When my mother Rita died, a chasm of grief replaced the initial shock that this giant presence in the world was gone. Losing her to dementia well before she passed away created a very disjointed experience of loss. 

I responded to her passing in my typical “high functioning anxious person way”. I resolved to grieve the most, the hardest, the fastest and with the greatest intensity. First, I took online certification courses in yoga and meditation. After that I trained to be a death doula. Next, I went around to the local assisted living and memory care communities and offered to teach senior fitness classes. I did all these things while working and going through the steps to settle her estate. In hindsight, I was performing my grief instead of experiencing it. 

In my biggest display of literally and figuratively running from my sadness, I told my family that I intended to run a marathon without doing an ounce of training. I said I wanted to “externalize my suffering.” Who even knows what that means. My family, by this point, was used to me being eccentric in my response to Rita’s passing. Rather than offering observations such as “You aren’t in shape” or “This is a terrible idea which you will deeply regret”, they gave wide eyed smiles and high pitched “OK’s!?”

The day of the marathon I woke up extra early so I could start with the slow people at 5:30am on Sauvie Island in north Portland. For the first ten miles I felt like I was flying, though at a 13-minute mile pace I definitely didn’t look like I was flying. At mile eight, just as the sun rose, an osprey came overhead and seemed like it was following me, alternately coasting and circling above. At that point I was by myself without sight of runners ahead or behind me.

For four miles It was just me and this beautiful bird. A deep sense of being held by my mother enveloped me during those miles. I have never experienced anything like it. I have a memory of being held by her in front of our cabin fireplace after a nightmare, convinced that demons were trying to get me. It was the most comforted I can ever remember feeling in my life, just me and Rita. Those four miles evoked the same sensation. And then my companion was gone, having disappeared behind a big barn.  

By mile 14 I was struggling to breathe and my calves were cramping. The temperature was 78 degrees and there was no shade. I stumbled by a volunteer fireman who said, “Ma’am, how are you?” I told him I was rough and tried to keep going past him, too tired to talk. He said, “You don’t look good. Please promise me you will have water and food at the next aid station.” I was irrationally offended because this man was well older than me and didn’t look like he was in good shape either. 

By mile 19 I was ready to hang it up. “Why the hell did I pay $175 to voluntarily suffer this way?” I resolved to slink off into the bushes and feel no shame at all. 

Suddenly I heard a voice saying, “Hi Mom! I came to run the last part of the race with you!” It was my son Jack, newly 17, and a serious distance runner. I cursed aloud explained that I was finishing early this time, but he was having none of it.

I shuffled the last seven miles like a sporty looking drunk, holding Jack’s hand and keeping my eyes closed. When he would tell me I was fine and I could do this, I’d complain that I am an adult who mistakenly chose to suffer physically in a misguided effort to manifest my emotional pain. I should have the right to find a golf cart and be whisked away from my bad decisions. 

I crossed the finish line eventually and was given a medal (they gave Jack one too…,) after which I went straight to the nearest patch of grass and doubled over, simultaneously retching and releasing the contents of my bladder. At that point Jack chose to exit this public nightmare, leaving my husband to babysit my mangled ego and soiled body. 

What did this experience teach me? Well, I still ponder that question regularly. The first lesson was that there is no getting out of grieving. You can’t run from it (literally as I tried to do, or figuratively by engaging in activities that seem like they will “check a grief box”). One wise person I talked to said: “The bigger the love, the harder the grief”. This feels true. It also feels true that holding onto grief as a way of respecting or honoring the lost loved one doesn’t check any boxes either. Over time my grief has turned into very personal rituals to remind me of that great big love I was lucky to have. Do you have rituals you observe for lost loved ones? Hit reply and share!