Float, Not Thrash
You need to write about her. You promised her you would write. You need to work through this with her.
But every time my fingers touch the keyboard they retract. As if pressing the keys are hot coals, finalizing her departure from this life. The searing reality I am not ready to face yet.
She is no longer physically here, which means now I must figure out how to let her go while still holding her close.
Susie was my mom’s best friend, a second mother to me. She was diagnosed with breast cancer at a pivotal time in my life. It was 2017. I had a year left of my residency and a seed was growing in my mind around my future in the sport. I entered the world of trail and ultrarunning five years prior but without the time to properly train, nor the maturity to truly excel yet. However, my time was getting close to becoming my own again with graduation looming. I wondered how fast and far I could go with the proper focus. Her diagnosis changed everything, setting me on a path that made every discomfort and sacrifice - within running or otherwise - feel minor.
I carried her illness as I worked my way through my fall 100 miler that year. I muscled my way through eighty-eight miles but the wheels were coming off. Twelve more miles on the godforsaken trail felt impossible and pointless. I stumbled out of the aid station, shaking my head at this “dumb sport” I’d taken up as a foil to the hours I spent at the hospital. At that moment, it all felt like the same shit.
A flash of reddish brown fur, the same color as her hair, suddenly darted through the woods. Maybe I imagined it, maybe I didn’t. I grinned, envisioning her screaming encouragement, holding out a rum and Coke for me at the finish line. My smile faded as I remembered the diagnosis. The journey she never asked for, but nonetheless awaited her. I ran my fastest splits of the entire race from that moment until my feet crossed the finish. The next day I mailed her my award. A medal that adorned her neck through the countless chemotherapy sessions. It served as a symbol of our fight.
I lined up for dozens of races in the five years that followed. I qualified for Boston for the first time. I ran my hometown 100 mile race, getting the biggest boost of energy when she surprised me on the course. I struggled in life and running, but I didn’t give up. I ran PRs in every distance. I chased an Olympic Trials qualifying marathon, leading myself to burnout. I returned to the trails and distances that proved to be my specialty. I fought to believe that I could take on the world’s best. The common denominator through it all was my unwavering Why. My Why was always her.
She called me her modern day warrior: a badge of honor I wore with colossal pride. When things got tough, all I had to do was think of her and I could feel my body refill with strength. As her health declined this year, it became a psychological game of bartering for me. “Run this 27 mile route in x time and her health will improve this week. Win this race and her liver function will turn around. Get the course record here and she will live to 2023.” This framing lacked logic, but I convinced myself that my preferred form of suffering could serve as the currency to save her.
I knew we were on borrowed time this year. When we realized things were taking a turn for the worse, she shared that my efforts drove her in moments of difficulty. “I look at the photos and videos you send me,” she said. “I close my eyes, then picture I’m running with you. It makes me feel free.”
By this point I had carried her with me over thousands of miles, always sending a photo afterward of the places we had just traversed together. I ran laps through my favorite sections of singletrack, memorizing the sights of wildflowers and their butterflies, the feeling of them brushing against my legs, so that afterward I could describe it to her in detail. I told myself it was for her, to set her free - anything to set her free. Yet selfishly it anchored me to her as well.
A few months before her departure, and right before I headed out for my peak long run of the season, she imparted a piece of advice. She expressed her frustration and fear of change, her fear of letting us go. She told me that I needed to “float, even when I wanted to thrash.” That, like her, I needed to stop trying to be the perpetual fixer of all things and just be present with myself and those I love.
I sobbed for hours out on the trail as I repeated “float, not thrash” until my body followed suit. She wasn’t a runner herself, but my God did she understand endurance, like she had years of experience in the sport. She did though. She executed the most brave and prolific ultramarathon I’ve ever witnessed.
The call from my mom, the one I’d been fearing, sent me back to my childhood habit of digging my index finger into the side of my thumb, causing a brief, benign pinch to distract myself from the heavy reality I was about to face. I aimed to find gratitude in the chance to say goodbye, acknowledging the beautiful privilege I had to seek closure. I thought of friends who hadn’t been as fortunate with their loved ones. I understood the profundity of the opportunity to speak everything in my heart one last time to someone I deeply love…and so I went.
As my dad put the car in park I was welcomed by the faint familiar scent of tropical flowers from her and Walter’s beloved garden. I entered their home as the sweet scent abruptly collided with the harsh medical reality. The IV, the surgical masks, the bottles of morphine. A surge of pressure filled my chest, forcing me to quickly back away to catch my breath in the outdoor air. I needed to stay out in the warm, sunny comfort of how I remember her for just one more moment.
I will never forget the words we exchanged, the softness of her hand in mine, the intensity I felt pressing my forehead to hers. My brain racked itself for all the right words, to be sure there would be no regrets. When it came down to it, I just kept whispering “I love you so much.”
Those hours felt like an entire lifetime but also a fraction of a second. When it was time for her to retire for the day, I tried to mask the desperation in my voice and quiet my body’s shaking. Float, not thrash. Be here now. We embraced a final time as I pleaded with her to find me on the trails. To just please keep giving me signs that she was still here in this universe with me. She squeezed my hand, fighting this final goodbye. I held her a final time as my heart shattered into pieces.
As the plane lifted out of San Diego, swinging wide over the Pacific, I sat in my seat, silently weeping as the sunset burst out over the ocean into a colorful explosion of her favorite shades. I knew that the next time I returned here she would be gone, and the pain was overwhelming.
Seated beside me was a young girl, maybe 8 years old at most. She stared up at me, then quickly looked away. I tried to smile, compose myself and pretend like everything was okay. But she knew. She silently patted my knee. This genuine empathy, from that of a young stranger, comforted me as the sunset blurred into darkness behind us.
Susie left the most incredible mark on me. Through her strength and grace, she helped me find an inner strength I didn’t know I had. Her bravery gave me the courage to overcome my insecurities, my hesitation to put myself in the ring, my embarrassing timidness to take up space. Conquering all of those things were made infinitely easier because in my heart, I was doing them with her. Even when I failed, I continued to rise again because I had a purpose much greater than myself.
My running career is a direct byproduct of having the most powerful, compelling Why. The Why that can pull me over life’s toughest hurdles. The Why that transcends time and space. The Why that eternally reminds me to float, not thrash.
