A mother’s story of loss and healing through running.

By: Lynn Keane

Late April of 2009 I was training for the Mississauga Marathon near Toronto. I had completed my last long run on the race route with my triathlon friend, Margaret Dorio, who was also preparing for the May 10 marathon falling on Mother’s Day. I think we ran about 35K and called it a day. 

I was super exhausted. Wondering to myself if I still had the stuff to finish 26.2 miles. I had been running for ten years at that point, covering all sorts of distances from 5k to the hallowed full marathon. Even with some great race experiences I still had doubts. The reality is that some training days are going to be harder than others. There is going to be some hurt. But I’d been down this path before and knew the payoff was totally worth the sacrifice and effort.

My training partner for that last long run was already an inspiration to many including me. Margaret was a marathoner, Ironman athlete and soon to be Kona finisher, so I felt pretty honored to run with her in the lead up to my race. I was at the beginning of my triathlon journey and was inspired with what she had accomplished as a triathlete. We didn’t know each other well before our training day, but when you spend three plus hours running with someone you get to know a lot about them. After our run, we discussed the upcoming marathon and wished each other good luck.

On April 28, 2009 my son Daniel died by suicide. Everything that I had held to be true was erased in a manner of hours. The framework for my life dissolved with my tears. Numbness followed rage and an acute sadness, the likes of which I still cannot adequately describe. Any activity outside of brushing my teeth and walking around my house seemed impossible and at the time not worth doing.

As time dragged on I began reading about mothers and children and loss. I needed a road map to manage myself. To manage my expectations. 

One day I decided it was time to get out of the house and go for a slow jog. My husband followed me in his car in case I needed help or decided the run was a bad idea. At some point, I waved him off and carried on. Crying and yelling at the blue sky. Bargaining and lashing out at a higher power- ‘how could this happen to our family’? 

Looking back, that slow jog was the medicine I needed. To be outside, alone and doing what came naturally allowed my physical and emotional aches to shift just enough to give me clarity. Being outdoors gave me wide open spaces to run and to fully absorb my suffering. Through running I was able to actively grieve and process my emotions. 

We are here. And then we are gone.

On Mother’s Day May 10, 2009, I managed to make it to the start line of the Mississauga Marathon, settling on running the half marathon. I was not yet ready physically or emotionally to handle a 42.2-kilometre race. Truthfully, I didn’t know if I could finish the half either. 

After losing my son I preferred spending most of my time in solitude, but on that day, being surrounded by other athletes at the start of the race gave me peace. The nervous energy, the loud rock tunes reminding us that indeed ‘we are the champions’, all of it appealed to me in a visceral way. I felt alive and proud of myself for putting in the hard work. I felt powerful and ready to do battle with the road and whatever else the day threw at us. 

At least on that overcast morning no one knew my story. I could just be like everyone else for a few hours. I could run and feel all the feelings and cry and raise my hand to the sky in gratitude at the finish line in my son’s honour. 

After the race, I sat with the finishers medal and the knowledge that I had gone outside of myself and accomplished something on that day that would sustain me in the years to come. Not only had I raced that day despite the most crushing loss imaginable. I recorded my second fastest half marathon. How does that even happen? I don’t remember the details of the race anymore but I must have gone into a zone or protective bubble for much of it. Running can carry you even when you think you can’t go on.

Our family tragedy forced me to live at a different level. I found strength within myself to do something that was not going to be comfortable and it turned out to be a salve for my wounds. The act of putting one foot in front of the other had somehow softened my mother’s heart. 

On Mother’s Day 2009, I had gone deep and discovered a well of resilience through running the half marathon that allowed me to take Daniel’s last written note and read the entire contents in his truck. After reading his last dispatch I sobbed uncontrollably. The peace that the race provided was coming to an end. 

I came to understand that crying and longing would be followed by moments of grace, even lightness. There would be respite and I held onto that every day.

I put his note back in a safe place and made a promise to Daniel that I would spend my life sharing his story so another mom would not have to experience such a devastating loss. So, other young people would see themselves and seek the support and care they deserved. Understanding would change outcomes- on that I was certain.

The act of running gave me purpose on race day and slowly and gently helped to heal my brain and body. Running showed me the courage I already had. 

Sometimes running allows us to do superhuman things.

Be grateful for every day.

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