Last night I was burning dinner (vegetarian quesadillas), crying, and trying to explain to my kids why anniversaries matter, when in fact I'm not sure I fully understand myself. Intellectually I understand the human need for commemoration, the general significance of a year in our culture and calendar. But I could never have prepared myself for what the past few weeks leading up to today's anniversary (and next week's Boston Marathon) have felt like. Even before the media barrage had begun, before I was consciously aware that the calendar had turned to April, my agitation had been rising. It has felt like I am allergic to the world around me, everything an irritant. Like those disturbing (yet fascinating) art exhibits of the human body that I have seen advertised, every nerve on my body feels like it is running along the surface of my skin, blue and red sinewy wires that, if touched, send a shock; my own sick game of Operation. I want to wrap myself in ointment and soft gauze, go to bed, and wake up in May. I tried to explain to my kids that one year ago, on April 14, 2013, I was so excited to run the Boston Marathon; I had the whole race in front of me and nothing sad had happened yet to take that excitement away. My oldest son, insightful beyond his years, asked whether I might come home early from work the next day so that we could go running together; the type of invitation you simply don't refuse.
When I came to recognize a few weeks ago that, in fact, the approaching anniversary was affecting me, I went to see my primary care physician (when one's hand shakes uncontrollably while pouring juice for one's child, I am told one should see one's physician). I went to the appointment optimistic that together we would chart a clear path through the upcoming weeks; that they would be, if not easy, surmountable. I will preface the next part of this story with the fact that I have learned over the past year not to have any expectations that anyone will ever say the "right thing" to me about the marathon. That is because, for the most part, there is no right thing to say. There are no magic words, there is no easy fix. I have become, if not comfortable with that, complacent about it, and certainly understanding. However, as my physician concluded my appointment by saying "I want you to know that I have an image in my mind of you finishing this race," I looked at him straight in the eye and said, firmly but politely, "that is not going to happen." He was undeterred: "Maybe not this year, maybe not next year, but I want you to know that I hold in my mind for you the image of you experiencing the healing moment of finishing the race." Crushed, I wanted to put on my "Boston Weak" T-shirt and slink away. I know that he was trying to be helpful and show me a moment of kindness, and I am thankful for that; but the only message I could take away from his words was that an inability to "finish the race" would deprive me of healing.
This morning, April 15, the one-year anniversary of the bombings, I vowed on my way to work that I would maintain a total media black-out from that moment through this year's race, scheduled for next Monday April 21. I wanted no part of the stories of strength and perseverance. I felt uncomfortable by the images of total unity in the face of the disaster. I certainly don't begrudge those who find comfort in that, but my road back from this has not always been strong and with the exception of a close inner circle I have never felt more isolated in dealing with something. I texted my good friend and running partner, with whom I ran last year: "Um...happy anniversary?" And we joked about funny greeting card messages. "Happy anniversary of your traumatic event! Although at times it may have felt like you were doing ok, enjoy being smacked in the face with a shovel today!"; or "Oh what a difference a year makes! Well, unless you have PTSD and it's the anniversary of the traumatic event. Then it's like not a moment has passed. Happy anniversary!"
As I turned a corner on my way to work, the football-field size blue and yellow banner hanging from a building was caught up in the strong wind off the water, jumping and twisting, making it difficult to make out the words emblazoned across it. "BO" "ONG", "OSTN" "STR"...I of course didn't need to read it to get the message. I looked at my husband and we started to laugh, at the oversized ridiculousness of it all, the media trucks lining the city streets. I put my head down and felt the rain begin to hit my face, thinking what a different race it would have been last year had the weather been like this.
My physician's earnestness notwithstanding, I'm pretty sure there is no such thing as a single "healing moment" that resets the clock, at least when it comes to this type of experience. I think there are many moments forward. And, quite frankly, many moments backwards. Some moments have felt sideways, and upside down. Recovering from the marathon has certainly not been linear for my family, and it certainly hasn't been clear, and it certainly hasn't been something I can or want to boil down to a slogan. I have learned that not every wound is physical. And vulnerability and pain and fear don't make you weak, they make you human. There have been people who have touched my heart in unbelievable ways. There have been insights into my children and my husband that have been breathtaking. There have been times in a yoga class, or at church, or alone on the driving range, or when I'm writing, when I felt at my core who I am and knew that when all is said and done this experience will not define me going forward and it has not damaged my essence. But there have been scary times when I worried that it would. When I feared that this was something that was undoable. That this had permanently sent me off on a course I didn't want to be on, and from which I didn't know how to get back. That I would carry anger, and failure, and anxiety, and sadness with me forever and that it would, in subtle ways I didn't even realize, change the direction of my life.
On my way home from work it began to rain much harder--driving, unrelenting rain--and I began to be disappointed that I would not be able to take my son up on his offer to go for a run. But when we got home he was there, gym shorts on and sneakers tied, suggesting my husband and I may want to wear a hat or something with a hood, his younger brother also dressed and ready to go. And so we laced up and set out. We didn't run far. We probably ran about the same distance that I didn't run a year ago. I'd like to think it was about the same distance. And it was fun, and soaking wet, and exhilarating, and uplifting. It was a healing moment. It was not the healing moment. But it is a new year, and today we did not go backwards or sideways or upside down -- today was forward full steam ahead.
