I was successful. I am now registered for the Paris marathon, happening Sunday, April 3rd, 2016, six months away. I haven’t run a marathon in three years. I set up a training schedule for myself (weaved between my seven-day work week) and for my first scheduled training run this week, well, I simply didn’t go.
At forty years old, I recently experienced my first pregnancy, a miracle I did not think was possible for a woman like me with her ultra-light to non-existent periods. But I did get pregnant. And I felt a calm, a joy, a fulfillment like I have never known. Then, sadly, on the hideous flipside, when I discovered at three months that I had miscarried two and a half weeks prior, the loss and devastation drove me to near insanity. I didn’t want to heal. I held desperately to my heartbreak, the only link I had left to my lost child.
Here I am, two months later. I have finally accepted my loss. I have made amends with the father of my lost child; he who had been a stranger I now call friend and lover. I have signed up for a race I may not have any gumption to even train for, much less complete.
I am a little chrome-steel ball, bouncing around between past dreams, new dreams, what I know, what I don’t know, my human need for love and my very small quota of intelligence on where to find it. It seems my heart serves as one flipper and my mind as the other. Who can work with such temperamental tools!?