Hey, friends and followers of Rooted in Light Media,
Jen and I just returned from a two-and-a-half-week backpacking trip in Europe where we hiked the 110-mile Tour du Mont Blanc in the French, Swiss, and Italian Alps.
As most of you know, a trip this long and arduous was far from our radar this time last year. In July 2017, I underwent an 11-hour surgery at Massachusetts General Hospital to remove a mass and 37 lymph nodes in my abdomen, leaving me stiff, sore, and far from the hiking trails I so desperately wanted to return to. Recovering from surgery was very hard on me and Jen. I could barely walk—mind cough, sneeze, or eat properly—without feeling some sort of pain in my torso and my digestive system. The nights were long and sleepless for us. On a couple of occasions (usually in the middle of the night no less) Jen would have to rush me to North Shore Hospital's emergency department due to a fever and spells of vomiting. The recovery process was extremely humbling, especially since I'm a do-it-all kind of guy who is uncomfortable having people labor at my expense. I had just spent my spring enduring three rounds of knock-you-off-your-feet chemotherapy where I relied every second on my nurses, family, and my wife to buoy me above negativity and despair, and now I was back in a sorry state, no more than a couple of months later, crunched over and unable to bathe myself or prepare my own food. Life asked me in those moments what I was made of. In my weakest moments, I'd suddenly burst into tears yelling in garbled frustration at how difficult this was, pissed off at God and my own body for failing me. I'd eventually find my breath and stumble my way into a haphazard, desperate meditation in hopes of never returning to those taxing mental breakdowns.
After weeks laid up on my couch binge-watching soothing episodes of painter Bob Ross on Netflix, I finally found the strength to hobble short, pain-filled steps from one end of my house to another. My slow progression made me realize how hard I would have to work to get back to feeling 100 percent again. Every day, I’d fight off the debilitating thoughts of not ever healing completing. I wouldn’t allow myself to accept this as the truth. I’d start praying anytime I felt myself slipping into these moments of weakness, leaning on God to hold me up.
As the days passed, I tried to walk a couple of steps on the street only to double over in pain gasping for breath in the soupy, humid summer air. I'd stick to this effort for days on end, eventually walking to the end of our road, and then around the block. It wouldn't be uncommon for me to come back from a half-mile walk feeling like a had just run a marathon. Patience was going to be key to my success. Even short workouts required copious amounts of time to let my body rest and rebuild my system from the core out.
Time passed slowly. I'd sometimes catch myself looking down at my 12-inch incision extending from the middle of torso to below my belly button. Little hairs were slowly beginning to grow back, some almost directly on top of the scar. I couldn't believe how my body was recovering from this traumatic and invasive surgery—but it was. Just as wildflowers find ways to grow through the cracks of an abandoned parking lot, life was finding a way to heal and sustain me.
In mid-August, Jen and I drove into Boston to discuss the results of the surgery with my team of doctors. Going into the procedure, they informed me that if the lymph nodes that were removed showed any signs of cancer, I'd most likely need more chemotherapy. During recovery, I fought off the urge to let myself believe I’d need more treatment. I tried staying as positive as I could, resisting the urge to let my thoughts spiral into a swamp full of thorny snags. During the days leading up to this appointment, where every minute felt like an hour, I struggled to refrain from looking at Facebook or Instagram where I’d see my friends' photos from at the beach or from an adrenaline-filled hike in the mountains. These were the places I wanted to be: enjoying life and freedom from hospital appointments, blood work, and the soft-food diet I was on. Tears would well up in my eyes when I read words of encouragement written by my friends on my social media wall. I wanted so desperately for this ride to end. I couldn’t bear to hear the results.
I was a wreck on the ride in to the hospital. I didn’t sleep the night before, I didn't eat breakfast—heck, I didn't even want coffee because I was so wired.
When the doctor's resident assistant walked into our room, I nervously stood up to shake his hand. He sat down in front of me and Jen, brought up my records on the computer, and without much more of an introduction, told us that the pathology showed no signs of cancer. I leapt out of my chair and hugged the young doctor, probably surprising him with my overwhelming display of affection. I then hugged Jen and cried tears of joy and disbelief. I didn't know what to say next. I hadn't prepared any questions. The wall I built to fend off an army of negative news crumbled at my feet. I could finally pick up some of the pieces of my life and declare peace with my body and the constant war of uncertainty being waged.
So now, a year out from that amazing moment in the doctor’s office, Jen and I continue to find ways to be grateful every day for life, healing, and the simple, often overlooked, things, including sunsets, cool morning breezes, and the songs of backyard birds.
As a form of recovery, Jen and I have hiked, skied, paddled, climbed, and, after this last trip to Europe, completed a bucket-list backpacking trek. Moving forward, we hope to share many more of our adventures as a way to heal and encourage others to do the same. We want to show how we've been able to turn negatives into positives by way of photos, words, and other creative expressions. Because when you go through a medical scare like we did, you quickly understand how short life really is and why some doors close and others open. We learned not to wait, just go out and do.
Until next time, peace and love,
