A Grief Observed

Today I feel crass. In the wake of the latest school shooting, in a school very dangerously close to my own, I am in no hurry to “hug my kids tighter” or post my thoughts and prayers for the families affected on my Facebook page or grieve with the city of Cleveland like so many people around me.

And I don’t know why this is. I am usually good for some empathy. I have been known to cry in the deli department when listening to an old man talk about his late wife, or be the listening ear for a student whose grandmother has died. There is just something about this very public grief that is difficult for me. Or would I call it compassion fatigue? I just can’t take in ALL the grief in all its forms and still function. At any rate, I don’t feel the need to chime in visibly that my prayers are with Chardon or that I am wearing red to honor those who are hurting.

I have felt conflicted all day.

Perhaps it is because I know (with great certainty) that I could NEVER know how these people feel. I send my kids to school, and feel sure each day that they will come bounding back in the door ready for a cookie and a hug at the end of the day. I go to school myself, and I feel pretty confident that I will not have to usher gunmen out of the hallway where I teach. Do I believe this can happen? Sure. Have I taught a kid who is capable of this massacre? Probably. But I know that the vast majority of students in the vast majority of schools are just fine each day. I don’t bury my head in the sand, but I don’t dwell on the “might have beens” or “could be’s” either.

I think the real reason for my apparent apathy, though, is that I have known tragedies of my own, and thus, have already learned the lessons. I’m not saying my cup of grief is at capacity—I don’t really think it works that way—but the fact that I have stared horror in the face in my OWN little family makes me more respectful of and subdued about the tragedy of others. I know that the world can change on a dime. I learned that when I watched my husband get the phone call that his brother had died—much too young and much too tragically. I know that bad things happen to good people. Learned that when my sweet father suffered and struggled and died just days after my wedding. And I learned that life isn’t fair when my best friend was given a dire health diagnosis and when I lost a baby that was very much wanted. I am not saying that my grief is more important—and I have certainly had more time to heal—but I just cannot wholly swallow the public bath of tears.

The tragedy in Chardon doesn’t make me want to hug my children tighter or live better. My own history has already taught me that. I know I am not perfect, but I read books with my kids and do art and make salt crystals and play Spot It and hug them tightly and love them deeply. I call my mother and kiss my husband and make sure that I don’t leave things unsettled when I walk out the door.

I'd like to think that we would all live to age 95 and die peacefully while eating a Malley's sundae, but you never know . I am sorry that these families in Chardon learned that the hard way. Sometimes I think the intensity of my love and loss early in my life was a blessing, because death taught me a whole lot about how to live. Maybe events like the Chardon shooting can be the catalyst for people who have not had to face difficult circumstances in their own lives. I am all for EVERYBODY trying to be a little more loving and a lot more tolerant. (A massacre like this might even have been avoided if that were the case.) And of course I am feeling for those affected in my own way. Being human teaches me that. But I am not jumping on the bandwagon just to make myself feel better. I will keep on keeping on in my own little corner of the world, trying to smile and stretch and love those whom I meet in my ramblings.

Running to Stand Still

Five weeks down in my marathon training. Well, what I should say is five weeks down in WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN my marathon training. To say I am disappointed is an understatement. I started two years ago as an Olympic couch potato, and have since crossed the finish line of two half-marathon. I struggled to find the nerve to run the full 26.2, signed up, trained throughout the off-season, but in week two of the actual training: KAPLLOOY!!

I am the most optimistic person I know, but even I know that I cannot get to marathon shape by May 20. This has been hard to swallow, but when the physical therapist says you can run 15 minutes straight in week 5, even my non-mathematical mind can figure out that 5/20 is a no-go. Ugh.

So on to Plan B I go: run the half-marathon on May 20. A myriad of reasons (I am not just rationalizing here, am I?) make this a very good idea. I won’t have to hit the dreaded wall of twenty miles, or do a twenty-mile training run while my husband prepares for a rigorous new position at work. (Principal takes a lot of time and energy….so proud of him. But I digress.) I can train with my friend Pat who I coerced into running the half, and probably run WITH him throughout the race.

I have signed up already, and want to keep blogging and thinking about my training, so I don’t want to just quit where I am. The cross-training has actually been kind of freeing, and Pat has influenced me to be a swimmer. (See how that works? Having a training partner really DOES help keep you moving.) I swam my first WHOLE MILE a week or so ago, and it is a great feeling. I’ve been utilizing the elliptical for a good workout, then jumping on the treadmill for the allotted 15 minute run. I have been doing my exercises and stretches and my knee really does feel strong. Slow and steady wins the race. Or in my case, slow and steady finishes the race.

I am still fighting the vague nagging that I am a quitter. But in running (as in life), you can only do what you can do and what your body allows. I will not sacrifice my body and future five milers in the woods just so I can SAY I ran a marathon.

To the gym with me, to be a stronger, smarter runner. Not such a bad idea after all!!