The marathon of grief

In retrospect, it was inevitable that this summer ended with me crying on a cot in a medical tent.

When my siblings and I registered for the St. George Marathon in April, we never could have anticipated how the next few months would turn out, or known just how much our lives, and our training, would be impacted by grief.

My dad was my first long-distance running partner. We trained for two marathons together — the Top of Utah Marathon in 2003 and the New York Marathon in 2005. We were much better prepared for the first one than the second one, and after a truly miserable time running New York, my dad retired from the sport. But he enthusiastically encouraged me when I picked up training again and he was there waiting for me at the finish line of last year’s marathon in St. George. He had been triple-enthused for this year’s marathon, which all three of his children were expected to complete.

I had been out running in August when my sister called to tell me he had passed. I remember the exact thought I was having right before she called — that I was about to run my fastest mile in training yet. After she called, that thought felt so self-important and stupid.

Everything I had previously cared about felt stupid in the immediate and shocking aftermath of his passing. But as days and weeks went by, and life returned to as normal as could be expected, I slowly started to notice I was caring, kind of, about the things I used to care about. So I started running again. As best I could.

One of the things I had not known about grief before losing my dad was how physical the process becomes and how chronically exhausted I would feel. On more than a couple of long runs I had to stop to cry, and on a few others I quit early because I felt so fatigued. But that exhaustion isn’t what ultimately led me to drop from the full marathon to the half. It was the hours of being alone out on the trail that gave me too much time to think.

I understand that taking time to process trauma or loss is essential to healing. But for me, there’s a big difference between taking a few minutes to think and feel, and having four hours of interrupted solitude to spiral into despair. So I decided that a half-marathon would be the less painful option, in every sense of the word.

But I was embarrassed and felt like a failure, in no small part because I had announced to the world my plans to complete the full marathon. I know that not a single person in the entire world cared which race I ran. But I still talked about the distance change like I was delivering devastating news to anyone who was kind enough to ask how training was going. Because I was disappointed in myself.

I added shorter runs to my list of things I was doing to keep my mind occupied and provide some sense of accomplishment. I felt prepared enough, at least in terms of cardiovascular fitness and endurance, by the time October rolled around, two months after losing my dad.

This year’s St. George half and full marathon were scheduled for a day projected to have record-breaking temperatures. But the race began before the sun rose, and temperatures remained cool enough as we glided downhill through red rock vistas, and into the flat landscape of St. George city.

It was only around mile 11, about an hour and a half in, that things started to get spicy. I got a bit dizzy and a bit nauseous, walked it off for a couple minutes, then resumed running to the finish line — a couple minutes slower than I had hoped, but I finished.

And that’s when things got scary. The dizziness and nausea did not subside. It increased as I lay on the grass, trying to will my body back to homeostasis. I realize now that I was dehydrated and simply needed electrolytes. But it’s difficult to think rationally in the middle of an episode. So Instead of just reaching for a Gatorade, I hobbled over to the medical tent where a volunteer nurse sat me on a chair, handed me a Zofran, and instructed me to sip on a sports drink. When I started shaking, I asked if I could lie down and they directed me to a cot, where I lay while the shaking got worse. The nurse asked if I had any family with me.

My sister had also just finished the half and was recovering, and my brother was still out on the course, doing the full marathon. So I called my mom, who had bravely traveled to St. George for the first time without my dad, helped wrangle our kids all morning, and made posters to greet us at the finish line. She said she’d be right over.

When she walked in, I apologized, and she said, “Don’t apologize. Think of what we’ve been through.” And that’s when I started sobbing. Because I still need my mom in my hardest moments. And I still need my dad, too.

We cried together, I’m sure much to the confusion of the medical staff, while some of the earliest marathon finishers came limping into the tent. The cots were about to fill up quickly, so I left and soon started to feel better. That’s because I had electrolytes in my system, sure. But also because someone had given me the grace I hadn’t been willing to give myself.

And reminded me that there is no failing or succeeding in grief. Instead, grief is kind of its own kind of marathon, with moments of beauty and moments of anguish, and moments when you have to stop and cry. I’m proud of myself for making it this far. And grateful it’s a race I don’t have to run alone.