Oct 16: Events on the 5 year anniversary

It remained overcast, never cleared. Apparently the British weather people aren't any better at predicting than American ones are. Wandered around the town, window shopped. Checked into post office and mailing stuff back, checked into local tours. It's impossible to get from here to Salisbury, I wanted to go back to Stone Henge, looking to see if anywhere else to go, but weather predicted to be rainy all tomorrow until mid-afternoon. My room at the B&B is perfectly adequate, and plenty to watch on the TV, but not the place to hang out for any period of time. Even Chalice Well wasn't an option if the weather was bad.

So the afternoon flew and all of a sudden it was past 3:00 and still overcast, but not raining. Since the idea of the climb was not for the view but the accomplishment it was time to try, now or never on this anniversary date. So returned to the B&B, emptied out my carryall except for water, inhaler and camera, and off I went.

There are a couple different paths to the top of the Tor. One is longer but flatter, gradual rise; this was the one which had been recommended. Since the entrance is quite a distance away you need a bus to get there, but they stopped running the buses there Sept 30. So that left the closer entrance with the much steeper path. Shorter, about 20 minutes or so for most people, but much steeper. Found the entrance with a little difficulty, past the entrance to Chalice Well, and started up. It was pretty daunting from the beginning--at least a 20 degree grade with steps.

The grade only got steeper. Keep in mind that my job doing stress tests all the time means dealing with walking on inclines, so I have a pretty fair idea of the steepness. The 'easy' part was a 20 degree slope, but then got to 40 degrees where you had to lean forward in order to climb the steps. There were a couple of well-placed benches, and the steps were of concrete and very stable. At about half way up, however, it was getting pretty scary. The warning signs my heart gives me were in full swing: I was lightheaded and dizzy, starting to get nauseated. This usually gets worse if all activity isn't stopped immediately. I sat on a bench and contemplated whether it was worth passing out and injury just to meet the challenge. My heart was pounding and my breath was ragged and painful. By this time I'd been climbing slowly for over 30 minutes. What was the most practical and sensible thing to do, outside of my desperate desire for this milestone accomplishment?

Rested, drank a little water, rested. Felt better. Rested. Debated, in my usual way, the pros and cons. I knew if I quit at that point there wouldn't be the leg strength to try again. Decided that I could rest every few steps, was closer to the top than the bottom. Up I continued, slowly but steadily with a continuous internal pep talk going in my head. I thought about where I had been five years ago, what had been going on at that point, that exact hour EST. The butcher of Presbyterian still had my chest cracked open, the ribs spread 6-8 inches apart with instruments that resemble meat hooks, causing my chest to get more and more damaged by the minute. He had stopped my heart for a second time, put me back on heart bypass. Repaired and restarted it beating again, watched the blood still going backwards. For a third time he stopped my heart, cut it open yet again, tried to fix the abnormal valve. My heart was stopped for over six hours, having a machine circulating my blood. They gave me so much fluid and so many transfusions that the next morning I was 17 pounds heavier than immediately before the surgery. My heart's electrical system was so stunned after the third insult it refused to start beating again, the paddles placed directly on my heart, shocking it over and over, then necessitating a temporary pacemaker to keep me alive. The horror of the friends and relatives who saw me, didn't think I would survive the night, the multiple transfusions just to keep my BP 80/50, the incredible pain the next day that nothing can prepare you for.

I thought about the second heart surgery less than two years later, and then the wretched thoracotomy. The horror of needing a third open-heart surgery, the unbelievable spectre of a possible heart transplant. It's now a couple of months past the second year anniversary of that third operation, and it was important for me to be able to say that I had overcome what happened, come back from the torture my body and psyche has been through, accomplished a goal. I needed to reclaim at least a part of what had been taken from me, show that I had fought back and hadn't given in to 'It'. I thought about all of you who were thinking about me, sending love and strength. I kept climbing, even more slowly. It was really hard going.

Came upon a gal who had started about 45 minutes or more after me, but was already coming down. By this time the base of the tower was visible, and she nicely walked back a little to get a good picture of me almost to the top. My practical side had to rein in my exuberant side to pace myself up the last very steep portion.

And then, after about an hour and a half, I was there. At the top, at the tower. On the Glastonbury Tor, looking out over miles and miles of gorgeous, if misty, English landscape. On an ancient worshipping site that people had climbed for over 5,000 years. It's difficult to explain all my feelings. Relief. Elation. Accomplishment. Triumph. I climbed the Tor to prove something to myself, to mark a milestone, to celebrate an incredible journey and return from dying. It was a wonderful, incredible, intoxicating feeling.

I did it. I beat the predictions, conquered the odds. I survived. 'It' didn't beat me.

The weekend before coming to England my hair had gotten cut. Hair retains a record of what was going on in your body at the time it was growing out, so, depending on how long your hair is it still contains indications of serious illnesses from prior years. My hair also changed from the medication, but after being off the beta-blockers for about eight months, at around the year anniversary of the third surgery, it started to look like my hair 'before sick'. I'd let it grow, enjoying it being back to normal again. A few months ago it occurred to me what a great way of releasing ceremoniously and literally what had gone on in my body. So a couple inches came off the longest part, which was there five years ago. My long-suffering hairdresser collected it, put it in a bag, which had then come along with me. I prayed to the Goddess/God/Spirits/Higher Power, thanked her/him/them for their guidance, blessings and strength over the last five years, and then released all the hair cuttings to the winds. It helped to physically let go of something, to have cut out something that had been part of being sick, to represent the casting away of the difficulty and hardship of what I've been through.

The climb down was difficult, I'd forgotten how hard it is to come down such a steep grade. My legs were screaming in pain, my chest hurt from all the deep breathing. I hibernated in the room at the B&B for the rest of the night.

I'm sore this morning, lots of Tylenol and Advil, my chest is very uncomfortable, the foot hurts a little, the legs as well. Not surprising since this is the most physical I've been in almost 6 years. I'm taking it easy today, not doing a lot. Probably will still be recovering tomorrow, if not for the next several days.

But I did it. And the sense of pride is just phenomenal.

Thanks for joining me on my journey. An elated and exhausted Laurie