Fast Girl (7 page)

“Excuse me,” I said, wishing Mark were there to defend me, as I pushed away from him and into the crowd. I never spoke to him again.

The problem with being a top athlete is that there's always another race, and no matter how many times you've won before, you have to keep winning to maintain your reputation. The next year, 1999, was a rough year for me. I tore my Achilles tendon in an early indoor race in Boston while setting the indoor American record in the 800 meters. I missed the rest of the '99 season and was initially told by my doctors that my career might be over. I was determined to run and prove them wrong.

I'd continued to maintain some distance from my parents following their disapproval of my swimsuit calendar. But when I did go to their house for a visit, it was impossible not to notice how my brother's condition had changed, although my parents didn't discuss the subject. We didn't know it at the time but, after years of hanging on to his mental health, he'd stopped taking his meds. This had allowed him to lose at least forty pounds, and he looked better than he had in years. Both Mark and I couldn't help but compliment him when we saw him at my parents' house at the end of the summer. What we later learned was that his decision to go off his medication was a part of a downward spiral that would cause him to give his money and belongings away, paint graffiti all over his house and car, and then take his own life on September 9, 1999.

I was shocked of course. We all were. None of us had thought his illness would ever really lead to this. That fateful day had felt a little strange to begin with, and although I'd gone to train at the university gym with a friend, I paused in my workout to call Mark, which I never did. When I was training, I was training. When Mark heard my voice on the phone there was a long silence. After what seemed like an hour, Mark finally spoke.

“Suzy, it's your brother.”

As soon as I heard these words, and the tone of voice with which Mark spoke them, somehow I knew Dan had died.

“Dan's gone.”

I dropped the phone and fell to my knees in the coach's office, where I had gone to make my call. When I picked up the phone again, I had just one question.

“Why? Why did this happen?” I asked again and again.

“Suzy, you need to get home,” Mark said.

As I sobbed, he talked me through a plan where I would return to the gym, tell my friend what had happened and follow her to my house in my car, where Mark waited for me, so she could be sure I made it home safely. During the half-hour drive, my tears dried up, and I became like a zombie, totally checked out from reality and the pain it contained.

As usual, I went into my default mode. I trained, or cross-trained at least. As soon as my brother's funeral was over, I left for the airport to fly to Albany for an appearance I'd promised to make at a fundraiser in honor of a young girl who'd passed away, and then to Limerick for a much-anticipated miracle treatment I needed for my Achilles, skipping the reception
my parents had planned at their house. My relationship with my sisters was already tense, and this was the final straw for them. They went off on me, telling me I was selfish, putting another family's loss and my career before my family. But I didn't know what else to do, and even when I tried to explain this to my sisters, they wouldn't listen. Following the surgery I'd required on my Achilles, I hadn't run pain-free in nearly a year, and I couldn't stand it anymore. I needed to do something to feel better. I needed to run. I limped through my physical therapy in Ireland, constantly thinking about my brother's final moments as he'd jumped off a nine-story building to his death. I was haunted. Desperate, I attended church in Ireland, where I was made to feel very welcome. This helped, as did the letter I received telling me that my appearance in Albany had been very healing for the community. Slowly, I began to recover from the devastating loss of my brother, but his death still left a hole in my heart.

The intensely painful treatment worked. When I was finally well enough to start racing again in 2000, Mark suggested I dedicate that whole season to my brother's memory and add Favor back to the name under which I competed. It felt like the least I could do.

The shadow of Dan added another layer to an already high-stakes year for me. I was thirty-two years old, and it would be my third attempt at the Olympics. Mark and I had been married for almost ten years but had put off having a family. I felt like I had to finally make good on all the sacrifices that Mark, my parents, and my coaches had made for so many years. I had to win.

After the severity of my injury the previous year, it was amazing that I was running at all. But I didn't take that into consideration as I geared up for the 2000 European season after qualifying for the Olympic team by coming in second—of course, to Regina Jacobs—at the Olympic trials in the 1,500 meters. I had pushed my training harder than ever, feeling like I had so much to make up for—my past two Olympic disappointments, the pain my family was experiencing over the death of my brother. If I could just bring home a gold medal, we'd at last have something to be happy about.

A runner can typically peak only once in a season, so coaches try to have this peak at the time of the season's biggest race, after which it's difficult to run quite so fast because of natural wear and tear and physical and psychological exhaustion. That year, I was running great—too great, actually. I peaked in Europe just after the Olympic trials, running my career best, and a seasonal world's fastest, in the 1,500 meters, 3:57, in Oslo, and establishing myself as the favorite in Sydney. This was just a couple tenths of a second off the American record set years before by Mary Decker Slaney. Although I injured my hamstring soon after and missed two weeks of training, there was nothing to do but keep running, especially because I was the favorite for the 2000 Olympics, and Nike had me shoot a major television commercial just before I left for Sydney. Unfortunately, the commercial itself was met with criticism—from my mom, who thought that the portrayal of me running from an attacker reflected badly on our family, given Dan's death by suicide, and from some feminists, who condemned what they claimed was a message
of violence against women. I thought that the message was a positive one: I could escape a killer without needing a man to come to my rescue. Even so, the money had been spent, and I felt pressure from Nike to make good by winning in Sydney. Not only that, but I wanted to win so badly for my family. I had a gold-or-bust attitude; anything less than the best would be a complete failure.

Things were shaky from the start. I had two rounds before my Olympic final, and while I won the first round, I only felt okay, not great. In the second round, I came in second, but it was not as easy as it should have been, and I felt terrible, like I'd already spent everything. I knew I was in trouble for my final race two days later. I wanted to flee. I followed the other runners in a single file line through the tunnel from the locker room, a television cameraman close by my side. Even with a huge fake smile plastered on my face, I was worried the camera would capture my lack of confidence somehow. My brain started swirling with negative thoughts and doubts. The crowd was so loud. I glanced at the people in the stands, cheering.
Stay focused,
I thought. Then my eyes darted around at my competitors.
Can they see the fear in my eyes?
I wondered.
Why can't this be over? Why don't I just pull out of the race?
I wanted so badly to silence my critics, but I was such a mental mess that I just didn't feel like I had it in me. I looked to the area of the stands where I knew Mark was cheering me on, wishing he would come down to the track and rescue me. I felt so alone that I felt my throat clog with suppressed tears.
I can't cry. I have to run. I can't let him down. He has given up so much of his career for me and this moment.
My family is watching,
too. I have to win for them. It would bring so much joy to them after my brother's suicide.
I could help take away some of the pain.
Focus, Suzy, focus.

The official called us all to get on the starting line. I was assigned to be the first runner, closest to the inside rail of the track. This meant I had to get off to a fast start in order to avoid getting boxed in by my competitors. I adjusted the blue sunglasses that matched my USA Olympic uniform, a nervous habit, wishing the cameraman would get his lens out of my face. I shook both legs out, patted the numbers on the side of my uniform so they wouldn't fall off.
Why are they holding us so long at the start? Can't we get this over?
My heart felt as if it was going to pound itself to dust, and I hadn't started running. Then the gun went off, and the sound was so loud, it echoed in my head as I took my first strides. My newly sharpened spikes gripped the track's surface. Around me, everyone was pushing to get into the position needed to win the race. I tried to push my way in, too, focusing on the strategy Peter had drilled into me. But with every stride, the only thought in my head was
I just want this nightmare to be over.

After running three laps in sheer panic, I had one more lap to go. But the closer I got to the finish line the more certain I became that something terrible was going to happen, any second. The gusty exhales of the runners behind me grew louder, making me feel like I was being hunted like an animal in the wild. My body turned to stone. I couldn't take another step. But I had to. I wanted to vanish, just disappear, but there was nowhere to go. I tried to hold on, but the tornado of negative thoughts and doubts was spinning through my brain faster
and faster. My legs grew heavier and heavier, and with 150 meters left, one by one, the other runners passed me, until there was no one left but me. I was going to come in last, in my last Olympic race. No gold for Mark, no gold for Peter, no gold for my parents, no gold for my brother's memory. Heartbroken, panicked, almost dumb with grief, I just stopped. I told myself to fall, and then, I fell. Feeling the track against the bare skin of my arms and legs, I felt like such an idiot, a fuck-up, but at least I didn't have to run anymore. And then I realized I was still far from the finish line, and I couldn't leave this race unfinished. I forced myself up onto my feet and made myself finish, but when I saw the media crowding around me, I couldn't bear the shame of what I'd just done, and I collapsed again. It was over. I closed my eyes, woozy with emotion and exertion, and felt the medics lift me off the ground and into the air.

Untreated bipolar disorder is a ticking time bomb waiting to go off. No matter how much a person might love the high of the manic episodes when they come or might want to climb out of the lows in order to feel better, function normally, and even be happy, this is not a condition that can be self-regulated. This is not a matter of goal setting or positive thinking or getting some rest. Studies show that 15 to 17 percent of those whose bipolar disorder goes untreated ultimately die by suicide. And that's only the cost that can be measured. Not to mention the sufferers who, without realizing their brain chemistry is driving them to do so, turn to drugs, alcohol, sex, shopping, anything to quiet the torment of their rushing mind. And in so doing, lose jobs, destroy marriages, break up families, all the while being blamed for their reckless behavior, as if they had any choice in the matter.

Even my brother, Dan, who was diagnosed relatively early, when he was still in high school, and treated with electroshock therapy and medication, still became a casualty of the disease. Of course, back then, getting the diagnosis wasn't the same as gaining an understanding of what it meant. Learning that Dan was bipolar in no way prepared my family or me for the struggles he would face in his too-short lifetime. I first learned of Dan's specific diagnosis not long after he received it. But, at the time, I was too young to understand what bipolar disorder was. When his behavior was at its most destructive—and painful for my family—I resorted to the easy slurs of the day, calling him crazy in my mind and
wishing he would just snap out of it so my mom would stop crying. Looking back, I'm embarrassed by my own ignorance and regretful that I didn't have the same knowledge I do now. But I still had so much to learn back then, and unfortunately, I would have to learn it the hard way.

T
he stress of the race itself was over, but the nightmare went on and on. As far as I was concerned, this was the worst thing that had ever happened to me, worse than any other loss, worse, even, than my brother's death. My perceptions were totally distorted. I was a wreck.

The incident was big news; I was a veteran runner and the visual of me collapsing onto the track was dramatic, even haunting. In the immediate aftermath, Mark was terrified I'd really injured myself. And the media were clamoring for an interview. So I lied. To my husband, to journalists, to my coach, to everyone but the only person who knew the truth of the matter: myself. I pretended I had fallen, when I knew
I had collapsed just to end the ordeal. The medic who treated me immediately after the race cited dehydration as the cause of my collapse, and so I gratefully went with that excuse, even though, as careful as I was with my training, I never would have allowed dehydration to befall me like that. During subsequent exams, it was revealed that I had a broken ischium bone, which had been the cause of the hamstring pain that had kept me from training adequately in the weeks leading up to Sydney. This injury had also contributed to my fall, at least in terms of the psychological toll it had taken on me. Any elite runner could have been thrown off by such a setback, and for me, it had been psychologically debilitating.

I was embarrassed and heartbroken. In my mind, I had failed not only myself, but also Peter, who had devoted so much to me, and I hadn't even made good by winning him a gold. I felt the whole world viewed me as a failure, which was devastating after two decades of nonstop training and competition based on the idea that I had the potential to be the best.

In the wake of my fall, I couldn't get home fast enough, but once we were back in Madison, I couldn't bring myself to leave my house. Upon arriving home to our small town of New Glarus, we drove under a big banner that said something along the lines of,
GREAT JOB, SUZY
! It was well intentioned, but only added to my sense of embarrassment. When I went to the grocery store, I was sure everyone was staring at me, whispering behind my back about how I had failed and let down our whole state—no, our whole country—so I stopped leaving the house. I wanted the whole event to go away. It was months before I didn't think about what had
happened almost constantly. Mark was concerned about me and encouraged me to get out of the house and go running, which he knew would be more therapeutic for me than anything else, and spend time with our friends. But he didn't press me. I did a good job of hiding the true extent of my anxiety and shame from him, and even though I'd always leaned on him for advice and support, when it came down to it, he'd been conditioned to go along with whatever I said was best for my training, and so he didn't intervene now.

At the urging of an incredible doctor I'd found during our time in L.A., I finally forced myself to go see a sports psychologist for the first time in my career, in order to discuss what had happened. But even in the safety of her office, I was never really honest. I told her that I had fallen on purpose, but I didn't reveal just how dark my mental state had been going into the race. She decided the fall in Sydney was due to the extreme stress of having so much riding on a single race, and nothing in our discussions led her to suspect there was any more to it.

When the dust finally cleared, it was time to take stock, of my running career and of the life Mark and I had built together since our marriage. I didn't want to race anymore. I was terrified that the minute I strapped on my spikes I'd be crippled with panic. But I was too proud to end my career on such a low note. I rallied, kept training, and in 2001 things were on the upswing again. I actually had quite a good year in 2001. Or at least I had a good
running
year. My life continued to be dictated by my obsessive focus. I spent most of my time with my coach, Peter, and Mark. In his dual role as
my husband and part-time manager, Mark was aware of my every move. I had remained close to Mary, even though she had married an old contact of mine from Nike we'd set her up with and moved to Portland to be with him. We talked on the phone frequently and saw each other as often as we could. Later that year, she called me with terrible news.

“Suzy, I have to tell you something,” she said, slowly and quietly.

“What is it?” I asked, instantly worried because it was unlike her to sound so serious. I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking tea, and I looked up at Mark, who was standing across from me.

“I have cancer,” she said, her voice shaking. “But don't worry, I'm going to fight it, and I'm going to win.”

My heart tightened up and tears rolled down my face.

If anyone could beat cancer, it was Mary, who was still the most dynamic, charismatic force of nature I'd ever known. But her diagnosis—a rare cancer—and ensuing need for a particularly intense form of chemotherapy meant she had a hard battle ahead. I made a point to get to Portland several times that year to be with my dear friend. She always amazed me with her energy and good spirits, even when she was sick, and it was easy to pretend she'd be back to normal in no time. Plus, I knew that was what Mary wanted, and wanted me to believe.

I had a great season in 2002, running three 1,500s under four minutes and earning a ranking of number three in the world. My training was going so well that I began looking toward competing in one more Olympics, in 2004. But as the
trials approached, my nagging injuries began to get the best of me. I was traveling to Limerick once a month for deep-tissue treatment, and also making trips to Germany for injections to remove scar tissue. My body was telling me: enough. Although I had run through worse injuries many times, I was worried about my mental state more than my physical body. I was terrified of what might happen if I tried to race when I knew I wasn't at my best. I pulled my hamstring during the preliminary round of the Olympic trials, and I just didn't have it in me to push through the pain and the fear. I had learned something from Sydney at least. So I pulled out of the final race.

Mark and I had been talking seriously about starting a family. We'd both always wanted children, and now that we had a space in our life that running used to fill, it seemed like the perfect moment to welcome a child. When I found out I was pregnant in early 2005, we were overjoyed. I loved being pregnant and couldn't wait to be a mother. Mark and I were living in Blanchardville then, a small town thirty minutes outside of Madison. Our house was timber framed and cozy, nestled in a grove of grand oaks and maples on sixty-plus acres of woodland that included a creek and a running trail Mark had made for me. I continued to run through the woods daily during my pregnancy, but I was glad to be focused on picking baby names and getting our daughter's room ready. I had yet to officially announce I was retiring, but as soon as I announced I was pregnant, people in the running world and my own family assumed I would retire, or at least take a break, in order to become a mom. My parents were overjoyed to be grandparents again, and their focus on
my running was soon transferred to their excitement about their new granddaughter.

I pretty much knew it was time to put my dream on the shelf. Many athletes have a hard time retiring, because without the daily routine of training to give their life structure, and the positive reinforcement of winning to make them feel like they have value, they become depressed, or worse. This was not the case for me. I had hated competing for decades, since high school really, and had been looking forward to retiring for years. My demons had taken me down in Sydney. Any joy I had ever experienced in competition, and there hadn't been much, was gone, never to return. I didn't want to be a runner anymore. I still ran every day, but not with the need to complete the same number of miles, or with the same intensity, day after day. It was a huge relief. I loved lacing up my sneakers to go for a mellow ten-mile run. I was thrilled to have a break from the exhausting nonstop cycle of training and traveling, and then training some more. It was time to do something else.

Mark and I had begun to make a tentative plan that he would practice law, and once I was ready to return to work, I would coach, do motivational speaking, and make appearances, or some combination of the three. Life in Wisconsin was less expensive, and we had no reason to worry about supporting ourselves. The transition seemed likely to be an easy one. I did have to make one difficult trip that year when I visited Mary at her new house in Boston. I had seen her several times since she'd been diagnosed with cancer, and she'd filled me with hope with her resolve to get well. This time, things
were different, though. I knew it as soon as she came to the door to welcome me on the first day of my visit. Mary had lost a lot of weight, as well as her thick brown hair, from the chemo, and she looked extremely frail. When I hugged her, I was alarmed to feel her bones through her skin. But then we pulled back and looked at each other, and she flashed her great crooked grin, and it was just like old times again.

I stayed with Mary for several days, and during that time, she insisted on taking a walk with me every day, even though she had to go slowly. This was such a change from our freshman year, when we ran so fast on the track that our teammates complained. Mary was still so young, only thirty-seven years old, and I wanted to believe in her. As we walked, our pace began to match, our arms swinging lightly by our sides, and our hands found each other, the fingers linking.

“How's Mark?” she asked.

“He's so excited to be a dad,” I said. “And I know he's going to be great.”

“Mark was born ready to be a dad,” she joked.

That was Mary, always making me laugh.

“He's definitely always been a lot more mature than me,” I said. “You know, I still feel really bad that I wasn't able to make it to your wedding. It would have meant so much to me to be there.”

“You were racing,” Mary said. “If anyone should get that, it's me. I wish you could have been there, too, though. It was the happiest day of my life. I feel so lucky that Fred came into my life when he did. He really is my guardian angel. Especially now.”

It felt so normal, talking about boys like we always had, even though now those boys were men—our husbands—and I was about to become a mom, an experience Mary was hoping for once she completed her cancer treatment, having put aside some of her eggs. But by the time we got back to Mary's house, her already slow pace was flagging, and she had to stop and rest before she was able to climb the stairs to her front door. I reached for her arm to help her, but she leaned on the railing instead, independent as always. By the time we got inside, Mary felt ready to lie down. But she had something else she wanted to do. When we walked into the living room, she unrolled her yoga mat on the floor and had me sit down on the floor near her. We both crossed our legs and placed our palms together in front of our hearts.

“Okay, close your eyes,” she said, leading me through a simple introduction to yoga. “Slow your breathing.”

I knew that yoga, and especially the meditation component, had become incredibly important to Mary during her cancer treatment. I knew she loved it and I was eager to support anything that made her feel better. But the whole thing was quite a mystery to me. I was able to slow my breathing, but not my mind, which raced ahead at a million thoughts a moment, just like it always did. I followed along as best I could as Mary led me through several basic poses, but as soon as she brought our session to a close, I popped up off the floor, needing to be back in motion. Mary, on the other hand, was more than ready for her afternoon nap. An hour later, I found myself sitting on the couch, staring into space, a magazine discarded next to me. I'd never been much of a reader, and I
really couldn't concentrate now. All I could think about was Mary, how she'd always been my idol because of her style, independence, and zest for life. She just had to beat her cancer. She just had to. I stood and quietly tiptoed into her room to check on her. It was hard to see her, she looked so small in her bed, her thin limbs barely raising the blankets that covered her. I stopped short. The room wasn't just completely quiet; it was full of peace, a palpable energy that was warm and golden like sunlight. I smiled through my tears, thinking how lucky I was to have this exceptional friend. If anyone could beat cancer, it was Mary.

I LOVED EVERYTHING ABOUT BEING
pregnant, and I even loved giving birth, thanks to a well-timed epidural. I was so aware of everything in that moment, as if the preciousness of it all heightened my experience and brought everything into the sharpest focus. Kylie was born six weeks before her due date, and even though my doctor had told me there was nothing to worry about, it was hard not to fear that something might go wrong until I finally saw her and knew that she was healthy.

When Mark first saw Kylie, his face was filled with the glow of so much love. A nurse helped Mark cut the umbilical cord and place Kylie in my arms. All the love and joy within me rushed up to the surface, overwhelming me, and I began to cry. I looked up at Mark, who was beaming down at us and crying, too. My eyes returned to Kylie. I couldn't stop looking at her. She was so beautiful, perfect, with the cutest little nose and cheeks.

“My little peach,” I said, leaning forward to kiss her sweet face.

Everything I had done in my life before Kylie, save marrying Mark, seemed so small in that moment. Mark and I had created a miracle. I looked up at him again and we locked eyes, both smiling and crying at the same time, totally in the moment together.

Because she was born prematurely, Kylie had to stay in the hospital for ten days, which was hard for me. I just wanted to take her home to our little house in the woods, where I could care for her and we could begin our life together as a family. As my doctors had warned, I couldn't breast-feed because of my reduction surgery. I wanted to feel as close to my daughter as possible, and it was hard not to fear I was failing her because my body wouldn't do what it was supposed to do. From there, things got worse. Once Kylie finally came home, my fears amplified. I loved her. I loved her so much. I loved her so much that I couldn't put her down. I literally could not bear the intense anguish of separation I experienced every time I set her down in her swing or her bassinet, even when she was sound asleep and didn't notice I wasn't holding her anymore. My brain started to spin and whirl like it used to when I was a little girl and needed to do something, anything—cleaning the house, mowing the lawn, or running, of course—to calm it down. When Kylie napped, I ran up and down the hill behind our house with the baby monitor in my hand, pushing myself as hard as I could. The only thing that made me feel better was to sit on the couch with Kylie in my arms, but even that wasn't enough to recalibrate my brain.
I stopped eating, except for protein shakes and Pop-Tarts, and as had happened before, eating less gave me this strange serenity, like I finally had control over at least one aspect of my life. I lost the twenty-six pounds I'd gained during my pregnancy very quickly, and still, I didn't start eating more. And still, I didn't feel normal. I knew something was wrong, but I didn't know what.