26 Letters to Stephen: 7-26

December 23, 2013

Dear Stephen,

It’s been a really long time, I know. I had all of these grand plans about the 26 letters when I started marathon training. I was going to write 26 poignant, funny, thoughtful letters chronicling my experience. The last one was going to tie everything up in a nice little bow. It was going to be beautiful.

It didn’t happen.

In retrospect, it doesn’t surprise me. I don’t know what made me believe that I was going to have the wherewithal to write. Running the marathon the first time made me crazy. I had no reason to believe this time would be different. It wasn’t. So I didn’t write. And here I am.

I had my reasons for not writing before. But now I think it’s time to find some closure to the experience.

So. The marathon. What shall I say about that?

Parts of it were so awesome, Stephen. Parts were terrible, but parts were so, so awesome. I’m so pleased and proud to have been able to run for you. It made me so happy to post my progress and collect donations in your name. And even though through most of it you felt so very far away, that brief moment I had with you at the end of the race made it all worth it.

I must confess, though, that I thought I would feel different after it was over. I don’t know how I expected to feel, exactly, but the feeling of futility was not it. After all those hours, all those miles, all those muscle aches, all that anticipation… it was just all over so fast. My memories of the race are patchy and incomplete, probably from a combination of emotional shutdown and physical exertion. And then the next day, I stared down at my medal and thought, “What was the point? Stephen’s still dead.”

And you are. You always will be. I knew I wouldn’t change that, but … . Maybe using someone else’s words will help me explain.

There’s a popular post on the blog Hyperbole and a Half where the author writes of her quest to earn adult responsibility. For the first few days, she is gung-ho about being responsible. She goes to the bank! She cleans all the things! She basks in her grown-up-ness!

Then suddenly she has another reason to go to the bank. The things get dirty and she has to clean them again. And she realizes adult responsibility is not a thing you earn. You don’t work hard for a certain length of time and then get to put your Adult Responsibility Trophy on the mantle. It just doesn’t work that way. Adult responsibility is ongoing. You can made some good runs of it, and maybe coast along on the rewards for a week or two. But then you start over again, and keep working on it.

I realize now that a piece of me thought of the marathon as my Adult Responsibility Trophy. Except, in my case, it was more of a Stephen Mourning Trophy. I took on this big task, and I knew it was going to be physically and emotionally exhausting. But I thought at the end I would have this thing I could hold on to. That I would have earned my Stephen Mourning Trophy, and my reward would be having you back. Or at least not missing you as much. I would have fixed it.

But as soon as the marathon was over, I was right back where I was before I started. You were still dead. I still hated that you were dead. Nothing at all was fixed.

I’m sorry I couldn’t do more, Stephen. I’m so, so, so, so sorry. I look at the photo of the five of us standing outside 409 Monroe on the last day we were all together, and I always get this image of the five of us together again when we’re 50, laughing at each others’ clothing and haircuts. And it make me angry (so angry) to know that day will never come.

I know that the 24^th is, officially speaking, the day you died. I know that, but for some reason it’s always today, on the 23^rd, that I think of you. You would think it’d be the image of you lying lifeless in that car that would haunt me. But it doesn’t. Instead, it’s the thought of you today, breathing, laughing, living on your holiday trip home, with no knowledge of what was to come in a few short hours. That is what haunts me.

I spend a lot of time thinking about what you might have done if you had known. One thing that gives me some comfort is that I don’t think you would have done much differently. If you had a few hours warning, you probably would have chose to spend those hours exactly as you did. So there’s that.

But the memory of you alive on that last day of your life is such a painful reminder of everything that will not be.

I wish I could say that running the marathon for you changed something for the better, but I am not sure it did. You’re still dead. I’m still missing you. I’m still looking for the way to fix it. I could run a thousand marathons and still not fix it.

I hope against hope that it changed something for you. I hope against hope that made you just a little bit less sad about everything you won’t get to do.

One month after the marathon, I stood at the top of the Sydney Harbor Bridge, and I thought of you. I thought about all of the listlessness I felt, and about how futile any effort was going to be. And then, just for a moment, I felt hope. A feeling came over me, and I thought, “I will never stop living. That will be my ongoing tribute to you.”

I am not even sure what I meant by that at the time, but I have come to understand it like this: There are a thousand things you will never get to do. I’m alive, and that alone gives me all of the opportunities you missed. I will never stop taking them. I will always take the helicopter ride. I will always do the cliff jump. I will always do the things I am afraid to do, because that is what you would have done. That can be how I remember you.

I will do my very best, Stephen. I hope it will be enough to let you rest in peace. But know that nothing will ever, ever be enough to make me stop missing you.

Love,

Katie

26 Letters to Stephen: 6

Letter #6

September 15, 2013

Dear Stephen,

Well, things are looking better.

My ankle still hurts today, but it feels much better. It might be ok tomorrow. Everything might be ok.

I still owe you a real letter. I am sorry I have not been able to bring myself to write it. Parts of what I want to say continue to float through my mind, but I can’t seem to form the thoughts into anything coherent.

I know that I’m stressed.

I know that I miss you.

I know those things, but not much else.

Hang with me a while longer, Stephen. We will get through this together.

26 Letters to Stephen: 5

Letter #5

September 14, 2013

Dear Stephen,

I’m trying not to panic, but something bad happened today.

About 7 or 7.5 miles into my run, my ankle started to hurt. At first I thought that it might just need to crack, but rotating it did nothing to stop the pain.

When I started running again, the pain stopped for a little while, but then started again and never stopped. I’ve been done with the run for a couple of hours, and despite icing and wrapping, my ankle is aching even though I’m just sitting here.

This could be bad.

It’s possible that it will feel better tomorrow or at least by next Sunday, but I’m scared. It’s also possible that I’m down for the count. The worst part is that all I can do is wait and see.

It hurts to walk right now, so having this continue more that 24 hours would be really bad.

I’m not sure what else to say. Any magic you’ve got, go ahead and work it, ok?

More soon.

26 letters to Stephen: 4

Letter # 4: September 11, 2013

It has been a long time, Stephen. Far, far too long, and I am sorry.

I'm in the middle of week 14 of marathon training. For 12 weeks, things were going absolutely beautifully. Last week, a sinus infection threw a wrench in everything. This week, there have not yet been any disasters -- but there have been warning signs, and I am worried.

I'm going to tell you all about it, and soon. I promise. This weekend, I am going to write you a letter that is worth 10 letters. I promise.

But for right now, I just need to ask a favor.

Stay with me through these next couple of runs, will you? I am feeling whispers from my hips and knees that remind me of past injuries, and all I can think about is how quickly everything went to hell last time. I finished a 12-mile taper run, and suddenly my knee hurt like hell. Just like that. And it continued to hurt like hell until approximately 2 weeks after the race.

I survived. I even made it to the finish line and recovered without so much as a doctor visit. But it was so hard and I was so scared. Scared of quitting. Scared of hurting myself. Scared of having limited mobility. Scared of always wondering if I did the right thing.

I don't want to be scared like that again, especially since I will also be scared of failing you.

So stay with me. Keep my knees, hips, and feet functioning the right way for just a few more weeks. Keep me healthy, and I promise I'll do the rest.

I know it seems trivial to talk of this stuff as such a big deal, especially today. But it is a big deal, to me. So I'm just looking for help where I can get it.

You were always willing to give it.

I miss you.

26 Letters to Stephen: 3

June 15, 2013

Dear Stephen,

Week one of marathon training complete. One down, 17 to go.

At the beginning of the week, I had settled on doing one 3-mile run, one speed workout, one bike commute, one long run, and two strength training sessions each week. After this week, though, I might be changing my mind.

It was raining on Monday morning, so I did the elliptical instead. Then I did strength training Tuesday morning and ran with the Scouts Tuesday night. Wednesday I did strength training again.

The trouble started on Thursday. I went to the track workout with the Scouts. In the middle of my 4^th or 5^th 400-meter repeat, I got some cramping in my hamstrings. One of them was really, really sore all day Friday and still not great this morning. I had that really horrible feeling of not knowing whether or not I should run.

It didn’t hurt that much, but would running make it worse? It wouldn’t be a big deal to miss a 6-miler, but how could I skip my very first run with the training group?

In the end, I decided to run. I feel ok right now. I’m sore, but not alarmingly so. I just hope I don’t regret it tomorrow.

An injured hamstring isn’t a devil I’ve handled before. I hate the unknown. This is exactly what I didn’t want to feel this time around. Perhaps I skip speed training next week.

The good news is that I think I am really going to like running with CARA. The group leader and all the women in my group are really nice.

I thought of you this morning when the pace groups were working themselves out. How fast did you run, anyway? I know it was a hell-of-a-lot faster than me. Maybe 8-minute miles? Sorry I’m slowing you down. But maybe you would like running with all women, anyway.

I miss you buddy.

26 Letters to Stephen: 2

Letter #2

June 3, 2013

Dear Stephen,

On Saturday, I went to a marathon clinic. It was the official kickoff of my training program. I was really excited about it beforehand. In the end, I was rather underwhelmed.

There were two tracks for the clinic: novice and advanced. I certainly don’t consider myself an advanced marathoner, so I chose novice. That may have been a mistake. The novice track was, understandably, geared toward first-time marathoners. I figured the clinic would cover some things I already knew, but I thought that it wouldn’t hurt me to hear it again. Plus, I made so, so many mistakes last time. Surely these experts would tell me some new things that would help me along the way.

Instead, the clinic felt like a regurgitation of everything I read on the Internet when I trained by myself last time.

You must follow the training plan! Really? I tried to follow the training plan last time, and I was always injured. In the end, I realized that standardized beginning training plans just doesn’t work for me. They cover too many miles. So why are these experts insisting that following this plan to the letter is going to work for every single person in the room?

You should be drinking Gatorade at every aid station, not water! Really? Gatorade has always made me feel sick while I am running. After extensive experimentation, I have found that water and energy chews every five miles are what work for me. I’ve never had an issue with dehydration, electrolyte imbalance, or sodium deficiency. I choose the fueling method that doesn’t make my stomach cramp, thank you very much. I found the best thing for me, and it isn’t the thing you’re insisting is best for everyone.

Be careful of your posture, arm swing, and footstrike! You should be foam rolling! By all means, continue throwing out jargon without any clear explanation of what any of it means. Definitely show videos of poor running form without saying anything about how to correct poor running form. Tell us all about the physiological effects of foam rolling without demonstrating how to use a foam roller. That’s very helpful.

I admit that I’m being more than a little snarky, but I was very frustrated by the end. Instead of feeling like training with a group is going to make it easier this time, I walked out feeling like I need to gear myself up for a fight.

It’s going to be a summer of standing my ground. I can’t take everything they say as gospel. I know better. I am sure their plan will help a lot of people across the finish line. It’s just not my way across the finish line.

It made me sort of sad to come to the realization that the experts don’t know all the answers. It would be comforting to believe that there is someone who will always have a definitive answer about what to do. But the truth is, everyone is just making the best guesses that they can.

That includes me. I decided a long time ago that I was going to run this marathon for you, but I don’t really know if this is something you would have wanted. I’m just making my best guess.

It’s a guess. An 18-week, 26.2-mile guess. A gesture. An attempt to make a tribute to you.  

I hope you like it.

26 Letters to Stephen: 1

Letter #1: May 27, 2013

Dear Stephen,

Saturday was the Soldier Field 10 Mile, my last race before marathon training starts. I ran fast. I ran strong. I ran pain-free. I think I am ready. I could not be any more ready. Right?

Ready or not, the truth is that I am a little bit scared. The last time I trained for a marathon, I spent most of the time injured or worried about becoming injured. Every day, I questioned whether I should be running and how far. Every day, I wondered if I would make it to that start line, let alone the finish line. I trained for 20 weeks, and the whole time I felt like I might lose it all at any moment.

I have so many reasons to believe that this time will be better. I learned a lot from my mistakes. I know my limits when it comes to the number of miles I can run in a week. Regular strength training has greatly reduced my injury rate. In fact, I haven’t had a major injury in more than two years.

Yet I am still scared. Even though the chances of dropping out of training are greatly reduced, I have so much more to lose this time. I want to finish the race, of course. But even more, I don’t want to let you down.

I’ve been struggling with what to do for you since the day you died. For the first few months, I spent a lot of time trying to find a way to bring you back to life. Unsurprisingly, I failed in this regard. I really, really tried to bring you back, but as you may have noticed, you’re still… well, not here.

Eventually, I got past the irrational need to raise you from the dead and started thinking about what I could do for you instead. I settled on running this marathon. 2010 was my marathon, but 2013 will be yours. This one is for you.

If I make it, that is. There are so many miles ahead, and I am really scared that I will fail you. But I promise that I’m going to try.

The funny thing is, there is so much about this that you would hate. Marathon training is a slog, and there is a lot of moaning and groaning involved. But there is also a lot of positivity. Teams and training groups, especially those associated with a charity, all cheer each other on with great enthusiasm. It’s all about “You can do it!” and “One more mile!” and “You’re so awesome!” You know, all the things that annoy you. You would absolutely hate marathon training.

It feels like the right thing to do, though. I’m scared, but deep down in my gut I feel that this is my way to honor you. I can’t bring you back, but I can do what you aren’t here to do. I can accomplish this feat that you never got to cross of your bucket list. I can honor your mother’s memory and give myself and others a reason to think of you now and again over the coming months. I can run. I can run, and I will.

Stick with me, though, will you? This is going to be often going to be awesome, yet it is also going to be awful. In that way, it is really a lot like you.

Love to you, Stephen. More letters to come.