The Desert and Me
“I am so sorry, but there isn’t a heartbeat. Judging by the size of the fetus, it likely stopped around 10 weeks,” my doctor imparted the news I knew was possible, but simply wasn’t anticipating.
“My recommendation is you still fly out tomorrow to pace your husband at his race, and when you return, we should consider administering misoprostol so you can miscarry at home. Since you are a physician, you know what to expect.” He offered a plan for moving forward.
These words, delivered to me in October 2018, came just before flying out to Phoenix for Javelina Jundred, a highly competitive desert 100 mile trail race.
At the time, my husband Mitchell and I were three months removed from graduating our residency programs and we had recently opened the doors to our private practice. My training was consistent, but not quite as committed as I am these days, nor to any elite level yet. I was focused on road marathoning later that fall, and supporting Mitchell to achieve his goals on the trails as a pacer. I was excited. I’d even dreamt up a plan to sub out my pacer bib for a playful “pacing for two” bib in order to surprise my parents at the finish line with the happy news. A silly plan that never came to be.
What I most vividly remember is the hollow feeling, staring out the airplane window, tears rolling down my face, feeling empty. Knowing I would always associate this race with this time of my life, and there was no way to sunder the two. Or at least it felt that way in my mind.
On Javelina Jundred race day I saw Mitchell off, then drove myself into Scottsdale to run a sixteen mile marathon workout - honestly, out of some undoubted punishment. As I drove back to the race course I noticed the temperature was in the high nineties. Although Mitchell struggled through the heat of the day, as the sun set, I could tell we were about to roll. I tossed back an energy drink and we promptly started dropping sub 8 minute miles.
We didn’t speak much. I kept count of the people we passed and tried to not get dropped as he became stronger and stronger on this final lap. At times I caught myself running timidly, as if protecting my insides, then painfully remembered that this was unnecessary. There was nothing left that I needed to protect. The harder I pushed, the more I started to swear off returning to this race myself, as if the course was somehow responsible for my own circumstances.
As I counted off the thirty two runners passed over those last twenty miles, those thoughts got pushed to the back of my mind as I swelled with pride for all that we’d been through to get to this finish line. I hugged him tight, and immediately told him, “I’ll never fucking run this race.”
By the middle of the next year, I had formally stepped away from the trails and any distance over 26.2 miles. I told myself and others that it was to work on my speed and that was a real, legitimate reason, but that didn’t reveal the guilt I carried from racing such distances. I continued to carry guilt over racing a 50k, 50 miler, a half marathon, all stacked together in the early weeks of pregnancy, before I could have known what was inside of me. I wasn’t to blame, but it haunted my conscience nonetheless.
That spring I ran a road half marathon in Moab, Utah, taking home my first ever win. Hours later, I had debilitating cramps. Chalking it up to the race and my period, the pain intensified and I begged Mitchell to go get me ibuprofen. The next morning, I passed a portion of a gestational sac. A month later, I went through a similar scenario out on a run. Debilitating cramps out of nowhere, a rush of blood, and the passing of a second gestational sac. An honest mistake from that first ultrasound that showed no heartbeat, let alone two, but an unfortunate drawn-out miscarriage spanning six months. A combination of my hyperindependence, coupled with trust from my colleague that I knew what to expect because of my own medical training, left me isolated to navigate this solo. Historically, I’ve been good at approaching my health objectively, even transactionally. The double-edged sword of being a healthcare provider and seeing the gamut of conditions throughout my training.
But I worked through it, with help from mental health specialists and loved ones. I knew I wasn’t the only woman to have gone through this, but at the time, I certainly felt alone. From there my running career took off. While not a single start line would pass without me thinking of what could have been, I was okay - I was at peace. Until I was about to line up for my third national championship race earlier this year when a nonchalant comment, one not meant in malice, stung me deeply by surprise: “You wouldn’t know, you don’t have mom strength yet.”
I had stuffed away the painful images from those years, but this comment brought them right back all over again. The reality was, despite going through arguably the hardest, most agonizing time in my life, I didn’t have children to show for it. Without shouting from the rooftops what I had gone through, there was no easy, fluid, or self-respecting way to respond to that comment.
We’re familiar with female athletes who either started families alongside their athletic endeavors or chose to not have children for the sake of their athletic careers. Both paths are deeply personal and equally respected. But women like me exist in a gray area. Those who have lost and are still processing their loss and are unsure what the future holds. Women who have developed strength from losses like these, but aren’t accepted into the Mother Runner club. As a vehement supporter of all women, my words do not come from a place of envy or disdain; rather, I aim to understand where I fit into this community that labels women based on their motherhood choice.
The topic is heavy and I don’t have answers. Instead, I seek to move forward in an unexpected way, by circling the Javelina desert loop that I swore off years ago. Last month I even found myself traveling out to run a few laps on this course. The loop that I’d sworn would never be for me. The loop that felt so entwined with my anguish from years past.
I feel drawn to return to this desert, but I wasn’t sure why until I stepped onto the course for the second time. Yes, I would love to earn an entry into Western States 100 for 2023. It’s been a dream race for me since I suffered through 30 ridiculous hours in my first mountain 100 mile race in 2015. But this place is more than that for me. As I hopped onto the Pemberton Trail, I felt a deep sense of connection. The sweat poured out of me as the temperature spiked above 103 degrees. But it felt cleansing. As I climbed my way towards the 20 mile loop’s major aid station named Jackass Junction, tears formed and my breath caught, as I allowed myself to acknowledge the gnawing pain I have been working through since my last visit to this desolate but beautiful place.
I was hit with the strongest sensation of deja vu as a horned lizard ran across my foot, pausing briefly in the brush to stare up at me before taking off again. A brief, vivid moment in time with my grandfather, who hasn’t been earthside since 1996. That day we released a horned lizard when I was four years old, on a camping trip in Mexico. I could suddenly smell the sunscreen on our faces that day as the memory fleeted and faded away. His presence confirmed for me in that moment, sitting with my heartache but then letting it flow out as I picked my way through the rocks and sand, letting my legs perform the catharsis they’re now so accustomed to, I was right where I was meant to be.
As I count down the final days to lining up for this historic race, which will inevitably be painful at points, and will demand my entire focus, I have a sense of calm. I am returning to the desert a completely different person than I was in 2018, with the grace for myself that I’ve worked so hard to cultivate and instill. I will not be running away from my pain or seeking to punish myself. I won’t be aiming to right whatever perceived wrongs I felt I left floating within the universe. Instead I will be running towards the human I know I am, never alone, always with the presence of those so deeply loved but tragically lost. Because when I know my why, I can bear any how.
