PUBLISHED 10/02/2007
My journey began several months ago. I didn't prepare as well as I intended. I put things off that now I wish I hadn't. I made a decision and jumped on a runaway train, confident of reaching my destination safely, emerging smug and smiling after beating the odds.
I tried to imagine what it would be like, how it would feel when it was happening. Would it be fun? How much would it hurt? And where? Would I know what was going on around me? Who would be with me?
Now the time has come. I don't have to wonder anymore.
"It's a lot like childbirth," someone tries to explain. "I've never had children," I say.
"No, not that experience with childbirth," she says. "The original one . . . when you were born."
I don't remember being born, I think, my anxiety mounting. I'm not ready. I need more time.
There is no more time.
Some people are running. Some walking as if they have no place to go. Don't rush, I tell myself. Don't push too hard. Let it happen naturally. Focus on your breathing.
So far it doesn't hurt, and I'm surprised. I thought it would be harder. I'm floating, aware of every sensation in my body. I'm going to be okay.
A face appears in front of me. My husband. "I love you, sweetie," he says. "You can do this. I'm with you all the way." I see some family members and friends. "Hang on," they cry. "Don't give up!"
It feels harder now. When did everything change? When did the pain start? It seems like one minute I was having fun, then I turned a corner and began to struggle.
Now I see why they say it's like childbirth. It takes so much energy to move, and I'm not sure I want to. "Go, girl. We're here for you," I hear someone say. Someone else squeezes my arm. I'm thirsty, but it's so hard to swallow.
A woman from my childhood church appears beside me. She was a little girl last time I saw her. Now her face is lined. She recognizes me, and we touch hands. "It's been so long," she says. "How are you?" But before I can answer, she's gone.
Someone else puts an arm around me. "We're going to help you through this," she tells me. I say she must have other places to go, other people to help. "No, just you," she replies. I feel very special and warm.
"I can't keep going," I say to the person beside me. "I'm not going to make it." My stomach is churning. My head is a helium balloon floating way up in the air, and I can't reach it to pull it back down. My legs are numb.
I'm retreating inside myself now. The voices around me are farther away. I'm vaguely aware of those voices expecting a response. I try to answer, but I don't succeed. I try to extend my arm, but I can't move it. It's too heavy.
"Run through the tunnel," someone says. "See the light on the other side?" I don't see the light, but I run through the tunnel anyway. When I emerge, I know the end is near. Family members are standing off to one side, their features shaded and hazy.
Euphoria surges through me. Why was I hurting so badly before? I feel lighter now. The pain is gone. I soar through the arch, bright lights blinding me. The end is here at last.
I have finished my first marathon.
