I Remember Running

I remember running.

The cool morning breeze softly moved across my face, while the heat from yesterday still rolled off the pavement in waves, caressing my ankles for the devil's own pleasure.

It was quiet, early, before 5 a.m., and the houses on my street still slept, tight in their beds, with only porch lights as proof of their existence.  I wasn’t a runner in the way people train for 5Ks, then marathons. My body wasn’t built for it. Every step felt brutal, every mile a marker of my own determination to outrun genetics and bad decisions. I didn’t believe I even made endorphins, and the only high I ever knew from running was the incline of my Arkansas hills and mountains.

Still, I ran.

Not far, not fast, not well, but my own clumsy effort remained on display for the birds, the squirrels, the deer, and myself.

I hated each step, but never considered losing them. I never worried that my body could lose the ability to carry me forward. The privileged assumption of eternal movement coursed through me without effort, as easily as my heart pumped blood to my fingertips as I ran towards dawn each day.

Thus, when that day arrived, the words my neurosurgeon spoke made no sense to me. I heard her—the sentences, the sounds, the repetitive syllables of familiar English touched my ears the same as any other day,

but

her words made no logical sense.

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Dr. Wilson stated without reserve, her voice calm and even as she placed her hand onto my arm, a simple gesture of comfort, a bracing for the announcement I could see she didn’t want to deliver.

“You’ll never run again.”

The room felt more silent than just moments before and tears stung my eyes. My breath made no movement in or out.

“Don’t misunderstand me, you will recover, you ARE recovering. You will finish physical therapy and then enter pain management. You can walk, swim, bike, even do yoga or Pilates. Anything that doesn’t stress your spine and increase swelling.”

I was 33 years old.

She stopped for a moment and watched my quiet tears paint my face, then fall onto my ocean blue linen pants. Her next words were measured and calm; there was no intended malice, yet they were brutal.

“But you will never run again, never train, never race. Your body cannot endure it.”

With those two sentences, my world permanently shifted. I felt doors slamming everywhere. I’d never been a competitive athlete, and really didn’t want to be, but I did want to train myself, challenge myself to be better, to take better care of myself.

Yet now, here I sat, a mother of three, who could no longer pick up her one-year-old son without excruciating pain screaming from my neck to my fingertips. My left shoulder felt like someone was stabbing it with an ice pick. Cold water sensations ran unbidden down my arm to the tip of my middle finger.

I could barely function, much less train, and deep down, I knew it.

After a few additional instructions, Dr. Wilson released me, and we headed straight out to face the fierce Texas afternoon sun. I was dazed, lost for words, and now trapped inside a body that had betrayed me.

Fifteen years later, the pain persists. It has changed, morphed into an ever-present companion. Its daily hostility stands in stark contrast to the life of peace I am steadily cultivating. I do yoga for flexibility and to strengthen the muscles that flank my failing spine.

I have made peace with a body that knows no peace.

Still, though, sometimes I dream of running.

Predawn darkness covers me as a light sweat breaks out across my face. The honeysuckle shows out, its scent washing over me each time I turn the corner on Hazel & Vine streets. The only sound is my feet hitting the pavement in a delicious tempo of strength and endurance.

Thoughts race through my mind, but instead of grabbing them, I let them move through me, releasing the grip of control I never really had.

I feel my legs land with each strike, strong, well-formed, and made for the job of propelling me forward. As my foot rolls, there is no pain, no numbness, no unwelcome cold water sensations.

There is nothing here, in this pre-dawn moment, but the breeze washing over me, and the sound of my steps carrying me forward.