted to have. Melissa was a feisty one, and I remember thinking when she was 12 or 13 that she was ‘an old soul’. I don’t know if I attributed it to her illness or her status of “first born’, but I had this vague notion that she was born a few years later than she should have; She always seemed to be a few squares ahead of her peers in the game of Life. As tough as she was, she was 10 times a sweet and loving and giving. She was the uber-aunt, adored by her nieces, the person ready to jump in and help at a moment’s notice. While she swore – as a 20-something year old – that she would never marry or have children, she fond her soul mate, a sweet, burly teddy bear of a man. At 37 she married, and from there they started their all-too-short journey. The medication switch fatally altered her blood chemistry, and shortly before Christmas, she collapsed. She was rushed to the hospital and put on life support. It was December in Milwaukee, and it was snowing. My Aunt later related while eulogizing her daughter that her condition was getting grim. Her niece pulled her over to a window – it was dark out – and she pointed to something under a lit street lamp: a single, perfect snow angel. There were no boot prints around the angel, and they grabbed on to this talisman of hope and comfort after Melissa died. I don’t know if we look for these ‘small miracles’ to help make sense of the senseless; as with so many situation, you find any port in a storm. I know – while it may have helped – there is nothing to balance out the loss of a child.
As I speed down the 95, I glance again at the moon. While still bright, there is a slight bit of haze covering it. I think about these deaths, and about the one I have most recently faced.
How do you reconcile the death of a child - a beautiful, lively 6-year old boy? Cody Johnson was this boy, a mere slipknot of a child who loved pirates, legos, and his family. The cancer was so vicious and without remorse it claimed 80% of his liver, his ability to live a carefree childhood, and ultimately his life. He endured more pain than most of us will collectively face in a lifetime. His parents are in awe of the courage of their son. His father, Mickey, told me he never complained, never ever put up a fuss of having to go to the hospital. That’s not to say that Cody was sweetly ignorant of his predicament: when he was subject to procedures he’d sometimes put up a fight, he’d lash out in anger, or be plain grumpy. He rebelled against this slice of his existence, the one over-inhabited with needles, chemo, nausea, and procedures that kept him from being ‘just a little boy’. I’m not sure if he was brave or didn’t have a memory that didn’t include a life without discomfort and pain. His resiliency was born of experience that predated memory. He just knew that this thing robbed him of kindergarten and soccer, and often interfered with swimming in a pool or his beloved ocean.
As I entered the funeral home, I saw an incongruous sight: a white hearse parked behind a blue minivan. I’ve never been to the wake of a child – I have no experience against which to draw. I’m lucky in that sense. I don’t know how parents face this; I know there is no chapter in any child-rearing guide titled “Burying Your Child”. I know enough to know there are no words for a moment like this: There is nothing for a moment like this. I walk into the viewing room and see Cody’s profile peeking out of an impossibly small coffin. I’ve never met this child, and this is not certainly the way I wanted to. My eyes fill. I can think only of a pithy sentence: It’s just not fair. I see my friend Mickey and he looks strong but the fatigue and grief are etched around his eyes. I hug him tightly, this tough, sweet, genuine friend of mine. I suspect he is in the numb antechamber of disbelief and denial. I guess he is trying to get through the next days, the next horrible few days of saying goodbye forever to his beloved son, to be brave and solid and be like his hero, Cody.
His wife, Diane, is beyond sorrow. When I embrace her I have a sudden realization that all the strength she garnered for her son is – for the moment – gone. She feels so thin and fragile, I want to hold her forever and help her support her impossibly heavy heart. I hold her face in my hands and I want to say something – ANYTHING – that will resonate, that will help her in the certain dark days to come. I believed he’d get better – it was easy for me. I could make the logic work, that the chemicals would do their horrible, wonderful magic and kill the thief that was trying to rob this sweet family of their child. But he wasn’t MY SON; I didn’t have that emotional investment. I could stand pat on the science and hope for the best. It’s emotionally cowardly, but I have to admit to its truth.
It is this heartbroken mother who says something of such simple ferocity that I am left nearly breathless: I can’t believe Cody is dead! I never thought he would die! Even when he was so sick, I believed he would get better, that one day he would wake up and just start playing with his toys… She hoped beyond hope, and was betrayed by her hope and her child was taken and he is not coming back…what do you say to this? Nothing. I hug her again, tightly. She has been so brave, and devoted, and caring and still her sweet baby is gone. How can anyone make sense of this?
I go to see the boy. While waiting in the receiving line, I watch streaming slideshows of him. Anyone can deduce from the photos he was a feisty kid, full of life, in the thick of everything. You see him smiling, mugging for the camera, kicking a soccer ball, wresting with his brother or his cousin, Chris. There is such LIFE to this boy. And when I approach the casket, I see that yes, the funeral home has done a nice job in preparing him, but it’s not Cody, at least the Cody I have come to know. Regardless of the genetic makeup of this tiny body lying so still in front of me, this is not CODY. Cody was perpetual motion, and animation, and LIFE. Like a blossom, the beauty is on the tree, in the air, near the sky; the husk of the flower is on the ground.
I have a sudden realization and kneel before the casket and pray - not for Cody - but for his family. I pray for those left to mourn this brave, sweet child. I pray for his parents - for Mickey and Diane - that their grief will not consume them, that the beast will not further add to its tally of this family. I know this is a wound that will never totally heal, and like the beginning of his life, they will be living the horrible mirror image of a year of “firsts” where they will be desperately missing their boy and saying too often the word without. I know many people believe in heaven and an afterlife, and if there is one, then Cody is surely in it. If there is a God, I believe he is one that ushers children in without the scrutiny that is leveled on adults. I want to believe Cody is there; but even if there is no afterlife, Cody is still at peace and free from the pain, needles and chemicals. He may be gone from the earth, but he is most certainly not out of the orbit of those who love him.
I speed down the I-95. That moon is still there. I reflect back on how I believed in Cody’s treatment, I firmly believed it would work. I’m trying to make sense of something that is senseless – it is the ultimate exercise in futility. There are those who try and find some meaning in such tragedies – but regardless of whether Cody is an angel in heaven, or his illness causes a philantrhopic streak to raise funds to cure the disease – there is NO WAY you can convince me that there is some earthly math that will balance each side of the equals sign. Regardless of the aftermath, there is nothing that will mitigate the ultimate loss of this child. There can be redemption and solace, but not a loss of memory; It is the very definition of grief.
And now I look at the moon and wonder if my belief and hope were of any substance, like the light of the moon. I get angry for a moment – this moon is a fraud. It creates no light – it simply reflects the light of the sun. It hijacks it and passes it off as its own. Without the sun, the moon is nothing but a gray, barren, crater-pocked rock in orbit around our Earth. It’s a cold, lifeless place. But of course the moon doesn’t steal the sun, it redirects its light. And then it occurs to me: we are all like the moon. We would orbit this Earth, cold and barren but for the light and beauty of the warmth of something bigger than us all: LOVE. We are nothing without it.
I want to believe - regardless of the final resting place of the souls of those who leave us too soon – that we carry with us an ember of their love and humanity. And I throw up a silent prayer to the moon and beyond for these parents of stolen children that they not feel some sort of misplaced responsibility to live for their lost child, but to live life – with joy – for having had the blessing that was this child, for however unfairly short was their time on our Earth. And that in reflecting the love for their child, it will light their way.
For Cody and Melissa
Sunday, November 9, 2008
The Son Also Rises
“Hard work PAYS OFF” – Chant and Mantra of the Weaver Football Titans Senior football team, 2008
I was never a ‘real’ team-sport athlete. I think I was drawn more toward individual performance than that of a team. I ran Cross-Country and track in high school, and there certainly were team scores. But I was more keenly interested in - and aware of - the result I posted for each meet. If the team won but I’d had a bad performance, I felt no sense of victory; in some way, I didn’t feel I’d “won”, despite the points I may have contributed toward the team total.
My son Luc, however, is a different kind of animal: he is a born ‘team player’. He loves the camaraderie of a playing unit, doing his best for the greater good of his team, individual performance as a part of the machine of team competitiveness. He’s a social guy with an easy smile, sense of humor, and a fierce competitive instinct. He lives for game day. He’s one of those kids that is best when ‘it counts’. Even when he was a more junior player, I noticed a change in him on game day – a focus and determination that we in the running world refer to as ‘race day magic’. He’d get on the field and deliver. There was no joking on the sidelines. He’d sit or stand alone and intently watch the action on the field. His coaches would ask him to make a big play, he’d promise, then deliver on the promise.
He has been lucky to have been part of a youth program since the 4th grade, with talented, decent, and hard-working coaches who never confused winning on the field with winning in life. I would call the headcoach jokingly The Man with the Whistle. The coaches' job was to teach the game of football, but much more than that, they wove in lessons of teamwork, sportsmanship, and fair play. You couldn’t come to practice if you hadn’t completed your homework. They often told the players to thank their parents for having driven them to the game or to practice. Their style was about guiding these young teenagers through a slice of life using the field of play as the chalkboard. At the end of each practice, the team would cluster together around the coaches for a few words, and it would end with the head coach yelling HARD WORK and boys would reply PAYS OFF! They always left each practice and game with these last words.
The team played well, had a near-perfect record, and made the playoffs as they had in years past. However this season was different – this young team won its first ever playoff game and headed into the second round. Luc had a great season and seemed – to my untrained eye – to be all over the field in every game. His competitive spirit would show up when he’d make a great tackle, cause a fumble, sack the quarterback. But he was definitely part of a bigger unit. He’d jump up after a great play and find a teammate to do a raucous chest bump or share a high five. He never celebrated alone. He cheered his teammates accomplishments with equal enthusiam. He left everything on the field, even when the scoreboard would tell a story that would say well before the final horn declared It’s over. After the one loss during the regular season to a hated rival team - known for dirty play and unsportsmanlike conduct from the coaching staff on down – I watched the team, and my son, during the post-game coaches talk. It had been a warm and humid morning, and boys who had played sat exhausted, soaked with sweat and dirt, their faces grim. Normally, these gatherings were one of uncontained teenage joy, the only kind that can be expressed by those young enough to have little to worry about beyond the next five minutes. I watched my son, his helmet off. He bit his lower lip and I saw a tear fall from his eye. He wiped it quickly away. The coaches called out the names of 3 players, recognizing their effort. Luc was the third player called. The head coach said I want you to look at him. They turned their heads. Luc never gave up. He never quit. To me, that is the highest praise given. I’d seen Luc chase down a player and tackle him just as he crossed into the end zone. He fell on the other player’s legs, knocking his own wind out. I saw him on all fours, and then try and stand upright. His knees buckled twice, but he fought to his feet. He jogged over, then fell and rolled on the ground. He got up again. He would not come out. He did not want to sit a single down. The coach’s words were small comfort to Luc. He didn’t smile or acknowledge any sense of accomplishment. He would have traded the praise and the loss for anonymity and the win in a second.
The Weaver Titans were certainly underdogs headed into the playoffs, but my son had a fervent belief they could make – and win! – the league’s Super Bowl. One day I was making him breakfast, I asked him a question. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I asked him the question: was it my own ego at play? I’d heard from so many parents and coaches – dads in particular – about what a fine player Luc was. And of course I agreed with them because I’m his mother: To me, he’s potentially the second coming. I think it was also a bit of the runner in me looking for some kind of individual performance gauge beyond the team record. Do you think you’ll make the Super Senior Bowl? This game is the league’s equivalent of the All-Star team. He leveled his eyes at me and replied – without hesitation, No. There was no disappointment in his voice. I was confused. Why not? He gave me one of his easy smiles, Because you don’t play in that game if you’re in the Super Bowl. My 14-year-old son gave me the best lesson I’ve ever had with those simple words. Not only was he unconcerned about individual accolades, it wasn’t a factor. He wanted to share in a team honor. But bigger than that, I was struck with the depth of conviction in the belief that they’d win. Despite their record and ranking and a calculated match-up of team size and strength, this did not factor. He believed the team could and would win.
They played the second playoff game and lost. If one could boil it down to the one thing, that one card they had that we didn’t, it was speed that we couldn’t match: If you can’t catch the guy, you pretty much can’t stop him. Our team fought valiently, they never gave up. Luc never, ever quit. Even when their top threat went sprinting toward the end zone, Luc was the last guy to chase him down and threw himself at him at the 4 or 5 yard line in a desperate - and ultimately unsuccessful - attempt to keep him from the end zone. The team kept trying. On their last possession, on 4th and something, it was the last shot. They were down 12 points and needed a score, and then some luck with an onside kick. They needed some last minute heroics. They believed. We – in the stands – cheered our boys on. The Titans QB shouted the cadence. The ball was snapped, and something happened. I’m not sure if it was a bad snap or a missed count or what, but the play never got off; it was over before it even started. And like that, the season was over, and my son’s elementary and middle school football seasons were behind him.
At the final post-game team debriefing, the boys each took a knee on the field. They were so quiet. I looked at the group and couldn’t find Luc, although I knew he was there. An official from the league’s governing body stepped up and offered words of encouragement, praise in the blunt, tough voice of football to which I’ve come to expect. I know you’re disappointed. But tomorrow will come and it will be a day of opportunity. Take that feeling with you to next season. I’m not sure his words registered with any of the players. He then called the numbers of those players who’d been selected for the Super Senior Bowl. Luc’s was not one of them. Again, the individual athlete in me ached for my son, but my face and demeanor did not change. The This is not about me or my expectations was the Yin to the This is what can happen when anything but the clock is the judge Yang. A second later a father who was behind me tapped me on the shoulder. Luc had a great game. I smiled, Thanks. I don’t know if he felt my disappointment for my son, or my own ego. I was trying to anticipate my son’s face. I looked in the clot of purple jerseys and still couldn’t find him. Each coach spoke; many of them wept. They hurt for the boys, but I think they couldn't believe that the fun - the season - was over. The bond between these players and these coaches was nothing short of magic. And in the 5 years my son was lucky enough to be coached by these men, I was coached too. I learned how to take a step back, how to let my son play, to take my own ideas out of the mix and have faith in this wonderful group of dedicated volunteers. I watched as they gave these boys the well-earned confidence to play each game with enthusiasm and passion. I felt such sadness that their roles in my son's life had come to an end. They offered a some final words of encouragement then gathered the team in a tight mass. The head coach - the man with the whistle - yelled HARD WORK and they answered in unison and without hesitation PAYS OFF! and the meeting broke up.
My son walked over to me; he was sobbing. His disappointment was overwhelming, his grief palpable. I hugged my boy who is a full head taller than I. I could hardly get my arms around his padded shoulders. I kissed his sweaty face. Luc, I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you. He buried his face in my neck and let me hug him for a moment, then pushed away, inconsolable. He did not seek out his teammates. My tough son who never quit was now working through the agonizing math of shattering disappointment. He invested heavily in hope and was living the hard side of the equation of a sporting contest.
I thought about how much courage it takes to do that, to believe that fervently and put so much hope and stock in that belief. To put so much emotional capital on the line. The disappointment can be crippling, and there are some who can somehow put it in context and move on, to dare to do great things with equal persistance, and those who retreat to the safety of banality and – to paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt – prefer the gray twilight and know neither victory nor defeat. I knew in some sense what he was feeling, and I thought long and hard about how he individually mourned his team’s defeat. But in some small way, I thought he was also mourning the end of the season, the end of this team and how he’d move on next year beyond the safety net of the players and coaches he knew and loved.
I saw him walk off the field with his dad – we had come in separate cars for logistical reasons – and I wondered what that car ride home would be like. Teenage boys naturally gravitate to their fathers, and I envied not being the ‘go to’ person like I’d been when Luc was a young child. My heart ached for my son. I knew this was a necessary part of life, a key ingredient to the foundation of character: to face disappointment, to manage the process, to find the meaningful lesson. And most importantly, to move on to the next pursuit wiser, but with no less enthusiasm or fearlessness. I hoped he’d find the courage to believe again; I was certain he would. Like all parents, I prayed that one day he’d be on the winning end of the equation, and feel the uncontained joy of living the dream. But at the moment, I was Luc's mother; I just wanted my boy to be happy.
I arrived home and he came down the stairs a few minutes later, freshly showered. His face was no longer a study in grief. Are you hungry? He smiled a bit, No just really thirsty. Can I have a Gatorade? I got my son his drink and put a frozen pizza in the oven, certain that his appetite would arrive soon after he quenched his thirst. He went into the family room and turned on the television. His sister came home from a babysitting job, and after hearing about the loss, she went to join him.
The next day, he needed to run an errand, something for school. It was a rare opportunity for me to spend some ‘alone’ time with him; for me it was a blessing it came the day after this game. I didn’t mention the previous evening, just chatted about his homework project and what else he was planning to do with his day. There was a lull in the conversation, and he said quietly I’m still bummed we lost. I can’t believe football is over. I can’t believe I won’t be playing for Weaver anymore. I sat for a second more, waiting for him to express disappointment over not making the Super Senior Bowl. But he said nothing else. I told him a story of my biggest disappointment in high school track. It was so disappointing, Luc. All those miles of training, and my relay team was passed with a hundred meters to go… and then I told him how you move on, find the lesson. And that he should look not at the last loss, but all he’d gained from his years with his wonderful friends and coaches, how he learned respect, and fair play, and to “pursue victory with honor” – another cornerstone of the program. And how the hated rival may win, but in the long run he will have gained infinitly more. He nodded his head. He didn’t seem sad, but I could tell he was still working through the regret of the previous evening.
We walked in the house, and within an hour two of his buddies were at the door - one a teammate, the other a neighbor. They'd been to a video game store and had bought Luc a game – a belated birthday gift. I went upstairs to fold laundry. As I walked up the stairs, I heard them chatting in the patois of teenage boys, sentances heavily peppered with the word Dude. I didn’t hear what they were saying and continued my ascent. And as I reached the landing, I heard the sweet, healing music of their laughter.
For you, Luc, and the men with the whistles.
I was never a ‘real’ team-sport athlete. I think I was drawn more toward individual performance than that of a team. I ran Cross-Country and track in high school, and there certainly were team scores. But I was more keenly interested in - and aware of - the result I posted for each meet. If the team won but I’d had a bad performance, I felt no sense of victory; in some way, I didn’t feel I’d “won”, despite the points I may have contributed toward the team total.
My son Luc, however, is a different kind of animal: he is a born ‘team player’. He loves the camaraderie of a playing unit, doing his best for the greater good of his team, individual performance as a part of the machine of team competitiveness. He’s a social guy with an easy smile, sense of humor, and a fierce competitive instinct. He lives for game day. He’s one of those kids that is best when ‘it counts’. Even when he was a more junior player, I noticed a change in him on game day – a focus and determination that we in the running world refer to as ‘race day magic’. He’d get on the field and deliver. There was no joking on the sidelines. He’d sit or stand alone and intently watch the action on the field. His coaches would ask him to make a big play, he’d promise, then deliver on the promise.
He has been lucky to have been part of a youth program since the 4th grade, with talented, decent, and hard-working coaches who never confused winning on the field with winning in life. I would call the headcoach jokingly The Man with the Whistle. The coaches' job was to teach the game of football, but much more than that, they wove in lessons of teamwork, sportsmanship, and fair play. You couldn’t come to practice if you hadn’t completed your homework. They often told the players to thank their parents for having driven them to the game or to practice. Their style was about guiding these young teenagers through a slice of life using the field of play as the chalkboard. At the end of each practice, the team would cluster together around the coaches for a few words, and it would end with the head coach yelling HARD WORK and boys would reply PAYS OFF! They always left each practice and game with these last words.
The team played well, had a near-perfect record, and made the playoffs as they had in years past. However this season was different – this young team won its first ever playoff game and headed into the second round. Luc had a great season and seemed – to my untrained eye – to be all over the field in every game. His competitive spirit would show up when he’d make a great tackle, cause a fumble, sack the quarterback. But he was definitely part of a bigger unit. He’d jump up after a great play and find a teammate to do a raucous chest bump or share a high five. He never celebrated alone. He cheered his teammates accomplishments with equal enthusiam. He left everything on the field, even when the scoreboard would tell a story that would say well before the final horn declared It’s over. After the one loss during the regular season to a hated rival team - known for dirty play and unsportsmanlike conduct from the coaching staff on down – I watched the team, and my son, during the post-game coaches talk. It had been a warm and humid morning, and boys who had played sat exhausted, soaked with sweat and dirt, their faces grim. Normally, these gatherings were one of uncontained teenage joy, the only kind that can be expressed by those young enough to have little to worry about beyond the next five minutes. I watched my son, his helmet off. He bit his lower lip and I saw a tear fall from his eye. He wiped it quickly away. The coaches called out the names of 3 players, recognizing their effort. Luc was the third player called. The head coach said I want you to look at him. They turned their heads. Luc never gave up. He never quit. To me, that is the highest praise given. I’d seen Luc chase down a player and tackle him just as he crossed into the end zone. He fell on the other player’s legs, knocking his own wind out. I saw him on all fours, and then try and stand upright. His knees buckled twice, but he fought to his feet. He jogged over, then fell and rolled on the ground. He got up again. He would not come out. He did not want to sit a single down. The coach’s words were small comfort to Luc. He didn’t smile or acknowledge any sense of accomplishment. He would have traded the praise and the loss for anonymity and the win in a second.
The Weaver Titans were certainly underdogs headed into the playoffs, but my son had a fervent belief they could make – and win! – the league’s Super Bowl. One day I was making him breakfast, I asked him a question. In hindsight, I’m not sure why I asked him the question: was it my own ego at play? I’d heard from so many parents and coaches – dads in particular – about what a fine player Luc was. And of course I agreed with them because I’m his mother: To me, he’s potentially the second coming. I think it was also a bit of the runner in me looking for some kind of individual performance gauge beyond the team record. Do you think you’ll make the Super Senior Bowl? This game is the league’s equivalent of the All-Star team. He leveled his eyes at me and replied – without hesitation, No. There was no disappointment in his voice. I was confused. Why not? He gave me one of his easy smiles, Because you don’t play in that game if you’re in the Super Bowl. My 14-year-old son gave me the best lesson I’ve ever had with those simple words. Not only was he unconcerned about individual accolades, it wasn’t a factor. He wanted to share in a team honor. But bigger than that, I was struck with the depth of conviction in the belief that they’d win. Despite their record and ranking and a calculated match-up of team size and strength, this did not factor. He believed the team could and would win.
They played the second playoff game and lost. If one could boil it down to the one thing, that one card they had that we didn’t, it was speed that we couldn’t match: If you can’t catch the guy, you pretty much can’t stop him. Our team fought valiently, they never gave up. Luc never, ever quit. Even when their top threat went sprinting toward the end zone, Luc was the last guy to chase him down and threw himself at him at the 4 or 5 yard line in a desperate - and ultimately unsuccessful - attempt to keep him from the end zone. The team kept trying. On their last possession, on 4th and something, it was the last shot. They were down 12 points and needed a score, and then some luck with an onside kick. They needed some last minute heroics. They believed. We – in the stands – cheered our boys on. The Titans QB shouted the cadence. The ball was snapped, and something happened. I’m not sure if it was a bad snap or a missed count or what, but the play never got off; it was over before it even started. And like that, the season was over, and my son’s elementary and middle school football seasons were behind him.
At the final post-game team debriefing, the boys each took a knee on the field. They were so quiet. I looked at the group and couldn’t find Luc, although I knew he was there. An official from the league’s governing body stepped up and offered words of encouragement, praise in the blunt, tough voice of football to which I’ve come to expect. I know you’re disappointed. But tomorrow will come and it will be a day of opportunity. Take that feeling with you to next season. I’m not sure his words registered with any of the players. He then called the numbers of those players who’d been selected for the Super Senior Bowl. Luc’s was not one of them. Again, the individual athlete in me ached for my son, but my face and demeanor did not change. The This is not about me or my expectations was the Yin to the This is what can happen when anything but the clock is the judge Yang. A second later a father who was behind me tapped me on the shoulder. Luc had a great game. I smiled, Thanks. I don’t know if he felt my disappointment for my son, or my own ego. I was trying to anticipate my son’s face. I looked in the clot of purple jerseys and still couldn’t find him. Each coach spoke; many of them wept. They hurt for the boys, but I think they couldn't believe that the fun - the season - was over. The bond between these players and these coaches was nothing short of magic. And in the 5 years my son was lucky enough to be coached by these men, I was coached too. I learned how to take a step back, how to let my son play, to take my own ideas out of the mix and have faith in this wonderful group of dedicated volunteers. I watched as they gave these boys the well-earned confidence to play each game with enthusiasm and passion. I felt such sadness that their roles in my son's life had come to an end. They offered a some final words of encouragement then gathered the team in a tight mass. The head coach - the man with the whistle - yelled HARD WORK and they answered in unison and without hesitation PAYS OFF! and the meeting broke up.
My son walked over to me; he was sobbing. His disappointment was overwhelming, his grief palpable. I hugged my boy who is a full head taller than I. I could hardly get my arms around his padded shoulders. I kissed his sweaty face. Luc, I’m so sorry. I’m so proud of you. He buried his face in my neck and let me hug him for a moment, then pushed away, inconsolable. He did not seek out his teammates. My tough son who never quit was now working through the agonizing math of shattering disappointment. He invested heavily in hope and was living the hard side of the equation of a sporting contest.
I thought about how much courage it takes to do that, to believe that fervently and put so much hope and stock in that belief. To put so much emotional capital on the line. The disappointment can be crippling, and there are some who can somehow put it in context and move on, to dare to do great things with equal persistance, and those who retreat to the safety of banality and – to paraphrase Teddy Roosevelt – prefer the gray twilight and know neither victory nor defeat. I knew in some sense what he was feeling, and I thought long and hard about how he individually mourned his team’s defeat. But in some small way, I thought he was also mourning the end of the season, the end of this team and how he’d move on next year beyond the safety net of the players and coaches he knew and loved.
I saw him walk off the field with his dad – we had come in separate cars for logistical reasons – and I wondered what that car ride home would be like. Teenage boys naturally gravitate to their fathers, and I envied not being the ‘go to’ person like I’d been when Luc was a young child. My heart ached for my son. I knew this was a necessary part of life, a key ingredient to the foundation of character: to face disappointment, to manage the process, to find the meaningful lesson. And most importantly, to move on to the next pursuit wiser, but with no less enthusiasm or fearlessness. I hoped he’d find the courage to believe again; I was certain he would. Like all parents, I prayed that one day he’d be on the winning end of the equation, and feel the uncontained joy of living the dream. But at the moment, I was Luc's mother; I just wanted my boy to be happy.
I arrived home and he came down the stairs a few minutes later, freshly showered. His face was no longer a study in grief. Are you hungry? He smiled a bit, No just really thirsty. Can I have a Gatorade? I got my son his drink and put a frozen pizza in the oven, certain that his appetite would arrive soon after he quenched his thirst. He went into the family room and turned on the television. His sister came home from a babysitting job, and after hearing about the loss, she went to join him.
The next day, he needed to run an errand, something for school. It was a rare opportunity for me to spend some ‘alone’ time with him; for me it was a blessing it came the day after this game. I didn’t mention the previous evening, just chatted about his homework project and what else he was planning to do with his day. There was a lull in the conversation, and he said quietly I’m still bummed we lost. I can’t believe football is over. I can’t believe I won’t be playing for Weaver anymore. I sat for a second more, waiting for him to express disappointment over not making the Super Senior Bowl. But he said nothing else. I told him a story of my biggest disappointment in high school track. It was so disappointing, Luc. All those miles of training, and my relay team was passed with a hundred meters to go… and then I told him how you move on, find the lesson. And that he should look not at the last loss, but all he’d gained from his years with his wonderful friends and coaches, how he learned respect, and fair play, and to “pursue victory with honor” – another cornerstone of the program. And how the hated rival may win, but in the long run he will have gained infinitly more. He nodded his head. He didn’t seem sad, but I could tell he was still working through the regret of the previous evening.
We walked in the house, and within an hour two of his buddies were at the door - one a teammate, the other a neighbor. They'd been to a video game store and had bought Luc a game – a belated birthday gift. I went upstairs to fold laundry. As I walked up the stairs, I heard them chatting in the patois of teenage boys, sentances heavily peppered with the word Dude. I didn’t hear what they were saying and continued my ascent. And as I reached the landing, I heard the sweet, healing music of their laughter.
For you, Luc, and the men with the whistles.
Sunday, August 24, 2008
The Alchemy of Bronze
The Olympic Games. One of the more compelling races was in Track & Field, the men’s 400 meter final. The world’s eyes were on LaShawn Merrit – the upstart – and Jerimy Wariner, the world champion and reigning Olympic gold medalist. The upstart had outrun the champ at the trials, but the champ ran flawless, fast, and nearly effortless heats. It was down to the finals. The two had been in a season-long battle, is has been a fierce and unfriendly rivalry, and were each 2-2 against the other. You sensed perhaps grudging respect - at best - between the two. Then there was the question given less attention: Who would win the bronze?
The Bronze. Let’s face it: most Olympic aficionado’s can name a particular sport’s Gold medalist. But silver? doubtful. Don’t even ask about Bronze. Bronze is the red-headed step child among the noble metals. You hear the term “Golden Boy”, and “Sterling argument” – but bronze? It’s the mongrel among the purebreds, the alloy among its precious cousins. In the Games, Gold reigns supreme.
As each competitor stands in his starting blocks during the athletes’ introduction, I can't help but notice their faces: they are certainly happy and excited to be there, but for whatever reason, feel the need to contain the smile. Their faces twitch, like they want to smile, like the kid in church who wants to laugh but knows the penance that awaits is not worth the momentary loss of control. These athlets want to yell, to scream “LOOK AT ME, I’M IN THE OLYMPICS!!!”, but gamesmanship or concentration suppresses it: “I’m icy cool, calm.” There’s a part of me that sees the high school athlete playing it cool, casual. I get the impression that during the pre-race intros and warm-up the goal is to be expressionless, to show nothing. I can understand the need for focus, calm, the need to bring one’s attention to a single point on the track, not spread it out among the thousands of spectators. But I can't help but wonder how much energy it costs to contain it.
Merritt is all brash and braggadocio. And he is incredibly talented and fast. He’s the man, will win, the champ, anointed. HE BELIEVES. I believe him to be all these things, but also wholly lacking in humility. However, he’s in those starting blocks, not I. It’s his game. He's paid the price to be there.
Wariner is hiding behind his shades: they are his trademark. They are an odd prop, big and mirrored and really don’t fit his face. When he takes them off, he seems almost a bit cross-eyed, out of his element; the deer in the headlights. Perhaps the shades keep his competitors from seeing his eyes, from those precious, telling “wells of the soul”. The man is tough and talented; but why shades? Is he like a thoroughbred in need of “blinkers”, is he that distractible? Do his eyes show his fear and make him vulnerable? I don’t know. All I know is they just look plain goofy.
But here they are, these fast man-boys on center stage of planet Earth. The gun fires. And they run. They run fast. Really, really fast. The last 100 meters they are digging for any nugget of strength and speed. At the finish line, the brash upstart is ahead by – in sprint terms – a mile, and the champ comes in second. Following them is a pack: who will grab the bronze? It is David Neville, the “other” American, who dives –literally- across the finish line, belly-flopping after the finish to grab the final spot on the podium.
Merritt is ecstatic. He boastfully proclaims that he is not surprised, that he did what he set out to do. His fierce rival, Wariner, it devastated. He buries his face in the American flag, there must be tears; the regret as thick as the air in Beijing. This is the price of unfettered arrogance and gamesmenship.
The medal ceremony is the moment of reckoning. Merritt is cool, smiling but clearly contained. I think that he's trying to maintain some kind of image. It pains me to think that here he is, at the pinnacle of his sport, and he can't just let go. The official hangs the medal on his neck, shakes his hand. Wariner is grim, you can sense how unhappy he is to be on the lower podium, the discomfort and humiliation of being unseated by his rival, to have to settle for second. And then there is the bronze medalist, the afterthought of this race. He is the one that captures my attention. To get to the lowest rung of Olympic royalty he has literally thrown himself across the line onto the ground of the field of play. He has given every inch of his being to be there. The annoucement of the national anthem is given over the PA. In this race, it is the anthem of all 3 medalists. Merritt – who has barely cracked a smile - puts his hand over his chest momentarily, then re-thinks the gesture and lowers it. I think “What's this? Are you truly that arrogant? Is it too humbling to think that you are not a product of one, but that of all you inhabit, including your country? Is it too much to ask that while this is an individual achievement, you do so as a representative of your your nation? Would your golden cool somehow be tarnished by showing a bit of sentimentality?” Call me a nationalistic zealot if you will, but who has not watched those medal ceremonies and smiled, cheered, wept because of what - and who - these athletes represent? They represent us, and we can only wonder how incomparable that moment must be like to live. Wariner is stone-faced; his diappointment is palpable and he looks to be doing all he can do avoid weeping on the stand and showing the world what is painfully obvious to the world: he was not the strongest, fastest man on this day. And oh, how he wishes he were.
Then there is Neville. In a few weeks time, I bet 99% of us won’t be able to answer the question “Who won the bronze medal in the 400?”, or “Who is David Neville?” but I really, truly don’t think he cares. He stands tall on the podium, hand over his chest, belting the anthem, a smile a quarter mile wide. Despite his being the 2nd runner-up, he is the one that captures the spirit of the games, the one which represents the Olympic ideal. The gold medalist is too smug, the silver medalist too disappointed, but it is the bronze medalist - the third place afterthought - who stands so tall on this steamy summer evening. He understands with all clarity how precious and rare it is to be right there, right then. With his effort, determination, and uncontained joy in that singular moment, he’d morphed from a sprinter to an alchemist and discovered the secret of transforming bronze into gold.
The Bronze. Let’s face it: most Olympic aficionado’s can name a particular sport’s Gold medalist. But silver? doubtful. Don’t even ask about Bronze. Bronze is the red-headed step child among the noble metals. You hear the term “Golden Boy”, and “Sterling argument” – but bronze? It’s the mongrel among the purebreds, the alloy among its precious cousins. In the Games, Gold reigns supreme.
As each competitor stands in his starting blocks during the athletes’ introduction, I can't help but notice their faces: they are certainly happy and excited to be there, but for whatever reason, feel the need to contain the smile. Their faces twitch, like they want to smile, like the kid in church who wants to laugh but knows the penance that awaits is not worth the momentary loss of control. These athlets want to yell, to scream “LOOK AT ME, I’M IN THE OLYMPICS!!!”, but gamesmanship or concentration suppresses it: “I’m icy cool, calm.” There’s a part of me that sees the high school athlete playing it cool, casual. I get the impression that during the pre-race intros and warm-up the goal is to be expressionless, to show nothing. I can understand the need for focus, calm, the need to bring one’s attention to a single point on the track, not spread it out among the thousands of spectators. But I can't help but wonder how much energy it costs to contain it.
Merritt is all brash and braggadocio. And he is incredibly talented and fast. He’s the man, will win, the champ, anointed. HE BELIEVES. I believe him to be all these things, but also wholly lacking in humility. However, he’s in those starting blocks, not I. It’s his game. He's paid the price to be there.
Wariner is hiding behind his shades: they are his trademark. They are an odd prop, big and mirrored and really don’t fit his face. When he takes them off, he seems almost a bit cross-eyed, out of his element; the deer in the headlights. Perhaps the shades keep his competitors from seeing his eyes, from those precious, telling “wells of the soul”. The man is tough and talented; but why shades? Is he like a thoroughbred in need of “blinkers”, is he that distractible? Do his eyes show his fear and make him vulnerable? I don’t know. All I know is they just look plain goofy.
But here they are, these fast man-boys on center stage of planet Earth. The gun fires. And they run. They run fast. Really, really fast. The last 100 meters they are digging for any nugget of strength and speed. At the finish line, the brash upstart is ahead by – in sprint terms – a mile, and the champ comes in second. Following them is a pack: who will grab the bronze? It is David Neville, the “other” American, who dives –literally- across the finish line, belly-flopping after the finish to grab the final spot on the podium.
Merritt is ecstatic. He boastfully proclaims that he is not surprised, that he did what he set out to do. His fierce rival, Wariner, it devastated. He buries his face in the American flag, there must be tears; the regret as thick as the air in Beijing. This is the price of unfettered arrogance and gamesmenship.
The medal ceremony is the moment of reckoning. Merritt is cool, smiling but clearly contained. I think that he's trying to maintain some kind of image. It pains me to think that here he is, at the pinnacle of his sport, and he can't just let go. The official hangs the medal on his neck, shakes his hand. Wariner is grim, you can sense how unhappy he is to be on the lower podium, the discomfort and humiliation of being unseated by his rival, to have to settle for second. And then there is the bronze medalist, the afterthought of this race. He is the one that captures my attention. To get to the lowest rung of Olympic royalty he has literally thrown himself across the line onto the ground of the field of play. He has given every inch of his being to be there. The annoucement of the national anthem is given over the PA. In this race, it is the anthem of all 3 medalists. Merritt – who has barely cracked a smile - puts his hand over his chest momentarily, then re-thinks the gesture and lowers it. I think “What's this? Are you truly that arrogant? Is it too humbling to think that you are not a product of one, but that of all you inhabit, including your country? Is it too much to ask that while this is an individual achievement, you do so as a representative of your your nation? Would your golden cool somehow be tarnished by showing a bit of sentimentality?” Call me a nationalistic zealot if you will, but who has not watched those medal ceremonies and smiled, cheered, wept because of what - and who - these athletes represent? They represent us, and we can only wonder how incomparable that moment must be like to live. Wariner is stone-faced; his diappointment is palpable and he looks to be doing all he can do avoid weeping on the stand and showing the world what is painfully obvious to the world: he was not the strongest, fastest man on this day. And oh, how he wishes he were.
Then there is Neville. In a few weeks time, I bet 99% of us won’t be able to answer the question “Who won the bronze medal in the 400?”, or “Who is David Neville?” but I really, truly don’t think he cares. He stands tall on the podium, hand over his chest, belting the anthem, a smile a quarter mile wide. Despite his being the 2nd runner-up, he is the one that captures the spirit of the games, the one which represents the Olympic ideal. The gold medalist is too smug, the silver medalist too disappointed, but it is the bronze medalist - the third place afterthought - who stands so tall on this steamy summer evening. He understands with all clarity how precious and rare it is to be right there, right then. With his effort, determination, and uncontained joy in that singular moment, he’d morphed from a sprinter to an alchemist and discovered the secret of transforming bronze into gold.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Running on Empty
The price of so many things has gone through the roof. Gallons of everything, from milk to gasoline are at record highs. My weekly grocery bill is the same as the GNP of some small developing nations. It’s mid-summer, and cucumbers are over $1. EACH. I can almost hear my mother clucking her disapproval and saying "Highway robbery." It is becoming more and more difficult and costly to fill our tanks both mechanical and physical.
Then there is our psychic tank. Running has always served me as the proper fuel, a way to recharge my flagging internal battery, lift my spirits, and provide an outlet for my stress, anxiety, and temperamental moods. When I started running a few years ago, I used to joke that I did it so I wouldn’t be relegated to the scourge of dumpy soccer moms everywhere: the dreaded pleated jeans. My vanity led me to discover the more substantive rewards the sport offers beyond wearing the cool pair of Lucky Brand jeans hanging in my closet. Some runs were not geared for anything more than to “bleed the pipes”. I’d start out angry or sad or pissed off at some offense - real or imagined - and feel reborn by turning up the volume on the iPod and running as hard as I could. It was almost always fun, the simple fun I remember from running down empty school halls without some monitor demanding my pass and telling me to slow down. It rarely failed to put a smile on my face.
I don’t think I ever took running for granted. I’d had enough injuries that put me on the sidelines and I was all too aware of what I was missing. Recently, my running has been a challenge in so many ways. My slowly degenerating thyroid - under attack by my own body – isn’t functioning as it should, and I frequently feel tired, my heart rate measurably higher, and my muscles feeling shot. What used to be an easy recovery run 8 weeks ago now feels like the last 5 miles of a marathon. My legs are heavy from nearly the start, there is little or no spring in my step. My heart rate starts to rise quickly and steadily, 140, 150, 160…and within a mile and a half is nearing 170, a number I usually see after repeated hard half-mile intervals, a tempo run at 10k race pace, or a long steep hill climb. The effort is palpable. But I’m going slow – 2 full minutes slower than my “hard run” days, topography chosen to deliberately avoid inclines. These days, the velocity of my heart is tied inversely to my spirits: they ride the same see-saw with one rising, the other falling in perfect tandem. Everyday is a struggle. Running is no longer fun.
I still keep running and try and find some grander purpose or lesson (“this will be great mental training for the last 10k of the next marathon – I’ll be so mentally tough!”) but even that has an element of looking forward to when I feel better, and I have no clue when that will be. It is yet another reminder of how hard these days are. In some ways, my body has become a lover who has abandoned me; I feel oddly betrayed. I have no idea when these days will be behind me, and for now I’m left without that which makes me feel better spiritually. Running has become a double agent, sabotaging my happiness and giving secrets to the enemy: It is a source of stress. I’ve taken to inserting walk breaks when my heart rate spikes, and while I’m trying to mentally coax my heart beat down – watching and cheering the falling numbers on my monitor – another inner voice chides this; walking just feels like surrender.
I find myself envying my kids. I watch my sons cut through the water during a swim meet race, overflowing with energy and the ability to recover in the time it takes to chug a Gatorade. I look at them and think “I wish…” But I’ve also learned enough in this life to understand the danger of spending too much time looking backward, pressing some mental rewind button because the fact is there are no do-overs in this life when it comes to the days ticking off the calendar. I have only the here and now and there are no guaranteed tomorrows. In five or ten years I hope to be able to reflect on this time, and don’t want to say “I wish… if only I’d…” I only hope I can be strong enough today – right now – to mitigate if not wholly prevent regret tomorrow. I need to do my best to live ‘in the moment’. I’ll have hope that in the future my body responds quickly to the medication. That the overworked muscle in my chest will be humming efficiently, my muscles and spirits will follow suit, and I can look to the sky and say “Thank you for this day” and really mean it.
When I used to feel my motivation flagging, I’d think of a fall race: the smell of autumn leaves mixed with Ben Gay, the current of anticipation at the starting line, the rush of possibility. I could get addicted to the feeling of crossing the line after a great race. Today, I miss that. But I miss more the simple feeling of being able to crank out a last fast mile on a training run, to climb a hill and whisper “I own you”, to race Father Time and feel he’s outgunned, to run and not need to look to the past for inspiration, but to find it right there, in that moment.
My mission, my goal has become much more humble. On the days where my physical and mental tanks – which are so interdependent – are approaching “E”, I’ll summon all my discipline to look neither backward nor too far ahead. I’ll focus solely on the challenge of that moment. And I’ll hope - with every beat of my heart - that it’ll be enough.
Then there is our psychic tank. Running has always served me as the proper fuel, a way to recharge my flagging internal battery, lift my spirits, and provide an outlet for my stress, anxiety, and temperamental moods. When I started running a few years ago, I used to joke that I did it so I wouldn’t be relegated to the scourge of dumpy soccer moms everywhere: the dreaded pleated jeans. My vanity led me to discover the more substantive rewards the sport offers beyond wearing the cool pair of Lucky Brand jeans hanging in my closet. Some runs were not geared for anything more than to “bleed the pipes”. I’d start out angry or sad or pissed off at some offense - real or imagined - and feel reborn by turning up the volume on the iPod and running as hard as I could. It was almost always fun, the simple fun I remember from running down empty school halls without some monitor demanding my pass and telling me to slow down. It rarely failed to put a smile on my face.
I don’t think I ever took running for granted. I’d had enough injuries that put me on the sidelines and I was all too aware of what I was missing. Recently, my running has been a challenge in so many ways. My slowly degenerating thyroid - under attack by my own body – isn’t functioning as it should, and I frequently feel tired, my heart rate measurably higher, and my muscles feeling shot. What used to be an easy recovery run 8 weeks ago now feels like the last 5 miles of a marathon. My legs are heavy from nearly the start, there is little or no spring in my step. My heart rate starts to rise quickly and steadily, 140, 150, 160…and within a mile and a half is nearing 170, a number I usually see after repeated hard half-mile intervals, a tempo run at 10k race pace, or a long steep hill climb. The effort is palpable. But I’m going slow – 2 full minutes slower than my “hard run” days, topography chosen to deliberately avoid inclines. These days, the velocity of my heart is tied inversely to my spirits: they ride the same see-saw with one rising, the other falling in perfect tandem. Everyday is a struggle. Running is no longer fun.
I still keep running and try and find some grander purpose or lesson (“this will be great mental training for the last 10k of the next marathon – I’ll be so mentally tough!”) but even that has an element of looking forward to when I feel better, and I have no clue when that will be. It is yet another reminder of how hard these days are. In some ways, my body has become a lover who has abandoned me; I feel oddly betrayed. I have no idea when these days will be behind me, and for now I’m left without that which makes me feel better spiritually. Running has become a double agent, sabotaging my happiness and giving secrets to the enemy: It is a source of stress. I’ve taken to inserting walk breaks when my heart rate spikes, and while I’m trying to mentally coax my heart beat down – watching and cheering the falling numbers on my monitor – another inner voice chides this; walking just feels like surrender.
I find myself envying my kids. I watch my sons cut through the water during a swim meet race, overflowing with energy and the ability to recover in the time it takes to chug a Gatorade. I look at them and think “I wish…” But I’ve also learned enough in this life to understand the danger of spending too much time looking backward, pressing some mental rewind button because the fact is there are no do-overs in this life when it comes to the days ticking off the calendar. I have only the here and now and there are no guaranteed tomorrows. In five or ten years I hope to be able to reflect on this time, and don’t want to say “I wish… if only I’d…” I only hope I can be strong enough today – right now – to mitigate if not wholly prevent regret tomorrow. I need to do my best to live ‘in the moment’. I’ll have hope that in the future my body responds quickly to the medication. That the overworked muscle in my chest will be humming efficiently, my muscles and spirits will follow suit, and I can look to the sky and say “Thank you for this day” and really mean it.
When I used to feel my motivation flagging, I’d think of a fall race: the smell of autumn leaves mixed with Ben Gay, the current of anticipation at the starting line, the rush of possibility. I could get addicted to the feeling of crossing the line after a great race. Today, I miss that. But I miss more the simple feeling of being able to crank out a last fast mile on a training run, to climb a hill and whisper “I own you”, to race Father Time and feel he’s outgunned, to run and not need to look to the past for inspiration, but to find it right there, in that moment.
My mission, my goal has become much more humble. On the days where my physical and mental tanks – which are so interdependent – are approaching “E”, I’ll summon all my discipline to look neither backward nor too far ahead. I’ll focus solely on the challenge of that moment. And I’ll hope - with every beat of my heart - that it’ll be enough.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
The Cruelest Month
"April is the Cruelest Month" - T. S. Elliot
If you'd asked me about this quote 7 years ago, I would have agreed with Mr. Elliot. I grew up in the Northeast and April was the month I often begged for spring, warmth, and sunshine but was more often than not dished up a meal of cold and grey with a random side dish of lake effect snow.
Now comfortably situated in Virginia, I'd argue against his theory and say that February - not April, is the cruelest month. It's dark, it's cold, and well into a winter we often wish was over. The warmth and congeniality of Christmas and New Year's are but a memory, and Easter is a long, long way off. Days are short; the patience for spring is shorter. This February was particularly cruel for me, the runner: it was the month I was rudely awakened from my dream of running this April's Boston Marathon. Running a marathon is often as much about conquering the distance as it is conquering the limits of the human body. But this also assumes that you can actually get to the starting line. In January, as I ramped up my training, the hamstring I so gingerly pampered in the Autumn again reminded me to not think too far ahead, to not be overly presumptuous. Various scans and medical visits confirmed my fears: if I were to be in Boston on Patriots' Weekend, it would be as a spectator.
I committed half-heatedly to my physical therapy and the realization that I was a goal-oriented runner. Without some noble goal, I couldn't seem to drag myself out of bed for the cold, dark morning runs. These runs, for so long, were my own beacon of light in my day: they provided energy, clarity, and a route to focus. But without some greater goal, I was laid bare and felt the basest of hypocrites: did I not love running for running itself? Was my ego and sense of accomplishment too closely tied to a finishers medal? Maybe. Possibly. Maybe I was like so many who preferred to hibernate in the cozy comfort of flannel sheets on the cold winter mornings. Or maybe I was just tired.
I sought for some kind of meaning out of my predicament, but found myself irritable and often times needing to pout. So often in my blogs I speak of relativity and gratitude; I wish I was as ardent a practitioner as a preacher. Like so many very members of this oh-so-human race, my words are easier to write than actually do. Hypocrisy: thy name is mine.
February is the cruelest month.
As a child, I welcomed the month - this month, February, the month of my birth. As an adult, I'm much more aware that this day is really one that parents celebrate. And if we raise our children right, they may eventually think not of themselves, but of those who put them on this earth. On my 46th birthday, I ran and thought so often of my mother and father, and threw out thanks and gratitude to them for their love, patience (LOTS of patience), and the gift of their example. The road I ran was one they had paved for me so many years ago. But as I get older, I find myself not so much dreading as minimizing the date the milestone represents. I joke about now being in "the back 9 of my 40's" and feeling caught somewhere in the purgatory that is youth and old age: I feel far too vibrant to say I'm 'old', but see all too well the history and it's footprint in my face and body to know I'm several years removed from the pinnacle of youth. And if my rational brain doesn't convince me of that, my body is happy to remind me that the fountain of youth is not even close to Richmond, Virginia.
If February has a color, it is red. Despite the darkness and cold and seasonal association with sacrifice and lent, there is still the mid-month celebration of love. I see the representations of the holiday: red roses, red boxes of chocolate, red lips, red hearts. I wonder about those newly twinned with love and the pressure this holiday evokes. I wonder about those whose love has become ambivalent and how the holiday was once something to be revered and treasured but has - somehow - evolved into another item on the 'To Do' list.
I found myself in an airport on February 13th, trying to get to Boston for work. The weather in the northeast caused delays, and I sat on a bar stool with an hour to kill, the battery on my laptop long since depleted. I chatted with a young lady in her 20's. She was from Toronto and was full of the energy and promise I remembered possessing at that age. When I heard the first call for my flight, I asked the waitress for my bill, and offered to pay for hers in a spirit of camaraderie that stranded and delayed travelers so often feel. As I reached for my credit card, I saw a man in army fatigues, and as I handed the card over to the waitress, said I'll pay my tab and hers.... and tipping my head in the direction of the soldier and his. He looked at me, and smiled weakly. Thanks a lot. I appreciate that. The glass of wine had made me magnanimous but there was something in his quiet answer that gave me pause. I thanked him for his service and asked him where he was headed. Paris, he answered. I jumped on his answer It's a beautiful city! How long will you be there? He looked at his beer, then answered quietly, Not too long. It's just a layover until I catch the flight to Iraq. I'll be there 2 months, and then I'm done. I didn't know how to respond; I knew there was nothing I could say that would ease his concern. I asked him where he was from, where his family was. Well, I'm from Tennessee, but my family... well, I don't have any family now. All of a sudden those roses and red hearts ceased to have meaning. His sadness was palpable. Stay safe. It was the only thing I could weakly muster. His quiet, humble way just made me re-think my own frustration at a delayed flight, bad weather. I thought that even if he did make it safely home in 2 months, to what kind of home would he return? I shook his hand, then left. I said a quiet prayer for his safety and peace of spirit. I never learned his name.
I made my way to the plane and boarded with the hope of a quiet flight and 90 minutes to read or sleep. I found my seat on the aisle. There was a woman on the window seat; I guessed her age somewhere between mine and 10 years older. She was very blond, a few pounds overweight, and nervously chatty. Her clothing was a bit rumpled and baggy, very 'Earth Mother'. She was reading a book I knew my daughter had read and we had polite conversation about it. The flight took off and I dove into my own book.
About 15 minutes before we were to land I set aside my book, and my row companion struck up a conversation. I don't know how it started. I remember complementing her on some her jewelry: it was interesting but I'll admit I didn't look too closely at it. She said Yes, I have on all my Pagan stuff today. I blinked and thought OK, this is a little weird. I'll admit it: I wasn't being exactly tolerant. Chalk it up to fatigue. I changed the subject, What brings you to Boston? This is usually the safest of questions, the answer almost always Business or Vacation or Family. She looked at me, then looked at her lap and replied I'm here to scatter my son's ashes. I'm a mother and at that moment a giant hand wrapped around my throat. For the second time that day, I knew there was nothing I could say that would help the wound heal. I'm so sorry. I'm a mother too, I'm so so sorry... I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but the deepest regret. He died 14 months ago. He was 22... I was raised to not ask too many questions in situations like this, and she didn't offer an others with respect to her son's death. She did talk about her 2 daughters who both lived in Texas. She didn't mention a spouse, so I concluded there wasn't one. There were tears in her eyes. I reached over and held her hand I know there is nothing I can say. I'm so sorry for your loss. I hope that this trip helps you in some way... my voice trailed off. Thanks, she quietly said. I've been dreading this trip but I know it'll help. She stopped, then laughed and said I have his ashes in my carry-on bag. I was ready to put up a fight if they gave me a hard time at the security screening... She smiled and I weakly smiled back. We sat in silence and I held her hand until the plane landed. As I got off the plane, I turned to her and said Take care, be well. I thought that was the last I'd see of her. But I ran into her at Baggage Claim. She seemed hyper and a bit wired; I think she realized she was that much closer to letting go of her boy. She chatted on and I grabbed my bag to go. She looked at me, and I put my bag down and hugged her, one mother to another. She held on to me tightly and I whispered to her I know you'll never forget him. I let go of her. She looked at me and said Thanks. When I tell most people about his death, they change the subject. I smiled and said the same thing I'd said to the soldier: Stay safe.
I walked out of Logan Airport toward the Rental Car Courtesy Shuttle, and couldn't shake the last couple of hours, what I had seen in the eyes of these people whose paths randomly crossed mine. I thought about the nasty weather and travel delays and my griping about a hamstring and a missed race and balanced them against the soldier and this woman. The scales were most definitely tipped and not in their favor. I was the lucky one. My worries were nothing that wouldn't pass with time. In a couple of hourse I'd have forgotten about the hassles of travel. In a few months, I'd be ready to try and qualify for Boston. It would all be gone, forgotten. The soldier, however: would he return? I'll never know and I hope I remember him and the payment exacted from him for his service. And this mother, travelling to Boston to let go of her son on Valentine's day, the day of love. For her, it was, I imagine, a day of limitless sorrow. I sat in the dim light of the courtesy shuttle and thought how providence can shine one day and be absent the next, and we could never be certain what is around the next corner. I thought about the next day and the significance of the holiday. There would be people celebrating love. For these two people, they would be perhaps regretting it, missing it; They would have their memories and little else. I looked at my hands and turned them over - they'd shaken the hand of the soldier and held the mother of a dead son. They looked very small.
February is the cruelest month. But not for me, at least not this year.
If you'd asked me about this quote 7 years ago, I would have agreed with Mr. Elliot. I grew up in the Northeast and April was the month I often begged for spring, warmth, and sunshine but was more often than not dished up a meal of cold and grey with a random side dish of lake effect snow.
Now comfortably situated in Virginia, I'd argue against his theory and say that February - not April, is the cruelest month. It's dark, it's cold, and well into a winter we often wish was over. The warmth and congeniality of Christmas and New Year's are but a memory, and Easter is a long, long way off. Days are short; the patience for spring is shorter. This February was particularly cruel for me, the runner: it was the month I was rudely awakened from my dream of running this April's Boston Marathon. Running a marathon is often as much about conquering the distance as it is conquering the limits of the human body. But this also assumes that you can actually get to the starting line. In January, as I ramped up my training, the hamstring I so gingerly pampered in the Autumn again reminded me to not think too far ahead, to not be overly presumptuous. Various scans and medical visits confirmed my fears: if I were to be in Boston on Patriots' Weekend, it would be as a spectator.
I committed half-heatedly to my physical therapy and the realization that I was a goal-oriented runner. Without some noble goal, I couldn't seem to drag myself out of bed for the cold, dark morning runs. These runs, for so long, were my own beacon of light in my day: they provided energy, clarity, and a route to focus. But without some greater goal, I was laid bare and felt the basest of hypocrites: did I not love running for running itself? Was my ego and sense of accomplishment too closely tied to a finishers medal? Maybe. Possibly. Maybe I was like so many who preferred to hibernate in the cozy comfort of flannel sheets on the cold winter mornings. Or maybe I was just tired.
I sought for some kind of meaning out of my predicament, but found myself irritable and often times needing to pout. So often in my blogs I speak of relativity and gratitude; I wish I was as ardent a practitioner as a preacher. Like so many very members of this oh-so-human race, my words are easier to write than actually do. Hypocrisy: thy name is mine.
February is the cruelest month.
As a child, I welcomed the month - this month, February, the month of my birth. As an adult, I'm much more aware that this day is really one that parents celebrate. And if we raise our children right, they may eventually think not of themselves, but of those who put them on this earth. On my 46th birthday, I ran and thought so often of my mother and father, and threw out thanks and gratitude to them for their love, patience (LOTS of patience), and the gift of their example. The road I ran was one they had paved for me so many years ago. But as I get older, I find myself not so much dreading as minimizing the date the milestone represents. I joke about now being in "the back 9 of my 40's" and feeling caught somewhere in the purgatory that is youth and old age: I feel far too vibrant to say I'm 'old', but see all too well the history and it's footprint in my face and body to know I'm several years removed from the pinnacle of youth. And if my rational brain doesn't convince me of that, my body is happy to remind me that the fountain of youth is not even close to Richmond, Virginia.
If February has a color, it is red. Despite the darkness and cold and seasonal association with sacrifice and lent, there is still the mid-month celebration of love. I see the representations of the holiday: red roses, red boxes of chocolate, red lips, red hearts. I wonder about those newly twinned with love and the pressure this holiday evokes. I wonder about those whose love has become ambivalent and how the holiday was once something to be revered and treasured but has - somehow - evolved into another item on the 'To Do' list.
I found myself in an airport on February 13th, trying to get to Boston for work. The weather in the northeast caused delays, and I sat on a bar stool with an hour to kill, the battery on my laptop long since depleted. I chatted with a young lady in her 20's. She was from Toronto and was full of the energy and promise I remembered possessing at that age. When I heard the first call for my flight, I asked the waitress for my bill, and offered to pay for hers in a spirit of camaraderie that stranded and delayed travelers so often feel. As I reached for my credit card, I saw a man in army fatigues, and as I handed the card over to the waitress, said I'll pay my tab and hers.... and tipping my head in the direction of the soldier and his. He looked at me, and smiled weakly. Thanks a lot. I appreciate that. The glass of wine had made me magnanimous but there was something in his quiet answer that gave me pause. I thanked him for his service and asked him where he was headed. Paris, he answered. I jumped on his answer It's a beautiful city! How long will you be there? He looked at his beer, then answered quietly, Not too long. It's just a layover until I catch the flight to Iraq. I'll be there 2 months, and then I'm done. I didn't know how to respond; I knew there was nothing I could say that would ease his concern. I asked him where he was from, where his family was. Well, I'm from Tennessee, but my family... well, I don't have any family now. All of a sudden those roses and red hearts ceased to have meaning. His sadness was palpable. Stay safe. It was the only thing I could weakly muster. His quiet, humble way just made me re-think my own frustration at a delayed flight, bad weather. I thought that even if he did make it safely home in 2 months, to what kind of home would he return? I shook his hand, then left. I said a quiet prayer for his safety and peace of spirit. I never learned his name.
I made my way to the plane and boarded with the hope of a quiet flight and 90 minutes to read or sleep. I found my seat on the aisle. There was a woman on the window seat; I guessed her age somewhere between mine and 10 years older. She was very blond, a few pounds overweight, and nervously chatty. Her clothing was a bit rumpled and baggy, very 'Earth Mother'. She was reading a book I knew my daughter had read and we had polite conversation about it. The flight took off and I dove into my own book.
About 15 minutes before we were to land I set aside my book, and my row companion struck up a conversation. I don't know how it started. I remember complementing her on some her jewelry: it was interesting but I'll admit I didn't look too closely at it. She said Yes, I have on all my Pagan stuff today. I blinked and thought OK, this is a little weird. I'll admit it: I wasn't being exactly tolerant. Chalk it up to fatigue. I changed the subject, What brings you to Boston? This is usually the safest of questions, the answer almost always Business or Vacation or Family. She looked at me, then looked at her lap and replied I'm here to scatter my son's ashes. I'm a mother and at that moment a giant hand wrapped around my throat. For the second time that day, I knew there was nothing I could say that would help the wound heal. I'm so sorry. I'm a mother too, I'm so so sorry... I looked her in the eyes and saw nothing but the deepest regret. He died 14 months ago. He was 22... I was raised to not ask too many questions in situations like this, and she didn't offer an others with respect to her son's death. She did talk about her 2 daughters who both lived in Texas. She didn't mention a spouse, so I concluded there wasn't one. There were tears in her eyes. I reached over and held her hand I know there is nothing I can say. I'm so sorry for your loss. I hope that this trip helps you in some way... my voice trailed off. Thanks, she quietly said. I've been dreading this trip but I know it'll help. She stopped, then laughed and said I have his ashes in my carry-on bag. I was ready to put up a fight if they gave me a hard time at the security screening... She smiled and I weakly smiled back. We sat in silence and I held her hand until the plane landed. As I got off the plane, I turned to her and said Take care, be well. I thought that was the last I'd see of her. But I ran into her at Baggage Claim. She seemed hyper and a bit wired; I think she realized she was that much closer to letting go of her boy. She chatted on and I grabbed my bag to go. She looked at me, and I put my bag down and hugged her, one mother to another. She held on to me tightly and I whispered to her I know you'll never forget him. I let go of her. She looked at me and said Thanks. When I tell most people about his death, they change the subject. I smiled and said the same thing I'd said to the soldier: Stay safe.
I walked out of Logan Airport toward the Rental Car Courtesy Shuttle, and couldn't shake the last couple of hours, what I had seen in the eyes of these people whose paths randomly crossed mine. I thought about the nasty weather and travel delays and my griping about a hamstring and a missed race and balanced them against the soldier and this woman. The scales were most definitely tipped and not in their favor. I was the lucky one. My worries were nothing that wouldn't pass with time. In a couple of hourse I'd have forgotten about the hassles of travel. In a few months, I'd be ready to try and qualify for Boston. It would all be gone, forgotten. The soldier, however: would he return? I'll never know and I hope I remember him and the payment exacted from him for his service. And this mother, travelling to Boston to let go of her son on Valentine's day, the day of love. For her, it was, I imagine, a day of limitless sorrow. I sat in the dim light of the courtesy shuttle and thought how providence can shine one day and be absent the next, and we could never be certain what is around the next corner. I thought about the next day and the significance of the holiday. There would be people celebrating love. For these two people, they would be perhaps regretting it, missing it; They would have their memories and little else. I looked at my hands and turned them over - they'd shaken the hand of the soldier and held the mother of a dead son. They looked very small.
February is the cruelest month. But not for me, at least not this year.
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