Usually when I hike, the jumbled thoughts within my head begin to smooth out and make sense. I find beauty in small things. I feel my heart fill. I observe my surroundings, think of my son, and find comforting nature metaphors for all the things I am feeling. Nature gives me a way to understand and capture the tangle of emotions that is so overwhelming in my day to day life. It is my son’s gift to me.
I am learning how difficult it is to balance being a working mom. Yes, it is difficult even when your child is gone. Like any parent, all day I compartmentalize my roles as wife, mother, or friend while I am at work. This is essential, but it also leaves me feeling guilty at the end of a long day, when I come home exhausted and don’t have any energy left to focus on my child. I was relieved to find October 10 fell on a Saturday, which meant I had the entire day to devote to Reed instead of trying to squeeze in a hike after work. I wanted to find something a little more special. I headed to Hope Pass outside of Leadville; hope has been in short supply lately, and I couldn’t resist the symbolism.
For the first half of my hike, this is exactly how it felt. I observed the golden aspen leaves carpeting the forest floor and realized how lovely it looked from the inside, even though it left a desolate and bleak vista when viewed from afar. The more I walked the more parallels I saw to my grief and our family. It was refreshing and I felt a closeness to Reed I haven’t felt lately as I’ve tried to navigate an unfamiliar world.
However, it didn’t take long for me to realize this hike was above my ability level; I was struggling. I had to take frequent breaks, and even this led me to a lesson: sometimes in grief, we have to pause. We have to sit in the pain and collect ourselves, and only then can we move forward with renewed vigor.
This lesson was true. Unfortunately...as in grief...it wasn’t quite that simple. But I am stubborn (like my son) and I stuck wholeheartedly to this lesson as I kept hiking. It wasn’t long before the breaks were more frequent, and the pain was more immediate. Still, I pushed forward, determined to prove the point that had lodged itself in my mind earlier in the day. Maybe if I hadn’t been hiking on Hope Pass, I would have listened to my body, smiled at the beauty I had witnessed, and headed back to the car after the first 3 miles. But I just couldn’t bring myself to give up on Hope. That hit way too close to home.
I kept going. I kept struggling. At some point, I began to think if I couldn’t make it to the top, it was because I just wasn’t trying hard enough. I had to prove to myself that I could do it, even though I didn’t want to. I told myself it was about Reed, that I was refusing to give up on him. That somehow, if I didn’t complete this hike, it meant I didn’t deserve him after all.
Multiple times, as I sat on the side of the trail trying to regain my strength, I asked my son to help me. What tremendous, unfair pressure to put on a ten month old boy. And yet, maybe he did encourage me to call it a day before reaching the top. Twice, the path was blocked by enormous felled trees that I had to climb over in order to continue. I saw a ptarmigan fly down the mountain, in the opposite direction I was hiking. I felt the wind blow to the east, urging me to turn around. But I ignored those signs. I passed them off as mere coincidence. I couldn’t come this close and then give up. After all, that also hit way too close to home.
I did eventually make it to the top, but it was really anti-climactic. There was a small monument marking the top, draped with prayer flags that were whipping in the wind. The view from the base of this last hill had been just as lovely as what I was seeing now. And I was so exhausted I couldn’t take the time to appreciate it, anyway. I turned around quickly, eager for the ease of moving downhill.
But it wasn’t easier. After making it back below tree line, I felt my body begin to give out. My stomach churned and my head throbbed. I was no longer able to make it to the next large rock or tree stump to sit and rest, but was stopping every ten steps or so and simply collapsing in the dirt. After the third time I did this, I called Marc. I was scared. I still had another four miles back to my car, and I wasn’t sure I could make it. I kept drinking water, and couldn’t keep it down (ironically, this actually helped me rebalance my electrolytes and regain some of my strength). He calmly reassured me and made a plan to come meet me at the base of the mountain.
Once I had gathered my strength and knew help was coming, I was able to continue on. It was slow and not easy, but at least I was moving and felt a little more clear-headed. I began to feel my guilt settle in; because of my stubbornness, something meant to honor my son had instead become painful and ugly.
I am no stranger to Mom Guilt, but this time it felt different. I had made a classic mistake, one every mom makes at some point. I had told myself I was doing this hike for Reed, and it had even started out that way. But at some point along the trail, it shifted. It became more about me proving some point about hope, and now it was literally about me just trying to survive. I had set out to do something for my child, and along the way had lost sight of him and made it about myself.
As I sit and reflect on this experience, I am again surprised to find myself feeling just like any mom. After all, what mother hasn’t found herself ignoring her child before? What mother hasn’t felt guilty at some point? What mother hasn’t allowed her own wishes and desires to sometimes eclipse what is best for her child? All mothers make mistakes. Any mother could easily find herself ignoring her child to pursue her own goals, and naively claiming she was doing it for him. Any mother might stubbornly move forward, believing she can handle things herself instead of asking for help sooner. Many mothers put undue pressures on their children, expecting far too much from them and not recognizing it until later.
I knew long before Reed was born that we would make plenty of mistakes as his parents; I suppose I am not surprised to find out that, at least, hasn’t changed. All I can do is recognize it when it happens, send an apology to him (wherever he may be), and try to be better tomorrow.
Sometimes even small progress is still progress. This is what Marc told me when I called, terrified I would never make it down the mountain. I can’t promise I won’t make the same mistake again. I’ll be Reed’s mother for the rest of my life, and sometimes I feel like I'm doing a pretty awful job of it. It’s a pretty safe bet this hike won't be the last time when I believe I am doing something for him, but really it’s about me. Even sharing this story leaves me feeling conflicted; is it about Reed, and the lessons he teaches me, or about myself?
Then I realize...the two are intertwined. Linked for infinity. Reed is an extension of my own heart; any parent knows this. I am incomplete without him, and yet more complete than I ever was before I met him. There will be days as a mother when I focus on my own needs, and days where I focus solely on him. More often than not, though, will be the days when I can’t tell the difference between the two. Focusing on Reed brings me comfort. Sharing him with the world fills my heart, the same way it fills any parents’ heart. It just looks different in our family.
Towards the end of my adventure, I crouched by the side of a heart-shaped rock and offered an apology to my son. I still don’t know what I believe about where his spirit might be, but it was important to me to acknowledge the ways I had let him down, and to promise him I would try not to repeat them. I do know if he was witness to the day’s events, he would forgive me.
After all...I may not be perfect, but he certainly is.
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