"Obviously, I miscalculated a few things." So begins one of my surprise-favorite movies from 2011--Limitless. The movie opens with a scene close to the end. Bradley Cooper's character Edward Morrow stands on the ledge of his penthouse apartment, ready to plummet to his death, while a group of thugs try to break down his front door. As it is with movies that start at the end, the viewer is left to wonder: How did it come to this?
That's the exact question I asked myself around 3:00am Saturday night--shivering, spitting, wrapped in a dirty tarp, and massaging a lump in my chest that felt more and more like a grapefruit as time seeped by.
The first thing you should know is that I have a history with Scout Klondike Camp. The last time I'd attended, I was a sniveling, ponderously wussy 12-year-old. On that occasion, I somehow believed that I could safely pass the night under a frozen sleeping bag and above a thin layer of tent canvas, wearing nothing but wet clothes. Fortunately, at 6 am, other Scouts discovered my condition and started a fire that saved my life. There's nothing like a little hypothermia to make for the longest night ever.
So when I agreed to be the Scoutmaster for our local Troop, my subconscious almost immediately started preparing me for Klondike, Part II. And I was prepared for this one. I really was. I bought equipment and clothing. I attended cold-weather training. I packed and dressed appropriately. In short, I was ready for anything. So… how on earth did it come to this?
Everything went fairly smoothly Friday afternoon. I bumped off work early, made final preparations, met the two Scout parents and their two sons, loaded everyone's gear into the back of a truck, and left for District Klondike in Payson Canyon. We arrived, loaded our gear into a large cargo sled and three smaller plastic sleds, hiked a half mile to our spot, and set up camp. Our site had a pavilion--which meant a lot of clear, level ground instead of four feet of snow--and a long picnic table, which made set up much easier. Simple, right? I even remember remarking jovially to everyone, "This is too simple!" You ever notice how nothing EVER goes simply after you say something like that?
For dinner we had some fabulous Son of a Gun stew, prepared by the Assistant Scout Master's wife. I took my second-to-last bite of stew, wondering flippantly if I'd burned enough calories to justify eating this much.
That's when it happened: A perfectly normal-sized, normally-chewed piece of beef caught in my esophagus.
No dig deal, I thought. I've had acid reflux for years, after all. Hundreds of pieces of food have lodged uncomfortably down there in the past. But it passes to the stomach. It always passes.
An hour passed. I tried drinking water but threw it right back up. I tried relaxing, spending time alone, pacing--all the stuff I normally do to get that bit of food rowing gently down the stream. But still nothing happened. I attended the evening activity: A scavenger hunt of sorts where we joined the other Scouts and looked for glow sticks in the snow. The discomfort in my throat was swelling, but still I thought it'd pass.
And still the discomfort grew.
I started getting desperate. I prayed several times, as I usually do when this happens, but my prayers steadily grew in fervency. Finally, for the first time ever, I tried gagging myself with my finger half a dozen times. But even a turned-over stomach couldn't dislodge the beastly piece of beef that had now dug in for the long haul. Nothing was going in or out.
At 11:00, I found cell reception, called Shannon, and immediately regretted it. I admitted to her that I had a "problem," and Shannon ended up getting as little sleep as I did that night while she literally worried herself sick. Now I had her sanity to worry about as well as mine.
Quixotically, I tried settling down for bed around 11:30, and ironically, that was the warmest I'd ever been on a winter campout. But I spent the entire time oscillating between bouts of claustrophobia brought on by the tightening sensation in my chest and coming close to choking on my own saliva. Finally, at 1:00 am I threw in the towel. To avoid waking my tent mates, I groped in the dark as silently as possible for anything that would help me survive the night outside and left the cozy tent for good.
I spent the night sitting on the picnic bench wrapped up in a tarp half-asleep, or walking up and down a hill half-awake to stay warm. At times I dozed off, only to snap awake, throw up whatever saliva had accumulated in my throat, shiver, and force myself to get moving in order to pump blood to my extremities. I probably walked a few miles that night, stumbling around on the snowy trails, faintly able to make out shapes and movement (All that groping around in the tent couldn't produce my glasses), and trying to convince my over-wrought brain that the creaks in the forest weren't nearly as insidious as they sounded. Throughout it all, the swelling sensation in my chest continued to grow.
As in all survival situations, the mind game is the most challenging and critical aspect. My mind kept assaulting me with the what-ifs--i.e. what if this monster in your esophagus never leaves, what if Shannon worries herself sick, what if I'm never warm again, etc.--and I kept beating them back with thoughts of my children, my home, my warm bed, and a loving God who I knew was still there, who still loved me, and who wanted me to pass through this trial and see another day. More than anything else, though, thoughts of my wife piloted me through that dark and frightening night.
After almost seven of the longest hours of my life, I finally swallowed my pride, awoke everyone, and announced that I was in trouble.
I know it was incredibly stupid not to just wake everyone up and end the party earlier. The Scouts' parents made that fact very clear to me at least five times afterwards. But what can I say? I was cold, I was exhausted, I was uncomfortable, and I wasn't thinking clearly. And since I knew I'd need to leave when dawn finally arrived, I at least wanted them to have a good night's rest before I ruined the rest of their Klondike experience.
The monster in my esophagus decided to get his last kicks in during the ride home. By the time we arrived, I was in some serious hurt, but there was no time for a respite. Shannon whisked me away to the emergency room, my children quietly sobbing in the back seat, asking if I was going to die. I told them that I was 100% sure I wouldn't but had a hard time making myself sound convincing as I bit back on tears of fatigue, frustration, and pain.
ER took their sweet time prepping for my procedure. I spent two hours sitting around on a gurney, wearing snow pants, boots, a hospital gown, and a very haggard expression. I filled up a sickness bag with spit, tried not to cry around my family, and wondered if I'd ever feel normal again.
At long last, they wheeled me to another room, put me under the influence of anesthesia (the first time I'd ever experienced that kind), and I awoke five short minutes later, the monster in my throat gone at last. I went home, drank way too little, climbed into bed, and finally awoke again around dinner time for my first real food and water since before my ordeal.
It's all over now, except that Shannon needs more recovery time than me, I think. I'm on a soft-food diet for two weeks until they stick a balloon down my throat and expand my esophagus--a procedure I've put off for far too long.
Until that time, I'm left with the same lingering question: How on earth did it come to this… again?
I still don't know why, but I'm grateful for what lessons I did glean from one of the most miserable nights of my life. I learned that Heavenly Father loves us, even and especially when we suffer. I learned that we can't ignore our own mortality. Instead, we need to listen when our bodies tell us something is broken. I learned to swallow my pride and lean on other human beings when in sincere need. I learned a healthy respect for all of mother nature's forces. And I learned, with a little more clarity than normal, just how much my wife and kids mean to me.
Still (for those who recognize the movie reference), Klondike is my Eleanor. From now on, I'm giving it a wide birth.
