With hindsight, I can say this: I needed to fall. If I’d been clear-headed, I would have backed off on my own. Grief is tricky though, and it clouded my judgment.
We knew it would be our last weekend with our old dog, Brüski. He was ever loving, sort of goofy, and always ready for adventure. Until he wasn’t. What we thought was his long struggle with arthritis slowing him down turned out to be a mass in his abdomen and a serious case of anemia.
He was the sort of dog that was always nearby, much more motivated to be with my husband and I than by treats, toys, or anything else. When the vet asked what his favorite things were my honest, gut answer was: His humans, his humans, and his humans. 13 years is a nice long life for a big dog, and yet it tore us to shreds to watch his steady, then quickening decline. He’d been with us so long, since before we got married. He’d been our constant companion through so much.
After he was gone, being at home kind of wrecked me. I’d see Brüski’s little no-slip booties that let him navigate the hardwood floors, or his bottles of unused pills, or a tumbleweed of his hair in a corner, not yet vacuumed, and just lose it. A thousand tiny reminders of my sweet boy provoked bouts of sobbing.
When he died that Saturday, my first instinct to go for a walk in the woods with our younger dog, Barnaby. It helped to be with my little family in the forest, and I didn’t want that walk to end.
Afterwards, I knew I wasn’t up for my typical Saturday long run, but I wanted to get out of the house again, so I went for a relatively easy 4 miles. Even at easy pace my heart rate was pretty high for me—a sign I just stubbornly ignored. It was easy to convince myself: Well, that didn’t feel physically great, but it was good for my mind.
The next day, I thought: Since that wasn’t so bad. I’ll try my long run today. At least I was willing to let go of some of the miles, but I thought perhaps ten, even twelve might be possible. Running through grief can be a balm. I’ve done it before… I took it slow, let myself explore a new area. Though I was emotionally exhausted, I was trying to make it therapeutic.
Almost 8 miles into the run I found myself on the bank of the White River. I wondered how long I could trace its edge. I didn’t make it far before my feet flew out from under me on an unexpected mud slick on the river bank.
It happened so fast, I had zero time to react. My sunglasses flew off my face. My tailbone slammed to the earth and immediately throbbed with the promise of deep bruises. My forearm scraped on a rock (the one spot where I lost some blood to the trail).
After the shock subsided, I took stock of my body. Nothing broken. Just a bit of blood. I flicked gritty sand from my hands and mustered a few strides. Pain radiated from my core. When I stopped again and looked at the mud smeared up and down the back of my body, it all came crashing down.
I called my husband for an emergency pick up, and through the growing tears I eeked out a pitiful: I’m sad. And I’m ok, but I fell. And I’m covered in mud. And I don’t want to run anymore. Luckily he was home and could come to my rescue.
I took several days off from running to let my tailbone heal up. I had no choice, it was just too sore to ignore. While my bruises faded and the pain subsided, I processed my grief too. I still miss Brüski every day, and I know I will for the rest of my days, but it’s not the total sobfest it was that first week.
As I’ve emerged from grief’s grip, I’m feeling better and running stronger again. I can’t help but wonder: If I didn’t fall, would I have kept running myself into the ground? Or, would I have finally heeded the higher heart rate and other signs I needed a break? Mourning had levied a significant toll on me. I should have honored it from the beginning. The break ended up being exactly what I needed.