Day 2: A Dark Day

I wrote yesterday's post early in the morning when the light of possibility shown brightly with the rising of the sun. It was going to be a good day, a fresh start for me and a glorious day for a marathon. But as the afternoon progressed I felt weary and after only two of my restricted meals felt sure I couldn't continue. I was ready to give up before I'd even completed one day? It felt a whole lot like failure. But I dragged myself out to see the Boston Marathon, stomach rumbling and complaining, in the hopes I'd catch a glimpse of my friend running by. I'd seen her in a previous marathon and was really excited to cheer her on at the base of the most auspicious part of the race: Heartbreak Hill. But I missed her. I had trouble finding a parking spot and miscalculated her pace. Still it was great to see all the other runners. It took my mind off of my stomach and gave me some brief but needed time in the sun. I got home around two and took a nap, feeling like I often do at this point in the day on Yom Kippur, a most difficult fast lasting 24 hours. And yet I wasn't fasting. But I felt awful. When I woke I checked online for my friend's progress. Why hadn't the race officials posted her finish time? She'd made it to the 40K mark. It didn't make sense. And then it did, although it still doesn't, if you know what I mean. I knew then about the bombings, and knew later that my friend had been 100 feet from the blast, that my nephew had been in that horrible spot just one hour earlier, that everything had changed in an instant when a kitchen appliance was used for terror to kill and maim. And my diet woes seemed suddenly so trivial and inconsequential.
I had soup for dinner, the same soup that I had for breakfast and lunch. And I had soup for today's meals as well. I'm still not sure how long I can last on such a limited diet but there are far more important things on my mind now, so I will take it one bite at a time. Chew, chew, chew, swallow. Repeat. Some days that's how we have to live.