The other day, I found out that my good friend and mentor, Diane Israel or Di as she was known by close friends, passed away. I never know what to say when facing grief, not that I'm obligated to say anything at all. I'm trying to process what happened, though, and It's a shock right now, even though I could see it coming. Sometimes you know. It's not just in what a person says; it's the way a person looks or simply an intuitive feeling you get that's hard to define. Several times, I reached out to Di and offered support, but the last time I saw her, I could see that whatever turmoil she was going through was deep and unyielding, not anything that could be eased by someone else's words. She was already gone, but I didn't know how far and whether or not the tether that loosely held her to this planet would fully snap. This isn't the first time I've felt helpless when someone decided to permanently step off life's treadmill.
Despite her own struggles, Di was a shining light and a grounding force to many in the athletic community and the community in general, an inspiration if there ever was one. It's hard to write this without getting emotional, and I know I'm not the only one having a hard time with her absence from this world. She was such a loving, generous, kind, and dynamic individual. And she was fierce, not just as an incredible competitor and athlete but in general. Mostly, though, she filled the role of teacher to countless people, forever encouraging others, even in the throes of her own depression, pain, or compulsions that must have made the world seem unbearable. Di was real, and in a world full of fake, people were drawn to her honesty and her feisty nature.
I want to run.
When the memories flood my head and grief overwhelms me, I want to run, not necessarily escape, but to run. I can't, though. I'm about a month out from surgery. I'm forced to sit with my emotions, yet I keep trying to distract myself. In her film, Beauty Mark, Di describes this fear of not moving and what may come up in these moments of stillness. With too much distraction that I actively seek, my sadness comes out as anger or frustration, not directed at anyone in particular, but the agitation simmers below the surface. Emotions can be a bitch to feel, and underneath the frustration lies a well of grief, one I worry about uncorking.
Some people look at suicide as a selfish act. I never have, even though I'm experiencing and have witnessed the tremendous and devastating pain and suffering of those left behind. It's different when you have suffered under the weight of despair. There's more compassion and understanding toward those who choose to stop their own suffering and pain.
I mentioned previously that the last couple of months have been difficult for a variety of reasons. I went into surgery both physically and emotionally depleted, never a good position to be in when facing a major stressor in life, and, in the worst pain before surgery, I contemplated life and death and was open to a select few about it. Pain and a malfunctioning body are not easy to manage when there's no end in sight. But I rode out another extreme low on this crazy roller coaster of life. And then there was a glimmer of hope, the possibility of something different, followed by loss, grief, and fear, so much fear.
Di and I ran and then jogged or walked and eventually hobbled down similar roads. It seemed she experienced a lot of the same struggles I have faced, only a few years before me. We both won the Pikes Peak Ascent and perhaps pushed a little too hard doing so. We both struggled with anorexia and then had a period of binge eating. We both engaged in compulsive exercise. We both tried to help others, even though things weren't perfect in our own lives. And then, just like that, there was the pain we both faced after years of abusing our bodies.
After the surgery, my doctor said he had never seen anything quite like what was going on with my foot. He knew there were three main issues, but two of them proved to be more problematic than he originally thought. It's a lot to list, but he noted a tendon that had frayed, a bone spur that had fractured resulting in a tiny piece of the bone falling into the joint, osteoarthritis in that same joint, a neuroma or two, and a damaged nerve running along the top of my foot. Correcting these issues has not resolved the other injury, though, so I'm trying to figure out a way to be more accepting of and kind to myself.
I'm always blown away when other people are kind to me, and lately, I've been flooded with kindness from a few sources, some close friends and some people I hardly know. I always seem to expect the worst, but I'm trying to remember the good in the world. Di used to say that it's not really about good or bad, though. What if it's all just "path," no judgment? So in this moment, I try to remember that Di chose the best possible path for herself, one that freed her from her suffering. But damn, I miss her.
And more than ever, I want to run, but not in this broken body.
