32, Here I come!

In 11 days I’ll be 32. So far the 30’s are not turning out at all like I imagined they would. Then again, I was reasonably certain I’d be dead by 25 so I never really planned this far ahead. I simply assumed I’d have made one fatal error in judgment that sounded like a good idea at the time and would be smeared on the sidewalk or tangled in a tree-line hung by my own parachute strings or stranded and starved on some remote island off the coast of Alaska.

I remember the major emotional meltdown on my 25th birthday as I sobbed hysterically, “But I didn’t think I’d live this long! So I never finished college or started a 401K! I was supposed to be dead by now and now I’m so far behind!”

Then 30 was my “turning into a woman” birthday – and with 32 on the month’s horizon I gotta say, turning into a woman was less climactic than I was hoping for…

Still, it’s an early start to the 30’s so there is still plenty of time for adventuring and mischief and all around chaos.

As I was talking to Meme and Ninja this weekend I was reminiscing about all the times I lucked out of certain doom. Despite car accidents, four wheeler doom, falling off cliffs and swimming in artic ice water in January in Alaska – I am still kicking. I nearly drowned in 4th grade when I was trapped under a pool cover, was knocked unconscious on the football field, ripped a ligament in my groin during powder puff and tumbled off a 60 foot water tower and was saved only by my sports bra until friends could pull me to safety.

Wrecked my bike in Mineral Creek during run-off while trying to charge the rapids, twice. Drove a four wheeler through the same river and impaled myself on a broken tree branch when I launched up the embankment on the other side, nearly shot my foot off in a gun accident, almost took my whole right pointer finger off with a fishing knife, had a really bad rollerblading accident when I crashed on Civic Center Hill. I’ve fallen out of trees, off mountains, into rivers. Rolled Kayaks, crashed rafts and dangled out of cars while speeding down the pass at 126 mph.

Have been thrown off horses, beaten up by bullies, tried to catch a rattle snake in a lego bucket, hitchhiked in the boonies, broken holes in the ice to go skinny dipping, two car accidents and a 15,000 miles solo road trip.

Despite the bumps, bruises, near misses and sprains – I’ve never broken a bone and I didn’t get stitches until I was 25 and had a random emergency surgery totally unrelated to a self-created accident or moment of idiocy.

What’s the point of all this?

With 32 knocking on the door, and me having done almost everything in my power both intentionally and accidentally – and despite all the stupidity I somehow manage to be here still…
I have come to the conclusion that this newly diagnosed condition will not beat me.

I once hiked out to a cute little island in Valdez, just off the spit, to do some writing. It was a nice sunny day and after I’d done a bit of character development I laid down on the mossy ground and fell asleep.

While I was asleep the tide came in and when I woke I was cut off from shore by a quarter mile of 38 degree water. Life expectancy – 6- 10 minutes.

It was May and while the snow was off the ground, I knew I could go into hypothermia before I reached the opposite beach, but the next tide would be 12 hours and that would put me well into the early hours of morning which meant risking exposure through a still cold May night plus the fury of my mother killing me if I managed to survive that and showed up in the morning at the next low tide.

So, I took off my shoes and jeans, packed them in my backpack and swam it. I was 15, three months shy of my 16th birthday.

During that swim, most of which I have since blocked out, I do remember some of what went through my mind.

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod – it’s so fucking cold my boobs are going to freeze and break off. Please god, don’t let my boobs fall off – I just got them.”

“If I make it back I promise never to swear again.”

“Okay, maybe never again, but I promise never to say “holy Christ on a popsicle stick” on Sundays anymore.”

“Thank you, God, that I was on the swim team.”

“But Monday through Saturday are still free game.”

“If I make it back I swear I’m going to move to Los Angeles and never ever come back to Alaska.”

“If I survive this, I will never hike out without a tide book again.”

“If I survive this – I promise to make every minute of my life count for something important.”

I made it to the beach and sat on the rocks in my underwear, blue joints and disbelief. I’d long since stopped feeling anything. Numbness even stopped the shivering. I sat in the sun until my legs would bend and once that happened, the shivering started. I knew if I could get up and move I’d start to warm up again so I struggled into my wet pants but couldn’t get my shoes on so I started walking without them.

I was sure I was going to die many times that day and even wished I’d just taken my damn chances and waited for the tide to shift the next morning. It was another quarter mile down the spit around through the small boat harbor and as I walked I tried to think on how I would make good on all my promises.

The point is, there have been many a time in my life that I think I’m going to die and somehow, one foot in front of the other and I find myself walking barefoot through down, dripping wet, laughing like a lunatic and for some unknown reason – I end up okay.

Often times, better than okay. When I was sure my divorce would kill me – I was astonished to discover that in divorcing I was actually happier and healthier than I had ever imagined I could be – It seemed like it would be the death of me but it actually saved my life.

So the point of all this is, even though I’m not worried about anything as permanent as death, mortality is definitely on my mind. Fragility.

My treatments are showing improvement but two separate specialists are continuously recommending a full hysterectomy. I have since fired them both, and even the gyno I saw the first day who told me women in my position don’t really have options. I’ve let her go as well.

32 is like a bright welcoming beckon. I never thought I’d make it this far, and now that I have I’m excited to see how much further I can go.

If I could survive the bumbling stupid decisions of my childhood, the devastating heart-wreck of divorce and all those times I remember saying, “well, it sounded like a good idea at the time.” Then advanced endometriosis and uterine fibroids are just a blip on the radar.

I know I’m lucky that it’s not worse. I know I’m lucky that even though my doctor’s don’t think I have options, I have a naturopath and an acupuncturist and a boat load of friends who say otherwise. I’m lucky that I have access to emergency care if I need it.

All this, I know I’m lucky. I’m not going to lie and say it isn’t hard. This is really hard. Harder than most things I’ve done so far. So hard I don’t even have the energy to talk about it or even blog much. It certainly isn’t easy – but quite frankly, it’s not as tough at is could be, and I am grateful that I have the awareness of that.

So here’s to letting 32 stumble in with determination and the grace of past lucky breaks. Here’s to a future of continuing a life of sheer dumb luck, and happy relief that I somehow stagger out of it all just fine, even if a little frost bit and delirious.

One quarter of a mile at a time and it’s all doable.