Maybe it wasn't the best way to approach it, but my first trip back to Smith Rock since the accident was also the first time I really attempted climbing again.The morning of the first two days of climbing, Saturday, as I waited in the parking lot for my group and instructor to gather, the rumbles of anxiety in my gut started spreading from butterflies in my tummy to an electric buzz in my head; I was starting to feel rattled just seeing everyone else suiting up and gathering ropes.
I began to think that maybe I wouldn't even tie-in that weekend; perhaps I should just observe.
I comforted and coached myself internally: "Tamara, you don't have to do anything you don't want to. You don't have to explain or justify anything. You don't even have to put on your harness if you don't want to. Only you understand everything you're feeling and everything you've been through, so don't worry about what anyone else thinks..."
As our group started down the path into the park, the instructor began asking me about my accident. In trying to relate to me, he began to talk about climbing falls in general and the kind of head spaces people are often in when they fall.
"How were you feeling when you fell?" he asked me.
The dreaded question. I understand why people ask it but I honestly resent that question.
In previous rock climbing classes, I'd heard many a lecture on overcoming fear; I'd heard so much about "just breathe and smile," about how to not let your head get the best of you.
But I find that mindset painfully simplistic for a situation that can be very complex. And for having gone through all that I have, for someone to ask how I was feeling- well, aside from it slightly implying that I fell because I was afraid I was going to fall or that I fell because I wasn't thinking about the right things at the right moment (in a sense, it was my fault), it's a minimizing (and somewhat insulting) question that doesn't take into account the entirety of a situation or the three-dimensional nature of a person.
But I answered his question truthfully.
"I was actually feeling pretty good. I'd had a really great day up until that point and was leading strongly. I was feeling like challenging myself. I remember thinking that this would be a bad climb to fall on because of all the blocky ledges everywhere, but otherwise, I felt pretty strong."
No, I hadn't been freaking out or panicking or looking down a lot or thinking I was going to fall.
If I did anything wrong just before I fell, it was in being over-confident and taking for granted the fact that I was on lead, was a beginner at placing gear, and that I was on a run-out route which was difficult to protect in places.
However, just hours previous to my fall, I'd told my instructor that day that I wasn't interested in pushing my climbing skills, I simply wanted to improve my skills at placing gear. He asked why.
"Because I don't want to fall."
"Have you ever fallen before?"
"No."
"Then why be afraid of it?"
Strange logic, yes.
I had never been interested in taking unnecessary risks, in falling on lead. I'd been extremely careful for the entire class, backing off of things when I felt doubtful. So it was poignantly ironic that I did end up falling in a moment of feeling strong and that I ended up paying a pretty big price for it.
And lord knows, I have been analyzing and overanalyzing my fall since the day it happened. So for someone to ask me, "how were you feeling right before you fell?" as if perhaps it had never occurred to me, makes me roll my eyes. I've tortured myself relentlessly about that moment of judgment- and all the moments leading up to it.
I've tortured myself about the fact that only hours previous to my fall, I was expressing a need to be careful (was it a premonition?). I've anguished over the fact that I felt like that concern was being minimized by my instructor (what if he'd not minimized it? would I have done anything differently?). And then after his consistent encouragement all morning I started to feel strong and confident. And then that afternoon, I fell. That strange reversal has haunted me quite a bit.
So, for someone who's never had a serious fall, for someone who's never had to grapple with the fact that they may never climb or kayak or have the active life they live for again *because* of a fall (and the arduous PT and rehab and three surgeries, and...), it's all too easy to simplify an accident as being due to the wrong head space.
And I don't blame the guy for asking but there was a voice inside of me that was whispering, "You have no idea. How can you ask me that?"
So that was how the first day of climbing began.
However, perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing. His questions put me a little on the defensive regarding all I'd been through, and it caused me to realize again that there was really no way I could ever explain it to someone; therefore, I had no reason to adjust my climbing or lack of it according to what anyone else had to say. If I couldn't bear the thought of putting on a harness that day, so be it.
So for the rest of the day, I didn't feel guilty saying no.
For once, I didn't push myself.
I didn't tough it out, I didn't feel much need to explain, I didn't care what anyone thought. I refused to scramble up a low 5th class ledge without a rope. I took my own sweet time on my first rappel (and then found that the carabiner the rope was through had been left unlocked). I climbed only half way up a 5.7 sport route then asked to be lowered down when the waves of anxiety were protesting loudly. I respected myself, I respected my fear, I honored the fact that these first steps were going to be the hardest. "For christ's sake, Tamara," I thought, "you need to be patient with yourself."
I needed to be as compassionate and caring for myself as I would be with a scared child needing comfort and reassurance.
Interestingly, the following climbing day, I worked with an instructor who asked me nothing about my accident or my mindset but only said, "You just do whatever you feel comfortable doing today. There's no pressure. If you want to take a walk, fine. If you don't want to climb at all, fine." So not surprisingly, I climbed two routes that day. I still only made it half way up a 5.7 sport but this time, I was first in line in our group to jump on it. I was feeling ready to process this whole ordeal. And I was still able to back off the climb when the anxiety voices became significantly louder than the compassionate voices.
I found that what really got to me was the height. It wasn't so much just being on rock again. The higher up I got, the louder the protesting in my gut. This probably doesn't sound surprising, but I had honestly expected that just being face to face with rock, to begin with, was going to be an issue. But that part wasn't too bad. So after that sport climb on the second day, the one I just jumped right on first thing in the morning, I gave myself a few hours to decompress and volunteered to be a belayer.
While doing so, a guy from the class I was taking when I fell showed up to help out. He was surprised to see me and with delight in his voice he said, "Wow, it is *so* good to see you back on the rock, Tamara."
His comment surprised me in a curious way: I hadn't put myself in someone else's shoes, looking at me from the outside. It hadn't occurred to me that others would be surprised to see me out there. Throughout the months, as I started doing mountaineering again (not so much pure rock), I did receive comments like, "It's great that you're not letting this get you down- some people would just stop climbing entirely, rock or snow. Some people would just quit."
But the idea of willingly giving up on climbing without a fight was so far-fetched to me, for the kind of person I am, that it was an interesting perspective shift to stop and consider that others would have understood if I'd decided to do that. It was still a little difficult- though not impossible- for me to get my head around the idea that others were proud of me for being out there that day. From the view inside my heart and head, it wasn't a matter of "if"; it was a matter of "when." It was simply something that had to be done.
Soon after my accident, there was a fleeting moment where it had crossed my mind that maybe I would (peacefully) decide to never climb again, even if I was able to. After all, at first diagnosis, I was told that I'd never be able to flex or extend my elbow more than a range of 90 degrees, losing about 60-70 degrees. However, as I started to recover and as it became clear that I was going to surpass that expectation by a long shot, I knew I would have to at least top-rope again. Sure, maybe I'd never have "the head" to lead rock again but if it was in my heart to climb again, I'd find a way to do it.
(I'm incurably stubborn.)
And I knew all of this not because I have some sort of ego wrapped up in it or because I'm some sort of bad-ass or because I just "can't learn my lesson the first time." I knew that I'd have to eventually get back on the horse because I simply can't live in the shadow of something. I didn't want anything to have that kind of power over me. If I was going to stop rock climbing, I wanted it to be because I simply just (casually) decided I was done (irrespective of my fall) and not from being haunted by a past trauma.
So in my mind, of course I was back! Of course I'd have to return to take back a little bit of my power and get out from under the shadow of this whole ordeal.
Later that afternoon, I decided to do one more climb to see if I could make it to the top this time. It was a blocky 5.5 sport route which I had actually led the day I fell- but here I was following it, glad that it was easy climbing (and glad to be on a tight belay from above) because just getting up that high produced enough anxiety on its own.
As I set up my rappel to come back down, I felt a sense of relief mixed with pride. I hollered down at a friend to get a picture of me on rappel to document the fact that "Tamara is back."
I held out my left arm to wave at the camera, reminding myself to not take my right hand off the rope in my state of celebration.
It was good to be back.
Scary, but good.
