Running, the dog food, and being more like Pat

I started running again.

To be sure, my running might better be described as aspirational: a more accurate term would be “barely jogging” or a form of fast-walking where I pump my arms with a determined focus.

I am slow, really slow. So slow, in fact, that elderly women with walking sticks lap me.

It takes me 30 minutes to do the 2 mile circuit.

Grief leads to a trauma-induced depression. And so, the good news is that it appears I can manage the most acute symptoms with the well-documented mood-altering effects of running. After years of trying to run for health and wellness, now I run every day, rain or shine, for survival. Not running leaves me crippled and curled up in the fetal position wailing for Pat to come back. Of all the treatments for the onslaught of emotions, running (or whatever I do on the Cynwyd trail that gets my heart rate to 140 for 30 minutes) clears the nausea and lightheadedness a day without Pat brings.

Cal’s nurses and my friends have celebrated my determination and healthy lifestyle and quest for self-improvement. I doubt I deserve such praise. You see, this is not my first time at the grief rodeo, and during my last experience, I tried binging on Oreos and cupcakes and the result was me weighing 275 pounds and a suicidal nihilism. I don’t want to do that again. Maybe this is will-power or newly discovered self-discipline, I personally view it as the power of Pat’s lingering energy.

You see, at several points during the day, I ask myself: “What would Pat do?” To be sure, I don’t always do what he would have, but he is my touchstone. Without him being here to discuss things with,, I now try to imagine what he would say or do..

Pat woke up every day and weighed himself, took a shower, styled his hair, shaved, and embarked on a full day of activities that started with taking care of Cal and ended with his garden and reading and mastering his guitar. Pat hated when I walked the dog wearing my pajamas and no bra. If Pat had been a woman, he would have been the sort who never left the house braless or without some make-up. He was all about filling his days with structure and purpose, my approach to life was more defined by overwrought emotion. In Pat’s absence, it seems I am taking on parts of his personality.

During my 82-year-old mom’s daily check-in, my mom and I were talking about how Pat was this huge personality with a strong sense of how things ought to work. [This is a nice way of saying he was a control freak].

And during our very happy marriage, I let him lead the way. And after he got cancer, I did not fight him on many things. He ran our lives beautifully and it was the path of least resistance for him to be in-charge. I was annoyed by the composting, the piles of paper that covered every flat. surface and how the preparations that made his beautiful garden possible created such a mess in my kitchen, but these were small prices to pay for having Pat around.

It’s been interesting learning about the household finances. Going through our bank accounts and Pat’s emails and texts has been like a deep dive into his priorities. Clearly, he loved Liverpool. His phone and computer are filled with evidence of this obsession. Going through his secret credit card, I discovered he had purchased tickets on Ryannair for Dublin and that he had hoped to make a final pilgrimage-when he was. alive- to see Liverpool compete in the league championships. He was also liquidating the stocks and moving money into our checking accounts so I would have cash on hand when he died. Pat even went ahead and pre-ordered dog food for Brody so the dog would be taken care of in the event of Pat’s passing.

What does it say about Pat that he took the time to take care of the dog in the midst of his pain and suffering? Pat hated that dog most days. Though, as he was dying, Brody rarely left Pat’s side and Brody started to howl as Pat’s energy or life-force or light or whatever you call it -left Pat’s body.

All those times I wanted Pat to talk with me and process his feelings, he was in a race against time to ensure his affairs were in order. The only sliver of. hope he granted himself was a belief in his doctors, how they might grant him another miracle and he would beat back the cancer for a third time so he could see Liverpool win.

It kills me to realize that while I was thinking of how scared I was to lose Pat, he was working furiously to take care of all of us. So, it seems to me, enduring this might mean I must do more than take over the tasks he did for our family.

Maybe, I need to become more like him.