Jamey | writenowcolumbus

Private Runner

by Theresa Garee | Aug 17, 2020 | Blog

Private Runner

“I’m a private runner,” I told my sister when she invited me to the first annual Steps for Sarcoma 5k. She had signed up to walk the three-point-one-mile course in memory of her daughter, Jamey, who died at twenty-four of osteosarcoma. The race raised money for cancer research. I hung my head as I declined, but the thought of running “in public” turned my stomach.

I’d only recently begun slow jogging the quiet streets of our suburban central Ohio neighborhood after a high school friend posted her interval workouts on social media. The thought of my neighbors watching me haul my flabby, overweight body down the street so terrified me that I leashed up Morgan, our yellow Labrador dog, for emotional support and headed into a wooded ravine where no one could see. It took several sessions before I summoned the courage to leave the ravine and jog in front of houses from which my neighbors probably weren’t watching anyway. I couldn’t possibly take part in a race.

A friend also suggested a charity race after she learned I was running. She told me how raising money for an important cause, this one breast cancer research, warmed her heart.

Again I refused. “This is something I do for myself.”

I don’t think of myself as selfish, but chronic depression, anxiety, paranoia, and panic attacks made it difficult to focus on anything beyond my symptoms. Running at all felt like enough of an accomplishment.

But I couldn’t shake the image of my niece in her hospital bed. She had been a runner and mistook the pain of a tumor in her femur for athletic aches. By the time they found the cancer, it had spread to her lungs.

Meanwhile, my sister kept asking.

During one workout, I consulted Morgan. Did he think I should do the race? He nodded or perhaps shook a bug off his copper-colored ear. He wasn’t afraid. Perhaps, with him as my example, I could face my fear and run in public.

I told my sister I was in.

To reduce my anxiety, I researched race etiquette and learned that the race number (a.k.a. “bib”) goes on the front of the shirt, not the back. I also discovered I should line up toward the end of the starting group so faster runners who cared about more than just finishing wouldn’t have to dodge me. The day before the race, my husband and I drove the course. Because of this preparation, on race morning I woke more excited than afraid.

When we pulled into the parking lot and I saw the crowd, my anticipation flipped to stomach jitters. I closed my eyes and remembered Jamey’s smile. I was there to honor her. We found my family and friends and soon, the festive atmosphere felt welcoming. Sarcoma survivors, their friends, and family members gathered for a survivor photo. A volunteer offered signs for us to fill out. I penned “In Memory of Jamey Ax” on one and my sister pinned it to the back of my shirt while I pinned my race number on the front.

Once I crossed the start line, my remaining fear vanished. I started out too fast—a typical rookie mistake—so a hill toward the end challenged my fitness. When my mind spun with negative self- talk, I remembered Jamey. Through five hundred days of treatment and illness, she had remained strong.

I finished, proud, tired, sweaty, and not quite last.

I meant for that first 5k to also be my last. I’d signed up to remember my niece and raise money for research hoping other families might be spared the grief our family will live with forever. But I hadn’t known that a 5k is like a party on foot: race signs, cheering fans, flying flags, music, and laughter. Plus, I had run in public! Not only had no one laughed, but complete strangers cheered! Infected with joy and excitement, I couldn’t wait to do another.

Nita and Morgan at Pet Promise Rescue Run

The following year, I joined a running group and found a community I hadn’t even realized I was missing. Before the pandemic, we traveled to races. We continue to raise money for causes of all types, and support each other through the joys and losses of life.

Since that first 5k, I’ve run three full marathons, twenty-seven half marathons (in eighteen states), and more than 100 shorter races. I participate in the Steps for Sarcoma 5k every year. While I don’t always run for charity, when a race support a good cause, it fills my heart.

I still take medication and go to therapy to treat my mental health issues, but running eases my anxiety and enhances my self-worth. I was able to reduce the amount of medication I need and haven’t had to change medications in several years.

If not for that charity race (and my sister’s nudges), I would have stayed in the neighborhood, running the streets near our house with only the dog. There’s nothing wrong with “private running.” Running of any kind improves fitness, boosts mood, and increases self-esteem. But if I hadn’t risked running that charity 5k “in public,” I would never have experienced the community, the celebration, and the joy of doing something for others. I would have missed some of the most fulfilling days of my life.

Doing good for others ultimately did good for me.

A version of this article originally appeared in Brokeman’s Blog. For more about Nita and Morgan’s running, see Nita’s mental health memoir, Depression Hates a Moving Target: How Running with My Dog Brought Me Back from the Brink.

Reclaiming Mother’s Day

by Theresa Garee | May 12, 2019 | Blog

I don’t remember which one of us decided to reclaim Mother’s Day, but it began with an impromptu day-long road trip. With little fanfare or notice to anyone except Ed, the #onehundredpercentgoodhusband, my sister Amy and I hopped in her convertible and drove north up Route 23 to Putnam County, the part of Ohio where both of our parents were born and grew up. We visited our grandparents’ houses, the cemeteries where our grandparents and other relatives on both sides of the family were buried, and we stopped at fast food restaurants to eat.

We bypassed the buffets in restaurants with white linen tablecloths and the brunches in popular breakfast places.

It wasn’t the food.

We were hiding from the mothers and daughters.

I’ve always said my biological clock never went off. My niece, Jamey, was the closest thing to a daughter I ever had. To claim I did anything close to parenting her would be an outright lie. She was simply the first young person in our family with whom I spent more than the occasional holiday. And she was my sister’s daughter, her only child.

And then Jamey died.

And then our mother died.

And then it was Mother’s Day.

No thank you.

So we took off.

Another year on Mother’s Day, a close friend was in the psych ward. The friend’s own mother was dead and her daughter was unable to visit. So Amy and I reclaimed Mother’s Day by spending a few hours with our friend. After, Amy and I drove through Taco Bell and ate in the car in the parking lot. We talked about our mother’s chronic cough and how crazy it made both of us and how we wondered if that made us horrible daughters. And we talked about Jamey’s illness and how that had turned the world upside down. And we talked about how much we loved Taco Bell.

Year after year we have continued the tradition, avoiding the malls and the restaurants and, for the most part, the mothers and daughters who celebrate, blissfully unaware (or so we project) of the clock ticking down the minutes until they will no longer have each other. And we usually eat Taco Bell.

This year we again reclaimed Mother’s Day, but with a twist.

This year, we both have “children” — sort of.

Three days after Mother’s Day, my “baby,” the memoir, Depression Hates a Moving Target: How Running with My Dog Brought Me Back from the Brink is being released by Mango Publishing.

And last year, Amy got married. Now, she and George, her husband, are raising his three grandchildren.

So we reclaimed Mother’s Day this year by celebrating so much new life: my book, Amy’s marriage, and the little people in her world. Instead of just the two of us eating in the parking lot outside a hospital or at a drive-through, we ate in their new home. Instead of Taco Bell, Amy and I, along with Ed and George, ate the chocolate chip pancakes and sausage links, strawberries, and whipped cream George prepared in their lovely kitchen.

None of this will replace our mother or Jamey, of course. Some wounds never completely heal. But we hold our love for them alongside these new loves.

Our hearts are big enough for it all.

Calling All Angels

by Theresa Garee | Mar 3, 2007 | Blog, Write Now Columbus Essay Archives

“No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.” – Robert Frost

As many of you know, my beloved niece Jamey Ax, passed away on February 6, 2007. She was 24. It’s no wonder I was having trouble writing last month! Jamey was at the end of her journey and my entire family was deep in the throes of pre-grief. But anticipatory sadness did not diminish the pain I felt when I heard the words, “She’s gone.”

I’m letting myself grieve. I continue working on the book and reading for school, but I’m also doing lots of pure undirected writing practice as well as spending time with Jamey’s mother, other family members, and alone. Just like writing, grieving is a process. It will take its natural course whether I want it to or not.

I hope when something devastating happens in your life that you will allow yourself the time it takes to heal. Life slows down when we’re in pain. As a writer, I pay attention, take notes, and let time do its work.

Thanks for your compassion – now, and always.

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Creative Rehab

by Theresa Garee | Feb 13, 2007 | Blog

I’m sitting in Port Townsend, WA in the computer lab of Goddard College‘s west coast branch where I’m working on my MFA in creative writing. When I checked my email just now (first time in several days), a friend sent a link to a Salon.com article by a
Carey Tennis about his MFA school experience. Here’s the line that jumped out at me:

. . . take care of your writing as you would take care of an animal or a child. Do not send it out into the world to do an adult’s job. Just take care of it and, in its own way, it will take care of you.

Over the break between semesters, my inner critic escaped it’s gilded cage and nearly ate me for dinner. This was due in part to the death of my dear niece, but also just because I’d let my guard down. By the time I arrived here on Sunday afternoon, I’d mentally eviscerated myself.

I’ve spent the past few days just pulling myself back together. Every morning and evening I give myself the gift of writing practice ala Natalie Goldberg, timed writing on topics that pop into my mind. I take long walks on the beach down to the lighthouse. I have lunch with a friend when I can. I stare out the window of my second-story room that looks over the water. I walk as slowly as the schedule will allow. And I breathe.

So far so good. I feel better. Surrounded by other writers and a good friend, listening to readings and lectures and water and mountains, I feel renewed. I am grieving and healing from various wounds. Regardless, I will continue.

No Words

by Theresa Garee | Feb 7, 2007 | Blog

My niece has been sick with cancer for 499 days. On Tuesday, day 500, she died. She was 24 years old. I have no words to express my sadness. It’s too fresh. Too raw. Too real. In time, with distance, I’ll be able to put words to it all.

For now, I am making notes about what I heard, saw, felt, smelled. Making lists of colors and names. And I am letting myself rest. It’s been a long 500 days and yet they went by too quickly. I am so sad, but the written word cannot encompass all I feel. Even these precious words are not enough.