Chapter 28

THE NEW NORMAL

I often hear the question “When did you get back to normal?”

I respond, “I’ll never be back to normal.” You don’t just move on from something like this; it becomes part of you. You change and grow. You may change into a bitter person and grow in self-pity, or you may use the memory of your suffering as an opportunity to transform your life into something more beautiful and meaningful than you could have ever imagined. I’m going to go glass half full here. If not, what was it for?

Long ago in our marriage, Jim and I decided that we would always travel as a family when the kids were on their school breaks. Granted, it’s much harder traveling with children—especially at times when every other school is on break—but because Jim has a job that geographically removes him for long periods of time, it’s just not right for us when he returns from a tour to announce, “Mom and Dad are taking off for the weekend! See you losers later!” It is essential for our family’s survival that we stay together whenever possible.

At the end of August, a year and change out from my surgery, we took a family trip. Jim was performing at the Alaska State Fair and wanted to do something really unique as a family. My recovery was going faster than any of us had expected, so I told Jim I was totally up for something like this. I think we were both surprised when we arrived and realized that maybe we had jumped in too deep. We’d traveled a lot over the past year, but this time we went rugged. Not quite camping, but a cabin in the Alaskan wilderness miles from civilization and phone service, where the activities would include hiking on harsh terrain, deep-sea fishing, and physically challenging activities even for those in good health. I didn’t plan the trip, and I was a bit shocked that Jim would take us somewhere so remote. I naively anticipated that I would be “glamping,” experiencing the beauty of Alaska out of an enormous picture window, while lying in a big comfy bed enjoying room service. Closer to my postsurgery speed.

When I saw the cabin, I asked Jim if he knew it was going to be so remote. He was surprised as well. The website he had studied made it look like more of the Disney version of Alaska, but it was the real deal. I told him, “Don’t worry. If I feel like I can’t handle something, I will just stay back in the cabin and read.” Turns out I wasn’t the one to worry about.

The first morning we woke up for our guided hike, Jim was doubled over in pain. In the fifteen years we have been married, Jim has never really been sick, so I knew he wasn’t just trying to get out of hiking. I told him to stay in bed and that I would handle the kids on the excursion. I was a little nervous about having all five of them on an isolated mountain surrounded by majestic beauty and treacherous cliffs. We did have an expert guide with us, but no daddy disciplinarian. It was scary but somewhat empowering to be in this incredible place as the sole parent in charge. It had been awhile since I’d been in my former position, and I felt like the retired sports star trying to make a comeback. When we returned, I felt great that no one had fallen down a hole or been dragged away by a wild animal. Jim was still in bed, so I thought he’d be recovered and ready to take over while I took a much-needed rest.

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m going to die.”

“What?”

“I can’t walk. I have a sharp pain in my stomach. Is there a doctor here?” The reason I had been concerned when I saw that the place was so remote was that clearly there were no doctors for miles. But I had been concerned for myself.

“Jim, there are no doctors here! What should I do?”

“I don’t know!” Jim was curled up in a ball. I ran out of the cabin and hiked up to the main lodge, but there was no one there. I ran to the back of the lodge and knocked on the door of the room where the guides were. I told them about the situation and two of them went to the cabin with their first-aid packs and walkie-talkies. I went to gather the kids, who at this point had dispersed into the surrounding woods and may have been seconds away from being a five-course meal for a bear.

After I rounded up the children and got them into playing fetch with the campground dogs, one of the guides emerged from our cabin. “Has Jim ever had problems with his appendix?” A stomachache after eating three burgers, yes. Appendix? Never. “I think we should get him to a hospital in Anchorage.”

“Okay, how?”

“We’ll call a helicopter,” said the guide matter-of-factly.

“Sure,” I replied, as if this were just another day at the office. No roads, no phone service, middle of nowhere, five kids, and me. Jim was in pain. He was having a medical crisis. It was his turn. I couldn’t be weak. The roles had reversed again. Couple survival instincts kicked in. “Good cop/hysterical cop” was now “sick cop/well cop.”

As I watched Jim take off in the helicopter and disappear over the mountains, the adrenaline was pumping through my veins. I closed my eyes and said to God, “You got this, right?” I was overcome by that familiar sense of peace. We had been through so much; this was just another step on the path. There was only one way I could describe the feeling I was having: “Back to normal.” The new normal.

P.S. Jim survived the appendectomy and returned to his family in the Alaskan wilderness, who greeted him with open arms and gentle hugs. Then we all almost got eaten by a bear. But I’ll let him tell that story.