After Toronto Half

I enter through the backyard and pull the door closed behind. It's quiet in the kitchen/dinning area. Maggie is crouched over her book in the living room at the opposite side of the house. I can neither see, nor hear her from where I stand, but I know she's there. My breathing is the only sound in the house.
Quietly, as if not to break the eerie silence, I take off my hat and shoes, peel the iPod off my arm and tiptoe toward the stairs. It all seem so anti-climatic. Last week I was bursting with energy, analysing every run and calculating the pace I should hold at the race. I was pacing around the kitchen, mixing energy drinks and chattering excitedly with Maggie. Now, the race is over and the weather turned colder as if Mother Nature only waited for the race to finish before she turned off the heat and switched on the Fall.
The race was fun - a half-marathon along the lake on a slightly humid day. I felt great despite the sleepless night before and ran my personal best, winning the media challenge along the way. I suppose I'm officially the fastest running member of the media in Toronto. That may come in handy if anybody ever gives me a chase.
The route was flat, which was good, and boring, which wasn't. Luckily, there were some weird runners to break the monotony of the course. Somewhere half the way through the run, I came upon an older man with very short and fast stride. I remember thinking how he can't possibly keep the high pace with such a running style. As I was passing, he sped up and stayed just a step ahead. I tried to pull next to him, but each time he added a bit more speed to his funny gait. He looked like that funny roadrunner bird. After a while both of us were going way too fast, wasting energy, so I slowed down a notch. He must have felt me falling back, because he did too, as on a cue. I was getting annoyed when we came upon the turn where at the 12th kilometer the course makes a u-turn and goes back to the downtown. The old timer took slightly wider turn and I sneaked passed him on the inner side, triumphant. However, he just stopped then, slowed to walk and fell way back. It seemed that he lost the competitiveness, or maybe he just wanted to stay ahead until the turn. Either way I foolishly wasted some precious energy chasing him around.
As usual, the last 4 kms were a struggle, but I managed to keep the pace and even add some sort of acceleration in the last 500 meters. People cheering on were great help in those last moments of the race. I finished 84th overall, out of 8000 runners.

In the shower, I re-live those moments again. I can't help but feel deflated, without a goal to run toward the whole long winter. Still, I enjoy those solitary runs, now without the push. I just let my legs carry me, while an audio book play in my ears. Then, in April, I will realize every runner's dream when I lace up at the famous Boston marathon.

Hospital

Maggie is in a green sleeping gown open at the back. She wears some kind of washed out white robe with tiny faded blue flowers over it. She sits in the chair next to me, but she is restless. Every time a door opens her head jerks. When no one calls her name, she keeps fidgeting for a while. As soon as she finally settles in the comfortable position, the door opens again.
I ask how is she doing - an unnecessary question, for every atom of her body exhibits nervous anticipation. She manages a smile. Fine, she says. Unconvincing.
A minute later she nudges her head against my chest. Her eyes are huge.
I'm scared, she says. I smile, hoping it looks encouraging.
Don't worry it's going to be OK, I say. Such a cliche! My brain is not capable of anything better. What would I give to be able to swap places with her, to be the one in the open surgical hospital gown, wide-eyed with fear. She looks so small and fragile. I feel big and useless, incapable to protect her.
The door opens again, the head jerks again. This time with the reason - it's her name the nurse calls. Maggie shuffles in, I follow. The nurse gives us a rundown of the procedure and takes Maggie into surgery. I go back to the waiting room, where other husbands try to kill time until wives awake from anesthesia. The air is thick with worry.
I try to read a book, but my mind is with Maggie. I stare at the same page for over an hour, until the nurse taps me on the shoulder. She's awake, the nurse says.
Maggie is on a wheeled bed in a room which looks like a giant parking lot for wheeled beds. It is divided by green curtains into many tiny partitions. In each there's place for a bed, a chair and not much else.
I squeeze into Maggie's partition. Her eyes are partly open, she tries a smile. Her lips are dessicated, her face a few shades lighter green than her gown. There's an IV in the back of her hand. Even in this minute space she looks tiny. So small, I wish I can scoop her into my arms and carry her home.
Slowly, her speech becomes less slurred, her responses are quicker. The nurse gives her OK to change. There is a bloody bed-sheet, quickly taken away. Last quick instructions recited by the nurse, obviously repeated so many times it sounds impersonal, almost robotic. We nod. Maggie pays attention, I just wish she'd never need to go through this again. Strange how you need to get hurt to get better.
The nurse rolls Maggie out in a wheelchair while I get the car. The moment we left the hospital parking, Maggie comes alive. She is thirsty, she says. And ravenous, she adds. Let's go somewhere to eat.
Maybe it'll all be good, after all. I do my best to expunge the bloody sheet from memory and manage a smile. A real smile. Yeah, let's go to eat and let's go home!