6 Years and What Have I Learned? Dear Grampa

 

Dear Grampa,

It’s been 6 years now since you left this world. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I remember every excruciating detail of those last few months as you slowly deteriorated due to Alzheimer's. I told myself that if I truly thought of you as my hero and role model that I needed to be there as much as I could through those dark times.

The truth is, it scarred me. It scarred and traumatized me more than anyone knows. It’s a trauma I don’t speak of much because I don’t know who’d listen or care.

That first time in the room with you, where you got stuck in a loop of getting dressed and undressed for work was a cold slap of reality, I think I didn’t want to believe. I made my choice though to be there until the end.

Some times felt almost normal. We’d talk about the 1950s, jazz music, old friends, and you remembered my name. That might have been the biggest blessing and curse. You remembered my name almost to the end. It also meant that when you begged me to help you escape the nursing facility, it was my name you used. All I could do was wait it out until the thought floated from your mind like dandelion spores.

Then there were the bad times. Me sitting at your bedside while Nina begged me to help you. There was nothing I could do but apologize and say I didn’t know what to do. Few things are more heartbreaking than your grandparents who had been married over 70 years begging their grandson to do anything to help the situation and knowing there was not a damn thing I could do but be there.

I would hold it together for the sake of my mother and siblings until I was by myself. That was when my alcohol issues took center stage. I would drink until I couldn’t feel and then hate myself for wanting to scrub the final memories of my supposed hero from my mind.

In those final weeks, I had many times that I was torn between hoping you passed so you wouldn’t suffer anymore and wanting desperately for one more memory of you, even a traumatizing one. Then the end came.

They say even when you’re unresponsive, a person can still hear you, which is why it is good to speak to someone even if they show no signs. I remember that last night, that last time I saw you. I left work to say my goodbyes. Sitting at your bedside as you lay with your eyes closed, looking peaceful, I knew it was the last time I’d ever see you.

It hurt. It was a new kind of hurt, though. When my dear old friend Matt died 18 months earlier, I got the news but never saw him. This time with you I was staring you in the face, knowing that it was my choice how long I stayed, what I said, and how I reacted to what was coming.

I’ll keep my final words to you between us because I know you heard them. I could have stayed longer as my coworkers told me to just go home after I saw you but I needed to not be alone, at least not right away. I knew alone time was drinking time and I needed to feel for a little longer.

I stood in that doorway looking at you trying to imprint everything permanently into my memory. It worked. It’s still there. Even now I get that familiar pang of emotion knowing that my next move was turning and walking away leaving you forever only a memory. I’m sorry.

The photo I took after leaving the nursing facility that final night.

It’s been 6 years now. So what have I learned?

I learned that you cast a big shadow. It feels even bigger when it’s been taken away. I learned a lot from your life and death, but that doesn’t mean that I’ve done anything with what I’ve learned.

I learned what real love was from you and Nina being married for over 70 years. I learned how important real love was by how she slowly faded away once you were gone. Me, I am more afraid to love and be loved so I have chosen to bury myself in chasing my dreams since you’ve been gone.

I learned about what a real man is and what having a real male role model means, especially when one is taken away. I’ve had so many ‘second fathers’ in my life, because my ‘first father’ didn’t want to be a father at all. I tried to soak up all of your wisdom while I could. Now I find myself wishing I could ask you a question or share a problem with you, usually a few times a week.

I have sunk deep into personal development over the last few years, desperately trying to find the road that I was paving while you were still here. Through this journey, I have learned one sad truth. I don’t feel like I am honoring your legacy the way I wish I could.

There was a great question on a self-help podcast a few months ago that hit me like a ton of bricks. A man asked how best to honor his brother, who had recently passed away. The podcast host said the best way to honor someone you’ve lost is by living the life they would have wanted for you. I don’t feel I am doing that.

There are times that I think about all of the advice, words of wisdom, and lessons I got from you. Then I think to myself, ‘Did I even pay attention?’ I swear I did.

I said to you that if I grew up to be half the man that you were, I would consider my life to be a success. I don’t consider myself a success. This is where I’d ask you for advice on what to do next, but all I can do is comb my memories of you to see if I can find a stone I’ve left unturned.

I could sit here and tell you I feel like I’ve failed you in terms of the lofty praise and expectations you would heap on me. Maybe it was just what good grandparents do. I don’t know.

There are two things I will leave you with, Grampa. One you said to me and one I’ve learned through the years, and all of the losses of loved ones.

One is the words you scratched down on the piece of paper I still have to this day. It’s never too late to be what you might have been. Yes, I know that George Eliot said that quote, but I had never heard of it until you gave me those words. Until I am dead and gone, I will continue the search for whatever I might be. Not giving up my dreams is the best way I can honor you. Well, except for one other way.

It is said that a person dies twice. They die once when they take their last breath, and again when their name is spoken for the last time. As long as I am alive, you will be as well.

I will celebrate. I will mourn. I will share stories. I will pursue my dreams in your honor. It’s all I can do to stay warm in the chill of your giant shadow. It is why I am writing a letter you will never receive.

How I picture my grandparents.

In closing Grampa, I love you and miss you everyday. Please take Nina out for a fun night dancing and singing at the best jazz club heaven has. Save a big table for Nana, Uncle Eric, Auntie Chris, Brenda, and Marylou. Matt probably won’t go to a jazz club, but you can always send him a box of donuts.

Until we meet again, thank you for everything.

Love,

 Chris

What I've Learned In My 40s(so far): 3. There's No Textbook For Dealing With Grief and Loss

I turned 40 on November 2, 2017. There is an old saying that ‘life begins at 40.’ I used to think that was just something middle-aged people said to make them feel younger. Maybe that is a part of it. I do believe that the wisdom behind that saying is that you spend those first 39 years accumulating all kinds of knowledge that you then can start to put into practice when you hit the Big 4-0.

For me, as I stare down 47, I can honestly say that my 40s so far have been the most difficult and also rewarding decade of my life. I never thought I’d find a time where I’d feel more unsure, insecure, lost, and yet filled with optimism. My teens used to be the benchmark until my 40s.

I’ve learned a lot in my life. Some of it has been useful as I’ve aged. A lot has been pointless. No amount of studying prepares you for coming to grips with your own aging, your own mortality, or your own demons. No amount of preparation can soften the blow of loss and grief. My 40s have been a trial by fire. They have seen me dropped in hostile environments mentally with no survival gear and having to learn on the fly.

So what have I learned in my 40s so far? A lot.

4 Years Alcohol-Free: How I Got Here & Why I Stay Here

     September 12, 2024, is a milestone as I pass four years alcohol-free.

     Many of you know my story of how and why I did it. I will give a bit of an overview for those who might not know.

     How? It was simple and yet arduous. I had to quit cold turkey. September 12, 2020, the first night without alcohol after drinking nearly every night for close to three years was incredibly difficult. I essentially had to tie myself to my couch and bribe myself by saying I could do pretty much anything else except for drinking alcohol.

     Alcohol had been my nearest and dearest confidant for so long that giving it up was a big change. It took weeks to feel like the change might last. After that, it was a matter of being diligent but also easy on myself. That meant doing pretty much whatever I had to do to keep me from drinking. This included eating loads of bad foods to replace the hole left by alcohol.

     Naturally, this led to a weight gain issue but I figured it was better than the alcohol issue. I did my best to not totally lose who I was as I tried to remember who I was before alcohol. I parlayed my lucid evenings I now had into an idea for a podcast which ended up being the thing I focused on to keep booze in the rearview mirror.

     Why did I quit drinking? The short answer is I had finally run out of excuses not to. My last drink I had was on September 11^th and I said I ‘had’ to drink to mourn those we lost on 9/11. Noble? Maybe. Not the way I meant it. Like I said it was my last excuse to continue down a road that had led me so far from who I wanted to be.

Sunset on September 11, 2020

     Alcoholism runs in my family so I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t know falling into that pool was possible. I just thought I was stronger than that. I wasn’t. There were extenuating circumstances that started me down that road.

     Losing one of my oldest friends, Matt, suddenly close to Christmas in 2017 was tough, especially because I’d had the chance to speak to him a few days before but passed on it because I was tired from work. The guilt I felt was tough to take sober so I started drinking to numb it.

     In the past, I had been able to drink once a week or something like that, you know, have a few drinks but not have it become my defining characteristic. My friend’s death shattered the illusion that I had control.

     I battled being basically a day from being flat broke. Not getting the hours I needed in a new career I had begun as a personal trainer made me question my choices. I had no cash, had maxed out my credit cards, and was so broke that I couldn’t even afford a bottled water and protein bar at a supermarket. I had my card declined and had to return the bar.

     I had to borrow money from a client I was training in-home to stabilize my life. I hate being in debt to people so this was a hard pill to swallow. Over time I had to go back into cooking for a consistent paycheck. These things only strengthened my bond with alcohol.

     The first half of 2019 saw my hero, my Grampa deteriorate and ultimately pass due to Alzheimer’s. Being there every step of the decline was a trauma I’ve honestly yet to get over. I’d go from visiting him at the facility to drinking as soon as I left to wash the pain from my heart.

If I can be half of who he was I will have lived a successful life.

     My drinking only got worse coping with Grampa’s loss. Then came Covid. Mere weeks before I had left my cooking job at a retirement home where his wife, my Nina, was a resident. I wanted to take another retirement home job with fewer hours so I could refocus on personal training.

     I got to the new job with fewer hours and Covid hit. I was stuck there and couldn’t do any training. Worst of all my Nina was stuck on the inside at my old job. The family couldn’t see her except through her window. If I hadn’t been so impatient I might have stayed there and been on the inside to comfort my Nina. Again, that is a guilt I have yet to get over.

     Flash forward about six months. I had run out of excuses to drink besides admitting I was a weak, sad, addict that was not in control of his life. Up to that point I had suffered in silence. This was both in my drinking and my coping with the losses of my friend Matt and my Grampa.

     It was a tough go but day by day I’ve made it to where I am now. But why do I stay alcohol-free? Surely I could attempt to go back to being a ‘social drinker’ right? The funny thing is that the further I got from alcohol the more I realized I didn’t need it, and I never did.

     Looking back over my life I can say there is nothing I did or experienced that was made better with alcohol. I didn’t miss it. What I started noticing was that my own story of recovering from alcohol dependency was inspiring others. I finally opened up about my weakness and the fight I’d been going through and it resonated with people. My family and friends were proud of me.

     This leads to two of the biggest reasons I choose to remain alcohol-free. My sister Ashley and my Uncle Bob. Both of them battled their own demons and had broken free of alcohol. They were both so proud of me and I felt that if I took a risk of even one drink I’d be letting them down.

     If I went back to drinking I’d be just another person to fall off the wagon. Just another person to talk a big game but gave up when rough patches came. And came they did.

     I lost my Nina in 2021, lost my Aunt Brenda and old friend Pete in 2022, and lost my Uncle Eric in 2023. I faced them all without the crutch of alcohol. In the four years since I last had a drink the only time I came close to falling off the wagon was when my Uncle Eric died. He had been like a father to me and I hadn’t been there at the end when he was dying of cancer. In fact, I learned of his death the day after it happened. It is a trauma that remains an open wound. I am currently listening to a Hawaiian music station on Pandora that includes many songs Uncle Eric shared with me. This is because this music makes me remember him and helps me to go to the places I have to go to share these experiences.

     I sat in the parking lot of a liquor store I used to visit so much that they knew when I changed my ‘normal’ order. In my mind it didn’t matter if I didn’t drink, I was going to die someday so why not just do what you want, right? My memories of Uncle Eric stopped me from going inside. I thought how upset he’d be if he knew I was using his death as an excuse to start drinking again.

Trying to live the life those I've lost would want for me.

     A few weeks before writing this I was listening to a podcast by a guy named Mark Manson. I have become a huge fan of his in 2024 including reading both of his books. His podcast is a part of a deep personal development journey I’ve been on in 2024. I need to build from the ashes of the last several years mentally. I might have stopped drinking but losing so many people close to me in short order drained me.

     On this particular episode of Mark Manson’s podcast, he was doing a Q&A. A question he answered has profoundly affected me since I heard it.

     The question was from someone who had recently lost a family member and they wanted to know the best way to honor them going forward. Manson’s reply was that they should try to live a life that their lost family member would want for them.

     It floored me. I immediately thought of those I had lost. Am I living the life Grampa would want for me? Or Nina? Or Uncle Eric? I don’t think I am. I don’t think I am extremely far from what they’d want for me, but I’m far enough away in my mind that it’s got me looking at my entire life.

     The idea of being an inspiration rather than a cautionary tale is a pressure I’m willing to accept. I don’t have many responsibilities. No wife. No kids. No real attachments. It’s a blessing and a curse. I’d love the security of a family and a house. However, I also love the fact that I can pack and go on a road trip without anything to stop me.

     No matter what if any changes I make in the next year of my life one change that I won’t make is letting alcohol back into my life. It does me no good. If it does you good that’s fine, to each their own. However, if you feel it’s way too big a part of your life and you want to give it up just know that you can.

     If I could do it so can you. My journey is not unique but if it can inspire anyone looking to give up alcohol to do so then I am happy to share my journey.

     It’s been four years since I last had a drink. 1,462 days and counting. Life can still be tough sometimes but it’s about finding better ways to cope with the curve balls. 

It's a long and winding road that is life.

The Seven Year Journey: A Short Story About A Long Road

On May 4, 2024, I competed in a road race for the first time in nearly 7 years. Looking at it from a distance it was not a major accomplishment. Hell, I’d run dozens of races before. However, when you get up close and know the full details of the journey to get here it becomes the biggest race I’ve ever run. To understand why we have to go back nearly seven years.

On August 12, 2017, I competed in the Brewster Brew Run in the town of Brewster on Cape Cod in Massachusetts for those unfamiliar with my home area. It was, and still is, a 5.2-mile run sponsored by a local bar called The Woodshed. Ironically I had no plan to run that race, I was talked into it by a friend on eleven days' notice. The run itself was fine. The stats were: 39:47 overall, 7:39 pace per mile, good for 180th out of 1,294 people.

At the starting line of my last race in 2017

If I had known that was going to be the end of my running career for a long time I likely would have slowed a bit to appreciate it. Instead, I was glad it was over and was more interested in filming myself chugging the complementary beer you got for running.

After this race ended the coming months saw my life take several unexpected twists and turns that knocked running far from my mind and far from my body’s ability.

In December 2017 I got word that one of my oldest friends Matt Medeiros had died suddenly. He was someone I had known since I was about seven years old. It was a gut punch. Not only did he leave behind his family I had also known since I was a kid, but even more tragically he left behind a wife and a young daughter. 

The topper for me, when it came to getting the news about Matt, was the fact that I had seen him only a few days prior. We usually would bump into each other in the grocery store like middle-aged men. We’d chat about life and the old days. However, on this day I was tired from work and didn’t feel like talking. So I saw Matt but he didn’t see me. I watched him turn the corner pushing his cart and I made my quick exit. I had no idea that the image of him turning that corner would be the last time I saw him and that the image is burned into my memory.

I sat in the main office at the gym where I was working and shut the door so I could sob at the front desk. It was a hard pain to deal with knowing that I had chosen not to have that last moment with Matt. This is where I began to self-medicate with alcohol. It became a running theme over the next few years.

Over the ensuing months, nagging injuries in my legs slowed my running. At the time I had what I believed to be a left ankle/foot injury caused by intense speed training. I had a desire to finish Top-10 in a 5K(3.1 miles). My best at that time was 19:30, or 6:17 per mile. To finish Top-10 you usually needed to be under 18 minutes in your time. That’s about 5:48 per mile. 

I’ll try to sum up the intricate running minutia for those who are starting to fall asleep reading. The gist was that I needed to increase my speed by about 30 seconds per mile. That’s not too hard if you’re running slower. When you’re already fast getting faster leaves little room for error. Only a few wrong steps in your running gait can equal some pretty rough injuries. This is what happened to me. I went too fast, well, too fast.

The left foot issues slowly eroded my speed and endurance. Sure I still could run races, but slower. Sure I could still run as exercise, but it became more necessary for me to slow down, or stop to let my foot calm down.

That Brew Run race had basically pulled me out of retirement in 2017. My foot issues sadly were too much to keep risking. I was working as a personal trainer and if I couldn’t walk it would spell doom for that job. So with running becoming less of my release and stress reliever, I started turning more to drinking.

Late in 2018, my Grampa began to deteriorate into Alzheimer’s. I had either been naive, or just blind to his condition for months. My mother had been telling me of things that he’d been doing and saying but I didn’t see it so it had to be exaggerations, right? 

With my Grampa in 2010

He was my hero and role model so I think I didn’t want to believe that he was declining so rapidly. After a series of mishaps that made it more and more difficult for him to continue living at home with my Nina, Grampa was taken to a nursing/rehab facility. It was while he was there that the shocking truth became apparent to me.

By this point in time I was working at a retirement home and had become more aware of the signs of Alzheimer’s. Once I saw Grampa get stuck in a sort of loop where he did the same few things repeatedly nonstop I knew that everything my mother had said was true. 

Because he was my hero I felt I owed it to him to be there as much as possible as his days counted down. Unfortunately, it was a trauma that I still haven’t gotten over. Watching Alzheimer’s cut my Grampa down was agonizing. With running not as big of a part of my life I kept on drinking to dull the pain.

When Grampa passed from Alzheimer’s in May 2019 I dove off the deep end with drinking. I made the excuse that I needed to cope with this loss by any means necessary. Whatever collateral damage happened I would deal with it later. Later meant much later. For many months I drank daily. It went from mourning Grampa to a vice I couldn’t break free from.

Then Covid happened. In March 2020 the world shut down. On one hand, I was lucky because working in a retirement home categorized me as an ‘essential worker.’ On the other hand, I was in a toxic work environment and when I wasn’t there the world was on lockdown. This once-in-a-century pandemic was another form of trauma. Much like with the deaths of Matt and my Grampa, I decided to deal with Covid however was needed to survive.

This meant more drinking. This also meant eating whatever I wanted. I needed some sort of good feelings in such a tough time. My life was dominated by McDonald’s, Domino’s, Wendy’s, and other fast food places.

Despite not running as much I was still doing some, and also hitting the gym 5-6 days a week regardless. When the world shut down that all went away. I became far more sedentary. I gained roughly 25 pounds in just a little over four months. It went from ‘oh well I can’t run much but I’m still in great shape otherwise,’ to being out of shape, eating fast food, and drinking to numb trauma that wouldn’t heal.

The weight would fluctuate. I’d lose a little but then gain it back plus a little more. So my lows became less low and my highs got higher. I would have moments of clarity but not long enough to make changes.

Finally, in September 2020 I used all of my strength and willpower to quit alcohol. It was not easy. Stop me if you’ve heard this one, but when quitting alcohol I said I’d deal with it by any means necessary. This meant filling the alcohol void with more food. This sadly became a vice without me even noticing. Despite the world starting to open back up I was in far worse shape physically and mentally so picking up the pieces would have to wait.

Unfortunately, when my Grampa died I knew that it was only a matter of time until my Nina followed him. They were married over 70 years so I knew when one went the other would not be far behind. 

I had been working in the retirement home where my Nina had been sent. This meant I could see her and support her every day I worked. I wanted badly to do more as a personal trainer though. I moved on to another retirement home that offered fewer hours so I could start adding in-home training clients to my schedule. Then Covid happened.

Not only was I stuck in a different retirement home, but my training clients were a no-go. This also meant that my Nina was now locked down without the ability to see her family. If I had only waited a little longer to leave that first retirement home I would have at least been on the inside with her. 

Obviously, nobody could foresee the Covid lockdown happening. That being said, the amount of guilt I had, and still have, for essentially abandoning my Nina is something I haven’t been able to get over. I had stopped drinking, and I was now far too out of shape to run anywhere near what I used to. That meant I would eat whatever my heart desired to deal with the guilt, sadness, whatever I was feeling.

In March 2021 my Nina left this earth. We as family did get to see her on the inside a few times before the end. It was not the end of life any of us had envisioned. I didn’t see myself sitting in a lobby of a retirement home basically in a hazmat suit sitting next to my Nina with a pan of plexiglass between us and her also wrapped up like a mummy. I remember apologizing for leaving that retirement home and Nina jokingly saying that I should be sorry because I couldn't bring her bacon and raisin toast anymore like I had been doing. 

In the end, I had to cope with another loss by eating my feelings. I was unhappy but knew I’d be unhappier if I didn’t have the bad foods. My brain began to clear from alcohol and I realized how toxic the second retirement home job was. It was so bad that I ended up quitting in the middle of Covid with no backup plan. I just knew being in that environment was not good for my mental health.

A few months later I was lucky to find a far better job, one suited to my skills as a personal trainer. It was as a trainer at a chiropractic and wellness clinic. Here is where my running injury was finally properly diagnosed. During my first-ever chiropractic adjustment, my boss Dr. Mike was able to show me that it was not my left ankle/foot that was the issue. No, that issue was in fact caused by an injury to my right hip. This was further made clear when I was put on bilateral scales.

Bilateral scales are two scales next to each other. You step one foot onto each. In theory, if you’re in proper alignment the weights on either scale should be identical, or at least virtually so. My numbers were off a good 15 pounds. I was running crooked which only compounded my issues. When you factor in the added weight I was carrying it was no wonder why running had become more uncomfortable than even when I was marathon training.

So I worked on trying to correct the hip imbalance. It wasn’t enough to get back to any real running though. Months passed and it was time for another loss in my life. When I had left my Nina at that first retirement home she wasn’t the only family I had left. 

Brenda might not have been family in the blood sense, but she had been a part of my life since the day I was born, before then. She was at nearly every family event as long as I could remember. I referred to her as my aunt either way. 

She was also a resident at the retirement home. There had been a few cardiac issues that had forced her there at a relatively young age. I loved getting to spend all sorts of time with her during my workdays. She had many friends in the complex, but I was the only family.

Being that she didn’t have any blood family on Cape Cod it was tough when she ended up in the ER. Her health issues came to a head and she was not long for the world. The people closest to Brenda from my family were my Uncle Eric and Aunt Emma. At the time of Brenda’s decline, they couldn’t make it to the Cape from Las Vegas. They were happy that I was able to get in and see her though.

She was unresponsive but I still spoke to her. She was the fourth important person in my life in just over four years to die. I hate to say I was becoming numb to it but it felt that way. Maybe it was a bit of self-preservation. I felt awful that Brenda passed with few, if any, visitors. She deserved better than that but I could only control the fact that I had been there.

Several people from my high school class have remained good friends. Although some have moved far away, and even more have gotten married and/or had children, there is a collection of names that always makes me smile. One such person was Pete Machon. He was a gentle soul, good-looking surfer-type guy, that’s the best way I can describe him. 

Through the years after high school, I saw him less and less but through the magic of social media I could stay connected with him to a degree. I learned of Pete’s death after the fact in the late summer of 2022. Losing people your own age when you’re supposed to have a good half of your life left is a strange sadness. People get the short end of the straw all the time and fall to illness or accidents. Still, you don’t ever expect it. It was a shocking gut punch. I had our lineage of social media interaction and I found myself scrolling through and wishing each conversation had been longer.

The only silver lining of mourning the loss of Pete was that a lot of us from high school got together to celebrate his life. It’s something I wish happened more often and not surrounding death or high school reunions. Part of that is my own doing. The string of deaths in my life, coupled with my alcohol issues, and the circumstances of Covid has changed me deep inside.

I feel at times as if I have forgotten how to interact with people thanks to retreating into a shell to cope with all of the bad of the last several years. I know there have been times when friends want to do things and I find excuses not to. So they go and do things without me. The loss of Pete, another good friend taken suddenly, left me speechless and a bit empty. 

During these times I was still hitting the gym as best I could but it wasn’t the same as a few years prior. Back then I had direction, I had a purpose. I was a runner and a pretty good one, so my workouts were geared toward the next race. With running becoming less and less a part of my life I felt directionless. I felt as if I was just going through the motions. Hitting the gym because it was what I was supposed to be doing.

Despite working in fitness and helping people toward their own goals I was having trouble finding motivation and inspiration for my own. I could always hang my hat on the fact that I had conquered my alcohol dependence though. That got tested though as another massive loss came my way.

There might be few things worse than having things to say and never getting to say them. I was not prepared to get a text from my sister Kate asking me how our Uncle Eric died in January 2023. I had not even known he was sick, let alone that he had passed literally the day before. It was the gut punch to end all gut punches.

I had looked up to my Uncle Eric as a father figure. He was someone who set an example of what it was like to be a good man and a good father. I had told him on a few occasions that I wished he’d been my father, so he knew how I felt. However, to be so wrapped up in my own bubble to not know he was sick, or to not reach out just because, it was too much to bear.

With my Uncle Eric in 2016

Our last conversation centered around his excitement over an upcoming book I was writing. I didn’t finish the book in time to send a copy to him. I did end up giving his copy to my Aunt Emma and cousin Patrick. It was within that same week of his passing that I had my closest brush with a relapse of alcohol.

I sat in the parking lot of a shopping plaza, staring at a liquor store I used to frequent so much that the employees knew when I would switch up my usual order. I thought about Uncle Eric and how he meant so much to me but I never got a final chance to tell him. I debated long and hard about just caving and going in and grabbing something, anything, and just coping with the loss in the way I had done before. Ultimately I thought I’d be disrespecting my uncle by doing that. He would not like to be used as an excuse for me to fall off the wagon. So I started my car and went home. I’d deal with his loss with more bad foods.

My cathartic moment when dealing with Uncle Eric’s death came during his celebration of life. It was there that my guilt over not being in touch more when he was declining came spilling out. I sobbed and apologized to my Aunt Emma and cousin Patrick. The sadness was overwhelming but I had kept that bottled up and didn’t dull it with alcohol so I had to set it free. I am still not over the loss of my uncle to this day.

Six deaths of important people in my life in barely more than five years. They came so quickly that I barely processed one and another followed. I fell hard into bad food and slowed my own exercise programs after Uncle Eric died. I ended up in the worst shape I’d ever been in, weighing the most I ever had in my life. I had gained back all of the weight I’d lost running and then some. I was embarrassed and ashamed.

2024 was a turning point. That’s what I told myself in the days leading up to New Year’s. I felt as though 2017 was the last year of my life when I felt like myself. To restore that feeling I couldn’t keep waiting for the timing to be better, or to have a more perfect situation. I needed to take the first steps and adapt as I moved forward.

The changes began as more symbolic and mental. For instance, I hadn’t woken up early on New Year’s Day to go shoot the sunrise since 2017. My buddy Steve had to convince me a little. Once I was standing at the beach in Chatham watching a somewhat muted sunrise it was all worth it. That would hopefully set the tone for the year. 

The muted New Year's sunrise in Chatham.

While I was feeling refreshed in the early days of the new year I decided to run my first race since 2017. I found a manageable distance(5K), a nearby location(Dennis, MA), and a date far enough away that I could theoretically get into fair enough shape that I wouldn’t embarrass myself(May 4th).

I dove headlong into training. At my job, we have a revolutionary health and performance program known as Superhuman Protocol. It’s not found in many places and none within an hour of where I work. The basics are that three therapies are set up in a certain order so that each enhances the next. It is meant to, among other things, improve your overall fitness level. Here is a link to the website if you want to know more about it: Superhuman Protocol

I was looking for something to push me through the inevitable crash that would come when my memories of my running life before bumped into the reality of what my body could give at this point. One of the therapies in the Superhuman Protocol is EWOT(Exercise with Oxygen Therapy). You do some sort of moderate cardio while breathing in 93% pure oxygen through a specially designed mask. Pure oxygen essentially tricks your brain into believing it is not working as hard. The benefit is that you can go harder than you thought you could with whatever cardio you’re doing. 

There is a downside to this though. If you are prone to going all-in with your cardio, as I did all while running, the oxygen is going to have an adverse effect. Oh don’t get me wrong, the Superhuman worked incredibly well and I highly recommend it to anyone who has access. For me though it worked too well. I was getting up to speed running that I hadn’t done in 5 years. Not exactly ‘moderate’ cardio. That being done on a body that wasn’t the same as 5 years ago led to way more aches and pain than expected. Feet and ankles, knees, hips, they all would hurt later in the day after finishing the Superhuman.

I stopped doing the Superhuman because I couldn't be counted on to stick to the directions. This led to me majorly backing off on my race training, to the point that I was hardly running at all. In my mind, this return race was to be a re-entry. It would be me proving to myself that I could still run a race without the added pressure of time goals.

As race day drew closer I began seeing the event as more than just a return to running. It felt far more symbolic. Since my last race in August 2017 so much had happened, so much had changed in my life. This race was akin to me finding a piece of myself that had been lost for years.

Another change in my life in 2024 was getting more into personal development and self-help books and podcasts. In dealing with the deaths of friends and family, battling alcohol, the insanity of the Covid pandemic, and the overall scope of becoming middle-aged, I had felt upside down in life. These thought-provoking and introspective books and podcasts started helping me deal with all of that. 

I lowered my expectations for the race and started looking at it as the beginning of a new chapter. I also kept thinking of those I’d lost. I decided to carry them all with me during the race. I did this by creating a t-shirt with their names on it with the announcement that I was running for them. Above all else, that was my ‘big why’ for competing in this race.

Another interesting side note when the race was approaching came when I got back on the bilateral scales for the first time in a few years. To the shock of my coworker Heather, and even more so to myself, the two scales had exactly the same numbers. This meant that the work I had done on correcting my original hip injury had paid off. It was a wonderful moment.

It was wonderful however until I added the two scales weights together and realized I was at the heaviest I’d been in my life. It was a cold slap in the face to realize that the main reason I’d had so much pain and soreness in my legs from running wasn’t because of my misaligned hips, no it was from carrying too much weight.

Within moments I had downloaded the My Fitness Pal app on my phone and vowed to get back to my proper running weight. I mean after all, if my hip was not the issue anymore then what is really holding me back from a return to race form?

Race day arrived. May the Fourth be with you. It was sunny but chilly at Mayflower Beach in Dennis. I spent a little extra time sitting in my car. It was almost like I was trying to find that old mindset from my racing days even though I had no specific goals to try for. Once I was ready and had put on the white t-shirt adorned with the names of those I’d lost since my last race I was ready to wander the grounds and soak it all in.

The starting line of the race.

I had made a special playlist for this race. 10 songs that would take 40 minutes to play. Granted I would have the Map My Run app going on my phone but the music would be another indicator of how I was doing.

I positioned myself about ¾ of the way back of the group. One because it would stop me from taking off too fast with the adrenaline rush of the starting whistle. Two because I knew I’d be faster than at least a few in front of me so I’d have the joy of passing them.

A big key to running any sort of race is pacing yourself. For 5K races, I set my running app to call out my times every ¼ mile. This gives me plenty of feedback and allows me to switch my pace to suit what I am looking to do. After the first 1 ½ miles my pace was far exceeding what I’d expected. This didn’t make me change up any goals, it gave me more leeway to pull back a little. I figured I could save my legs a bit and still record a respectable time.

To prove to myself that I was really just trying to finish this race I even stopped to walk a couple of times when my feet and tibialis anterior muscles (the small muscle that runs along your shin) began burning. I hadn’t gone all out in ages so I was gassed but pressed on.

I realized that unless I broke something I was going to finish the 5K in under 30 minutes which would be a huge achievement for me knowing where I was physically. I even had enough left in the tank to sprint to the finish line and over the little pad that tracked our times through a chip in our bibs. My official time was 29:27, or 9:30 per mile. More than 10 minutes slower than my best 5K ever, but much faster than I had thought my body would allow.

I walked down to the beach and sat with my back against the fence. My shins were on fire and I knew I’d be sore the next day (surprise, I was). However, the first thing that popped into my mind was excitement. If I could run such a time after having not run competitively in almost 7 years, being 7 years older, and being 30 lbs above my ideal running weight, imagine what I could do with more training and a more controlled diet.

Maybe I’ll never be as fast as I once was. Maybe I’ll never be able to do distances like I used to. That doesn’t matter. When I look at the time between my last race to the one I just ran. When I look at all of the losses, all of the obstacles, all of the changes I went through, the fact that I have the ability physically and the wherewithal mentally to run races is a huge victory. I’ve already got the next race lined up so it’s officially a new chapter in my life.

If you stuck with this all the way through, thank you. I wrote this the day after the race when everything was still fresh. It went longer than I expected as there was so much that I needed to include to emphasize how big of a deal this moment was. Plus I am a writer so stringing together thousands of words in a stream of consciousness is not all that difficult. 

You might not be a runner. That’s not the overarching point of this story. The main takeaway is dealing with adversity, sometimes soul-crushing loss, and somehow finding your way back to the starting line. My story is not unique, so many people fight battles and win in the end. We all have our own adversity to overcome, nobody gets through life without scars. The key is to keep moving forward at your own pace. The only way you don’t cross the finish line is if you stop doing that.