I have no comment about the fact that the shooter worked as a psychiatrist. Whether or not he was a physician, his actions were appalling. The vast majority of people—psychiatrists or not—do not respond to bad news by shooting people.

I don’t know if it is noteworthy that the media has been referring to him as “Major Hasan” and “Mr. Hasan”, versus “Dr. Hasan”. A primary duty of a physician is to “Do no harm”. He ignored this edict for reasons that remain unclear at this time and he arguably no longer deserves to be addressed as “Dr.”

Major Hasan is reportedly currently unconscious and breathing with the assistance of a mechanical ventilator. I hope that he will soon be able to provide answers to explain his actions—and not so much because of his employment as a psychiatrist… but because of his status as a human being.

Some psychiatrists argue that psychiatry is solely a medical specialty. I am not one of them. Psychiatry can very much be a sociopolitical activity and, as the details of this terrible situation are revealed, I anticipate that we shall see the social and political forces adjust—and react—accordingly.

I do not mean to suggest that I ran the last six miles of the marathon. I didn’t.

Prior to the race, I had debated whether to put my name on my shirt. On the one hand, providing spectators with a name would help us connect. Any support I could collect during the race would only help, right?

On the other hand, did I really want random strangers shouting my name for 26 miles?

In the end, I elected to put my name in large block letters on my shirt. I do not regret this decision. For the entire duration of the race, someone would call my name and offer encouragement at least every five minutes. In certain sections of the race, people were literally cheering my name every thirty seconds or so. Little children squealed. Young women screamed. Older men hollered.

I enjoyed it.

There did come a point, though, when all the shouting did become grating. No surprise—this happened on First Avenue in Manhattan.

As The Sick Sensation receded, I resumed running, though at a significantly slower pace. I crossed the bridge back into Manhattan and the energetic crowd in Harlem greeted us warmly. Salt-n-Pepa’s “Push It” was blaring out of a pair of large speakers and people on the curb were dancing to the music.

Though The Sick Sensation had started to rise again, I couldn’t help but smile.

Harlem played some of the best music on the marathon course. Maybe it’s just my inclination to naturally follow the rhythm of (and potentially start dancing to) any music I hear, but the music in Harlem was upbeat enough to help me settle into a comfortable pace. Some of the live bands in Brooklyn were also fantastic. Prior to the marathon, I didn’t think that I would have an opinion about music on the course, though I can now say that the music was undoubtedly helpful in propelling me towards the finish line.

As I plodded my way around Marcus Garvey Park, I realized that ignoring The Sick Sensation would not make it go away. The only way to make it stop—oh please just stop already—was to stop running.

I remembered that Nobody quits today and finally arrived at a compromise: I would only walk at the fluid stations. That way, at least I’d squeeze in a single mile in between. And there were only a few left.

At this point, several of my friends had seen me. Though they enthusiastically cheered me on at the time, they all later told me that I looked unwell. To one friend, I mouthed the words, “I feel like I’m dying.” She looked at me sympathetically and weakly cheered, “Keep going!”

In retrospect, I’m not entirely sure what my logic was—I mean, what logic is there in choosing to run 26.2 miles?—but at each fluid station between miles 21 and 25, I began to mix the water and Gatorade in varying proportions with hopes of… something. If I only drank water, my body did not feel refreshed. If I only drank Gatorade, I felt like I was drinking salty syrup. Thus, I began taking one cup of each at each mile marker and tried different combinations:

1. One sip of Gatorade, followed by one sip of water. No good.
2. One small pour of Gatorade into one full cup of water. Still tasted too salty.
3. One gulp of water, followed by one sip of Gatorade. Still too salty.

Frankly, I was also stalling. The longer I tried these various fluid experiments, the more time I would have to walk and rest my weary body.

But! People knew my name. And they used it.

The people handing out the cups of fluid cheered me on: “Come on, Maria, you’re lookin’ awesome!” (Really, I wasn’t.)

The people watching me mix the drinks coaxed me to push forward: “You’re amazing, Maria! You’re going to do this!” (I’m not amazing. I’m tired.)

The people who saw me still walking after I had disposed of both cups didn’t need to shout at me. They simply spoke to me as I walked past:

• “Go, Maria, go.”
• “You’re going to make it, Maria.”
• “Let’s go, Maria.”

It was not the most beautiful sound I had ever heard. But it was enough.

I must admit that part of me felt embarrassed to be receiving this attention while I was walking. Of course none of the people would remember who I was; there were thousands of runners passing by. But they had chosen to say my name, to pick me out, to offer encouragement. And they knew that I, Maria, was walking.

So what was I supposed to do? Start running again, that’s what.

During my long training runs, I would often start feeling angry for the last four to six miles. The underlying emotion was actually frustration due to impatience, though it manifested itself as anger (”why the @#$% am I doing this? why is this taking so @#$%ing long?” etc.).

To my surprise, I felt no anger during the last few miles of the marathon. I felt curiously calm as I put one foot in front of the other.

It’s okay if this is a 13-minute mile. You’re still moving.

I had faith that the miles would pass, that I would actually get to the finish line, that this experience would not last forever.

The Sick Sensation was right there with me: My legs burned, my arms ached, my neck was stiff, my stomach roiled, my lips were chapped, my feet were hot.

I accepted all of it. And, though I was admittedly moving slowly, I felt myself floating. My movements were simultaneously effortless and taxing. (Though, really, my mind was so garbled at this point that one should not assume that I could be a faithful narrator.)

It’s okay if the next mile is a 14-minute mile. You’ll get there.

I passed by the sign that read “1 Mile Left”. The tears began to well in my eyes and I felt my face scrunch up. My shoulders began to rise towards my ears and my hands tightened into fists.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. When I reopened my eyes, I purposely tucked my chin down and my shoulders back.

The crowd continued to roar.

I’m guessing that “The Sick Sensation” is the same thing as “The Wall”. No one ever told me what exactly “The Wall” is; they only told me the etiology of “The Wall”:

Your body generally only has enough glycogen stores for about twenty miles. Glycogen is readily available. Once that’s gone, your body starts pulling energy from fat. And your body can’t burn that as quickly as glycogen. Hence “The Wall”.

I saw all the colorful flags on First Avenue marking the location of the Power Gel station. This was my opportunity to grab one of those gooey gel things to supply my body with some “immediate” energy to power me through the last few miles of the marathon.

Inertia had taken over. My body was unwilling to adjust and steer me towards the station to take a gel. Furthermore, I had squirted the contents of a gel (tangerine flavor) into my mouth shortly after I passed Mile 13. The gel was unnaturally sweet, thick and heavy, and left my mouth feeling parched.

Basically, it was gross.

My body was also unwilling to steer me towards the station because it was no longer feeling functional. And when I say “my body”, I mean “my entire body”. The Sick Sensation was growing.

I considered my options:

1. Maybe I’ll feel better if I lay down. I can’t lay down right now.
2. Maybe I should pee. That’ll help. But I don’t think I need to. And I worry that I won’t be able to get up once I sit down. How I envy those men who can pee while standing up.
3. Maybe I should throw up. My stomach doesn’t feel too good and maybe I just need to vomit. But I don’t feel nauseated.
4. Maybe I should drink water. Maybe I’m just dehydrated. (I did start to drink water regularly thereafter, though the water did nothing to relieve my ill-defined symptoms.)
5. Maybe I need to drink more Gatorade. Maybe my electrolytes are completely out of whack. (I also started to drink Gatorade regularly thereafter, though that only seemed to make me more thirsty.)

Maybe if I keep going, then The Sick Sensation will go away.

My pace slowed significantly as I neared the bridge that would lead me into the Bronx. A friend had told me that she would be cheering for me on the bridge. My bleary eyes, which had focused primarily on the ground three feet in front of me while I was on First Avenue, finally looked up to carefully scan the crowd for her face. I didn’t see her.

The bridge to the Bronx is a metal grate. A spongy, yellow carpet was placed on the grate to provide a smoother surface for the runners. A woman veered off the carpet and she then began screaming. She had looked down and saw the water below. Something about that sight caught her off guard. A male runner firmly grasped her arm and pulled her back onto the carpet.

Few of us were thinking optimally at this point.

I passed the sign that marked Mile 20. The Sick Sensation was stronger now. I felt ill and weak. My efforts to physically soothe myself were unsuccessful. The only way I would feel better, I speculated, was if I stopped running.

Most of my fellow runners were passing me now.

There are only six miles left, I said to myself. You just ran twenty consecutive miles. You’ve never done that before—you’ve always taken a break in there somewhere. This alone is a reason to congratulate yourself.

My head felt like it was wobbling on my neck. My gut was churning in my body. My left arm was aching and my thoughts felt like sludge as they travelled through my head. My breathing was unlabored, but I didn’t feel like the air was actually filling my lungs.

To my left was a group of Asian people beating large drums. The rhythmic beats filled the air and the syncopations encouraged haste. I saw their hands rise and fall on the taut, leathery skins.

I really didn’t want to, but The Sick Sensation made me do it: I slowed down even more… and began to walk.

The drumming reverberated in my ears. I felt warm blood flood my legs and cool sweat trickle down my neck. My gut continued to churn. The aching spread from my legs into my torso, then into my shoulders and arms.

You can walk the last six miles, I reasoned with myself. There’s no shame in doing that.

Runners passed me on both sides. I tried to move to one side as quickly as I could; I even tried to jog to get out of the way. My legs rebelled and would not move faster.

All of these people who passed me—they were running! Their heels kicked up behind them! There was bounce in their steps, energy in their strides! They were not afflicted with The Sick Sensation!

Realizing that I was distracted and only contributing to further demoralization, I finally focused my attention on my companion, my breath. As I inhaled the cool autumn air, my breath reminded me of something I had seen earlier:

Around Mile 7, a thin man had passed me. He had attached a small yellow sign to his back. It read: “Nobody quits today.”

Nobody quits today, I wondered. That’s right. Nobody quits today.

I looked up and saw dozens of runners pass around me. They were running. Their heels were kicking up behind them; they were bouncing along; they had energy. They were also hunching their shoulders, grunting loudly, wiping sweat from their brows, and scuffling their feet. Most of them, like me, were not feeling comfortable.

I fished the second gel from my shorts. The flavor was chocolate. The foil packaging was salty from sitting so close to my skin; the contents were warm and almost liquid. The thin sludge, too sweet and tasting minimally like chocolate, coated my tongue and slid down my throat.

I could walk the last six miles, I reasoned with myself, but you can also try to run again.

My eyes looked up at the sign that pointed the way to 5th Avenue in Manhattan.

Manhattan! I was just there.

And Central Park is in Manhattan.

And the finish line was in Central Park.

The Sick Sensation had somewhat diminished. I licked my lips and tasted the salt that my sweat had left behind. I savored those last steps I took while walking—

—and, with a deep breath, began to run again.