Friday, July 19, 2013

The Spirit of a Young Man - a memory

Olympic Spirit Rose cultivated for London Olympics
I ran the Dallas Marathon in 1989.  It was a frosty December morning as the runners collected at the race start but the cold would be burned away quickly not just with the emerging warmth of the day but the heat that would be generated by the energy expended by the 4000 plus runners                                          




I had been training for 6 months guided by a professional trainer who monitored the programme and diet so that the body and mind would hold up through the task ahead. Running a marathon was a personal goal, to see how far I could push the machine, to experience the deep sense of accomplishment even if it meant that I would hurt myself; to prove that I could do something unusual, to beat myself. It was a trip of self-discovery.


On race day, I was ready.  I started out fresh and fast.  After a few miles, I knew I had to slow down, find my own rhythm and not heed those around me.  I settled in for the long haul.

Those middle miles were wonderful.  I felt I could run forever.  Everything was working.  No pain, rhythmic breathing, warmer weather, no more wind, and no more pack around me.  I could focus on myself, my thoughts, let the natural hormones work their magic and move into the zone.  Every other mile, I made sure to hydrate.  Being Dallas, the checkpoints were dynamic with different decorative themes, motivating music, cheering crowds, and from time to time, I would see my one supporter on her bike encouraging me on at each check point and once done, pedaling frantically to ensure that she would be at the next checkpoint and visible when I arrived.   

Come Mile 18, I started to come undone.  I was feeling tired.  In my training, I had done 18 miles at least 4 times, faced steep inclines that dared me to give up. I lost confidence. Despite this,  I pushed on, running uninspiredly through a rather dull and grey part of the city.  The checkpoints were now perfunctory, just water and a few supporters.  I lost sight of my biking friend.  I felt alone.  I faltered.  I decided I might walk the rest of the way; no, that was not an option.  I might stop and give up, no that was not an option either.  Mile 19, still managing to put one foot in front of the other, but with no great ease or will.  I slowed down almost to a halt.  The feet continued to go forward but I was mentally stuck in one place.  You have a choice, I said to myself.  This is hell.  Why continue?  You have to, answered the voice.  You have no choice.

From the corner of my eye I saw my friend on her bike on the sidewalk.  She's an enthusiastic big-hearted, expansive person.  She was there, waving her arms, smiling her big smile “You can do it, Kathy, you can do it, you are so close, go, girl go!”   At the same time, I felt a presence, right on my heels.  It was a small person, a fellow runner.  She was quietly talking to me.  “You are running a great race,” she was saying.  “You are keeping a great pace.  Keep going, you can make it… You are having an amazing race…”

The checkpoint at Mile 20 was the best of what the Texans can do.  In Texas, bigger is better.  Gone were the simple water station and the bananas on sticks.  It is 1989.  The Berlin Wall came down in the March of that year and so before me, the organizers had built a mock up of the Wall with actors hammering away and taking down stones.  Mile 20 is also where many runners hit the figurative wall in their race, where they feel they cannot continue and they have to dig very deep to find the will and the physical resources to move through the darkness, get to the other end and sail to the finish.  So it was so appropriate in its symbolism.  My mental state was jerked into the moment.  Was that a real German soldier coming towards me?  I remember grabbing a cup of Gatorade, drinking thirstily and throwing the paper cup defiantly to the ground.  I remember looking behind me to see whether that small runner was still there.  I checked for my biking friend.  I looked ahead.  I felt better.  I knew I still had a way to go, but suddenly I felt hope, that I could make it.  My feet were still hurting and I was beginning to ache all over, but mentally I had a clearer head.  And I ran on, and on, and on, arms pumping, if all else fails, keeps the arms pumping, and keep breathing.  

And then in the distance I could hear the music coming from somewhere ahead of me.  Was it the finish line?  I knew that the children would be somewhere in the crowd.  I felt they had thrown a long rope to lasso me and now they were drawing me in, little by little.  I began to believe that what seemed hopeless just a short time ago was now possible.  It was a feeling of staggering elation.  My feet no longer touched the ground and, miraculously, I no longer felt pain.  The sun was warm on my face, my arms were still pumping, my lungs full, my body propelling me forward.  I picked up speed.  Mile 22 - check; Mile 23 - check, water;  Mile 24 - check.  Now the music was really loud, the crowd deep and noisy.  To finish is to win, the motto my husband had printed on his t-shirt the first time he ran a marathon.  It is exactly that.  It is a feat and to finish is to win, to win against all odds within oneself.  

And then, vaguely, I could see the finish, a large red banner across the main road.  The music became louder and louder, the blow horns blaring announcing names as racers crossed the line, the flash of the camera snapping the photo finish and recording tag number, time and joy.  100 metres out and I caught sight of the kids with their friends holding a big 'you did it' banner giving me the final lift to bring me in on the last yards.  And then a volunteer guided me into a narrower lane.  I kept my pace, maybe even sped up a little, so proud to show that I did not waiver even at the end, maybe wanting to show that I had run that pace the whole time, and I sprinted in to the finish.  The clock showed 3 hours 33 minutes 20 secs.  This was my victory.  I looked immediately behind me to see where my small runner friend was.  I needed to acknowledge her and thank her.  I didn't see anyone who resembled her.  My biking supporter was right there, throwing her arms around me shouting her congratulations in my year.   The children came running up, the younger one jumping into my arms.  It was a celebration of a very special kind.  It is a memory I conjure up frequently.

I reflect on that day every time I doubt my ability to accomplish something.  Without this experience, I wonder whether I would ever know the extent of the stuff within me.  I learned that a good portion of this “stuff” is courage, physical yes, but more importantly the will to continue when the alternative is totally unacceptable. 
watercolour study

But I recognize that my marathon experience allows me in only a very small way to understand the fortitude the mother of a child who has just learned that her newborn is diagnosed with an illness for which there is no cure.  I needed to try to put myself in the shoes of such a mother when I was asked to design an embroidery work in memory of a young man who had passed away the year before.  He was 16 years old and had suffered from Cerebral Palsy since birth.

R. must have faced many moments when the path seemed impossibly difficult.  There had been no preparation, no training to help her face the reality that her newborn would not be like other healthy babies and this made all the more difficult by the sheer unexpectedness and gravity of the news.  She needed to immediately gather energy and resources to draw this beautiful child to her knowing that she will have to climb many mountains in the coming months in order to respond to M's needs, her family's needs and most importantly her own none of which she could define in the moment.

I have never met R.  I know her only through the remarkable story that her good friend Alli told me.  I however have known Alli since she was 13.  She is now in her 40s and has three children of her own, one of whom is autistic.  So it is not surprising to know that Alli and R. have a deep connection, the kind of understanding on how life can deliver some complex cards, how digging down and finding the inner strength to respond to the best of one's ability, to overcome that sense of unfairness, to meet the challenge and to do so unfailingly despite the rough passages and insurmountable challenges and mostly constantly facing the unknown in a way that the majority of us cannot even fathom.  Alli also has a big heart and a terrific sense of humour, which has saved her in many an instance and probably has saved R too during their many sharing moments.  It was Alli that asked me to design a memorial piece for M. drawing in his valiant nature, his loving spirit.


Hand Embroidery - Silk on linen


There is a multitude of Mile 20s for these mothers in their very specific marathon of life.  Thus the importance of a close support system who understands, a person who cheers them on, or whispers encouragement while they run, tired and despairing, to bring them back to their goal, not to finish the race, but to get to the end of the day without impatience, to see the child sleep soundly after a particularly trying period.    

L'Art de L'Aiguille 2013
And for R, one day, her marathon with M ends, suddenly and unexpectedly.  She would have liked the race to continue on; she certainly was ready to stay the course.  She had already shown the right stuff, the fortitude and the courage.   And now she faces another challenge, that of her life without M.  For this, she will once again dig deep into her being for the strength to adjust to the absence of her son.    She will find a way to shuffle the pieces of her life puzzle and her story with M. will find its place to be fixed in her mind for ever with its heart ache and joys, for indeed there were both.  She knows she will stay this course too, because she has shown to herself and to others that she has those inner resources to come through.

M's marathon was one of the spirit.  He ran it every day for all of his bravely-lived 16 years until his heart gave out.  He died on April 24, 2012.

R. ran all the way along side him and she will continue on.  Her race is longer but the future will be rich in memories, particularly when the Olympic Spirit rose blooms in her garden and the blue dragonflies are all about. 

                                                           








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