Last year our family went to Rocky Mountain National Park. We only had two days there, and we had a family full schedule planned with hikes, etc. One of those hikes was a 10-mile in-and-out hike.
The day we left for our trip, I threw out my back blow drying my hair. (I swear back issues always have the most basic of care task causes.) I was pretty much living on stretches, muscle relaxer, ibuprofen, and lidocaine patches.
We were prepared, as much as we could be, for my back to be the main issue that may present itself on our hike. I packed all of my supplies with an entire bottle of ibuprofen.
The morning of our hike our family got to the shuttle location super early to insure parking, rode the shuttle to our trailhead, and off we went. The trail we took followed a fairly popular trail for the first few miles and then split off. We saw a lot of people those few miles, and then rarely saw people after that.
It was the most amazing hike I’ve ever been on. The lakes were clear, and the mountain views were amazing. It was one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been to. We took a million pictures.
At mile 4.5ish we reached another lake and decided to let the kids swim. We set up our hammocks and set out our blankets, ready to enjoy a hiking break with breathtaking views. My husband and I sat down to have a snack and watch the kids enjoy the water. It was in this moment that we found Eliza’s water bottle, completely full.
While we had taken plenty of water breaks, no one thought to double check to make sure my 8 year old was actually drinking. My husband and I looked at each other with dread, because just moments before, Eliza had started complaining of a headache.
Coaxing her out of the lake, we encouraged her to drink some water and we tried, and failed to get her to take an ibuprofen (she wasn’t able to swallow a pill). Eliza has a history of migraines so we decided to pack up to head back, cutting the hike short.
We kept encouraging her to drink water, but the damage was done. Within a mile, she started crying, and then screaming from her migraine. With 2 miles to go, the vomiting started.
A 2 mile hike that seemed fairly easy on in turned into one of the longest 2 miles we’ve ever experienced. (When you have a screaming, vomiting, during covid, on a trail, it turns out people give you very dirty looks, too. FYI.) We tried multiple times to get Eliza to swallow an ibuprofen, but mid-migraine is NOT the time to try to teach a child to swallow a pill.
We were planning to take another way back to the shuttle, but it was a longer hike, so my husband took our other children that way, and I took Eliza to the shuttle and went to the car where I had chewable ibuprofen and diet coke. (Once she got those in her system, she was almost back to normal! Enough for her to go to the rock shop, which was on her bucket list.)
When my husband and I talk or think about this hike, we have mixed feelings. We both agree it was one of the most beautiful places we’ve ever been, certainly the most beautiful hike we’ve ever taken. The feelings of viewing creation that had such a raw, natural beauty still hits in me in my soul. But, the desperation I felt on that same trail to help my girl feel better was horrible.
It reminds me of the way that birth or postpartum sometimes go. You’re doing this amazingly beautiful thing, and you’re so grateful for it. It fills your soul when you think about it. But, at the same time, there may be this horrible sense of desperation where you feel so helpless.
Sometimes our birth plans have to change significantly.
Sometimes planned home births have to transfer.
Some times people planning VBAC’s need a repeat cesarean.
You’re so grateful for this beautiful new human you’ve brought into the world.
Maybe you planned to breastfeed for an extended period of time, but needed to swap to formula after a few days.
Maybe the postpartum overwhelm is making it hard to parent your other children.
Maybe you are struggling with a postpartum mood disorder.
You are so proud of the hard work you did to get there. There are so many beautiful parts, maybe the most beautiful parts. Sometimes, though, mixed in with those beautiful parts are the hardest parts. The most painful parts. Maybe some ugly parts. Sometimes there’s that your-child-having-a-migraine-on-a-hike feeling that you have to be able to hold at the same time.
It can be the most amazing adventure you’ve ever been on, yet also have it be the hardest, scariest, and most difficult thing you’ve ever done.
I don’t have a pretty fix or an eloquent wrap up for this post. Just a validation. It’s ok if your most beautiful memories are intertwined in the hard ones.
