July 29: Climbing Rattlesnake and why it's important

I will leave tomorrow for NY, stay overnight there and then on Saturday leave with Lyle and Emma to get to the camp in New Hampshire. John is trying to go up a few hours earlier and mys suspicion is that he wants time alone there to mourn. As mentioned before, the camp is on Squam Lake, which is where On Golden Pond was filmed.

The time is fast approaching for my attempt to climb East Rattlesnake Mountain, so it seemed necessary to explain why it’s so important and what it represents to me.

Climbing Rattlesnake is a tradition when the family goes to camp. All who are capable of the climb go up at least once. It’s actually a very small mountain, despite an on-line search I can’t find the actual height. What I do know is that the trail is 0.9 miles long, plus the distance from camp to get there. The grade is pretty steep on a path that goes over and around large tree stumps, fallen trees and a huge number of boulders. Even those in good shape get out of breath from the climb by the time they reach the summit. But the results are spectacular: from the flat rock face at the top is a magnificent view of Squam Lake, the islands, Mount Chochorua and the White Mountains in the distance. Every year in the scrapbook I keep there are pictures of the family with this view in the background.

The last time I went up was late June, 2004. I’d been diagnosed in February, had improved for a while but then in mid-June another echo showed that the mitral regurgitation had become moderately worse. Despite this I continued to exercise, work more than full-time hours and was still expected to have several more years before needing surgery. The climb that year was difficult, but now made with the understanding the reason for my needing to stop so frequently, why I got out of breath before anyone else. I thought “This will become the measurement of my disease progression from year-to-year: if I can climb Rattlesnake.” A day or two after that climb I sprained my ankle and needed to be on crutches. My heart would race at the effort to use them, going as fast as 130-140 times a minute. That marked the beginning of the rapid deterioration, going into heart failure and then the first heart surgery in October. ‘So,’ I thought to myself at one point, ‘there will not be another ‘before surgery’ climb, now it will be a measure of my recovery’.

In 2005 I was too sick, too financially broke and too depressed to even go to camp. By the time of the 2006 trip in June, the second surgery was already scheduled for August. I didn’t tell anyone just how sick I was, how the cardiologist was yelling at me “You could die any minute. Why are you putting this off? Why are you risking permanent damage to your lungs and your heart?” But coordinating multiple schedules and being dependent on others meant a later surgery date. That year there were several older people visiting who were making the climb to see the much-talked-about view for the first time. George assured me that they would be climbing slowly, urged me to join them. Having been scolded by Dr. B for climbing stairs, telling me of my risk for sudden death from even regular activities, any climb was out of the question. I tried my best to smile and said “Not this year.” The tears were coming; no one knew that I went directly to the bathroom to quietly cry. After the second surgery and horrid thoracotomy only six weeks later another climb didn’t seem very likely. And then came the third surgery, hearing that the expectation of improvement was only minimal, the probability of a heart transplant mentioned. It went through my mind at some point in those months “I’ll never climb Rattlesnake again. The last time really was the last time—ever.” Why didn’t I stay up there longer? Why didn’t I soak in the view? Why didn’t I memorize the contrast of the blue lake with the blue sky with the verdant hills and mountains separating them—a view that no camera can truly document? Why didn’t I just sit and savor the experience?

Being at camp in 2007 was wonderful and intensely sad at the same time, because the third surgery was scheduled for the week after. I’d told my cardiologist and surgeon that this vacation was a necessity for my mental health and worth the risk the delay caused. What no one at camp really understood was the significant chance of my not surviving yet another surgery. I arrived at the cabin a couple days after the rest of the family, delayed by coping with the move and new house. The climb had been done before my arrival, I suspect so as to not emphasize my being left behind, and for this I was grateful. That week I spent long hours out on the dock in front of the cabin, memorizing the feel of the breeze across the lake, drinking in the sounds of the loons calling across the water and looking up at Rattlesnake’s rock face, trying to feel my spirit there even if my body couldn’t make the trip. I’d left instructions for after my death in a folder on my desk specifying that my ashes were to be sprinkled from the top of Rattlesnake. One way or the other I would make one more trip to the summit.

In 2008 we didn’t even go to camp because of scheduling conflicts. I knew my recovery wasn’t enough to even attempt a climb in any case. Last year was out of the question; while my foot was the obvious excuse, the real issue was that despite all the walking I’d done before the fall my strength had not returned, I was still weak and with no stamina. A hope of ever climbing again seemed very dim.

The climb up the Tor in England on the five year anniversary of the first surgery was almost beyond description. (It is attempted, however, in the Oct 16 2009 post.) It represented so much, including what a later goal had become during my illness: of being able to again travel internationally. My yearning for a place of spirituality lead me to Glastonbury and the wish to climb the Tor. My broken foot had continued to hinder my ability to exercise much prior to the trip, so it was sheer force of will, and maybe something divine, that got me to the top of this ancient place of worship. That climb sucked everything out of me for days, but the sense of exhilaration at the achievement was a huge reward. The total experience in Glastonbury seemed to stimulate a true healing within me, and also renewed my hope that it was possible to dream about again climbing Rattlesnake. (Another huge factor was the wonderful Cris, who did the microcurrent treatments on my foot. Her guidance in spiritual/psychic healing probably did more than the FSM treatments did for my foot.)

I’ve been ‘in training’ for the last several months. I’ve lost weight. I’m up to walking 45-60 minutes five-plus times a week, depending on the weather. I seek out hills to go up and down. A recent discovery was the trail in Valley Forge Park, and I’ve gone there several times now, walking for almost three miles over an hour and a half—the closest rehearsal available to ready myself for the ultimate goal.

This will be the year I plan on fulfilling that pledge to myself; hopefully it will be the first of many future trips. This climb will hold more meaning for me than anything else I’ve accomplished since becoming critically ill. It will not be marked by a finish line, no screaming crowds, no signs, no ceremony, no blue ribbon, no trophy. But it will be a moment in my life that will represent overcoming years of pending death, almost constant pain and fear, defying the odds, working to achieve a goal which seemed unattainable at so many junctures. Having valvular heart disease has permanently changed my life and some things will never be the same. But this one accomplishment will mean that I have taken part of myself back again. It’s the chance to reclaim a piece of ‘before sick’, repossess some measure of control over myself and my body. Beyond my survival, it will be my greatest triumph.

Further postings will be dependent on a signal in the mountains of New Hampshire, but I promise to do my best. Thanks for following along on my journey, Laurie