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So, if you have been hiding under a virtual rock, you may not know that I have started running. Which is funny in so many ways, including the ironic fact that I have always, 100%, hated running. Yes, with a passion. There's a whole post in there somewhere about how much I have always hated running, and that's for another day. Suffice it to say, since I am tall, and therefore have long legs, I have been told many times in my life I should a) play basketball b) become a runner c) reach that high thing on the shelf for a short person. No one ever told me I should become a bookish, slightly out of shape dork, but somehow that became my true path and calling. In the past 14 years, I have gotten to love physical activity. I met my husband working out for gosh sakes (cliché, I know). I even got to the point where I looked forward to exercise, but never to running. Then last fall I had foot surgery. We're not talking some sissy little surgery where you're good to go in a week. We're talking foot open, bone removed, screws in, and on my butt surgery. I laid on the couch for a week, and once I was cleared from that I wore a boot and gimped my way around for months. My foot hurt, but I was determined to follow the doctor's directions to a T, which meant babying it, since I didn't want long term problems (we've all heard the stories of the friend's cousin's sister who never walked without pain after a foot surgery, and I did not want to be that girl).
Laying on the couch losing all cardiovascular endurance, I hatched a plan. I, Ashley, hater of running, was going to run. I think I was just longing to move, and running sounded like the most movement possible. I don't know if I ever would have really started running, but it made me feel good to think I would.
Then, a few months ago, my world crashed down around me. My mom was sick. Nothing new, she was sick for years and years. The last time we all rushed home to be with her she was out of the hospital before we even arrived, and we all had a grand time with her and each other at home. This time, I thought, would be just like those other times. My mother, the fighter, needed us to pay attention to her (she always had a slightly dramatic streak) and she would fight back. We would send time together, the family, and go home once we saw her safely back to her bed. Well, this time was nothing like those times. Nothing...
I arrived to her hospital to see her sleeping. Took my exhausted father home and slept, got up early and headed back. In those times, my dad and brother were sitting vigil by her bed in shifts, so she wouldn't pull her oxygen off. She needed it to breathe, but kept removing it. They wanted to intubate her, but we didn't want that since she wouldn't be able to be "un" intubated. A catch 22. My brother left me to watch my mom, so he could get some rest. She had some lucid moments. She recognized me, and told me she was afraid she was dying. I assured her she wasn't, couldn't, she was too strong, there was too much left for her to see. Stupid. So stupid. But who ever believes their mom could die? I mean eventually, yes, but today? Never. She ate pudding. She hadn't eaten in days but they wanted to see if she could swallow. I remember how much she loved that pudding. It's the little details that stick with me.
All that sitting up and activity got her oxygen out of whack, and she started desat-ing. So guess what? On my watch, my mom was intubated and sedated. That was the last time anyone talked to her. I failed her, I failed my father, my brother, my sister who arrived that afternoon to an unresponsive mother. I knew she wasn't coming back, and I was the one in charge of keeping her safe. She'd been in the hospital a week, and it took me 4 hours to mess it all up.
Since my mom was unconscious, there wasn't much we could do. We visited with her, but spent a lot of time at home, trying to get my dad some rest. I felt pent up, guilty, sad, mad at the world, so, I went for a run. Just a little run to get out and away and clear my head. And it felt pretty good. It hurt, my lungs burned, but I felt as though I deserved that and much more. I kept running while I was in Arizona. I came home, and was met with snow and ice. A new challenge. I ran into it. The Sunday after I returned, my mom passed away.
If your mom is alive right now, please hug her. My mom and I didn't have the perfect relationship, we were too different, and too alike. We butted heads, but I always thought we had more time to work out our differences. She loved my kids. Oh how she loved her grandbabies. We could call her every day and the kids could tell her little things and she made such a big deal about them. Clara still asks to call Grandma Princess. I try to explain, but how do you explain to a 3 year old that Grandma is in heaven?
I am not good with dealing with emotions, so mostly I stuff them down until they eventually explode out, like firecrackers or those snakes in a can. Since I didn't want to cry in front of my family, because I didn't want to be held or comforted, I ran. I could run in the dark up and down my street, in the snow. The tears were mine, and no one else could see them or claim them. I listened to music, cried, and ran. Ran and cried. Sometimes I just stopped and cried.
As I ran more and more, I felt as though my mom was with me. That may sound strange to you, but honestly, I could care less what it sounds like. I talked to my mom while I ran, and I felt as though she talked back. Not in a weird, the trees are talking to me way, but in a way that worked. I ran, and I carried my mom on my shoulders. When it got hard, and it did, I felt like she was there, cheering me on. She was good at that in life, when I did good she was so proud. I think that's why I tried to achieve so much, I craved my mom's approval.
As I ran I shed the guilt. I knew my mom loved me, and she knew I did the best I could. Although I will always wish she could have had that last conversation with someone more deserving, I am glad that I was blessed to be there. I am glad I got to tell my mom I loved her one last time. I am glad, even though the pain of her loss still cuts my heart in two.
This may seem rambling to you. And it probably is. I wrote from the heart. I run from the heart. I have had friends say they get tired of seeing all my running posts on Facebook. I know that they just don't understand, since they don't know WHY I do it. Every time I run, I feel like I honor my mom. Every time I run, I get to be in her presence. Every post is what I currently have to substitute for a phone call, a chat, a shared photo. I don't know how long I will feel the need to run. Some days, I do it just because the run itself feels good. Some days, not so much. Maybe in another month, year, who knows, I won't need the run to feel close to my mom. Until then I keep in mind what a wise woman who lost her husband recently told me. "In life as in running, keep your head up, your shoulders back, and your eyes on the road ahead. Breathe."
