Sarah

Sarah with her dear mother, Margaret.

Note: I (Sarah) want to share momentous news with members of the AMR community because you all feel like family. 

My beloved mother died the day before her half-birthday: She would have turned 95.5 years on December 28. She died peacefully in her sleep due to respiratory side effects of pneumonia. Despite her relatively rapid slide from life to death, her passing was a long time coming. I had discussed it over many miles with my running friends—and alluded to it on our podcast. 

Yet when my brother called me Sunday evening to tell me that the end was near, that Mom’s pneumonia had weakened her lungs too much for her body to clear carbon dioxide, I gasped. Like the lead-up to a marathon, no amount of mental prep can truly simulate the actual event. 

Sarah

Mother and daughter with matching smiles.

Especially as my husband, 16-year-old twins, and I were on a long-awaited vacation in Costa Rica. That Sunday night, on the high-thread-count hotel sheets, I tossed and turned, my mind and heart racing. My chest felt heavy, and the walls of the spacious room felt too close. I awoke tired, filled with a sense of foreboding. The night before, though, I’d vowed to attack this last day of our 10-day trip with a YOLO attitude, so off we headed to soak in volcanic hot springs. 

Surrounded by lush vegetation, exotic flowers, and flitting hummingbirds, I felt I couldn’t get a full breath. Afterward, during breakfast, I silently talked myself out of a panic attack. I got short of breath on the 2-minute walk back to our room. My family went to get massages (a bougie splurge), and I tried my best to gain a semblance of calm. Sitting still, I felt like a rat pacing in a cage. 

Then it came to me: I would go running. After checking in, as we’d walked past the hotel gimnasio, my son had asked if I’d run on the treadmill, and I’d retorted, “I didn’t come to Costa Rica to run inside!” (Truth be told, I hadn’t run a step, inside or out, on our vacation.) 

But as soon as the idea came to me, I pulled on my Handful bra, shorts, and a tank top, and hustled to the gym. Choosing to adjust the treadmill’s settings manually, I quickly realized the speed was wonky: My usual 6 mph pace had me walking so I kept speeding up the ’mill’s belt until the screen read 8 mph. Even at a 4% incline, I wasn’t breathing harder than carrying a laundry basket up our basement stairs at home. 

Sarah

Three generations: Margaret with her children and grandchildren.

Following Dimity’s eternal advice to touch a button frequently to adjust speed or incline, I eventually dropped my pace to a supposed 6:53 per mile. (Not!) Finally my in- and out-breaths sped up, as sweat (+ tears) ran rapidly down my face. Despite my increased heart rate, a sense of peace flowed through my veins. Stepping off the treadmill after 30 minutes, my lungs expanded fully, and I felt flush with tranquility. 

I departed the gym, ready to learn whatever news my brother might share with me.