Facing The Death Zone

“If you don’t feel the call of the mountain, you’ll never understand.”

The young, female climber made that comment about Mount Everest in a 2008 documentary that focused on the notorious storm of 1996 that took the lives of eight climbers, two of whom were experienced expedition leaders.

Though I have never felt the call of that mountain, or any other for that matter, I think that in some way I do understand – yet I don’t.

I know that within many of us lies the need to find something to conquer, and often, that conquest must be greater than the one before it. It is in that way that I understand the desire to climb the mountain.

But when I think about all that is involved in attempting to climb that mountain, I guess I don’t understand at all.

Though my interest in climbing, or even in ever seeing, Mount Everest would not register as even one percent, I have found that mountain to be incredibly fascinating since the day that I watched a documentary about it in the sixth grade. We were studying geography, or topography – or something like that, so we watched an hour-long film about the one mountain that a select few people feel called to attempt to climb.

Since that day, I have watched several documentaries about the mountain, about the people who have attempted to climb it, and about the people who have died making their attempt to negotiate with it.

Though, in pictures, it displays a beauty that I don’t believe one can truly comprehend without seeing it in person, it also projects a certain horror that is eerily enticing.

I am not writing today about the mountain though. I am writing about the one true reason I cannot understand that call to climb, about the fact that people who do so must, on some level, come face to face with death and must find some way to make peace with it.

Of course anyone who attempts to make that climb would expect to succeed and would certainly hope to return not only alive but also unharmed. However the conditions to which climbers subject themselves on Everest have been described by climbers who have successfully summited, some more than once, as “hell on earth,” and “pure exhaustion.”  The altitudes at base camp, where climbers can spend two to three weeks beginning the process of acclimatizing, reach about 17,000 feet and the altitude beyond base camp four, near the summit, is known as “the death zone,” reaching over 28,000 feet into the sky.

With temperatures that reportedly never rise above zero degrees on the summit of Everest, winds that can reach hurricane force, and even in the best weather conditions, oxygen levels at approximately 33% of what we breathe at or near sea level, it’s no wonder that the final stage of the mountain climb has become known as the death zone.

While survival is of utmost importance to each of us, I would think that each person who attempts the climb has to face the harsh reality that he or she might not make it back down the mountain – ever. It is reported that approximately 200 bodies lie near the top of Everest. Whether or not people face their own demise on the mountain, they will encounter people who have lost their lives and who remain on the trails as a reminder of the reality of a life and death struggle.

Stories of survival against all odds, and stories of tragic deaths – both of people who likely should never have made an attempt at climbing Everest and of people who had summited many times before – abound in documentaries and movies about the famous Mount Everest.

While it may not be on a mountain, we all have to face our own mortality at some point. I do wonder how people do it.

My mother is in her mid 70’s now. My dad recently told me that “mom figures she only has about three years or so left to live.” I hope her life is longer than that; it should be, but we never know. None of us, whether in we’re 17 or 71, really knows.

What I do know is that my mother will not die in the harsh conditions on Everest, or any mountain, nor will anyone else I know well. Still I wonder how it is that one can look at her life, knowing that the vast majority of it is behind her, and make peace with what is to come.

For those of us who are people of faith, we believe that there is hope even after death; we believe in an eternity. We do not believe that heaven is awaiting us because of who we are, or because of what we have accomplished, but we believe that the victory that Jesus won that we celebrate on Easter gives us a hope for victory in life and one day for the ultimate victory in death.

Still, facing one’s demise has its challenges. Whether it happens in frigid temperatures in an environment in which humans can barely survive, or in a hospital with the best doctors, or at home with loved ones, it seems a tough task to face our own death zone with grace.

Personally, I try to avoid placing myself in situations that might expedite my death, but I know that I cannot escape it. While I am far from ready to die yet, I hope that when the time comes, however it comes, that I am able to leave with dignity and peace.

When I think about death, my faith is mixed with fear. While I believe that the people I love have gone on to heaven, I have no idea what that’s really like, and I have admitted before, and will admit again, that it’s weird to think about them being in a place called heaven. No one has been there and come back to tell us about it. Still I believe that for people of faith, it is the ultimate act of trust in the one who said, “I am the resurrection and the life.”

I hope that everyone who reads this has many years left to enjoy with the people you love the most. And I hope when your time comes to move on that you find peace in the journey. I hope I do too.

 

 

 

Is “Overcoming” Overrated?

A young woman has taken her stance in the starting blocks on a track, ready to run.

In the next frame of the commercial she tells us that her high school coach had told her that she wasn’t cut out for running. She then says that she set out to prove him wrong, and she qualified for the NCAA championships in the marathon.

My husband and I talked about the commercial. I said that her high school coach may not have been wrong, in fact, he was likely correct. Being “cut out” to run short distance track events and being cut out to run the marathon distance are two very different things. It seems that he didn’t present her with the option of looking at longer distances, but she clearly found her niche.

My husband’s slightly sarcastic response to my comments about the situation was, “Yeah, but then she wouldn’t have had anything to overcome.”

I answered that “overcoming is overrated.”

When I think about that though, I know that we all like the stories of persevering and achieving against the odds.

During the NCAA basketball playoffs, people like to try to pick the “Cinderella” team – that team that’s the number 15 that knocks off the number two team. And when the first weekend in May rolls around, people hope to pick the winner of the Kentucky Derby, and some like to pick the long shot. Of course, there can be some big payouts for both of those events if people pick well, but even if one hasn’t put money down, it seems to be in our nature to root for the underdog.

Since seeing that commercial, I was thinking about how I am nearing the end of a particular commitment. It has been good, and it has had its challenges, significant at times.

I would have certainly preferred that it had gone better. Yes, there is some satisfaction in not walking away during the hard times, but who wouldn’t prefer that things had gone smoothly.

While things going smoothly all the time is completely unrealistic, things going smoothly for a brief period of time would be great.

I began to wonder if the level of overcoming might be proportionate to the length of time required for that thing that we are attempting to achieve.

It’s possible because the longer the period of time, the less likely that everything will continue to flow smoothly without some kind of interference or challenge arising. But even in one time situations or events challenges do arise.

It was around 5:00 a.m. when our cell phone alarm went off in the dark hotel room. It was time for me to go run the half marathon for which I had been training for the previous three months.

Some of you know that I have anxiety issues, and that being the case, I am often at least a little anxious – and sometimes very anxious – before a race.

As we prepared that morning in the hotel room, I felt good. My training had gone well, with the exception of a little bit of an issue in my right hip flexor that had popped up in the week before the event. Still, I had a sense of calm and positive expectation, and that is rather rare for me.

We drove about half hour to the location of the race. We found a great parking spot close to the start area and talked and waited until it was time for me to “go to your pen,” as my husband put it. My “pen” was one of the later-starting corals, since I am one of the slower runners. In my coral I found the pacer for the time I had trained to run. I listened to her instructions for the group, then we waited for our coral’s time to start.

It was my first time running with a pacer, and I was finding it to be a good decision. I hung near the back of the pace pack, listening to the conversation and just focusing on the rhythmic turnover of a guy’s bright yellow shoes. That may seem kind of strange, but running 13.1 miles takes some time, especially for those of us who are slower. Having something to focus on keeps my mind from going places I don’t want it to go.

At about the 10k point, I had started to feel the hip flexor, and I began to struggle as discomfort became pain. I had reached the 10k point with the pace group in what would have been close to a 10k PR for me. I was disappointed, but I decided to take a minute to walk.

Though that was four years ago now, I still sometimes wish I hadn’t taken that walk break. I tried to run again, and took another walk break. Soon, I had lost the pace group. Mile 11 was the hardest, because in mile 12, you can start the “one more mile” mantra, but what do you say in mile 11?

We had our names on our race bibs, and a female volunteer, to whom I am still grateful, called out, “Come on Lorie, finish strong!”

The hip flexor was hurting to the extent that I had considered my first WD by that time, but I still ran as much as I could, because it seemed easier somehow, but mostly because I wanted to get it done.

I crossed the finish line and looked at the clock. I had taped my right knee as I often did for long runs and races since my injury a few years earlier. When I saw the time, I grabbed at the sweaty KT tape and tore it off my knee and threw it at a trash bag on the field where we had finished.

I found my husband, grabbed a banana, then we hiked the stadium stairs, very slowly, and walked to the car. I told him about the race, about falling behind the pace group, and about how angry I was at the time I had seen on the clock. He reminded me that my chip time would be much better since our coral had started quite awhile after the clock had started for the first coral.

Though I have just told you the story of a race that seemed to go wrong, despite the hope I had before it began, that half marathon was my fastest, and really, I was happy with it in the end. I had run that race for my niece who has type 1 diabetes; I had raised money for support and research through Team JDRF. That was the big reason I couldn’t really consider withdrawing. I had to go on, because she has to go on every day living with diabetes.

When I think back on days like that, it seems like I overcame something, and now I have a story to tell. If I could have written the story of that day my way though, I would honestly say that I would rather not have had the pain; that I would have liked to stay with the pace group the whole way and not have had to struggle to stay encouraged on my own; and I would have liked to tell my niece that I totally rocked it.

Being able to overcome can be wonderful, but personally, I would like more opportunity to experience those times when plans fall into place; when hard work pays off; when things just go really well.

 

The Missing Person

The day wasn’t about me, but it certainly wasn’t my day either.

I’m serving in my seventh season as a volunteer coach with Girls on the Run of Southeastern Michigan. This season I’m coaching at the elementary school just a few blocks from our house. It’s fun to coach in our own community with other coaches from our community.

Each season ends with a Girls on the Run 5k in which all of the teams involved in the southeastern Michigan council, their coaches, family, friends, and community members come to run or walk and support the girls. The event has grown to over 4,000 participants.

Before we get to that point though, each team will host a practice 5k at their site or in their community.

It was the day of our team’s practice 5k. The forecast had swiveled between highs in the 50’s with light rain to highs in the mid 60’s with clouds and sun.

A cool, cloudy morning turned into a sunny afternoon with temperatures in the mid 60’s and very light breezes. It was a day no one could complain about – except maybe for those of us whose perfect running temperature is about 50 degrees. Still, I have been running long enough that I have definitely run in mid 60 degree weather.

But that was back when I was running well.

It seems like forever ago, but it was really only a few months ago, in the fall and early December, that an hour run was pretty standard, and rather pleasant, for me. Then in December a family member became critically ill, and I developed some kind of respiratory illness that would last about three weeks.

I started over in mid January – literally started over; I chose the Couch to 5k program and adapted it a bit to advance more quickly since I had only been three weeks without running. I was doing well with it. Then I hit some kind of weird wall. My right ankle, which has been an issue for quite some time, started to hurt even during the runs, and my back pain went from occasional to almost constant. Still I had hopes that I could take out all of my short walking intervals by the GOTR 5k in late May.

On the day of the practice 5k we gathered the girls, and our site leader gave route and safety instructions. My body should have been ready, particularly given the two runs I had done earlier in the week, still with short walk intervals but good runs nonetheless, particularly Tuesday’s pace interval run. Something didn’t feel right though, and I couldn’t shake it as I helped prepare for the event. I just didn’t know what was wrong, or why I wasn’t feeling ready.

I joined the walkers in the back of the pack and about a mile in realized my heart rate was higher than it should’ve been for a walk. Me being me, I was frustrated and concerned, and that led to even higher heart rates of course. I had entered a vicious cycle of a panic attack.

I tried to focus on the girls in our group of walkers even interacting with them and the other coaches until very near the finish line. When the finish line was in sight, the girls and the other coaches ran. I couldn’t. My heart rate was absurdly high so I walked to the line, the last to cross it. I was so devastated that I barely noticed our awesome girls cheering me on like the supportive team that they are. I tried to be gracious, but I just wanted to be invisible.

One of my fellow coaches, who is a firefighter and paramedic, told me while we were cleaning up that I had looked very pale when I finished, causing her some concern. I was still feeling pretty rotten at that point, and I got a ride home with another fellow coach.

The day was a fun success for our team. There were posters and sidewalk chalk drawings along the route. The local fire station along the route had a water stop for the team. People driving through town were blowing their horns, and people who knew team members or coaches were out in their yards with signs as we passed. It truly was a great community practice 5k.

Though the success of the team is what that day was about, and I was happy about all of it, the day left me with even more frustration and questions.

I had been thinking about last year at this time, and about the GOTR 5k last season. I had coached a local Heart & Sole team for middle school girls. The day of the 5k was cold. Snow was falling as we gathered at the start line, glistening and light, and some of the participants even thought it might be a starting line special effect before realizing it really was snow.

Though I was there to run with our team, it was a solid run for me. Our faster girls were long gone, and I had started out walking with a girl and her mom, but since I was cold and ready to run, I left them. I would stop to walk and talk with other team members, but being middle school age, they were happy to walk and talk with their teammates, friends, or cousins who were also participating in the event. So I would go on to run and finished in a solid time for me.

Last year, my body was cooperating during my own training for that 5k, and it had continued to cooperate throughout most of the year. But as we near the GOTR 5k this year, I know I’m not that runner anymore. It’s the wondering if I’ll ever be that runner again that’s taking a toll on me.

Maybe that’s what took a toll on me during our practice 5k when, even if I wasn’t running, I should have been easily able to complete a 3.1 mile walk through town. My right leg had started hurting not even a mile out, but I’m used to it. I know that if I’m going to remain active, something is going to hurt.

I have trained for and run more 5ks than I can count, several 10ks, and three half marathons – the last of which was for my 40th birthday. I’ve come back from a knee injury and have had other aches and issues along the way. I can handle that kind of pain.

It seems like what I can’t handle is knowing what I was once capable of, and wondering if I’ll ever be able to do that again.

As for this year’s upcoming GOTR 5k, I want to dump my baggage and do my best to be that coach that encourages the girls to do their best and to celebrate with them as we cross the finish line, even if it takes nearly 55 minutes like it did two years ago when a fellow coach and I encouraged two third graders to keep going and to cross the finish line.

I’ve had my days. I may have them again, but that day is meant to be their day.

 

The Lamp

It had been so good to see him again.

I was alone in a room after having spent the evening with him. I felt a glow as warm as the lamp that sat on the table in that dark room. Though the room was dark, so dark that I couldn’t really see the details around me due to the glow of a vibrant stained glass lamp with deep emerald and lighter green tones illuminated by three glowing candle bulbs, I felt comfortable, more than comfortable; 

I felt wrapped in warmth and affection as I settled into the bed. The bed was perfect, though I have no real recollection of the details of it, but in fact, everything felt perfect.

He had retired to another part of the home that I gathered was expansive. No, he and I didn’t share the room that night. Our affection for each other had never been that of lovers, not even remotely so.

How I had come to stay in this elaborate residence for the night remains a mystery to me still, yet everything seemed as though it had been just wonderful as I lie peacefully in the bed.

But then the light started to change, to flicker a little. One of the three candle bulbs went out. The lamp was already lit when I had entered the room. Wondering if I should just turn it off, I searched for the switch I had seen at some point while I was admiring the colors in the lamp. As I was still searching, another of the three candle bulbs went out.

A coolness began to replace all of the warmth that had just minutes ago permeated everything, about the evening, the room, and me. I continued to search for the switch to turn off the lamp; it had changed from stunning to frightening as the lights had gone out, leaving only one bulb casting a dim glow.

I reached over and touched a person, his leg, and I wondered who it was. I felt like the lamp was in the room, floating somewhere around us, though it’s brightness was gone.

Though I had come to the realization that I had touched my husband’s thigh, I still felt like something was wrong, like an ominous presence was in our room, and I wanted to tell him.

When he got out of bed to let our border collie outside, I was finally fully awake. I saw that it was about 2:30 a.m. The dream had ended, but I was left with conflicting feelings – an amazing feeling of warmth, but the feeling that something ominous was still in our room.

When my husband returned, he opened the top drawer where he keeps his medications for cluster headaches. He used one of the single dose Imitrex nasal sprays.

I am not a person who is involved in the paranormal in any meaningful way. I don’t put much stock in those kinds of things personally, though I know that some people do. Oh, I find some ghost stories to be interesting, especially ones that have to do with lighthouses and local lore. I am also curious at times about dreams.

One of the reasons for my curiosity about dreams is that dreams sometimes very clearly related to our thoughts and our lives in the real and present world. I expect everyone has had a stressful event approaching, an exam, a presentation, an interview, a surgery, and has had a dream about the exact event and even the place that is recognizable as the place where the event will occur. I certainly have. It’s those kinds of dreams that cause me to believe that our dreams are in some way connected to reality.

This was one of those dreams that didn’t make complete sense in that the person was familiar, at least in his character, but the setting was not at all recognizable yet it remained with me. The feelings associated with it were so intense, both the positive and the negative ones.

I told my husband about it the next day because of the way it had stayed with me. The connection between the ominous presence in our room to the fact that he was having a cluster headache, which sufferers often describe as having a presence or a life of their own, is somewhat interesting to me.

It’s interesting that it wasn’t the first headache of the cycle. Initially I had thought that the dream might have been more potent if it had been. It was the second though, and the first one for which he had to use the Imitrex.

The lamp had played such a role in the dream and in my waking from the dream that my curiosity led me to look up the meaning of lamps in dreams. I found that lamps symbolize the guidance, inspiration, and hope when they are brightly lit, however, when lamps are dim, they symbolize being “overwhelmed by emotional issues” and disappointments. I have had my share of both lately, and my husband having started a cluster cycle again wss a bit of a disappointment to both of us, though we’ve been through it before we’ll get through it again by God’s grace.

I haven’t changed my views of the paranormal phenomena, though the scientist in me wonders if there may be something physiological to dreams – beyond the biological mechanisms of sleep.

The artist in me remains just as curious about dreams, about how they can produce the kind of feelings that remain with a person long after the dream has faded away. Sometimes I’m glad when the feelings have gone, but sometimes I wish I could hold on to them for a long, long time.

 

 

To Broke To Be Fixed

I may have had a stress fracture in my right ankle. I’ll likely not find out any time soon.

In order to see Dr. Anderson, the sports medicine doctor I used to be able to see for a co-pay of $50 per visit, and to get an x-ray, we would loose at least $180 from our MRA. And that’s just an estimate based on my visit and X-ray for my wrist about two years ago.

I need to see my ophthalmologist this year; I skipped last year, so I have chosen to spend a few hundred dollars from our MRA on that rather than on my ankle.

In the last several weeks, my sister and her three children have been to more doctors appointments than I can remember. All four of them have been sick for at least a month and have seen their doctors specifically for this illness.

During that time, my niece was in the emergency department of the local hospital because when she is sick she often experiences complications due to living with type 1 diabetes that those of us in the general population don’t even have to think about if we are suffering with a virus or common infection.

My sister and all of the kids have been in for asthma checks in the last few weeks, and my sister has started physical therapy for her back again as well.

They are not a wealthy family, far from it actually. My sister and brother-in-law, their two teenage kids and their six-year-old, and my sister’s parents in law live in a four bedroom, one bath house in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. My brother-in-law drives for a small transit service. My sister is not working outside of the home.

Their healthcare is provided by Medicaid.

As I think back over the past year about my sister’s healthcare alone, the rounds of physical therapy, the gynecological care – including an outpatient surgery, asthma checks, and the various other appointments, I find myself being kind of amazed.

I could not afford to do those things given our health care coverage. Our MRA is a Cigna plan provided by my husband’s employer of over seven years, for which he still pays a sizeable amount each pay period. He has decided this year to contribute to the FSA given some of our expenses, my contact lenses for example, that are not paid for by the MRA, and those are many by the way.

While I am completely dissatisfied with the game Cigna, and other insurance providers, play in which they will put money into customer’s MRA if we jump through certain hoops – rather than just directly covering any care other than an annual physical, and of the coverage we get for what we pay, my husband is correct in saying that at least we do have some coverage. As I see it, it’s not all that effective for the “big” events either though. At best, we would be several thousand dollars in debt before we reached our family maximum

As I look at the controversy surrounding health care in this country, I try to remain objective. In the case of my sister and her family, they have what appears to be excellent healthcare coverage, provided through Medicaid –  because they fall below the poverty line for a family in this state. The ACA has benefited them.

But in the case of one of my husband’s family members, a young man who is working two retail jobs (one of which he has held for 10 years), the ACA has been of no use in making care more affordable to him. In fact, he opted to take the tax penalty viewing that as more cost-effective than paying for the poor insurance coverage his company “provided” to him.

Businesses both small and large do not necessarily provide coverage under the ACA; they simply make it available through marketplace, at costs that are disproportionate to the hourly rate that their employees earn.

I do speak from personal experience as well, having been in the job market a long, long time and having lost a good job at a local hospital due to my visual impairment and then having taken a job at Kroger – a situation akin to getting into a bad rebound relationship following the loss of a valued one.

At Kroger, I was paid $8.10 an hour and was given approximately 16 hours a week, and I was offered health insurance through the marketplace based on the requirements set forth by the ACA. I have seen the costs of those plans. I opted out of course because I am covered under my husband’s healthcare. But I do remember wondering how people make any money at a job like that, having to pay for housing, utilities, food, gas, and healthcare.

I once read a headline on MSN that said “Obamacare Only Works for the Poorest Poor.” I didn’t read the article, but in the case of my sister’s family, I knew that to be true.

I believe that if most people look at the ACA objectively, they will reach the same conclusions that I have reached. The ACA has worked well for some, the poorest poor among them, but it has not worked well for others, the middle class employees and younger people like my husband’s family member among them.

Just today, I read that the health care plan being proposed by the current administration is raising concern among several groups including insurance providers, hospitals, and doctors. In this case, I read not only the headline but the entire article. If one reads that article, one will see that most of the “concern” that is coming from the insurance providers and hospitals is less about patients and more about how they will make money and who will pay the bills if states opt out of Medicaid.

The opinion of insurance providers is, in my opinion, of incredibly little value when money, not people, drives their agendas, and when, in my opinion, they are at least partly to blame for driving up the cost of healthcare to the point that is not affordable for anyone except those who are the most wealthy, and sometimes the most vocal – celebs who can afford trendy concierge care. Their opinion has little value to me either.

It seems to me that the cost of care is the biggest single factor standing in the way of accessibility to the vast majority of Americans. After having had some experience working in a healthcare setting, seeing what’s wasted, how resources are handled, and how poorly staff is treated all to “manage cost,” I see no improvement in the quality of care given the attempts to manage costs (read increase profitability in many cases). It seems that the quality of care is actually in decline in many ways.

Health care has been an issue in this country long before President Obama took office. While he took some of the more dramatic steps to try to address it, it is still a problem. I expect it will remain a problem even after President Trump attempts to address it. Unfortunately, it is likely to remain a problem even when his predecessor takes office.

Perhaps the role of the government should be to address the absurd cost of care. The reason the government has not dared to take on the cost issue is likely that politicians in both parties feel the need to protect their friends, aka the lobbyists, from Philips or GE or in the pharmaceutical industries or in health insurance industries who have helped them to be able to live the lifestyle to which they have become accustomed, the kind of life where they don’t really have to worry about the cost of care.

Yes, that’s correct. Don’t forget that the people who are making decisions about your healthcare coverage, whether they’re your party people or not, really have no worries when it comes to their own healthcare.