Editor's note: This story was originally published in October 2017.

AVOCA, Ia. — Rik Zortman looks lost.

Squinting against the sun, he quickly glances between his cellphone’s screen and the surrounding landscape. He lifts a pointer finger and draws in the air, coordinating his route on a floating map only he can see.

But Zortman isn’t really lost. He’s exactly where he needs to be — in the middle of creating a giant letter R — and he wants to make sure he gets that R’s loop perfect.

On this warm fall morning, Zortman is running the name “REGAN,” using his smartphone's GPS tracking app to record every step — hence his care in ensuring the R’s curve is especially bulbous.

Later, he’ll post a screenshot of his highlighted route to Facebook. And he'll tag Regan Hulsing, a childhood cancer survivor he knows from the hospital hallways he frequented when his son was struggling with the same disease.

Regan marked name No. 100 for Zortman, meeting the goal he set in September when he started all this by running "Armstrong," the name of his son who passed from brain cancer in 2009.

His idea was to run 100 names in 30 days to raise consciousness during childhood cancer awareness month, but the endeavor has extended way past its deadline.

Since posting his offer to run the name of any childhood cancer survivor, victim or current fighter on social media, Zortman has received nearly 150 names. And he gets more suggestions almost every day.

So the 44-year-old dad who calls himself a "human Etch a Sketch" has decided to keep running names until he’s done them all, posting each finished route to Facebook with a short message of hope.

His feet rhythmically pounding the pavement, Zortman finds peace and time to reflect on the son he lost when he jogs. He still has trouble talking about the 3-year-old boy with the “firecracker personality,” but these morning runs offer quiet, personal moments to remember Armstrong.

The rural Iowa resident runs a lot and has spent the last year or so challenging himself to create increasingly unique patterns and designs using his tracker app.

The name plan came in a flash of inspiration as he was running “Armstrong." But the more he thinks about the past month, the more running words and phrases makes sense to him.

After all, this whole unexpected journey started with a single word:

Cancer.

Unprepared

In 2008, Zortman had a pretty perfect life.

He was married with four beautiful children — Montgomery, Isabella, Jackson and Armstrong.

He’d climbed the ranks of the Air National Guard before leaving to work with a military contractor in Qatar. He was away from his family, but making good money.

He was close to his children, particularly his youngest, Armstrong, who had his “fiery” personality and “was just a joy to be around,” Zortman said.

“He had blonde hair, blue eyes and if you saw his face, he would melt your heart in a second,” he said.

On Nov. 20, 2008, Zortman woke up early and found a dollar on the ground on the way to work.

“Well,” he remembered thinking, “that’s got to be the sign of a great day to come.”

But just before 8 a.m. with that loose dollar folded in his pocket, his wife called, panicked and crying, to say that Armstrong was having a seizure and she was on the way to the hospital.

“I just sat there and I was like, 'what am I supposed to do 7,000 miles away?'” Zortman said.

In a "state of numbness," he began the paperwork for emergency leave and flew home to find Armstrong in surgery at the Children’s Hospital of Omaha.

Worry enveloped Zortman, and knowing his son was very sick made everything just a little bit hazy. But one image is still clear: His son's little shaved head and the deep scar that formed a question mark around one of his ears.

The doctors told Zortman his son had glioblastoma, a rare form of brain cancer.

“I didn’t know how to take it,” he said.

But the diagnosis shocked Zortman’s from his numbness and into action.

He took a leave of absence and became Armstrong’s caretaker. His son went through chemotherapy and a host of other treatments, including steroids that made his little body bloat from 31 pounds to 63 pounds, Zortman said.

Armstrong soon lost the ability to walk as cancer engulfed his brain. He had to wear diapers and eventually could only use one of his hands.

At home, he’d rest in a tiny reclining chair, the family gathered around.

“He would sit there and watch all of us talk to him and kind of play with him and just enjoy time with him,” Zortman said.

On April 3, 2009, Zortman’s birthday, the family found out that there were two areas on Armstrong’s brain stem that were inoperable.

Less than a week later, Zortman took Armstrong to treatment, just like he did every weekday. The little boy had stayed so still and been so good that they picked up a reward on the way home: McDonald’s fries.

At about 10:40 p.m., Armstrong had his last seizure. He passed at the local hospital.

Zortman and his then-wife held their son for as long as they could and returned home to cry themselves to sleep. They told their other children the next day and a funeral was soon arranged.

The little chair that had become so central to their family’s life held the imprint of Armstrong’s tiny head for six weeks after he died, Zortman remembered.

Holistic healing

For more than a month after his son's death, Zortman remained in a period of “cloudiness.” People would bring meals. Friends would offer condolences. But the days ran together.

Before Armstrong’s passing, a local group planned a 5K run in his name. The group went ahead with the race after his death and Zortman participated, even though he wasn’t a runner.

Somewhere along that simple down-and-back course, Zortman got lost in the cadence of the pounding of his footsteps.

He felt a momentary peace, that cloudiness lifted and he remembered how his son loved to run.



“I thought if I could just do one thing that he liked to do, I am going to continue doing it,” Zortman said.

In psychology circles, the death of a child is known as “the most unbearable type of grief,” said Susan Koehler, a psychiatry physician assistant at Des Moines Pastoral Counseling Center.

“Parents get old and die, but with a child, that’s not supposed to happen,” she said. “There is a life that never gets to grow up and become an adult."

Physical exercise is a prescription many therapists give to their patients dealing with grief or depression, said Ashley Mori, the clinical director of behavioral health at Children & Families of Iowa.

Exercising increases oxygen and blood flow to the brain, which can combat depression by growing new brain cells, Mori said. And the body’s movement triggers neurotransmitters and endorphins, both known to play a role in mood control and help with the emotional symptoms of grief.

“Healing is holistic and I have definitely seen people use exercise as a coping skill," Mori said. "It can become life-altering for people.”

While Mori doesn’t know Zortman, she said his process of running and posting children's names could be a “huge source of empowerment” for those he tags on social media.

“That connection with others who have had the same experiences as you, that can be huge when going through grief,” she said. It “can give hope and meaning to very tough times."

Finding a purpose

Tom Harris lost his son, Tyler, to brain cancer in 2013. But before Tyler passed, Harris met Zortman at various Iowa cancer events and the two became friends. They've stayed in touch, intrinsically connected in the a fraternity of parents who lost children to cancer.

On a September morning, as Iowa played Iowa State in football, Harris opened Facebook to see Tyler’s name spelled out in a GPS route that Zortman had run. Zortman wrote “Go Hawks” in the status to commemorate the bond that Harris and his son shared over Hawkeye sports

"I was just touched," Harris said. “We’ve received some gifts over the years, but this was even more special because (Zortman) took the time to do it himself.”

Part of Zortman’s healing process in the nearly 10 years since Armstrong’s death has been to make himself available to parents who are fighting for their children or struggling with their grief.

“I tell them that life won’t be the same,” Zortman said, his voice catching. “But I will tell you that if you want to remember them, do one thing they loved to do.”

For Zortman that one thing was running, his “saving grace.” Since Armstrong’s death, Zortman has run two triathlons, 19 half-marathons and countless 5Ks and 10Ks.

Every time he crosses a finish line, he gets a little emotional. Runners understand that passion and sensitivity that washes over you when you set a personal best, but even die-hard racers don’t know that for Zortman, those tears aren’t for the competition, but for the child he lost to cancer.

“Everybody has a purpose in life, and the purpose God gave me for Armstrong was the fact that he got me running," Zortman said. "Because if he was still alive today, I wouldn’t know anything much about cancer (and) I wouldn’t know any of the parents that have kids that passed away."

When he runs now, he finds the same peace he did during that very first run. He thinks about what Armstrong would be doing as a young man and what his goals for the future may have been.

And he finds himself thinking that maybe Armstrong would be right there, running next to his dad, spelling out words and phrases on an invisible map and feeling just fine about looking a little lost.