Superhuman Strength
The photo above is from getting back on the chairlift successfully last weekend! So proud of my tough, resilient kids and so grateful for Simon’s support!
Recently, I went through a horrific experience that I am still processing. Writing helps me process, as does talking about it. When my husband asked me how he can help, I responded that this is something that my body and mind just need to process by acknowledging something horrific happened, honouring the ways it is affecting my body and my mind, and slowly, little by little, letting this experience move through me. I’m sure parts of this experience will live in me forever, but hopefully in a healthier way than the racing heart rate and endless replay loop that are currently taking up real estate inside me right now.
On to what happened…Two weeks ago, I decided to take my kids skiing in the afternoon for their PA day. I had gotten permission to take some time off work, the weather seemed to be cooperating; I was thrilled to have the privilege of spending time with my kids, outdoors, doing something we enjoy.
On our second run up the hill, we approached the line to mount the chairlift. As we approached, Noah was lagging behind a bit just as the chairlift attendant adjusted the speed of the chair from slow to fast. All of this to say that we were not adequately prepared when the chair arrived. Nonetheless, we proceeded to do our best to get on the chair. I lifted Noah up from under his arms while seating myself (and holding my poles and a backpack - you can just picture it!). My bottom didn’t quite make it on the seat squarely, nor did Noah’s. Without the ability to leverage myself, I struggled to lift him up. The chair didn’t care - it kept going. By the time we were approaching the end of the gated safety area, I realized I physically couldn’t get him on the chair. I screamed to stop the lift. It kept going. I kept trying to pull him up, but the chair kept going and he slipped down further. At this point, as we exceeded the gated safety area, Noah was completely dangling off the chair, and I was screaming at the top of my lungs. The people in the chair in front me turned around and noticed what was happening so they started to wave their poles. I imagine the people behind did the same. Eventually the chairlift stopped about a quarter of the way up the hill. But by this time, that was the last thing I wanted. My mind raced. “I can’t drop him now. We’re too high. But I can’t hold on to him. He’s too heavy. I’m in such an awkward position.” I switched from screaming “Stop the lift” to “I’m so scared!” But then something in me suddenly ignited. In a moment, I realized I was in it. We were going to the top just as we were - Noah dangling from the chair, me holding onto him for dear life. I switched from panic to control of the situation. I told Lauren to drop her poles and hold onto her brother, reassuring her that I had him, she was just ‘extra help’. I knew I couldn’t give her the responsibility of having her brother’s fate in her hands. I spoke calmly and firmly. “We got this. We’re in this together. We’re not letting go. You’re both so brave. Let’s take some deep breaths.”
Meanwhile, the chair resumed. The lovely family in the chair in front started talking to us. “You got this. You are so brave. Stay still, buddy. You’re doing great.” Those simple words made me feel less alone in a situation where I literally was holding my son’s fate in my hands. Someone else saw what we were going through. I will be forever grateful to this family for seeing me in that experience.
Several excruciating minutes later, we arrived at the top. I admit that as we approached the final climb over the rocks, I closed my eyes. It was one thing to watch skiers and snowboarders make their way down the hill beneath us, but it was another thing to make our way over top of jutting, snow-covered rocks with my son dangling and literally being held by my scrawny arms. As we approached the dismount area, I told Noah to lift the tips of his skis for fear that they would get caught and he would fall to the rocks below. A ski patroller awaited us and the lift stopped as soon as we summitted. The kids and I dismounted safely. And I fell into hysterics. I could finally let go. He was safe. We were safe. The sounds that came out of me were primal - sounds of relief, a massive letting go.
As I write this with tears in my eyes, I am in awe. In awe of Noah’s bravery. In awe of Lauren’s instant switch into rescuer mode. In awe of my own physical strength. While I don’t believe there is a silver lining to everything, there is gold to be gleaned. Here are my kernels of gold:
*Mothers all inherently possess superhuman strength when it comes to protecting their children. Hopefully we don’t have to use it, but when activated, it can literally lift cars.
*The kindness of strangers. I will be forever grateful to the people in the chair ahead of us, who talked to us the whole time, who made me feel less alone. After it was all over, the woman came to find me to tell me her name and checked in on me the next day. Witnessing someone in their experience - both good or bad, is invaluable. We have the power to do that for others at any time, and it can literally shift someone’s entire experience. This is also a shining example of moms lifting up other moms. I felt this woman, a mom as well, knew exactly what I was feeling during that excruciating ride, and the exhaustion, relief and fierce protectiveness.
*We all process differently. I’ve needed to talk about this experience. Lauren had physical symptoms. Noah blamed it on the wind. While each of us is doing what we need to to work through our pain differently, we are doing it together.
