The short of it is this:  I am running the LA Marathon on March 18, 2018, and I'm raising money for ALS in the process.  As some of you may know, my step-mom passed away from this wretched disease on July 13, 2017, only three years and some-odd months after she and my dad got married, and three days before her 54th birthday.  Maria was radiant, and ALS is not.  No kid should watch their parent lose the love of his life, and certainly not when it took him 80 years to find her.  I welcome your donations (no ice required) and thank you from the bottom of my heart for your support.  If you care to learn the bigger story, read on.

My parents got divorced when I was five. I know, I know, you thought you came to an ALS fundraising page in connection with my running the LA Marathon in March 2018--you did, but to understand why you're here, you'll have to hear a little personal family history.

So, my parents got divorced when I was five. And although I had a beautiful childhood (and the luxury of parents with the emotional maturity to look beyond the circumstances of their separation and raise me together), from the time that I was five, I have had a distinct sadness--a real, deep-seated worry--for my father. Those of you reading this who know him may wonder why.  "Isn't he famous?"  Yeah, yeah, but a dad is so much more to his baby girl, no matter what he does for a living, and as long as I can remember, I have worried about my father.

I remember, and I doubtless never will forget, saying goodbye to him when my mom would pick me up from his house, my childhood home, to take me back home to hers, where I spent most of my time. For those of you that have never visited my dad's house, it sits high near the top of a hill, mostly hidden from the road's view by what is probably hundreds of trees. Yet, when someone stands at the kitchen door--the front door--you can see him almost at the base of the driveway, where the driveway meets the gravel easement back to the main road. My dad used to stand there, just behind the screen door (it's glass now) to that big, empty house, wearing his jammies and waiving to me as my mom drove me away. And it used to break my heart. Because, you see, my mom had someone to return home to, and my dad--for the most part--never did.

Even when I moved out of Nashville and off to the Big Apple at 18, and then again when I moved to Los Angeles at 24, and again when I went off to Chicago at 25, I would imagine my dad in that big, empty house on top of the hill at Bethesda Duplex Road, and I would worry. I would worry if he was lonely, even though I knew he had more friends (and, frankly, more women) than virtually any other man his age. I would worry if he was sad, even though I knew he had more fun than any 21-year-old (at her 21st birthday party) I could imagine. And I would picture him standing there at the kitchen door waiving me goodbye.

That is, until Maria. It's strange when a person you almost barely know, who may or may not (I don't actually know) speak your native tongue, has a life-altering effect on you. And when that person changed your world even before you met her, or spoke a single word to her---well, that was Maria. My dad called me at the very beginning of the second semester of my second year of law school, a (January 2014) day unlike any other in my mind, to ask me what I thought about Maria, a woman he had been seeing recently.  I told him, without thinking much about it (because we had not met), that she seemed nice, that everyone in the family seemed to like her, and that his life seemed less chaotic since she'd come around. He asked me what I would think if they got married. I told him, without thinking too deeply about it (because that's just the kind of relationship Pops and I have), that if he was happy, I was happy. "Good," he said matter-of-factly, "because we got married this morning." Of course they had. Within weeks, I reset all the passwords and updated the contact information for my Dad's accounts (I had been handling his personal finances for years), and I handed over the keys to Maria. And ever since that moment, I knew, somehow, that he was okay, that he was happy, that he was not alone. A weight had been lifted off of my shoulders.

Now, I know people say things like that about "special" people or "fateful" moments, particularly in retrospect. I am not one of those people. I am cynical. I do not like to assign significance to things. I overthink and I mull, I second-guess and I worry. Boy ever do I worry. But with Maria, I did not worry, I did not linger, and I stopped imagining my father standing at my kitchen doorway waiving me goodbye all alone in that big house on the hill.

And there's more, too. Maria urged my brother and father to reconcile after years of in-fighting, and she healed them both in so many ways. She made my father, who is not what you would call a "kid's guy," make more time for his grandchildren. She convinced him, he who self-professedly "does not understand animal love" (i.e., hates my pets), to let me bring both of my dogs--not only the Chihuahua, but also the 80-pound monster--to his home, and stay overnight, for several days. Upon first introduction, she became an immediate insider among my Tías' circle--the most insular and protective circle one could imagine. She taught my dad, the grandmaster of nights out on the town, the wonder of quiet nights at home. She bettered his poor spending habits. She renewed his love for his work, his clients, and his brand. She also lit up a room, rocked the hell out of the dance floor, and loved live music and a good party. Maria united us, and she breathed life into our lives in a way we didn't even know we needed it.

You know, or can guess, the rest of the story:  Maria was diagnosed with ALS at the end of the summer of 2016, a short two-and-a-half years after she married my father, and she passed away from complications of the disease less than a year later. The woman my father should have met over 30 years ago, who brought newfound joy to his life (and took away my pain), died. And now he's back in that house, the house that I grew up in, the house that she moved into, all alone. When I first spoke to my mom, who has remained dear friends with my dad since their divorce over 25 years ago, about Maria's passing, she expressed her sadness by saying, "I just imagine him all alone in that big house." I had to explain to her, without hurting her feelings (after all, the divorce was to blame), that that was precisely how I had imagined him for almost my entire life. This successful man, a true giant in his industry, with hundreds--if not thousands--of friends (and plenty of younger women pawing at him), all alone in his big house.

So, I'm running the LA Marathon on March 18, 2018, and I am running it for Maria--and for my dad, and for everyone whose health (or good sense) won't let them do the same. Before Maria was diagnosed with ALS, she lost the ability to walk. It was one of the first signs that something was really wrong. The day I learned that she died, I went for a long run along the Santa Monica beach-front path, and all I could think about was how for the past nine months or so, Maria couldn't even walk.  The next day, I went to my weekly spinning class, where my foofie, crunchy instructor always asks us at the beginning of class what we are thankful for, what we are riding for.  I was thankful for my health, and riding for Maria.  Suddenly, my health meant more than it ever had.  I have been active all my life, but use of my limbs means something so different to me now.  ALS is a horrible, horrible disease--I need not get into specifics--and no other daughter should watch their father lose the love of his life to it. If you feel so moved, or even if just because you can, donate to the cause.  I will be forever grateful. 

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