I didn’t know if I could keep going. I was in both physical and emotional pain, completely exhausted, depressed, lonely, and filled with anxiety. Staring up I imagined viewing the blue skies and sunshine rather than the dimly lit bulb on the ceiling of the closet in which I was hiding. It was only eight o’clock in the morning and I had already bathed, diapered, dressed, fed, and medicated my daughters. Three loads of laundry were done, the dishes still waited, stacked in the sink, and I hadn’t showered since the previous day. We had bravely faced down several of my daughter’s seizures in the last twenty-four hours, and she was lying on a mat on the living room floor, looking lifeless, her chest barely rising with each shallow breath, and surrounded by our beloved pets.
Our home was being renovated, some parts completely gutted. The entire home was filled with dust, every sound echoed in a high pitch squeal, nails and tools were lying in unexpected crevasses in the floor, and the walls stared at me all dressed in a dirty salmon color. We were new to this neighborhood, I had no friends nearby, and we weren’t exactly the most loved on the block. We were either known as “the house of disabilities,” a group home, or “the ones who take care of those kids.”
Life was heavy.
The closet was the only place to escape, if only for a few moments. It was here I could gather my thoughts, find some solitude, talk myself into putting on a smile, face my challenges, and start climbing those mountains I called life.
I had recently attended a conference and everyone had to stand up and tell a little about herself. There I stood, in front of a large group of strangers, completely unable to think of a single word to define me. Nervously, I choked out the words, “I’m a mother to five children, three have special needs, two of which require total care. What else do you want to know?” Yes, I actually said that.
Who am I? I had no idea. What did I like to do? No clue. What did I do to care for myself? Nothing.
I had lost myself years ago.
I was a mom. And, I would be forever. I was a forever mom. That’s all I knew for certain.
I also lived with years of depression, isolation, anxiety, and an ever-growing anger that was palpable.
Something had to change.
One morning, after all the kids were off to their day programs, I went to the garage, dug out my bike, filled the tires, and dusted it off. I was on a mission to find some beauty in the nearby mountains that were within view from my living room window. I arrived at the trailhead of a popular hiking trail, locked up my bike, and started hiking up that mountain.
That was the day my life changed.
I wandered around the trails, day after day, afraid of getting lost and not being home on time to take care of my family. I finally started to ask people on the trail how long certain trails were, where they led, and how to find my way back to where I began. One day, at a fork on the path, I asked a man where the trail to the left went. His response? “You don’t want to go that way. It goes up to the top and it’s hard,” as he headed up that trail.
That trail was the path back to me.
The next day I rose early before anyone would miss me, and headed up the peak that man deemed too difficult for me. Never tell me something is too difficult! When I reached the summit I knew I would never be the same.
There’s nothing like feeling the earth under my feet to ground me, the quiet stillness of the early morning, and peaceful solitude of standing on top of a mountain and experiencing the sunrise. I live for that every day now. I fell in love with the mountains and all of nature. Whether desert, forest, mountains or water, I love it all. It feeds my soul and makes me whole.
My favorite quote is “Sometimes you find yourself in the middle of nowhere, and sometimes in the middle of nowhere you find yourself” (author unknown). That’s what happened to me.
Who am I? I am a hiker. I feel a strong sense of belonging in nature and with nature. I love a great sunrise, the stillness of morning, solitude, the moon, water, trees, the breeze, tumbleweeds, dirty shoes, and messy hair. I also love any challenge that makes me push myself harder than I did the day before.
Clarissa Pinkola Estes writes, “Within every woman there is a wild and natural creature, a powerful force, filled with good instincts, passionate creativity, and ageless knowing. Her name is Wild Woman, but she is an endangered species. Though the gifts of wildish nature come to us at birth, society’s attempt to “civilize” us into rigid roles has plundered this treasure, and muffled the deep, life-giving messages of our own souls. Without Wild Woman, we become over-domesticated, fearful, uncreative, trapped.”
I am a recovering over-domesticated woman and I am beyond grateful to be living my wild nature once again. I am happy to have reclaimed ME.
Although I hope to hike until my last breathe, if I had to stop tomorrow, I have reached enough summits, made enough memories, and most importantly, gained a new perspective, which will carry me through the rest of my life.
I am still climbing the figurative mountains at home, but the literal mountains I hike have changed my perspective, and brought me back to myself. I know who I am and where I belong. I am happy and I love my life!
I hope to inspire you to indulge in guilt-free, self-care, and find the thing that nurtures your soul, and makes you feel alive. So, let’s climb mountains together, whatever your mountain may be.
It’s all about perspective,
Pam
About Me Part 2 …
How It all Changed
I wrote previously about Hiking Humphrey’s Peak with Howard, My Brain Tumor. Little did I know at that time that my world would be turned upside down on another hike, just a few months later.
Early this summer (2019) I found out I had a brain tumor. I named him Howard, and against doctor’s orders took him for a long hike up a big hill—Humphrey’s Peak, Flagstaff, Arizona. Together we watched the most amazing sunrise I’ve ever seen.
After seeing the neurosurgeon, I read a lot of books, watched documentaries and movies about changing one’s life, read poetry, listened to upbeat songs, all of which led me to changing almost everything about my life. I tried to meditate (not my thing–at the time–it’s an every day practice now), I changed my diet completely, and spent much more time outdoors, hiked more, made new friends, and let go of most things that caused me stress and anxiety. I was happy, felt strong and healthy, but I was tired–actually exhausted. I didn’t understand it, and I couldn’t explain the level of fatigue.
Three months later on September 18th I had a follow up MRI to see if there was any change. Because it was early in the morning, I missed my hike that day, so later that day I made dinner for the family, and as soon as my husband, Ron, got home I left to go hike Piestewa Peak. It’s my go-to hike when I have a lot of anxiety, because somewhere near the top it gets hard enough that I can’t think of anything else except conquering that beast. I figured I would wear off the anxiety Howard was causing me.
That was where my world turned upside down. I wouldn’t have to wait a week to find out the results of the MRI…doctors would see them in the ER when I arrived by ambulance after having seizures on the mountain. Diagnosis: Glioblastoma Grade 4. Prognosis: terminal. Life Expectancy: 8-12 months.
On the last day of 2019 I had my first follow-up MRI after having brain surgery, doing radiation and chemo, and restarting chemo again. It would be a week before I would get the results of that MRI. I asked Ron if he would take me to Piestewa again after my scan. I knew I would not able to hike it, but I needed to at least pull into the parking lot, cross over the bridge, and feel the trail underneath my feet. It was a big step toward healing. I really want to conquer that beast again. I’m not sure if I will, but I no longer have the fear of facing it. A friend hiked up last week and shared the top with me on a live video chat. That’s the first time I was able to look at pictures from up there and enjoy them.
What are we celebrating this week? My scan showed Howard has left the building. My oncologist was just as quick to remind me that does not mean I’m cured–Howard’s remnants are left behind and unable to be seen on scans, and I will not survive this. Meantime, I know I have some good days ahead of me. And the best way I can think to spend those days is to live each day to it’s fullest and notice moments of joy and awe!
This journey has taught me to love my life, love myself, love others, find gratitude every day, celebrate big things and little things, tell people I love them, to always be kind, and be the best human I can be!
Ribbons of love from my heart to yours, Pam