Put one foot in front of the other

I started walking with my neighbor, Melissa, the winter before my 40th birthday. By the time my 40th birthday arrived in May, we had made it through the "Couch to 5K" running program. An exceptional accomplishment looking back at how we use to tick off the seconds in the run part of the run X minutes/walk Y minutes program. I'm 44 and 5 months now, and except for six months or so around Jim's final days with us, I've been running fairly consistently all that time. That's 53 months of consistent effort, trying to create a new life habit. And yet some days when I hit the pavement, it's all I can do to put one foot in front of the other and get through the run. From start to finish, the lethargy never lets up, I never "get my legs" during the run, I finish as miserable as I started. And I'll let you in on a little secret - after 53 months, it is a rare occurrence when I wake up and think "Oh boy, I have a run today!" Most days are a variation of "Oh crap, I have to run today." But then I get out there and it feels good, I end my run feeling glad I went, and most of the time very happy I'm done. It helps to have a goal and a partner. I just finished the Rochester Half Marathon and trained with my neighbor Russ, both the goal and my partner helped me get in those shoes and out the door. But then race day goes by and you still have to put one foot in front of the other, get out there and continue running.


I've come to realize that living without my brother is another life habit I'm trying to create. Like running, I'd prefer not to have to do it, but I really have no other choice. There are days I wake up and think "I just can't do this. I can't live my life another 30 or 40 years without him." But I have to. So on those days, I concentrate on just getting through that one day, just like I get through those bad runs. I remember that there are people out there running the same race I am, and they understand the effort. Most days are like my runs - a mix of sadness missing him, but also full of my daily life. I push through the sadness and concentrate on the living. I have events that I look forward to, which relieves some of the pressure, but then they go by and I still have to live without Jim. Sometimes I think "This should be getting easier." But then I remember my running - some days it just plain sucks, but as long as I don't quit, I'll be just fine.

Home Depot, Toilet Seats, and Jim

Today is September 17th. Two years have passed since Jim died. Today's not the magic day. The day when I finally wake up and missing Jim's not the first thing I think of. The day when there aren't a dozen things throughout the day that remind me that he's gone.

So what does this have to do with Home Depot and toilet seats? Yesterday, I made the mistake of going to Home Depot to pick up a new toilet seat for the kids' bathroom. Home Depot was on my way home from a rare appearance at my company's office, so I stopped out of convenience. I hate going in those places - everywhere I turn, I see reminders of Jim. He was more than handy. Christmases were filled with gifts from Home Depot for Jim. I walk around the store with a lump in my throat every time I have to go in there. Unfortunately, toilet seats are in the bath section. The bath section is dominated by Kohler products. Jim worked for International Paper, but was on permanent assignment to Kohler. He was proud of the work he did. IP and Kohler were the best during Jim's illness. I won't buy any products other than Kohler because of that. So there I am in the back of the store, staring at Kohler toilet seats, crying. Obviously, yesterday wasn't the day either.

My mother-in-law passed away earlier this year. Mark and his sisters are in the process of going through the house. There seem to be three piles - keep, sell, toss. It's a painstaking process, but eventually all the physical pieces of each of our lives will be put in one of these piles by those left-behind. Kate had to do that for Jim. It's a disconcerting feeling to walk into a house where a person lived and not see the physical objects of their daily life about. Once someone picks up the shoes of the deceased and puts them in one of the three piles, the person isn't there to leave them by the door anymore. No more coats thrown over the chair, car keys on the window sill, dirty coffee cup by the side of the sink. Eventually, everything is picked up, put away, or tossed. The physical presence of their lives slowly fading away.

I don't have any physical pieces of Jim's life. For a while that bothered me. I mistakenly believed that I needed something physical to hold onto or I'd lose Jim. Over the past two years, I've come to realize that isn't correct. Each of us has different memories of Jim. Objects in my own life bring those memories to mind readily, without the need for a physical object that he actually touched and owned. Yesterday, I had a very strong reaction to toilet seats, yet am fairly certain I wouldn't want Jim's! The important part of Jim's life wasn't the objects, but the memories about Jim interacting with those objects that we carry forward. The objects are flat, while the memories are sharp.

I caught up with an old friend who lost her brother our freshman year in college. She told me that the intense pain never goes away. Eventually it just doesn't consume you. I'm not there yet, but that's okay - she mentioned wishing 10 years would go by in a blink of an eye to get her past the consuming pain. I told Mom on Sunday that I'd much rather have this than be standing there saying "He was a real asshole. I'm glad he's gone." It's a testament to my brother's life that so many people carry his death as a painful loss; that there are so many good memories, and today people other than his own family are remembering what a wonderful person he was.

Hurricane Season

Each year, with regularity, hurricane season arrives. There are many storms that pop up - some stay small and lose steam before they hit our coast. Others threaten, but then fizzle out. A few hit with enough force as to leave major damage in their wake.

This is my hurricane season. The clouds have gathered, rains have begun to fall, storms are building as I head towards September 17th. I look out on the horizon from my own personal lighthouse, wondering which waves might knock me on my ass. Having survived the storms before, I begin to have fears. Things like "Did he know how much I loved him? REALLY KNOW?" I'll be reminded by someone of something Jim said or did, and I panic - "I forgot that. Oh my god, I FORGOT THAT! What else am I forgetting? Am I forgetting him? All I have left are those memories, I can't lose them!"

I know that the intensity of my emotions will ebb like the cycle of the storm. The sun will come out for a while. I'll be able to catch my breath, and prepare for the next one. It's just that during hurricane season, the storms tend to pile one on top of the other, with very little clear sailing weather in between. The crying season has begun.