Written on June 13, 2015
For four, almost five, years, I’ve had everyone fooled.
In an early post, entitled Why “Brave”?, I explained my stance on bravery this way:
As a ski mom, you have a choice. You can be the worrier, or you can take a deep breath and cheer your children on. You can warn them off, fret and lecture, or you can simply join in. And that is how I got my name, the “Brave Ski Mom.” I joined in.
And I still stick with that.
I still enjoy, no love, watching my sons push the boundaries of gravity and balance. I’ll happily scout landings for them and I wholeheartedly embrace their desire to push my ability and their enthusiasm when I do something I didn’t think I could do (even though they knew I could). When it comes to their passions – skiing and mountain biking – they’ve become my teachers and coaches and their confidence builds my bravery.
Forget It All
Stripped bare, wrapped in a paper robe (albeit one with a port for a hot air tube so I could control the temperature – the single last thing in my control), there was no pretension of bravery, nor even a hint of bravado.
Sure, I’ll jump off a cornice (provided the landing looks soft) or billy-goat through rocks, or even hike a narrow boot pack (well, that one I might rethink), but that is because I can mostly control the inputs and outcomes when I’m skiing. I know the risks and I accept them.
But being prepped for surgery and wheeled into an operating room for an unwanted, never anticipated surgery, well, I was the furthest thing from brave. I was terrified.
Not that I didn’t try to buck up, to steel myself, to channel some strength. On the morning of my surgery, I awakened, showered, slammed some black coffee (per doctor’s orders), put on a skirt and blew my hair dry. I looked freakin’ awesome. On the way to the hospital, I chatted with the cab driver, and when the automatic doors opened, I walked in with my head high, more proud lady visitor than prisoner to the gallows.
And then I tried to check in, and the tears started.
Four days out from surgery, I’m still trying to process this fear.
I can rerun that morning, and the 3 weeks leading up to it quite sanely, but when I get to that check in desk, I fall apart all over again.
I wipe my tears and remember the pre-op process where my husband was present. I put on a brave face and think about when we had to be separated, about an hour before surgery. Walking with a nurse away from the only person in the hospital who knew me was almost impossible, but I did it, and I did it on foot (no wheel chair for me, thank you ).
Waiting for surgery was simply surreal. I met the anesthesia team and the nurses. I rather embarrassedly had to ask for help putting my hair into a cap. “You see, I recently broke my arm, and I can’t even put my hair in ponytail…can you help me?”
All while crying.
What kind of train wreck was I?
And then it was time. The clock hit 7:44 and we were off. This time, I didn’t get to walk. And now I was truly terrified. With tears streaming down my face, my journey began.
And the last thing I remember was the anesthesiologist running – yes running into the OR – saying “it’s time for happy juice.”
It was time to stop this train wreck.
Irrational Fear?
When it comes to fear, I had one concrete concern, a total phobia.
I was afraid of awakening under anesthesia and being unable to tell anyone I was awake.
This pleasant little phobia stems from an article I read several years ago about consciousness and how little we really understand the thick gray organ in our skulls. Reading the first two paragraphs, I stopped cold with terror and swore to myself that I’d never have surgery.
NEVER.
What Do We Really Control?
Obviously, that didn’t go to plan. Which in the end is the big lesson for me. I am not in control.
And I am not alone.
Each time I met with a doctor, I tearfully owned up to my phobia. And each time, the doctors assured me I was in the best of hands receiving the best of care. And then, they’d own up to their own concerns. “Anesthesia is hard for me too,” said one. “I don’t like things being out of my control.”
“It’s the loss of control,” explained another. “We control freaks don’t like that.”
In the past few days, I’ve had great news and sad news. I had a routine surgery with a good outcome, but I’ve learned that there is something wrong deep in my DNA that puts me at a heightened risk for endometrial cancer (been there, done that) and several other cancers.
I’ve learned that a rare skin cancer I had last summer was actually a signal of this disorder. I’ve learned that being fit, healthy and positive can’t protect me or hide me from risk (although it definitely helps me heal more quickly). I’ve also learned that I can manage my future with vigilance and screenings.
These things I can control. Everything else is beyond me.
The Perfect Turn
Which as always brings me back to skiing. As superficial as it might sound, skiing gives me control, even when I’m on the edge of disaster, blowing through life, a nearly out-of-control control freak, a runaway train wreck.
When I think of control – at its best, it’s most perfect – I channel the feeling of a perfectly carved turn, not on pristine corduroy, but on hard pack. I think of my skis in parallel, tips aligned. My weight is balanced, my edges cutting in tandem, with not a bit of chatter. Just a well carved, perfect turn. One after the other, after the other.
Sitting here I yearn for this feeling, and the joy it brings. I can almost feel it. Almost, but not quite.
Winter cannot come soon enough.
As I mentioned in my first post about cancer, writing helps me process what’s going on in my life. It keeps me sane. But rest assured, my personal life will never dominate this space. I promise, there will always be more skiing than sickness. Thank you for your understanding.
Related Posts:
- The Rock in My Way, June 8, 2015.
- Holding You in the Light, July 6, 2015.
- Lessons Learned, August 3, 2015.
© 2015, braveskimom. All rights reserved. Any use or publication of content, including photos, requires express permission.
cg79 says
Kristen. First very relieved that u r ok & well on your way to recovery. Second great piece & thank you for sharing. I plan to share this with fellow pre op staff as a reminder – people feel incredibly vulnerable & it is our job to help you deal with this. Hope all continues to go well. Cathy green
braveskimom says
Thank you so much Cathy! It means a lot to me that this resonated with you. I met someone this morning who told me she had a similar fear. Those of us not involved in the world of medicine can always use some extra reassurance – and usually we find it from compassionate providers like you!
Thanks for caring and sharing!
Suzanne says
Wow! I admire your writing. Your bravery. Your skiing. And any person who so honestly embraces their fears! Such a powerful piece. I began reading your excellent blog after a hilariously fun ski weekend last February (Granite Peak) with some good friends. You are an inspiration. Hoping your positive spirit and being so active will bring you much healing and great health! I really enjoy your blog!
braveskimom says
Dear Suzanne, thank you so much for taking the time to comment — and for reading BSM! I have to admit that writing this helped me work through the fears, post-operatively. For several days after surgery, I was having trouble understanding what had happened. Writing it down gave me some clarity.
Thanks again!
Suzanne says
Writing is a good thing! I’ve always wanted to write something (for real) or do a blog. But since I’m chicken, I truly admire people like you who have the courage and discipline to put it out there every week or month! I have shared your blog with my friends who love skiing, and with some who have had recent medical scares. Writing as you do is a gift to others, many of whom you likely will never meet, or even hear from. But they still get the gift. Thank you! All the best to you for regaining best health. Suzanne
braveskimom says
Thank you so much. And I understand being nervous about writing and putting something out there. It took my 16 months, and the derision of my eldest son, before I did it. It’s payed off like I could never imagine. Best to you! xx
Cora Helm says
Nice piece. You don’t need to apologize for writing about life. It’s as inspiring as the lines you carve. We must be vigilant: To protect ourselves and our families on the slopes, and off the slopes too — so that we may ski many lines for many, many years.-C
braveskimom says
Dear Cora,
Thank you so much for your comment. I love what you wrote about being vigilant — on and off snow. Hoping to meet up with you in Montana this winter! Whitefish is on our list! Cheers!
Richie Silver says
Your greatest post among the many, many other fantastic ones—-rs
braveskimom says
Thank you! Your comment means a lot – I wrote this post to help purge the fear and yesterday, I wondered if it was too much. But so far, reactions like yours seem to say it’s okay to share. Thanks for being such a loyal friend.
ecsummers says
Both of you are some of the best people I know. Thank you for sharing your fears, joys, families, pets and ski days with me. 🙂
braveskimom says
Oh you are the best! We love spending time with you Emily! Looking forward to many, many more ski days together! Hugs all around! xx
John R. LaPlante says
We are generally willing to accept a much higher level of risk if we think there’s something in the situation we can control. “People are willing to accept one thousand times more risk in a voluntary activity than an involuntary one.” — Gever Tulley, “Beware Dangerism!: Why we worry about the wrong things and what it’s doing to our kids.”
braveskimom says
That’s really interesting, John. I’ve never heard the word “dangerism” before, so I’ll love up Tulley’s writing. Appreciate you sharing!
valinreallife says
The catharsis of writing and sharing is powerful. I’ve struggled with how much to focus on the truth of what my life has been the last five months. I don’t want to be too heavy yet I also don’t want to make it seem like everything is fine. It’s a delicate balance.
Thank you for keeping it real. I’m glad you’re being open about your life as it is right now. It’s important.
Cheers!
braveskimom says
Thank you so much Val. It is a delicate balance and when you’re in the midst of it, well, it can be tricky.
I love what you wrote here (http://valinreallife.com/2015/02/11/life-hold/) about your accident and recovery. I hope you’re mending well. Sending you a big soft hug. xx
Laura H says
Kristen – you so eloquently put into words the fear and emotions that many of us have felt – thank you for sharing so openly. Praying for continued healing, and that you’ll quickly be able to get back to the outdoor adventures that you and your family so enjoy!
braveskimom says
Thank you, thank you Laura! I really appreciate your support! K xx
Beth says
Kristen, thanks for sharing this piece. It’s seems you are finding a way to ‘join in’ with this cancer journey, too. You ARE brave–tears and fears don’t mean you’re not brave. Bravery is about going into your fear and that’s what you are doing!
braveskimom says
Dear Beth, I so appreciate this! Thank you. I’m not sure I had any choice about joining in, but once in, I guess it’s best to go full on.
Cheers!
julesolder says
You are one beautiful writer.
braveskimom says
Jules, that means a lot coming from you. I thank you so much, not only for the compliment, but for your friendship, mentorship and support. K xx
julesolder says
The privilege is mine.
Johanna says
THE Bravest mom. Thanks for sharing your story. Sending positive thoughts and vibes your way.
braveskimom says
Thank you so much Johanna. I so appreciate your thoughts and vibes! It is amazing to know so many people care. Cheers!
Wendy says
I agree with you, Kristen — the loss of control is terrifying. You’ve handled all this with tremendous grace, and your willingness to share it with all of us gives us much needed insight into something that could, in fact, lay ahead for many of us. Yes, you are brave for being so honest, for confronting your fear, and for fearlessly moving on. Sending positive vibes to you for a healthy future.
braveskimom says
Thank you Wendy! I so appreciate your support. Hopefully, nothing like this will ever be in your future. As for me, the silver lining is a new level of self-awareness and appreciation for my many, many friends.
Cheers! xx
Adrienne SI says
Love love this piece. Even though my life experiences may be different, this one resonated with me. Skiing has always been the constant that centers me, and makes me feel powerful and alive. And no matter what it’s about – KEEP WRITING! Love the strength and grace with which the sentences come out, whether it’s about skiing or the other things that life throws at us. Sending love and light from the Basin! -A
braveskimom says
Thank you so much! Between the broken arm and the cancer, my spring stunk. And I missed all the fantastic snow at A Basin. I’m making you a promise Adrienne: I may not be there opening day, but I will be there during opening week. And hopefully, we’ll finally meet in person!
Thanks for your comment. Powerful and alive and centered. You said it better than me.
Hugs. xx
Keith Bare says
I can relate as my wife has two new bionic knees so that she too can ski again to “”that happy place where we ALL get our “”HappyJUICE””—–glad your OK
braveskimom says
Thanks Keith! And I hope your wife is recuperating nicely as well. Which means I hope you are waiting on her, hand and foot! Happy Juice for all! Let’s plan a rendezvous at Winter Park, yes?
Trish Bell says
I am 4 years out from both uterine and colon cancer, diagnosed within 5 months of each other, the 1st,uterine cancer, was stage 1 with a full hysterectomy, the 2nd,colon cancer I was stage 3 with a partial colonectomy and 6 months of chemo…I still cry when I see cancer patients, I can spot them. The fact that I cry tells me cancer has changed my life,My look at life, it is all different now. Writing is healing and asking for prayer is strength, you don’t have to do this alone.
braveskimom says
Dear Trish, Your story makes me cry. It also makes me want to get an immediate colonoscopy. I hope you are completely well and cancer free at this time. I so appreciate you sharing and reminding me that none of us have to walk a path – any path – alone.
Light and love to you. xx
Meghan J. Ward says
A beautiful post, Kristen, and I appreciate your honesty. I can only hope I’ll be as brave as someone like you if life ever throws those kinds of challenges my way. Thinking of you as you recover, in more ways than one.
braveskimom says
Thank you so much Meghan. I really appreciate your support and I know that you are probably more brave than me. Cheers!