There is a red bump on your arm. It’s the size of a dime and itches. Without much thought, you know it’s a mosquito bite, but you never saw the insect coming or going. You are left with less blood and the itch. The nearly unbearable itch.
As is muscular dystrophy. The mosquito that you never saw coming. It sucks the strength from your muscles and leaves side effects in its path. Like those itching bumps, the side effects are unforeseen in each instance, yet irritating in their inevitability.
Somewhere along the way I noticed a mosquito bite in the form of black toes. Never alarmed, merely curious about the latest effects of muscular dystrophy. “Do my toes look normal to you, Tarah? No? Natalie, will you rub my legs before the Hawks game?” The black toes and purple finger tips were manageable. A slathering of lip gloss disguised my blue lips.
But, the cold is nearly unbearable. I am so cold. Being physically cold for so long resulted in another mosquito bite, but this time it’s psychological. “Cryophbia” literally means “fear of cold or frigid”. I excessively prepare for outdoor events with scarves, mittens, hats, blankets and hand warmers. I agonize with worry. I clench my teeth, hunch my shoulders, and shiver with anticipation of the outdoors. Meanwhile, the Love of My Life soothingly rubs my tense back and patiently reassures me that we will face the cold together.
This irrational fear has deprived me of experiences I once cherished. I used to love camping. Campfires, dirt, tents, trees, rocks, and friends.
I recall family hikes to Dorothy Lake, Patty Go Easy Pass, and Pete Lake. Reading Babysitter’s Club under the filtered light in the tent, Dad’s not-so-scary ghost stories by the campfire, washing dishes in the river with Mom, finding the perfect S’more stick with John, and S’eggos in a cast-iron pan. But, now I fear the cold that accompanies camping. Now, you won't catch me crawling into a cold tent to lay my head on a cold pillow under a cold sleeping bag.
Perhaps, these oddities (the muscular dystrophy, the physical effects, the emotional response, the fond memories) have fueled my interest/ obsession with mountaineering. I have read nearly every book on the market about mountaineering adventures. I know the precise definitions of belay and bivouac, I could teach a class on high altitude pulmonary edema, and I can distinguish between Alpine and Himalayan climbing techniques. Yet, I don’t even own a sleeping bag.
As she describes in her memoir, Wild: from lost to found on the Pacific Crest Trail, Cheryl Strayed was the opposite. She lacked the knowledge, but she also lacked the fear. Cheryl was 26 years old when she hitchhiked to a junction in the Pacific Crest Trail, a 2,663 mile trail extending from Mexico to Canada. http://www.pcta.org/
Her mother was dead, she was divorced, and her last hit of heroin still lingered in her body. Wild details the physical pain of Cheryl’s blistering feet, chaffed hips, and gashed knees. But, Wild also details her emotional healing along the way. She faced the fear and the cold.
"I knew that if I allowed fear to overtake me, my journey was doomed. Fear, to a great extent, is born of a story we tell ourselves, and so I chose to tell myself a different story from the one women are told. I decided I was safe. I was strong. I was brave. Nothing could vanquish me. Insisting on this story was a form of mind control, but for the most part, it worked. Every time I heard a sound of unknown origin or felt something horrible cohering in my imagination, I pushed it away. I simply did not let myself become afraid. Fear begets fear. Power begets power. I willed myself to beget power. And it wasn't long before I actually wasn't afraid."
Mosquito bites are ironically both startling and inevitable. But, we can choose our response to the itch. Cheryl Strayed chose to be brave. She chose the Pacific Crest Trail to heal her itch. Maybe, it’s time for me to reject my fears and welcome my next adventure. Where ever that might lead, the Love of My Life and I will face those adventures together. Mosquito bites aren’t as unbearable when I’m with my best friend. Bring on the wild!
