Sanity Miles
I don’t answer phone numbers I don’t recognize. So, the first time the number flashed across my screen, I ignored it entirely. No voicemail. But when the same number came up 3 minutes later, I knew. That gut check that warns your body something awful is going to happen so it can begin to adjust even before you know what the awful is.
“Is this Mrs. Greenwood?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Ma’am, your husband has been in an accident.”
I felt the shift. My entire body rolled from a responsive, emotional being to an automaton focused only on survival.
“What hospital is he at?”
This was a Wednesday. My running group day. That morning, I had run a sweaty 8 miles with my usual crew, chatting about plans for the upcoming holiday weekend and lamenting how, of course, despite the current heat it would be 55 and raining on Saturday. This was normal. The normal I had finally gotten back to after a brutal 16 months that included my mother’s cancer diagnosis, care, and subsequent death, a move to a new state, COVID, and almost a year of basically single parenting. I JUST GOT MY NORMAL BACK. And then…
“Your husband has a LaForte 3 fracture. He basically broke every bone in his face except one. But, if he hadn’t been wearing that helmet, he’d be dead, so he’s super lucky.”
Lucky. What irony.
In the 5 1/2 weeks since that phone call, we have been through 3 surgeries, 4 days in the ICU, 2 weeks in the hospital, and a week in inpatient rehab. My husband has 7 plates in his face, a wired jaw, a tracheostomy, and a straight line cast because, well, he broke his patella too.
In the 5 1/2 weeks since that phone call, I have continued lacing up for my 20+ miles a week. At first, it was solo neighborhood miles. Early mornings or late at night doing doughnuts through the streets while my kid slept. Once we got past the surgeries and on a COVID routine of hospital visitation (1–5pm only), I reached out for some select company. I wasn’t up for socializing yet because I didn’t have anything to talk about except my husband’s condition, and I needed an escape from that, not a reminder. As my daughter played at camp or my sitter graciously came over after she went to bed, I slowly upped my miles, and my willingness to join the group again. Despite the summer heat and the exhaustion from working full time, single parenting, and spending every afternoon at the rehab center, I found the time…and energy…to run.
I learned during my mother’s illness that running could save me. When I ran, I could release the scream that lodged in my throat. It allowed me to do something productive, to move forward, to exhaust my body for its own good, not at its expense. Running helped me regain control — of myself, of the situation, of some small hope that things would improve.
So, I knew what to do this time. Lace up the shoes. Hit the pavement. Run.
This time, though, I wasn’t prepared for how the community of runners I’ve found here would show up for me. They let me have my space but made it known that they were a ready and willing resource. As the weeks passed and I got my shit together enough to interact with people again, I started going to group runs again. No one asked me a thing. If I talked (mainly gasped) about the situation, they listened. If I didn’t, they told me about their lives, their kids, their husbands, their shit. It was glorious. I thought that was the extent of their goodwill. A safe place to just be and build up enough calorie deficit to counteract the wine I was drinking. But I was wrong.
Since the accident, I have dropped my kid off with another runner when my sitter got mono and I had to take my husband to his follow-up appointment. I’ve shamelessly asked a fellow runner to come over to my house at 5am while my kid was sleeping so I could drop my husband off in pre-op. I’ve had runners’ kids bike to my house to walk my dogs, and opened my door on more than one occasion to find bags of food and bottles of wine unceremoniously dropped on my doorstep. Runners I know only by first name have volunteered to babysit or bring a meal.
As a military wife, I am used to relying heavily on the generosity of strangers, but those strangers usually live an equally insane life of moving frequently with transient friends and no family. We are bonded by desperation. When my life fell apart this time, those wives stepped up for me. I expected that. I counted on that. What I did not understand is that the running community has an equally strong bond, and sharing the pain of pounding the pavement together means you’re part of that pack.
I found running in grad school, mainly because I was broke and stressed and had a roommate that found it fun to run backwards and talk at me while I huffed and puffed to complete a measly mile. I will be forever grateful to her for talking me in to that agony. It made me a runner. It’s how I got through grad school. How I made it through the end of my 10-year relationship. What I do when I feel great about my body and how I start to bring my body back when I don’t. It’s the way I found myself again after having a baby. And the way I started healing after losing my mother. It is the predictable pain I can always come back to, the natural high I know will hit, the satisfaction I seek. But now, it is also the basis of community, a community that has quietly, but diligently ushered me along even when I feel like walking and beg them to leave me behind.
I’ve got 8.5 miles to go this week to hit my 20. I already know I’ll have company to make it happen. Running has taught me that I am not alone in this world, especially not when that world crumbles, even if the best someone can offer is to be a set of feet beside mine.
When you’re a runner, you know that not every day will be your best day, but some days, just being out there at all is enough. And being out there together, well, that’s worth getting out of bed for. Every time.
