Sacred Ground
“The things that make life worth living, like poetry and art, are not rational. And one of them is the Boston Marathon.”
—George Sheehan, author of Running and Being: The Total Experience
As I waited at the finish line of one of Dennis’s scores of marathons, the man next to me asked, “Are you a marathoner too?” “No,” I said, “I’m the sane one in the family.”
There’s no question that my husband was preposterously devoted to running. His training time was sacrosanct. Until his planned number of miles were completed, he was not available for anything less than a life-threatening emergency. I didn’t understand it, but I surrendered to his enthusiasm. We became partners in achieving his goals.
In honor of the forthcoming 100th anniversary of the Boston Marathon in 1996, a special lottery was announced for nonqualified runners to take advantage of a rare opportunity to participate in the race. I suggested to Dennis that he should enter. “No way,” he protested. “If I don’t qualify, I shouldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be right.”
Soon I noticed an uptick in his already energetic physical workouts, including swimming and biking and running backwards. I wasn’t able to join him for one of his Fall marathons, but after that race he called, his voice full of excitement, “We’re going to Boston next Patriots’ Day, I did it, I met the qualifying time.” I cried to hear him so happy.
The trip was euphoric. We were both 42 years old—still young enough to have big dreams of what was to come. Eventually Dennis would run six more Boston Marathons. The route became sacred ground to him.
He felt privileged to run along the same path with heroes like Dick Hoyt. Starting in 1980, Hoyt pushed his son Rick, who was quadriplegic and had cerebral palsy, along the entire course using a specialized wheelchair. The two completed 32 Boston Marathons together.
Long before Dennis’s life changed dramatically with a brain injury in 2010, he told me he wanted his cremains to be scattered where he most loved to run. I imagined that I’d be about 97 years old.
When the time came—much earlier—the funeral director told me of a new option for loved ones to have a tangible memento of the deceased. Cremains could be processed into “Parting Stones.” I knew instantly that it was the right decision. We long ago christened our home “Rockaway” and landscaped it with numerous stone gardens. It was perfect.
The result was simply elegant. When I went to pick up the stones, they came in a lovely wooden box. I put it on the passenger seat and strapped it in with the seatbelt. As I headed home, I put the E Street channel on the radio, nice and loud. And wouldn’t you know it, “Born to Run” was playing.
Last weekend, on the first anniversary of Dennis leaving his earthly life, I went to Boston with our nephew and godson Stephen to fulfill the wish. We planted a stone near the start line of the race in Hopkinton, Massachusetts, where seven times Dennis experienced the thrill of being part of the most historic marathon in the world.
We buried another stone near the famous Citgo sign in Kenmore Square. When a runner first sees that sign he or she knows they are just about one mile from the coveted medal being draped on their neck.
Whenever I felt too discouraged to continue with a difficult task, Dennis would say, “Don’t give up. Come on, babe, you can already see the Citgo sign.” It was our metaphor for going the distance.
And finally we placed one stone near the finish line in Copley Plaza, the place my husband found exhaustion mixed with the exhilaration of knowing that he was leading a life of meaning and purpose.