"It's as if a great bird lives inside the stone of our days and since no sculptor can free it, it has to wait for the elements to wear us down, till it is free to fly." Mark Nepo

Friday, May 20, 2016

Facing Fear


I felt fear three times on the first trip to the Canyon. The kind of fear that comes from the brain stem and calls on all bodily resources to do what it takes to survive. Heart pounding, stomach clenching, and breathless. An inner voice screaming, “Run!!!”

The first time was the dream, or not, in which something crawled over my bare arm in the night. I tried to scream, but nothing would come out of my mouth. I woke up enough to look for what had to be a snake, but saw nothing. Weirdly, I went right back to sleep.

The second time was as we approached Lava Falls Rapids at mile 180, rated 8-10 on the Canyon’s 1-10 scale of difficulty. We had run 64 rapids in the days before, one of which, Crystal, is considered as difficult as Lava. All the runs were successful. No one ended up in the water, no one was hurt, and everyone had fun. We had scouted Lava: all the guides and passengers who wanted to hiked above the rapids to determine the best way to approach them. The guides were the most sober they’d been the whole trip. All the instructions we’d been given at the beginning of the trip about what to do if you ended up in the water were repeated. Our guide (nicknamed Turbo), a constant trickster in camp and always smiling, became serious. He asked us to be silent in the approach to the rapid so he could concentrate on finding the best line – the route that had the best chance of getting us through without crashing into rocks or being sucked into holes that would pull us to the bottom of the river. The roar of the rapids warned us to enter at our own peril.  Turbo shouted, “Hang on!” The raft crashed into house-high waves we couldn’t see until we were in them. At that point, there was no time or space for fear, and I released myself into the moment, screaming and shouting, along with everyone else in the raft.

The last time I felt fear in the Canyon involved jumping off a ten-foot cliff into the River. We were just a couple of days from our take-out at Diamond Creek, the end of the trip. I was feeling fully alive and fearless. Up to that point I’d hiked narrow ledges, climbed steep rocks, and was an old hand at hanging on through wild rapids. I was cavalier and even excited for the experience right up until the moment I stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. My body seemed to think I was standing at the top of a skyscraper and did everything in its power to make me walk away. Everyone else had gone once. There was a line behind me of people excited for their second turn. All but a couple of the two dozen passengers on this adventure were raring to hurl themselves off this cliff – again. I needed to decide, and quickly, so that I didn’t become the focus of well-meaning attention. The choice to do the trip in the first place was about facing fear. I knew I’d be sorry if I let fear dictate my actions this time. So I walked away from the edge, turned and ran toward it. And jumped. Screaming all the way to the River.

In the months, weeks, and then days leading up to that first trip I lived with more fear than I was willing to say out loud. It started with the Acknowledgement of Risk form we had to sign. I made fun of the language while at the same time wondering if I was up to so much risk at age 62. Trauma. Mental anguish. Impaired health. Injured. Death. Hypothermia. Heat stroke. Snakes, scorpions, fire ants. All were subtly downplayed. All were mentioned, I assumed, because at some time someone had experienced them. One of the books I read prior to that trip was about all the deaths that had occurred in the Grand Canyon, including deaths on the River. Oddly, that was reassuring. Most Canyon deaths in modern times involved alcohol and stupidity, neither of which were going to be factors for me. Still, what if my aging and moderately out of shape body wasn’t up to the challenge?

Not really trusting the list provided by the company, I was afraid of not being adequately prepared. I read and reread the list, scoured the company website and blog, studied pictures for clues. I worried about privacy, going to the bathroom, and living with complete strangers for two weeks. What if Walt and I didn’t get along? What if my new hip couldn’t handle the rigor? What if, what if, what if. I countered the fear voices with lists, and piles of gear, and reading everything I could get my hands on.

Ultimately, the anticipation of the absolute magic of what we were about to embark on won out. The minute our raft floated away from shore into the River, facing downstream in the hot June sun, all fear disappeared completely.

I didn’t even read the Acknowledgement of Risk form for this next trip until today. Walt typed my name at the bottom and sent it in last February. All the things I worried about before the first trip either happened and were handled, or didn’t happen. All the things that I didn’t worry about, and would have if I’d known, happened and were handled, and did nothing to diminish the joy of the trip.

It seems like I should be afraid, maybe just a little, as I prepare to experience the Colorado River for the second time. I do get little niggles of something gut-squeezing when I consider the ants and the scorpions and the rapids. I got lucky the first time. The more often a person goes through the Canyon, the more likely they’ll experience more of the less pleasant aspects. And this time I’m going alone. Without Walt to rely on or turn to or talk to, I’ll be on my own to solve problems and face the world in all its messy glory.

Passengers can be jolted, jarred, bounced, thrown to and fro, and otherwise shaken about during rides through some of these rapids . . . . It is also possible that some participants would suffer mental anguish or trauma from the experience of being thrown about in the rapids.

When I read that statement from the Acknowledgement of Risk form today, my mind went immediately to my brother. My middle brother was diagnosed with Parkinson’s Disease in March. Our journey with him in his physical and mental decline, much more rapid than any of us were prepared for, has been much like riding the rapids of the Colorado River. Fear sneaks up on me in the nether hours of the night when sleep should be healing me. It slithers across my arm, leaving me breathless. While I was relieved at first to have an answer to puzzling behaviors that emerged over the last couple of years, now I’d rather not make the journey through these particular rapids. Rapids that no amount of scouting will really help me travel through without a fair amount of mental anguish. I’ll think I’m getting used to this new normal, and then my brother does something uncharacteristically thoughtless. Evidence that he can no longer manage his life overwhelms hope that medication will buy him time. I look over the cliff into the unknowns of where this disease and his response to it will take us and I want to turn and run the other way.

I wonder what I’m afraid of with my brother. Snakes and cliffs and rapids all threaten physical harm. Those fears are rational, or at least have roots in something concrete. My brother’s decline will not harm me physically. The loss of him as I’ve come to know him in the last few years does not threaten my life. His is not my first major loss. But it is unique. He’s my brother. He’s still here and likely will be for some time. But all that makes him essentially him, all that our current relationship is built on, is slowly disappearing with each new cell-death at the center of his brain. So the grieving is unfamiliar. And the unfamiliar is fertile ground for fear. There is no amount of reading or information gathering that will ease the pain or smooth the journey. My newly acquired expertise in Parkinson’s Disease does nothing to soothe me or ease the fear of the huge unknown at the edge of this cliff.

What can I do except what I’ve chosen to do every time fear tells me I can’t. I do exactly the opposite of what it says. And so with my beloved brother, whom I hardly know any more, I walk away. I turn. I run full tilt and launch myself into the air. Screaming all the way, but airborne and committed and refusing to be dictated to by fear.

It may be part of the power of a River experience through the Canyon. There’s no way to get through it or life without being shaken about and suffering in some form. Living with my brother’s decline and the loss of relationship that brings is the latest rapids I’m finding my way through. I had decided that I didn’t need to jump off the cliff on this second trip on the Colorado. I didn’t want to experience the stomach-lurching, heart-freezing, run-like-hell feeling again. I might change my mind. Perhaps experiencing that real challenge of fear will give me the strength I need to continue launching myself into each new unknown as it presents itself with my brother’s illness.

When I head south in six weeks, I will travel with the sadness of the losses that accumulate daily. I will search for wisdom in the River and the billion year old rocks and the song of the canyon wren. I will seek peace under the blanket of the Milky Way. I will surrender myself, and my fears, to the heat and the beauty and the flow.



11 comments:

DJan said...

So beautifully written, Deb. I was right there with you as you launched yourself into the water. I''m so sorry to hear of the journey with your brother. I know that even though you and I have had major losses, it doesn't make the present ones any easier to bear. I'm glad you'll be going back to the canyon. I had a meditation tape long ago that included the sound of the canyon wren, and you just mentioning it here brought that lovely sound to my ears. I am truly blessed to have you in my life. :-)

Linda Myers said...

Lovely and profound, as usual. Thinking of you today.

Starting Over, Accepting Changes - Maybe said...

You wrote so well of fear and put into words how we all feel when we are confronted with something that we have no control over. We can decide to jump or not jump into the depths, but we can do little or nothing about what cannot be cured by man. Love is the greatest gift given and the most difficult journey of all when pain and suffering are involved. We humans can and do bare so much more than we expect we can and there are so many cliffs that we must climb. You just have to hold on real tight and hope that there are others to support you on this rocky road.

Barbara Torris said...

Beautifully written Deb. Life seems to be very like the canyon experience you have learned to love. It is full of danger, loss and rebirth.

Be well.

b+

Nancy/BLissed-Out Grandma said...

There is so much beauty here, and truth. You are amazing in the choices you make, and of course in the telling of your stories. You won't ever find me on one of those rafting adventures, but through you I'm beginning to at least understand why a sane person might choose to do so.

Gammary said...

The "heat, the beauty and the flow" wonderful. Yep, sweet surrender. Love this.
p.s. love the picture and the holding the nose thing...

Barb said...

To lose somebody we love by increments is torture. Somehow, I guess we have to learn to deal with what is now and not continue to grieve for what was and fear for what is coming (neither of these easily done). I like your analogies of facing fear on the river and facing fear in life. I've rafted the Colorado and each second is a unique experience and one for which we can't plan. It's about letting go (figuratively) and also holding on (literally). I think you'll find adventure and drama on the river, but also peace and joy. Have a great time, Deb. Sending hugs from CO.

Deborah Barker said...

Oh my goodness. I think my heart was in my mouth as I read, Deb. I love the similes and the power of your writing never ceases to amaze me. Enjoy your experiences and live your life. We only get one. X

Sandi said...

Ah, having just recently spent time in the glorious canyon, I can still feel a glimmer of the peace you speak of, the "wisdom in the River and the billion year old rocks and the song of the canyon wren." Our time spent in the Canyon was magical from the Rim.

Our last night I sat looking out the window of our motel, thinking about all we'd seen and done and learned - and marveled at your bravery. Because you and your journey were inescapably on my mind. Earlier the rapids you spoke of were pointed out to us, (at least the guide said they were the most treacherous) and from our miles away, I could still see the power, and was awed that you really chose to go through them, twice!

Your beautifully written way of facing the fears of the unknown with Mark were heartbreaking to read at times, Deb. Yet, running throughout there is a cord of courage and strength that is part of who you are, which will guide you through the rough spots, safely to the other side.

Love and hugs to you



yaya said...

Good luck on this second journey. I'll look forward to your telling of this adventure as you have the power to take us with you with your words. I'm so sorry your brother has to go through this disease and so sad you have to struggle with him. Prayers and hugs and hope that someday a cure will be found. Take care Deb.

Terri Tiffany said...

You maybe there now as I write this note. I am always enthralled by your words. The depth with which you write completely overtakes me. Praying your trip is safe and all that you hope for.