The Mourning Run

How Running. . . helped. by Robert Broder

The Mourning Run

Mid-February

Snow melting

Ground is slushy

I don’t mind if my socks get wet

I’ll continue to run

Leaping over big puddles

And crunching on thin ice

My playlist is on shuffle

As the chatter is on repeat

Thinking of you

It’s always about

You

Again

And again

And again

All this breath work

This Mindfulness

Is exhausting

Be in the moment, they say

But they, don’t know.

Be still, I tell myself

And I try

For tomorrow

Coffee first

And then out for another

mourning run.

After my daughter Stella was born not breathing, and hours later leaving my wife at the hospital to sit in an ambulance heading to an emergency NICU in Boston, to find out she is brain damaged globally and will have no chance of life, 12 days later she took her last breath in my arms . . . now what?

So that was it, just leave the hospital and go back to everyday life. Like the past nine months never happened. The excitement of welcoming a baby, the singing, hugging, and kissing my wife’s belly, the prep into making her room so special… all for no reason.

We’re just supposed to go back to work and deal with the regular socialization we all must do in everyday life. Like nothing even happened. Yet, your body, your brain, your soul is frozen. Frozen in time, in thoughts, in dreams, in feelings, in every breathing moment. 

MY DAUGHTER JUST DIED!

You don’t expect a nurse to ask you what you would like to do with the body of your 12-day-old daughter—finding myself two days after she died, pulling into the funeral home parking lot, picking up her ashes in a hypnotic state.

After Stella died, my wife and I, and our dog Alice, got in the car and headed out west. The thought of going back to work and regular life things was not even an option. The Grand Canyon was the main destination. No other reason than we just couldn’t stay home. With Stella’s room all set for her, she would never get to see a space with the beautiful mural Amanda painted with a tree and an owl and a moon. The crib and cute mobile we bought. The changing table and rocking chair we meticulously picked out. All the things from the baby shower were completely irrelevant. We closed the bedroom door to our two-bedroom home and headed west. When we got to Moab, we hiked around Arches National Park and Canyonlands. And when we were alone, we’d cry. I’d think about why we were there and how we didn’t want to be.  We thought we should be at home with Stella doing all everyday new baby things. When we made it to the Grand Canyon, Amanda said, “I’m ready to head home. And if you want, I will try again.”

When we got home, everything was still in a different reality. What do you mean I have to go back to work? What do you mean I have to go grocery shopping and communicate like a normal person contributing to society? My daughter just died.

I want Stella! I want nothing else!!!! My head would scream over and over. I wanted to scream in public, but that would seem insane or irrational. But nothing is normal when you’re in this mind-bent state.

Someone said we should try to go to a bereavement group and meet other families who had lost babies and children. So one brave night, we did. I didn’t know what to expect. Like I would click with another dad and be like, hey, you lost a baby too, let’s be friends. But after the short meet and greet, it immediately was not for us. Everyone sat in a circle sharing their stories, what happened to their babies, and the stories people were sharing were so unbelievably sad. It made how we were feeling even more difficult to bear. We heard countless stories about child suicide, car accidents, or cancer. For us, it was malpractice. The nurse and doctor read the monitors wrong and didn’t see Stella was under stress for over three hours during labor. And, all of our children were gone.

Amanda and I  also started seeing therapists. Either together or alone. It seemed to be the only option to get us through this healing process. Since we never found another couple or person that experienced what we went through. We didn’t talk to family or friends because it’s such an unbelievably sad topic that no one seemed to want to hear about it or talk about it. We would cry to each other until we fell asleep. And I would wake up and quietly say to myself, “Fuck, I’m still here.”

And then, only two months after Stella died, Amanda got pregnant. Our reaction was very somber. Ok, let’s see what happens. It took us a while to get pregnant with Stella, so we assumed it would take just as long again. It felt very déjà vu. Pregnant again. I still don’t know how Amanda did it, and later she said it felt like being pregnant for two years straight.

After Eleanor Moon was born (Moon from Stella’s mural) from a thankfully wonderful normal birth (complete opposite from Stella), the heaviness of depression, anger, and sadness became stronger and more powerful inside of me.

Now what? I couldn’t handle a screaming baby and care for her while I was still mourning Stella and what went so tragically wrong. There were days, weeks, months where Amanda did everything to care for Eleanor while I just sat on the couch, either watching tv or staring out the window doing nothing. Taking care of Eleanor and being in the moment was something I couldn’t do, for in my mind, I was clearly holding Stella and her last breath in my arms.

I was not bonding with Eleanor. The more she cried and screamed, the more I wanted to be somewhere else. And all I wanted was for Stella to be here. I had zero desire to do any normal dad or parenting stuff. 

Even though Eleanor got to see the room we made for Stella, we still felt like there was darkness in the house or maybe with us. So we sold our two-bedroom home and moved into a nice place on two acres of land in rural Massachusetts. I believed the move would help us heal and get some type of normalcy back. It did not.

Being out in the beautiful woods with no friends or nearby family with nothing to do in zero-degree weather with a newborn made things worse. Solitude was not the answer. I was also a sales rep. So being alone in the car for eight hours a day and putting on a pretend face when visiting customers is no medicine for depression or healing from the loss of your baby.

I wanted to leave. I never wanted to wake up again, and I wanted to get myself out of this painful mental pressure. So we sold that house at a loss, and there seemed to be no answer except to quit my good-paying job and move to Portland, Oregon. The farthest possible spot from where Stella was born, so we would never have to drive past that hospital again. And we chose the opposite of rural—a crowded, vibrant city.

Even though Portland is fun and funky, it did not solve the problem either. Years later, after Stella died and all the moving transitions, I still had no desire to do anything, and I still wasn’t bonding with Eleanor, who was turning five years old. 

We took our savings and started a children’s picture book publishing company, which consumed my thoughts. I wanted something to succeed. I talked and thought about it every day. So much so that one night at dinner, Amanda said, “Can we please talk about something else.” 

I just wanted every book we made to be so good. I wanted the books to be beautiful and well-received, and this became my creative outlet. I was designing books and learning about the publishing world. But Amanda wasn’t happy, and I wasn’t focusing my time on Eleanor or my family. I focused on trying to be happier. Every day I walked through the streets of Portland. And Amanda found a way to be supportive and patient with me, just trying not to be so depressed. She made positive suggestions like meditation, yoga, or even a pottery class—anything to get my smile back. 

Since she never knew what kind of mood I’d be in at any given moment, sad, mad, quiet, or completely dark, she took a risk. More therapists just kept telling me to cry it out and journal my thoughts. Or concentrate on my breathing.

We lived in Portland for four years, and neither of us could find a job, and publishing books wasn’t making us money, so Amanda said, “I applied for a job at UVM. If I get the job, I think we should move back home.” Vermont is where we first met, but I also lived there two other separate times in my life. It always seems to call me back.

Since I had no desire to wake up each morning, moving to Vermont was the last place I wanted to go. But Amanda, being so sweet, got the job through a video interview, and one month later, we packed up everything we owned and headed back east into a rental outside of Burlington. We pulled Eleanor out of first grade, only to start her in a new first grade class two weeks later. 

I remember her crying while driving through Wyoming, “I want to go home. I want to go home!” She meant Portland. We both hugged her, as I soothed her with the most comforting words I knew. “Where ever we are, is home,” I said. What I was doing to myself was also affecting her and my family. I wanted to remove these dark clouds, the cinderblock on my chest, the painstakingly painful thoughts, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to live the rest of my life feeling so much pain.

Now what? Eleanor started school, and Amanda began her new job, which left me (besides working on the press) to do absolutely nothing. I did not want to be here. After all, it would be my third time moving back to the green mountain state. I even told Amanda as much one day in a rude text while she was at work. And I was so depressed and angry and sad that I couldn’t even stand being alone with myself. I couldn’t find a job, nor did I want a job. I felt unqualified and unconfident to do anything. I didn’t care how much money we had left. And again, more therapists with the same bit of advice. After telling him my entire backstory, one of the last therapists I saw asked, “Do you ever have a good cry?”

On my 49^th birthday, Amanda and Eleanor went away for the weekend. And I said to myself, when I turn 50, I’ll go skydiving. Because it was the one thing I was afraid to do. At that exact moment, I called the closest place around and signed up. And all I could think of was, if the chute doesn’t open, I don’t have to think of all the sadness and feel this pain anymore. 

But one day, while walking through some nearby woods, which I did any chance I could because it was the only thing that somewhat calmed my chattering mind, my walk turned into a jog. And my jog turned into a run. I might have run 75 yards that day before stopping, out of breath. The next day, I did the same thing, walk - run - walk. And while talking to myself with all the negative and maddening thoughts in my head, the running became longer. Until one day, only a few weeks later, I ran a full mile without stopping, the entire length of the path.

I didn’t tell Amanda I started running because I didn’t want to mention it, only to stop running a few weeks later, and it was only a short phase. But she noted that I seemed more “even.” I didn’t know what to say. Maybe I was a bit calmer. I hadn’t changed anything in my life, except that I started running. So I told her and wondered aloud if that had anything to do with it. And the look from Amanda said, well, whatever it is you’re doing, keep doing it. I kept running. 

I bought a cheap pair of running sneakers, because I thought, don’t make a big investment if you stop like everything else you’ve tried. My one mile became two miles. My dirt path changed with the seasons to mud and snow and ice. And I’d get dressed in thermals and sweatpants. And, I ran. 

Even if my fingers and face were freezing from the cold, I’d run even just a little to get out of my screaming head. I would just talk to myself. I would talk to my mom, who passed away when I was a freshman in high school, and I would speak to Stella (named after my mom). Wishing she was here and I could hold her.

When the conditions outside became too challenging to run, I joined a 24-hour fitness place, only to use the treadmill. And since I slept so poorly, I’d be there at 4 am, no one else there, and run. I would run until I felt like stopping or for one more good song that came on my iPod. I even signed up for my first 5k, and when I finished, I was surprised how short it was.

One day while running my usual farm trail, I did it twice and ran over seven miles. I was so surprised and happy with myself that I patted myself on the back. Which then pushed me to run my first half-marathon.

Running became an everyday routine for me. Coffee, run, breakfast. As I would fall asleep at night, I was already looking forward to the next morning’s run. When I got there so early, I would sometimes see coyotes heading home after their mischievous night. It was like some type of endorphins were jolting inside of me. If I missed a day, I would feel disappointed. It became my meditation, my therapy, my temple. Some days I’d run 20 minutes, others I’d run 45 minutes. 

I would run and say, I don’t want to be here! If there is a god, please take me! Strike me, please, and end everything right now! I’m so tired of hurting. I’m so tired of living! Anything to get rid of this awful pain!

I started to notice I was more me. I was silly with Eleanor, wrestling with her, trying to make her laugh, and leaving sweet notes for Amanda just to try and make her smile. 

But one day, while I was running, I was talking to Stella. Telling her how much I missed her and how sorry I was that everything went so horribly wrong, and then I felt her hug me. A huge wave of emotion came over me like a bolt of lightning struck through my chest, and a tear ran down my face.

As the months passed by, I would say, Where’s my joy? I want to feel joy. Bring me joy.

I became more present in my time with Eleanor and Amanda, and I wasn’t so distant in my thoughts. The depression, the anger, the sadness lifted a bit. I became more mindful, less depressed, angry, and sad. I eventually bought better running sneakers and thermals, and now I just go outside and run any chance I get. In a way, I wish one of the therapists would have suggested I try running. Maybe I would have listened.

With the support and patience from my wife, the love and sweetness from my daughter, and the beautiful Vermont country trails, finding my way to run helped me heal, and become more still and silent in my everyday living. Which is where I like to be.

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Robert Broder he/him is a children’s book author and founding publisher of award-winning Ripple Grove Press. He is the writer of Patagonia’s first picture book titled Better Than New. Other books include Crow & Snow (Simon and Schuster) and Our Shed (Little Bigfoot) which received a Kirkus Starred Review. He enjoys walking in the snow, running at the farm, hiking in the woods, and drinking coffee on the couch. He lives with his family in a small town, near a big lake, surrounded by green mountains.  He is Poet Laureate of Shelburne, Vermont. See more at RobertBroder.com