Bill, my son's gecko, had been acting strangely all week. First it was little things, like lying in the
middle of the terrarium carpet when he would usually be tucked away in his
rocky "hide". Then I found him
sitting in his water bowl in the middle of the day. One time he was submerged in the water,
seemingly drowned, until I reached in and grabbed him, my lifeguard training
kicking in, prompting him to open one black, clear eye and peer at me with what
seemed annoyance for disturbing him. In
the back of my mind I wondered if he was ok, but it was a fleeting question
instantly lost to the chaos of a normal week in our house; a bright red sock
you catch a glimpse of in the dryer window before it disappears into the tumble.
I had much to distract me from Bill. Recently back from vacation I was picking up
the pieces at work, trying to reclaim at least the appearance of control. The kids were in typical mid-August mode, enjoying
the quasi-structure of camp mixed with days of electing to do nothing, knowing
that before too long the choice was no longer theirs to make. I had been "preparing" to run the
Falmouth Road Race on August 17 (and by "preparing" I mean every now
and again trying to get out for a run and telling myself each day that I should
cut back on my summertime wine and ice cream consumption, usually as I was
serving myself both). I had never run
Falmouth before; a 7.1 mile hilly ocean-front course that I heard was simply
beautiful. My client, the New England
Organ Bank, had asked me to run on its team.
I have worked with the Organ Bank for almost 15 years as outside legal
counsel, and their General Counsel is a dear friend and one of my first and
most enduring professional mentors. I
would have said yes for those reasons alone, but the Organ Bank is also
personally meaningful to me and my family, as it was through it that my
brother-in-law Pete, a firefighter and hilariously funny guy, became a donor
back in 2005 when he died tragically in a motorcycle accident at the age of 33. By coincidence or fate, the weekend of the
race had been moved this year and, as such, fell on the same weekend as the 9
year anniversary of Pete's death. I
hadn't run a real race since the Boston Marathon in 2013, when I was stopped
short due to the attacks at the finish line, so this seemed like the perfect
way for me to take that step forward in honor of Pete on a weekend that is
otherwise melancholy at best.
The week leading up to the race I noticed that Bill seemed even
thinner than usual. He had always been
small; the most delicate of the geckos and, likely for that reason, the one my
son selected. The guy at the pet store
had tried to steer my son away from Bill, educating him that you really want
your baby gecko to be hearty, the tail plump.
My son was undeterred; "that's Bill", he told me, having
already picked out the name and now certain that the fledgling gecko he saw was
the one to fill it. Bill never had a
plump tail; even worse, in a moment of terror the first time we tried to handle
him at home he "dropped his tail", as geckos sometimes do, leaving
him with a small, skinny stump that never fully grew back. I mentioned to my son that I was worried
about Bill's behavior, but he felt certain that it was a good sign he was out
so much. That he was finally getting
comfortable in his surroundings. But the
day I was scheduled to drive down to the Cape for the race I found Bill upside
down against his water bowl; his head thrown back, appearing to gulp for
air. Panicked, I searched out a local exotic
pet specialist, racing Bill there while my son was at camp. A team of vets gave him fluids and
electrolytes, and told me it would be touch-and-go for the next 24 hours, but
if he survived the night he should come back for more treatments the next day. Seeing Bill lying there weak and deflated
before the veterinarians I felt like I had failed him in the most fundamental
of ways.
I spent the night before the race with my very good friend, the
woman with whom I had run Boston the year of the bombs. Although it was technically out of the way to
drive to her house on the Cape and then to the location of the race, there was
nowhere else I wanted to be before running.
We caught up after our respective busy summers, cooked dinner and
enjoyed some wine and lots of water.
Such a rare treat, a night away with a friend and no responsibilities
but to relax, stretch, sleep and get up and run a beautiful course for a great
cause. When I received a text from my
husband I thought nothing of it, until I read it, and then re-read it, and then
re-read it. I read it again one more
time before the words, each faintly recognizable on their own, made any sense
to my brain strung together in that order.
Not possible, I thought. Not
today. In his message my husband let me
know of another young life lost way too soon; a friend tragically gone in a
horrible accident. A young man who had
done so much already, but who the world rightfully expected to do so much more
in years to come. Powerless to do
anything, I tried to sleep; but not before one more message back, exhorting my
husband to bring Bill to the vet the next day, even if he looked dead. He looked dead the day I brought him in, I
said, but he wasn't. If they can give
him more fluids, perhaps he stands a chance.
I confess I didn't think much of Bill during my race. It was indeed hilly, and it was indeed
beautiful. I had a great time with my
friend, and in melodramatic fashion that we both embraced without irony we
clasped hands and raised them triumphantly to cross the finish, a plan for the
marathon that had been taken from us. I
did, however, think of our friend and his family; of what this day felt like
for them, waking to that moment when the unreality rises to the surface of
consciousness. I was brought back too
easily to our own August 16th, as if through a portal in time, amazed at how
instantaneously I could access it. The
disorientation of the phone in the middle of the night. Hunched on the stairs straining to understand
one side of an already incomprehensible conversation. The truths, impossible to accept. The nausea.
The pitch black road as we drove, newborn in a bucket-seat, to the
hospital. The surreal timelessness of
the days that followed. The plate of
cold cuts and breads that sat untouched on our dining room table. The logistics and mechanics of it all,
allowing a little bit of distraction from the purpose driving their need.
