Monday 15 April 2013

A Run for Cindy

This past weekend, I ran a 5k memorial run down in Buffalo for Cindy Frank, the mother of a good friend and former roommate. In these circles we stick together and support our own, but I honestly hate running. There's nothing to distract you from the burning lungs, and the tight back and thighs. You try to find a good balance between the rhythm of your breathing and the rhythm of your steps, trying to keep your body going and push through the air that holds you back and the gravity that pulls you down.

This run was for Cindy, to remember and honour her life and especially the heroic struggle that she put up against cancer in those final months. She too had to push through physical pain and the emotional drain, the persistent call to just let go and throw in the towel. Just as she had to push through pain and the erosive powers that has on will power, so too were we all fighting against our bodies, willing them to do something that they don't do happily or easily.

And Cindy had to go it alone.  Of course, she was surrounded by loving and supporting people, most of all her family, but none of them were running that race with her. They could only cheer from the sidelines as inevitably Cindy had to face her physical downfall and her human mortality on her own. That is a race we each must run alone. And so despite the fact that there were many of us running, unlike most of our group I decided that I would run alone too, just as Cindy had. And her positive attitude, the smile that she always had on her face for every visitor, regardless of how much effort she was putting just into living, was an important inspiration for me as I pushed through the twists and turns of West Seneca.

Twists and turns were abundant on that cold, April day, when the wind lashed at our faces and drained the warmth from our bodies, the skies right on the brink, threatening to pour at any moment. Throughout the majority of the course, one could never see too much further ahead. It was impossible to see the finish line, and beyond the next turn was always mystery. This is the experience of running a course that you don't know, and a distance with which you're totally unfamiliar. You don't know what's coming up. You know that eventually it will end, but you have no idea how much further you have to go. There were volunteers along the way, cheering us on and directing us through, making sure that we stayed on course. But I refused to ask them how much further, when it would be over. "Would Cindy have had that luxury?" I asked myself, "Could anyone have told her how much further? Could she have known how much or how little time she had left to fight?" I refused to ask, no matter how much I wanted to know. And we all want to know how much further we have to go. It's so much easier to keep pushing on when the end is in sight. But some things in life just refuse to cooperate, refuse to let us know how much further we have to push before we can catch our breath, and then move on again.

The twists and turns of the course finally gave way to the final stretch, one long sight line. And at the end of it: the cross, sitting high up above the trees and the houses, perched atop the steeple of the church (and school) to which Cindy devoted her life, her energy, and her vitality. "How fitting," I thought to myself, "that it only all becomes clear to us at the end; and in the final stretch we see where it all must come to an end." We can run that final stretch to the church, with the cross soaring high up in the air guiding us through those last moments.

My pace slackened, my footsteps grew heavy, but the oxygen was coursing back into my muscles as I gathered myself for one final push, a sprint to the finish line beyond which I could finally collapse and draw restful breath. And what a reception at the finish line, a crowd of smiling, clapping, cheering faces encouraging us all to finally reach the other side and find peace in the open and waiting arms of our loved ones. Just like Cindy's final push.

This inaugural memorial run was a huge success, and of course an emotionally charged morning. 350 runners came out to in memory of Cindy, and to be supported through their run by the memory of her, and I hope that this will set the stage for a strong annual turnout for the event. For we can run that race over and over again, but death is only once. No warmups, no practice laps, no looking ahead past the next turn. Just one push to the finish line, and we all must go it alone. I honestly hate running.

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