My story: Madeline Beitz
September 4, 2014, was the day my life changed forever. I was 14 years old, and my dad called my little sister Natasha into the living room. My mom was resting upstairs, having just returned from more tests for the terrible, inexplicable migraines she’d been having for the past couple of weeks. The night before my sister and I had stayed out with friends an hour past when we’d been told to be back at the house. My parents hadn’t seemed to notice at the time, they seemed preoccupied, but maybe now we were in trouble?
When my dad didn’t say anything, I asked “Dad what is it?” He wasn’t looking at us. Boy, I thought, he must really be mad. Then he took our hands in his, and I saw that his eyes were red and swollen. “Dad,” I repeated, “what’s wrong?”
It turned out everything was wrong. He told us our mother had Glioblastoma Brain Cancer, and that the tumor was the size of an avocado. He said they were going to try treatments and surgery, but also that soon mom would not be able to function normally. He didn’t want to give us false hope, that we should be prepared for the worst, and he wanted us to be strong, that my mother needed us to be strong.
Needless to say, I was shocked, scared, but also numb. This couldn’t really be happening, could it? But in the two years of watching her face her illness, of helping her walk, of bathing her, feeding her, the reality of her illness, and ultimately her death during my Sophomore year in high school became all too real.
By day I was a kid, walking to school, going to classes, volleyball practice, and seeing friends. At night, as the eldest daughter, I fell into the premature role of caretaker – not just for my ailing mother, but for my dad and Natasha. I’d be the one waking her up for school, making her breakfast, making sure the laundry got done, writing up grocery lists, and making the time to go grocery shopping. I was the one bandaging her knee, and combing her hair. When she was scared of an upcoming exam, or intimidated by some of the older girls, I told her: “You’ve got this. You’re strong. You can do this. You can accomplish anything you set your mind to.” Jockeying between these two worlds took a toll on my mental health. In some ways, it was even harder for me to be among my friends or peers.
When a girlfriend complained about how her mother was too bossy or controlling, or when they gossiped about other girls who wore clothes they deemed unfashionable, I kept thinking of them: “What world are you in? Do you even know how incredibly lucky you are?”
As a result, in high school, I started distancing myself from others my age. It was easier for me to opt out of slumber parties or hanging out than to pretend that life was normal and feel guilty about spending time with them knowing I could be with my mom instead.
The day of the funeral was particularly hard. Everyone who had been a part of my life at one point was there. I remember walking down the church center aisle and everyone was staring at my dad, sister, and me. In some ways that I couldn’t yet grasp, living life without having my mom there, as sick as she was, was harder still. Who would be there to help me pick out a prom dress? Who could I talk to about where I was going to go to college? Who was going to support me through life? I had to learn how to give myself what she would have given me. I knew I had so much to work on – building confidence, voicing my opinions without apology, standing up for myself, learning who I was and who I wanted to become, finding more of my personality, and not being shy about the struggles I faced.
In some ways, heading off for college promised a fresh start – an opportunity to leave all that pain and awkwardness behind. I could shut the door and not look back. But during my sophomore year of college, COVID-19 lockdowns meant all the students were being sent home for “remote learning,” I felt devastated. Just as I was embarking on a new chapter, I was forced to go back and confront my past.
Then something magical happened. That little sister that I’d cared for and tried to “mother” in my own way, was there, and in some ways had grown up more than I had. She’d thrown herself into the challenge of long-distance running – and she wanted to take me along on her adventure. Why not?
I’ll never forget the first day I went on my first run with my sister because it marked a new beginning. I was unprepared, my shoes were worn out and all I could think about was how am I going to keep up with her. During this run and many more, I often struggled to keep up with Natasha, who’d been running daily for the past three years. I’d always thought of myself as a fitness buff, but I could hardly complete an hour’s run without stopping ten times.
But it turns out all those times, when my mom was dying, and I was there to hold up Natasha, it turns out she was in fact listening all along. Now it was her telling me: “You’ve got this. You’re strong. You can do this. You can accomplish anything you set your mind to.”When I completed my first 3-mile run, with my sister at my side, I felt like I had an entirely new lease on life. The words we’d told each other were now the words we told ourselves. We’d created not only a stronger bond with each other, but I’d created a more solid foundation for whatever path I took in life.
Three years later, I’m now preparing for my first marathon in March 2024, which will be in memory of my mother and to raise awareness for Glioblastoma Brain Cancer Research. When I started running, I never thought running a marathon was something I could ever do. Three years of training changed me in so many ways including becoming the most fit, ambitious, and determined version of myself. Not only did I change with running, but running made me strong enough to accept change and be thankful for the blessings I have been given.
