I don’t run because I like it or I want to. I run because I have to.
Running is the one place where I have control. It’s predicable: there’s a path, a
starting location, an ending location, a route, and a pace. This control I have while running is
comforting as opposed to my life, which feels so out of control. Last night, I had a dream that I was
trapped in an elevator. It was
going up and up, and I couldn’t stop it.
Just as it crashed through the roof and the moment that I was supposed
to die, I woke up.
That dream perfectly describes my life and the journey I’m
on. Life, for me, was once
predictable, like an elevator. You
get on, push the floor number, and it stops to let you out on that floor. Now, I feel trapped in a world where I
don’t have control. What once was
predicable is now unpredictable.
Before Quinn, I took comfort in the precautions I took in raising
R. I took certain actions because
I knew they would help keep R safe, and I honestly believed it. I did not giver her a bumper, blanket,
or lovie to sleep with because I tried to protect her from SIDS. I always put her to sleep on her back
and took her to the doctor at the first sign of a potential illness. I used to believe that these
precautions would keep her safe.
Now, however, I live in fear that tragedy is lurking around
the corner. I know that I can take
every precaution possible but it still may not protect R, Josh, or me. With Quinn, I took every single
precaution with my pregnancy. I
mean I did everything - I lived my
life by the word of the doctors. They
put me on 3 days bed rest after a bleed, and I took it seriously. I was on “restricted activity” for a
good portion of my 2nd and 3rd trimesters, and that was
my main mission. What good did
that do? My beloved died. I can dedicate my life to protecting my
kids but ultimately, I don’t have control. It feels like an elevator catapulting into the sky. I can press all the buttons, but there
is nothing I can do to make the elevator stop. I’m stuck and helpless, and there’s nothing I can do.
I get a moment of reprieve from the elevator when I’m
running. It’s the one place where
grief can start to creep in, but where I can grit my teeth, run faster and
faster, and beat it. I can break
free from the chains it tries to put around me and push it away by pushing
harder and harder into the pavement.
It’s the one place where I
can win and the elevator doesn’t.
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