Hope in the Mail

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  After years of doing author presentations at schools and hearing librarians talk about slashed budgets and shrinking staffing, my husband and I started an initiative called Exercise the Right to Read to bring attention to this issue and to provide a funding mechanism for schools: a “reading, running marathon” that combined literacy, fitness, and community service.

  To launch the program and bring awareness to the cause, we committed to running the New York City Marathon under the Exercise the Right to Read banner.

  For the record, I am not—N O T—a running fanatic. I ran track in high school, but that was the end of my competitive running. Back then I thought cross-country runners were nuts. 5K races? Who would sign up for that? I wouldn’t even tackle the 800m. The 400 was hard enough!

  In college I gained my “freshman fifteen” and returned to running as a way to manage my weight. Running a mile for “recreation” seemed like a huge accomplishment, but it didn’t do much to counterbalance my caloric intake. And being someone who likes to eat, rather than cutting back on that, I started running longer.

  Pretty soon I was up to three miles, then five. Before long, distance running had its hooks in me and I did it for reasons besides weight control. I liked that it stabilized my mood, that it made me feel happier, more optimistic, stronger both mentally and physically.

  When the Dark Era hit, running became my lifeline. I would run to escape, run to conquer, run to forget, run to sort through the meaning of life…and eventually, I would run to write. The stories would unfold in my head and occupy me through three, five, seven, ten miles of footfalls. Whole stretches of road vanished. Sometimes I’d look around and not really remember how I got there.

  But no, I was not and have never been a running fanatic. I do not live for it; I do it to help myself live better. Getting out the door is always the battle, but when I’m done—no matter how long or short the run—I’m always glad I made myself go.

  So that’s the shortcut version of the long and winding road that transformed me from someone who ran 400 meters max to someone who was willing to go 26.2 miles to raise funds for libraries.

  My husband and I did all the training, stuck to the schedule, learned to hydrate while running, discovered which flavors of Gu were delicious (anything chocolate) and which made me want to hurl (anything berry). We did the long-run weekends, maxing out at twenty-two miles, and reveled in the “taper”—the week prior to the race where you get to take it kind of easy and even (gasp) not run.

  Then we flew to New York, got our race packets, tried (unsuccessfully) to sleep, and got on a 5:00 a.m. shuttle in downtown Manhattan that bused us over to Staten Island, where we were dropped off to become part of a field of about forty thousand other insane people.

  It was November, with temperatures forecast to be in the low thirties. And armed with the theoretical knowledge that thirty-two degrees is freezing and required more than our usual shorts and T-shirt, we arrived at the starting area wearing sweats. Other people—people who knew what they were doing—had down parkas, beanies, mittens, and sleeping bags.

  Sleeping bags!

  Why?

  Because the race had a late start time—10:00 a.m.—and sensible people wanted to stay warm and finish sleeping. Which we certainly could have used. Anxious about logistics and not able to sleep anyway, we’d arrived on the island at 6:00 a.m., which gave us a good four hours to shiver in the November cold.

  After about an hour of unsuccessfully trying to settle in, I discovered a dumpster and went diving for cardboard to sit on (because I’d learned from researching Runaway that it really does make a good insulator). While I was rooting around, I unearthed a pair of clean-enough socks, which I snagged and converted into mittens. But still, I shivered.

  By the time the race began, all the carbo-loading I’d done for three days prior, all the glycogen I’d packed into my cells, all the excitement I’d brought with me had shivered away. I was jet-lagged, hungry, and exhausted.

  And in a really grumpy mood.

  My husband wasn’t as bad off as I was. We have the same basic frame, but he has more muscle mass, so wasn’t as cold. He’s also a perennial optimist and the opposite of a complainer. As we ran, he dubbed himself my “Gu boy” and monitored my energy gel and water consumption, and kept me moving ahead with his good-natured chattering.

  But still. I was not “enjoying the moment.” After the first six miles, the only moment I was looking forward to was the one where I crossed the finish line, and that was still hours away.

  And then around Mile 10 we came upon two runners holding the ends of a rope that sagged between them like a long, sorry-looking snake.

  “Who are these idiots?” I grumbled, because the rope was blocking my path and the marathon rules had specifically stated that there were to be no leashes or dogs or baby joggers or jump ropers or limbo-ing lunatics or…or…ropes of any kind!

  If you can sigh while you’re running, that’s exactly what my husband did. “Just go around,” he said, the strain of being my Gu boy showing.

  But I didn’t want to go around! I knew the shortest distance between two points is a straight line! And there were no ropes allowed on the course!

  I told him this through gritted teeth and he said, “Just go around, Wendelin.”

  I pictured my choices as the legs of a right triangle. “I don’t want to take the A leg,” I told him. “Or the B leg.”

  “What?”

  “I want to stay on the hypotenuse!”

  “Wendelin!” A little exasperated now. “Go around.”

  So fine. I went around the idiots and their stupid rope. And as exhausted and miserable as I was, I still managed to conjure up enough energy to throw the rope guys a dirty look.

  And that’s when I realized that one of the runners was…blind?

  This took a minute to process.

  A blind runner tethered to a sighted runner by way of a rope running a marathon?

  How could that be? How could you navigate 26.2 miles—in a crowded field of forty thousand people, with runners cutting rudely across the roadway at every water stop to grab a paper cup of Gatorade, only to dump it on the ground half finished in front of you—if you weren’t able to see?

  I can’t even make it across my kitchen with my eyes closed!

  Flabbergasted, I turned to my husband and gasped, “He’s blind.”

  I got a smarty-pants look back. “So…who’s the idiot here?”

  The Amazing Rope Duo was only the beginning of my exposure to extraordinary people determined to cross that marathon’s finish line. There was the Old Man in Red Socks. Weathered skin over bones, he looked ninety to me. Ninety, and slowly passing me by. I told myself to keep up, but instead he steadily put distance between us until eventually his red socks bobbed out of view.

  Then there was the runner who passed me like an amped-up Quasimodo, hunched over, powering forward with a determined hobble. “How is he doing that?” I asked as I watched him go. I tried to get my structurally aligned legs to pick up the pace, but again I couldn’t keep up.

  We saw a lot of people—including amputees—with physical challenges that you might imagine would prevent them from running a mile, let alone a marathon, but there they were, taking those 26.2 miles one determined step at a time. It was humbling. And perspective-building. What a wimp I was, whining about jet lag and fatigue and being cold. I had nothing to complain about!

  The finish line of a marathon is a place of triumph. We did cross it, and it was definitely cause for celebration, especially since a few good friends (including my editor) showed up to cheer us over it.

  But more important, I discovered that the finish line of a marathon is where you’ll find the strength of the human spirit on full and glorious display. I’m not talking about watching the elite runners come in. They’re only on their feet for a
couple of hours.

  Sheez.

  Sissies.

  I’m talking about the people who keep moving through their pain for six, seven, eight hours. The ones whose minds won’t be ruled by what ails their bodies.

  The finish line of a marathon is the starting line for believing you can conquer anything.

  Which is the sort of revelation that takes root in your heart and demands to grow.

  It happened on the flight home from New York. I was nodding off, little scenes from the marathon adventure ping-ponging around in my head, when I first got the idea for The Running Dream.

  And like I said, I hated it.

  This was similar to the Swear to Howdy experience in that I bolted awake, but at no time did voices start up in my head, and scribbling down anything related to an avid runner losing her leg was the last thing I wanted to do.

  What I wanted was for the scene, the idea, to leave me alone.

  For months, I resisted. But each time I shoved the idea away, it somehow snuck back, carrying with it a new facet, a new subtext to explore, a more focused relevance or application.

  Go away! I told it.

  But it kept sneaking back.

  All the mental gnashing eventually produced audible grumblings and then verbal protestations—arguments with myself, really—to which my husband was subjected.

  Eventually he said, “Why don’t you just write it already?”

  “Because I don’t know anything about amputations or rehabilitation or prosthetic limbs!” I told him. “You can’t just fake it!”

  Busy on his own project, he raised an eyebrow in my direction and said, “I may know a guy.”

  Beware the man who “knows a guy.” Besides, I didn’t want to be a Snoopy Suzie, quizzing some guy about his fake leg for a story.

  Cue the shudders and self-loathing.

  But it turned out the guy wasn’t an amputee. He was a prosthetist who had built legs for amputees. Lots of them.

  Hmm.

  I could see myself talking to him.

  Before I contacted him, though, I did a bunch of research. Not because I was committed to writing the story, but because I am, as a rule, committed to not being disrespectful of someone else’s time. Also, I hate when I’m not prepared enough to ask specific questions, or I’m still too low on the learning curve to really process a flood of new information or understand the jargon. The Scouting motto Be Prepared extends beyond wilderness survival—it’s a good motto for interviewing people, too.

  But even after all the prep work and the interview, I was still not convinced I could or should write about an amputee. The research was daunting, not to mention what it would take to capture the emotional component of going through such a trauma.

  What appealed to me about the idea, however, was the universality of the premise. I thought that a This could be me (or my best friend or my family member or…) exploration of a disability would hit home in a way I’d found difficult to achieve with the teens in my classroom when it came to inclusion of kids with lifelong disabilities.

  I also liked the idea of creating a teen character who could demonstrate how not to give up on a friend. When I went through the Dark Era, I really could have used a friend like that. And after I’d survived the Dark Era, I carried resentments toward people who were just…absent.

  What I didn’t recognize then is that nobody teaches you how to be a friend. You learn by example. Or experience. Many friendships happen by default—we’re in the same class, on the same team, in the same neighborhood—and when one of our friends is a downer to be with or even tells us to leave them alone, well, we start looking around for new friends.

  So creating an example of real friendship—of someone who would not be pushed away by the words or the actions or the attitude of her devastated friend—also had real appeal to me.

  But it was still not enough.

  The learning curve to write knowledgeably about an amputee was just too daunting. Also, there was nothing unique in the basic story: Someone gets knocked down and learns to get back up and live again. How often has that been done?

  So, no.

  I was not going to write this story.

  Once again, I pushed it aside.

  And then…

  Yes.

  And then.

  This time, it was a little tickle in my brain. A question floating in: What would it be like for the amputee character to return to school in a wheelchair and be required to sit at the back of the classroom beside a girl in a motorized wheelchair? A girl she’d walked past all year without so much as a smile or a hello.

  And then…

  How would the realization that she was now also perceived as “special needs” hit her? What would it be like to become a person others avoided eye contact with? Someone people didn’t know how to engage? Someone people were uncomfortable around?

  And then…

  What would it be like to discover that the previous assumptions she’d had about the girl in the motorized wheelchair were way off base? That the girl was, in fact, a math genius—one with a wonderful sense of humor and a kind, compassionate heart?

  And with that realization…

  What would it be like to look back at yourself and see that the whole-bodied person you used to be was less than you should have been?

  That you’d been missing parts of a different kind.

  And how would you move forward in the world once you’d recovered?

  Would you leave the girl in the wheelchair behind?

  Or would you find ways to take her with you?

  And that, that idea, that character growth, was the linchpin. Suddenly the story, its purpose, and the theme all held together in a way that made me willing to tackle that formidable learning curve. Suddenly I wanted to know everything.

  That “everything” turned out to take me about three years, during which I learned so much and met the most amazing people. From the young dancer who’d lost a leg to cancer, to the war vet, to the teacher whose leg had been crushed in a motorcycle accident, the many amputees I worked with to research the book all had one inspiring thing in common: They were grateful. Grateful to be alive.

  Researching The Running Dream turned out to be one of the most rewarding experiences of my life. And because of that, I want to end this chapter with a bit of advice: Sometimes a story idea comes as a bolt out of the blue. Sometimes it creeps in over time. Sometimes it charges in and fades away. It’s the ones that come in, pull up a chair, and won’t leave that you should listen to.

  Even if they weren’t welcome, listen.

  You may discover they have something important to say.

  It seems that all of my stand-alone titles are stories that come from things that have touched me on a deep emotional level. This certainly holds true for The Secret Life of Lincoln Jones, although this time I didn’t see the story coming. I didn’t know I’d been “researching” it for years. I was just trying to navigate the shifting needs of my mother as she slowly succumbed to dementia. This wasn’t something to write about. It was personal. Sad. Exhausting. Private.

  Far above looks or wealth or social standing, Mom valued her mind. She seemed to be most alive when she was in a feisty debate with a worthy opponent about…well, anything, which is why she and my husband got along so well. If she had an opportunity to wield a sword in defense of her position, she’d do so with delight.

  So it was really heartbreaking to witness her mind slipping away. And although Mom was determined to remain independent, there came a point when she desperately needed help. Giving her that help was easier said than done. She became suspicious of everyone, including her own children, and was not shy about using her cane on caregivers who she thought were strangers invading her home.

  When we broached alternative living situations with her, s
he was defiant and stubborn, and not about to leave her “cave,” which was her term of endearment for the house my dad had designed and our family had built, the place we had all learned to really swing a hammer.

  After a good six months of exhausting every other option, my sister and I sat her down and showed her an MRI of her brain. Mom broke into tears because she understood that the preponderance of dark spaces in the image meant that a great deal of her brain had atrophied.

  “It’s not your fault,” we told her again and again, and that afternoon we got her to agree to go to “memory camp.” We told her it was a place that would help her with her memory, that there’d be specialists, that it would be good for her.

  Yes, we tricked her. And no, we didn’t think we were being clever. We were at our wits’ end and she would never have stepped through the door of a “memory care” facility.

  Two little letters.

  A great big difference.

  My sister and I drove her to “camp” together. And we could feel her suspicion growing as we guided her to the front door. This looked nothing like the camps she’d dropped us off at when we were kids. What was this place?

  She hesitated.

  Then held back.

  My sister and I exchanged glances. Uh-oh.

  And then the director came out, charmed Mom, eased her over the threshold and inside. We told Mom we’d see her soon, and as she was led away to a music activity that was about to begin, my sister and I escaped to Mom’s room to deliver some final things and make sure everything was set.

  Minutes later we were finished up and about to leave when we heard someone squalling.

  “Is that Mom?” my sister asked, and sure enough, Mom had already escaped the music activity, stating loudly that she was “not interested in that noise.”

  Which left us stuck in her room, acting like a couple of terrified mice. How were we going to get out of there without her seeing us? Mom was suffering from memory loss, but she was no dummy. And now that she was in the common area and had seen the other residents, she was surely realizing that this “memory camp” looked suspiciously like an old folks’ home!