Circling the Drain

One of the many things that caught me off-guard about the grief process is how completely exhausting it is.  At first, I thought my fatigue was the culmination of the sleeplessness that came from caring for a critically ill person who, as in our case, almost never slept.  My mom, my sisters, and I were so far in the red on sleep it would have been understandable if that alone caused us to sleep for a week solid after my dad went on ahead.

But in researching and in learning first-hand about the grief process, I've found that grief itself is a cause of exhaustion, both physical and emotional.  Grief is hard work, whether we realize it or not; it's taxing in so many ways and on so many levels, even while we are sleeping or doing routine things like showering or driving to work.  

Probably the most physically taxing thing I've ever done in my life, besides coping with grief, has been running a marathon. Each time I've done that, I've trained for months in advance, I've read about what I should be doing to make it to the finish line, I've put effort into visualizing myself completing the event, and I've been in very good condition going into the race.  None of those things were true going into my dad's illness or his death - or being plunged into the quicksand of grief that followed.  In fact, another thing I've realized that actually contributes to the fatigue and the sense of overwhelm is that, in grief, there is no finish line.  The emotions that come with grief may seem as if they are easier to take or even fading over time, but what's actually happening is that the person who is grieving is becoming more adept at tolerating the assault as they become more seasoned or even more hardened.  

For the first six months or so after my dad died, I tried my damnedest to dream about him; I felt (and still feel) such a desperate need to have any kind of contact with him.  I had a few dreams about him, which I wrote about here and here, but then I went quite awhile with nothing.  My conjuring powers were apparently shot, at least for that time period. What ended up happening after that instead was that I started dreaming that someone was trying to kill me, obviously a very disturbing and terrifying experience, one that easily reminded me - not so coincidentally - of how I felt in Real Life starting the second my dad got sick.

I've heard it said that dreams are often the mind's way of helping us to work through our troubles; I'm not sure that applies to this situation, though: I wanted to lose the feelings of powerlessness and terror and injustice, not to experience them again and again as I did each time a dream like that came to me.  I sometimes wonder if my brain was trying to desensitize me to that feeling - because, as I've learned from what happened with my dad - that's life, it's going to happen, and no amount of training or learning or otherwise preparing can actually help when things happen that cause the grief to bear down on us; I think the best we can do is to accept that it's going to happen and to have enough hope and faith that we will get through it, somehow.  

Thoughts on The Boston Marathon

I grew up watching, reading, and listening to news about the Boston Marathon; as a runner and a fan of the competitive part of the sport for nearly 35 years, I've always loved following the stories from races for both the top contenders and the back-of-the-packers.  As a current back-of-the-packer myself, I know that every runner has a story, and, especially for big events like marathons, every finish impacts each participant in many different ways.  

The marathon is the apex of the sport for lots of runners, the quintessential goal, the quest of the most dedicated amongst us.  And the Boston Marathon, or "The Boston" or just "Boston," as it is typically called in the athletic world, is the pinnacle of all marathons.  It's the world's oldest ongoing marathon, with this being its 117th year, and it's probably the world's most well-known road-racing event.  Boston is always run on Patriots' Day, the third Monday in April, which, unlike the majority of other marathons in the U.S., means that it's always held on a Monday.  Because of the many hills along the course and the tendency for the temperatures to soar into the 80-degree range during the event, the race is considered to be one of the more challenging marathons in our country.  The Boston Marathon is the only marathon in the U.S. that has a qualifying time requirement for entry, based on the gender and age of each runner, with the general rules stating that a runner must have completed a "qualifying marathon" within an 18 month period prior to Boston.  As a result of the strict qualifying requirements and the difficulty factor, Boston Marathon runners are generally revered by all other runners, or at least by those of us who have been involved in the sport for awhile. 

A masterpiece about Dad's first Boston by my sister, Jennifer

Growing up, I remember hearing my dad talking about Boston as if it were the Holy Grail of running.  Even before he had run it the first time in 1979 at the age of 35, I remember him telling my sisters and me about the course, which runs through eight different towns and finishes on Copley Square in Boston.  In the months leading up to his Boston debut, I remember him worrying aloud about Heartbreak Hill, the most well-known challenge in the race, even after he'd run up and down the levee alongside the Mississippi River literally hundreds of times as part of the 100+ miles per week he ran for months before the race.  I remember my grandfather, my dad's dad, coming to stay with my sisters and me for a few days while my parents went to Boston that April, and I remember my mom calling us after the race to tell us how Dad had done (his finish time was 2:46:04).  I remember standing in the kitchen of our house with my sisters, cheering through the phone line for my dad and then chanting his finish place over and over, so many times that the number was forever lodged in my brain.  In fact, one day, during the time when my dad was sick, we were talking about the many races he had run over the years, and he was surprised when I told him that I still remembered what place he finished in at his first Boston:  1,196th, which put him in the top 15% of finishers that year.

There are around half a million spectators and usually between 20,000 and 25,000 runners at every Boston Marathon.  The Centennial Boston Marathon, held in 1996, which was my dad's second time to run it, set a record for the most entrants, at around 38,000 runners.  

I remember Dad talking excitedly after he'd gotten back from the race the first time about going to the Bill Rogers Running Store and meeting Bill Rodgers, who had won the marathon for the third time that year, setting a course record in the process.  Dad commented that he especially admired the guy, "Boston Billy" as he was called, because of his modesty and his friendliness, which, ironically, were also two of Dad's strongest qualities.  The women's division was won that year by Joan Benoit, then 21 years old, who, with a time of 2:35, bettered the previously set record for women's finish time by 8 minutes. 

Joan, or "Joanie" as she was called, won Boston again in 1983, this time finishing in 2:22, breaking the women's world record by two minutes, and then she followed up by taking the gold medal in the Olympic marathon in L.A. in 1984, the year the women's marathon was established as an Olympic event.  She, incidentally, still holds the record for the American woman with the fastest finish in both the Olympic marathon and in the Chicago Marathon.  Yesterday, Joan ran Boston again to celebrate the 30th anniversary of her most recent Boston win, as did the men's winner from '83, Greg Meyer, who was in fact the last American to have won the race.  Joan, now age 55, was quoted as saying before the race that she planned to "go out fast," aiming to finish within 30 minutes of her winning time from 30 years ago, a goal that my dad would have absolutely loved hearing about - and one that she achieved with a finish time of 2:50.

To Joanie, from my dad and me: you're still a total badass!

Countless people - even those who have never even cared at all about the Boston Marathon before yesterday - watched the replays and read the recounts of the tragedy that unfolded after the bombings, the vast majority of people whom, I would venture to guess, realized that they could not even imagine the chaos and the terror than ensued on the race course and around the city, nor could they really comprehend the emotions  about the losses suffered by the runners and spectators of so many things: life, safety, trust, faith, and even reward for such dedication and effort on the part of the thousands of runners who trained extensively for the race over the course of the last six months or more.  

"To be a consistent winner means preparing not just one day, one month, or even one year - but for a lifetime." ~Bill Rodgers, 1979

"To be a consistent winner means preparing not just one day, one month,

or even one year - but for a lifetime." ~Bill Rodgers, 1979

My brother Lee has qualified for Boston twice and has run it once; he shares in the family's fascination with the marathon's history and with each year's competitive field.  No one in my family was at the Boston Marathon this year; however, on some level, we can imagine the turmoil experienced by those who were there yesterday because of tragic events that have affected us at other races in years past, which is a different story in its own right.  Like everyone else, my family feels so sad for everyone affected by the bombing; there is no understanding the evil that drives such madness.  The term Heartbreak Hill has a whole new meaning for all of the runners there yesterday and for those of us whose hearts go out to those injured and otherwise affected by the malevolence of those responsible.

In memory of Martin Richard 

On Guard!

 One thing that I’ve learned since Dad went on ahead is that there are lots of similarities across the board in people who are grieving.  And, although every person, every family, and every situation is unique, every death is a personal catastrophe for those who loved the one who died.  Every person who dies leaves a gaping hole in the lives of those left behind.  And, though we all deal with things in different ways, there are some patterns, emotions, and reactions that are commonly seen when a loss has been experienced.

I’ve read a lot about these similarities, part of my quest for information about grief, a.k.a. “Is this normal or am I losing my mind?” (I still haven’t figured out why there isn’t a “What to Expect” book for grief like there is for pregnancy and childhood!)  I’ve learned that grief can result in physical pain as well as emotional, that it can affect appetite and sleep patterns/energy levels, and that it can interfere with concentration and decision-making abilities. 


But one thing I haven’t heard much about in relation to grief is something clinically called Nosophobia, an irrational fear of contracting a disease or illness.  I’ve heard of this type of thing being common in medical students and others in this type of training; in fact, sometimes this is referred to as Medical Students’ Disease.  It should also be called Survivors' Disease; it leaves those of us left behind waiting for the other shoe to drop.  To me, it feels like constantly being "On guard," waiting for something to go wrong, feeling a sense of some danger that is lurking just around the corner from wherever I am.

In the case of grief, I think this fear is related to several things – a feeling of vulnerability, having experienced the worst kind of being out-of-control during the illness/death of our loved one, seeing first-hand that tragedy and serious illness can come out of nowhere, and the physical pain and other physical issues that sometimes occur with grief like insomnia and weight loss.  I don’t think it’s irrational.  For me, it’s like a nagging headache or a splinter in my foot that I just can’t quite get rid of, no matter what I do. 

Besides my dad, something else that I have lost this year is a sense of security, my faith that everything will truly be ok, that with love and effort always come good results.  Now I feel like I should be preparing for disaster or devastation, because I know first-hand that it happens.


If a person who does everything right can get so sick so fast, that means anyone can.  That precarious balance of things can be upset and forever altered in the blink of an eye.  If we did everything just right to get Dad better and he didn’t, that means either we didn’t do it right or anything could happen.  If he could be terminally ill without a single sign, anyone could. With that realization, I am fluctuating between thoughts of living a completely reckless, carefree life  (Base jumping, anyone?  Hell YES I will have dessert at every meal every day and hell NO I’m not going to worry about saving a dime, ever!)  and holing up to try to avoid anything bad. 


Although I do know even something as extreme as never leaving my house won’t prevent the worst from happening.  Or even delay it.  It’s like that movie, Final Destination.  We can do whatever the hell we think is right to keep ourselves healthy, but when it’s our time, boom!  And that’s terrifying.  Not why me or why my dad but WHY??   If my dad’s illness and death were part of some Plan, why did that Plan include so much suffering?  Couldn’t he (we) at least have skipped that part?  I’ve heard it said that we are not given more than we are strong enough to handle – does that mean if I were a weaker person, Dad would still be here?  (Please note, this question is rhetorical – this is me grieving OUT LOUD, not asking for input.)

We take so many things for granted -- as we should, to go on with our lives. We don't ever stop to wonder, standing at the kitchen door, if the hug or kiss goodbye, before each of us leave to go about our day, will be the last.  How could we ask such questions and get through the day?  And really, that’s what most of life is – the little things, the moments, the shared tears and laughter, our perspective and appreciation (or lack thereof) that all add up to memories and relationships and impact.

Anyone who has suffered a loss would give almost anything to go back to experience those everyday kinds of things again, before their world and their reality were interrupted by loss and all those feelings that come along with it.  I think about the last time I saw my dad before he was diagnosed, the last email he sent to me, the last text, the last voice mail he left me, the last birthday card he signed.  Obviously I did not know those would be the last of anything at the time.  So how do I keep from tormenting myself by thinking that any of these things from anyone else I know and love will be the last?  I don’t know, but I do know that I have to figure it out, to re-engage, to push forward, to wash the dishes and make the bed, again and again, for as long as I am so lucky to be able to do it.  Because I guess the only guarantee, the only thing that is for sure as far as I can tell, is that choosing to make the best of all we are fortunate enough to have in this moment will make things seem brighter, will enrich our lives and those of others, and will help us to strengthen us, so that we can make it through the hard times when we are called to battle.  The gratitude that we can choose to see in everyday events, routine jobs, and simple moments can transform common days into thanksgivings and ordinary opportunities into blessings, as long as we keep our perspective.


-‎"Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things."
 - Robert Brault

Family Connections

Family is defined in the dictionary as “a group of people related to one another by blood or marriage;” “a person or people related to one and so to be treated with a special loyalty or intimacy;” or “a group of objects united by a significant shared characteristic.”

From my current perspective, though, a more accurate description of the institution of family is a hybrid of these:  to me, family is a group of people who are connected by circumstances, cause, and choices.   The people that make up a family may or may not be related by blood or marriage, and they often play a vital role in dealing with serious illness and grief.

During the time that Dad was sick and in the months since he went on ahead, I have seen the makeup of our family change.  Actions and lack thereof have resulted in the forfeiture of the inclusion of some people whom I fully believed would have supported us in our time of need, some of whom I would have even bet the farm on because I thought they were included in the group I defined at the time as my family.  I stand corrected, though, in some cases, as well as disappointed, hurt, angry, and full of even more grief for the loss of those relationships as I thought they were.

The surprise, the transference, the thing that allows me to keep my faith in mankind, though, has been the outpouring of love and kindness from many of our friends who have become family to me.  Those who have suffered a loss and know the devastation, even those to whom we weren’t “close” in the past, as well as those who don’t know a loss like this first-hand but have made every effort just to be there and to listen - all of them have been such a comfort to us, and that is something I will never forget.  

I will forever value the lifeguards who guided and supported us, who kept us afloat, when we were thrown into the deep end when Dad was first diagnosed, as we treaded water while he was sick and in the throes of grief, and as we struggle to try to make it back to shore without being pulled under by the current.

As part of his training program for the upcoming Ironman triathlon, Dad trained with a swim team at a facility near my parents’ house.  The majority of the people on the team were years younger than he was; some were even half his age.  Like he so often did, he made an impression on these people just by being himself - genuine, dedicated, positive, and kind.  Before he got sick, Dad had mentioned to me a few times that he really liked being on this team, and he talked about how cool he thought it was that Ashley, the coach, was a gold medalist on the U.S. swim team in the 1996 Summer Olympics, which, coincidentally, Mom and Dad had gone to as spectators.  

During the time just before and after Dad’s surgery, he told me to contact Ashley to let her know why he wouldn’t be at swim practice that week.  He said he didn’t want her to think he was “slacking off” at the end of his Ironman training schedule.  After she found out what was going on, she offered to help with anything we needed, and, from that point on, she became one of Dad’s cheerleaders and a support on the sidelines to the rest of us.  She organized a schedule of meals to be provided by members of the swim team on an every-other-day basis.  She sent cards and checked in regularly to find out about Dad’s progress.  She did research to find out which Physical Therapists did aquatic therapy when I mentioned to her that he really wanted to get back into the pool as soon as possible after he finished his inpatient rehab stay.  And, when Dad was on the decline that sent him to the hospital the second and final time, she stopped by the house for a visit and ended up helping my sister get Dad up after he had fallen.  Dad admired Ashley as an athlete and as a person, and it was obvious that the feeling was mutual.  Before his diagnosis, Dad was the only one in our family who knew her, but, through her efforts and her kindness, we all came to think of her as a great support and a friend.  She and the other swim team members cared so much for Dad and were so compassionate that they continued to bring meals to the house for many weeks after Dad died, feeding both our bodies and our spirits with their kindness.

Something that was therapeutic for me during Dad’s illness was writing updates for his Care Page.  Word spread quickly about his illness, and within a couple of weeks, we had 375 “visitors” checking the Care Page for updates.  Over the 75 days of Dad’s illness, those online supporters viewed his Care Page more than 6,000 times and left over 1,000 messages for Dad and for us.  We read many of the posts and comments to Dad, and we have read and re-read them many, many times since and have found comfort in the concern, the sentiments, and the messages over the past ten months.

I saw an editorial recently in which the author said he thought it was “crass” to announce or to discuss serious illness or death through social media like Facebook.  I couldn’t disagree more!  I don’t know what I would have done without the connections and support I have gotten through Facebook over the past months.  Many people shared stories of their own losses with me and had great advice about how to get through the day, the weeks, the months of grief.  Others just checked in here and there and let me know they cared about how I was doing.  A few told me about how they loved Dad and let me know that they missed him and would always remember him, too.  Some posted thought-provoking and inspiring quotes, photos, and statements that have influenced my perspective.  And still others provided me with welcome distractions and laughs, all of which have played a valuable part in pulling me through the murkiness.

As much as I will always carry with me the pain of the loss and the suffering during this time in my life, I will forever remember and treasure the friendships and the generosity, consideration, and affection of those in what I consider to be my newly formed family.

We don't accomplish anything in this world alone ... and whatever happens is the result of the whole tapestry of one's life and all the weavings of individual threads from one to another that creates something.  ~ Sandra Day O'Connor