Will my mum's illness make me a marathon runner?

How I'm finding my footing while she loses hers

I got my place in the London Marathon the day my mum was discharged from hospital to a care home after six weeks of being bedridden. Barely 15 minutes after she was wheeled into the building and hoisted into her new bed, in fact.

Call it coincidence, but I chose to take it as a sign; a serendipitous nudge to take care of, train, nourish and challenge my body at a time when I’d watched my mum lose complete control over hers. 

Over the course of the summer, I’d watched her come to a full stop as one day she woke up in bed and never left. Days went by and yet time stood still as my dad and I agonised and argued over what to do amidst apathetic advice from a 111 call-out and GP home visit. Eventually, a nurse evaluated her, who immediately arranged an ambulance and she was hospitalised for two weeks. After every scan, test and assessment under the sun, we were no closer to understanding why her world had suddenly compressed to 4’ x 6’.

It was only after a subsequent and unsuccessful trip to a care home with a rehab facility for an intense course of physio that we were met with a diagnosis that shed light on, but didn’t totally explain, this episode. Dementia; mixed. Even the type felt like a hotchpotch. And although it threw up so many more questions than answers, her incapacitation, among other symptoms, started making sense.

In recent years, she’d become unsteady on her feet – often relying on my dad to help her around, and had fallen a handful of times, including one instance last year on the stairs at home which prompted my dad to sell their house of 34 years – the one I’d known all my life – and downsize to a flat. What we didn’t know then, but what we know now, is this decline in mobility is a well-trodden path in dementia’s progression due to the brain’s deterioration affecting coordination and balance. Her fall in May seemed to be the final straw that broke any confidence she had in walking and signalled the underbelly to this interval.

Eight months on since she last walked, she remains in bed but we still hold a flicker of hope that she can get back on her feet with the help of a brilliant physio who we met in hospital. And while we yearn for the small steps that feel like major milestones, I’ve chosen to embark on my own personal journey of progress and accept the challenge of a lifetime that landed in my inbox in mid July. The one that came with a picture of a man looking behind a huge text shouting ‘congratulations’ that had me internally screaming a shorter word in even larger letters.

Disclaimer: I’ve never been a runner. This new mission has born from a flukey ballot entry I’d already made twice before while caught up in the second-hand endorphins of marathon-day spectatorship. Isn’t it time I truly challenged myself? What a turnaround for the girl who hated P.E.! As the reality of successfully throwing my hat into the ring sunk in, I nervously weighed up the options. It could have been an easy no; a task too daunting to have hanging over me, especially when dealing with the whys and hows of family illness. The excuses ran through my head; what if I conveniently forgot to pay the entry fee in time? Easily done. I’m sure someone very wise famously said the human body isn’t designed to run that far? Best not tempt fate.

I soon conceded this was once-in-a-lifetime opportunity (one where I was in the lucky 3% out of 578, 374 applicants) and was surprised by how quickly it gave me a huge sense of purpose during a time that feels underscored by instability and uncertainty. I have a plan – a step-by-step guide, week-by-week, for which I have no such thing when it comes to being an exemplary daughter in these circumstances. How I’d long for an app that gave me a easy-to-follow tickable schedule of helpful tasks on how to navigate everything from the endless paperwork to the perfect one-liner to explain the situation to others, complete with experts popping up and telling me I’m “nailing it” or to “hang in there”. While I mull over that business idea, I’m well aware there are many amazing resources available to me, like Alzheimer’s Society, who I have already and will undoubtedly continue to call upon for advice when unforeseen diversions, hard decisions and difficult conversations arise.

And while my mum and I are on different trajectories, we’re also in this together: setting a new PB and sitting at the edge of the bed both feel like moments of glory. A jolt of pride surges through me when I hear she’s made progress in the same way her big eyes widen when I tell her how much I’ve been running. We’re celebrating both our wins – hers are no less than mine, and vice versa.

In this way, I realise this is the push and pull of life in one moment of time. As one light turns to red, a green light has to follow. In some ways, it’s reassuring to see it like the passing of a baton – for my life to go forth with a new fire in my belly while my mum takes solace in slowing and settling into the contentment of what has been. Happiness isn’t a race, but going by the rhythm of your own drum, whether that means digging deep to push your limits or accepting the lane you find yourself in.

At this point, I don’t even know if I’ll make it to 10k – let alone 26.2 miles (gulp). What I do know is the distance won’t stop come April next year – the true test of endurance will track beyond any finish line. Whatever happens, I’ll do all I can to keep moving for the both of us. Even if I’m forevermore reminding her that I ran a marathon while she hears it for the first time.

Do you know what it’s like to have a loved one with dementia or have you similarly found solace in running? Perhaps you even have some top tips for helping me cross the finish line? I’d love to hear from you below.