Athlete

I sat outside my son’s bedroom with my head in my hands. Justin had come home from Harborview’s trauma center about a month before. He’d be bedbound for five more. He survived seven surgeries during his month in the ICU, surrounded by broken bodies and unimaginable loss. The sadness of that place had weight, and we had brought that weight home. I felt crushed beneath it, the air dark and dense. Sitting motionless outside my boy’s room, I held my breath. I was under water.

The next morning, I got up before the sun rose and went outside to run. The rhythm of my footsteps became a meditation. Thoughts raced across my consciousness, like rapid-fire movie reels. My son is broken. I am broken.  I stopped, drawing in the cool air. I needed to mourn the loss of my son’s mobility. I needed to honor the health I’d never again take for granted.

I decided to run a triathlon. I’d never been an athlete; never run a race. But morning after morning, I’d show up. Swim. Bike. Run.

The morning of the race was warm, and thousands of people jockeyed for space in the transition area. I knelt; smoothed my towel, lined up my shoes. I bowed my head and whispered wishes to my son.

I wade in to the cool water. The sound of the air horn shatters the air. A tangled mass of bodies fights for space. Soon I got in to the rhythm of swimming. Four strokes; breathe. Four strokes; breathe. Out of the water, I ran to my bike. Socks and shoes were clumsy over my wet and sandy feet. The bike ride and run are civilized after the chaos of the swim, and in the rhythm, I find peace.

I came in 2,592^ndplace. But in every way that mattered that day, I had won.