I can tell I am going to have a good marathon as soon as I open my eyes. I can always tell. I do a quick assessment and my body feels rested and ready. I know I’ll finish, and I know I’ll finish strong. My goal to run 10 marathons will be accomplished today, my fundraising has exceeded expectations, and my friends are waiting for me. You would almost think I should be happy. But on this particular day, I am searching for something more.
In these moments before the completion of a goal I have worked towards for over eight years, I soak up the silence. It will be my only silence in a long day of running, strategizing, complaining, encouraging and cheering. I am completely alone, and that, it seems, is my problem.
A drunken driver killed my brother Stephen in September 1999. Late on that Sunday night in the early fall, as I stood at the doorway of the two family I shared with Stephen while the police officers awkwardly tried to explain that my brother would never come home again, that driver killed part of me as well.
It is almost 10 years since that day, and with the help of Stephen’s family and friends, the time was filled with good intentions and generous contributions and students grateful for the educational assistance they received in Stephen’s memory. Acquaintances smile and tell us how wonderful the events are, how successful our fundraising has been, and how Stephen will never be forgotten. My fear is not that Stephen will be forgotten, but that we may forget why he is gone, and how a driver’s irreversible decision to get behind the wheel intoxicated ended his promising life. Stephen should not be an angel, he should not be watching over us from heaven, and I should not be running 10 marathons to prove that I did not die with him that day.
I constantly struggle with balancing the "feel good" part of our philanthropic work with the anger deep in my soul that tells me something went very wrong in the universe for Stephen to be killed the way he was. And this is this feeling that I’m searching for in my quiet moments before the marathon- the feeling that tells me all of this truly does mean something, and that this reason will one day become apparent.
So as my feet rhythmically hit the ground mile after mile, I silently repeat my marathon mantra "stay strong… stay strong". But somewhere on Marathon Day on Boylston Street with .2 miles to go, despite the encouraging crowds and finish line applause, despite the company of my training partner next to me and my friends holding up Steve’s Team signs, my mantra slowly melds into "still gone… still gone".
The finish comes with high fives and hugs and something I didn’t expect…nothing. I await the emotions that should have poured out of me like a flood of tears released when the dam opened. I would have expected that my heart would be bursting with love and joy and accomplishment, a healthy mix of happy and sad that comes when you complete a goal for someone whom did not live to see it. But instead I was totally empty. So empty I swear I could hear my own footsteps echoing in my head as they slowed from a jog to a walk. So empty I heard my own teeth chattering as our bodies were rapidly cooled by the biting wind. So empty I almost forgot what it felt like when I was full, when I was complete, and before I died a little bit on that same day as my brother.
Its been a few weeks now, and quite honestly, I have been lost without my goal. Then I realized, I wasn’t just running for Stephen, I was running with Stephen. Whether I was alone or with friends, he was always in my thoughts and my goal was always in mind. It was what had been pushing me forward all these years. Crossing that finish line, the footsteps I heard echoing were my own. Because as I crossed that finish line, I crossed it alone, and I missed my brother Stephen all over again.
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