Though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are still pretty glorious.
- Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums
I turned 34 on October 9th. Lately, my birthday's only significance is that it is day 2 of Ava's celebration (she was born on October 8th). I'm fine with that. Or at least I was until this year. We've had a lot going on; Lori and I are basically doing what we can to stay afloat, which means that self-indulgence is pretty much non-existent. This is not a pity party, it's just the reality of life with 3 kids and a baby. We accept it, but we do so begrudgingly at times. So, this year I decided to own my birthday. To indulge. I should've just had a lot of cake or spent 8 hours with a novel. Instead I decided to run my new age in miles.
The first 10 miles were solid. Then I met up with a good friend who carried me through the next 9. My legs were feeling it during mile 19. As we approached a creek I foolishly thought I could leap across without a worry. I made it across, but the landing was ugly and I could tell something wasn't right with my foot. We stopped at 20 and I went home to rehydrate and recuperate before chasing the next 14.
My first step after the rest felt like I had been stabbed in the sole of my foot. I chalked it up to a sore tendon that I could push through. I pushed through 3 miles. The pain was terrible. I stopped to stretch my foot, then resumed. When the pain was too unbearable I took off my shoes and kept running, channeling my inner Tarahumara, and praying to their gods. I got in three more miles then reached the point where I had to decide if I was going to: a) achieve my goal, or b) stop and not do serious(er) damage. I chose b. I hated myself for it. But I chose b. I chalked it up to old age and softening ambition.
And I had my reasons, which made the choice all the more poignant.
34 is not just another number. I mean, it is, but not for me. 34 is the age my brother-in-law never got to see because cancer snuck up on him shortly after his 33rd birthday and won the battle 4 months later. In April, cancer took the life of my friend and gifted scientist, Clay Davis. His oldest child, his only boy, is Brennan's age. His youngest child, the fourth girl, is 1. Her name is Hazel. Clay should be hanging out with those kids and his wonderful wife Hayley tonight, celebrating his 34th birthday (November 4th). But he's not. And that's not fair.
Given my reasons, I probably should have been running to raise awareness or in support of some charity. But the only awareness I was concerned with was my own. I needed to do something to celebrate this flawed mortality. I needed to challenge it. I needed to scream, "I'm alive and others aren't! And I don't understand that at all! So here I am! Break me!" Yeah, eating cake would have been way lighter. But I needed a good heavy cleansing, and this fit the bill.
I've talked a lot on this forum about dealing with life's paradoxes as a parent. Recognizing the inevitable pain of our existence, but instilling a sense of hope and wonder in our kids, teaching them that amidst the chaos they can create meaning and find perspective. Solace even. We are incredibly resilient, a hardy species, and I believe this is by design. We can bounce back. Easier said than done at times, and perhaps not to full restoration, but we can. I have to believe this.
This morning I went for my first run since I broke* my foot on October 9th. My 34 year old foot is on the road to recovery. Susceptible yes, but getting stronger.
And my 34 year old susceptible soul follows suit...
* a stress fracture to be technically accurate. But the line "So here I am! Fracture me!" would have been a little too melodramatic, even for this post.
