eight years ago i ran a marathon, for no apparent reason. when i was first diagnosed, i dug out the medal and hung it on my bathroom mirror to inspire me to get through this.
i'm not sure why i was thinking the medal would inspire me because when i actually look at the medal, i remember that i hated training for the marathon because i hate running. when i got to the long training runs, i had to get chad to drive me fifteen miles away and shove me out of the car so that i would have to run in order to get home.
when the race started, i watched as walkers twenty years older left me in the dust. as i finally dragged myself towards the finish line (six and a half hours later), the spectators were gone, they were taking down the barriers and the signs, and the street sweepers were right behind me, so close that if i had fallen i would have been swept up with the rest of the debris, never to be seen again. chad was there waiting for me, a little concerned having noticed the pursuing street sweepers himself. and although it felt great to finish, i have never run again.
i don't know exactly what this means... i'm guessing it means i'll get through this but it won't be pretty. i won't do it with grace or strength or any exceptional determination. i'll just muddle through, and chad will be waiting at the end.