Under the influence of altitude I become a different person. I actually feel intoxicated and euphoric when I get high (in elevation), and I usually love the feeling. There’s something about being up high, and feeling high, naturally. 

On this particular hike (Humphrey’s Peak, first attempt this year) something different happened though. It may have had a lot to do with the other factors I wrote about in my previous blog, Hiking Humphreys with Howard, my Brain Tumor.  

We began and 2 a.m., I was tired and hiking with very little sleep. I forgot to bring snacks of any sort in my pack, drank very little water, and had no electrolytes along. My legs felt heavy from the very beginning and I struggled for the first two miles to get my legs to move. And, I had that newly diagnosed brain tumor that was weighing heavy on my mind.

Admittedly, I had smoked a little weed the night before to try to reduce my back pain, hopefully get a little sleep, and fend off the seizures the doctor almost guaranteed I would have if I hiked in altitude. But, if smoking weed interferes with hiking then I don’t know how so many people make it to the summit. Every trail I’ve ever hiked, around each turn, up every hill, and along any given path it seems like “the warm smell of colitas is rising up through the air” (The Eagles. Lyrics to Hotel California). 

I was hiking slower than a 30-minute mile, which for me is quite slow. At about mile three I realized we were not going to summit before sunrise. A 360-degree sunrise was my reason for leaving so early in the morning. As a sunrise chaser I live and breathe for a beautiful early morning sky, and wanted to experience that from the top of the highest peak in Arizona. I did get to see it from the saddle, which is about 11,600 feet in elevation, and that made the hike completely worth it! 

As we carried on from there to the summit things got pretty bad for me as altitude sickness set in. I turned around with just 150 feet in altitude to go, and about four tenths of a mile shy of the peak.  

I wrote about crying when I had to turn around before summiting. I talked about it being bitter cold and how my hands hurt in a way I couldn’t describe. I told you about my altitude sickness, disorientation, and my enormous disappointment. I tried to describe how the walk back down the mountain felt like the walk of shame, and how I would not return, but accept the defeat. Later in the week I changed course, and made the decision to hike it again, along with Howard, my brain tumor. 

What I didn’t tell you was the breakdown I had on that mountain, and what I learned about myself, and the power of nature, that I didn’t know before that feeling of defeat. 

Whether it was altitude sickness, or just weeks of built up frustration surfacing, the meltdown was real. When it was over, I had learned a lot about the therapeutic power of Mother Earth. I had been denying my feelings, even to myself, for the weeks leading up to the hike.

Feet firmly dug in, attitude as high as altitude, with denial as my co-pilot, I leaned against the gigantic frozen boulder on this beast of a mountain. With head in hands I slowly slid down the rock collapsing on the cold ground below and cried out, I hate that I have another brain tumor. I hate that this is happening again. I am furious that I may be climbing my last mountain ever, I hate that I can’t summit. I hate this. I hate Howard. I’m so pissed off!

I didn’t know I felt this way. I don’t know where that all came from, but there it was showing up and wanting to be expressed. I allowed it all to flow. I don’t wish this diagnosis on anyone. Just when I was feeling stronger, braver, willing to try anything, more badass than I’d ever been in my life, Howard fucking showed up and promised to take that all away. 

Fuck you, Howard! I fucking hate you! Go the fuck away! Fuck you! Fuck this! Fuck it all! Sorry for the language if you’re sensitive, but meltdowns don’t have filters.

And that was that. It was like a year’s worth of therapy that didn’t cost a dime. Still facing the downhill walk of shame, I pulled myself together, and Howard and I carried on, me on my feet, him in my head.

It wouldn’t be fair to stop here without giving credit to my husband, Ron, who remained silent, and just let me go. When I was done he embraced me, took my hand, and asked if I was ready to go. We talked about the mountain, Howard, and how cold our hands still felt.

I decided to make friends with Howard that week. I started to talk nicer to him, and asked for his cooperation. I asked that he stay calm and peaceful, and that we work together from here on out. He is a good listener. 

It may be all about perspective, as I always say, but I also learned that letting go is a healthy part of moving forward. Emotions are part of the human experience. We can’t always be positive, but we can’t take up residence in that low place either. Let it go, feel the feels, pull yourself back together, and give your tumor a name, because a sense of humor, even in the scariest of situations, makes life so much better. 

I’m now on a healing journey of body, mind, and spirit. I’ll be sharing that journey, most likely from a mountain, as I watch the sun rise above the horizon.

With a new perspective, 
Pam 

Update on Howard: I have been to the neurosurgeon and he says that although he can describe this tumor, lesion, or whatever it is, he cannot define it. He is unsure what it is, although does not believe it is malignant. It could be a number of things, possibly a stroke that happened a while ago. It is not my previous brain tumor returning, and is in a different part of the brain. It was an incidental finding and is not symptomatic at this point. We will redo the MRI along with an MRA (checks arteries, blood vessels, etc. for stroke activity) in a couple months and if it changes we biopsy, if not we wait and watch. In the meantime Howard and I will become friends and play nice together.