Spiderman Can Eat My Dust

I don’t know exactly when I recognized that I had a profound and paralyzing fear of heights. As a child, I had only a minor fear, which I conquered when I jumped off the high dive at the local high school. After that, I became an avid tree climber. The higher I went, the more I exhilarating it was. Even after getting the wind knocked out of me after a 10 foot tumble out of a tree the neighborhood kids dubbed “the widow maker”, I still continued to climb.

I dreamed of living in a tree house, Swiss Family Robinson style, but with a working toilet. Even then, I appreciated my own shortcomings, and knew I could never survive without the convenience of running water. At one point during my childhood, we lived in a large Victorian house. It was flanked on one side by towering Maple trees that reached the same height as the top of the cupola. I could climb to just below the third story of the house. And there I would sit on the Y shaped branch for what seemed like hours, listening to the rustling of the wind in the leaves. Dreaming of my tree house. Clearly, I sported a considerably smaller behind back then.

But, inexplicably 20 years later, I found myself facing a 20 foot living room wall that I had been hired to faux paint. Just me, a ladder, a plate of paint, and a sea sponge. I looked up the wrungs of the ladder, and felt an old familiar tightening in my chest. I slowly began the climb, and at about the tenth wrung, my legs started shaking so that I couldn’t continue. I attempted that climb at least a dozen or so more times with the same results. Finally, I ended up renting a scaffold so that I could complete the job, which ending up eating a majority of my profit. But well worth it.

After that, I just avoided heights whenever possible. At an open mall, I would walk as far away from the railing as possible. A glass elevator was out of the question. I was plagued with recurring dreams about falling from a great height.

Today, I was given an opportunity to face my fear. Again. Trish gave my nephew a birthday party at a rock climbing gym. The rock wall was a good 40 feet. I stood looking up, and my brother in law said, “Well, you gonna do it?” “They don’t serve Margaritas here do they?” I half jokingly responded. The law of the gym was that if you wanted to climb, you had to watch a 15 minute video explaining how to avoid death while climbing. Oh, yeah, and sign a waiver stating that in the case of actual death occurring, the gym was in no way responsible. And your next of kin would clean up the mess.

Curious, I watched the video. And signed the waiver. Then popped a few more Hersheys Miniatures in my mouth, and put on the attractive black harness. I approached the wall when I thought most of my family was busy with the games portion of the party in another section of the gym. An acne prone kid of about 12 stood with a clip board in hand, adjusted my straps, and then TESTED ME ON THE MATERIAL I HAD WATCHED. Fortunately, my fear of death had heightened my ability to recall the necessary information. I hooked the harness hook into the thingy (a rock climbing technical term) and began my ascent. I knew nearly immediately that my seldom used muscles (and I use that term loosely) would be very very uncooperative. And angry.

I attacked that wall with the determination of my old 10 year old self. Midway up, I made the mistake of looking down, and after mildly hyperventilating, I continued. Keeping my eyes forward, six inches from each handhold. Toward the top, I realized I had an audience. My family, including my two young daughters, were at the bottom cheering me on. I had no choice but to reach the top. After a few harrowing moments, I reached up and slapped the top handhold. A shout went up from below.

And as I clung to the top of that wall, it occurred to me that now I had to get back down. I hadn’t given that much thought. I know that you’re suppose to let go of the handhold, and drop, repelling your way down. But you see, that involves, you know, LETTING GO. I couldn’t do it. With one hand I felt of the rope, and decided that there was no way it would hold me. That I would be the lone patron that would plummet 40 feet to my death. Splattering all of my assorted family members. I knew no one could come and get me, so I said a little prayer.

“Dear God please let me face this fear and have the strength to get back down without going splat on the mat in front of everyone I know and love. And I’m sorry about that really bad word I just muttered. Amen.”

So, I came down the way I went up. One foothold, one handhold at a time. All the while my cheerleaders were chanting “LET GO, LET GO.” I finally, after an epic amount of time, repelled the last 5 feet to the ground. My feet touched, legs gave out, and I landed on my bottom. And I lay there for a while looking up, thanking God for listening, since He was within earshot all the way up there after all. And I marveled that I was still in one piece. Instead of many hundreds of pieces, as I had envisioned. I faced my fear. And conquered it.

It coulda’ been worse, I suppose. Trish could have given her son a bungee jumping party, or a parachuting party. And should she consider these options next year, I’m bringing the Margarita mix.

And will I ever go rock climbing again? You better believe it. It totally ROCKED!

I just need to remember to pack my travel analgesic ointment.

Yes, that’s me up there, getting closer to God.