Come What May, I Want to Run: A Memoir of the Saving Grace of Ultrarunning in Overwhelming Times

By Miriam Díaz-Gilbert

Growing up, Miriam is an average athlete who doesn't get much playing time. She never imagines becoming a runner. But a college breakup propels her to run to mend her broken heart. She begins running 5K races. These races morph into half-marathons and marathons. Years later, running helps her to cope with the workplace mistreatment she is enduring as an academic and the depression she suffers.

After watching Dean Karnazes and Pam Reed on 60 Minutes talk about ultrarunning, Miriam signs up for the JFK 50 ultra. With the love and support of her family, she runs an ultramarathon every year. A few years later, Miriam is unable to run normally until she is diagnosed with neurological B12 deficiency and gets her running legs back.

Three days after placing third female in a twenty-four-hour ultramarathon, Miriam's scheduled laparoscopic hysterectomy is only the beginning of her medical and surgical nightmare. When her husband Jon is diagnosed with stage four cancer, Miriam runs ultramarathons for his healing.

In Come What May, I Want to Run, the reader keeps pace with Miriam as she overcomes adversity, and her unrelenting faith, perseverance, resiliency, and running ultramarathons never waiver.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: May 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666768077

Miriam Díaz-Gilbert

Miriam Díaz-Gilbert was born and raised in Connecticut. She is a graduate of Rutgers University and LaSalle University. She has taught ESL, first-year writing, and theology/religion studies. She has been running races since 1989 and ultramarathons since 2005. She is published in academic journals, Huffington Post, Ultrarunning Magazine, Women’s Running Magazine, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Running for Good, and Cancer Today. Miriam and her husband Jon have two children and three grandchildren. Have a listen to Miriam's interview on The Runner's Resource Podcast and Martha Runs the World Podcast

Book preview

1

It’s Big

The 2018 Naked Prussian 50, a fifty-mile trail ultramarathon in Leesport, Pennsylvania would be my twenty-second ultramarathon on Easter Saturday. Three weeks earlier Jon’s future faced uncertainty. Would he make it?

While other patients and their friends and family were watching the flat-screen TV, I had been sitting and knitting a scarf for my granddaughter Jordan and editing an article about how to plant a vegetable garden for my blog. I’d been waiting almost two hours. By now the waiting room was thinning out. A few patients had left with those accompanying them. The nurse called my name—Mrs. Gilbert. I closed my laptop and placed it in my Vera Bradley tote bag holding my knitting needles and yarn. I got up from the chair in the waiting room.

The moment she escorted me to a small conference room, I knew it would not be good news. Having worked as an emergency room clerk on weekends while a college senior and in graduate school, I knew that good news never comes from a visit to the doctor/patient conference room. Jon, looking pale and somber, was already in the room sitting in a black vinyl stackable chair.

How are you feeling? How did it go? I asked as I sat in a chair next to him in the small windowless gray-walled room lit by fluorescent lighting.

As he stared at the floor, Jon responded in a whisper, I guess that’s what the doctor wants to tell me.

The doctor walked in with his white coat on and a folder in his hand.

Hi, I’m Miriam.

He introduced himself as we shook hands. He sat on a black doctor chair on wheels across from us and rested his elbow on a gray desk. He wasn’t smiling.

So, how did it go Dr. Martin? I asked as I sat on the edge of my chair.

Looking at Jon and then me, Dr. Martin said, You have a mass. It’s big.

Jon didn’t say a word.

How big? I asked.

I could not get the scope through. There’s a big blockage.

Is it cancer? I asked calmly.

Yes. Mr. Gilbert you have rectal cancer. It’s malignant. I’ve seen many of these. But it’s treatable, he replied in a quiet and reassuring voice as he looked at Jon.

Jon was still quiet. I rested my right hand on his left thigh.

Is there a history of colon or rectal cancer in the family? Dr. Martin asked.

My grandfather died of colon cancer, Jon uttered quietly.

It’s been sixteen years since Jon had a colonoscopy, I noted.

Well, the last time I went for a colonoscopy the doctor told me it was internal hemorrhoids, Jon added.

That was a long time ago, I sighed as I stared at the gray-carpeted floor.

Had you been bleeding? Dr. Martin asked.

Jon nodded.

He’d kept saying that he had blood in his stool every time he ate red meat. And I have to tell you—his poop really stinks! It’s really bad. He stinks up the bathrooms and the house, I chuckled.

Jon didn’t say a word. I’m thinking—he’s been rotting, decaying inside. That’s what cancer smells like.

"So what do we do next?" I asked as I changed gears.

I’m going to recommend a surgeon at Vitality Health Medical Center.

Absolutely not, I said as I straightened up my slumped shoulders. I was almost killed there. A story for another day. You don’t know the half of it. We will never go back to Vitality Health.

Surprised by my adamant reaction, Dr. Martin pulled out a business card from the pocket of his white doctor’s coat. It was a business card of a surgeon at a top hospital across the river in the next state. His name is Carl Anderson. He’s one of the best. I will call him and let him know. He handed the business card to me. Jon did not respond or react.

Yes. We’ll make an appointment to see him, I said with relief as I took the card. Is it stage four? I asked.

Dr. Martin gently nodded his head.

Has it spread? I asked.

I don’t know. I’m going to order an MRI and a CT scan.

Okay. We’ll do that, I said.

Do you have any questions?

I’m sure we’ll have a lot of questions, I said. My eyes began to tear up. I gently rubbed Jon’s left thigh with my right hand, again.

I’ll get the nurse. She’ll be right in with the order for the MRI and scan. He extended his hand to shake Jon’s hand. Good luck Mr. Gilbert, Dr. Martin said and left the room.

I began to cry. I could feel my nose turn red. Jon appeared numb. I was not surprised by the diagnosis.

Signs of trouble appeared one night in 1985. The toilet water was a bright red, brighter than when I was on my period. A GI doctor removed four polyps. After that Jon would need to get a colonoscopy every five years. From his last colonoscopy to his diagnosis was sixteen years. Buoyed by the news that the polyps were not precancerous or worse, we made plans to get married. It had been five years since we had met in a history class at Rutgers College in New Brunswick, New Jersey. I was a senior; Jon was a junior. Our budding love story was planted with a kiss behind the Barn, the college’s athletic center, and an offer I could not resist the night before we went home for Thanksgiving break, me to Connecticut and Jon to North Jersey.

Wanna come over? We can watch HBO, Jon said with a smile.

Wow, he has HBO! All I have is a small black and white TV in my dorm room.

When we got to his apartment, he turned the TV on low volume so as not to wake up his roommate. I was stunned when the image on the big, old, black and white console TV was warped. Romeo and Juliet looked like they were standing in front of mirrors in a carnival fun house. From that day on, Jon and I were inseparable.

Jon and I are not fans of weddings. I’m Catholic, he’s a secular Jew. So we kept it simple. We told our parents we were not having a wedding. We got my parents’ blessing. Jon’s parents invited themselves. My sister was the maid of honor and his brother was the best man. Jon looked handsome and I looked beautiful in our wedding attire. I wore a Jessica McClintock antique white Victorian lace wedding dress I purchased at Jay-West, a landmark wedding, prom, and special occasions dress shop in town. My dark brown hair was tied back in a high bun. I don’t wear makeup, but on my wedding day, clear lip gloss shined on my lips, and a little eyeliner accentuated my dark brown eyes and my Brooke Shields brows. My tanned face blushed. Jon wore a gray pinstripe suit and vest purchased and tailored at John Wanamaker.

On a beautiful hot July Saturday morning in 1985 in the gazebo in the center of the small outdoor shopping area in town, we exchanged simple vows—to love and to cherish, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. The mayor officiated. We made a donation to the local firehouse. We celebrated our wedding at a local restaurant with a lunch that included escargot drowning in butter. I can’t remember what the main course was, but it was probably chicken.

The first time Jon made chicken for me was when he made a dish he called Chinese Chicken for dinner—rice topped with chicken pieces, broccoli, and cream of mushroom soup—in his off-campus apartment. The white rice tasted different, like paper, but I was so impressed with the presentation. I later found out it was Minute Rice. And it was the first time I had cream of mushroom soup. Another time Jon made a delicious spaghetti dinner with salad and garlic bread served with a bottle of red wine. I was in heaven—a guy who cooks! Jon was also a guy who had mostly carrots in the refrigerator and a box of Cap’n Crunch in the cupboard. To feed him on most days, I’d wrap sandwiches, bagels and cream cheese, fried chicken, cheese steaks, and containers of orange juice from the college dining hall where I had an all-you-can-eat meal plan. I’d stuff it all in my bookbag and he’d feast on it either in my dorm room or his apartment.

We topped our wedding lunch with a tasteless, dry wedding cake. I think the baker forgot to add sugar and baking powder. The cake did not rise and it tasted like cardboard. But this did not stop us from cutting a piece of cake to take a picture of the ceremonial bride and groom cake bite. We took home a piece, placed it in the back of the refrigerator freezer, and threw it out after we returned from our first wedding anniversary vacation in Puerto Rico.

After our wedding lunch, we went back to our apartment, changed clothes, and drove off in Jon’s silver Subaru GL hatchback to the Viscount Hotel outside JFK airport for the night on our way to Greece for our honeymoon. The next day we boarded an almost empty plane. The day before we got married, President Ronald Reagan lifted the travel ban to the Middle East. On June 14, 1985, terrorists demanding the release of Shi’ite Muslims from Israeli custody hijacked TWA flight 847 departing from Athens. I was determined to spend our honeymoon in beautiful Greece, especially after watching Summer Lovers with Daryl Hannah and Peter Gallagher on HBO on our modern color TV. I fell in love with Greece and so did Jon. That summer I was also teaching part-time at an English program for foreign students at a local university.

Within a few minutes a nurse with natural curly red hair in a pony-tail resting on the back of her navy scrubs and wearing a gold crucifix around her neck, came in the room.

Call us if you have any discomfort or any problems in the next twenty-four hours Mr. Gilbert. Here are the orders for the MRI and CT scan. She handed them to me.

What’s your name? I asked as I reached for a tissue in my bag.

I’m Patty.

Feeling deep gratitude for her compassion and gentle demeanor as she escorted us out of the conference room, I thanked her. Patty gently rubbed my left arm with her right hand. Everything is going to be all right.

I know. I wiped my tears and the clear mucus dripped from my nose.

I will pray for you both, she said.

Thank you, I whispered as my voice began to crack.

Jon stayed quiet. I stuffed all the papers Patty gave me in my bag somewhere between the yarn, knitting needles, and my laptop.

Everything is going to be fine, I said to my husband as we walked arm in arm to the car. It was bitterly cold. The gray sky on this dark day in March 2018, mirrored our mood. A snow storm was in the forecast.

As soon as we got home, I called the Diagnostic Radiology Center to schedule Jon’s MRI and CT scan. Jon made dinner. I don’t remember what we ate. We watched TV. I took a shower. My tears washed away in the hot shower as I prayed aloud—Heavenly Father, watch over Jon and give me the strength to stay strong. I trust in you God. I leave it all in your hands. We went to bed, foregoing our usual routine of falling asleep to the sound of the TV. That night the exhaustion from the bad news was a natural sedative.

The next morning we headed to the Diagnostic Radiology Center for Jon’s 10:00 a.m. appointment. The bright blue sky and blinding sun had begun to melt the bright white snow into glistening puddles on the black asphalt roads. The snowstorm that swept through the night before left roads strewn with fallen branches and trees. A fallen power line on the side of the road caused Jon to slow down. A big uprooted tree was blocking the road. He carefully navigated the car under the tree.

The sun and blue sky filled me with a sense of joy and pure hope. Everything is going to be okay. There is no obstacle we can’t overcome. And ultrarunning would now have a new purpose and meaning. I’d be running for Jon’s healing.

2

It’s Not Going to Happen Again

I ran recreationally to stay in shape. I ran for years before I became pregnant with Jonna. I ran through the first trimester with her. Three years after teaching ESL (English as a second language) full-time at a university, I resigned. Jonna was almost two years old. I wanted to be home to raise her. It was one of the best decisions I ever made. Six months after I resigned my position, I ran my first local 5K (3.1 miles) road race to benefit a school for children with disabilities. It was a cold, rainy Saturday morning in October. Jonna and Jon cheered me on. On that day my running, which began as my way to mend a broken heart, became a lifelong practice.

Had I not suffered a college break up, I don’t think I would be running all of these years. I ran on campus street sidewalks many nights as tears streamed down my face. I’d run in the dark after a long day of classes and my work-study job in the library’s periodicals department—that way no one could see my heartbreak. The simple act of movement and running seemed to make the hurt and sorrow less painful. The sweat temporarily cleansed my body of sadness. The hot shower afterwards washed my tears down the shower drain. I felt better.

On some sunny Saturdays I’d run two miles from my dorm to Highland Park, the adjacent town on the other side of the Raritan River, and continue for about four miles. With my empty water bottle, I’d take the campus bus back. Running around and off campus was the best medicine for the excruciating sadness and depression that was setting in. At night in bed, I’d visualize Jesus’s suffering on the cross, His face, and his compassionate heart. I’d think of Santa’s goodness and cheerful disposition. I’d cry myself to sleep and pray that tomorrow would be a better day because, while my heart was broken into a million pieces, my strong legs would get me out of my funk one step at a time. I would keep running through graduation day and beyond.

Growing up, the only time I ran was during recess and while playing tag on the asphalt and concrete schoolyard at Maloney School, where I attended kindergarten to fourth grade in Waterbury, Connecticut. In third grade, I had the distinction of being selected by the school principal to participate in the preliminary round of the Presidential Physical Fitness contest held in schools across the country. Four other girls and I were escorted to the schoolyard from our classrooms. The gym teacher lined us up next to each other. We had to jump in the air. We had to run a short distance a few times. The gym teacher recorded our times and speed on her clipboard. I did not make the cut. But I was not upset. I had no idea I was even a little bit athletic. It was a good feeling. I think I was selected because I was the tallest girl and taller than the boys in my grade. I had long legs. And for the first time, my long legs were not being made fun of. I was not being called Daddy Long Legs, a nickname my sister and cousins would tease me with.

I think any athleticism I had might have come from my father. He loved baseball and played semipro and adult league baseball and softball every summer for over thirty years. He was a pitcher. My father was a big Mets fan. On Saturday afternoons we’d watch the Mets on our TV. To this day, I still have the image of Tommy Agee at bat with his stats displayed on the bottom of the TV screen, including ten home runs. I was in awe—Wow! Ten home runs! My father took me and my younger sisters to a couple of games at Shea Stadium. One year, we went on Helmet Day. The Mets beat the Astros. Another time the Mets played a double-header against the Phillies. The Mets beat them, too. I still have my four-dollar ticket stub of game day on Saturday, June 28, 1975, the official game book, and a completed scorecard in my handwriting taped to my scrapbook.

The Mets won the World Series in 1969. Neil Armstrong took one big step for mankind on July 20, 1969. It was a historic year in more ways than one. It was also the year elite and white independent schools across the country scrambled to be more inclusive after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 was passed. I received an academic scholarship to attend St. Margaret, a non-sectarian, private boarding and day school for girls founded in 1865 in Waterbury. I was a recipient of a scholarship program designed to pluck academically advanced but economically disadvantaged Black, Hispanic, and Native American students from public schools into white prep schools. I was ten years old.

I still remember that hot day in August of ’69. I let myself in the front door of our apartment house with my own key. I could hear voices coming from the living room. I was holding a Lerner Shop bag containing a pair of dark brown knee-hi’s to complement my new first day of fifth grade dress—a brown and orange plaid dress with an orange bow attached to the center of a wide white Pilgrim collar. I walked in. I saw a man wearing light gray rimmed glasses resting on his nose. He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and a tie. A couple of pens were nestled in his shirt pocket pen holder.

You got a scholarship, my father said humbly.

My mother added, To a girls’ school.

You’re going to St. Margaret School for girls, the man said. He was Puerto Rican like us and a community activist and leader. You will start in two weeks. A taxi will pick you up every morning and bring you home after school. Your uniform is waiting for you at the school. You will pick it up when you visit the school, meet the headmaster, and get a tour of the school in a couple days. Your uniform shoes are reserved for you at Hertzmark’s shoe store on Bank Street, he said. I knew exactly where it was located. It was a shoe store for rich people. He congratulated me and said he was proud of me. My parents, feeling a bit nervous about the good news, were even more proud of me. As my parents signed some papers, I whispered to my mother, But I already bought the knee-hi’s for my dress. My mother whispered back, You’ll wear the dress and socks when we visit your new school and meet the headmaster.

I had received a full scholarship: tuition, meal plan, books, uniform, shoes, and a taxi cab drive to and from school. The next day my mother and I walked downtown to buy school supplies and a student vinyl zippered briefcase from Kresege’s department store and the required navy blue color knee-hi’s at Lerner Shop to complement my uniform.

My father is a Korean War veteran from Puerto Rico, a US colony since 1898 when the US invaded Puerto Rico at the end of the Spanish-American War. Even though he was born a US citizen, he and all Puerto Ricans on the island were and still are denied the right to vote for the president of the United States. My father and all Puerto Rican soldiers risked their lives for democracy and the rights of strangers in a foreign land. His brother was a POW. My father worked as a laborer his entire life. He worked for over thirty years as a delivery driver at Stevens Co., a tool and dye factory.

My mother worked as an ILGWU (International Ladies’ Garment Workers Union) dress finisher at I. Dibner & Bros. for over thirty years. She finished dress hems and sewed on buttons. My mother was paid a low hourly wage and a fixed rate for each dress she hemmed and buttoned. Whenever she needed a new dress, she’d shop at Dorfman’s, an upscale women’s clothing store on Bank St. She’d point out the dresses she’d hemmed and sewn buttons on, and show me the ILGWU label sewn inside. When she saw a dress on sale she liked, she’d put it on layaway.

I don’t remember how old I was, but one day she took me to the factory with her to pick up some piece work she could do at home. For the first time, I saw what the factory she worked in looked like and where she sat across from her heavy set, glasses wearing, and cheerful supervisor Mary. While my mother would sew hems and buttons on dresses, Mary would iron the dresses with the hot iron she pulled down from a cord in the high factory ceiling. Your mother works very hard. She’s very proud of you Miriam. You’re very intelligent, she said with a proud smile. I blushed with embarrassment and lowered my eyes in deference and a sign of respect to an elder.

Unlike my mother, who had an eight-grade education, my father was a high school graduate. Educated in Puerto Rico, what they both possessed was literacy in Spanish and English. Along with a good work ethic, they instilled in me the importance of educación, educación, educación. I still remember the day in our third floor apartment on Spencer Avenue. A traveling salesman sold my mother a series of books—a small encyclopedia set, a collection of books about math, science, and history, and storybooks. I was in first grade. The Velveteen Rabbit was one of my favorites. My mother put money aside to make the monthly payments. When I got older, my mother subscribed to Life, Time, and Look magazines. I waited with great anticipation for the mailman to deliver them so I could devour every page.

My parents inspired my love for reading and writing early on. With the quarters I’d save from my weekly allowance, I subscribed to a young reader’s book club. I’d get a book in the mail every month. My parents taught me how to read Spanish via the big black font front page headlines of El Diario newspaper. Founded in 1913, El Diario is still the