Mending

I kept my eyes focused on my form in the mirror, the 6:00 A.M. Sports Center on the TV mounted near the ceiling, the other early morning gym rats, anything but the slow ticking of the red numbers on the treadmill screen. The artificial icy air sliced in and out of my lungs. Each time thunder shuddered the windows and lightning flashed outside, I held my breath for a second, fearing that there would be a power outage and my run would be lost before I finished. Treadmill running was mind-numbingly dull for me in short bursts, so a half-marathon’s worth of treadmill miles was torture.

A trickle of sweat dripped down my back and I shivered as my legs pumped through mile nine. They didn’t really hurt that much; it was discomfort and boredom that were making me want to quit. The air conditioning, which had been welcome at first, had turned uncomfortable as my damp navy blue tank top and black shorts clung to my skin. I felt feverish, alternately hot and chilled, clammy. My mouth was dry, but I didn’t want to drink from the bottle in front of me. I already needed to pee, and more water would only make it worse. If I stopped and got off the treadmill, I didn’t think I would be able to get back on. I looked around at the other gym patrons for a distraction. The man on the treadmill next to me was tall and had dark wavy brown hair. He looked familiar and by the time I got to mile ten, I realized he resembled Mark Prior, the often-injured Chicago Cubs pitcher. It made me want to tell him to be careful so that he didn’t fall off the treadmill and hurt himself. 

As I launched into the final three miles, my mind shifted from my temporary discomfort to the reason I was determined to get the mileage in that morning, even if it meant milling it. I pushed the speed button up a tenth of a mile faster as I pictured my mom collapsing and falling. Two more notches for the bruises that covered her arms from when she, in a seizure induced panic, had fought with the paramedics who were trying to save her. Three more for the shaved patch on her scalp where the doctors had drilled through her skull to biopsy the tumor that crept across her brain. Four more for the inoperable prognosis. And again for the conference scheduled with a neurologist that afternoon to discuss the options available to prolong the life that now came with a quantifiable expiration date. My leg muscles strained, finally awake, and I sprinted through the final two miles. Only when the numbers on the screen flashed 13.1 did I slow my speed to a jog and then a walk.

The conference with the neurologist was the reason I had to get the miles in that morning even though it meant running inside at the gym because of the storm outside. The only memories I have of that day are those of the run which I remember with absolute clarity, all of it. What I don’t remember is anything else about the events that followed. I don’t recall the drive to Evanston and Northwestern Hospital, anything Dr. Vick, the neurologist, said. I don’t know what my parents talked about, if we ate lunch or dinner together, or how I got back to my home in Genoa City, WI that evening. The lone other detail I can picture is that I wore a dark red empire waist shirt that tied in the back and khaki shorts. The only proof I have that the day even happened is my memory of the run against the backdrop of the rest of the events.

The fact that I went for a run on the day that I had to accompany my parents to the hospital is not remarkable – I run nearly every day and have done so for years. It is the clarity with which I remember that specific run paired with my whitewash of memory when it comes to the rest of the day. And this was not the only occasion where a devastating or otherwise tense event is evoked in my memory exclusively through the filter of running.

“If you talk to Mom and Dad, this phone call never happened.” I remember that message on my voicemail from early spring of 2007. My brother’s voice was muffled, as though he was speaking through a thick cloth. I know I must have called him back and he told me that his on and off again girlfriend was pregnant. They were only nineteen, she was in college up in Green Bay, he was at the local community college near our parents’ house in Round Lake, IL. He was scared and didn’t know how to tell our parents. I like to think I gave him some solid older sister advice and that I was supportive and encouraging, but I remember nothing after listening to the message.

When I try to recall my memory of this day, the indelible image is that of me outside in the middle of a run. I am standing at the top of a hill that curves sharply to the right, overlooking an expanse of corn and soybean fields, uniformly yellowed and browned from the winter that has just passed. The remaining stalks are flattened and have yet to be plowed over and planted for spring. It is still a little cold outside, but the snow has been gone for a few weeks, and the ground is mostly dry. I am just over nine miles in on a fifteen-mile run and have stopped to take a drink of water from my handheld water bottle. A cherry red pick-up truck approaches and goes around the curve a little too fast. I step back further onto the gravel shoulder of the

road to make sure I’m far out of the way. I’m surprised by my pace when I look at my watch. I’ve been going much faster than I usually do on these longer runs – nearly thirty seconds per mile faster.

The reason for my speed was the message and conversation with my brother the previous evening. Somewhere in that forgotten talk we must have devised a plan that I would drive down to my parents’ house and be there to offer moral support when they found out. Apparently, he had decided to send it in writing – an email – and I was to make sure they read it and then support and defuse the situation as best I could. I don’t know why I agreed that this would be the best approach when clearly it was not ideal, but I did. I was up early to run before the big announcement and my head was spinning with thoughts of my baby brother as a parent, although I don’t recall many specifics about my thoughts, just running.

The peculiar thing about memory is the way in which it takes varying routes to deceive us. Sometimes, entire blocks of time are blurred like a TV screen with poor reception. Instead of a specific image attached to an event, we’re left with a compressed tableau that gives us a sense of what happened, the feeling, the overall atmosphere of a period, but not detailed daily sketches. This is the consequence of the passage of time, the cost of living. But it is also our body and mind’s way of protecting us from painful stretches of growth and change, just as it does when we need to deflect the pain of a singular memory.

There are not many memorable things about East Troy, WI. The lack of the extraordinary was the reason I chose to live there. I had been desperate to find a place to not only live, but to disappear for a while. The previous months had brought, finally, the end of a toxic, emotionally draining relationship. Despite the necessity of its termination, I was left lost and full of regret. I had just turned thirty and had never really been on my own. I jumped straight from college into cohabitation and an engagement that, thankfully, never made it to the altar. During that lost decade, I had missed out on all the normal things twenty somethings did. I hadn’t established a career or made connections that would allow me to do so. I hadn’t traveled, explored, or tried new things. I hadn’t learned who I was or what I wanted out of life. Instead, I languished at a unchallenging job with a hospitality supply company because it was “safe” and offered at least one steady income in our turbulent household. I ran regularly, but was never able to see the consistent improvement I thought should be apparent with the hard work I was putting in. This was in part because I careened between severe calorie restriction and overeating, my fluctuating weight a reflection of my misery at home and at work.

By the time I reached East Troy, the years of living in a constant state of stress both at home and at work had left me filled with self-doubt and confusion. I was a wreck, but I knew it and longed to change, to fix everything the last ten years had broken. I didn’t have a job at first, but I found part-time and temporary positions, enough to pay for rent and groceries. I don’t remember off hand all the jobs I worked or what I did there; many temporary assignments only lasted a day or two. I also don’t remember how I spent my free time other than running – mile after mile.

When I think about my year there, my memories are not connected to one specific run. Instead, my memories of that year are a series of runs. The ones where I took a right out of the front of my building and ran through the densely wooded roads outside of town, the ones with the hills that made my calf muscles scorch. The ones where I took a left, ran through town, and then out along the two-lane highway towards the Alpine Valley Resort. The ones around the two small lakes where my grandma and great-aunt used to vacation when they were children. The winter ones where it was frigid enough to freeze my water bottle within a few miles. The summer ones where the pavement sizzled and I fantasized about cool water, ice, and air conditioning the entire time, sometimes worried I wouldn’t make it back because I was so hot, so thirsty. The one where the black Labrador puppy ran with me for half a mile while I tried to figure out which yard he had broken out of. And finally, the one when I realized that I wasn’t sad anymore and that I needed to get out of East Troy and back to civilization.

The year alone gave me the therapeutic respite I needed. When it was over, I followed the precedent of the other occasions – I remembered the runs. By pairing running with events that have caused me or a loved one grief, I attach a sense of healing to those events. The actions from which I did successfully recover, the runs, survive in my memory. This process is far more conducive to healing than the reality of tragedy and the emptiness that follows.  

Memories of misfortune and heartbreak can sometimes hinder our capacity to move forward. I think that once we’ve survived, we have an intrinsic desire to leave behind that which brings us sadness and discomfort, to round the edges of sorrow and heartache that we can’t command. Running does this for me. I run because I love it. I love the challenge, the rewards, and the pain. The throbbing muscles, the raw searing lungs, the exhausted desperation of the final ten kilometers of a marathon are all agonizing in the immediate moment or moments, but then they end, my body settles, and the hurt is gone.