Things got so bad at the finish line of the America's Uphill Race on March 15th that a trip to the ER was necessary, as the last few minutes of the event had brought about a genuine concern that my head might actually explode, a la the opening scene of the Running Man.
This led to a month-long odyssey of radiation-laden tests, which left me with no answers, the new-found ability to see through walls, and sadly, as impotent as a Nevada boxing commissioner.
On April 17th, my neurologist surmised that I had developed altitude-induced migraines, which while sounding harmless enough, would put a rather large crimp in my spring ski-mountaineering season. So I went out the following day to test the neurologist's hypothesis by climbing to 13,300 feet, the summit of Hayden Peak, and sharing some turns with my idol, Lou Dawson. No headaches = good day. Pictures here and below.
As the days went on, I wrote off the headaches as pre-April 15th tension, and I was more convinced of this than ever as Lauren and I walked into my final appointment with the neurologist last Saturday.And that's when my life turned into an very special episode of House. As I embarked on my long-winded pro-tension testimony, my neurologist kindly interrupted to inform me that my MRA had come back positive, and they had discovered a 5mm aneurysm near the front of my brain.
Honestly, I don't remember much more than that. I would love to tell you I pulled it together, made immediate peace with the diagnosis, and threw out an inspirational "How do we beat this thing, Doc?" but that couldn't be farther from the truth.
I cracked. My wife, God bless her, did not. Lauren pulled out her pen and paper, and quickly started firing off all of the questions I should have been asking but simply couldn't muster the strength to.
When we left the office, there was much crying, followed by the obligatory phone calls to family and friends. For the remainder of the ride home, all I can remember thinking was, "There is NO WAY this is real." They say denial is not just a river in Africa, and I'd have to agree.
Again, I'd love to tell you that after an hour-long ride home riddled with self-pity I gallantly forged ahead with a bravery only seen in after school specials, but again, I'd be lying.
I was pissed. Angry at everyone: the doctor, myself, God, you name it. This shouldn't be happening to ME, not when I had so many plans and so many dreams and the energy, enthusiasm, and determination to see them all through to fruition.
And why now? It had taken me 31 years to figure it out: find the right girl+ take the right job + move to the right town = unadulterated bliss. And dammit, I had it. And I was not someone that didn't SEE what they had, didn't fully appreciate the good fortune afforded to them in life. I saw it, loved it, and celebrated it. I can clearly remember standing at the base of Aspen Mountain on a cold December night, fireworks illuminating the mountain sky, with my arms wrapped around my wife. I leaned in to her and whispered, "I am absolutely certain that life will not always be this way. We will have struggles, and we will face adversity and, inevitably, tragedy. But at this moment, right here, right now, life is absolutely perfect. I never want to forget this feeling." I think I even blogged about one of those moments here.
So why? Why take all of that and strip it away in 20 words from an apathetic doctor? What had I done wrong? And thus began the existential crisis I suspect anyone with a surprisingly awful diagnosis, particularly one as weak-minded as I, undergoes. Was God trying to tell me something?
Passion has always been both my greatest strength and most glaring weakness. Say what you will about me and any perceived selfishness, any construed ambivalence to much of the world, but the things I love I LOVE. Anyone who has ever shared a bike ride with me has thought, "I'm enjoying this, but not nearly as much as THAT GUY." Same goes for skiing. Or lifeguarding on the ocean. Maybe my mother puts it best when she says to me: " You've just always really loved to live."
So what's the downside? When I find something I love, I tend to immerse myself in it; dive into the culture, learn every possible nuance, and so on... Cycling, running, skiing, climbing...they become obsessions; no longer something you do, they become who you are.
Then something like this comes along and begs the question: Did I need this? Did I need to re-prioritize my life? Was I being too selfish? Could I have been a better husband, a better son, a better friend? Those are hard thoughts to ponder at a time like this, I can promise you that.
More than anything, however, I was terrified. Not scared, not frightened, not concerned -- freaking terrified. Faced with my mortality for the first time, I let my mind slip into some dark, dark places. What if this aneurysm bursts? The pure numbers are awful: 40% of people with a ruptured aneurysm don't live to see the morning paper. How do you make peace with that?
Even worse, what would happen to Lauren? As anyone who knows me well already understands, I honestly believe that the single reason I was put on this earth was to find Lauren, marry her, and take care of her for the rest of her life. It just has to be that way. There is nobody that can love her the way I do, the way she NEEDS to be loved, I am certain of that.
Before I knew it, I had stopped asking how God could do this to me, and started asking how He could do this to her. It wasn't supposed to be this way. We were supposed to start a family, grow old together, and continue this fairly tale we've been living since that night in December 2002 when I saw her at a Christmas party, exchanged five words worth of pleasantries, and returned to Denver telling anyone that would listen that while she didn't know it yet, I had met the girl I was going to marry.
I spent the better part of a day thinking about death and not much else. Then my brother Dave called, and as he's apt to do, put things in perspective for me. He reminded me that even with a diagnosed aneurysm, the odds of it rupturing are roughly 1% per year. What were the odds of me not coming home every time I went out and skied in avalanche terrain? Five percent? Ten percent? Why would I treat a 10% risk of death as an afterthought just because I was in control, yet let a 1% risk take over my life merely because I was not? It was a great point, and frankly, I haven't thought much about the negative possibilities since.
It has taken some time -- much more than I am proud to admit -- but I think I am starting to get it. As usual, I was looking at things all wrong. If there's one person on the planet who should not be asking "why me?" it's me. Cliche as it may be, why not me? Who has had it easier than I? I come from an amazing family; the type that sadly, simply doesn't exist anymore. I know nothing of adversity, or hardship, or tragedy. Life has come entirely too easy. As if it weren't enough to get the girl despite long, long odds, she loved and trusted me enough to take a chance on a different life, and move to a town that we knew would bring ME happiness, but must have filled her with doubt and insecurity. As if it weren't enough to get a job doing what I love with a great group of people, learning and growing every day, they respected me enough to take a chance and let me move 2,000 miles away to chase a dream they probably couldn't fully grasp.
So when approached from this angle, why shouldn't it be me? I've got the perfect wife, the perfect job, live in the perfect town. Who should get the aneurysm? The guy with the broken marriage and the miserable job? Struggle should be meted out evenly in this world, and I imagine it's long been my turn to shoulder some of the load.
On Saturday morning, I wouldn't have traded my life for anyone's on the planet. Why should an aneurysm change that?
