By Sam Woods
It’s strange what the mind does when it feels cornered.
The first time I hiked up a mountain someone warned me, “You might feel unwell—the air is thinner up there.” And it’s like that now, standing in a hospital room. My ears ring, my chest is tight, and my head buzzes with the headache I will soon have. I feel myself float away from my body, and all I can think is “the air is thinner up here.”
The first time I hiked up a mountain I did it solo. People warned me not to, and when they realized I wouldn’t be dissuaded, insisted on giving me useless advice instead. Advice like “pack more water than you think you’ll need,” “watch out for animals,” and “the air is thinner up there.”
I don’t know what I expected when I walked into the hospital room. I already knew she was dead, they told me as much on the phone…but seeing her like that, looking so much like she did the night before, small and crumpled (not to say she looked alive the night before and that I’m shocked at her death, more that she looked so dead already by then) takes me back to the mountain.
I hated that hike. I did feel unwell. And slow, and stupid, and scared. Every branch snapping was a bear (or worse) coming to attack. Every time I crested a hill I willed for this adventure to end, not even allowing myself to imagine the trek back yet.
In the hospital room my family holds her, saying goodbye while I stand there feeling dumb and slow and scared again, unable to move, or cry, or scream this time. When I finally do will myself to act, I turn around and leave the room without saying a word.
When I finally got to the highest point of my hike, I hurt. But like I’m proud of it, too, y’know? Like the pain was worth something. I didn’t even remember to take a picture.
I sit alone in a waiting room, which is appropriate as I’m waiting for my family to finish. I keep going back to the man telling me “the air is thinner up there” for reasons I can’t understand. The air is thinner up here. The air is thinner up here. The air is thinner up here. It’s the only thing my mind can hold, so instead I try to hold the picture from the mountaintop that I never remembered to take, and prepare for the hike down.