I still remember the view outside the window of my mom’s hospital room in 2001. It’s the day after Christmas and three days before, surgeons removed a large tumor and surrounding tissue from her right lung.
It’s not a great view, in fact it stinks. From my perch in the window well, I can see nothing but the terraced roofs of the other buildings that make up the hospital complex. I’ve spent the better part of the last three days imagining movie chase scenes across those rooftops. Tom Cruise jumping off the edge and catching himself on a windowsill three stories down before falling to his death. Jackie Chan leaping across the five-foot divide between wings like he was stepping over a crack in the sidewalk. Pierce Brosnan being pinned down by enemy fire behind the HVAC unit.
I got lost in those imagined chases for hours. Never did I imagine myself as part of the chase, as someone running for her life and leaping from rooftops. I hated any physical activity. I was a chubby kid with asthma, I found any excuse to get out of the mildest of exertions in gym class.
And yet, 15 years after that Christmas in the hospital, I’ve registered for my first 5K. For the first time in my life, as a slightly less chubby adult with slightly less severe asthma, I’ve been going to the gym and jogging outside. I know I could walk those 3.1 miles, but I feel compelled to push myself, to cross the finish lungs burning and legs pumping. I want to breathe deep because I can and remember my mother.
