I try not to think about "What if's" because it makes me crazy to second guess myself. I often get a feeling, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I should have or I could have, but then, I realize that I can't change it and although it will still bother me, I try to let it go. I try; I am not always successful in that effort, but I am now making the effort more.
At night, I usually lay in bed after reading and after everyone else is asleep and I analyze things; I often wish I didn't, but I can't help it. Maybe, like some people tell me and, like so many self-help books reiterate, thinking about what you've done or haven't done can lead to a better understanding of how to "do it" better the next time. It's not regret anymore, rather, it is a desire to "do" better, to be better. I have come to realize that immediate gratification just doesn't work for me. I used to think it did, but maybe that was the problem; I thought it did. Too much thinking can get me into just as much trouble as not enough thinking. That's probably true for most people. This morning prompted me to think about (I know, think...) this whole concept of starting small, or, starting over.
There are many days when I wonder how Nick would do with a mother who is, well, who is, let's just say, more patient, more understanding and, it's hard for me to type this, kinder. I cannot "blame" his Asperger's for my lack of the aforementioned things nor can I really attribute the shortness of them to this "condition." I think of it more as a personality impasse. Would he do better with someone who loved him as much as I do, but who was better equipped, personality wise to deal with the daily struggles and the continuous tug of war? Then, I realize that it is pointless to think that way because we cannot change the situation. I am his mother and no one will love him as much as I do, ever and we have much to teach each other.
I have many friends who are Atheists, I also have many friends who are Agnostics. I have friends who are, well, I have friends who cover every aspect of the religion and non-religion spectrum that there is. And, while I am not a preachy person and I do not try to convince others what they should believe, I do believe in God. I believe in Jesus Christ and in his mother Mary, as a holy entity and I believe in the Holy Spirit. While I was raised in the Catholic faith, I find that I do not soley identify with any "religion" per se. I go to church on a semi regular basis and we are raising our children in the Catholic tradition, but not with the exclusionary standards that any religion often exercises. After all, "Catholic" simply means "universal." When you grow up in a faith, with its traditions, a huge part of who you are is grounded by those beliefs. I do not let them define me, rather I let my belief and my faith guide me toward a better understanding of others. I believe that we do not "end" and it is my faith that gives me comfort and hope in times of darkness and pain. It is this faith that tells me that God blessed me with Nick for a reason. Nick is mine because he is here to teach me to be more patient, more kind, more generous. I recognize that; he is a gift, as all children are, but Nick has special needs and it is my intent to help him carve out a meaningful and good life. I thought about this today when I was running; I thought about this and I thought about starting over.
I ran 4 miles today with my brother Steve. I am starting my running journey over and it felt good to just begin again, to recognize that I could not just jump back in and run as many miles as I wanted to. I suppose I could; I've done it before, but this time, I want to go through the process again and when I get to 26, then I will run my next marathon. I will feel as though I put in the time and the effort and I made it happen through diligence and patience. Another opportunity to learn patience. That goes without saying, marathon training teaches us a great deal about ourselves and most of us understand that on marathon day, we've already run the race, we've already won. The race simply symbolizes the prize, the "ride" to the finish. The journey starts on mornings like this one where you throw on your shoes, you set a goal and you go out and do it. You don't think, you don't analyze, you just "do." So as we trotted along, I felt renewed, similar to how I feel when I am in church, surrounded by a common thread and a spiritual boundary. I felt, as I often do when I run, that anything is possible and that continuing to look forward, even in the middle of my life, instead of looking back, is what will keep me growing and changing. I only want to look back to think about the experiences, the memories; I don't want to look back and think "What if?"
I guess the real dilemma, if that is even the right word, is knowing how to treat conditions like Nick's. I don't liken his situation to a "disease." Instead, I think of it as a lifelong condition, one which will provide challenging obstacles, but one which will also provide him with opportunities to learn about himself and to understand that life just is not the same for everyone and, that is perfectly okay. If I could change it, if I could take the Asperger's away, would I? I've actually been asked that question and while I may have thought about that in different ways when asked before, I would now reply, instantaneously, no. Because to take an integral part of Nick away would be to change him and this is a battle that he will have all his life but it will not define him. It will exist and it will be an ongoing conversation that he will have to have with himself every day for the rest of his life, but it will not define who he is. Love defines us, hope, empathy, grief, sadness... but conditions do not define us.
I wish, I don't second guess, I wish that everyone would get the chance to feel special in some way, to understand that starting over sometimes means just getting out of bed in the morning. It really is that simple. If asked, at the age that you are right now, what would you say are the three most important factors in your life or, how do you spend the majority of your time? To whom do you give yourself completely? To what do you give your effort? Your talents? Your money? How will you have spent your life...
These are some of the things that envelop my nighttime thoughts now. How can I do better, be better. What do I need to do tomorrow that I didn't get to today? I have much to work on, for Nick's sake, for my family, for my world. Maybe the next time I throw on my running shoes I will simply consider the possibility that by being there, by running, I am working toward improving, in more ways than one.
And, just for the record, I HATE self help books...
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Something REALLY about nothing...
I have to admit, I don't know Jack Shit or anything about him, but sometimes I can fool myself into thinking that I do. It's like I'm starring in, watching and producing a reality show about my own life, with no "real" perspective to offer. Even going to therapy, as useful as it was while I was going, provided insights that came from someone else. Because my therapist was, well, is, a fine physician, she allowed me ample opportunity to "reflect" on choices I'd made, things I'd said, actions I'd taken. This in turn was to help me be better prepared for the "next" time one of these situations arose. However, because one of my major flaws is my inability to follow through on many tasks, the "reflection" became more of an improv scene where she asked questions and I tap danced my way around them. Real reflection takes time, effort, space and an ability to only produce your own show and not star in it simultaneously.
I got hit by the Mack truck flu on Sunday and I am not exaggerating this one in the least. For four days, I left the bed only to go to the bathroom and sit in the shower until the water went cold, oh, and to pee, but I figured that was implied by the bathroom statement. Anyway, the nausea and bodyaches were so bad on Monday that my fluids were ingested in the form of liquid Nyquil for the day. At one point Tim drove me to the Emergency Room because I just felt, well, SICK and I figured they might take pity on me and give me some drugs or some fluids or some drugs and fluids. When he dropped me off, I walked through the doors and it was like Contagion 2 the sequel... foolishly, I signed in and the nurse took my vitals telling me that it would be, Oh, Um, about 3 hours or so. I stood up, thanked her, walked out, called Tim and went back on the Nyquil. Now, 6 days later, I am up and about, but the cough that is erupting from my chest makes me think I may as well take up smoking, at least the nicotine would feel good while I cough up a lung... I haven't been this sick in a long time. Maybe I haven't had the time, as the long running joke goes for most moms or working women. We just don't have the time to be sick. Sometimes that is true. On Day 3, Ty told me that he wanted to stay home from school so that he could "take care of me." Damn that's sweet. Or was it... The kids have all had some form of this monster, Tim too. It's brutal and I hear that it is getting worse for some. Oh, and I HAD a flu shot.
So today, feeling a bit better and because the weather was like summer weather, Ty and I went up to the Botanical Gardens in Rancho Palos Verdes. We walked, took short cuts, talked about the flowers, he peed in the bushes, twice, when no one was around and then we set down a blanket, took out his legos and he built a little car. It was quiet and warm and so peaceful. Our only interruption was a little squirrel who ran right up ON our blanket and sat there staring at us. Ty was cracking up, but we literally didn't have a crumb to give him, so he just stared at us for another 30 seconds or so and off he went. I've never seen a squirrel just sit there, that close before. It was great. On our way out, Ty was the leader and I watched him as he stopped in every corner, looked under every bench, picked up every stick, until his arms were full and proceeded to try to hack his own way through the "wilderness" even though the path was just off to the left. When we passed the gift shop, I asked him if there was something small he wanted, like a little cactus or a flower. He ran inside and came up to the front with a KitKat bar. Ah youth. We ended up with no KitKat and a 3-D model TRex. It was a really great ending to an otherwise crappy week. The next time I spend 4 days in bed, it better be with Jason Statham and my body better be aching for reasons other than the flu...
I was thinking today about the immediate future, the next couple of years really. We are going to have to move again. Rent is too high for where we are now financially and we have taken a beating these past few years. It's time to do a serious overhaul and as most of well know, now is the time of year to be thinking about changing a few things: weight, lovers, friends, jobs, homes. I suppose it's easy to look back and reminisce, we all do, but I think in a way, it's easier to look forward. Not really knowing what's going to happen is easier because you can make the choices to create new choices and new outcomes, what's past is past, and as hard as things are, as much as they hurt, we cannot change them. We can only focus on what we now want to change for the future. So, that's what I was considering, the future. Where we will physically be a year from now, but also where we will be emotionally, spiritually, psychologically. Will this year be one of struggle? Of course it will, but I think that it's also going to be a year of really great moments, very special ones that mark milestones in people's lives. I have no reason to think that, other than every night when I kiss Ty's cheek and he puts his little arms around me, I am reminded that life is so precious and time is truly fleeting. And I keep thinking about all of the amazing people that I've met and how they've changed my life due to a phone call almost 5 years ago. If fear keeps us from succeeding or moving forward then it also, ironically, frees us from failure. When we are afraid, it makes the victory all the more powerful because we accomplished a task through our fear.
When I was little, my mom used to sing me Peter, Paul and Mary's "Puff the Magic Dragon" and tonight, Ty asked me to sing it to him, as he often does. "Sing the Puff song Mom." Yes indeed. I have to wonder if one day Jackie Paper woke up, middle aged and thought, I wonder what ever happened to Puff? I wonder if he's still alive? While Puff was heartbroken. I used to think it was such a sad song, even though I loved it, but a couple of years ago I looked at it differently. I don't know why, I just thought, that's childhood. Love, grow, leave. I don't mean abandon your friends and relationships, but instead, that is a huge part of loving people, of opening yourself up. The experience will inevitably break you; they will die, leave, disappear, break your heart or, you may be the one to end the relationship. Either way, whichever way, love opens us up to fear and worry because we don't want to lose it. We want to keep it with us, the way most parents do when they check on their sleeping children before securing the front door lock one more time. I accept the reality of what is to come and I am thankful to not know how much time I have left because I'd probably just piss it all away worrying about spending too much time worrying. Or worse, analyzing everything. There are many things that I miss about my childhood, about my school days. Too many to count really. I really miss lying under the coffee table watching t.v. sideways and I miss how my mom used to use a little scooper to make watermelon balls out of half of the watermelon (I never do that, not sure why exactly) and I miss the freedom of not having to take care of anyone but myself. Selfish as that may sound, sometimes the worry and fret keep me up at night. Their well being is my main priority and if I fuck that up, well, Puff may as well move over in that cave because no one is coming to see me either.
I've always been pretty good with people; I like people, except when they piss me off. Lately, the past few years though, I've gotten better with words and people. Writing has become more than a means of "expression." That is trite. No, words are the intermediaries, the boundaries between who I am and who you are. They connect us, virtually and literally. I just say what I am thinking in that moment, mostly for myself but sometimes for you. I hope that makes sense. It probably doesn't.
Ty is asleep already. He has found his way back into our bed and although I KNOW that every parenting book on the planet says that I should put him back in his own bed, I'm not going to, no, tonight, I'm going to curl up next to him and smell his hair and be thankful that I got another day. And for those who are battling, who are trying to get through another day, I hope you find some peace tonight. Sleep well and I told ya... whole lotta something about nothing. Hey, there's always tomorrow...
I got hit by the Mack truck flu on Sunday and I am not exaggerating this one in the least. For four days, I left the bed only to go to the bathroom and sit in the shower until the water went cold, oh, and to pee, but I figured that was implied by the bathroom statement. Anyway, the nausea and bodyaches were so bad on Monday that my fluids were ingested in the form of liquid Nyquil for the day. At one point Tim drove me to the Emergency Room because I just felt, well, SICK and I figured they might take pity on me and give me some drugs or some fluids or some drugs and fluids. When he dropped me off, I walked through the doors and it was like Contagion 2 the sequel... foolishly, I signed in and the nurse took my vitals telling me that it would be, Oh, Um, about 3 hours or so. I stood up, thanked her, walked out, called Tim and went back on the Nyquil. Now, 6 days later, I am up and about, but the cough that is erupting from my chest makes me think I may as well take up smoking, at least the nicotine would feel good while I cough up a lung... I haven't been this sick in a long time. Maybe I haven't had the time, as the long running joke goes for most moms or working women. We just don't have the time to be sick. Sometimes that is true. On Day 3, Ty told me that he wanted to stay home from school so that he could "take care of me." Damn that's sweet. Or was it... The kids have all had some form of this monster, Tim too. It's brutal and I hear that it is getting worse for some. Oh, and I HAD a flu shot.
So today, feeling a bit better and because the weather was like summer weather, Ty and I went up to the Botanical Gardens in Rancho Palos Verdes. We walked, took short cuts, talked about the flowers, he peed in the bushes, twice, when no one was around and then we set down a blanket, took out his legos and he built a little car. It was quiet and warm and so peaceful. Our only interruption was a little squirrel who ran right up ON our blanket and sat there staring at us. Ty was cracking up, but we literally didn't have a crumb to give him, so he just stared at us for another 30 seconds or so and off he went. I've never seen a squirrel just sit there, that close before. It was great. On our way out, Ty was the leader and I watched him as he stopped in every corner, looked under every bench, picked up every stick, until his arms were full and proceeded to try to hack his own way through the "wilderness" even though the path was just off to the left. When we passed the gift shop, I asked him if there was something small he wanted, like a little cactus or a flower. He ran inside and came up to the front with a KitKat bar. Ah youth. We ended up with no KitKat and a 3-D model TRex. It was a really great ending to an otherwise crappy week. The next time I spend 4 days in bed, it better be with Jason Statham and my body better be aching for reasons other than the flu...
I was thinking today about the immediate future, the next couple of years really. We are going to have to move again. Rent is too high for where we are now financially and we have taken a beating these past few years. It's time to do a serious overhaul and as most of well know, now is the time of year to be thinking about changing a few things: weight, lovers, friends, jobs, homes. I suppose it's easy to look back and reminisce, we all do, but I think in a way, it's easier to look forward. Not really knowing what's going to happen is easier because you can make the choices to create new choices and new outcomes, what's past is past, and as hard as things are, as much as they hurt, we cannot change them. We can only focus on what we now want to change for the future. So, that's what I was considering, the future. Where we will physically be a year from now, but also where we will be emotionally, spiritually, psychologically. Will this year be one of struggle? Of course it will, but I think that it's also going to be a year of really great moments, very special ones that mark milestones in people's lives. I have no reason to think that, other than every night when I kiss Ty's cheek and he puts his little arms around me, I am reminded that life is so precious and time is truly fleeting. And I keep thinking about all of the amazing people that I've met and how they've changed my life due to a phone call almost 5 years ago. If fear keeps us from succeeding or moving forward then it also, ironically, frees us from failure. When we are afraid, it makes the victory all the more powerful because we accomplished a task through our fear.
When I was little, my mom used to sing me Peter, Paul and Mary's "Puff the Magic Dragon" and tonight, Ty asked me to sing it to him, as he often does. "Sing the Puff song Mom." Yes indeed. I have to wonder if one day Jackie Paper woke up, middle aged and thought, I wonder what ever happened to Puff? I wonder if he's still alive? While Puff was heartbroken. I used to think it was such a sad song, even though I loved it, but a couple of years ago I looked at it differently. I don't know why, I just thought, that's childhood. Love, grow, leave. I don't mean abandon your friends and relationships, but instead, that is a huge part of loving people, of opening yourself up. The experience will inevitably break you; they will die, leave, disappear, break your heart or, you may be the one to end the relationship. Either way, whichever way, love opens us up to fear and worry because we don't want to lose it. We want to keep it with us, the way most parents do when they check on their sleeping children before securing the front door lock one more time. I accept the reality of what is to come and I am thankful to not know how much time I have left because I'd probably just piss it all away worrying about spending too much time worrying. Or worse, analyzing everything. There are many things that I miss about my childhood, about my school days. Too many to count really. I really miss lying under the coffee table watching t.v. sideways and I miss how my mom used to use a little scooper to make watermelon balls out of half of the watermelon (I never do that, not sure why exactly) and I miss the freedom of not having to take care of anyone but myself. Selfish as that may sound, sometimes the worry and fret keep me up at night. Their well being is my main priority and if I fuck that up, well, Puff may as well move over in that cave because no one is coming to see me either.
I've always been pretty good with people; I like people, except when they piss me off. Lately, the past few years though, I've gotten better with words and people. Writing has become more than a means of "expression." That is trite. No, words are the intermediaries, the boundaries between who I am and who you are. They connect us, virtually and literally. I just say what I am thinking in that moment, mostly for myself but sometimes for you. I hope that makes sense. It probably doesn't.
Ty is asleep already. He has found his way back into our bed and although I KNOW that every parenting book on the planet says that I should put him back in his own bed, I'm not going to, no, tonight, I'm going to curl up next to him and smell his hair and be thankful that I got another day. And for those who are battling, who are trying to get through another day, I hope you find some peace tonight. Sleep well and I told ya... whole lotta something about nothing. Hey, there's always tomorrow...
Monday, January 7, 2013
Coach Scott Boliver
It won't matter what I write here, no matter how eloquent, how thoughtful, how articulate... it won't matter because he isn't here to read it. And that matters to me. He isn't here to...
When the announcement came through that the 2012 New York marathon had been cancelled, I was already in New York; I had already picked up my bib and walked the EXPO. But when the message came through, I have to admit that I wasn't disappointed. Amidst the aftermath of "Sandy," a celebratory run through the broken boroughs of New York, beginning with the devastation on Staten Island seemed, well, distasteful to say the very least. And so it was, thousands of runners had come to the Big Apple to run a race that, wasn't going to be run.
In 2009 I ran my first marathon for AIDS Project Los Angeles and I did my training runs in Griffith Park with the Sunday group; Biff Campos, Matt Richmond, Kevin McDonald, Arianna Metchik and other volunteers helped to make up the coaching crew dream team. I owe these people much more than I will ever raise in fundraising dollars for this wonderful organization. That first marathon changed my life and anyone who knows me has seen clear evidence to support that fact. There was another training group that year and in other years, Saturday mornings, led by Coach Scott Boliver and while I wouldn't meet him until the following training season, I kept hearing his name and stories were repeated about how amazing he was, as a coach and as a person. I say this because when I met him for the first time, the skeptic that I am, I was, well, amazed. He not only knew my name, but he actually asked me questions about my family, my running, my history with fundraising. He made me feel as the other coaches had, but in a different way; he made me realize that I was now part of a family - a family of which I was now considered an integral part. I believe that those Sunday runs and that team made me understand the real significance of what it meant to "give" and it would be two years after that, that Scott would reinforce that meaning for me.
What do you do when you are in a city, in an area that has been devastated by a natural disaster. If you've been taught properly, you move, you step in and you help. And that is what we did. Hunting down a Volunteer group the Saturday morning after the marathon was cancelled, Scott, his sister Cyndi and I made our way to Brooklyn where we found Occupy Sandy and in the basement of a church that day, we blended into the landscape of souls who came to do what they could. We spent the day sorting clothes, cutting food, taking out trash, moving through the piles of donations, wishing that there were more time in the day because soon enough it was dark and it was time to clean up. As we made our way back to Manhattan and to dinner that night with other runners from APLA Chicago and D.C., we jumped on a bus, a subway, we walked, we laughed, we chatted and they reassured me when the subway stopped, under the water, when the lights began to flicker, that everything was going to be okay (unfounded claustrophobic that I am). When the train started again, I assured them that if the train stopped again that they would be carrying me out. Scott walked with a cane that day. His leg hurt; it was obvious. He never stopped, he never complained, he never said a word. He simply just moved where he was needed.
In November 2011, we came to New York to run; my second time, Rosh, Sal and Emma for the first time and Coco, to celebrate her 50th birthday. While there, at the expo, I got a text from Scott, who I had only met twice then. He told me that he was there to support his brother in law who was running and to help cheer on the other T2 runners. He also said that he couldn't postpone his entry any longer as this was the last year he could get his entry into the marathon, either that or forfeit it. Scott wasn't about to forfeit anything. But he couldn't run. He was ill then. And I will not remember him as ill so it seems pointless to dissect his battle. Those who know him and who know of him know what a difficult journey he took and the tremendous strength and courage that he showed while taking it. He texted me and asked me if he knew anyone who could use his number... we met him at the Expo where we also met his lovely wife Dolly, and his wonderful sister Cyndi. The meeting could have been awkward, it could have been bitter, particularly for Scott, it could have been so many things had it been anyone but Scott. Instead, he embraced each of us, literally, as did Dolly and Cyndi. He was in pain, tired, but I will always remember his eyes. Scott had kind, happy eyes. What is it that is said, we see people's souls in their eyes? If that is the case, then there is not a shred of doubt that Scott has the soul of an angel... that we already knew. He gave Coco his number and told her to have a good run and run she did. I only thought about this today, while he will not physically run the race, he was with her the year that she did it, he was with me, with all of us and in 2013 when we go back to run it again, he will be there. The next day we headed to Staten Island to run the marathon where it was going to take me almost 6 hours; I wasn't sure, but I was feeling pretty good that day, up until mile 21 and then it started to fall apart as it sometimes does. I went slowly, plodded ahead, tried to find a groove, began to cry and watched as the numbers got bigger, 22, 23, 24... when I crossed 25 I was hurting, I was done. I wasn't going to stop, but I was emotionally, physically, psychologically finished. And then, I hear "YVETTE, YVETTE, OVER HERE, GO YVETTE" and I swear, it was like one of those moments where everything moves in slow motion and each second is crystallized in your memory. There, standing on the sidelines, in the freezing cold late afternoon, 5 and a half hours after I started was Coach Scott and Dolly and Cyndi, but all I could hear was Scott yelling and I saw them all waving their arms, clapping and cheering, motioning for me to come over. It was a life raft. I ran over and Scott threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek and said, "You are doing so great. Hang in there. Keep at it." Then Dolly bear hugged me and then Cyndi. Dear Cyndi. Before I went back out, Scott hugged me again and told me to "Just Go." That's it and then I was off and they were clapping again, smiling and I went on my way.
I told him later about that moment and how they got me through that marathon. How it must have been so difficult for him to stand there in the cold for hours, cheering on runners when all he wanted to do was run. I hope he knew then and I hope he knows now that moments like that have meant more to me than crossing any finish line ever will in any race that I will ever run. When I did cross the finish line, the tears came fast and furious. I didn't see them again that trip but I will remember that moment for the rest of my life as the greatest moment of that race. The Bolivers.
When I ran LA in 2012, there they were again, Scott and Dolly and Scott's lovely and kind parents, right there at Mile 25, with hugs and encouragement and warmth that sent us all off to reach our goals. Ever the fire that needs to be lit under each of us, Scott pushed you until you got there and I never doubted for a second that if I couldn't physically get there, that he might just carry me if need be or, at the very least, walk along side of me or any one of the runners to get them to where they needed to be...
Our second day of volunteering in New York came in the form of a day of distributing supplies with the National Guard in a barren and broken place, Far Rockaway Beach. As the day progressed and as we spoke with people and gave out what supplies there were, I noticed something that I had filed away in my mind for later. When we first arrived, Scott didn't wait for someone to direct him; he just stepped up and started to help. He saw a need and filled it. There was no hesitation and as the day went on, I noticed that he continued to do that. He didn't wait for someone to ask, instead, he volunteered. He just did... he just simply did. Later that night at dinner, we shared our appreciation for one another and for the day and for our lives. Simple, beautiful, a fitting ending to a trip with an auspicious beginning.
On my last night there, I texted Scott and Cyndi and asked them if they would wait for me so that we could go to dinner and I remember Scott saying that they would wait as long as it took for me to get there. That night, after a delicious Italian meal, the three of us headed to an Irish pub where we sat and just talked, sharing stories about our families, our friends, our lives. It was a conversation that will always define who Scott was for me. We hadn't known one another for long and I really didn't know anything about him before that night, but after just a few hours, after hearing about his battle and his family, his amazing family, his children and the deep love that he had for Dolly, I felt like I had known him my whole life. One of the last statements that he made that night was that we should all get our families together, that we all would get along great and that was simply true, there was no pretense with Scott and Cyndi. It was easy, comfortable. Another of his gifts, an ability to make you feel as though you always belonged right across from the table with him, having a beer, shooting the breeze.
That was the last time that I saw Scott Boliver. That was the last time that I heard his voice. That was the last time that I had a chance to tell him how inspiring and meaningful his speeches were the year before in training. That was the last time.
I never made it out to the training site this year, at least I hadn't until last week. Coach Scott had sent me a message on FB asking where I was and how we should all do New York this year so that we could do it together. I replied that I was going to make it out soon.
I would very much like to articulate in the most gracious way how devastated I was to hear that he had passed away. How the tears came instantly and wouldn't stop throughout the days that followed, intermittently, fiercely, every time I thought of him and his children, of Dolly, of his parents and selfishly, of myself and how I would never get that bear hug of encouragement or hear that voice telling me to keep going again. I did think that. I did. And then I sat down and really thought about what it means to lose a friend, someone who makes you a better person for having known them and I realized that the time that I knew him, although too brief, was enough to change something in me. The time that we spent, training, volunteering, sharing meals, meeting his family; those moments are some of the most precious and will remain with me in every victory, in every failure, in every attempt at something new. I will carry Scott's ferocious desire to live his life, with me in my heart every time I put on my running shoes, every time I fundraise, every time I kiss my children or my husband. His passion for others, guiding them to be more, to be better, will guide me the rest of my life. And while I know that I will shed more tears for Scott and for his family, in those tears will also be shreds of joy and compassion, of hope and of the knowledge that his legacy will live in everything good that we do, all of us who knew him, for the rest of our lives.
There is no good-bye. When we love, when people affect us deeply, they are always with us. I will miss you Scott and I will look for you in every run, in every finish line, in every place where there are people who put others' needs before their own. Thank you for being my friend.
Run home softly...
When the announcement came through that the 2012 New York marathon had been cancelled, I was already in New York; I had already picked up my bib and walked the EXPO. But when the message came through, I have to admit that I wasn't disappointed. Amidst the aftermath of "Sandy," a celebratory run through the broken boroughs of New York, beginning with the devastation on Staten Island seemed, well, distasteful to say the very least. And so it was, thousands of runners had come to the Big Apple to run a race that, wasn't going to be run.
In 2009 I ran my first marathon for AIDS Project Los Angeles and I did my training runs in Griffith Park with the Sunday group; Biff Campos, Matt Richmond, Kevin McDonald, Arianna Metchik and other volunteers helped to make up the coaching crew dream team. I owe these people much more than I will ever raise in fundraising dollars for this wonderful organization. That first marathon changed my life and anyone who knows me has seen clear evidence to support that fact. There was another training group that year and in other years, Saturday mornings, led by Coach Scott Boliver and while I wouldn't meet him until the following training season, I kept hearing his name and stories were repeated about how amazing he was, as a coach and as a person. I say this because when I met him for the first time, the skeptic that I am, I was, well, amazed. He not only knew my name, but he actually asked me questions about my family, my running, my history with fundraising. He made me feel as the other coaches had, but in a different way; he made me realize that I was now part of a family - a family of which I was now considered an integral part. I believe that those Sunday runs and that team made me understand the real significance of what it meant to "give" and it would be two years after that, that Scott would reinforce that meaning for me.
What do you do when you are in a city, in an area that has been devastated by a natural disaster. If you've been taught properly, you move, you step in and you help. And that is what we did. Hunting down a Volunteer group the Saturday morning after the marathon was cancelled, Scott, his sister Cyndi and I made our way to Brooklyn where we found Occupy Sandy and in the basement of a church that day, we blended into the landscape of souls who came to do what they could. We spent the day sorting clothes, cutting food, taking out trash, moving through the piles of donations, wishing that there were more time in the day because soon enough it was dark and it was time to clean up. As we made our way back to Manhattan and to dinner that night with other runners from APLA Chicago and D.C., we jumped on a bus, a subway, we walked, we laughed, we chatted and they reassured me when the subway stopped, under the water, when the lights began to flicker, that everything was going to be okay (unfounded claustrophobic that I am). When the train started again, I assured them that if the train stopped again that they would be carrying me out. Scott walked with a cane that day. His leg hurt; it was obvious. He never stopped, he never complained, he never said a word. He simply just moved where he was needed.
In November 2011, we came to New York to run; my second time, Rosh, Sal and Emma for the first time and Coco, to celebrate her 50th birthday. While there, at the expo, I got a text from Scott, who I had only met twice then. He told me that he was there to support his brother in law who was running and to help cheer on the other T2 runners. He also said that he couldn't postpone his entry any longer as this was the last year he could get his entry into the marathon, either that or forfeit it. Scott wasn't about to forfeit anything. But he couldn't run. He was ill then. And I will not remember him as ill so it seems pointless to dissect his battle. Those who know him and who know of him know what a difficult journey he took and the tremendous strength and courage that he showed while taking it. He texted me and asked me if he knew anyone who could use his number... we met him at the Expo where we also met his lovely wife Dolly, and his wonderful sister Cyndi. The meeting could have been awkward, it could have been bitter, particularly for Scott, it could have been so many things had it been anyone but Scott. Instead, he embraced each of us, literally, as did Dolly and Cyndi. He was in pain, tired, but I will always remember his eyes. Scott had kind, happy eyes. What is it that is said, we see people's souls in their eyes? If that is the case, then there is not a shred of doubt that Scott has the soul of an angel... that we already knew. He gave Coco his number and told her to have a good run and run she did. I only thought about this today, while he will not physically run the race, he was with her the year that she did it, he was with me, with all of us and in 2013 when we go back to run it again, he will be there. The next day we headed to Staten Island to run the marathon where it was going to take me almost 6 hours; I wasn't sure, but I was feeling pretty good that day, up until mile 21 and then it started to fall apart as it sometimes does. I went slowly, plodded ahead, tried to find a groove, began to cry and watched as the numbers got bigger, 22, 23, 24... when I crossed 25 I was hurting, I was done. I wasn't going to stop, but I was emotionally, physically, psychologically finished. And then, I hear "YVETTE, YVETTE, OVER HERE, GO YVETTE" and I swear, it was like one of those moments where everything moves in slow motion and each second is crystallized in your memory. There, standing on the sidelines, in the freezing cold late afternoon, 5 and a half hours after I started was Coach Scott and Dolly and Cyndi, but all I could hear was Scott yelling and I saw them all waving their arms, clapping and cheering, motioning for me to come over. It was a life raft. I ran over and Scott threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek and said, "You are doing so great. Hang in there. Keep at it." Then Dolly bear hugged me and then Cyndi. Dear Cyndi. Before I went back out, Scott hugged me again and told me to "Just Go." That's it and then I was off and they were clapping again, smiling and I went on my way.
I told him later about that moment and how they got me through that marathon. How it must have been so difficult for him to stand there in the cold for hours, cheering on runners when all he wanted to do was run. I hope he knew then and I hope he knows now that moments like that have meant more to me than crossing any finish line ever will in any race that I will ever run. When I did cross the finish line, the tears came fast and furious. I didn't see them again that trip but I will remember that moment for the rest of my life as the greatest moment of that race. The Bolivers.
When I ran LA in 2012, there they were again, Scott and Dolly and Scott's lovely and kind parents, right there at Mile 25, with hugs and encouragement and warmth that sent us all off to reach our goals. Ever the fire that needs to be lit under each of us, Scott pushed you until you got there and I never doubted for a second that if I couldn't physically get there, that he might just carry me if need be or, at the very least, walk along side of me or any one of the runners to get them to where they needed to be...
Our second day of volunteering in New York came in the form of a day of distributing supplies with the National Guard in a barren and broken place, Far Rockaway Beach. As the day progressed and as we spoke with people and gave out what supplies there were, I noticed something that I had filed away in my mind for later. When we first arrived, Scott didn't wait for someone to direct him; he just stepped up and started to help. He saw a need and filled it. There was no hesitation and as the day went on, I noticed that he continued to do that. He didn't wait for someone to ask, instead, he volunteered. He just did... he just simply did. Later that night at dinner, we shared our appreciation for one another and for the day and for our lives. Simple, beautiful, a fitting ending to a trip with an auspicious beginning.
On my last night there, I texted Scott and Cyndi and asked them if they would wait for me so that we could go to dinner and I remember Scott saying that they would wait as long as it took for me to get there. That night, after a delicious Italian meal, the three of us headed to an Irish pub where we sat and just talked, sharing stories about our families, our friends, our lives. It was a conversation that will always define who Scott was for me. We hadn't known one another for long and I really didn't know anything about him before that night, but after just a few hours, after hearing about his battle and his family, his amazing family, his children and the deep love that he had for Dolly, I felt like I had known him my whole life. One of the last statements that he made that night was that we should all get our families together, that we all would get along great and that was simply true, there was no pretense with Scott and Cyndi. It was easy, comfortable. Another of his gifts, an ability to make you feel as though you always belonged right across from the table with him, having a beer, shooting the breeze.
That was the last time that I saw Scott Boliver. That was the last time that I heard his voice. That was the last time that I had a chance to tell him how inspiring and meaningful his speeches were the year before in training. That was the last time.
I never made it out to the training site this year, at least I hadn't until last week. Coach Scott had sent me a message on FB asking where I was and how we should all do New York this year so that we could do it together. I replied that I was going to make it out soon.
I would very much like to articulate in the most gracious way how devastated I was to hear that he had passed away. How the tears came instantly and wouldn't stop throughout the days that followed, intermittently, fiercely, every time I thought of him and his children, of Dolly, of his parents and selfishly, of myself and how I would never get that bear hug of encouragement or hear that voice telling me to keep going again. I did think that. I did. And then I sat down and really thought about what it means to lose a friend, someone who makes you a better person for having known them and I realized that the time that I knew him, although too brief, was enough to change something in me. The time that we spent, training, volunteering, sharing meals, meeting his family; those moments are some of the most precious and will remain with me in every victory, in every failure, in every attempt at something new. I will carry Scott's ferocious desire to live his life, with me in my heart every time I put on my running shoes, every time I fundraise, every time I kiss my children or my husband. His passion for others, guiding them to be more, to be better, will guide me the rest of my life. And while I know that I will shed more tears for Scott and for his family, in those tears will also be shreds of joy and compassion, of hope and of the knowledge that his legacy will live in everything good that we do, all of us who knew him, for the rest of our lives.
There is no good-bye. When we love, when people affect us deeply, they are always with us. I will miss you Scott and I will look for you in every run, in every finish line, in every place where there are people who put others' needs before their own. Thank you for being my friend.
Run home softly...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)