Sometimes Life Is Just Like A Marathon

As Christmas 1977 approached, all I really wanted was for Funky to come home. And I let everyone know it. My wish was expressed in the whining tones typical of a six-year old. I want Funky. I waaaaant Funky.

Given the harshness of the cold weather in Cincinnati that year, it was unlikely that Funky would come home. It was just another reality that did not register in this child’s mind. Funky was not the original name given to one of our two cats. It was Smokey. It evolved into Funky because my tongue could never manage to wrap itself around Smokey. So, for years it had been Funky.

I would soon learn that my brother Tom did not share my hope for St. Nick.

“Your Dad is dying and all you can talk about is that stupid cat,” yelled Tom, who despite being a 12-year old boy, rarely yelled at me. I cried.

I cried not out of guilt, or shame for disappointing my big brother. I cried out of frightened surprise. And because six-year olds cry at nearly everything. Tom yelled because he knew, knew what my mom knew. He knew what Nana Hickey knew. He yelled because the other reality that had escaped me was that this would be Dad’s last Christmas.

We would never have another Christmas as a family. At least the same family we were in December 1977.

The change death made to our family struck home around Mile 5 of last week’s Dallas Marathon when the course took me right by my mom’s old apartment. The apartment that would be home for the five-odd years she lived in Dallas. During those Christmases certainly we laughed. And we fought – particularly during the annual game of Trivial Pursuit. But like most Christmases, things were different.

The uncomfortable reality seemed to be that Tom never seemed to really want to be home, perhaps because of the memories associated with Christmastime. Memories of Dad with his head shaved and diminishing in strength. Tom was his Dad’s son and Dad was Tom’s father. He attended all of his soccer games. He listened to his stories about camp. He and Tom shared a relationship that is unique to most fathers and sons. He could remember the man who would never celebrate Christmas after 1977.

I did not. Heck, I did not even recognize his absence would be permanent until months after his death in February of 1978.

I could not help but to think of Tom when I read about the 13-year old son of New York Police Officer Rafael Ramos, who was assassinated last week, posting on Facebook about his father. Christmas will never be the same for his family, or for the thousands of families who experienced a death this year.

But it will not always be as mournful a holiday as it will be this year. The bittersweet taste will fade, and families will move on. The Ramos family, anchored in an amazing demonstration of Faith, have already expressed forgiveness for the man who murdered their father. That Faith, which is the real reason we celebrate Christmas, will sustain and strengthen them.

I know today what I did not know then. I know that our family will never be the same. I have long sought to find that sense of family at Christmas. I love the holiday, the traditions, the scents and the sensibilities that are the hallmarks of the season. But that love is fleeting. Tom always seemed to prefer to spend the holidays somewhere else, coming home for a few days.

When we do get together, we do laugh. And we do love. And we do love to laugh. But it will always be an uneasy laughter. Any dramatic change to any family spawns a multitude of reactions. Each family member handles grief differently and on different timetables.

That is the way life is. And, truth be told, like every Christmas after 1977, all I want for Christmas is to remember the good times, to relish the good memories. And to remember to be grateful for the family that I have now. My Christmas wish is that every family can find their way home – even if that home will never be the same again.

Three dinner plates on the tablecloth. Three wine glasses filled three-quarters to the brim. Three napkins folded atop the salad plates. A complete holiday table set.

Except for the four chairs, which since 1978 have symbolized the reality that the holiday is not quite complete. Many families who will gather together during the holiday season will feel a similar absence. They will feel more deeply the loss of a mother, father, brother or sister.

The sense of loss often is heightened when the season of joy begins.

The sound of clanging pots and pans in the kitchen that once provided comfort that Mom was busily prepping your favorite dinner are muted because she is not longer present.

The traditional carving of the turkey is slightly awkward because Dad is the carving knife is not cradled in Dad’s hands. The Christmas gift list is shortened and there is no sibling around to share laughs about holiday dramas of the past.

The magic of the holiday season is found in the small things, but it can be lost when death disrupts the familial balance.

I do not remember much of the holidays of 1978, except for the fact that more relatives were around. I did not know at the time what everyone else did – that  Dad only had a month or so left to live.

Every year after that, the chair sat empty and the void left seemed bigger at holiday time. After all, it is the season of joy. And how can there be joy when the family is incomplete?

There can be joy if we recognize the real meaning of the holidays. We gather around dinner tables, exchange gifts, and travel over hills and through valleys to spend time and to remember the things in life for which we are grateful.

We can resent the family traditions that were lost or we can forge ahead with a grateful hear for the new traditions that have been established.

We can give thanks for the times when the sounds of laughter filled the home and our hearts.

We can concentrate on why the chair sits empty, or we can realize it is not empty because our loved one is watching over us. We can choose to see the table set in missing man formation as a symbol of what is no longer, or as a sign that our Mom or Dad still has a place at the family table. And always will.

It was a huge vase. A vase so huge, in fact, that it could fit a bouquet of flowers and a family of midgets in it with room to spare. For years, it also had been an unremarkable vase, one which I had passed innumerable times.

It rarely held flowers and certainly held no real meaning to me – until last weekend when it became more than a huge vase.

My mom recently moved into a new apartment and given her fragile health needed help unpacking the boxes which filled her living room. So, I set off on Friday to kill two birds with one visit. I did not board the DC to Richmond train as a happy camper. Frankly, I was in a stinker of a mood. It was cold and I could think of any number of things from being forced to listen to Rick Astley songs for 24 hours straight to, well there are f experiences more intolerable than that.

I had registered to run the Richmond Marathon on Saturday morning and the weathermen were gleefully predicting temperatures at the start of 25-30 degrees. And I hate the cold. I was not looking forward to running and I was even less enthused about coming home to polish off the afternoon unpacking boxes.

I awoke at the crack of dawn on Saturday wearing more layers than a Russian nesting doll. My legs were dead for the first few miles, which is not uncommon for me. And for the next few miles. I expected that like previous marathons, they would rebound, but running a seemingly endless mile into the wind across the Lee Bridge indicated that would not be the case.

Even by Mile 20, the legs had not had a Lazarus moment. They were still dead. And that is where the mental part of marathon running comes in. Think of anything but the legs. Since I am running to raise awareness for Comfort Zone camps and had been talking about my own Dad the night before, my thoughts an prayers turned to him.

Take each mile, as I take each day, as it comes and tap into the stubbornness by not giving up or giving in.

To my amazement, I finished under four hours and set off to find a coffee and a cab back to Mom’s. While elated at having the marathon under my belt, I was dreading the boxes. But I had promised Mom I would help, so with box cutter in hand and gripes and groans sufficiently kept under my breath I began unpacking while Mom napped.

I unpacked box after box, including the box with the huge vase. I set it aside and continued. That evening I returned to the boxes while she rested on the couch. And then Mom asked, “Did I ever tell you the story about the vase?”

She had not. I learned the vase was purchased on a trip my parents took to Portugal with another couple. They were a young couple. They were young parents of a gregarious five-year old. Mom and Dad were living and loving life, and that vase represents that love.

That huge vase partly filled the huge hole left in my heart when Dad died. That huge vase is now a connection to the young father whom I have few memories. That vase gives him life and gives me hope that every day provides an opportunity to learn more about him and about myself. After more than 20 marathons this year hope and faith have been constants and every time I think the challenge is too great, I place my faith in Dad’s strength and in the hope that this journey will encourage and inspire even one child who believes it will never get better. Trust me, it will.

For one reason or another, I decided to take an item off my bucket list and proceeded to register for the Marine Corps Marathon in 2012. Many things about the race were memorable. The nerves of a first-timer. The thrill of crossing the finishing line. The satisfaction of beating Oprah’s time. The sense of humility that comes when a United States Marine places the finisher’s medal around your neck.

And The Blue Mile, which is the one-mile stretch along Hain’s Point adorned with photos of service members who have made the ultimate sacrifice in service to the nation.

It is not uncommon (at least the two times I had run the race) to see runner’s slow down or come to a complete stop before one of the photos. Tears are shed. Prayers are said. Some salute, but all are impacted in one way or another. I could not help but to think of the son or daughter they left behind having lost my own father. I thought of the awful and life-altering moment when they learned Dad was not coming home. And I thought of how hard it is in the days and weeks after to believe, even to hope, that life will go on. And that is when I decided to set a goal for 2014 to run 14 marathons to raise awareness about Comfort Zone camps and other camps that cater to kids dealing with the death of a parent.

I was lucky enough to get picked in the lottery to run again in 2014. This year, the Blue Mile was different. Several weeks before the Marine Corps Marathon I had a conversation with my mom on what would have been my parents’ wedding anniversary. Having already run 15-plus marathons, spoken with lots of people along the way about Comfort Zone and thought a lot about my own experience along the way, something had stuck out in my mind.

“No one talked to me after Dad died about what had actually happened,” I told her. Yes, my mom told me Dad died and people expressed condolences and the like. But nothing more. Like running the Blue Mile, the days and months and years after Thomas Francis Michael Hickey succumbed to cancer were navigated alone. To my surprise, she responded, “You are right. For both sides of the family, we thought of Tom first.”

It made sense to me – and to the family – that my brother was in greater “need” than I . He was thirteen and I was – literally – just seven. He was a son and my father was very involved in his life from his soccer games to school activities. But as I have learned over the last 37 years, death plays no favorites and impacts us all in different ways.

What I have also learned in this last year is that death can provide an opportunity. To find strength. To rediscover hope. And, like the families of the fallen, to carry on in service to others by living the memory and the spirit of those we have lost. And to offer support. Running my third Blue Mile I was inspired to run on. I was reminded by the example of other Marine Corps marathoners to overcome. To overcome the disappointment of failing woefully to raise money for Comfort Zone camps (two donations to date). To overcome my own doubts and frustrations with not meeting Dad’s expectations.

I finished my third Marine Corps Marathon inspired, energized and recommitted to this cause and to giving hope to other kids that a lifetime of Blue Miles can be a blessing and not just a burden to bear alone.

The silver lining was never more obvious to me than while watching last night’s 60 Minutes story on end of life decisions. The piece centered around assisted suicide and whether it should be legal or not. Throughout the report I could not help but think of my Mom, who at too young an age was compelled to make similar decisions on behalf of the man who held her heart.

Thankfully, cancer made most of the decisions about Dad’s care. By the time he was diagnosed, it was too late for any cure. There was only time for hope. I called to see what she thought of the 60 Minutes piece and her immediate response was to reiterate her instructions about her own care. No extraordinary measures.

I asked if she knew what Dad would have wanted in his own case. The stupidity of the question occurred to me just as the last word was uttered. My mom was in her mid-30s and my father was just 41 when he suffered a stroke that was cancer’s calling card.

“We were too young to be discussing those kinds of things,” she said. They were.

But, she added, if he knew what he had become, he would have gone outside and shot himself. That was not only her belief. My uncle Mike, who shared with Dad more than a name. They had similar senses of humor and both adored my mom. What would have pained my father was not so much the loss of independence, but being dependent.

The tumors which had grown throughout his brain had minimized my father. He had no long-term memory and stolen his ability to express anything. Even pain. My mom delivered a daily dosage of painkillers to him, but did not know if they were needed. They were doing no harm, so why not, she told me.

After we talked, I brought out a picture of my dad and grandmother taken the Christmas before he died. What was striking about the picture was not what it showed, but what was missing. There was no life in the blue eyes. There was no Dad in his eyes. Similarly, there was no hope in my grandmother’s eyes. There seemed to be a recognition of what was coming, a tortured awareness that she was losing hold of her only son, her youngest child.

In that photo, I also saw the silver lining. I remember very little about that Christmas. I remember my cat Funky ran away that winter. I remember Bill the hospice nurse, not being able to visit Dad when he was in the hospital and being rushed out of the room when he had seizures. But I never realized he was dying. I could not see that the man up to whom I cuddled on the bed was not really my Dad anymore.

Unlike my mom and brother, I do not remember. For that silver lining forever will I be grateful.

At the edge of my bed I sat. And sat. I do not remember for how long I remained there looking at the fireplace. I do remember feeling uncertain and unsure. I sat there because I did not know what else to do. I had followed my brother’s lead – at least in part.

At the edge of my bed I sat wondering what I was supposed to do now that my mother had told Tom and me, “Your Dad died this morning.”

There was no protocol. Heck, having just had my 7th birthday, I had no idea what protocol meant, much less what was expected of me. Upon hearing her words, my brother screamed, headed up the back stairs and in typical Hickey fashion slammed the door at the top of the stairs before slamming the door into his room.

I left the breakfast table shortly thereafter and followed him upstairs. If I felt anger, I too would have slammed doors. If I felt pain, I would have cried. But what I felt was uncertainty. And loss. Not the loss of my father, but the loss of my way.

I heard my mom’s words, but I did not understand them. I saw the pain on her face and in the eyes of my grandmother, who had spent the previous week with us. She and my mom and virtually everyone else in the family knew Dad was dying. Even Tom knew his father was losing his battle with cancer.

I did not know. I knew he was sick. Not because I was bright enough to recognize that terminal cancer was a death sentence. I knew because of the hospital bed that had been moved into my parent’s room. I knew because of the presence of Bill, the hospice care nurse. And I knew because there are some things even a six-year old can sense.

There is no protocol for coping with death. There are no rules, and there certainly is no rhyme, nor reason. Death is an ending, it is final and it is a moment in time.

Living, on the other hand, is a series of beginnings. It is constant moving and learning. What I have learned over the course of running 16 marathons is the importance of living. The importance of taking a chance. The importance of learning from the past, even if the beneficiary is someone else. So, I will continue to run for the child who is sitting at the edge of their bed trying to find their way forward.

Sometimes it helps to get things off one’s chest. So, here goes. I once wrote a letter to Madonna.

The letter did not ramble on about how I preferred her first album to Like A Virgin. Nor did I describe how it took me an additional five to ten minutes in the morning to get into the shower because I had to remove all of the black bracelets I wore because she did too.

And I did not mention how many times the VHS tape was rewound so I could watch her performance at Live Aid. I am not a math major, so could not have counted that high anyway.

I did write a multipage letter to Madonna telling her that we had something in common. I wrote to Madonna to tell her that we both had parents who died while they – and we – were too young.

I concede writing to Madonna is mortifying enough. To write to Madonna about a dead parent might qualify as mortification on steroids.

I had just read an article in some teen magazine in which she talked about the impact her mother’s death had on her and on her relationship with her father. Her words struck a chord in me in a way her music did not. I could relate to the meaning behind the words.

Anyone who knows me can attest to the fact that Madonna and I are not exactly individuals cut from the same cloth. For one, I am not an international superstar. I also am not someone who sets out to shock people or to make my social and political views known by wearing as few items of clothing as I can.

I am not transformative by nature. In fact, I am very much a creature of habit. Her mother’s death inspired her to constantly step outside the lines. I am more comfortable coloring inside the lines.

However, we both are stubborn and driven. And we both have – thankfully – outgrown the need to wear black rubber bracelets from wrist to elbow.

I wrote about the kinship I felt. I wrote about how my heart remained unhealed, but not broken. I wrote about how she seemed to be the only adult who could speak aloud the thoughts I harbored silently.

I never – thank God – sent the letter. I think writing it was a catharsis needed at the time. And it provided my mother with a few good chuckles when she found it tucked in an envelope and shoved under my bed with everything else but the kitchen sink.

The kinship I felt affirmed to me that I was not alone. That is why Comfort Zone camps and similar camps are so important and why I want to spread the word about them. It is why I have just completed my 15th marathon and why I will continue to run and to run and run again to make as many people aware of how they can positively impact the lives of children and their families.

They provide a sense of belonging. They open a child’s eyes to a future not defined by death, but by life. They offer hope.

“One day I will tell you how much it means to me, but not today. Not today.”

I called my mom on Sunday to make sure the flowers I sent for her 51st wedding anniversary had arrived. Not today. It had been thirty-odd years since she and my dad celebrated the day together, and it was not much of a celebration as his health was in decline. Cancer was winning and she was losing the man with whom she fell in love years ago at a bar in New York City.

Anniversaries always seem different from any other day after the death of someone close. Holidays too. These are time when you come together with the whole family to celebrate, to laugh, and in our family to eat and drink.

Death is a disassembling beast which arrives one day to steal the precious sense of normalcy. However, death does not always destroy. In fact, out of its destructiveness comes life. At least a new life. This reality was something about which I thought when I learned of the death of Joan Rivers. More particularly, the relationship she had with her daughter, which was reborn after her husband committed suicide. In them, I saw myself and my mother.

No, neither my mom, nor I are as wealthy as they are. And I am pretty sure that no one, including our own family, would spent 10 seconds watching a reality show about our lives. And I can assure you we have not discussed with each other any details of our love/sex lives.

We do talk almost every day. Where Joan and Melissa Rivers talked fashion and paramours, mom and I talk politics and current events.

As distinctly different our personalities are, humor has created a deep bond. I doubt whether our relationship would be what it is today if it were not for dad’s death. That might be true for every relationship because death changes life. It alters plans.

Despite knowing that his days were not many, when my dad finally died, Mom did not have time to think about how she would tell me or Tom. She sent us off to school and then had to deal with reality. She had a funeral to plan. She had to call the hospice to have the hospital bed removed because “it was too painful a reminder.” She had to call our school, to make Mass arrangements.

“I think I just sat you down and said he was dead,” my mom tells me. Tom reacted with anger, slamming doors and seeking refuge in his room. I followed my big brother upstairs and sat on my bed. At seven, I had not grasp of the gravity of events.

I know I think of my dad almost every day, not just on anniversaries. I have for years and will for years to come. I think of how his death broke our family. And I think of the stronger family to which his death gave life.

For several weeks, I had feared the future. Okay, I was not fearing the future as much as I was scared bleepless by it. For several weeks, I repeatedly asked myself why I clicked the register button for the Denver Marathon.

I am a lowlander. I have been skiing at altitude in New Mexico and in France. But I had never even run a mile in the mountains. As dreadful as the notion of running at 10,000-plus feet was, I was looking forward to visiting with a friend I had not seen since high school and to spending some time with her horses. Ever since childhood I have been drawn to horses, but rarely have the opportunity to spend any time with them.

While living in Cincinnati I was able to take some riding classes and even earned a few ribbons to boot. I also spent a few weeks at an equestrian camp in Wisconsin with my cousin Molly. The camp was located somewhere outside of Green Bay and I clearly remember the first day introductions.

And I remember being slightly nervous and apprehensive. Having teeth that were, well, quite equine, and glasses that were thicker than steel, I always held back, particularly in awkward situations. And nothing is more awkward than those “circle” moments.

You know, when everyone sits in s circle (legs crossed) forks over their personal information like we were all being checked into prison. When my time came, I said my name and that I was from Cincinnati, which drew odd looks and seeming amazement.

I felt out of place, which makes a lot of sense because I was an “out-of-towner.” My campmates seemed intrigued. At least until we had our first occasion to clean out the stalls, a task which seemed to be the great equalizer. No matter what we brought to camp and what we would return to after camp, the daily duties to which we had to tend proved to be a comfortable ritual, a shared experience.

It is one of the things I have learned along the way about running marathons – they are the great equalizer. At least at the beginning. I and the hundreds of other people who actually pay to test our physical and mental limits boarded the bus at 4:15 for the 30 minute ride up the mountain. It was a good thing the sun was still sleeping so I did not have to see how high we were climbing.

Like good little lemmings, we all waited patiently at the starting line either hovered over the heating lamps or standing in line for the “facilities.” And then we were off and it was too late to be fearful.

I started out cautiously and slowly as the first miles were downhill. And then they were not downhill, which is something I clearly missed when I was studying the elevation chart before the race. This was supposed to be a downhill race. It was not.

I was no longer wondering why I had registered, but how the Hell I was going to get through it. It was clear this race would challenge me mentally as much as it would physically.

As I do whenever life throws me a curve, I looked to the clear and vast sky and (literally) asked Dad for added strength. While I have no evidence he is even listening – after all there are plenty of interesting people in Heaven to keep him busy – I continue to rely on him. I cannot remember his voice, nor the cadence of his speech, but I listen anyway.

My registration form indicates that I am running as a 43-year old. But when the doubts arise and I begin to question whether I will finish, I am running as a 6-year old who, like most little girls, had elevated their father to godlike status. When he rose to Heaven, the status was elevated even further.

And maybe that is one reason why it is so difficult for me (and for others whose fathers left them too early) to meet expectations. Maybe that is why I sought out a race at elevation – to prove to him I could do it. And to show myself and other little girls that we can still meet and overcome whatever is placed in front of us – with a little help from Dad.

There was nothing memorable about the day. It was not an anniversary. I had not had a recent conversation about my dad. Frankly, it was a Sunday and my brain was slowly moving out of its Sunday morning political talk show hangover and into the loathsome preparation for Monday morning. And then I walked by an MG parked along the street.

As quickly as my mind processed the sight of the car, it went to the day when my brother accidentally (will give him the benefit of the doubt) slammed my finger in the door of our forest green MG. The one thing which eclipsed the volume of my pained shriek was the vocalization of my father’s rage.

There was no blood, and no damage to my finger, but those facts did not constrain the infamous Hickey temper. My brother and I, like my father, react to unfortunate situations with anger, a fair measure of door slamming and an even greater measure of language inappropriate for mixed company.

Why? I could blame it on the Irish heritage, but that would be too easy. It might be accurate too, but that is beside the point.

Speaking from experience, I know Dad was not angry at me for getting my finger caught in the door. Nor was he angry at Tom for catching m digit in the door. His anger had not purpose except to express frustration at something that was out of his control – the pain of a child.

I imagine it is a feeling to which many parents can relate. Some parents react, like my father, with anger. Others, are more sanguine and internalize their emotions. When my father died, I do not recall my grandmother becoming bitter or angry. I was too young to notice any real change. When I got older, however, the effect of losing her only son became more visible.

It is not hard to recognize that she was less complete after that day in February when she said good-bye to her youngest. That day in February, part of her died as well. When Nana got older and her memory began to show the wear and tear of time, she would often call my brother my Dad’s name. While they did indeed share the same physical characteristics, I think her mind went back to a time when she was complete. A more comfortable and natural time.

I continue to be struck by how my mind works in similar ways. I was not thinking about Dad when I saw that MG on the street. He does not have to be on my mind when I catch a glimpse of a middle-aged man with silver hair and immediately think of him. I like to think that it is Dad’s way of poking me in the shoulder to remind me he is still with me. That he still watches over me. That he still loves me.

With Denver right around the corner, I am going to need that temper to get me through the pain, his stubbornness to get me to the next mile, and the knowledge that he is with me to get me across the finishing line.

Of course what I could really use is a ride across the finishing line in a forest green MG.