Your Mom.

If you follow me on Facebook or Instagram, you may have been wondering when I was going to write about that First Descents rock climbing trip I went on last month. (Or am I just ego-tripping on some delusion that people actually anticipate my blog posts?) Whatever, let's assume I have a devoted fan-base of readers who recall that my Mystic Medusa astrological scheduler predicted that my trip would be epically transformational and expansive. You remember that, right? Certainly. Well, my dear friends, the prophecy was legit!

It would be accurate to say that that experience brought me back to life. That is to say that prior to this trip, I felt like I had taken a few steps backward. Cancer, along with its massive baggage, had magnified my introversion and thickened my sorrowful disposition. I still found pieces of happiness in my day-to-day life, but inwardly, I felt scared, anxious, ugly and depressed.

When I arrived in Leavenworth, surrounded by a group of complete strangers, I felt those specific emotions firing off inside of me. I looked around and immediately noticed I was the only bald person. Shit, maybe Dr. Jeffreys was right. One should NOT climb rocks during chemo. These hairy jerks all look really healthy. I looked around again and tried to predict who would be my friend. That one looks like she works in finance--probably a bore. Some of these people are very sporty. Should I have trained for this? Am I about to get voted off the island? Maybe these New Yorkers will be my friends. Wait...nope, we're giving introductions. Soon they'll know I'm a Midwestern simpleton. 

This is how my brain works in a crowd of strangers. I become acutely aware of the Darwinian nature of our world and I start to wonder how I even made it to the egg as a sperm, because I am unquestionably the weakest and meekest of all humans. It's terrifying. Luckily, the next day I got to hold the ends of some of these strangers' ropes and I managed not to kill them. This is the fastest way to make friends, I've gathered.

My helmet fell off and was choking me out, but I still managed not to kill the climber.

Some experiences in life are just too voluminously magical to be contained by human language, so I will just say that the people family I met in Washington inspired me to great heights (literally and figuratively) and the time we shared touched me deeply. Over the course of the week, I heard many people's cancer stories, and I was shocked by my own reaction. Experiencing a story in the third person felt much harder than dealing with my own pain. Even now, I have tears rolling down my face as I think of my new friends and what they've gone through. On the third night, during our "campfire" talking circle, one participant--a single mom--shared how she had been trying to go on a First Descents trip for three years since being diagnosed with a brain tumor. As I listened, I felt the muscles in my chest tighten up through my neck and my nose beginning to run. I swallowed hard, attempting to push away thoughts of my own mother and the tears that were trying to flood in with the memories. I will not ugly cry in front of my new friends, I thought. I wanted to embrace this woman and sob on her shoulder, but that seemed entirely irrational. I wanted to talk to her and connect in some way, but what would I say? Hi. My mom had a brain tumor too. And now she's dead. So your story is making me really sad. I hope you don't die. That's awkward.

Another woman shared how her mother had supported her through her cancer journey, but shortly after she finished treatment, they were devastated by the news that the mom also had cancer. Doctors diagnosed her with a brain tumor, and she died three months later. I listened to this woman explain how her own healing process had been interrupted by grief, and how she had come to First Descents to begin that process again. I dug my body into the couch beneath me in a physical effort to suppress the emotions that wanted to spill out. I felt hot. My throat hurt from the ball of empathy banging around in my larynx. I did not expect this. This was not what I had come to do. I came to deal with this present situation I was in. Me, my cancer--not this lingering bereavement that still messed with me eleven years after my mother's death.

I managed to hold it together there on the couch that evening, but I kept a special eye on these women all week. I sensed that I needed to deal with this shitstorm of emotions that had caught me by surprise, but I had no idea how to begin.

On our final day, the temperatures in Leavenworth reached 100 degrees Fahrenheit. After several hours of climbing, we hiked up the loose rock face toward the summit, fumbling under the blazing heat of the sun. At the top, we all collapsed in the shade and scowled as our guides tried to coax us onto the rappel line. I scooted onto a massive hunk of quartz next to the woman who'd lost her mother. After a few minutes of small talk, I managed to say, "I'm sorry about your mom," and share my own story with her. When she looked at me, I saw the same mix of empathy and compassion I'd felt listening to her a few days earlier.

Despite the oppressive heat, we rappelled that day in honor of our moms. I didn't know I needed to do that, but I did. That evening, during our final campfire, we were asked to light a candle for those we hold in our hearts, who'd never get an opportunity like we'd had that week. I don't think my heart has hurt that much since I heard my mom take her last breath. I couldn't hold it together any longer, but it didn't matter. These people were my family and I didn't need to be anything but honest in front of them. I let the tears fall and the snot pour out of my nose like a tap, because apparently that's what happens when you no longer have nose hair. I thought back to the day I went in for an MRI and was diagnosed. I thought of lying in that imaging tube and believing I was reliving my mother's fate. I thought of how many times I have been FUCKING TERRIFIED during the last ten months and how scared my mom must've felt too. I thought of how she once told me to fuck off when she was sick, and how I took great offense to it. I thought of how many times I have wanted to tell people to fuck off this year, even though I truly love them. I thought, I'm sorry, Mom. I am so, so sorry.

When all the candles were lit, we were asked to turn to our neighbor and share our impression of them from the week. I turned to the woman next to me, the single mom with a brain tumor. This time, I did embrace her and sob on her shoulder.

Sending love and light to all of you. And your mom.