[Nevertheless] The View Remains Beautiful

Life with chronic illness is never predictable. Plans are made, then postponed or cancelled... or I push myself to do things as planned and end up making myself more ill, and for longer. 

I planned a day of relative rest on Sunday, following a long, tiring Tech Week for Voices Rise. We ate good food, began a Harry Potter marathon, and took it easy. The next morning I awoke with a raging headache and severe neck pain. I took extra prednisone. I made sure I kept hydrated. I iced my neck and my head. I laid down, sat up, tried heat when cold didn't work, forced myself to eat, and did everything I could think of to ease my pain. I slept on and off for a good portion of the day, yet even my dreams were wracked with pain ... dreams of torture devices, brain infection, and being crushed. There was no escape from the pain. And the planned hike would have to wait.

Tuesday dawned with decreased pain and a huge desire to be out in the fresh air. Unsure of how my body was going to do, as ill as I was the day before, I took my time getting out of bed. Two teens decided against going on the hike and two decided last minute to join us. Soon, we were off to Rattlesnake Mountain, a hike I hadn't done before and Jim hadn't done in years. 

Temperatures looming just below freezing, the air was crisp and what was once mud was frozen. We wended our way away from the road into the woods toward the top of the mountain and the radio towers there. 

Getting out of breath quickly, my body was showing signs of not coping well with physical activity. Knowing the hike was only two and a half miles long and close to a main road and the access road to the radio towers, I decided to push myself a bit and see how I felt once I got going. From past hike experiences, I knew worrying or panicking would just make things worse, so I did my best to get out of my head and concentrate on taking in the beauty around me.

Stopping frequently to take pictures and enjoy the view, eventually my body calmed down and my breathing difficulties eased.

We scrambled up and down rocks to make it to the top. Once there, we stopped for a snack - a short-lived break, as we were greeted by a man in a hard hat and reflective vest who informed us that they were working on the radio towers, and we needed to get away from the area as quickly as possible, as we could be killed by something falling from that great height. 

Making our way back down, we discovered that the temperature had definitely risen. What once was mostly frozen was now slippery mud, deep in some places. When possible, we left the trail to cut through the woods close to it in order not to get mired down in the muck, guiding each other on safer paths. In places we had to avoid tangles of vines or thatches of prickers. Sometimes the trail was fine, others, it was impassable. Still, we stopped to take in the view, approached the situation with a sense of humor, and got back down safely together.

Living with chronic illness is much like that hike. It starts out one way, gets better at times, and then something happens to force you to change your plans abruptly. You encounter things that threaten to get you stuck, whether it be sinking into the mire of depression, fighting through the tangle of anxiety, or getting pricked by the reality of a life that doesn't ever go to plan. Often you have to veer off the beaten path to find solutions that work for you, frequently depending on others to help you through. It's not easy, nevertheless, the view remains beautiful if you look up from the muck and mire and take in nature's artistry.