Something weird is happening to me. In the last six days I have:

• hiked up a mountain,
• gone to two gym fitness classes,
• Zumba-ed, and
• climbed a rock wall.

I am not this person. I’ve never liked getting sweaty, or pushing my body so hard that I ache the next day.

Maybe it’s because I’m closing in on 40, and am increasingly aware that I need to take care of this meat-vehicle of mine.

Maybe this is what I always intended to do/become, given that my subconscious made me add “physical activity” to our Plan B Life plan.

Maybe it’s because I have a stable life after living in various forms of limbo for five years, and Isaac has started kindergarten, and I can start becoming the Heather I’ve always been inside.

And/or maybe it’s because Brock’s one-year death-anniversary is this month, and that’s driving me to revel in my own healthy body, my tumour-free lungs, and all the opportunities I have in our new life to try new things.

Sobering thought: as of October 3, I will have lived longer than Brock.

That Time I Drove to Cranbrook

This adrenaline-junkie thing started on Thursday, September 6. I can pinpoint the date because that was the day I ran away to Vancouver.

September was too difficult for me, what with being Brock’s death-anniversary month and our imminent move into our new house, so (enabled by my fabulous sister Evy) I booked a flight for Thursday night to visit my bestie friend Q and his sweetie Taylor in the big VanCity for the weekend.

I dropped Isaac off at kindergarten and hit the road toward the airport, specifically Westside Road, a back route that is 5 minutes faster for me than taking the highway. Westside Road is a fun road to drive. It’s twisty and turny, with stunning views and some straight stretches. You have to watch for suicidal deer and fluorescent cyclists.

I started the drive mopey and weepy, longing for the bottles of wine that Q and I would inevitably drink while he listened to me mourn the death of my life partner.

And then I changed the music to an Eminem CD, and everything changed. I drove faster. I have a safe car, an all-wheel-drive Acura that Dad vouched for. I drove even faster. Isaac’s usually in the car with me, or I have other passengers, and I can never drive as fast as I want to. But I was driving alone that day, and I could drive as fast as I wanted.

Suddenly, instead of longing for a wine-y weekend on the couch, I started to think of all the things we could do that would feel as good as my driving too fast:

I could drive a race car.

I could get that second tattoo I’ve been wanting.

I could go zip-lining.

I could dance in a club with loud music and wear a slutty dress.

A switch flipped that afternoon, and I think — 15 days later — it’s still flipped. Or I’ve still flipped. Whatever.

I can’t get enough adrenaline. I’m constantly looking for more things to do, to see how close I can get to the edge.

Zumba = Self-harm?

About what that “edge” is: I do think there’s an element of self-harm in all this, because there’s that longing to physically manifest what is going on inside of me.

Wikipedia says:

“Some [people] use [self-harm] as a coping mechanism to provide temporary relief of intense feelings such as anxiety, depression, stress, emotional numbness, or a sense of failure.”

Yes, it feels good to bring all that pain of losing Brock to the surface, and feel my legs ache after the gym this morning. I liked the terror of dangling at the top of that climbing wall. I desperately want to drive on a race track, just to see how fast I can go before I’ve had enough (I have yet to figure out the logistics of making that happen).

So don’t fret: the fact that I am looking for a SAFE way to drive a fast car, and that I’m doing squats instead of cutting myself, means that we’re on the healthier end of the self-harm spectrum.

Part of Grieving?

Meanwhile, my widower friend is planning a three-month backpacking trip around the world, and I wonder if our shared need for adrenaline and adventure is part of the grief process. Another stage.

Maybe those of us who have watched our person die have a heightened appreciation for how WONDERFUL it can be to live.

Maybe doing something risky makes being alive even sweeter.

Survivors are extra aware that health and life can end at any time, long before we’ve checked off all the bucket list dreams. Maybe we just want to make the most of it, by having all the adventures available to us.

More More More

Evy and I bought a lottery ticket today (it’s at $60 million!) and if we win I’ll use my bit to do EVERYTHING. I’ll race cars, I’ll trek across a desert, I’ll fly in a helium balloon.

Come to think of it, I can do quite a lot without winning the lottery. Let’s see how far I can go.

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