running like the wind

While walking Smellie in the sweltering heat of Saturday evening, I passed the home of some friends who were in their backyard barbecuing. I heard the happy chatter of the couple with at least one of their children and perhaps one or two friends. The banter was uplifting and made me smile despite more than a tinge of sadness realizing in real time that Michael and I never have, never do, and never will have that experience with our son since he can't talk or engage with others in any kind of "normal" fashion. In fact—without exaggerating—I can probably count on ten fingers how many times Calvin has eaten a meal with us at the table. Unless friends come over, Michael and I always dine by ourselves as if empty nesters which, despite sitting constant vigil beside the baby monitor, might seem like a major bonus but in the bigger picture is a colossal loss.

Earlier in the day, I had run the Beach to Beacon 10K with about 7,000 other runners. I carpooled to the event with a neighbors' daughter, Clare, who is sweet as can be and is a serious runner. She picked up my bib and event swag for me the night before, and helped me navigate the event, which was my first-ever bona fide road race. Though it was 75 degrees with 85% humidity when the race began at 8:00 a.m., it was fun! Just before the race began I was able to hug my dear friend, Olympic Marathon Gold Medalist Joanie Benoit Samuelson, the event's founder, and she cautioned us to "please stay safe" in the heat. My goal was to finish without walking and to average a pace between 9:30 and 9:45 per mile. I came in a hair over that, which was satisfying considering the heat and the fact I had trained in earnest for just over two months. It feels good to finally be in the initial stages of getting back to my former athletic self, the one I pretty much abandoned when Calvin was born. Clare, by the way, placed fourth in the field of non-professional women with a pace of 5:59 per mile! Smokin'!

While among the stream of runners, as I smiled at the blaring, running-themed front-yard music, waved at the folks in fold-out chairs cheering and ringing cow bells, high-fived and fist-bumped the little tykes standing at the edges of yards cheering us on, I thought about what some of my friends had said to me before my race.

Just weeks prior to the race, when I was worried I hadn't trained enough distance, Joanie reassured me in a text:

"The crowds and runners will carry you in much the same way that you have carried Calvin."

The day before the race she added:

"Run like the wind!"

Her words gave me tears and chills, and I took them to heart. Other accomplished runner friends, my husband, and sibling athletes gave me advice about not overdoing it in my training, not going out too fast (I knew this from distance swimming), taking smaller strides on the hills (thanks Clare!), what to wear and what to eat and drink pre-race.

During the race, I concentrated on keeping my head up. I noted the glorious feel of the sun and wind and shade, the scenery, the tempo of my breathing. I focused on not scuffing my feet on the pavement lest I impede my own progress. And then, halfway in, I did think about Calvin and about carrying him all these years. I looked around at the close crowd of runners buoying me as if I were floating down a river out to sea. I thought about the pain of the endeavor and realized it was nothing compared to what my son endures when he seizes or suffers miserable drug side effects, or the agony he faced when he broke his hip at school. Having put it all in perspective, I was able to then forget about my little ball and chain for the rest of the race, because though I wanted to honor Calvin by doing something he might have been good at, I want running to be mine. I want at least one aspect of myself to be, for all intents and purposes, independent of Calvin since most of my life is Calvin-centric in a way altogether different from parents of neurotypical children—which is to say that my infant-toddler-teen will never grow up. I may forever be on guard, changing diapers and spoon-feeding, to say the least. And though I know parenting "ordinary" children comes with its own serious challenges, I will always lament never being able to experience the joys of things like shooting the shit with Calvin and his friends at backyard barbecues.

As I come partway off of the runner's high that I got during and after Saturday's race, and as I sit here at the top of the stairs mere feet from where Calvin is splashing in the bathtub, I realize that running—the time and space when and where I can drift and dream—is mine. 

While editing this, I recalled a post I wrote over a year ago about a winning marathoner I passed often during my pandemic back-road drives with Calvin, and with whom I've since become casual friends. In the post, I wondered about his reasons for running, whether he had suffered losses, whether there was anything that grieved him, whether he might be running to escape a hardship. But as I type, I realize my ponderings were and are mere projections—a commentary on my own situation and hardships. I also realize that running for me isn't just about escaping all-things-Calvin. It's also an attempt to ground a self that is often sent emotionally reeling by the intense, frustrating and often sorrowful caring for my child and his chronic condition, and it's an effort to get reacquainted with my true, healthier, competitive and independent self.

And as I relive the Beach to Beacon 10K in my mind, the thing I remember most is not the pain, not the heat, not the hills, but the glorious feeling of running free like the wind.

Me and Clare

geek on the back roads

For the first time in what seems like weeks, I went for a run. The roads were clear of snow and ice, and Calvin was in school. It was only thirteen degrees, and I'd never jogged in such cold, but when one lives in Maine and wants to run outdoors, there isn't much of a choice. Luckily, though the air felt damp, it was mostly still. I suited up, then headed out to my beloved Pennellville and parked the car near the point at the side of the road. Right out of the gate, Smellie took off and ran amok, zigzagging from one side of the road to the other, sniffing whatever there is to smell when everything is frozen. When we passed one of two dog walkers, just to be considerate (because Smellie is the mellowist dog in the world unless you're a tennis ball, chipmunk or squirrel), I clipped her on the leash and she trotted alongside me quite well. I jogged on the smooth, flat roads at a steady pace, feeling light and lithe and kind of cool (groovy, not chilled) despite the fact I was clad in mixed layers and looked like a total geek: big, boxy, patched-up, dirty, drab, puffy jacket; dingy-white, stretched-out, high-water joggers; long, black leggings underneath; bright teal sneakers. At least the chunky wool hat Meggan knit me looked good. But I stayed warm, even my hands, which were gloved, fisted, and drawn into tattered, apish sleeves.

Nearing the halfway point, I ran into my friend Lauren walking her dog. I stopped to give her a big, long-overdue hug, making sure to exhale away from her face, because—you know—Omicron. We chatted for a bit and vowed to somehow get together soon for a homemade cocktail, then I took off again. 

Twice along the way I stopped briefly to take a couple of photos before my phone crapped out in the cold. I've not often seen the early(ish)-morning sky at Pennellville, and today—not unlike every day I visit there—the scenery didn't disappoint. On my way out, clouds spread across the sky in a way that was wonderfully moody, both in color and how they dissolved into each other as if watercolor or smoke. On my way back, I watched a sliver of lemon sunshine squeeze itself through a gap in the eastern horizon. Not surprisingly, it looked and felt sublime.

In all, I went four miles, which is no big deal, but I'm thankful I could do it at all (I hope to perhaps run this summer's Beach to Beacon 10K, if I'm lucky.) As for Smellie, well, considering she's nearly eleven, her performance was amazing. Perhaps most noteworthy is that I didn't worry or think about Calvin even once until my cell phone failed on the way back, and even then I wasn't too bothered since he had had a decent morning and is in good hands at school.

At home now, Smellie is totally conked out. I'm here writing, my feet up on the green couch, listening to music and feeling the warm afterglow of a good workout, plus a slight high some attribute to endorphins while others believe might be endocanabbinoids. It has been seven days since Calvin's last seizure, which isn't very long, but it's better than three consecutive days of the terrible cluster-you-know-whats. Michael will be home soon with groceries. I've just put a fire in the stove. A small glass of red wine is imminent, and I'm already looking forward to tomorrow morning, which is when I've planned another running date with Pennellville.

treasures (i wish my son could know)

dragonflies. wildflowers. butterflies. bees. a bunch of neighbors from whom we can borrow an egg or two or three. cote de rhone and gigondas. blazing sunsets overlooking snaking rivers and salt marshes. homemade mini pizzas hot from a wood fired oven. friendships young and old, near and far, dear and informal. seeing a new friend smile when i call his name as he pedals down the road. clouds lit up and laced with silver and gold. starlit skies provoking awe and wonder. dipping toes and fingers into shallow waters. nostalgia. jumping off of bridges into brackish inlets. dancing with reckless abandon. dancing at all. david byrne. steely dan. kate bush. blonde readhead. the low spark of high heeled boys. cocktail hour. bicycle rides. the thumping sound and feeling of running on a wooded trail. visiting our friends' vacation rental. teenagers. floating docks. water dogs. loons parting a rippled pond. wind mixing up leaves and limbs. tiny pine cones clinging to waterlogged boughs. watching our pooch, smellie, swim. michael's fluffy homemade pasta noodles. getting a tiny little buzz. beauty. stories. hopes. memories of yesterday. dreams of tomorrow. possibility.

From our friend's deck in Georgetown, Maine.

running for it

saturday:

it's half past ten. just trying to get some sleep. there's a dense lump of tension, like a fist, lodged in my solar plexus. it feels electric, like it's vibrating through my entire being. its source is a mix of exasperation, helplessness and dread. sadly, it's all about calvin, who is out of sorts in the wake of two epileptic fits. he keeps banging the wall behind his bed. all i want to do is make a run for it.

calvin has had eight grand mals in thirty days. that translates into about half the month spent sleeping on me and the couch. i wonder what else i can do about his epilepsy. so exhausting living with it. today i switched his cannabis oil from hybrid to indica, hoping it might offer him some respite. he's pretty spacey, but that's typical the day after a tonic-clonic. my next move is to reduce his keppra. my gut—and a calendar marked up with orange highlighter and black sharpie indicating seizures—tells me the keppra isn't helping.

this tension i feel is cumulative. seventeen-and-a-half years of it. i often wonder what havoc it might be wreaking inside me. it's why i sometimes feel the need to scream. have to let it out so it won't devour me. or seat itself as a cancer in my organs, bones or blood.

in a move to ease my angst (and get in better shape) i started running. got new shoes. ran three days last week. took a longish, back-roads bike ride. the accomplishments were nothing to speak of. pretty meager efforts, really. still, i'm hoping they will stick.

i wonder if running might serve as some escape—from a stressful life with a messed-up kid. from being pent up and stuck. from the gnawing sense of dread.

perhaps running makes me feel more alive—my limbs and lungs pumped up with blood and breath.

or could it be i'm chasing something? a different vista? an extended moment all to myself? the dream of better days to come? some serendipitous adventure? a challenge other than handling my son's severe and complex conditions?

after today's modest jog on the trails around the soggy fields, the fist inside my chest had dissolved. i plan to run again tomorrow. with a bit of luck, i'll see some sights, and chase away some troubles, angst and sorrows.