13 Days to Go: Grand Junction, The Divide, and The Bridge Between
It is early morning in Grand Junction, and the camper is dark, still and quiet. I didn’t sleep well or for very long. My eyes popped open at 4:00 AM, and I knew immediately there was no going back to sleep. Unfortunately, my mind and body don’t cooperate during these early morning hours. While my brain wakes up fresh and hopeful, it takes a few moments, just a beat or two, before the messages from my body brings the rush of reality: there will be no jumping out of bed, no slipping on yoga clothes to make it to a practice before dawn. Instead, sitting on the edge of the mattress in the dark, struggling through the sheer physical effort of pulling on a pair of pants, the slow and painful process of starting the day begins. Before the sun crests the horizon, the day feels like an exhausting mountain to climb.
By the time Matt woke up and broke the stillness, the camper was filled with that unmistakable end-of-trip weight.
“I’m sad we’re packing up and heading home,” he said.
My answer was immediate: “I agree.”
Heading home this time stings. A number of pre-op appointments await me, as well as this long anticipated surgery, which now feels like it can’t come soon enough. For the last two days, we have been camped out in the rugged, stark, and expansive high-desert canyon country of Rabbit Valley, which is carved right along the Colorado-Utah border. Standing there, in this now familiar area, we realized it had been exactly one year to the day since we brought this RV out on its maiden voyage to that very same red dirt. Reflecting on that year, we had no idea how completely we would fall in love with this life…the daily choreography of living in a small space, and the effortless way it keeps us immersed in nature from morning until night.
In my young adult years, my relationship with nature was rugged. I spent weeks backpacking with all of my essentials on my back, and chose, instead of sitting in a classroom at CU, to instead trade my desk for a tent to complete a Colorado Outward Bound leadership semester, living outside under the sun and stars of Colorado, Utah and California. Today, the RV softens that edge for two people in their fifties and an aging senior dog. With Matt fresh off two surgeries and me heading into mine, having a comfortable bed and the ability to work while living outside is a gracious gift. It is the bridge between our enduring passion for the wild and the reality of our current season of life.
After packing up camp in Rabbit Valley, we made the short drive east into the city of Grand Junction to spend our final two nights connecting with family.
Our middle son, Jacob, and his girlfriend, Kiara, are finishing up college here at Colorado Mesa University (CMU) while coaching swimming, working and volunteering. We took them out both nights, joined last night by my niece Molly, a brand-new freshman at CMU, and her roommate Natalia. Both dinners were easy and grounded, filled with the simple magic of young lives taking shape. Molly and Natalia are wide-eyed, figuring out a new campus, new friends, and who they are away from home. Jacob and Kiara, now retired collegiate swimmers, are stepping into the first stages of adulthood.
Sitting across from them felt like looking across a thirty-year span of time. It is that unmistakable season where your body feels invincible and the horizon is wide open. I remember that frequency so well. Sitting there, I felt wistful for the freedom of my youth; but more importantly, I felt a quiet, grounding clarity. They are standing at the starting line, learning how far their bodies and ambitions can carry them out into the world. I have already run many of those hard miles. And looking at them reminded me what I am fighting to protect. They are just beginning to build their foundations, while I am making the hard earned decision to rebuild mine.
The truth is, my body has become a loud, exhausting distraction to the life I want to live. Yesterday afternoon was a brutal snapshot of why this surgery can no longer wait. The pain was so intense that I couldn’t complete more than one small chore without lying flat on the floor just to let the screaming nerves settle down. The second I stood back up, the firing started all over again. Even after a night of rest, I wake with a numb right leg, an aching pelvis, frozen glutes, and unbearable pain just standing up. I am tired of groaning, wincing, and crying out. I am tired of the toll it takes on Matt, who remains an endlessly patient, supportive saint through every single moment.
The breakdown hasn’t touched my joy, my energy, or my love for this life, but everything takes an agonizing amount of effort. And so, the RV adventure pauses, and the clinical reality takes over.
We’ve done the heavy lifting to pack up—washing laundry, fresh bedding, clearing the fridge. Once we finish wiping down the counters, we’ll hook up the truck and begin the long pull back across the Continental Divide toward Arvada.
Tomorrow brings three pre-op appointments: first with pain management, followed by two back-to-back clinical visits at Porter Adventist Hospital in Denver. I want answers, but there is an uneasy tension between wanting clarity and dreading what I might hear. How long will I be flat on my back? When will I take my first real walk? What will my yoga practice look like when the bone finally fuses? How much will I ever bend or twist? Can I ever jump back into a Chaturanga, take flight in Crow, or open into Camel again? I can hardly bear the thought of a doctor looking at me and saying, “No, you will never do that again.”
Yet despite the fear, I have remained surprisingly composed. I don’t let my mind spiral into the unknown of recovery; I stay tethered to the physical reality of this pain. It is a brutal compass, but it points toward the only door back to a functional life.
Thirteen days until the rebuild begins. Time to latch the cabinets, hook up the trailer, and drive home.
