Dad hurt his back in the 1980s and took up swimming to help with the back pain. He has been swimming ever since. We all traveled to San Francisco in the mid-1990s to cheer him on at the Alcatraz swim, which is a challenging swimming race at-you guessed it-Alcatraz. The swimmers are taken out to Alcatraz in a boat, where they swim back to the pier. I think there are sharks. At least that's what my dad told a little girl when he brushed up against a barnacle that cut his arm. He has always had a sense of humor too, obviously. Shannon, Caroline and I went along in 2010 when he swam Alcatraz again for his 60th birthday.
Our events have diverged a bit over the years: I became a complete running junkie, which I explained here, while Dad has ventured into distance cycling. I am scared of being hit by a car, so that is another reason I have stuck with running. But Dad has successfully avoided cars in several long-distance bike races over the years. He also still swims regularly. I have done a whole lot of nothing for the past few years, but I have been running like crazy since Weston died.
Weston was remarkably stable for most of his short life. My dad had trained for and planned to do the Alcatraz swim on July 28, so he went ahead and made the trip. He was out swimming when Weston died; he heard the awful news when he finished the swim.
Dad told me later that he felt Weston's presence very strongly while he was out in the water. The race is very challenging; there are a lot of strong currents from the Pacific. My dad felt strong throughout the race and discovered when he finished that he had taken 15 minutes off his time. For all you non-race-junkies, that is a huge deal. He and I have no doubt that Weston helped him through the race.
Since then, my dad has gone on several multi-hour bike rides, some on challenging terrain. He shared with me that he has felt Weston give him strength during some punishing uphill climbs. This is very comforting to both of us.
Running attracts countless charities. Many, many races are organized for the sole benefit of providing funds for various charities (I have organized a few myself). Many charities organize fundraising programs, where the runner promises to raise a certain amount of money for the charity in exchange for group runs, training plans, free race entry, etc.
I have never done any type of fundraising for a charity with my own running. Mainly, I love running for the sake of running. I would feel disingenuous asking people for money (even though it wouldn't be my money) to do something that I love and that I probably would do anyway. And I have never felt so drawn to a specific cause to the point that I wanted to run a race for them.
Until now. And it's not really a "cause." Now I run for my baby boy who will never be able to run with me. And maybe someday I can raise a zillion dollars for the MISS Foundation or March of Dimes or for medical research into crappy placentas or unexplained neonatal death. But now I carry an invisible torch for Weston on every run.
Running releases endorphins. Running outside enables a closer bond with the natural world. I am not feeling close to God these days (another topic I need to post), but I feel a tad closer to him when I am outside in a beautiful place. It is very slightly comforting.
And Weston is part of the earth and the heavens and the universe now. He is everywhere I go, and he is with me when I run. Even on the treadmill.
So I ran my first post-Weston race today, and only my third race since becoming a mother three years ago. It was a 10k (6.2 miles) in downtown Phoenix, and the route also just happened to go by the hospital where Weston lived. My dad reminded me before the race that Weston would give me strength.
Parking was going to be an issue, so I rode the light rail to the start/finish line. I was alone; Caroline and Shannon met me at the finish line later. There was a half marathon and a 5k in addition to the 10k, so a lot of runners were already out on the course. The course follows the light rail for about two miles, so I could see the runners go by.
It was a beautiful morning. Watching these hundreds of runners go by, pushing themselves, I was struck anew by how ALIVE and healthy they were. It made me ache for Weston so much.
I got to the start area about 10 minutes before the race started. You race veterans know that 10 minutes is cutting it a little close. There were thousands of people there; I was alone among the thousands. Kind of like my grief. When I lined up in the starting area, I saw someone I know whom I hadn't seen in several months. He was in a group, and he knows about Weston. I thought about saying hi but didn't. The atmosphere was festive and lighthearted, everyone was in a good mood, and I didn't feel like bringing it down. Sigh...
The race started, and I turned on my trusty GPS watch. I haven't used it in years (long story); the GPS signal wasn't working, and I didn't feel like messing with it while running, so I just turned it off about five minutes into the race. I was going to have to rely on my internal clock to pace myself. This was scary because (1) I am a numbers junkie with my running; and (2) I haven't been running enough lately to have a good sense of how various paces feel yet.
It ended up being very liberating, just running by feel. But I had a little help. We ran by all the light rail stations, which had clocks, so I had did have some idea of how much time was passing. But it was very vague.
I ran by the hospital and blew Weston a kiss. For most of the race, I just pictured his sweet face, and it made everything easier. He truly gave me strength. There was a person yelling out the time at the halfway point, and I was almost two minutes behind. So I really picked it up. The second half of the race was a little painful. I thought about how much Weston went through during his short life and knew I had it in me to run a good race. If he could hang on as long as he did, I could bang out a decent 10k.
But it wasn't a foolproof strategy. I was rocking along, and I got a horrible cramp about half a mile from the finish. It was BAD. That has never happened to me during a race, although cramps are quite normal. I had to slow to a walk for a couple of minutes to release the cramp. I thought then that I had blown my time goal.
My only goal was to finish the race in under an hour. That would be a very modest goal for the pre-kids, marathon-running me, but I thought it was a pretty good one for someone who had spent a quarter of the year in bed and undergone major surgery.
About a mile from the finish, I started thinking about what was awaiting me there: the smiling faces of my husband and daughter. I read the blog of another bereaved mom, who lost her daughter earlier this year. She recently envisioned herself losing everyone EXCEPT her daughter who died, which made her realize how much she has to live for. To me, this is a very positive and healthy outlook. It does not diminish the loss of a child whatsoever, but it does remind me to be thankful for what I have, which is so very difficult to do at this point. Especially as we enter November and the daily "What I am Thankful For" Facebook posts leading up to Thanksgiving. Ugh. Sorry: no offense to those of you participating. I'm just not feeling it this year. When I think about the wonderful blessings I have, it necessarily makes me think about how much I have lost, and vice versa.
Anyway, I was looking forward to seeing my family at the finish line (and really hoping they had made it; all the road closures made getting downtown very tricky this morning). I have only done two other races since Caroline was born, and she did not go to either. Shannon did not go to one of them, and he ran the other one with me. So I had not had a cheering section in a very long time. Or a photographer. Here is a rare action shot:
Shannon took this picture very close to the finish line. As I approached the finish line, I saw the clock and was surprised at what I saw: 59-something. But this was the time from when the starting bell rang, not from when I actually crossed the starting line. I got my official result several hours later: 58:30. This was even with the minute or two of walking, so I was pleased.
Caroline was VERY excited. She danced a lot and stretched with me:
She participated in the kids' dash:
and earned a medal:
I called my dad; he was still on the lake. We will talk soon.
Running a 10k is the last thing I thought I would be doing nine days after my due date. I missed these little hands like crazy today.
Weston, I will keep running for you. Finally seeing your face at the finish line will be the sweetest reward.
His sudden early death is not just our loss but his: the loss of seeing trees, of hearing music, of reading books, of writing books, of walking through cathedrals, of visiting friends, of being with family, of marrying, of going to church, and [of participating in something his family loves: running.]
~Nicholas Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son at 49.
tears.... praying for the strength that only God can give! You are such an amazing woman!
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