I know it seems silly to write about something that I want to forget, I know it seems crazy to re-live an event to forget it. But I haven’t been able to get this one out of my mind, I haven’t been able to not think about this, so I’m hoping that writing about it will be the first step in forgetting.

On Tuesday, Slappy and I decided to take the peak-to-peak gondola ride that goes from Blackcomb to Whistler Mountain. It’s an enclosed ski lift that is around 1400 feet up in the air, travels almost 2 miles and lasts for about 11 minutes. The views are nothing short of amazing and everyone recommended it to us.

We bought our lift tickets and rode the chairlift up the Blackcomb side of the two peaks. I was excited to see the mountain, to hike. I was most excited for the view from this acclaimed gondola ride. We got to the boarding house for the peak-to-peak and we stepped into our lift with 2 other couples.

Our gondola left the boarding area and the view was breathtaking, and all the other passengers in our gondola oohed and aahed.

And I freaked out.

At least, that’s the nicest way I can describe what happened.

With no warning I suddenly felt motion sick. I was nauseated, I was sweating, I wasn’t breathing. I was trapped in a bubble with my husband and 4 other people, thousands of feet in the air for at least 10 more minutes and there was nothing I could do about it. I panicked.

I realize that nothing about that sounds particularly terrifying, except for maybe the height. But I wasn’t afraid of falling or crashing or dying. I wasn’t scared for my life.

I know it sounds silly, but I was scared of throwing up. I know, no one likes to throw up and everyone thinks they understand what I’m saying, but this goes much farther than just dislike. I have anxiety attacks, with fair regularity, purely about the idea of vomiting. I wake up terrified in the middle of the night over it. I carry bags around with me just in case, even though I haven’t had occasion to use one since I was 10. I have pills that I absolutely require to get me out of an anxiety attack- one that is almost always initiated by a stomach ache, or by finding out that someone near me is sick.

My single greatest fear in life is throwing up.

I don’t expect anyone to really understand this, because it’s completely illogical. Typing it out makes me feel silly because it’s ridiculous. I will not die from throwing up. I will not suffer (much) from it. And logically, I know this.

But anxiety knows no logic.

And on Tuesday I was a mile above the ground in a small bubble with 4 other people, and I was about to throw up. As soon as I realized what was happened, I took the pills I had stored in my pocket. All 5 of them at once. I waited for them to take effect, for my heart to calm, for my stomach to settle.

Nothing changed.

I physically could not calm myself down. I couldn’t see past the moment I was in, the situation I was in. The small room that I was going to throw up in.

My heart was racing, my whole body was shaking. I was deeper into any panic attack than I have ever been before. And to make matters worse, the 2 other couples were trying to distract me and all I really wanted was to be left alone. To cry, to freak out. To not have people watching this.

In the last few minutes of the ride I finally began to feel more in control. I still felt like I was going to be sick and I was just praying that we could get off the gondola first. I was embarrassed, I was ashamed. I felt like I had been completely defeated. I couldn’t calm myself down, I couldn’t even control myself with the help of medication.

And worse, I know that I ruined that trip, that adventure for my husband, and for the 4 other people who had to watch my breakdown. (One of the couples got off the gondola and thanked me for not puking, I swear).

Sometimes I feel like I can kick this fear. Sometimes I feel totally rational and see how crazy I am. To be honest, It’s been a long time since I’ve had an anxiety attack that even held a small candle to this one. I have been doing pretty well. But then Tuesday came.

And I’m just tired now. I’m tired of experiences like that, which call into doubt my ability to manage my own life. I’m tired of realizing how controlled I am by my fear. I’m tired of needing pharmaceuticals to help me to breathe, to keep my heart rate from sky-rocketing above 200 beats in a minute.

I have fought this fear for 15 years now. I have had good days, good weeks, good years even. And I have had ones like Tuesday.

Somewhere nearly a mile above the ground in a gondola I realized that I need help. I clearly cannot do this alone. I cannot live like this. I cannot ruin vacations. I cannot plan for every possible anxiety trigger every day.

I’m tired. I need help.

And I’m calling someone for it on Monday.

So in the middle of the kayak tour down the River of Golden Dreams (seriously, that’s the real name), we came to an area where a woman was tossing a ball into the river for her dog to catch and bring back. The water was pretty shallow and the dog was having a great time.

As we approached the dog, it decided that it was done playing catch and would then just sit on the embankment opposite it’s owner because apparently it’s the kind of dog that learned a lot from cats. The owner called it and it was all, um, no thanks. I’m cool here.

So Slappy decided that he would grab the tennis ball, toss it up towards the owner and the dog would chase it, thereby solving the problem. It took him close to a lifetime to get the ball, especially with the threat of tipping his kayak over in the worlds largest ice bath, but he managed to grab it, and then thew it, and as predicted the dog took off.

Now, it’s important that you understand where I was coming from on this next part. Because the dog was totally being stupid. Instead of taking the easy and obvious path up to the tennis ball it was acting as though no path existed because it wasn’t right in front of it and so instead, it took the toughest route possible. You know, avoiding anything that might help it. Like a man would. Seriously. The dog was basically being a grown up man.

So as I’m seeing this and thinking that, my husband looks over and shouts, “Ha, it’s going through the thickest bush it could find!”

And without even thinking I said, “Yea, it’s acting like a man!”

After a moment of hysterical laughter from my husband, the guide and the woman on the shore, I realized my mistake.

And then I died of embarrassment.

Our second great adventure in Canada was this cool little pedal/paddle tour that we had read about that was a bike ride to a lake, then kayak or canoeing to another lake and then another bit of biking. Now, we both know how to ride bikes, but it’s been easily 5 years since I’ve hurt my ass sitting on one and Slappy couldn’t even remember the last time he’d been on one.

Obviously this was a great plan of ours.

So we got up at the crack of dawn, caught a shuttle and went down to the bike store where they fitted us for bikes and helmets and we got out on our merry way. Well almost, because neither of us knew how to work gears on bikes and then Slappy broke his. Somewhere around the 2nd minute of biking I turned around and saw him pedaling furiously and going no where. He was a gerbil on a wheel, a really determined to not ask for help gerbil. It was possibly one of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed.

So once we took his bike back and relearned gear shifts and stopped breaking the really expensive mountain bikes, we got on our way. Just so you know, Whistler is hilly. And tiring. I’d like to blame it on the altitude, but we’re like, not that far above sea level. So yea, it’s just me being horribly out of shape.

When we were nearly finished with the first leg of our journey, the guide stopped and explained that we were about to bike down a long downhill segment and that once we passed the second orange cone we needed to slow down because the turn was practically a 90 degree turn.

One of us, *cough*me*cough* is really good at following directions. And even with slowing down, I still swerved off the path trying to make the turn. And when I came to a stop I saw a look of terror on our guide’s face and turned to see Slappy come within inches of smashing face first into a sign. You know when you scare a guide who’s been taking people on bike tours for 11 years you’re doing something awesomely.

By this point, Slappy and I were both thinking that perhaps we over-estimated our athleticism. And by over-estimated I mean assumed we had some.

Our guide stopped to show us a map for the rest of our rides.

So the bike shop was at the green rectangle, and we biked to the red arrow. Then we were going to paddle across Alta Lake, through that skinny little river (near the purple arrows) called the River of Golden Dreams (dude, I’m pretty sure Disney named that river) and end up at Green Lake, at the orange arrow. Once we got there, we’d bike from the orange arrow back to where we started. Frankly, I was thrilled. That was not so bad at all.

We got situated in our kayaks (single kayaks, our guide called double kayaks “divorce boats” and I agreed) and started paddling. After about 10 minutes of going approximately 1/8th of the way across Alta Lake I realized that hey, that map is on a scale that does not compute with my brain. Oh and by the way, Alta Lake was the warm lake and dude, it was colder than a witch’s tit in a brass bra.

After a lifetime, we made it to the river wherein we found out that it had rapids! and obstacles! like bushes! The only thing I told my husband I wouldn’t do was white water raft, which was awesome because now I was going to get to do it in a kayak. Awesome.

We were given recommendations of how to avoid obstacles such as trees, which included leaning forward into them so you didn’t tip your kayak. You know what is the opposite of your instinct when bushes and trees are headed for your face? Leaning forward. It’s like oh here tree, please come scratch my eyes out.

After the first turn, I was stuck in a bush. After the second turn, I almost lost my paddle in a tree. After the third turn I made it out unscathed, only to then run into a tree branch in the water and get completely stuck. Dear tour guide: your suggestions of wiggle! wiggle! is not so helpful.

14 hours later we made it to Green Lake which was absolutely beautiful, also FREEZING and found our bikes. Which frankly, if I had never seen again, I’d have been thrilled about. Also, it was the hottest day of the year and almost 1 in the afternoon, so a nice mountain bike back to the village was pretty much the best idea ever.

We arrived several hours later exactly where we had started and it was only then that I asked how far we were traveling because would you want to know in advance that you had just mountain biked 6 miles and kayaked 5? I think not.

My legs, arms, back, hands are still crying. My ass may never be the same.

The first real day of our vacation began with me peeling an eye open and realizing that I had slept until 10 in the morning. Internet, this has pretty much never happened. It has especially not happened since the purchase of my cat who believes that 4 in the morning is when he should be fed, no matter which day of the week. And he likes to make his point by walking across our faces, biting our toes, standing on the desktop computer so it makes incessant beeping, and his personal favorite, mounting Karma (the other cat). So yea, mornings start early.

Reason 1 why I love me some vacation.

We got dressed and decided to see about booking some activities and found a place that seemed like a travel agency type joint in the village. We stopped and grabbed Starbucks (yep, even in Canada, and yea, we were really all about the culture here…) and then headed in to book some activities.

The lady was super happy to help us and then she was all, oh and if you go to this little open house right by your hotel we’ll give you 10% off all your activities AND a pre-paid Visa card for $100. And we were like, dude, we’ll go to your timeshare talk for that, we practically make a living off of listening to people talk at us.

So she went on to ask about our ages, which, yea, we were under 30, but we were close enough. And our income. Unfortunately, we are no where near the elusive $100,000 income mark needed. So ironically, because we make less than 100 grand a year, we can’t get a discount. I’d like to add this company to United Airlines on the list of companies who are doing. it. wrong.

Anyways, we booked a few things, one for that day and one for the next and set out to explore more. Which is a fancy way of saying, getting horribly lost in a really cute village area before settling down at a pub with fish and chips and pomegranate cider. Which, HELLO, is delicious and alcoholy. Drunk at 1 in the afternoon on vacation. We are representing our country SO WELL.

A few hours and a nap later (what? it’s vacation), we boarded a shuttle for zip lining. Now, here’s the thing. I really am scared of heights. Truly. And I’m more scared of slamming into things at high speeds. And Slappy was all, don’t worry, you slow down at the end and blah blah blah your neck is going to be fine.

And I believed him.

So we get to the zip lining facility and they start to show us how to ride and then how to land. And I hear Slappy say “uh oh” under his breath. Uh freaking oh. Because on these zip lines? You basically slam into a spring-loaded bag at the end. Awesome.

And the instructors were all, don’t hold on the whole time and I was like, oh, that sounds like a great idea. Let me slide down a rope with a 200 METER (which is like 8000 feet) drop and hold onto nothing. That is a FANTASTIC idea. Maybe you’d also like me to go swim with a bunch of hungry sharks? And then they were all, oh, yea and you’re kind of light, so there’s a pretty good chance you’ll get stuck in the middle of this line.

And then I died.

But in the end, it was very cool, the view was really nice and so far my neck is still attached to my head. I didn’t take any pictures (though we have one that I’ll scan later), but basically all you need to do is picture me, flying through the air, looking alarmingly like I might crap my pants.

And then I got a bug bite on my boob.

I’m just gonna say, it’s a really good thing Canada is so freaking beautiful. Because it is wreaking some serious havoc on my body and maybe a teeny tiny bit on my mind.

(Also, before someone gets bitchy, I am seriously loving it up here. It is gorgeous and lovely and aside from one thing which I’ll tell you about in a few days, it has been pure awesome. So just enjoy the humor and realize that for every humorous tale there are 10 much less interesting but completely wonderful ones.)

We arrived in Vancouver at around 10:15 Saturday night after a pretty pleasant coupla flights up from Los Angeles. We upgraded our seats to the fancier economy and it was like heaven. Seriously. I had no idea what I was missing.

We deplaned and walked to customs with our passports and form in hand. The man at the booth looked at our passports, frowned a little and launched into 20 questions.

Are you staying in Vancouver?

No, we’re headed up to Whistler tonight.

For how long?

Until Friday, like it says right there on the form. (Is he calling me a liar?)

What are you doing up at Whistler?

Vacationing.

Can you be more specific?

Wait, what?

Can you be more specific?

Um… Sleeping? Ziplining?

At this point he rolled his eyes at me, stamped our paperwork and sent us to baggage claim to pick up our bags, which, incidentally were not free to check because despite the fact that we need a passport to get into Canada, it’s not international. Dear United Airlines, you’re doing it wrong.

We got our rental car and began driving. The drive to Whistler is about 2.5 hours, but it is the most convoluted trip through Vancouver ever. It’s like, make a left turn at the green pole, travel 23.4 meters and make a gentle right near the pink bike rack onto a huge ass bridge over a scary body of water. Lather, rinse, repeat for miles and miles. Oh, wait, no for kilometers. Sorry.

Fun fact: The buses in Canada literally say sorry on them when they’re not running. Even the BUSES apologize here.

Also, the lights blink green. They aren’t just green. They flash the green and yellow, which is really kind of confusing. I feel like it’s also a recipe for disaster for epileptics in Canada.

Once you get through Vancouver it’s a drive up what I am sure is a GORGEOUS highway, but seeing as how it was pitch black, uh, I have no idea. I do know that it is windy and that you feel really powerful going 100 km/hour, which I’m pretty sure is like 35 miles/hour. Conversions are confusing.

So is spelling apparently. Because we kept seeing signs for Squamish and under it was another name with a 7 in the name. Like halfway through the word, there was just a number. Canada is not comprised of spelling bee champions, just fyi.

This sign says Squamish, OBVIOUSLY.

And really long story short, we found our hotel and fell into bed until 10 the next morning.

Hello vacation. I live here.

We were standing in the airport waiting to check our one suitcase for our evening flight. It was just Slappy and me, enveloped in our own world, our own conversation. Somehow the conversation turned to how old our luggage is, and how there are almost no pieces that don’t have broken wheels or missing handles.

Slappy looked over our suitcase for a moment, examining whether it would survive this trip and all the things I’d smashed inside. After a moment he turned to me and asked why I didn’t cut the bundle of red and white yarn off the handle.

I sucked in a small breath of air.

“I can’t cut it.” I said, quietly.

“Why? It looks silly.” He replied.

I didn’t know how to respond. I thought for a moment and then I told him about the yarn.

That suitcase was the largest piece in a set my grandmother gave to me for my high school graduation. She had given all of her grandchildren luggage for that benchmark celebration, but each of us got something different. My sister’s was floral patterned, which made it easy to find at an airport, but mine was plain green.

It fit my personality, I thought.

And because mine was so plain, so simple, my grandmother tied red and white yarn to the handles of each of the 3 pieces so that I would be able to recognize them at the baggage claim. At the time, I thought it was silly, too. But I left it there at my grandma’s insistence.

My grandma passed away suddenly the following spring.

Since then, those suitcases have been to Hawaii, to Greece, to Spain, to New York, to Chicago, to Louisiana and the red and white yarn has gone with me each time. And though it seems silly, every time I see that yarn, I think of her. I feel like she’s here. Like she’s safeguarding me.

Like those wisps of red and white yarn are a very small piece of the grandmother I loved, the whimsical hearted woman who would’ve loved to go on so many far off adventures.

Tomorrow,

I finish my first clinical rotation.

I finish my first full year of graduate school.

I will have succeeded at something I thought I’d fail at.

I will have succeeded at something that I was told by some that I should quit.

I will have exceeded expectations. Including my own.

I know it seems silly. There are 95 other people in my program alone who are finishing a clinical (though it is their second, since I missed my first), it’s not really a noteworthy occasion in and of itself.

But when you finish your first year of graduate school having been on medical leave of absence twice, in addition to having a 5 pound lifting restriction for 3 months of the second semester and missing more than 15 days in the first semester, then, well, it at least feels noteworthy. Sometimes it feels parade worthy, if we’re being honest.

And not only did I finish, not only did I accomplish this goal, I did a really good job. I have received really great evaluations, positive feedback and really great constructive criticism. I’ve learned so much and I feel like I’ve grown in this profession. I feel reaffirmed in my career choice, I feel like I can actually do this. Like I want to actually do this.

And I feel so thankful for those who supported me, who wouldn’t let me quit all the times I tried. Who let me cry to them when it seemed hopeless, and cry some more when it seemed even more hopeless. Who told me they’d love me no mattered what happened.

This happened. Thank you for loving me through it.

33 days down, just 1 more to go.

So, I’m going on vacation next week. In fact, I’m leaving in 3 days. Which reminds me, I probably should unpack from the last trip and maybe get a rental car to get us the 120 miles from airport to hotel. Whatever.

And because I know my naysayers (read: trolls (read: assbags)), I know that soon there will be (more) comments about how I shouldn’t be going on vacation because I have a headache. I already got one this past weekend for going and well, I think this needs to be addressed.

I have a headache.

I don’t have a bleeding wound. I don’t have a blood clot threatening to jump into my lungs and kill me. I don’t have severely clogged arteries or all the risk factors for a stroke or massive heart attack. I don’t have a bleeding ulcer or a raging case of sepsis.

I have a headache. I have it every day no matter what.

And there is no reason that I shouldn’t, no reason that I don’t freaking deserve to go on vacation.

I literally haven’t gone on a real vacation, one that is longer than a weekend, one with my husband, in 2 years. I have just survived what is undoubtedly the longest and toughest years of my life. I will have just finished my first clinical rotation.

I need a vacation.

And sure, vacation often makes my head hurt worse. But so does standing up. So does walking. So does BEING CONSCIOUS.

The idea that because I am in pain I shouldn’t take a vacation, or shouldn’t relax, or should give up on fun things in life is absolutely batshit crazy.

I don’t know if my head will get better, or God forbid worse. I have a week off before school starts again and I am going to enjoy that time. I’m going to (GULP) zip line over the mountains in Canada. I’m going to hike and walk and enjoy the great outdoors. I’m going to snuggle with my husband and sleep in and lay by a pool. I’m going to (hopefully) visit with friends who live nearby-ish.

I went to New York this weekend to visit with my friends. And by and large, I managed. The headache was mild Friday and Saturday and then as a result, I hardly slept Saturday night because of the severity of the pain. And was downright miserable all of Sunday. But, I survived. And to me, it was worth it. And that’s something that only I get to judge.

I realize that I am provoking pain when I do some things. I know that sometimes I make bad choices. I get that not everyone understands why I continue to try things that might make my pain worse, on the outside, it seems crazy. But doesn’t it seem more crazy to not live life in fear of more pain? Doesn’t it seem worse to never enjoy each day because you’re afraid that it’ll make the next one tougher?

So you’ll just have to trust me. You’ll have to understand that I make calculated decisions, ones that often bite me in the ass, but also ones for which I don’t need you to admonish me.

My head does that without any help from trolls or assbags.

On Sunday, Daisy and I left for the airport around 12:30 because there was a parade right by our hotel (I mean really, why wouldn’t there be a parade?) and we needed to give ourselves a good cushion of time to get to JFK to catch our flights.

After that morning’s brunch cab ride from hell, where I’m 100% certain that the driver was racing an imaginary second car, one that probably contained my life expectancy, I was weary of getting into another cab ever again, let alone a few hours later. To my delight and surprise, with the one exception of the driver feeling a compulsive need to check his cell phone every 6.4 seconds (I mean really, who is that addicted to their phone…), the ride was unremarkable.

When I got to my terminal I tried to print out my boarding ticket before someone could offer me help, because when you get right down to it, I’m a 3 year old. And help is the devil. Eventually the woman who insisted on helping me informed me that I was inserting my credit card in backwards and that might be why I couldn’t get the damn ticket to print.

I waited in a terminal that had a bird randomly flying around and with a bajillion people who think it’s appropriate to take up extra seats with their feet, until my zone was called and I boarded the plane.

The plane pulled away from the gate exactly on time. It was an aviary miracle.

And then we plunged into darkness. Really hot, stuffy, darkness.

Because the power failed.

Yea. I really wanted to be on that plane longer. I can think of nothing I’d rather do than fly for 6 hours on a plane that intermittently loses power. That doesn’t seem like it would be a problem at all.

They got the power started, explained that it wasn’t really the POWER power that went out, but just the auxiliary power, which only controlled silly stuff like air flow and lights and the toilets. Which we could totally live without for 6 hours. Eventually, they convinced me not to run off the plane screaming that the phalanges were broken and we got 35,000 feet up in the air.

To horrific turbulence. The kind where you think, oh, well this can’t last. Surely the pilot can find a different altitude to avoid this. And then the pilot comes on and says, um, yea, no, I can’t do anything for you. And it’ll last for about the next 20 minutes.

And apparently in pilotville, 20 minutes is the same as 2 hours.

The air and my mind both eventually calmed and we prepared to land at LAX. And I thought, huh, we seem really high up still, and hey, that’s the runway below us. Seems like we should be descending a bit more.

And then the right wheel hit. The left wheel did not.

And then the plane jerked to the left and the left wheel hit while the right wheel lifted back up again. And then we teeter-tottered until the plane nearly careened off the runway.

When we all started breathing again, the pilot buzzed in and apologized because that wasn’t really his best showing of skills. Which is weird, because it was totally the best showing of my ability to scream like a little girl. A little girl with a really serious swearing problem.

Needless to say, I’m walking to Canada this weekend.

So, BlogHer. New York.

I should probably start off this recap by telling you that I attended exactly zero panels at the conference, so what I learned at BlogHer was a bit less academic, if blogging can really be called that at all. The complete lack of attendance was brought to you by the change in time zones, overnight flights and my need to sleep. Plus, friends who peer pressured me into doing things like going to New York deli/bakeries and um, sitting in their hotel room.

Thankfully I’m a student so my ticket was cheap. Next year I will probably try harder. Maybe.

What I did do in New York, at BlogHer, was absolutely awesome. I know that all 2000+ of the attendees will have walked away with something different and many will not be as pleased as I was, as I am, with this weekend. But this is just my version, a small sliver of what I walked away from this weekend with.

In New York I made new friends, I saw and bonded with old ones.

I met people I’ve long admired, I came to admire many others.

I went to parties where I laughed more than I have all year.

I hugged friends and quietly cried when I left them.

I remembered how important this community of women (and a few men) really is to me.

I was re-invigorated in my writing, I was inspired to push myself to write more. More truthfully, more honestly, more freely, with more humor and more tears.

I was reminded of some of the ugliness of blogging and I was awakened to more of the beauty too.

I danced on a bed with some of my dearest friends in real life.

I gave a foot massage to another.

I had a conversation with someone I’ve never met that I can honestly say may have changed a big part of my life.

I met a Canadian who brought me maple syrup from her homeland. And said aboot.

I got blisters walking to a dinner at an awesome restaurant with a really fantastic group of writers, friends.

I got spit up and coffee on my pants, courtesy of one of my favorite kids. And then I got new pants because I’d only packed the one pair.

I had an opportunity presented to me, one that I can’t even share with you yet.

With the exception of accidentally blurting out (to her face) that the last time I’d met a pretty awesome blogger was when she was drunk at BlogHer last year and making a terrible (apology worthy) first impression with another, I have no regrets this weekend. Except that I didn’t get to meet everyone. That I couldn’t take more of it in. That it had to end.

I guess I do have regrets, but they’re the best kind.

There are more stories yet to be told. More silliness and seriousness unshared. I’m still taking it all in, still savoring these memories like the rare beauty that they are. Parcelling them out because I want to cling to them just a little bit longer. I hope you’ll be patient with me as I let you into this past weekend. These memories and lessons that I learned. The love I felt and shared.

And moments like this one, which need no explanation at all.