“I wish the hurricane hadn’t happened but I feel more thankful because of it.”
Gus was eight when he said that. Pretty profound for a kid. And it sums up the year so well.
It’s honestly hard to remember just how bad- how deeply cut- we felt last fall after Helene wreaked havoc on our region. Perhaps hard to remember because no part of the mind or body wants to relive it?! It was three weeks without power, a month without school, 52 days without potable water. I’m not sure where the daily tears streak falls, but it’s somewhere in there, too. Friends without homes. Friends without jobs. Friends with loved ones they’d never see again.
Our response and recovery followed the seasons. Fall was all about letting go, winter felt brutal and barren. Then came spring. For the first time we felt hope. For the first time we felt like we could look up. Life was starting to return to normal. Then a routine doctor’s appointment led to an ENT visit led to a head MRI led to the discovery of an acorn sized mass inside my skull.
“I’m just glad it’s in my head and not my kid’s. I can handle this,” I thought. And, I did. Telling very few people. Going about life as usual. All while stressing and losing sleep over the unknown acorn pressing against my brain.
A cyst. An “arachnoid” cyst. Benign. Maybe it’s been there a long time – like a really long time. Maybe even since birth. But then why have I been experiencing symptoms for the past four years? Are they even connected? And, when I feel pressure in my head, or pulsing behind my eye, or fullness in my ear, is it a harbinger of something worse happening? I didn’t know there was a difference between a neurologist and a neurosurgeon but I soon had visits with both.
Ultimately it was a neurointerventional radiologist who performed the cerebral angiogram this summer then sent me home with peace of mind that the piece of mind with a cyst did not pose any immediate or long-term risk and that I should manage symptoms and go about my life.
Go about my life… Last fall was a hurricane. The spring and summer held medical questions and anxiety… and doctors… and diagnostic tests. Which brings us to this fall, which has been… pretty normal. PRETTY normal. Gorgeously normal.
My kids are sick of me looking at every slightly hued tree and saying, “it’s so beautiful." Or being extra excited about the commonplace bears and turkey in our neighborhoods. Or marveling at the fact that the Aurora Borealis just hit our southern skies, then forcing them out of bed on a cold, dark night so they could catch a glimpse. Everything natural feels extra magical right now.
I have a renewed passion for my work that parallels the renewed furor of my agent-husband for booking talks and leaves me asking, “Are you trying to miss me?” Perhaps it’s due to the talks washed away last fall or the uncertainty of my health this spring, but we’ve both doubled down and I leave every event feeling incredibly lucky to share the lessons of the trail with new, different, and diverse audiences as a job. A good job. A job that supports our family.
Our family: My husband of 17 years, a best friend, Bandit-level Dad (that's a Bluey reference, for the uninitiated), and striving musician who encourages me to dream dreams by living his. Our girl who turns 13 on Nov 13th, a golden birthday for a soul already shining. And our boy, big and strong for 9, and still racing to greet us at the door with full-on puppy love.
For a long-distance hiker, a hot shower feels like an indulgence and a luxury, flat stretch of trail received as a gift from the divine. And in a year when we struggled through the storm and dealt with a medical system that’s hardly systematic, closing out the year with people I love doing the work I love feels like a richness I could never earn or quantify.
I’m with Gus. I wish the hurricane hadn’t happened. I wish I could have skipped the medical gauntlet of last spring. And I know that so many people, in so many ways, have it so much harder. Perhaps the truth is that the hard part is the normal part and anything that feels less difficult is the exception. But also, the harder the hard, the more everything else feels less difficult.
I have felt the hurt and anxiety of the past year and I have come out with a changed perspective. One that has made our everyday, ordinary, average routine feel like the best thing on earth. And, as the last leaves fall from the trees, I’m determined and desperate not to let that go.
It reminds me of a verse from the Bible, "suffering produces endurance, endurance produces character, character produces hope. And this hope does not disappoint us..." - James 5:3b-5a
Remember that the hard you're going through is NOT doing nothing. You're changing. You're transforming. So hold on to hope, grip it tight. And keep going.
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About the Author: Jennifer is an Adventurer, Author, Speaker, Entrepreneur and mom of two who has a Masters in Public Affairs and a husband that plays bluegrass. Her blog focuses on life as she experiences it with a focus on Outdoor Adventure, Business, Public Affairs, Family, and Faith. For information on booking Jennifer as a speaker for your next event, email brew@jenniferpharrdavis.com or call (615) 708-4301.
