So, I won't really say a whole lot this time around. The last post was clearly written from a place of great frustration and anxiety, so perhaps I exaggerated the gravity of the situation. I wholly admit that I often do that within the first 24 hours of receiving any kind of news like that about my mom and grandpa. But anyway--so, it seems like the spots on my grandpa's lungs were just pockets of fluid. At least, that is the initial findings. Huge sigh of relief for that. He was released from the hospital on Friday, which is great.
My mom was released on Friday, too. I am not sure how she is doing really, but she sounded alright when I talked with her yesterday. She has a long way to go before she is really okay, but at least it is a step in the right direction for now.
Thanks for all the thoughts and prayers, and really, just for letting me vent in this space. Funny, but I never wanted to be this kind of writer where it all became about the crises that occur...
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Tired
There are times when it just feels like the weight of the world falls upon your shoulders. There isn't anything you can do really to shift the burden, but it sits there, making it a little bit more difficult to do normal activities. Right now, in spite of a plethora of good fortune that has befallen me over the past few months, there is a pall of illness affecting my family that makes it hard to see what is good in my life.
After an exhilarating trip to Peru, I came home only to find out that my mother had been in the hospital pretty much sense I left for my trip. To be honest, this itself isn't a surprise—it really is not unusual for my mother to have extended visits in a hospital for her various medical issues—but it wasn't exactly the first kind of news I had hoped for when returning back to the States. And, considering I had been gone for almost two weeks, it had been a long stay even by my mom's standards. OF course, I hadn't actually been talking with my mom since it was my dad who was relaying all the information.
Let me point out something for context. My dad is perhaps one of the strongest people I know. Not necessarily physically (although is body has endured a lot on its own) but emotionally and spiritually. I wish I were as resilient as he has been these past 20 or so years where uncertainty is the only constant. Somehow amidst all the crap that my family has gone through (my mom's illnesses and injuries, my sister's defection and struggle with her own health and mental issues, caring for my mom's parents, etc.), he has always maintained that things will get better, that this will one day come to an end. For the first 10 years or so, I gladly joined him in this pronouncement, waiting for the day that my family would once again be healthy and whole. That day has yet to come, and although there is still a part of me that holds out for that…the inner 10-year old who believes that everyone can and should be happy…I have adopted a cynical shell to block out some of the more deceiving rays of hope. I cannot endure many more of the bruises that one incurs after an abrupt reality check knocks you back to earth. I used to think my dad was impervious to those bruises, but the more and more I talk with him, it appears his reserve is finally cracking, and that breaks my heart. I guess in some ways, his hope is one of the few things I could still hold onto in an occasionally bleak situation. With that slipping away, I don't know where to grasp, and while I know that as things develop, I will find a way to cope, it is hard to watch the one person who embodied stability begin to fall apart.
The one person who is still in Texas to help my dad cope with all that goes on with my mother is my grandpa. He, too, is in the hospital now. Yesterday, he was admitted with an infection and a fever. An MRI revealed a few spots on his lungs. While the results are still pending, my mind immediately jumps to the worst. I don't really know how to articulate what losing my grandpa would be like for me personally or for my dad and mom, but it would be huge. I hate even to think much about it, but of course, my mind doesn't really allow me to look beyond it at the moment.
As for my mom, she is still in the hospital. She may be transferred soon to a long-term care facility or a rehabilitation center. Or she may just be discharged altogether. It all depends on the whim of the doctors over the next couple of days, or so it seems. I won't even try to go into what is going on with her in the first place because I cannot wrap my own head around it. Let's just say there are a lot of complications from the medicine she has been on for the past 15+ years, complications from a botched surgery 10 years ago, and a lot of residual mental stress that exacerbates both problems in a way that none of us can quite figure out how to help.
And that is where I feel the most burdened. Here are three people I love and care about very much, and yet I have no clue how to help them. I very much want to be there to help and support them in person, but I am also aware that in doing so, I will lose myself. There is some kind of tacit understanding that if I were to be in Texas, my life would be put on hold as I shuttled Mom to appointments, took care of the house and yard, cared for the household things that are currently neglected. It isn't the life I want for myself and it is not the life that my parents want for me either. The selfish part of me shudders at the thought of even visiting because I do not want to return to that kind of life, particularly when right now I have so many good things in my life. Yet, the guilty part of me feels like I am being a negligent daughter, ignoring my duty to my parents and grandpa, to be the support that they need during this challenging time. My selfishness right now outweighs the guilt, but I have a feeling that soon the scales will shift depending on how much longer this continues.
This could just be another mini crisis in a long series of crises, and things will find their equilibrium once again. Well, at least until the next flare up brings us yet one step closer to that edge. The edge where my mom finally makes good on her threats to just end it all. The edge that will send my dad into complete collapse and I am the only one to help pick up the pieces. The edge that I fall over as I try to grasp too tightly to the world I know, afraid that letting go will be more damaging than anything else. I fear that edge more and more. I am bracing myself for the day we go over it, but I don't think that will be enough. I try to make myself numb and impervious to emotions swirling through my head, but those are impossible to ignore completely and in burying them, I become a bitter, cranky person, someone who I hate to be. I am sad, scared, angry, frustrated. I feel powerless and hopeless. I wish that for once my parents could catch a break from the universe. I wish that there were some way to bargain even for a few good days for them—if I could take on their pain for even a couple of days to give them a respite, I swear I would. But the world doesn't work that way, and we all have to learn how to cope with the hand we have been dealt. I know in a few days, I'll be doing okay. But right now, the world looks so bleak, the future a dark swirl of uncertainty and awfulness. I really am just tired of it all.
After an exhilarating trip to Peru, I came home only to find out that my mother had been in the hospital pretty much sense I left for my trip. To be honest, this itself isn't a surprise—it really is not unusual for my mother to have extended visits in a hospital for her various medical issues—but it wasn't exactly the first kind of news I had hoped for when returning back to the States. And, considering I had been gone for almost two weeks, it had been a long stay even by my mom's standards. OF course, I hadn't actually been talking with my mom since it was my dad who was relaying all the information.
Let me point out something for context. My dad is perhaps one of the strongest people I know. Not necessarily physically (although is body has endured a lot on its own) but emotionally and spiritually. I wish I were as resilient as he has been these past 20 or so years where uncertainty is the only constant. Somehow amidst all the crap that my family has gone through (my mom's illnesses and injuries, my sister's defection and struggle with her own health and mental issues, caring for my mom's parents, etc.), he has always maintained that things will get better, that this will one day come to an end. For the first 10 years or so, I gladly joined him in this pronouncement, waiting for the day that my family would once again be healthy and whole. That day has yet to come, and although there is still a part of me that holds out for that…the inner 10-year old who believes that everyone can and should be happy…I have adopted a cynical shell to block out some of the more deceiving rays of hope. I cannot endure many more of the bruises that one incurs after an abrupt reality check knocks you back to earth. I used to think my dad was impervious to those bruises, but the more and more I talk with him, it appears his reserve is finally cracking, and that breaks my heart. I guess in some ways, his hope is one of the few things I could still hold onto in an occasionally bleak situation. With that slipping away, I don't know where to grasp, and while I know that as things develop, I will find a way to cope, it is hard to watch the one person who embodied stability begin to fall apart.
The one person who is still in Texas to help my dad cope with all that goes on with my mother is my grandpa. He, too, is in the hospital now. Yesterday, he was admitted with an infection and a fever. An MRI revealed a few spots on his lungs. While the results are still pending, my mind immediately jumps to the worst. I don't really know how to articulate what losing my grandpa would be like for me personally or for my dad and mom, but it would be huge. I hate even to think much about it, but of course, my mind doesn't really allow me to look beyond it at the moment.
As for my mom, she is still in the hospital. She may be transferred soon to a long-term care facility or a rehabilitation center. Or she may just be discharged altogether. It all depends on the whim of the doctors over the next couple of days, or so it seems. I won't even try to go into what is going on with her in the first place because I cannot wrap my own head around it. Let's just say there are a lot of complications from the medicine she has been on for the past 15+ years, complications from a botched surgery 10 years ago, and a lot of residual mental stress that exacerbates both problems in a way that none of us can quite figure out how to help.
And that is where I feel the most burdened. Here are three people I love and care about very much, and yet I have no clue how to help them. I very much want to be there to help and support them in person, but I am also aware that in doing so, I will lose myself. There is some kind of tacit understanding that if I were to be in Texas, my life would be put on hold as I shuttled Mom to appointments, took care of the house and yard, cared for the household things that are currently neglected. It isn't the life I want for myself and it is not the life that my parents want for me either. The selfish part of me shudders at the thought of even visiting because I do not want to return to that kind of life, particularly when right now I have so many good things in my life. Yet, the guilty part of me feels like I am being a negligent daughter, ignoring my duty to my parents and grandpa, to be the support that they need during this challenging time. My selfishness right now outweighs the guilt, but I have a feeling that soon the scales will shift depending on how much longer this continues.
This could just be another mini crisis in a long series of crises, and things will find their equilibrium once again. Well, at least until the next flare up brings us yet one step closer to that edge. The edge where my mom finally makes good on her threats to just end it all. The edge that will send my dad into complete collapse and I am the only one to help pick up the pieces. The edge that I fall over as I try to grasp too tightly to the world I know, afraid that letting go will be more damaging than anything else. I fear that edge more and more. I am bracing myself for the day we go over it, but I don't think that will be enough. I try to make myself numb and impervious to emotions swirling through my head, but those are impossible to ignore completely and in burying them, I become a bitter, cranky person, someone who I hate to be. I am sad, scared, angry, frustrated. I feel powerless and hopeless. I wish that for once my parents could catch a break from the universe. I wish that there were some way to bargain even for a few good days for them—if I could take on their pain for even a couple of days to give them a respite, I swear I would. But the world doesn't work that way, and we all have to learn how to cope with the hand we have been dealt. I know in a few days, I'll be doing okay. But right now, the world looks so bleak, the future a dark swirl of uncertainty and awfulness. I really am just tired of it all.
Monday, June 4, 2012
Peru -- A Brief Glimpse
Somehow, two weeks have passed since returning from my trip to Peru, and it already is beginning to feel like the whole thing never really happened, that it was just this amazing dream. Perhaps it is because the whole thing seemed a bit like a figment of my imagination—who would have thought I could manage to hike for four days and camp out for three nights without finding myself completely worn out, bruised, or battered? I never dreamed that I would have a chance to explore the Amazon Basin and encounter monkeys, tarantulas, frogs, and more. (Not many mosquitos, though, which was a very pleasant surprise!) And, even more importantly, I held myself to my goal of reaching my fifth continent before turning thirty. That in itself is pretty amazing because I am not one to set goals, let alone achieve them.
But this isn't really what you want to hear about. What you are more interested in are the stories. What interesting things transpired while I was immersed in a completely different culture and landscape? What did it really feel like to hike up to a point 13,5000 feet above sea level (particularly when I normally live only at 1,026 feet sea level)? What was the food like? Would I do it again?
My history with exploring the great outdoors really isn't as rich or abundant as one may think. Outside of the occasional camp trip with my family (which rarely involved hikes over 2 or 3 miles), I didn't do a whole lot in the outdoors. I dabbled a bit more in the adventuring lifestyles while in Wales, where I took a course called Outdoor Pursuits. It encouraged me to hike, climb, and kayak my way through Wales, helping me experience the country in a way far different from your average tourist. Still, my attempts at this were a challenge. At 20, I was out-of-shape, a bit lazy, and not in the best of condition to be trudging about in a cool, clammy climate. I also had the misfortune to experience such interesting mishaps like watching my tent fly off a cliff, being lost in a bog, and finding myself perpetually wet either by virtue of the rain or by having our self-constructed raft collapse in the middle of a freezing cold pond. I also remember being battered, bruised, and sore. Strangely, none of this would deter me a few years later from pursuing similar activities which had the potential to replicate many of the above results.
So, when I signed up to hike the Inca Trail, I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew for certain that I would immediately be put at a disadvantage because of the difference in altitude. Being that high up literally takes your breath away and makes even the slightest amount of effort feel like a gargantuan task. I also knew that there would be a lot more steep inclines, stairs, and general overall ups and downs. Kansas City has a few hills, but nothing compared to what I would encounter. Still, in a paltry effort to prepare, I walked. A lot. I figured at least I could get the distance down if I couldn't get the elevation. And, strangely, I think it helped. Really, I was surprised by how little anything ended up hurting after the hike. Outside of my poor calves (the 20,000 or so stairs were a bit much for them), I didn't feel any muscle soreness, which was a shock. I thought I would ache all over and wake up on the second morning unable to move (as was my experience when hiking in Snowdonia ten years ago). Strangely, 5:00 a.m would come around and I would be ready to begin again without any complaint. Something truly strange was happening in those mountains.
I think that the only reason I was able to make it, though, was because I had the support of a wonderful team of porters, two excellent guides, and a great group with whom I was traveling. It is amazing just how much a support system makes a difference in a situation like this. The porters worked behind the scenes, rushing ahead to beat us to our camp site, our resting points, and anywhere else it was they were needed. After a long day of hiking, we would arrive at our campsite with our tents already in place. Within the first five minutes of getting situated there, a basin of steaming hot water would be available to wash away the grime accumulated throughout the day. Some people (not me) would even soak their feet once they had finished washing. Funny how such a small thing quickly became a luxury. I mean, when you have to deal with things like squat toilets along the path (stinking cess pools of all sorts of things you do not want to think about, really. I guess it is a better solution than finding some bushes, but you quickly learn how to hold your breath for a long time when you enter), dirt, sweat, sunscreen, oily hair, dirty clothes…a small bowl of hot water is gold.
Meal times were also strangely luxurious. We would arrive at the site, and there would be a separate tent furnished with tables and stools for us to sit at. Upon sitting, we would have tea and water availble for us, and eventually, the first course of our meal. I had so many delicious soups along the trail, it was amazing (and I didn't realize that with limited supplies, you can have six different kinds of soups. And six very different kind of cooked meals, ranging from spaghetti to stir fry to potato dishes…I felt kind of bad because I asked for vegetarian meals, so I always got my own personalized dish. It felt a bit too much for me). I felt like I was eating so much all of the time that I swore I would be one of the few people who actually gained weight while hiking the Inca Trail. I know, a silly thing to worry about…I think one of my favorite things that our chefs prepared were the cheese wonton things—fried wontons with melted cheese in the middle. Like many people, I have a weakness for all things cheesy and deep-fried. Still not sure how they managed to make them, but they were delicious. As was the freshly popped popcorn. That was amazing and impossible to stop eating even when trying to ration oneself. And there were desserts, usually fruity concoctions of some sort. If there is one thing that Peru has a lot of, it is different varieties of fruit.
Add in the support of a good group and two amazing guides, and you have everything you need for success. I did require a little more patience with myself than I normally allow. Particularly on the second day, there was not going to be any quick sprints up the stairs. After about five stairs, I was ready for a breather. While doing it, I felt rather pathetic, but looking back, it was just the kind of thing I needed to keep pace. To be honest, I would have killed myself trying to keep an unsustainable pace if it weren't for a few other group members. At the steepest part of the climb, there were six of us walking together. We would pick an object in the distance ("Okay, that boulder, right there. Let's go!"), and keep moving until we reached it. Sometimes, the climb was easier than we had anticipated, sometimes far more grueling. No matter what, though, we made it to the next part of the trail until finally we were at the summit. We didn't stay long, and really we didn't need to. Funny thing about hiking—one minute it feels like your heart is beating out of your chest, the next minute it feels like you haven't been doing anything more taxing than a casual stroll.
Along the trail, we passed through three or four different ecosystems, seeing cacti and orchids, waterfalls and arid grasslands. There were times it felt like I had been transported back in time, left to forge the trail through the jungle myself (okay, fine. I let my imagination help shape that a little bit. The trail was always clearly marked, and there was never any need to wield a machete to clear through some overgrowth or anything). It felt almost like I were in an Indiana Jones movie or something—the caves also helped add to that feeling. In many ways, this trip helped me embrace those childhood dreams of being an intrepid explorer. So, thousands of people had passed this way before and there wasn't really anything new to discover. I still was discovering it for myself, and that was what was important, right? In the end, it wasn't about what other people thought about my journey. It was how I felt about it, and in all honesty, I feel pretty darn good about the whole thing. Despite all my reservations, all my previous catastrophes in the natural world, I managed to get through this adventure wholly in tact and feeling like I could conquer the world. I am not exactly quick to repeat the endeavor again, but looking around at what is out there, I know I can do a ton more hikes in the area without a problem, and perhaps I can seek out a few in the Rockies…it is high time to explore my own country and see what else is out there.
But this isn't really what you want to hear about. What you are more interested in are the stories. What interesting things transpired while I was immersed in a completely different culture and landscape? What did it really feel like to hike up to a point 13,5000 feet above sea level (particularly when I normally live only at 1,026 feet sea level)? What was the food like? Would I do it again?
My history with exploring the great outdoors really isn't as rich or abundant as one may think. Outside of the occasional camp trip with my family (which rarely involved hikes over 2 or 3 miles), I didn't do a whole lot in the outdoors. I dabbled a bit more in the adventuring lifestyles while in Wales, where I took a course called Outdoor Pursuits. It encouraged me to hike, climb, and kayak my way through Wales, helping me experience the country in a way far different from your average tourist. Still, my attempts at this were a challenge. At 20, I was out-of-shape, a bit lazy, and not in the best of condition to be trudging about in a cool, clammy climate. I also had the misfortune to experience such interesting mishaps like watching my tent fly off a cliff, being lost in a bog, and finding myself perpetually wet either by virtue of the rain or by having our self-constructed raft collapse in the middle of a freezing cold pond. I also remember being battered, bruised, and sore. Strangely, none of this would deter me a few years later from pursuing similar activities which had the potential to replicate many of the above results.
So, when I signed up to hike the Inca Trail, I wasn't sure what to expect. I knew for certain that I would immediately be put at a disadvantage because of the difference in altitude. Being that high up literally takes your breath away and makes even the slightest amount of effort feel like a gargantuan task. I also knew that there would be a lot more steep inclines, stairs, and general overall ups and downs. Kansas City has a few hills, but nothing compared to what I would encounter. Still, in a paltry effort to prepare, I walked. A lot. I figured at least I could get the distance down if I couldn't get the elevation. And, strangely, I think it helped. Really, I was surprised by how little anything ended up hurting after the hike. Outside of my poor calves (the 20,000 or so stairs were a bit much for them), I didn't feel any muscle soreness, which was a shock. I thought I would ache all over and wake up on the second morning unable to move (as was my experience when hiking in Snowdonia ten years ago). Strangely, 5:00 a.m would come around and I would be ready to begin again without any complaint. Something truly strange was happening in those mountains.
I think that the only reason I was able to make it, though, was because I had the support of a wonderful team of porters, two excellent guides, and a great group with whom I was traveling. It is amazing just how much a support system makes a difference in a situation like this. The porters worked behind the scenes, rushing ahead to beat us to our camp site, our resting points, and anywhere else it was they were needed. After a long day of hiking, we would arrive at our campsite with our tents already in place. Within the first five minutes of getting situated there, a basin of steaming hot water would be available to wash away the grime accumulated throughout the day. Some people (not me) would even soak their feet once they had finished washing. Funny how such a small thing quickly became a luxury. I mean, when you have to deal with things like squat toilets along the path (stinking cess pools of all sorts of things you do not want to think about, really. I guess it is a better solution than finding some bushes, but you quickly learn how to hold your breath for a long time when you enter), dirt, sweat, sunscreen, oily hair, dirty clothes…a small bowl of hot water is gold.
Meal times were also strangely luxurious. We would arrive at the site, and there would be a separate tent furnished with tables and stools for us to sit at. Upon sitting, we would have tea and water availble for us, and eventually, the first course of our meal. I had so many delicious soups along the trail, it was amazing (and I didn't realize that with limited supplies, you can have six different kinds of soups. And six very different kind of cooked meals, ranging from spaghetti to stir fry to potato dishes…I felt kind of bad because I asked for vegetarian meals, so I always got my own personalized dish. It felt a bit too much for me). I felt like I was eating so much all of the time that I swore I would be one of the few people who actually gained weight while hiking the Inca Trail. I know, a silly thing to worry about…I think one of my favorite things that our chefs prepared were the cheese wonton things—fried wontons with melted cheese in the middle. Like many people, I have a weakness for all things cheesy and deep-fried. Still not sure how they managed to make them, but they were delicious. As was the freshly popped popcorn. That was amazing and impossible to stop eating even when trying to ration oneself. And there were desserts, usually fruity concoctions of some sort. If there is one thing that Peru has a lot of, it is different varieties of fruit.
Add in the support of a good group and two amazing guides, and you have everything you need for success. I did require a little more patience with myself than I normally allow. Particularly on the second day, there was not going to be any quick sprints up the stairs. After about five stairs, I was ready for a breather. While doing it, I felt rather pathetic, but looking back, it was just the kind of thing I needed to keep pace. To be honest, I would have killed myself trying to keep an unsustainable pace if it weren't for a few other group members. At the steepest part of the climb, there were six of us walking together. We would pick an object in the distance ("Okay, that boulder, right there. Let's go!"), and keep moving until we reached it. Sometimes, the climb was easier than we had anticipated, sometimes far more grueling. No matter what, though, we made it to the next part of the trail until finally we were at the summit. We didn't stay long, and really we didn't need to. Funny thing about hiking—one minute it feels like your heart is beating out of your chest, the next minute it feels like you haven't been doing anything more taxing than a casual stroll.
Along the trail, we passed through three or four different ecosystems, seeing cacti and orchids, waterfalls and arid grasslands. There were times it felt like I had been transported back in time, left to forge the trail through the jungle myself (okay, fine. I let my imagination help shape that a little bit. The trail was always clearly marked, and there was never any need to wield a machete to clear through some overgrowth or anything). It felt almost like I were in an Indiana Jones movie or something—the caves also helped add to that feeling. In many ways, this trip helped me embrace those childhood dreams of being an intrepid explorer. So, thousands of people had passed this way before and there wasn't really anything new to discover. I still was discovering it for myself, and that was what was important, right? In the end, it wasn't about what other people thought about my journey. It was how I felt about it, and in all honesty, I feel pretty darn good about the whole thing. Despite all my reservations, all my previous catastrophes in the natural world, I managed to get through this adventure wholly in tact and feeling like I could conquer the world. I am not exactly quick to repeat the endeavor again, but looking around at what is out there, I know I can do a ton more hikes in the area without a problem, and perhaps I can seek out a few in the Rockies…it is high time to explore my own country and see what else is out there.
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