Running and Grief

Late in the week leading up to the Fort Lauderdale half Matt and I ran, my grandma was moved into hospice. She'd been sick for awhile but had just recently discontinued treatment. I had seen her just the previous weekend with my mom and brother. My uncle told my mom, who told us, that she probably wouldn't last through Monday.

It wasn't a surprise. She'd been battling illness and age; I had made that trip up to see her knowing it would probably be the last time.

None of that made it any easier.

I ran with my phone on Do Not Disturb, aware I might get a text from my mom mid-race and wanting to avoid that possibility. I debated writing her name on my arm for the race, but chose not to. She surfaced in my mind around mile 4, randomly and without any conscious thought or meaning attached. Just Grandma, Grandma, think of Grandma.

As it was, that text I was dreading but kind of expected came about thirty minutes after we finished. Grandma passed right around the time Matt and I crossed the finish line.

She was 90. She was a veteran who died Veterans Day weekend, and for some reason I just keep thinking about that.

Despite having a chance to see her recently, and despite having fair warning, this is still hard.

Death is hard on the living.

Matt and I fly out for her funeral this week. I am not someone who can run while grieving. My grief manifests as numbness punctuated by moments of uncontrollable weeping. Neither of those states is conducive to running. My mind and body want to remain shut down; running makes me feel vulnerable. It brings emotions to the surface. I tend to feel emotionally swamped when I run while sad.

Grandma and her six kids. I love this photo for many reasons, but especially because my mom looks exactly like I did at that age.

Grandma, Grandpa, the six kids + my dad

So, I canceled my runs last week. I took a full week off. I went through the motions of work. I depended on my friends and Matt to get me through, and they really did. I took four days for bereavement this week, and then we have a week for Thanksgiving, and by the time I'm back at work I hope I'll feel a little more with it.

My grandma and I didn't see eye-to-eye on some things, but I know she loved me. I really believe she waited to let go until after she'd seen all her people one last time, and that's why she declined so quickly after our visit. I have photos and heirlooms and recipes and a million warm memories to remember her by.

At my bat mitzvah in 1999.

The first time she met Matt, after we got engaged.

Sometimes it's the littlest things, too. Like, she taught me how to turn a shirt right-side-out when folding laundry in one quick flip to save time. She wasn't Jewish, but she remembered to send me flowers every Passover for our seder. She and grandpa would call and sing happy birthday every year, finishing the song with their own special flair (and am I glad I saved those last couple voicemails or what?!). She always kept M&Ms in a crystal bowl, which absolutely made them taste better. She was a nurse and worked with my grandpa, who was a dentist, and when I was a kid and she let me name the teddy bear young patients held for comfort during cleanings. I still have him today.

As a kid, I loved miniatures and coveted a little ceramic ring box she had. Apparently I asked her once, "Grandma, when you pass, can I have that?" I don't remember this story, but she told it to me the day before my wedding, when she gave me that box and the ring inside, along with a handkerchief I wore in my bodice as my "something old."

My wedding was the last time they visited us in Florida.

Grandma didn't "get" the whole running thing, but she always asked about my races when we talked. She didn't get it, like she probably didn't get a lot of things about me and my generation in general, but she loved me, and she was interested in what made me happy. She only ever wanted me to be happy.

I was lucky to have her for as long as I did, and lucky to have a grandma so full of genuine love.

Nothing about death is easy, but I am taking comfort in the fact that, even if we didn't feel ready to lose her, she was ready to go. I know that now her pain has ended and her legacy will live on.

ABK

The Long Run that Wasn't

I have, unfortunately, enough experience with running-while-grieving to kind of know what to expect. When my beloved dog Toby passed away a few years ago, my first run after her death was supposed to be 7 miles. I walked it in after 3.5; my body and mind just weren't ready for that kind of effort.

I remembered that this time around, but I didn't remember how long it really took me to get back into a running mindset. I skipped my scheduled 12-miler that Sunday. Tuesday I went on a run without a distance in mind. I ended up running way too fast as my emotions fueled me, and then had to walk it in after 2.5 miles. That's okay...I knew that run would just be about getting outside.

I joined Kristin for six miles Thursday morning, but missed my Friday run because I felt absolutely exhausted physically and mentally. Instead I did some free weights.

So my long run this weekend was supposed to be 14 miles, and I got up to go. I had my new Camelbak Circuit packed and ready. I had a route in mind. I knew it was supposed to pour around 8am but thought I could at least get a couple hours in.

Typical Florida weather I guess.

I prepped an assortment of food for the run. The Circuit held it all nicely, and still had room for my sunglasses.

But no. I just...wasn't there. It was too much time to think. Too much time alone. I kept remembering that Archie's been gone for a week already, and once I got thinking of that I just couldn't go on. I did just over four miles and came home, dejected.

I may go out again tonight and finish the rest of the distance, or, because we don't have school tomorrow, I may try again Monday morning. I don't want to shirk my long runs, but my mind and body just aren't feeling it right now.

I took quite a few walk breaks and my legs never really seemed to warm up this morning. Usually after a couple miles I start to enjoy myself, but today all I wanted to do was go back to bed.

I don't want to cut myself too much slack, and I certainly don't want to use Archie's passing as an excuse, and I don't want to keep thinking about it...But I know the source of this lethargy, and I know I just need a little more time. It still feels fresh. I'll persevere, but I need to be patient and diligent.

As for the Camelbak, I liked it. You can definitely hear sloshing but rather than annoy me, I actually like the rhythm. It doesn't bounce and it holds just enough stuff. Along with all the pockets in my running skirts, I'll never need to wear a belt again! It didn't chafe on this run; we'll soon see how it does on a longer run.

How do emotions affect your runs?
At what point do I just need to suck it up and push on?

ABK

"And it came to me then that every plan was a tiny prayer to Father Time"

The outpouring of support and love in the wake of Archie's passing has been overwhelming and so very appreciated. Matt and I are...Well, we're hanging in there. We have so many questions and so much self-recrimination as we turn over in our minds the events of Saturday. What did we do? What did we miss? How did this happen?

We cleaned Archie's cage and put it in storage Sunday, so that we won't be faced with it every time we go into the living room. It was harder, more final, than digging his grave for some reason. Grief has left me feeling weak and exhausted; I felt alright to go to work today, but after a full day of pretending everything was fine for the benefit of my students, I feel hollow and fragile again.

I didn't want this post to focus on Archie, but I have to address it. I'm distracted and off-kilter, but I'm attempting to move forward.

Last week, I had an (almost) perfect running week. Every day I planned to run in the morning, I ran. I was ready to conquer my long run, but I obviously skipped it. I haven't felt up to running. I do hope to run Tuesday evening and then get back on track for morning runs, even if my mileage is lower.

Last time a pet passed, running was too much time to think. It was awful. But I want to stay in my routine; I think it will help.

I just finished Haruki Murakami's What I Talk About When I Talk About Running and have a full review planned for this week, so hopefully that will help me ease back into blog posts that aren't maudlin.

But I just wanted to say thank you, and that your words have meant more than you can imagine. They've been a balm for an ache I think will never disappear, but has eased at least a little.

ABK

Goodbye, Little Bird

I wanted to end this week with a report on my training, but I can't bring myself to write it.

Archie passed away unexpectedly on Saturday. He was his usual energetic self all morning, but he started showing signs of illness sometime after lunch, and he stopped breathing around 4pm. Matt and I had been nursing him and we tried CPR, but to no avail.

Birds have evolved to hide illness until it's very serious; he's been sick once before and we must have gotten lucky because he recovered then. But this time...

We'll never know what made him so sick so fast, and not having answers makes this feel like some awful dream. It can't be true. But is is.

We are devastated. Archie was a huge part of everything we did daily. He was so curious and always wanted to be where the action was. If I was in the kitchen, he would be on my shoulder or in a cabinet, inspecting my work.

A video posted by Matt Kearney (@stokeonthewater) on Jul 2, 2015 at 4:40pm PDT

He loved to cuddle. He'd sit on our keyboards and nudge our fingers with his head when he wanted scratches.

He'd sit on our shoulders and press his beak against our faces when he wanted kisses. He slept in our shirts. He fell asleep in our hands. He would chirp and sing in his sleep. He would enjoy the ride under Matt's hat when we took road trips. 

He loved when we had rice or pasta for dinner, and he wasn't shy about eating off our plates, although he made quite the mess. When he heard me telling a story about my day, he'd hop over to me and get as close to my face as possible. Sometimes he would strut along the floor instead of flying, like he thought he was a little person. 

He loved to get tangled in my hair, and once we had to cut him free. He hated when I wore nail polish, so I never did. He loved to preen our eyelashes and eyebrows. 

He would sit on my shoulder and preen while I washed my face and brushed my teeth, so we always got ready for bed together.  He was truly a part of the family, not aloof or distant like some people might think a bird would be.

He loved everyone. It's unusual for lovebirds to bond with more than one person, but Archie bonded with both me and Matt AND he loved everyone who walked through our door. He wanted to always be near people.

And now the house feels empty and quiet. It was so sudden. It just feels so unfair.

We put him in his little bed and then into a box, which we buried in an underground cairn in the backyard. Archie loved cardboard boxes, so it almost seemed fitting for one to be his final resting place. We bought a birdbath and ceramic bird ornament to finish the memorial. As we were digging the grave, a little rainbow appeared in the sky. As we finished putting in the birdbath, a huge storm unleashed. We sat outside and watched until it was too dark to see. We didn't want to leave him alone out there, when he so clearly belonged warm and soft in our shirts inside the house. We did what we could, but it still feels nightmarish and unreal.

I'm trying to take comfort in knowing that in his final moments, he felt the warmth of our hands and heard the sound of our voices. He wasn't alone. He was such a little bird, and so young to die so suddenly. We did what we could to give him a full, happy life, and I think he knew how loved he was.

Baby Archie, October 2011. Rest in peace, little bird.

ABK

In Memory of Robin Williams

The death of Robin Williams hit me like a physical blow. I know it seems like overreaction, but it's true. He is an actor that defined much of my childhood. The minute I heard, the first person I told was my sister. We grew up watching his movies, laughing and crying and basking in the honest humanity of every character he portrayed. He had a way of making even the funniest characters truly human; he knew how to make people feel. Some of my favorite movies of his are the lesser-known ones, or at least the ones that don't get as much attention or acclaim, like What Dreams May Come, Death to Smoochy, and Bicentennial Man. And of course, as an English teacher, I absolutely adore The Dead Poets Society and Good Will Hunting. 

I know he's had a profound impact on so many people...Matt, who has never cared about celebrity deaths, actually felt moved to the point of posting a Facebook status about it...and that says something, believe it or not. 

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer: that you are here; that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?" - Robin Williams as John Keating, The Dead Poets Society

What strikes me most about his death, beyond how talented and beloved he was, is that it shines a light on depression as something that is sometimes bigger than we are. It's sometimes out of our control; sometimes it just sneaks up and takes hold of us, even those of us who have the money - the means - to "fix" ourselves the way that society wants us to be fixed. Williams had the money to get the best help available, had proof through his amazing body of work that he was successful and loved throughout the world...and yet he got to the point where he could no longer go on. Sometimes we can't escape its grasp. 

I've talked on my blog before about my history and relationship with depression, and it's not really something that I want to go into in depth, but Williams's death is definitely something that hit home. I feel very lucky to be married to man who may not understand depression personally, but who at least understands that it is very real for me, who is willing to be there when I need him to be, and who helps me work through things in the way that I need to work through them.

Running has had a huge impact on my mental health, just as it has on my physical health, but I want to make it clear that often you need more than just a loving family and a healthy outlet in order to beat depression into submission. Please, please, please if this is something that you battle, get the help that you so deserve.

The Suicide Prevention Lifeline - US. Canadian Mental Health Association - information and help for those in Canada. Befrienders Worldwide - to learn how to provide support for those considering suicide.

Williams still had so much to offer the world, and we've truly lost a great man and a huge personality. But I do hope that we can learn from his death that depression and mental illness are real, and they're things that we need to destigmatize so that those who need help are no longer afraid to seek it.

Take care of yourselves.

ABK