26.2 miles for my mom, AnnMarie Entenmann. In her memory, and for the research and care needed to better detect and treat Obstructive Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy so someone else gets more time.

It took years to get a diagnosis.
It took four days to lose her.

My mom spent years being told she was fine. She wasn’t.

She was short of breath. She was cold. She kept going back, kept asking questions, kept doing everything she was “supposed” to do. Seeing cardiologists, testing, echocardiograms, follow up after follow up and every time, she was told nothing was wrong. Like so many other women, she was dismissed time and time again.

On October 7, 2024, she called me struggling to breathe. I took her to the hospital thinking it would be like every other time. We’d return home left once again without answers.

On October 8, 2024, we finally got the answer she’d so desperately been seeking. Obstructive Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. A real diagnosis. A reason. Proof that something had been wrong all along. She wasn’t crazy. She wasn’t “anxious” and it wasn’t “in her head.”

Four days later, on October 12, 2024, she was gone.

My mom would never get to go home.

There was no time to process it.
No time to fight it.
No time to save her.
She went from being “fine” to gone in less than a week.

And with that, I feel the need to talk about who she was, even in the midst of all of this.

My mom, AnnMarie, was the funniest person in any room, even her hospital room (especially her hospital room). Effortlessly sarcastic, quick-witted, and the kind of person who could make you laugh no matter what kind of day you were having, no matter what kind of day she was having. She was also the most caring, selfless person I knew, and truly my best friend. She showed up for everyone, always. She was my greatest supporter, biggest fan, role model, my inspiration to be half the woman she was.

I can’t stop thinking about how many chances there were to catch it sooner.
How many times she was told she was okay when she wasn’t.
How distraught she was in the hospital, dying, after having done everything “right.”
How different this could have been with earlier diagnosis, better awareness, and access to the right care.

My mom didn’t get a fighting chance. And that’s what breaks my heart and gives me the drive to fight for her all at once.

The American Heart Association funds the research and access to care that can change these outcomes for people like my mom: earlier diagnoses, better treatments, more time. Time my mom didn’t get.

I can’t change what happened to her. But I can fight for the next person. I can help make sure it doesn’t happen to someone else’s mom.

And the ironic part is… she’d tell me I’m insane for running 26.2 miles.

But I also know she’d understand why.

Because this is for her.
For the years she spent searching for answers.
For the four days she had after finally getting one.
For the chance she never got.
For all the love she left behind.

If you’re able to donate, share, or support in any way, it truly means everything.

I’ll be running 26.2 miles through New York City,
because my mom didn’t get the chance to fight, but she’d be the first to fight for someone else. My turn, mom. I’ve got it from here.