My Own Private Idaho

In 1991 Gus Van Sant wrote and directed a dark and compelling movie called My Own Private Idaho. It is a story of two friends who go on a quest for identity and connection and find something bigger than either one ever imagined.

This past week Richard and I took our first real vacation since my pain condition started eight years ago. We went to our own private idaho, which was, coincidentally, in Idaho. We did a six day, 120 mile white water rafting trip on the middle fork of the Salmon River.

This was the kind of adventure we used to do BP (before pain). We hiked the Canadian Rockies, climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro, flew with a bush pilot in the highlands of Papua New Guinea, scuba dived in the Cayman Islands. We loved to have a destination without a plan. To show up and follow the wind. We were our best selves, and at our best couple-ness, when we were moving up a mountain or diving into deep ocean. It was on dry land, within too easy reach of a wireless internet connection, that we usually lost ourselves.

When pain was my primary companion, my body and imagination were at its service. I could no more envision a wilderness adventure than I could see turning myself into a double half caf skim milk grande latte. My world was binary: pain - less pain.

When this rafting trip opportunity arose (it was at a friend's inviation who wanted to celebrate her 50th birthday in this way), I was hesistant. I feared being hundreds of miles away from Walgreens (where I send my prescriptions), a heating pad, and my pain specialist. The "what-if's" started accumulating. What if I have a pain spike? what if my meds get wet? what if it rains (my pain liked the rain)? Richard, the scientist and primo problem solver had work-arounds for all my worries.

Then I began worrying about being around twenty-five people for a week. Even BP, I needed a daily dose of solitude. AP (after pain), pain and I shared a special, private cell that only Richard and one friend ever entered. How could I focus and balance with so much human stimulation around every day?

I described my crowd anxiety to Richard. He smiled and said, "How nice to see you worrying about something other than pain. Just remember, a few years ago, a trip like this would have been unthinkable."

As soon as he said this, my perspective (and anxiety) shifted. It felt so sweet to indulge in the luxury of a normal worry.

The trip was amazing. I paddled hard and was soaking wet for 5 hours every day. My meds stayed dry. I met some wild Texans, and four take-no-prisoners Montana women who came packing water guns. I didn't think about pain much. For a week, I got reacquainted with my old self.

Mars/Venus....Who Cares!

I don't know if this communication challenge exists for all couples - but it's there for Richard and me. The challenge is how to know when the response that is required is problem solving and when the response that is desired is empathy. And illness can shorten tolerance and raise the temperature on conflict fairly quickly.

Those of you who have pegged this as a Mars/Venus dilemma with the woman as the Venus empathizer and the man as the Mars problem solver are only partially right. There are times when Richard wants a cuddle and to be told that I feel for his pain; and there are times when all I want is to have him fix the damn [fill in the blank -- usually it's computer or toilet].


The other night I was getting stressed over an upcoming business trip that will involve about 15 hours of travel time. I am not the road warrior I used to be pre-illness. Airplane travel flicks some neurological switch and I start to feel blips of pain. If the flight is shorter than 6 hours, I can ride out the blips. If the flight pushes into the double digits, pain wins -- unless I medicate myself into another dimension, which I hate doing.

So I was moaning and bemoaning. I wanted to go on this trip, but I feared the physical repercussions. And I hated that I had to factor them into the situation at all.

I could see Richard's posture stiffen in the way that it does when he is not sure of how to respond and doesn't want to say the wrong thing. I was too immersed in my worry spin to know what I wanted, much less provide him with any cues.

He handled the situation beautifully. He said:

"My instinct is to jump in and problem solve and tell you ways I think you could deal with this, but I'm not sure that's what you want. So I'll just tell you that I see that this is causing you such stress, and I truly feel for you and want to help you any way I can. I have some ideas I can share with you when you want them."

Like Golde said to Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof:

"If that's not love, what is?"