If you’ve been reading this blog since it’s inception you know all about my mother’s passing in 2007 from gall bladder cancer. If you know me in real life you also know that my father passed away in 1998 from leukemia/pneumonia. In the years in between I lost a close friend to brain cancer. Lots of cancer to go around.
6 months after my dad died I received a little purple postcard in the mail with photos of smiling people in purple running attire and race numbers, arms draped around each other shoulders.
“What are they so happy about,” I grumbled.
The postcard was sent from The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society and was advertising the Team in Training program. Reading over the postcard I learned the basics. You help raise money to donate to research and treatment of blood cancers – they train you to run a marathon (the only event I think they were offering back then).
Deciding to run a marathon or raise money is normally something people give a lot of thought. I did not do this. I felt compelled to sign up. Now let me be clear; I didn’t feel inspired or motivated – I felt compelled. I was pulled or pushed to do this by something on the inside. I understood that I would feel uncomfortable if I did NOT sign up for the race. So I did.
The next 6 months of training were incredible. Every weekend I met with my team for our long runs and every week the running got easier. I clearly remember the week I thought 12 miles didn’t seem so long after all. I remember everyone on my team complaining that none of us had lost weight despite all the miles we were covering ever week. Then we’d compare notes on how much more we’d been eating all week…you know, carbo-loading and all.
The race itself was a mix of emotions. It was in Anchorage, AK and somewhat poorly planned out – like several miles of the race were on a hiking path with no car access – so when they ran out of water we were out of luck. Around mile 18 I felt a sharp pain in my foot and could no longer run on it. I would learn later that I’d suffered a stress fracture.
Walking the remaining 8 miles was painful and emotional. I was frustrated that I was hurt, I felt embarrassed to be walking and it gave me too much time to think about what had brought me to that place at that time. You can never plan for what might actually happen on race day and when it goes wrong it can feel like a great disappointment.
The race was held over Father’s Day weekend, the first father’s day since he’d died. As we neared the finish line and I saw some familiar faces – teammates who’d finished before me, my coaches and my mom who’d flown out to cheer me on – my heart swelled just a bit. I remember thinking, “Holy shit…I am about to complete a marathon?! These people are all about to see me do this. This is actually happening.” For the last 8 miles I’d been so stuck in my unhappiness of how it had unfolded that I hardly realized that I was still in the race!
I actually ran the last stretch to the finish line, stress fracture and all, my mentor Ron jumped in to run the last bit with me. Crossing the finish line was the proudest of felt of myself – I’m not sure I’ve felt that level of self-pride since.
I’ve been receiving versions of that same purple postcard for the 10 years since I ran that marathon. Usually I would take a glance before tossing it in with the recycling, but not think twice those smiling purple garbed athletes. When I received the postcard this past December my reaction was different. Or rather it was familiar.
I felt compelled.
