
Seven years ago today, I said goodbye to Greg, my first love and best friend. He died on his 26th birthday in 2002 after complications from a liver transplant, his second in three years. It was easily the worst day of my life to date, and I still remember everything that happened as if it were yesterday — the phone call at work telling me what was happening and that I needed to take a cab immediately to Mount Sinai, the room full of crying relatives, the nurse removing his ventilator tube, my mom taking me to dinner and neither of us eating, all of us sitting around his bed telling him what a great person he was and that it was OK to leave us, that we’d miss him but we’d be fine.
I’m not fine. I lied.
Also, time doesn’t really heal. That’s also a lie. It just makes your memories a little fuzzier around the edges.
I have other, better memories of Greg. Going to Montauk and sitting on the beach all day long and then for dinner going to a place on the water and ordering some obscenely large lobster — three pounds? — to split, getting butter all over the place and watching the sunset and thinking, this is actually a perfect day. Eating that roast beef sandwich from the cheese place in Hoboken. Driving to IHOP on a Sunday morning and singing Top 40 songs off Z100 (“This Kiss” by Faith Hill and “What’s My Age Again?” by Blink 182 and “Breathless” by the Corrs) out the window to perplexed drivers on the 1/9. Trying to learn how to throw a Frisbee. Watching football and baseball games. Ordering pizza on Sunday nights. He called me Sasquatch because one day I was wearing a pair of platform sandals and I fell off them in front of Dunkin Donuts and he laughed so hard he had to sit down on the sidewalk. We saw Aerosmith together and I tried to convince him not to vote for George W. Bush and he encouraged me to apply to grad school.
A lot of my memories of him involve the hospital, because that’s where he spent a lot of time in our three years together. I knew where to find extra juice and who the nicest nurse in the transplant unit was. I could sit there all day with a book and hang out with him and never feel bored or sad or angry. I was just grateful to have him in my life.
But I’m still not fine. I miss him. And I want other people to know why he was so great, and that is why I run.
Greg was a kickass athlete, a lacrosse champion in high school who got recruited to play in college, but had to give it up when he was diagnosed with primary sclerosing cholangitis, an autoimmune liver disease, his freshman year of college. He was also a Junior Olympic skier.
I am not an athlete, but I became one because of Greg.
When I decided to start running, I started with a charity, Team in Training, that raises money for blood cancer research. I figured that if I could keep one family from watching their loved one die like I did, and like Greg’s family and friends did, I could run 13.1 or 26.2 miles. Greg volunteered with lots of kids who had leukemia, something he said always made his day, and he wanted people to donate to Make-a-Wish and Special Olympics when he died. I think he’d be excited that I’m doing this. One day I will create an event in Greg’s memory, so I can get together with friends and celebrate this amazing person who left us way before his time.
In the meantime, I’m still not fine, but I run. And run and run and run, because there’s still no cure for blood cancer and there’s still no cure for primary sclerosing cholangitis and there’s still no cure for a broken heart.






