Getting Back on the Horse

I’m not much of a rider, but it’s commonly said that when you fall off a horse, you’re supposed to get right back on (if you can), so that fear doesn’t take over. The psychologist in me can both appreciate this logic – quick! provide another experience to balance the negative one before the flashbacks take over! – and question whether the logic holds at higher levels of trauma. There is plenty of scientific evidence that desensitization works for fears and phobias, but Trauma is a different and more complicated beast.

Trauma is an emotional response to a terrible [or life-threatening] event. Immediately after the event, shock and denial are typical. Longer term reactions include unpredictable emotions, flashbacks, strained relationships and even physical symptoms like headaches or nausea.

American Psychological Association

After Janelle’s serious accident on my birthday run, I was traumatized. She even apologized to me the next day, saying “this might be worse for you than for me,” since she seemed to have some amnesia for the moment of impact and had been unaware of the severity of her injuries until she got to the hospital. I looked at her (too many stitches to count!) stitched up scalp and raised an eyebrow. “Different kind of bad for each of us,” I replied. But she wasn’t entirely wrong. I’d barely slept. Flashbacks, weird numb-brain fog… unfortunately none of this was new to me, I’d been here before, after Trevor’s death. Fortunately, I can tell you that with a positive outcome, things start to resolve much more quickly. I was able to replace images of Janelle with her head split open with images of her talking to me in the hospital, joking around and eating a Blizzard and being totally herself, and then images of her walking around in her house, talking to her kids, and then images of her sitting on her front deck with me, finally drinking the beers that had been chilling in the car on that fateful day, and were left untouched. I also visited my therapist for some EMDR (eye-movement desensitization and reprocessing – a trauma treatment of choice), and came away from that with a little mantra of “She’s ok. I’m ok. We’re OK!” I also came away from that therapy session with an unexpected but deep appreciation for all the good and beauty in the situation – how proud I was of myself with how I handled things, and even more, how much love there is between Janelle and I. We have an incredible emotional connection on the worst of days, and we trust each other with our lives. That’s a pretty beautiful thing! When I relayed this mushiness back to Janelle, she cracked “yeah… sorry, didn’t mean to seem like I needed to test it.”

Earlier in the summer, we’d had planned to do another run on August 23 – Landslide Lake trail off David Thompson highway – as I was going to be camping in the area. Shortly after the accident, I started to think about whether I would still do this run. It went without saying (in my mind) that Janelle was out. I started to prepare myself for that conversation, anticipating that she would be sad and upset not to be able to go, but thinking that even if she was miffed, she would likely say “of course you should go without me!” So when she said (10 days post injury!) instead “I’m still thinking of coming,” I was shocked. Everything inside me screamed that this was a bad idea. I imagined her tripping over a tree root (not a particularly unusual occurrence for a trail runner) and some internal head stitches letting go and bleeding and… when it comes to anxious thinking, imagination is really not your friend. There had also been all along a debate about whether or not she had suffered a mild concussion, and she’d had a number of rough days that first week. I’ve heard post-concussion stories, it takes a loooong time to recover from those. When she told me this, she still had not even tried to run. And yet, I somehow couldn’t just say “No.”

My anxiety level spiked again. I prepared a whole speech the next day about how I didn’t think this was a good idea, how she wasn’t physically ready, how I needed to listen to my intuition. But she came back with counter-evidence. She’d stopped taking any medication for pain and the symptoms she was worried were concussion-related had resolved completely. Guess what the side effects of those meds were? She told me that the plastic surgeon had said that as far as he was concerned, she could run out of the hospital if she wanted, he was that sure of his work. She’d gone for a short run that day and felt great. I remained skeptical, saying “there’s a big difference between a 5k in the city and a mountain run!” But mostly, I felt the acute discomfort of being in conflict with my best friend. For the first time ever, we were at odds. I hadn’t expected this, and it felt awful.

The next day, Janelle went for a longer trail run in the river valley and reported that she still felt great. I remained anxious. I reached out to a few friends to discuss my feelings and received a lot of conflicting feedback. One person agreed she was pushing too much, too fast. One person said she probably knows herself best and so maybe it would be fine. A couple of people said “but what do YOU need?” and that’s where I started to get really hung up. Was this about me? Did I need her not to come so that I didn’t need to worry about her? I said to our mutual friend Phil “Oh great, now I’m the weak one.” And he replied, bless him, “I knew you’d say that. You two are the strongest people I know. You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” Finally, Janelle asked me point blank “are you okay with me coming?” I wavered some more. She came over with coffee and we sweated in the sun on my back deck, both of us near tears. She said she also felt like she needed to get back out there soon, before fear had time to take root, and with probably the weirdest and most complicated back-to-school ever looming, it felt like other opportunities would be limited. But that if I needed a run without her, she’d understand. In this discussion I realized a couple of things. Janelle had been healing for almost two weeks and I really hadn’t seen much of her in that time. Therefore, my internal representation of Janelle was still a couple of days post-accident, and not the healthy, recovering/bouncing-back with the lightning speed she consistently does person sitting across from me. I also realized that it really was coming down to me. Did I need to face a mountain run without her? Well that felt crappy too, Janelle is my “run-wife.” Going without her felt like cheating. I also started to question whether my so-called intuition was maybe actually just PTSD-type anxiety. She asked another excellent question: “Do you need more time?” and it occurred to me that I’d probably get out there, and feel bad the whole time that I’d said she couldn’t come. More time was probably just going to make it worse. “Ok” I said, “let’s do this.”

Once I’d made up my mind, things settled down relatively quickly, although for the rest of that day I felt like I’d been through the emotional wringer. I next made a trip to Mountain Equipment Co-op to purchase a Garmin In-Reach Mini – a $500 device that uses satellites to allow you to communicate by text from the backcountry, broadcasts your location to friends if you so choose, and has an emergency SOS button that will immediately deploy Search and Rescue if you push it. After what happened before, this seemed like a necessary investment for additional peace of mind. I also packed a slightly more comprehensive first-aid kit, and triple checked that I had a couple of spare buffs packed, because they’re just useful.

By the next day, I was already wondering why I’d been so worked up. I was happy to see Janelle and Denise when they arrived at my campsite the next evening. We were also going to be joined by my sister-in-law Kirsten who I was camping with, her awesome husky Luna, and at the last minute had invited Keith Heslinga to come too. All of this turned out to be helpful and add to the experience. It was nice to be in a bigger group. Keith consistently lightens the mood wherever he goes. This also connected us with another group of people who were going to be hiking the same trail but from the other end – Brenda, Carlos, Nicole and Lila – so we could hug and cheer and high-five before and after (this was another highlight).

The morning of the run dawned clear and chilly – we later found out it was 1*C in the campground (no wonder our fingers were freezing as we made coffee/tea/oatmeal!). I got dressed in my tent and had a bunch of panicky superstition as I realized I was wearing a 5 Peaks t-shirt and Earthgroove pants – the same combo of things that had turned into possibly life-saving first aid items (5 Peaks buff, Earthgroove sleeves). I almost changed. Was this bad luck? Maybe it was good luck? Slightly annoyed with myself, I threw on a sweater and got out of the tent. These were some of my favourite clothes. It was going to be fine. But I was nervous. Like race day nervous.

By the time we got to the trailhead I had received the most epic hug from Brenda, Brenda had shed a few tears upon seeing Janelle’s scar, we’d exchanged teary glances and shared deep breaths. Denise and Keith pushed and shoved in my “before” selfie, making us all laugh. And we were off, looking forward to the climb to warm us up. Keith and Janelle up front, Kirsten/Luna and Denise behind chatting, leaving me alone in the middle trying not to think too much about anything.

Our climbing quickly rewarded us with the kind of views we do this stuff for:

And then suddenly, we’re at the top. As I come up to the ridge and can see beyond, I shout “WOW! WOWOWOWOWOWOW!” And Janelle shouts “Fuck you slippery snow and sharp sharp rocks!” and we grin at each other, feeling the euphoria of being alive and being able to get to such magnificent places. We pose for the camera, so happy. And then we hug, and suddenly Janelle is sobbing and I am holding my breath, throat constricted, tears in my eyes, wishing my body would release into sobs too. What a crazy month it’s been. What a miracle that she’s here, and doing this, a little over two weeks later. We’re so lucky.

And then Keith says “Well? Are we going to run?” and so we do. Pausing again at the other end of the traverse to shout some more “wow’s” and take some more photos of the gorgeousness of the valley below where we can now see Landslide Lake.

Maybe it was because the emotion at the top reminded me of everything again (but not really, it was all top of mind pretty much all day, not in a debilitating kind of way, but it was there), or maybe it was because the accident happened while we were descending, but I definitely worked to stay in the moment as we started to run down. I watched Janelle like a hawk and carefully considered what was below in every place where it would have been possible to slip and slide. Fortunately there was almost no snow, the very small patches we saw were easily avoided, and the scree was small and thin (imagine running on a bed of irregularly shaped rock-coins) as opposed to large and jagged so not scary either.

In the approach to the lake we happened upon a picturesque, water-falling stream that we had to cross. Janelle was leading and I was behind her and she stopped at the edge, unsure of where to cross. Then she started to pace up and down beside the creek, looking for a better route. I had paused to take out my camera because it was so pretty (and snapped the photo below), but then my mirror neurons picked up that she was starting to panic. She said “why is THIS freaking me out?” Professional knowledge popped into my mind and only after we were across I told her it wasn’t a surprise to me, the combination of slippery rocks and probably even more the sound of the water would be trauma triggers. I looked ahead and noted the part of the creek right in front of me was the deepest point but also the safest-looking. There were no big slippery rocks, just tiny gravel at the bottom of the pond. I splashed in, commenting overly-enthusiastically about how the water was cooling off my feet. Only later did I realize this was a different decision than usual: safety over comfort (usually I would try not to get wet if possible, but that would have involved slipperier surfaces). I stood on the opposite bank and turned back to watch Janelle. She was frozen. I said “Here. This is the safest spot. It’s fine.” She didn’t move. So I stepped back into the middle of the water until I could reach out and grab her hands and put my hand on her elbow to guide her across. As soon as she started moving she was fine, and she took off running on the opposite bank.

This activated some protectiveness (anxiety?) in me and for the next while – ok, maybe most of the rest of the day – I struggled with the following inner debate:

“She’s fine, let her be. She needs to run. She’s doing great.”

“Keep up, stay close, don’t let her out of your sight.” (Yep, 2.5 weeks post-accident and she was outrunning me. I was extra glad we’d invited Keith – he was not having trouble keeping up with her and I felt better knowing someone was right with her at all times, the trail was twisty and you didn’t have to be far apart to be out of sight-lines.)

“Omg. Stop being a helicopter mom. You’re not her mom. You’re the run wife. DO NOT let her know you are worried.”

“Seriously, why are you worried? She’s FINE. Just enjoy the scenery.” And I did.

But repeat.

By the time we reached the fork in the trail where we could have opted to go up to Lake of the Falls, Janelle had admitted that she was feeling more tired than normal. She had, after all, recently lost a significant amount of blood and it takes weeks to regenerate those red blood cells – that part of her recovery was far from complete. I also felt more tired than normal but didn’t really want to admit it, I didn’t feel like I had a good reason to be tired, but trauma is exhausting and now I think maybe that was all the reason I needed. In any case, without any real debate, we were all happy to carry on toward the Pinto Lake trailhead, feeling satisfied with our effort. The rest of the day passed as the end of a mountain run should, with less conversation as people get tired, a few stops for rest and refuelling and camaraderie, in short, blissfully uneventfully.

I did find myself resisting the temptation to talk about being done before we were done for many kilometers. Right before Janelle fell, we’d started planning a stop at Starbucks for my free birthday drink on the way home, deciding it might be too chilly for the beers that were in the car. After the fact, I remembered a piece of coaching wisdom I’ve heard in multiple contexts: “Don’t run TO the finish line. Run THROUGH the finish line.” I’m not saying that’s why what happened happened, but I wasn’t going to risk it. I would not talk about what we were doing after this until the end. I needed to stay fully present and in the moment in order to keep my footfalls as sure and safe as possible. A few km from the end, I think I mentioned dinner, but then refocused to the moment at hand until we were whooping and hollering the completion of our adventure in the parking lot with the others.

In some ways it seemed weird at the end that “allowing” Janelle to come was such a big deal. The day had gone as smoothly as possible. Now I get to appreciate that too, in addition to all the usual stuff about how awesome it is that we can do these things and see these places, how amazing Mother Nature and the mountains and the planet are, how much I enjoy the company of these kindred spirits, how fantastically great it is to be ALIVE. In addition to all of that, I get to appreciate that it was a normal and peaceful kind of day. Even the weather had been utterly benign. Exactly the kind of mountain day you want to have. The kind that reaffirms that this is still, in spite of it all, your favourite playground.