It's Tradition

I arrived in Portland a day before my class, mainly to go to Powell City of Books--a book store so incredibly large they actually have a map of the store. A real map, one similar to a transit map for a  metropolitan area, well, at least a metropolitan area the size of Frisco, CO.

I wandered aimlessly, then focused. Searched shelves with intent as well as casual amusement. Narrowed on three books, a gift and a quick exit before spending above more than my pocketbook would allow.

I arrived in Pioneer Square to watch the lighting of the Christmas Tree.

I have long since converted to Judaism and decorating and lighting up a Christmas tree an activity of my past, lost is the tradition of my childhood. Serving me now only memory.

I'm born December 23rd so my childhood was short on birthday parties and rich in Christmas tradition - a "birthday month" where most years  my birthday was buried in red and green wrapping paper and pecan and pumpkin pies. But hunting out the tree from a lot of spruce and pine, scented in cinnamon-spiced cider, listening to Christmas carols was fun. We often went as a family. Sometimes we even cut our own tree from one of those come-select-cut tree farms. At home the great untangling of tiny little white, red, green, and blue lights began. Ornaments hung. A beautiful mom-hand-sewn angel-like doll on top. The tree became a sanctuary of peace. Looking at the lights and watching as piles of gifts surrounding it's trunk began to build. Chocolate chip cookies and milk left for Santa. Fighting to stay awake the night before Christmas, eventually overcome by sleep. Christmas day my brother and I pouncing on my parent's bed "wake up! wake up!" In a moment all that's left is piles of wrapping paper, bows and ribbons askew, my brother and I setting up new games with new toys - "where Barbi meets Luke Skywalker". In our house, Barbi never dated Ken, but she was often tight with Yoga. The tree still lit.

I still remember sitting by the tree, watching its lights tinkle on and off and sometime watching an entire strand of lights go off, for good.

Today I don't know whether I believe Jesus has already come to save us or Isaiah is coming to save us. Likely my beliefs fall somewhere else altogether. But what I do know and I do believe is that tradition is the glue that holds us together.

Ouch

My shoulder surgeon suggested that my shoulder surgery would be one of the worst pains I would experience. I said there was no way a shoulder surgery would be worst than a bilateral radical mastectomy. Turns out I was right. Perhaps it is more than just the physical surgery that makes the mastectomy worse. I don't know. This shoulder surgery seems to be a breeze, a simple 2 out of 10 pain and nothing a couple of Tylenol and a chocolate chip cookie can't fix.

I looked forward to the surgery. I knew that I would be better from surgery, not worse, not left contemplating "what next?" in my life. Just well. Able to do vinyasa flow and down dog and lift weights and all the stuff that has evaded me for the past several years.

Today I walked in and out of all the stores in Frisco. Stores I heard of but have never visited. We have some great little shops in Frisco. I walked into one store without a customer in the store yet four staff and not one of them said a word to me. I walked into the very next store with only one employee and three customers and the employee managed to say hi to all of us. I suppose the clerks just assumed I would not buy anything and most certainly not try anything on. After all, I was in a shoulder sling. Pity really as they did have some really nice things and I won't be a shoulder sling forever and I do live right down the street, but I likely will never go into that store again.

Monday I receive an MRI on the right shoulder and on Wednesday I find out if my right shoulder can borrow the sling from the left shoulder in November. And for the rest of the year I'm going to  squeeze every penny from my health insurance as my deductible has been met! And for the past several years I've gotten to pay my deductible along with my premiums every year! Ahh, but as my neighbor once said to me "I get to...". When I think about it, that is a grand thing that I'm able to do.

I'm "wine"-ing now!

Over the course of the last five years I've lost a lot --  my boobies, ovaries, uterus, cervix, even my fallopian tubes! And I've gained a lot -- 30 pounds around my middle! (Cancer, have I had a chance to thank you yet for that?)

I feel like I've done a good job at embracing my new vitality. I still hike, swim, play, lots of play. But here is where I have to draw the line -- I can no longer drink wine, or any alcohol for that matter. Not that I am a huge drinker, because I'm not. But it is nice to go for a glass of wine. A wine bar opened in Bozeman when I was living there. I used to meet with a friend of mine over wine and cheese, watch the hustle and bustle of guests getting the street beat from the locals at the bar. It was fun. And definitely would not be the same sipping on a tall glass of water!

Just one glass of wine - red or white, there is no discrimination - and I cannot sleep. I wake up sluggish with swollen eyes. Really?

I have a choice to make: sluggish and sloshed or a tall glass of water with lemon. I've been battling this for the past year. I have to say, even though it is not a big deal (I drink two to three times a month) it is the last thing I want to surrender to cancer.

I may go to war a few more times over a glass of chablis, kicking and screaming the whole way.

Here's a toast &^%! cancer!

Is it just a crappy day or am I really this unhappy?

When I was in cancer treatment it was easy.  Even though at every turn I was faced with some decision that would affect my life, even though, at what seemed like a daily event, I watched my body slowly get worse and worse, it was still easier than this.

It is the aftermath of cancer that strips you of everything you might possibly have left.  It just seems that disaster never ends and just when you think you might have a leg up, you get slapped in the face again.  I haven't slept in 3 years.  My body hurts more than I like to admit. And the financial piece seems to never end.

When the days are bad, I snap.  I can't keep my anger within the cells of my body any longer.  I don't even care who my anger is directed at anymore.  What's worse I'm mean.  They say that the mean people are those with miserable lives -- they are right.  I am miserable and in this vortex that I have no idea how to get out of. 

I want people to know they've done me wrong when they've done me wrong and they don't seem to even care.  It seems the more we attach ourselves to technology, to our phones, our Ipads, our MP3 players the more we detach from the world.  We forget that we're human, that people have feelings and that there is more than just "I" in the world. 

I want to crawl out of my skin and fly away, but I cannot. I'm not a dragonfly waiting to end this life stage and enter into the next.  I'm just a girl with a really heavy suitcase.

To The Top

Long, long ago before internet was on cell phones and home computers were commonplace, I saw a photo of Denali reaching towards the sky. I remember riding bikes to the library (one of those buildings that holds books) and turning the pages in mountaineering books…one day.

This is definitely one thing I can blame on my mom, she is the hiker.  I know now she had a daughter so she would have a hiking buddy.  When we would visit my grandma she always said “hey let’s go for a hike at Will Rogers State Park” and off we’d go.  Will Rogers State Park is as nestled as anything can be in Los Angeles offering spectacular views of the Pacific Ocean the higher up you go and we always managed to hike the loop trail to the highest point we could reasonable reach in a few hours.  Our weekend jaunts included what seemed like endless car rides to Sequoia National Park for more hiking.  I “discovered” my very first period in the campground bathroom.  My mom told me “just wrap some toilet paper around my underwear, the nearest store is 30 miles away.”  By the time I was nine she was taking my brother and me up Half Dome in Yosemite.  (Here is where I must admit the cables were a bit to daunting and I waited at the bottom, which haunted me until my 30’s when I returned to the very top to dangle my feet off the edge as the climbers topped out over Half Dome’s face.) 

My mom decided it was time to hike to the highest peak in the lower 48, Mt. Whitney, 14,505 feet.  I was fourteen.  The first plan was to hike part way, camp, and then reach the summit on the second day.  Instead, we hiked up and back in one day, 22 miles round trip.  Being fourteen and sexy I raced some cute boys to the top, leaving my mom and brother behind.  My mom said I wrote “18” in the summit log book, instead of my real age. I can’t remember and it was so long ago I doubt there is proof anymore.  But it was Mt. Whitney, at fourteen, when I knew my heart belonged in the mountains.  After tackling the highest point in the lower 48, why not the highest point in North America, Denali?

I truly believe I had absolutely no idea back then of what it meant to climb Denali.  Until then I had only hiked.  But as time went on I learned to climb rocks, ice and mountains.  I joined backcountry ski patrol to learn about avalanches.  I soaked up rescue clinics to learn crevasse travel and survival.  I read – at the library.  In 2007 I made my first attempt, successfully reaching 14,200 feet where bronchitis set in and my climb was over.

 Since then there have been some hiccups.  In 2009 I was diagnosed with breast cancer.  I had nine surgeries, chemotherapy and radiation.  When treatment ended I set my sights on climbing once again.  After an incredibly hard weekend of testing to become an AMGA certified single pitch instructor I was diagnosed with lymphedema.  Lymphedema was my personal death sentence.  I was told no lifting weight over 8 lbs, climbing would forever be easy and simply recreational, no caffeine and no spicy food.  Of those, I gave up caffeine. 

 On Friday I begin my journey to Alaska.  My climbing partner and I will fly onto the glacier May 13^th.  Like when I hiked Mt. Whitney with my mom, we will make our summit bid about May 25^th from 14,200 feet, climbing just over 6,000 feet to reach the summit in one very long day….

Will it stop?

Special K has nothing on Magnesium Citrate. Just one 8 0z serving and you'll drop a jean size in 24 hrs. Special K cereal you have to eat all week! I'm fairly convinced at this point my intestines played a symphony in B-flat through the night. I am sufficiently caught up on my bathroom reading, my toenail polish is removed, fingernails buffed and filed, I managed a few Suduko puzzles, and some journaling. I know now that tomato skin is not digestible at all, but does in fact linger in your body for days after eating.

In a few hours the remaining parts of my female-hood will be removed. Two and half years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. Now that I know what a Seton stitch is (don't even ask!) I akin cancer to a Seton. It rips away at you as you slowly rebuild on the other side into, hopefully, a better person.

 

 

Two days ago I was high on the Second Flatiron overlooking Boulder, Denver, and Kansas with a friend. We swapped leads as she learned and I taught. She was a fast learner and a great climber. At one point -- her lead -- she turned around and said she wished she had a camera, that would be a great picture. I turned to see the view, Kansas, and remembered she was born in Kansas.

We spend so much of our time pushing forward, achieving success, becoming something. But in the end, in our view, don't we all just want to go back to when life was simple?

Here's to Kansas.

Yippee!

You know that feeling you get when you round that last corner and you see your house after you've been on the road for three days? I just rounded the corner.

School will be out on December 9th. I've completed 3 clinic hours and the first day of two of my classes. Shortly I will be taking...and passing...my national certification exam. I'm moving to my new home in Frisco, CO in 18 days. In a week I meet my potential climbing team for Denali 2012.

Life is good.