N and R came over for a little play time today after the Boy spent a couple of hours at their house this morning as K and I went to visit a dear friend who is in the final stages of a battle against cancer.
“The fight’s gone. It’s done,” said our friend. And what a fight he’d put up: this summer I helped him with an addition to his home, and he worked with a chemo backpack on, pumping him full of pain to fight the ultimate pain.
Seeing the boys playing, with all their energy, excitement, and passion was jarring in juxtaposition. All three of those boys will, at some point, grow old and die, long after I’ve done the same thing.
That’s what we all assume. We all wake up every day and work under that assumption without even thinking about it. We obviously can’t paralyze ourselves thinking every day, “Something could happen this day that takes someone we love away from us,” but a little reminder about our mortality is a good thing from time to time. It inspires us to do the little things that we might not have done because we’re tired, we need to do something else, or we just have other priorities at that moment.
Perhaps that’s what’s just beyond the edges of the addiction to pain some athletes feel. I’m nowhere near that level, but three nights of running have left my muscles aching in a way that I almost look forward to the next run, the next shot I have at pushing through the pain, of bettering the pain, because I won’t always be able to do that. There will come a time when I have to give up the fight, but each night I run, I can push against it.
Seeing that perseverance, limited though it might be, in my own children would be the purest blessing. One of the character traits I consistently see less and less frequently in my students is perseverance, or “grit” as edu-speak likes to call it these days. So many give up before even trying, convinced that they can’t do it, persuaded before they even begin that there’s no use in even trying.
It’s a natural enough inclination, I think. I already see it in E: he sometimes gives up on something so quickly that K and I just look at each other, that concerned parent look on our faces simultaneously. So when E suggested tonight that he might want to join me on my run, it brought such a smile.
“But we’ll run the whole time, Daddy,” he said.
We did half a mile in just under seven minutes, with three short walking breaks and a lot of sweet, nonsensical chatter.
So I left for my solo run with a lighter step: the Boy took a little step toward becoming a fighter, toward realizing that that excitement in the creek with his friends can be found even in moments of pain.