WHAT BIRTHDAY?? LET’S RUN A MARATHON INSTEAD, FUCKER.

Ronan. Today didn’t start out extra hard, but that is how it has ended up. So much has been going on. Too much, I suppose. I made it through my birthday as best I could. Is it any surprise that I didn’t feel like celebrating? I just wanted the day and night to be over as quickly and painlessly as possible. I didn’t even let your daddy buy me a birthday gift, and he is still talking about it today. He’s begged me over and over to please let him buy me some pretty earrings. He knows if he goes out and does it himself, I’ll just return them. Pretty earrings won’t bring you back, and that is still all I want.

NEWSFLASH, PEOPLE: I STILL WANT MY DEAD SON BACK, AND TIME HAS NOT MADE THE YEARNING FOR HIM GO AWAY.

I still beg for him every single day. So sorry to disappoint some of you who seem to think that because of this thing called time, my wanting my son back will just disappear. That because Poppy is here, she magically makes all my pain and sadness something of the past. She doesn’t. Yes, she brings back such wholesome goodness into our lives, but my pain is still here and just as present as before.

I sat with your Sparkly for a while on my birthday because it’s a tradition of mine now, four years in the making. I sat across from him as he said, “What did I say to make you cry on your birthday?” as he watched me wipe my eyes from behind my glasses. I told him that it wasn’t anything he had said, that I just missed you so much and my birthday seemed to make me miss you that much more. He said he knew and how sorry he was and did his usual, “I wish he were here, too.”

I came home and threw myself into bed for a few hours in the middle of the day and woke up to a pillow soaked with tears that I don’t remember crying, but the black mascara was evidence enough that they had been there. I survived my birthday, but birthdays to me will never be the same again, as they just make me very, very sad.

After my very un-birthday, I’m-not-celebrating-a-thing day, I had to get ready for that bitch of a marathon that I said I was running. I didn’t really train at all, except if you count going for some runs here and there as training. In my mind, I train for a motherfucking marathon every day by just doing life.

I talked our Bri Bri into doing it with me as well. She didn’t train at all either, but I told her at 19 years old, you can do anything in the world, including running 26.2. We got up that morning in preparation for the day. I made us a little food, and we whispered in the dark about how excited we were to run this thing.

I took out a Sharpie and did my usual writing of your name everywhere I could. I told Bri I was going to do her arms and she could do mine for a little extra running motivation. I wrote “Ronan” down one arm and, of course, “F U CANCER” down the other. I handed her the Sharpie and told her to do my arms next. I looked down at my arms after she was done.

RONAN was written perfectly on my right arm, and I looked down at my left arm to see the word “FUCKER” written in huge, black letters.

“BRI! You wrote ‘Fucker’ on my arm!” My whispers were no longer whispers.

“I know!” she said. “I thought that’s what you wrote on my arm!”

“No! I wrote F U CANCER!”

We were both doubled over, laughing hysterically for a good five minutes before we could compose ourselves. There was nothing I could do about it, as the Sharpie was not coming off and the car that was picking us up to drop us off had arrived. I decided just to roll with the word FUCKER down my arm and to see what added fun it might bring to the day. Besides, cancer is the biggest fucker anyway.

We got downtown to meet up with my dear childhood friend Laura, who came into town to run the marathon, as she actually trained. I had a sweatshirt on but told her the fucker story anyway to stop her from crying. It is an emotional thing to do a marathon for the first time, and on top of that, add that the reason you are doing it is for your childhood bestie’s dead son… well, game over.

Laura was officially a wreck, but the fucker story definitely made her laugh, and I think she had an even better time calling me fucker throughout the marathon. So did the spectators on the street. The entire marathon I heard, “GO FUCKER, GO!!!” or “F U CANCER” or “GO RONAN!” as that is what we had on the back of our shirts.

I got asked who you were, and I always said, “My son.” I didn’t say, “My son who died of cancer,” because to me that is not who you are, and I won’t let that define you.

I was doing pretty well in the marathon until about mile 17, and that was pretty much it. I hit that invisible wall that you hear people in the marathon world talk about. I started walking, grabbed a Gatorade that a lady was handing out on the side of the road, and chugged that thing like it was the last drink I was ever going to have.

I waited for my friend Katie to catch up to me, and we walked/jogged/begged for the finish line. Bri met back up with me at mile 21, and somehow we crossed the marathon finish line together, holding hands. I’ve never been more proud of my sissy in my life. She is such a little badass in training, and I am so honored to be showing her the ropes.

I also wanted to take a second on here to thank all of you who supported me in the marathon by donating, volunteering, cheering, or running yourselves. It wasn’t just Ronan I thought about while doing this, but you all as well. You kept me going when all I wanted to do was take the shortcut, call it a day, and run back to my house.

I love you all so much for never giving up on me and for pushing me to do really hard things, just so I can remind myself that I am capable of overcoming all of the odds, even on the days when I still do just want to crumble up and die. You remind me to get back up and fight harder than I ever have before. So thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for keeping me going as I try my hardest to change this for these other kids who deserve so much better than what they are getting tossed their way.

Oh, back to today and how it was a really, really, really fucking hard day. So hard that I am too tired to write about it now, Ro baby. It was just one of those days where I really felt like I had the wind knocked out of me because I just miss you so very much.

I have to get back to this book writing now. I’ll try to check in with you in a few days.

I miss you. I love you. I hope you are safe. Sweet dreams, baby boy.

xoxo