I’ve been running the Brushy Creek Regional Trail for the last four weeks. Just on weekends as that’s all I have time for. I target twelve miles by not turning around until I’ve run six. On more than half my runs, today included, I walk in the final three miles. An optimistic strategy that I don’t recommend to swimmers in the ocean.
My legs aren’t fatigued. I am. Just emotionally drained. They say it’s mind over matter, and it is.
I try to start back up again and find myself running every other quarter mile. Conveniently, the BCRT has stone mile markers every quarter mile. It’s a fair argument that I’m not currently in shape to be attempting twelve mile runs, and that’s okay. Walking is just as good. It’s nice to get out.
As you see in the photo above, I recently completed the Austin Half Marathon without walking. The 9:30 mile pace wasn’t up to my standards. In shape, I run an 8:00 mile pace for a full marathon. Still, that run felt really good.
Mom is on hospice and I’m in Round Rock helping my brother care for her. I wouldn’t call either of us ideal care givers. Sorry mom, we’re your boys.
I’ve followed my facebook friends’ similar stories. My high school friends are all in the same position. So are many of my friends back at home. But it’s not about us. It’s about our ailing parents.
I can’t imagine what mom is going through. I see it, every day. I don’t like seeing it – as I said before, it’s emotionally draining. A part of me is dying with her. I feel it in my runs where I end up walking. But I’m glad to be part of it. To give back. She raised seven children, much of it as a single, working parent. I’ve been impressed with her my entire life.
Born in 1933, mom represents the silent generation. Known for their heads-down work ethic, I’ll never compare. I hope I’m as strong at the end of my time. She should be bed-bound by now but continues to shuffle around the house, squeezing the blood out of my wrist as she holds on. I literally feel her tenacity. Every day I can spend with her will reinforce my memories.
My wife traveled to be with her when I had to travel for work. I felt so guilty enjoying my respite. The king-sized, Marriott bed felt like a vacation compared to my twin bed here where my feet hang off the end. My sister who lives in the area will begin to help as her FMLA is approved next week. It’s a family affair. It’s sad. And I have to stop writing because I’m starting to cry.