Christine Meyer - The Longest Mile: A Doctor, a Food Fight, and the Footrace that Rallied a Community Against Cancer

The LONGEST MILE

Copyright 2016 by Christine Meyer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published 2016
Printed in the United States of America
ISBN: 978-1-63152-043-3
e-ISBN: 978-1-63152-044-0
Library of Congress Control Number: 2015954802

Cover design by Julie Metz Ltd./metzdesign.com
Cover photo by Jamie Stanek
Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

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1563 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, its the only thing that ever has.

Margaret Mead

For my husband, Chris
Because he makes me better

In Memory of Ed Kokoszka 1959-2016

The 2016 Team CMMD Broad Street Runners dedicate their 3000 miles on May 1, 2016 to Ed Kokoszka. Ed was a beloved member and mentor since the inaugural Broad Street Run on May 5, 2013. He was an avid runner and had finished the Broad Street Run over twenty times. Although Ed lost his life suddenly on December 13, 2015, he will forever be a part of Team CMMD.

Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies.

Aristotle

I t was one of those brutally hot July days in Philadelphia. When I left my office at 5:00 P.M., the heels of my ridiculously impractical shoes virtually sank into the melting asphalt. As usual, my Wednesday as an internist had been long and stuffed with patients in every available moment. I had not had time to pee, much less eat lunch. A massive pile of papers on the desk had looked particularly intimidating as I shoved it into my briefcase. About a month later, I would find one of my kids report cards in a patient charta casualty of the turmoil that was my life.

Nonetheless, Wednesdays were actually my favorite day of the week. Even though they were universally and mercilessly busy, I took solace, as I chugged through patient after patient and call after call, in the fact that my husband, Chris, was home. Its all good, I told myself over and over again. These three words were essentially the deep breath that calmed me, no matter what cacophony of ringing phones and chattering patients was unfolding around me. By the time I crawled through the door on any given Wednesday, my husband would have seen that the kids had practiced music, dinner was waiting, the counter had been scrubbed, and all three children had done an extra hour of algebra; even our youngest, five year-old Hadley, got variables drilled into her head on Wednesdays. Walking into my warm house to find moaning children being lorded over by their smug father almost always erased the trauma of my workday from my weary mind, and I would spend the evening basking in that comfort.

Chris was the anchor in our house. His easy smile and quiet steadfastness balanced my fast-paced, no-time-to-rest persona. My husband of sixteen years was the only one in my life capable of calming me no matter what I might be worrying myself into a frenzy about. If I tossed and turned at night about a sick patient, he would turn on the light, pull me close, and say, You will do your best, like you always do. Shes lucky you are her doctor. When I called him from my car, breathless and panicked at my uselessness as a mother, after our daughter Maisys first public temper tantrum, he laughed a little first, then said, Just be firm and calm and stand your ground. You are a great mom; shes just a normal three year-old! When the eye doctor told us that our son, Sam, then just four, needed glasses, I wepthe had gotten my vision. Chris put Sammy on his back and piggybacked him around, looking for the coolest Spider-Man frames. He had a way of making any news seem not so bad. With him, I could handle just about anything.

That particular Wednesday, as my face met the inferno of the outdoors, I saw Chriss tall, lean shape emerging, almost on cue, from the haze of the summer sun. His gait was always relaxed and casual. Years of running and hiking had given his strong legs a saunter that seemed effortless. But not that day. Although he was coming toward me quickly, there was nothing light about his step. On the contrary, I thought I detected the slightest hitch in his long stride, as if he were a bit reluctant to close the space between us.

My smile faded as he neared. His perpetually happy face was drawn. When he was just an arms length away, he reached for me. He was steadying me for something about to hit hard.

Cat, he said, your aunt is sick. She just had emergency surgery. I dont know a lot, but it sounds pretty bad.

The words tumbled down like rocks on the slide. I had four aunts, but Chris did not have to tell me which one had brought him to me that day. The sick, empty feeling in my stomach, the sudden loss of power in my legs, and the agonizing heaviness in my heart identified her for me. From my fathers youngest sister, whom I called Tant, I learned about kindness, compassion, and deep, unconditional love of family. Tant loved people in general, but she especially loved her boys. Her husband and two sons were everything to her. My swimming thoughts instantly went to Uncle Stephan, Jack, and James. I thought of their big, ground-shaking steps and bigger, soul-warming laughs. I pictured their dining room table and saw Uncle at the head. Tant was always to his left, and Jack, their oldest son, at his right. James sat next to his brother. And my spot was to Tants left. I spent a decade at their dinner table. No matter what happened, those positions never changed.

With searing clarity and undeniable guilt, I found myself thinking about the food on that table, too. Tant, as busy and gifted a physician as she was, cooked dinner for her family practically every night. At such a moment, hearing she was so sick, I should not have been thinking about food. And yet it was all I could do to push the recipes and images and smells out of my head. After a moment, I stopped trying and let my thoughts of Tants cooking challenge my disbelief and grief. Her food back then, and my recollections of it at this moment, brought me comfortno dish more so than her rozz.

This plain rice can take side stage as a bed for slowly stewed vegetables in a rich tomato gravy or shine in the national dish koshari, a savory pilaf of rice, lentils, fried onions, and macaroni. When guests are expected, nothing is considered more fitting for an occasion than mahshi, whole vegetables, such as peppers, eggplant, and zucchini, hollowed and stuffed with a mixture of ground meat, onions, and, of course, rice. No matter what the final result, virtually every Egyptian dish starts with or includes basic rozz.

I first learned this recipe when I was about ten years old. We were in Tants first apartment in New Jersey. She had not been in America long and still cooked very much like her mother did: with a passion and tenderness that people could practically tasteeven in her simple pot of rice. Tant pulled up a small stool for me to stand on and handed me one ingredient at a time, coaching me step by step. She let me melt the butter, stir in the noodles and rice, and pour the water. She taught me to taste the cooking liquid and adjust the salt. In the end, she bragged, Catty made the