Running with Spirit
By Sally Spencer-Thomas, Ph.D.
Flipping through a box of photos, I come across a picture of me from a few years ago. I am in Little Rock, Arkansas, and I am ready to run. My face is somber and determined, and my racing singlet is covered with pictures– Carson on the back, Sushi on the front. Running has always been my form of therapy, but training for the Little Rock Marathon, was different. This is my story of love, loss, and how running saved me.
On September 16th, my third son Jackson is born, bringing with him joy to the world and 50 pounds of midsection for me. Within two weeks I am back to exercise: first walking then jogging then running. As pounds melt off, I set my sights on my next running goal.
When my two closest running friends, Leslie and Anna, moved away from Denver in the preceding year, we decided we would try as often as family and finances allowed to get together somewhere in the world to run a reunion marathon. In the beginning of October, we decide the Little Rock Marathon would be our first. Arkansas’ Governor Huckabee lost 110 pounds training for this marathon. In our little on-line running support group we joke: will we beat the Governor?
Then my life takes a drastic turn. My younger brother and only sibling, Carson, dies by suicide on December 7th. A highly successful entrepreneur, exceptional athlete, and remarkable friend, Carson hid his struggles with the manic highs and devastating lows of bipolar disorder for the previous six months. So ashamed and in so much pain, he couldn’t see any other option. After his death I fell in a big hole. Nothing really mattered. Looking back, I believe he had already made up his mind to take his life when, during our last conversation, he took the time to ask me about the marathons. Which was my favorite? Which was the hardest? He was in so much pain, yet he connected to something he knew mattered to me.
About two weeks after his death, I think: I am going to run this race for him. My first run after his death is fueled by pure emotion. The race is now about the heart rather than goals. On my long runs I talk to him, crying when I see the beautiful rocky mountain range lit up by the sunrise, because he isn’t there to see it too.
On the Monday before the race, three months after my brother’s death, I have to put down my Siberian husky of 13 years. Over the last year Sushi became progressively sicker with a neurological disorder; on that morning she looks up at me unable to walk, refusing food and water, and ceases wagging her tail. I too finally feel ready to say goodbye but wonder how much more loss my heart can take. She goes peacefully looking into my eyes.
Before we left for Arkansas, I laminate pictures for the race. On my back I wear two pictures: One of Carson and me dancing together as children, and the other of us together on Martha’s Vineyard as adults. The text reads: “This one’s for Carson. 1969-2004.” On the front, over my heart, I wear a small picture of Sushi during her first experience with the snow, tongue wagging and all four legs off the ground.
On a brisk Friday morning, five-month-old Jackson and I board our plane to Arkansas and are warmly greeted by Leslie upon our arrival. The next morning I comment on how much Beverly, Leslie’s 18-month-old daughter, reminds me of Kaija, my brother’s daughter– petite, precocious, and a little bit impish. Later that morning, Beverly insists on wearing a ladybug costume. I don’t make anything of it at the time, but on our way to the race expo, Leslie remarks, “Sally, I think that was a sign from Carson.” Leslie knew my brother’s nickname for Kaija was Ladybug– “Beverly has never once wanted to wear that costume; it was stuck in the back of her closet.”
As we are about to leave the race expo, we meet a man with a “50 marathons in 50 states” t-shirt. As we talk about his marathons adventures, I notice that he has a ladybug sticker stuck on the female runner in the middle of his shirt. When I ask him why that sticker is there, he says, “someone stuck it there for good luck.”
Leslie and I smiled at each other.
Anna arrives from Oregon late that night and in the morning, we all engage in our pre-race rituals. At the starting line, I say a prayer to Carson for exuberance and strength on the hills, and to Sushi for a joyful running heart. The gun fires; the race begins.
Leslie quickly moves ahead to attempt to finish her ½ -marathon in under 2 hours. Anna and I settle into our conversational pace and dedicate the full-marathon miles. I dedicate each to a memory of Carson:
- Mile 1: One hot and hilly 5K, as I am chugging up the final stretch, I see Carson waving and yelling enthusiastically, “RUN!! Run already!” His cheering kicks me into high gear.
- Mile 2: Dancing on the tables at the ΔΚΕ house.
- Mile 3: A ski trip together. I am 18, and he is 16. In his true reckless style, he crashes into the woods, breaks his skis, and injures himself. He sends his buddy to find me so that I can sign the consent-to-treat-form because he doesn’t want our parents to find out.
- Mile 4: His forlorn face looking up from his bed where he is lying with two casts.
- Mile 5: The World Champion Skating competition in Hartford. I train for months to skate in the opening ceremonies. On a whim, he decides to be the kid who goes out onto the ice and picks up flowers. I am a dot in a sea of skaters, and he ends up on international television.
- Mile 6: The time I cut his hair when the babysitter isn’t looking.
- Mile 7: Another 5K race. Six months pregnant with my first boy, my belly bulges so much I can barely squeeze into the race t-shirt. The whole family walks together.
- Mile 8: His first house. As a housewarming gift, I had painted two large rocks side-by-side from the Colorado River.
- Mile 9: The bear hug he gives me on our last night together. We are sitting on the couch watching “ER” when he embraces and kisses me on the forehead. Little did I know he is saying goodbye.
- Mile 10: Our vacation in the mountains, skiing, playing games, eating jambalaya, and laughing until we pee our pants.
- Mile 11: His apartment in Atlanta: a refrigerator filled with restaurant leftovers and expensive beer.
- Mile 12: The week before he died. I hug him and say, “I don’t ever want to let you go!”
- Mile 13: Later that night it’s almost like old times. We hang out. We make chocolate chip cookies. I have hope.
- Mile 14: A ski trip from our teenage years. We’re on the top of this icy, double-black diamond slope. Swish-swish, he’s down. He’s yelling at me from down below not to be scared, just do as he did. I attempt and end up crashing into him like a bowling pin.
- Mile 15: Our trip to Colorado as children; we are in awe of snow on the ground in July.
- Mile 16: His favorite nicknames for me: Gasser (short for “Sassy-Mc-Gasser”) and Eggoness (for my egg-shaped body).
- Mile 17: The time Carson dresses baby Kaija in a Colorado Avalanche outfit to watch playoffs. As he is making her dance while singing “goavalanche-goavalanche-go,” she is squealing in delight.
- Mile 18: His support during a three-day 60 mile walk. He places the signs of encouragement at the most challenging parts.
- Mile 19: The afterlife connection I feel with him when, during a Colorado training run, a bouquet of balloons appears shortly after mile 19.
Not long after I make this dedication, we pass a bouquet of balloons along the race route where spectators were few and far between.
- Mile 20: For this landmark mile, I save the memory of us dancing at my wedding to Whitney Houston’s, “I will always love you.”
- Mile 21: The goofy Christmas photo of Carson, Dad, and Pop-pop laughing arm-in-arm, wearing polar bear sweaters given to them by Mom.
- Mile 22: The unparalleled sunset on the Rocky Mountains that served as the backdrop to his picture perfect wedding.
- Mile 23: The hilarious audiotape letters he sent me.
At some point during this mile, we pass some spectators who say, “Go pass the Governor– he’s right in front of you!”
- Mile 24: The Martha’s Vineyard camping trip we took as 20-somethings and his crazy idea of renting mopeds that nearly got us killed.
- Mile 25: My earliest memory. Carson arrives home from the hospital, and I think he is my Christmas present.
- Mile 26: My last living memory. The one where he asks me about the marathons.
I say out loud, “Carson, of all the marathons, this one is the most important, the one I feel the strongest. I love you.” Heaving with emotion, I sprint to cross the finish line. Leslie, who had finished her ½ marathon hours before, is on the sidelines and notices that a just as we cross the finish line, a ladybug lands on Jackson’s stroller.
Our time: 4:34
Governor Huckabee: 4:38
In the newspaper the next morning the Governor is quoted as saying it was harder than the elections. For me, it was a race to remember.
About the Author
Sally Spencer-Thomas, Ph.D., is a psychologist at Regis University in Denver, Colorado, and the Executive Director of the Carson J Spencer Foundation (www.CarsonJSpencer.org). She speaks around the country on mental health promotion and suicide prevention.