10 Days to Go: The Weight Lifted, Sand Gulch, and The Circles Holding the Line
Yesterday, an unfamiliar sensation settled over me: a deep, profound wave of relief.
Until you clear that hospital gauntlet, you don’t realize how much invisible weight you are hauling around. My deepest, quiet terror going into those pre-op appointments was that someone in a white coat would glance down at a lab sheet, spot an alarming red flag, and slam the brakes on my surgery. Postponement was the single worst thing I could imagine; when your spine is collapsing, the thought of having the finish line yanked away is suffocating. But hearing the definitive word that everything is a “go” released an anchor from my chest. We are on the path forward.
With that green light, we got our bearings back. I was able to get our house put back together, and Matt buttoned up the RV, parking it out in the cul-de-sac where it sits waiting until Wednesday, when we pull out for our final trip before surgery.
In a few days, we are loading up and heading down to Sand Gulch in southern Colorado.
To some, heading out in a travel trailer a week before a massive spinal reconstruction sounds like a lot. To us, it is a non-negotiable mental lifeline. We are heading out with the exact same intention as before: to not be at home ruminating, worrying, waiting, and filling our time with busywork and anxious hands.
We will park ourselves at Sand Gulch for three nights with zero agenda to film a bunch of classes or churn out new content. Our only objective is to enjoy nature, soak up the last bits of sun and warmth as fall approaches, hike as much as my body will allow, and spend slow, quiet evenings under the stars playing games and talking. It feels like a lot to cram in right before the big day, but it is the smartest decision for my mental health, and for Matt’s too.
Matt has a monumental mountain to climb, and I don’t take his role lightly or minimize the huge way this will affect him. He doesn’t blink an eye; he simply steps forward as the consummate caregiver, incredibly selfless, unfailingly patient, and kind. In so many ways, being the patient during surgery is the easier role. You are asleep under anesthesia. You don’t have to sit in the waiting room, pacing the floor, wondering, and carrying the terror of waiting. I genuinely hope he buries his head in work while I am under the knife.
Yet even a saint like Matt cannot hold this line alone. When a storm like this approaches, you quickly realize you aren’t just sustained by your own willpower, you are held up by concentric circles of love that have been quietly built over decades.
At the very core are our kids. Ben and Tricia down in Austin, Jacob and Kiara out in Grand Junction, and Abby in Boulder. Even from their own orbits – busy starting careers, finishing college, and building lives of their own, their love is the steady heartbeat behind this entire fight. They delivered birthday gifts to the house for Matt, and this morning we gathered together on FaceTime to unwrap them as a family. They remind me daily of why I am fighting so hard to get a working, pain-free body back.
Just beyond that is our family anchor. My siblings, Dan and Chea, and Sarah and Jeremy in Littleton; my dad and Beth down in Sedalia; and my mom and Jeff in Littleton. They are the bloodline, the bedrock that has known my story from the very beginning. Alongside them are Dom and Alyson, our chosen family. We raised our kids side by side through every skinned knee, holiday, birthday, and now the weddings and celebrations of our adult children. To have watched their girls grow up and then step onto the mat as my students in teacher training is one of the sweetest full-circle gifts of my life.
Then there is the circle of women who hold my day-to-day sanity: my lifelong four. Kate and Jeannette, who have known my heart since elementary school desks and playground days. Kim and Amy, my childhood anchors from our years as campers and counselors at Geneva Glen Camp. We shared chaotic college apartments, grew up together, and have weathered every messy stage of womanhood side by side.
These days, our lifeline lives mostly on Marco Polo, a continuous, rolling video thread app that accommodates our full, busy lives. Lately, my piece of that conversation has been dominated by my surgery: endless reports on doctor appointments, pain complaints, crying jags, and the sheer exhaustion of living in a body that is giving out. They are all right there for me to listen, be compassionate, and ultimately show up. Kim has already created a meal train, marshaling love into warm nourishment so Matt won’t have to carry the kitchen alone while I’m bedridden.
And then the circle ripples all the way out to the wider world – to people I have met along the way in retreats and trainings, some of whom have become dear, intimate friends, and to the massive outreach from the Five Parks Yoga community. People I have never met in person, who have followed me for years, and whose handwritten cards and prayers are currently stacked high on my dining room table, ready and waiting to be opened.
Long before surgeons ever lay down titanium rods to fuse my spine, this village has already built the true scaffolding of my life. Knowing they are holding the perimeter makes preparing the camper for Wednesday feel like pure grace.
Ten days left. Soon, we’ll sit in the red dirt, surrounded by pinon trees, to look up at the stars, and breathe.
