Ah, running. It has been one of the loves of my life for the past 20 years or so. However, we have had a fickle relationship in the last four years. Between 2003 and 2008, I ran four marathons, but I have barely run four miles since becoming a mother, especially being a full-time working mother. That is an exaggeration, but not by much. However, I kept my Runner's World subscription and read it faithfully every month even when I have too busy/tired/pregnant/bedridden/overwhelmed with life to run.
High school cross country was my introduction to running. I joined because I suck at team sports, so no one would be let down if I ran super slow. It also didn't hurt that all serious runners are skinny. I consistently brought up the rear, but I loved it (and I have gotten a lot faster). There was just something about raising my heart rate and breaking a sweat in the beautiful mountains. It enabled me to get lost in my surroundings and literally leave my stress and troubles behind for an hour or so. And I'm always chasing what's known colloquially as the runner's high. Basically, if you run long enough, the perfect mix of endorphins kicks in: you feel euphoric and like you could literally run forever. It's elusive but feels SO good when it happens.
When I am in serious running mode, I am a complete nerd. I have a GPS device that I wear on my wrist; it tracks my mileage, time, heart rate, and, most importantly, my pace. I follow training plans meticulously, dividing my workouts among long runs, recovery runs, speed workouts, and tempo runs. I keep a workout log and spend hundreds of dollars for the privilege of running races.
To me, there is nothing like crossing the finish line of a marathon, no matter how many I have run previously. There is nothing like setting a PR (personal record) in any distance, something I have not done in a looooong time. I have shed many tears over good and bad marathon performances. In my last marathon, I finished way off my goal. When my boss asked me about it at work the next day, I broke my self-imposed "no crying at work" rule. Yikes. In other words, my relationship with running is not only long-term yet fickle, but is also emotionally complicated.
I haven't been able to run much since Caroline was born. I've done a couple of races and run up to eight miles. That might seem like a lot, but there were times that I ran seven miles a day and double-digit miles on the weekends. I hadn't been working out at all when I got pregnant with Weston. The general rule is that it is safe to exercise while pregnant, as long as you don't start up a new exercise routine. So, I was couch-bound. Then I was put on bed rest and was required to be couch-bound. Then I laid in a hospital bed for a month. Then I had a c-section. Then Weston died.
So now I am coming back from the mother of all running layoffs (pardon the pun). I started up again, very slowly, when we were in Connecticut recently. It was wonderful. Of course, it didn't hurt that I was running along the beach for most of the run. And I played my Weston playlist. And ran by Weston Road. And, after Labor Day, the place was deserted. I had an emotional release on almost every run. I don't know if I just let the pent-up emotions go at that time, or if the running prompted the release, but however it happened, it was a positive thing. I could just allow myself to get lost in grieving Weston without worrying about how others would perceive it.
One of the many pieces of grief literature that I have read is written in bullet-point format, because that's about all one can handle immediately after their child's death and while planning the funeral. Anyway, the first three bullet points in this article are: get enough sleep, eat right, and exercise. I absolutely believe in a mind-body connection; I had strong physical reactions to Weston's death. Although most of them have subsided, I am still not the same physically (in addition to the obvious pregnancy changes). But I thought it was very interesting that the article made taking care of oneself physically such a priority for a bereaved parent.
So now I finally get to the main point of this post. I went running the other morning and saw M, a friend from church whom I haven't seen since before I told anyone I was pregnant (I can't handle being around more than two friends at a time right now, so I can't go to church). M is a hard-core runner. I flagged her down, and we chit-chatted about running for a few minutes. Then she brought up Weston (she knew what had happened, so I didn't have to have that difficult conversation). I cried, then she cried, and she gave me a big hug. She didn't say much in those moments. Then we continued on with our respective runs.
This means everything to me. I know the encounter had to be scary for M. I can just imagine what was going through her head in those moments: Do I bring up Weston? I don't want to make her cry. It hasn't been very long. It will make her sad to talk about him. But what do I say? What words can make a woman who lost a child feel better? I'm out running; it's not like we're sitting down for a drink or something...
But, she did it. So, when in doubt: talk about our dead children. Don't be afraid you will remind us of our loss, because we have not forgotten and will never forget. Ask us how we are doing. Tell us you are sorry. Ask us about our children who died. Hug us. Tell us you have no words. Because the truth is, there are no words. No words make the pain go away or make us feel better. However, acknowledging our loss of our children is so very important. I can't speak for other bereaved parents, but for me it is completely acceptable to ask about the circumstances of Weston's death itself. And, right now there is nothing I would rather talk about than my son.
Don't be afraid of our tears. I know that is infinitely easier said than done and that it goes against the very fiber of our culture. But, as someone who spends all my time in a fog now, tears make me feel alive. Shedding tears is a relief, because I spend so much time and energy just trying to hold myself together. Don't be scared about shedding your own tears; you don't have to be strong for me. If anything, your tears make me feel less alone. Your tears tell me that you care. (But don't force it. How many people can cry on command anyway?)
Don't think you have to say something eloquent or profound. And don't let your lack of eloquence or profoundness (is that an actual word?) keep you from saying anything. I would rather you bumble around than not acknowledge Weston at all.
So, I hope I am not over-complicating things. If you take away one thing from this post, let it be this: let grieving parents know you care. I have not always followed this advice; I used to be one of those who was afraid of making the other person cry, so I just wouldn't say anything.
How long do you acknowledge the elephant in the room? I don't know the answer to that, but I suppose it is different for everyone. At this point, it is just under two months since Weston's death, and my grief is still very much an open wound. This soon after such a great loss, we bereaved parents still need a lot of emotional support. And if we can't handle talking about our loss, we will stay at home. That's why I'm not going to my church yet, or my mom groups, or my old office (they will never be rid of me!): I can't handle talking to a large number of people about losing Weston right now.
Despite being an extrovert, I love the solitude and self-reliance of running. I get the credit for completing a good workout or race, and I have no one to blame but myself when things don't go as well. But when it comes to grieving and acknowledging tragedies, solidarity is better than solitude. In all likelihood, I wouldn't have seen M again for months. I love that a mutual love for running made our paths cross. Her hug, tears, and few words were a blessing to me.
P.S. Lest the title of the post confuse you, you do not need to be running when you see me for the above to apply.
An event has happened, upon which it is difficult to speak, and impossible to remain silent.
~Edmund Burke
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