Grief Can Be A Series of Sucker Punches

Some weeks I can be floating through life - happy, in love, engaged, centered and grounded. When memories surface, I welcome them, sit with them, and move forward. But other weeks - WHAM. Grief throws me a series of sucker punches and it takes all the strength I have to remind myself that this too shall pass.

I have no idea if sharing what that looks like makes for good blog reading, but if it could be helpful for even one other person, it's worth putting out there. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that it will help me move through the pain. Perhaps that is selfish. But thankfully, to read or not to read is a choice.

The order in which these blows were thrown escapes me, but that doesn't really matter. At some point, they all blend together to form a perfect storm of meltdown material that will not relent until I let it out. A tide of triggers that slowly breaks me down.

*punch*  

Sometimes it is a post or story in which someone else pinpoints exactly how I felt or am feeling. Like "A Grief Anniversary." A raw message to others, it attempts to explain the inexplicable. To give those who have not lost their "person" an idea of what it's like. How the pain doesn't go away. Why the platitudes offered to the bereaved often don't make any sense. The phenomenon of people wishing you wouldn't be sad, primarily so they don't have to feel uncomfortable. "And by the way... what's wrong with sad?" ... "What you don't know is that all of the losses touch each other. Suffering a loss today can bring up a loss from decades ago. And it feels real. It feels current. It's one big steaming pot of loss. What you don't know is that it's always present for me."

*punch*  

Sometimes it is a location. I had a work meeting last week that ended up being at a new coffee shop that happens to be next door to the funeral home we used. Sure, I drive by it all the time. But it was entirely different sitting across from a stranger trying to pay attention to the conversation when out of the corner of my eye I'm sent straight back to the past. A tragic yet somehow beautiful scene plays out in the back of my mind while in present day the person I'm meeting with is telling me that he doesn't really have a personal connection to cancer.

*punch*

Sometimes it is a movie full of scenes that bring me right back. This time it was The Theory of Everything about Stephen Hawking and Jane Wilde which depicts his declining health and their unique love story. Trying to make sense of why an incredible mind with so much to contribute to the world must be plagued with disease. Watching his fierce determination to function as normally and independently as possible, despite his body's unwillingness to cooperate. Relating so intensely to the way love sees right through obstacles - it won't be shaken or deterred by physical limitations and undeniable mortality. In my recollection of one scene, Jane stares out the kitchen window while doing dishes, her back to Stephen. He is physically and audibly struggling to get from the dining chair to the wheelchair or vice versa, but she wills herself not to turn around again. Her jaw clenched, fighting against every fiber in her being that longs to help, she respects his pride and stands by idly as he battles alone. So many times I yearned to remove every possible barrier, but had to sit on my hands or bite my tongue so as not to overstep. And just like that, I was transported back to the highs and lows that accompany caregiving.

*punch*  

Sometimes it is a reaction to pictures. I was using the "faces" feature of iPhoto to put together a collage for someone, having nothing to do with Ruben. But the face finder isn't always accurate, so it mistakenly identified a few pictures of him when I was searching for someone else. I proceeded to go down that rabbit hole. I allowed the program to surface over a thousand images of Ruben's face, pulling from the countless pictures I have of him ranging from childhood to a few days before he died. Some made me grin from ear to ear. Others made me tear up. Some made me laugh out loud. Others are still haunting me. The progression through our time together - from full rosy cheeks and bright eyes to a hollow, gaunt and jaundiced face angered me.

The Many Faces of Ruben Garza (primarily 2009-2011)

Fucking cancer. Stealing the life out of someone's body right before my eyes. And how did I not realize? Or did I? When you live with someone day in and day out and love them with blind and endless depth and hope, it is impossible to see the progressive deterioration. And I count that as a blessing. But years later, it seems clear as day. Now I see what friends saw who only had the joy of being with him once every few months. The pain and tears in their eyes those last several weeks as they realized and started to expect and accept the inevitable. That which I'm still coming to terms with today. I worked hard to avoid anger and despair. To be grateful for every moment I had and to focus on the positive. But I have my moments.

*punch*  

Sometimes I seem surrounded - personally and professionally - by cancer's devastation. So many stories. So much loss. And there's no nice way to say it. It pisses me off. It infuriates me. It temporarily robs me of hope and optimism. But then I find a story with a happy ending. I think about what life would've been like if we'd never met. I talk to Ruben and borrow some of his faith and understanding. I focus on the full and round smiles and put one foot in front of the other.

*punch*  

Sometimes it's in a name. The other night at dinner with Britton I started thinking about my name and the different variations I could use when Thomas becomes my last name. I wrote and spoke aloud my choices. I know it is an adjustment for any woman who changes her name when getting married. It's a whole new identity to get used to. Who am I if I'm not Jen Garza? Who is Jen Thomas? If I remove Garza or use it as a middle name, what happens to Ruben? Whether or not it makes sense, it feels like cutting yet another tie to him. One of the last.

*punch*  

Sometimes it's in the wedding planning. It's hard to search for a dress when I loved the one I got married in the first time. Finding a DJ is heartbreaking when it reminds me how much time and thought Ruben put into every song on our playlist. How he believed that finding the right soundtrack for any given moment can make that moment even more perfect. It's challenging to find an appropriate "first dance" song for me and Britton when the one that rings most true for us is, "We found love in a hopeless place." No offense, Rihanna, but that's a "later in the evening" track.

*punch*  

Sometimes it's in yoga class. I've finally found my way back to a semi-consistent practice. The last time I went with any regularity was when Ruben was in hospice care. My weekly respite was a Wednesday night class that brought me peace and reflection. Often times the tears would flow and almost every song and pose triggered something inside of me. While on a much lesser scale, the same is true today. I try to lean into it - to experience the memory, happy or sad, and move forward. But sometimes I get disoriented - transported back. And then I remember all over again that he's gone. That this is a new and different lifetime.

*punch*

Sometimes it's when a pipe breaks and you spend the morning sopping up water, wondering when the plumber will arrive and how much damage is being done. Oh wait - that sucker punch is just from life - doesn't have a thing to do with grief. That's just how this morning started, so I thought I'd throw it in here for some comic relief ;)

*stand up tall*

I know how fortunate I am to have found love again. Don't think for one minute that experiencing and recounting these "grief punches" takes away from my limitless love for Britton. Grief is often trying to knock him down as well. There is so much relief in the fact that we can express to one another, with or without words, what is happening. We share such a deep understanding. I know we will continue to grow stronger - as grieving individuals and as a couple in love. I imagine the blows will become lighter. And Ruben and Jax will always be part of us. They taught us how to roll with the punches, how to get back up again, how to persist, how to thrive, and how to live out loud. And so we will.

"The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain."  - Lord Byron

"We shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival." - Winston Churchill 

Not Your Average Love Story

Britton and Jen

Last week a wonderful man proposed to me and I happily accepted. WARNING: this is NOT your average "boy meets girl" scenario. I've been told on more than one occasion that our story resembles a Hallmark movie. I'm not sure exactly what that means, but I think it implies tragedy, heartbreak, growth and a slightly far-fetched happily-ever-after. Personal experience has taught me that you can never know when or how a story will begin or end. Bad things happen to good people. Wonderful things happen to good people. Ever-after is fictitious, but fairy tales are real. Allow me to share a bit of our prologue.

Let me begin with the summer of 2009 - when monumental events altered our paths forever. That July in Denver, Colorado, Britton Thomas received the news that his wife of four years, Jaqueline "Jax" Arcaris, was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer. Suddenly what seemed like a future guaranteed to last well into old age together was not as certain. Around that same time, Ruben Garza was on a trip to Washington, DC to represent cancer survivors at a White House event. And I (Jen Snavely, back then) was adjusting to a new life in Austin, Texas and wondering why, at age 32, I still hadn't met "the one." Until August 30th... the day I met Ruben and our love story began.

Many of you know this part. We both fell hard and fast. I knew he was a cancer survivor but learned on our second date that he was not actually in remission. He had been fighting Hodgkin's Lymphoma for about 12 years at that point and the goal was to "keep a lid on it." We had a few months of the cancer staying in check, unaware that the roller coaster was slowly and steadily climbing to the summit. Then a set of bad scans sent Ruben down the familiar path of appointments, treatment, illness, and uncertainty. This time with a girlfriend who loved him in tow.

Jen and Ruben

About ten months after we met, Ruben asked me to marry him, and on November 6, 2010 we became husband and wife. I've said many times, the arc of our cancer narrative never lined up with the arc of our personal story. I'm sure Britton and Jax had a similar experience. We would go straight from chemo infusion to a concert. They would go from a round of radiation to the ski slopes. While on separate paths, the four of us packed more laughter, life, travel, love and adventure into a few years than most will in decades. 

Many of you may recall that after Ruben entered into hospice care in June of 2011, we turned to MyLifeLine.org to keep our friends and family updated on our needs and to share some of our highs and lows. Less than two months after Ruben passed away, at the end of 2011, I had the opportunity to meet Marcia, the founder of MyLifeLine, and thank her in person for the invaluable support her service provided. We shared a strong connection and stayed in touch. 

Britton and Jax met Marcia shortly after Jax's diagnosis. MyLifeLine was a powerful outlet for Jax to share her journey through the honest and candid writing that their large network came to rely on. Marcia, living in and operating out of Denver, soon became a close friend and was, like so many others, devastated by Jax's death in early 2012. 

Britton and Jax

Fast forward a few months. I received an email from Marcia asking me if I'd be open to corresponding with Britton, a young and recent cancer widower who desperately needed to connect with someone he could relate to. I was in dire need of the same thing and could hardly wait for the first email. Correspondence was slow to start, but we reached out to one another for advice during the hardest times. "How did you get through the first wedding you attended after he died?" "What was I supposed to wish for when I blew my birthday candles out when my only wish couldn't come true?" It wasn't long before we were a lifeline for one another. 

One of Ruben's primary passions was live music. Red Rocks Amphitheater outside of Denver is one of the ultimate live music venues and one he had always hoped to get to, but never had the chance. I once overheard someone ask him, "If you could choose any show to see there, what would it be?" and after giving it some thought, he answered with certainty: My Morning Jacket. One random day I had the urge to look up the Red Rocks schedule and my heart stopped when I saw MMJ on the lineup. I immediately bought two tickets and told myself I'd figure the guest out later or just go alone. Living in the moment was the only way I could function back then. 

Soon after booking the tickets, I decided I should really make an adventure out of the trip. I had always wanted to go skydiving, and the Rocky Mountains seemed like a better backdrop than the Texas Hill Country. A few weeks later when I was trying to figure out who I knew in Denver who I could offer the extra ticket to, it occurred to me that my "widow pen-pal" (as I'd come to affectionately refer to Britton as) lived somewhere near there. Imagine his surprise when I posed the question, "want to jump out of a plane and catch a show with me?" 

The first time I actually heard his voice was on the phone a few hours before we met up in person for dinner the night before our big day. I was in the parking lot of the MyLifeLine offices after visiting with a few of their staff members and sharing more about my journey. They assured me that Britton was one of the nicest people they'd ever met - the words "a gentle teddy bear" may have been uttered. Friends back home couldn't believe I was going to have such an intimate experience with a "stranger" who I hadn't even spoken to. I kid you not, at least two different people said, "he could sound like Mickey Mouse." ??? Luckily, he didn't. His voice was perfectly normal. And hugging him when I first stepped out of the car felt like I was reuniting with a long lost friend.

We spent a few minutes in his living room where memorial collages still hung before we ventured out to dinner. A little nervous at first, we quickly opened up and began pouring out our hearts, talking about things that would make the average person extremely uncomfortable. Sometimes we'd catch ourselves delving into topics like chemo side effects, end of life concerns, saying goodbye forever - then we'd glance around at surrounding tables and observe people who seemed to be without a care in the world. What would they think if they could actually hear what we were saying?

After dinner we walked all over the city of Denver. Sometimes in conversation, sometimes silently lost in thought, but always comfortably in stride with one another. No pressure to be someone we weren't. No need to put on a brave smile just to put the other person at ease. No need for sugarcoating or editing. No chance of a romantic interest because neither one of us were even remotely ready for something like that. We finally said goodnight and made plans for the next morning: breakfast, lunch, skydiving, dinner, and the Red Rocks concert. You know - your average first non-date.

What can I say other than that August 4th, 2012 was a magical day? Allow me to share a few highlights:

Just before skydiving we realized we were terrified of losing our wedding rings, so we went out to the car to nervously lock them away. And we shared an understanding.

Skydiving in Longmont, Colorado - 8/4/12

We overheard an older man being asked why he wanted to jump and he said, "it's as close to heaven as you can get without dying." And we both knew exactly what he meant.

When our cameramen interviewed us separately about why we were doing this, we answered in our own ways but saying the same thing. We had people we needed to get closer to up there.

Britton pointed out to me that any other summer day in the mountains it would have stormed right around the time we stepped onto the plane. But on this day, it never rained. The sky was perfectly blue. And we thanked Ruben and Jax for giving us a beautiful day.

Later that evening we had dinner and ventured over to Red Rocks Amphitheater midway through the opener. One of the first things we noticed were two large crows circling overhead. A symbol of higher perspective, fearlessness, and magic. Messengers of foretelling, seers of souls, and teachers of change.

Just as My Morning Jacket walked on, a full moon began to rise behind the stage. I was overcome by how much Ruben would have loved every last detail. At one point we turned to one another and I said, "the only thing missing is fireworks. He loved fireworks. But it's the beginning of August. Pretty unlikely." I kid you not, a few moments later we saw fireworks off in the distance. His presence was undeniable.

My Morning Jacket - Live at Red Rocks - 8/4/12

For those of you who are MMJ fans, the 3.5 hour show had a phenomenal set list. They did a 17 minute version of Dondante (a song about loss) during which Jim James whispered "everything changes" over and over again. In those moments and during the chorus of I Will Be There When You Die, among others, tears streamed down my face. At one point I finally broke down enough to cry on Britton's shoulder. 

When we tried to say goodbye at the end of that night, we realized we couldn't let go of one another. Something very unexpected and powerful was happening and we decided to remain open to all possibilities. Neither of us was looking for love that day. But without even knowing it at the time, that's exactly what we found.

The next day I "somewhat accidentally" missed my flight back to Austin and we spent more time together. The following night we spoke on the phone for hours. And again every night after that. Three weeks later I went back to Colorado and we climbed a mountain. A few weeks after that, Britton visited me in Austin. We talked every night for months and took things one baby step at a time. Thankfully, back then and ever since, our personal low points never seem to coincide. While one is in tears, the other can be the strong one, assuring that the pain will lessen. We were never alone.

Southwest Adventures

One day we were texting about how much we each needed a break from our everyday lives where we didn't feel quite as understood as we did when we were together. Britton had been laid off from his job (talk about being kicked when you're down) and I worked for an organization who supported my need to take some belated bereavement time, so we began planning a month-long trip through the southwest. Thirty days of nature, beauty, rare cell phone service, companionship, adventure, discovery, grief, journaling, healing, laughter, tears, and stepping into the unknown together ensued. 

More Southwest Adventures

Remembering and honoring Ruben and Jax

Sometime after this trip we came to terms with the fact that we were officially dating one another and that we deserved to be happy. This is not an easy concept to grasp when you've been through what we've been through. We already had the loves of our lives. We didn't want to lose them. We didn't want to move on. We didn't want the memories to fade. We didn't want to diminish what we had with them in any way. But we faced the new territory together and we made an unspoken pact to always make space for Ruben and Jax. And we gave ourselves a second chance at love.

We both knew when I accepted the job with Texas 4000 that I was making a commitment to staying put in Austin for at least a little while. Bridging the distance seemed impossible but necessary for a long time. After making sure that the foundation of our relationship was built solidly on much more than just shared experience of loss, Britton ultimately made an enormous sacrifice. He left friends, mountains, skis, and familiarity behind and moved to Austin, Texas to be with me. Finally living in the same city under the same roof has been an incredible gift. It wasn't long before we knew we wanted to be together for as long as life grants us the opportunity and to hopefully have a family one day. And on October 28, 2014, Britton asked me to marry him.

Everyone is so quick to ask, "how did he do it?" So here's the story... the end of this blog post... and the beginning of a new chapter. A few months back we looked at some rings so he could try to better understand my extreme pickiness when it comes to jewelry. I figured the question might be coming sometime around the holidays or early next year, but really had no idea. It turns out he had ordered the ring a day after we first saw it and had been waiting for weeks for it to arrive. When he finally got the call that it was ready, he went to the jewelry store that day. As he exited the store with ring in hand, the store owner called after his dog, "Jax, come back here." Britton froze in his tracks. "What did you say your dog's name is?" To which the owner replied, "Jax." Britton confirmed the spelling and couldn't believe the sign he was receiving. His Jax was trying so hard to get his attention, to tell him that "it's okay" and "I want you to be happy," that these were the lengths she had to go to in order for him to take notice. And he did.

That night when Britton came home from work we were discussing what to do for "date night" and agreed upon a new yoga class, although he didn't want me to buy the passes online. He walked out onto our balcony, sat on top of the picnic table and I followed to join him. We sat and looked out on the Greenbelt as the sun began to set. He made some excuse to run inside for a second and emerged back on the deck soon after. He put his arm around me and asked me what I was thinking about. Neither of us remember what I said. I asked him what he was thinking about and he shyly replied, "I'm thinking about how to give you this and ask you to marry me" as he pulled the ring from his pocket. He later admitted that he just couldn't wait to do it so he didn't have a formal plan and doesn't know what he would've done if I hadn't asked him back. Sweet, simple, honest, and authentic. We could hardly wait to tell our families and friends.

We know better than most that the future is not guaranteed. That the reward is in the risk. That there is no time like the present. I try not to use the word "lucky" because it really doesn't seem to apply to two individuals who lost their adored spouses decades too soon. But we do feel incredibly blessed that our paths crossed, that the stars aligned, and that we were given just enough courage to keep saying yes. Whatever lies ahead, I know I have a partner and a best friend in Britton and I am eternally grateful to have him by my side.

More Britton and Jen

One day at a time, I will continue to live by my motto - choose love over fear - and I encourage you to do the same. And to pass it on.

I'm not doing a half Ironman just for fun

I'm not doing a half Ironman just for fun.

In fact, I don't do any endurance event just for fun. I do them so I have a platform to help out a good cause. And actually I wouldn't use the word "fun" at all to describe giving up several hours each week for physically draining activities or asking my friends and family for support yet again. It's a sacrifice and a labor of love.

I've raised thousands of dollars over the years for many cancer organizations through various races and rides. In this case, I'm training and fundraising for a half Ironman on April 13th for Texas 4000. That's 70.3 miles in a row of physical endurance for something I truly believe in.

This feat is part of my overall goal to train 4,000 miles and raise $10,000 in one year for Texas 4000 for Cancer. The race will likely be the second hardest thing I've ever done, and you all know the first hardest had nothing to do with sports and no other experience will ever come close.

I've posted, I've blogged, I've brought it up in almost every conversation. And now I need to come right out and ask. Will you help me reach my goal? I'd like to raise $5,000 by the time I get to the start line on April 13th. 

Donate $5 because every bit helps. Contribute $56 because that's how many miles I need to bike after swimming 1.2. Or perhaps $13 because I have to run a half marathon after the swim and bike. What about $70.30 to represent the overall distance? Any amount is appreciated. Please donate today.

I will be swimming, biking, and running for the Texas 4000 riders, for Ruben Garza, and for Junior Barotti.

• The riders all have deep personal ties to cancer and several have lost parents, relatives or friends to this awful disease. But they're doing something to fight back. They’re raising money for cancer research and riding their bicycles from Austin, TX to Anchorage, AK. Seriously.
• Ruben was my husband and one of the most amazing men to ever walk this earth. So much of what I do is in his memory and to honor his legacy. 
• Junior is a dear friend from high school who is literally fighting for his life as I type this, lying in a hospice facility as his wife and three young girls try to stay strong. 

Currently I'm training daily just to get to the start line, and I'm only able to do that by drawing strength from you and from people like you who provide support, perspective, and stories of their own life endurance.

Please visit my personal page to donate and/or www.texas4000.org for more information on Texas 4000.

With gratitude,

Jen

The Next Chapter... Becoming Unbroken

This weekend I took a retreat from the chaos of my everyday life and did something I haven’t done in ages – I read a book from cover to cover in two days. It was wonderful. Absolutely delightful to be lost in a well told story. There was a passage that spoke to me so loudly that I transcribed it so I can devour it over and over again. And it inspired me to come back to writing.

Perhaps the words touched my heart because of where I stand in my particular journey. As some of you know, I am preparing to take another leap of sorts. I have opened my heart to someone and in the next few weeks he will move from Denver to Austin to give us an honest chance. The amount of vulnerability required on both of our parts to take this step (and to share it with our worlds) is beyond measure.

At one time in the not so distant past, each of us experienced the greatest of loves with our respective partners – the love found in fairytales. Filled with adventure and joy, our independent stories also included tragic endings. Cancer entered our life equations and left us without our other halves. Broken.

A mutual friend saw that we might be able to help one another through our darkest days and made the introduction. Here is where the passage from this weekend’s novel (Unwritten by Charles Martin) fits in:

… and somewhere in that intersection of cracked hearts and shattered souls, they find that maybe broken is not the end of things, but the beginning. Maybe broken is what happens before you become unbroken.

What’s more, maybe our broken pieces don’t fit us. Maybe all of us are standing around with a bag of the stuff that used to be us and we’re wondering what to do with it and until we meet somebody else whose bag is full and heart empty, we can’t figure out what to do with our pieces.

And standing there, face to face, my bag of me over my shoulder and your bag of you over your shoulder, we figure out that maybe my pieces are the very pieces needed to mend you and your pieces are the very pieces needed to mend me but until we’ve been broken we don’t have the pieces to mend each other.

Maybe in the offering we discover the meaning, and value, of being broken. Maybe checking out and retreating to an island is the most selfish thing the broken can do because somewhere on the planet is another somebody standing around holding a bag of all the jagged, painful pieces of themselves and they can’t get whole without you.

Maybe love, the real kind, the kind only wished for in whispers and the kind our hearts are hardwired to want, is opening up your bag of you and risking the most painful statement ever uttered between the stretched edges of the universe: “This was once me.” 

This literally took my breath away.

I’m not saying I believe that in all circumstances one has to be broken in order to be unbroken or that one can’t be whole without another. But in our circumstances, in the story of our lives, that’s how it unfolded.

I’m also not saying “everything happens for a reason” because no sense can be found in the premature ending to two bright and shining young lives and I know we’d do almost anything to have them back. Cancer doesn’t happen for a reason. It just doesn’t.

But what happens in the aftermath – what pulls us through the darkness and back into the light – well maybe that’s when the “plan” starts to get back on track. An entirely different track, but one where light and laughter and love can be found once more.

And so with an open heart, an open mind and with all the vulnerability I can muster… I walk* further and further down the path toward becoming unbroken, toward the beginning, hand in hand with the one whose pieces fit with mine.

  

- Jen Garza

* Because this is a blog about my journey to 4,000 miles, I should mention that Britton fully supports my goal and is willing to run, bike and swim by my side to help me reach it. He loves Texas 4000 and the cancer research we support. He’d rather be hiking, climbing and skiing, so we sprinkle those in (without counting the miles) for fun ;)  I imagine a future adventure will include an outrageously tall mountain in the name of breast cancer research, but who knows. The rest is still unwritten!

Running Into (and through) the Rain

Or is it running into (and through) the pain?  Last Friday, for me, it was both at the same time.

I think a year or more of built up tears and sadness hit me with a sneak attack.  Not that I haven't had the occasional cry, but not as often as you might think.  Fear of sinking too far down has kept me from allowing myself to go there.

There were some contributing factors to my recent meltdown - feeling like there isn't enough time in the day to get it all done, ups and downs at work, financial woes, a more rigorous training schedule than I'm used to, the rain, the gray and dismal day, the holidays rapidly approaching, the picture-perfect Christmas cards, the quiet house - all with underpinnings of grief and an emptiness that is subtle, yet relentless.

But how I faced the meltdown - that's what I want to focus on today.  After giving into the tears for a while, paging through my wedding album, and crawling into bed for five minutes - that's when three powerful influences came to mind: the book I'm reading, a blog post written by a Texas 4000 rider earlier in week, and music.  That's what got me out of bed and out into the rain for an emotional 7-mile run.  My longest, to date, since my half marathon a year and a half ago.

I recently downloaded Chrissie Wellington's "A Life Without Limits" on Audible for inspiration to kick off my Half Ironman training.  Of course I had never heard of her before, but Chrissie's story sounded like one of personal triumph, so I gravitated toward it.  She is most widely known for showing up on the Ironman scene, practically out of nowhere, and taking it by storm.  Not much of an athlete as a child and haunted early on by eating disorders, she surprised herself and the world when she quickly rose to four-time Ironman world champion as a young adult.  

In case you don't know, an Ironman consists of a 2.4 mile swim, 112 mile bike ride, and a 26.2 mile marathon - back to back to back.  I will be aiming to do half those distances on April 13th for my first Half Ironman.  I've been listening to how Chrissie trained through painful injuries, times of personal loss, intense weather of all kinds, personal doubt ... all while building strength, endurance, mental fitness, self-confidence, and resiliency.  Something else that draws me to her is her charitable involvement and use of her fame as a platform for social change.  She embodies this Nelson Mandela quote: 

“Sport has the power to change the world.  It has the power to inspire. It has the power to unite people in a way that little else does. It speaks to youth in a language they understand. Sport can create hope where once there was only despair.”

Which brings me to the second reason I got out of bed and into the rain for my run... Courtney Schutze's blog post from earlier in the week.  Courtney is a 2014 Texas 4000 rider preparing to cycle from Austin to Anchorage this summer in memory of her father.  Courtney lost her dad to cancer six months ago, and on that anniversary she shared some powerful thoughts on grief and moving forward that resonated with me:

"(My counselor) helped me realize that everyone grieves in different ways, but you don’t lose somebody and all the sudden become a completely different person. It is not like me to fall and crumble and not be able to get up, so that is not how I am going to grieve. Today as I thought more about (that) I became more and more content with how I am grieving. The pain of losing my father is real and it’s tragic, but I don’t have to also live a life that is completely consumed with pain and tragedy. I want to grieve through joy and happiness; I want to grieve through positivity and light. It honors my father more to be happy and seize the day than to spiral into a sea of sadness focusing on the time we have been apart.  

Grief is not mathematical, there isn’t a formula that tells you how long it will take, how much it will hurt, or how you will react. I do think there is a secret to it though; you have to find a way to create something positive out of all the negatives, to find a way to pick yourself up when there is no reason you should. Texas 4000 has been my secret. Everyday I am reminded of how blessed I am to have a place to give my dad’s fight purpose. A day doesn’t go by that I don’t get to do something that helps in the fight against cancer. Words can’t express how much of a difference it can make in the grieving process when you have something positive to hold on to, to be a part of. Time will go by but there are things that will stay the same: my love for my dad, the immense amount I miss him, and the way I will choose to grieve the loss of him."

I draw inspiration daily from Courtney, her teammates, their stories, and the mission of Texas 4000.  I know how blessed I am to find infinite purpose in my job.  Part of why I'm training 4,000 miles this year and participating in a Half Ironman is because it gives me something to hold on to and to be a part of.  I'm pushing myself physically and mentally while raising money for cancer research, but I'm gaining purpose, sanity, strength, and motivation along the way.  

Which brings me to last Friday when I thought about Chrissie and Courtney and decided to get out of bed, put on my sneakers, and set out into the rain for my long run.  Instead of putting on my usual "pump up" playlist, I turned to my "Remembering Ruben" playlist to accompany me.  Many of the songs are slow, but they are filled with memories and meaning.  While this music evoked tears, it also brought unparalleled beauty to the experience.

I love this quote, but I think that I was running INTO the rain (and pain) as much as, if not more so, than running AWAY from anything.  Trust me, I have a long list of distractions I use when I don't want to hurt/feel/cry/remember.  This was more of a conscious choice to embrace all of that - to bring it with me - to work through it.  As I made my way around Town Lake Trail, I let it all flow through me.  Not surprisingly, it was an emotional run.  But there were moments when I looked up with a smile and a laugh, because that's where the song and the memory took me.  

Another train of thought during the run led me to recognize how much I've changed over the years.  Of course this is true on so many levels and due to a host of various influences and circumstances.  But one particular recollection was of my high school track days.  I joined track because our school dropped the gymnastics team and I didn't know what else to do with my time that season.  I figured I could probably jump, but I hated running.  In fact, on more than one occasion when directed to do a "long run" of a whopping three miles, I went to a friend's house within walking distance to watch TV and eat cookies.  We would splash our faces with water (to look like sweat) and timed our return perfectly so the coach wouldn't be suspicious.  I would do anything to get out of a run back then, and even in more recent years.  It's a minor miracle that I'm working toward tacking a 13.1 mile run to the end of a 1.2 mile swim and 56 mile bike ride.  By choice.  And loving every step in the journey.

I took this photo from the walkway under the Mopac bridge during my run.  You can hardly see them, but there are two swans crossing the lake in the rain.  To me, this symbolizes the fact that I'm never alone, no matter what I'm wading through.  The second swan changes identities in my mind, sometimes from moment to moment - it often starts as Ruben, but changes to a dear friend, a family member, a Texas 4000 rider, a new partner, a power greater than myself.  Whoever or whatever it may be, I am not alone and I am not without hope.

Learn more about my journey to 4,000 miles and how to support my efforts.  I have currently raised $525 toward my $11,000 goal and have trained 341 of my 4,000 miles.  I still have lots of work left to do on both fronts between now and September 30, 2014!

Starting Over

I’ve been contemplating the concept of starting over on a few different levels lately.  The first, and probably the most superficial, has to do with my training.  I vowed to train 4,000 miles in one year for many reasons.  What can I tell you?  I am not off to a great start.  I was filled with conviction in early October as the anniversary of Ruben’s death neared, logging miles with passion a few at a time.  Friends joined me and pledged to train by my side.  But when life happened – work events, ACL, other commitments, grief, blues, fatigue, fear… I began to hit snooze and feel hopeless.

I won't give up.  I committed to you, my friends and strangers in cyberspace and in life who send me strength and lift me up.  I pledged to Texas 4000 riders old and new, all whom I admire and respect.  I set this goal in Ruben's memory which I vow to honor every day.  It is my attitude, not the clock, that I need to reset.

And so I will. 

A friend who has become dear to me is helping me choose a half Ironman that we will train for together.  70.3 combined miles of swimming, biking and running – in one day, back to back.  The power of one person believing in me is immeasurable, and I know deep down that she is not alone.  I will have no choice but to find discipline and routine, the traits that often elude me.  Tomorrow is a new day – a day that will start with a run in my beautiful city.



But that’s not the only “starting over” I am faced with.  Ruben has been gone now for more than two years.  Sometimes that remains so hard to wrap my mind around.  Often when I think about moving forward, it hits me all over again that moving forward with him is not an option.  I want to stomp my feet like a toddler and scream, “It’s not fair!”  However, I’ve chosen over and over again not to go that route.  Or at least not to stay in that state for more than a few minutes.  I am grateful for the time and the love that we had and I accept that it was brief.  On what would’ve been our third wedding anniversary, November 6, I compiled the collage below.  I look at these photos and it just doesn’t seem possible that I could ever be whole again.  You can see how it is an endless circle, round and round in my mind, right?

One of my most powerful experiences with starting over was about five years ago.  I traveled to Austin from Philadelphia for the first time in November 2008 for a work conference.  There was no question – I felt at home instantly and noticed a subtle tugging – something telling me to consider a life in Austin, Texas.  In my early 30’s with a good job and no real reason to move – I tucked the thought away.  Then, boom!  I was laid off from my job.  The universe was practically forcing me to act on my instincts.  Despite people thinking I was losing my mind, I set my sights on a big move to Austin and made it there by March, driving myself halfway across the country with a few job leads, one friend from college, and a strong gut feeling.

Most of you know what happened next.  I led with an open mind and open heart, networked my butt off, met wonderful people, made a life and a home for myself in Austin, and was soon introduced to Ruben.  I could write volumes about the last few years and the countless people, experiences, opportunities and blessings that made them rich and full and unforgettable.  But my point here is that I have evidence – true and personal evidence – that I started over at least once before.  And the outcome was somehow beyond my wildest dreams.

While I have been working on acceptance and letting go for a long time, it is only in the past few weeks that I’ve sensed a shift in my perspective.  I recently asked someone who lost his loved one many years ago about how to move forward when nothing will ever be the same.

“It will be different.  It has to be different.  We live in the present.  And you'll be surprised what you may discover in due time.  No, not surprised - delighted.”  

Just when I was running low on hope, those are the words that rescued me.  I know I’d given myself permission to be “okay” long ago - partially because I knew Ruben would have wanted me to be.  But it is finally starting to sink in that I’m allowed to be more than okay.  Maybe… just maybe… I will even be delighted.  

And so I start again...