Balancing act

That's me in the red jacket.  Those of you who have ever met me may feel the tiniest bit of surprise to see me harnessed and helmeted and otherwise looking suspiciously like I might be doing some sporty-type activity.  And you can't really tell from this picture, but just to add to your mild astonishment, I will tell you that the log I'm walking on is around 25 or 30 feet off the ground.  You can see by my clenched fist that this is not quite in my comfort zone.  So why am I up there?

This activity was part of a year-end field trip that our son's class went on.  I got to go along as a driver/chaperone, which was really fun.  The first day involved go-karting, giant water balloon slingshots (even though it was only about 8 degrees Celcius!), bumper cars, and movies.  The second day we pulled up to Adrenaline Adventures, just on the edge of Winnipeg, and saw their gigantic climbing structure.  My first thought was that I would just give the rock-climbing wall a go, and if I couldn't get very far, that was fine.  I would spend the time cheering the others on from the ground. 

Well, I couldn't get far at all on the rock wall.  My girlie fingernails were just too long to allow my fingers to properly curl around the grips, and I didn't really have enough upper-body strength.  Oh well. 

But then I saw the zipline.  It started at the top level of the climbing structure, about 50 feet high, and it looked really, really fun.  (Also I was relieved to see that no hanging-on-by-the-arms was required.)  I really, really wanted to try it.  Now, there are several ways to get to the top of that tower.  I couldn't do the rock wall, but I thought I could make it a different way.  Turns out the easiest climbing method (basically a giant fishnet you climb like a ladder- a really spiteful ladder) is, unfortunately, 60 or 70 feet away from the zipline.  If you climb up the easiest part to the second level, you still have to get across the length of the structure and climb up to the third level by another net.  And getting across the second level requires either walking across thin tightrope-like cables whilst desperately hanging on to two wobbly ropes at arm's length or walking across that log on the side while hanging onto your own harness after it's hooked onto an overhead cable and having empty space on your other side. 

I was frankly amazed and delighted that I had even managed to climb up that malicious net at all, that I had pushed myself and my little spaghetti arms to keep going a little further, and a little further until I was there.  After I heaved myself onto the second-level platform I stood catching my breath and watching some of the Grade 8 girls walk across those tightropes.  I knew I would not be able to do it.  To constantly have the ropes I would be leaning on whipping away in a different direction, startling me and throwing me off balance, as I walked over air, was simply too much of a stretch for me.  I didn't even try.  But...the employees who were supervising us were constantly leaping lightly to these logs, striding across them and leaping off on the other side.  That looked more within my abilities.  I knew I wouldn't be able to leap and stride but I decided that I could manage some inching, and that was really all that was necessary. 

The hardest part was this: in order to get to the log, you have to step around an upright post, lean against the post to get your balance, and then push yourself forward, taking your weight off of the support post and putting it more firmly on your feet and, in my case, also firmly on your harness, the one that is clipped to an overhead cable.  My right hand had to grab the harness straps and hang on in case I lost my footing. But what if my hand slipped?  My left side was completely open, nothing to hold onto at all.  As I stood there, my back against the post, it felt like an impossible task to swing my weight forward.  I knew for a fact that if I started to fall, my harness would catch me; I had tested this much closer to the ground so I would know it for a fact.  But I was afraid of the feeling of falling, of that moment when your arms windmill and you can't find the ground and your stomach crumples up inside. 

I stood there and stood there, considering, talking to myself, thinking that if I just waited a minute longer I would gather up the courage.  But by this time, there was so much adrenaline in my system that my whole body was shaking, and I was worried that my legs would not actually hold me up once I did step forward on the log.

Here's what I considered, standing against that post:

• the fact that I could not fall more than a couple of feet because my harness would stop me.
• the fact that I had just witnessed a whole series of frightened 13- and 14-year olds successfully challenge themselves on this structure.
• that the zipline, which was clearly visible to me, was providing a whole lot of fun for everyone.
• that I had made it this far and, although it would not be shameful to simply climb back down the net, it would be a shame to miss the fun at the end.
• that this barrier was purely mental.
• that I would be so proud of myself if I did it.
• that I could at least try stepping out on the log and then decide if I wanted to turn back, rather than give up before I started.
• that I just really, really did not want my fear or my love of comfort to stand in the way of this fun thing I wanted to do.

And I did it.  And it was worth it.  I wished I could go back and do it again, if I had any muscle strength left. And I was really proud of myself.

And I never would have done this before Ramsy died.  I would have let him be the adventurer, and stayed on the ground, and had fun cheering the participants on, and possibly not even have wished for things to be any different. 

But things are different.  I did things when Ramsy was ill, physical and emotional tasks, that I never thought I would be able to do.  I did them because I had to, or because he couldn't do them and I wanted to help him in every way possible, and I discovered that ways were possible even when I had never stepped there before.  So I'm different now.

And since his death, I have looked back at the time we had together, and seen the places where I chose not to push myself, and considered the reasons for this.  I've done this not in a spirit of regret, but in an attempt to understand myself and to learn.  He loved it when I would go for a walk with him; I loved not dealing with mosquitoes or humidity or icy winds or tired feet.  He loved trying new things; I loved enjoying familiar things.  To some extent, I am still ok with that.  He and I were not the same person, and didn't need to be.  But I am choosing now to ask "Hey, why not?" sometimes instead of "Why should I?"  I like it.

 



Mental gymnastics

What I expected to cause me pain and struggle after Ramsy died: missing him, feeling his absence, loneliness, running our household and family without him, feeling the weight of being solely responsible. That stuff.

What I didn't know would cause me just as much pain: all kinds of mental and emotional complications that are not at all directly connected with Ramsy but that show up during this time of upheaval and crisis and redefining.  Things like the way I hate to appear to be a troublesome customer and so fail to speak up for myself when institution after institution has made mistakes in renaming or closing our accounts, processing applications, collecting information, or whatever.  Like the way I hate asking anybody for anything and so put off important tasks.  Like the way I have rather high expectations of myself and keep forgetting that this is a time to lower the bar just a bit.  Like the way I tend to allow myself to be put-upon. That stuff.

But I remember learning, years ago when I was seeing a counsellor for some months, that these habits and tendencies that we need to fight against will continue to resurface in new situations even after we overcome them in a familiar situation.  These are all old adversaries, and knowing that I have put them away and chosen other directions in the past helps me be hopeful that I can choose differently now, too.  And I have found that the impatience which is a product of my grief is on my side sometimes.  There have been some occasions in the past months when I have simply not been willing to put up with the old way anymore, or couldn't spare the mental energy to do the usual adapting, and I choose a new way almost without knowing that I am making a choice.  I guess that's the good news.

And on a different note: this memory showed up in my mind this week and made me laugh over the course of two days.  It must have taken place early last spring, when Rams was in a wheelchair most of the time, his right arm paralyzed and his right leg on the way there, but he could still speak in sentences.  We were in our room, and I was puttering about, maybe turning down the blankets or setting out his clothes, or some other task which I thought would make things easier for him.  He thought I was fussing over him too much- a thing which was most abhorrent to him- and he looked at me and said in some exasperation, "I'm not an invalid, you know." Uh...

I'm still laughing.  He was the best.