I ran every day of my life since July 1973, just two months short of my twelfth birthday. And I didn’t stop running until September 2016, when I was 55. For 43 years I ran–and I was good at it. So good that had I not stopped running when I did, it would have destroyed me.
I’m not referring to marathon running or even daily jogging. My body is simply not wired for that, which I discovered after graduating from high school. The thud-thud-thud of each jarring footfall on the pavement rattled rather than soothed my already jangled psyche, and I suffered from horrendous shin splints no matter how much I stretched or paced myself or what kind of shoes I wore. But my running was just as debilitating, even more so, except the effects weren’t obvious for four decades, which made it potentially more lethal.
You see, I was running from my grief. Fast and hard.
On a steamy summer night in July 1973, at 2:00 a.m., my mom, recently divorced from my dad, showed up to get my two-year-old brother, Stevie, of whom she was granted custody. Peeking around the corner, I saw her pick up the sleeping bundle from his crib. Clutching his beloved “ToTo,” a drooled-on, puked-on, gnawed-on, now fur-less stuffed Tony the Tiger, Stevie’s heavy head bobbed on Mom’s shoulder as she strode past Dad, who stood frozen and mute, to the front door. From my bedroom, I heard my little brother’s sleepy voice.
“Bye, Son,” Dad said, his voice cracking.
I crept down the hall and peered around the corner as the storm door swung shut. Dad, still as stone, watched Mom and Stevie drive away until the red taillights disappeared around the corner. Closing the front door, he turned the latch and locked it. I tiptoed back to my bedroom, slipped into bed, and pulled the covers up to my nose.
The hall light, which had served as Stevie’s night-light, switched off, and Dad’s shadowy figure drifted past my door into his bedroom. Seconds later, I heard his bed squeak as he crawled into it.
The silent stillness echoed like a death knell. Unable to breathe or swallow, my heart hammering in my chest and ears, I stared into the darkness, clutching my pillow, as I listened to Dad cry himself to sleep. To this day, 47 years later, Elvis Presley’s song “Don’t Cry Daddy” takes me back to that night. Only within the past few years can I get through that song without sobbing. But my eyes still fill with tears and lodge like a grapefruit in the back of my throat.
In shock over what I had witnessed and overwhelmed by my own pain and Dad’s that was palpable through the walls and the thick darkness, I vowed that I would not burden Dad with my pain and problems. With Mom now gone, I would take care of him, and Stevie, too, when he came to visit on the weekends. It never occurred to me to wonder who would take care of me.
My running had begun.
“I was running from my grief. Fast and hard.”Tweet