When I signed up to run the Atlanta Half-Marathon on Thanksgiving Day, I believed I was doing it to honor my brothers. Isn't that what you do in the face of tragedy? You run races and raise money.

What I had yet to learn — and what people who'd done this before already know — is that it isn't just about fixing a problem, or doing something for somebody else. Sometimes, it's about healing a hurt inside. It's that sometimes by making your body hurt on the outside, the hurt on the inside begins to heal.One night last June, I had learned that my brother Chip, 45, had Stage 4 chronic lymphocytic leukemia. The doctor said if he didn't have a bone marrow transplant in three months, he could die.

Family photo (ENLARGE)

Chip Rogers (center), with sisters Louise Rogers (right) and AJC writer Carroll Rogers atop Sam Knob, a mountain near Asheville, N.C., they climbed in October to scatter their brother Wade's ashes.

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The good news was that siblings are a great source for bone marrow matches. And, heck, we Rogers have plenty of those: two other brothers, my sister and me. Five of us in all, like the Partridge family.

But then the next night, I got a call from my youngest brother, Duke.

"What I'm about to tell you will feel like I'm hitting you over the head with a two-by-four," he said.

Our brother Wade, 37, had been found dead, lying in his bed in Asheville, N.C.

Duke had to explain what he was telling me at least twice, maybe three times. It didn't make sense. None of this did.

Wade had struggled with bipolar disorder for years. He'd been suicidal before. But police said there were no signs his death was a suicide. And we'd just found out about Chip's illness. Wade just wouldn't do that.

A few weeks later, a Team in Training brochure came through the mail slot recruiting runners to raise money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. It was one of the few things that actually made sense to me. Perfect sense.

Not that I had done much running, at least not the competitive kind. I ran on the treadmill at the Y, or around the park, but I had never so much as run the Peachtree Road Race. I didn't like to get up early in the morning, or run in the heat — those were my excuses. I liked to wear an iPod to drown out what I was doing to myself.

But running with Team in Training was something I could do to help Chip. The money raised would fund research and even go to Emory, where he's receiving care. It was also something I could do to make Wade proud. He hiked the entire Appalachian Trail — Georgia to Maine — when he was 18. He would get a kick out of this.

I would run for them. Or so I thought.

After the initial shockwave of news finally subsided and the denial wore away, my emotions started to bubble up. I realized I had some things I needed to figure out for myself.

Before any of this happened, I thought I had a decent understanding of how precious life is. A good friend of mine died at 29 of an enlarged heart while running around Memorial Park. Another was killed in a car accident at 32. I always figured we had to face it: God never promised us we'd all live until we were 80.

But this time the surprise attack, the out-of-nowhere blow to the gut, was invading my inner sanctum — my immediate family.

I lay in bed one night staring at my sleeping boyfriend. I was visiting him in Virginia for what was supposed to be a week of vacation. It hardly felt that way.

In the dark and quiet, I had nothing to keep me busy and no daylight to help me put on a brave face. I started imagining what life would be like if the people I loved so dearly kept this up and left me, one by one.

Almost immediately, the tears came. I thought about Wade, my constant childhood companion, gone. And now we were supposed to contemplate losing Chip, too? The oldest sibling, the one we all look up to?

I looked through the shadows at my boyfriend's peaceful face. And I wondered if he would be next. What if I ended up alone?

I must have closed my eyes then to collect some of the tears because I didn't see him lift his hand. But in the next moment, in his semi-sleep, my boyfriend reached out and put his hand over mine. The warmth of his gesture engulfed me. I suddenly felt safe.

The answers to those questions came over months of training, in unexpected ways, on unexpected roads, with me in tights, a dry-fit shirt and running shoes.

Oh, I have all the gear now.

Some funny things have happened these last few months of training.

I discovered I don't miss my iPod; it means less to carry. Just the idea of Meat Loaf can be helpful — the singer not the food — as I trudge up Atlanta hills. Hearing his words in my head "I want you [I want you], I need you (I need you), but there ain't no way ..." can push me through a rough patch.

I've learned I can actually talk to people when I run — or at least huff and puff through enough questions to force them to talk. I believe I run faster while wearing my purple Team in Training wristband. And lately, after getting up to 8, 10 and 12 miles, I've noticed my feet have muscle definition. Who knew?

All the while, money has rolled in. I got fund-raising forms back from college friends, old teachers, childhood neighbors, co-workers — anyone who knew Chip or Wade or any of us. Every day stacks of letters arrived containing generous checks and handwritten notes of encouragement. Every afternoon, as I opened them, my eyes flooded with another round of therapeutic tears, while the total grew decimal point by decimal point.

It passed $26,000 a couple of weeks ago.

As for the Rogers, that sudden rush of confusion has given way to some clarity. We learned that Wade died of an accidental overdose of his medication. No answer was going to be a good one, but there was some peace in at least having one. We scattered his ashes from the most beautiful point along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Of all the mountains he climbed, Sam Knob was his favorite.

Chip got hooked up with a doctor at Emory who specializes in his disease. Three months have come and gone, and Chip hasn't needed so much as a treatment yet. And when the time comes, we have our ace in the hole: Duke scored a perfect 6-for-6 as a bone marrow match.

This will be our first Thanksgiving without Wade, and I suppose running in this event was one thing I could do to make it different.

I've thought so many times about what it will feel like to cross the finish line and see Chip and the rest of my family standing there, arms open wide. I've had to stop myself from thinking about it this last week because running is hard enough without hyperventilating.

I wonder if any of those old questions will creep back into my head. I have a feeling now there will be comfort in the answers.

In some ways, running can be about the loneliest thing you can do. But today, I will feel anything but alone. Not only will I be running on behalf of my two brothers but some 250 people who have donated to our cause. And how alone can I feel in a scrum at the finish line with my family, my boyfriend and friends all wearing "Because, Brothers" T-shirts my dad had made for the occasion?

What will I do when things get really tough? Somewhere up Cardiac Hill or perhaps passing that 12-mile marker, I should have my answer.

I keep going.

Editor's note: Rogers finished the race in 2 hours and 12 minutes. "It was a great experience, unlike anything Iā've ever done," Rogers said.