You Still Do YOU with Tougles

Into the Wild: From Feeding Tube to Trail Food

To escape the heat and recharge my introverted, tree-hugging nature, we went deep into the CO mountains. Three days of remote camping—something I would have only dreamed about doing in that first two years of post-surgery rehabilitation.

I remember when simply walking to the end of the block took all my energy, weighted down by what felt like a 100-pound bowling ball teetering on my freshly dissected neck. Saliva constantly running out of my mouth—my dignity and pride bruised. With an awkward tube tucked into my pants, hoping it wouldn’t yank, creating another sore on my abdomen. My clothes were always stained from the feeding tube dripping or from me losing whatever I had attempted to put in my mouth.

Everything took effort. I was covered in deep wounds that had to be managed with ointment, cleaning and avoidance of water. I was skinny as a rail, malnourished and had lost muscle. I even had a new and permanent dimple (bed sore) in my bum that the nurses said was shaped like a bright red heart, caused by lying on the operating table for 15 hours.

I was a hot mess.

I imagine myself on that cold slab, in the operating room, painted in red iodine, drugged out of my mind, with people doing the absolute most unimaginable horrors to my mouth. Recovery—and the future—were unknown. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t speak. I had to sleep sitting up. I was in pain. My BMs were weird. Nothing was normal or as it had once been.

All I could do was take one day at a time.

And that’s exactly what I did.

Y’all, I share the trials of my recovery not to complain—believe me, many tears and cuss words had already transpired—but to remind you that we are, as a species, ridiculously resilient.

Today, I’m thinking about my recent trip into the wilds of the Rio Grande National Forest.

I was able to hike in the Great Divide, elevation and all. My body was strong. My lungs were pumping clean mountain air. I was not dribbling saliva. I kept my mouth closed and breathed deeply through my nose as I climbed through aspen and pine. No feeding tube pulled on my body. The weight of my head or sturdiness of my neck wasn’t even on my mind. And at the end of the trail, high on a mesa, I found a good log to sit a spell. I pulled out a bag of cashews and cranberries and my Tougles, and as I ate, I delighted in how food just tastes better at the end of a long trail than it does at home.

I’ve come a long way, as I know many of us have. And many of us still have a ways to go.

But that’s what we do. We go. We move through life. It doesn’t matter when it gets easier.

What matters is that simply by going forward, each day you are one step closer to a healed you.

And before you know it, you may find yourself high above the tree line, looking down in wonder at just how far you have gone—and realizing just how resilient and strong you are.

So, how did I manage all this camping business?

Well, I had my trusty portable blender. For breakfast, I put peaches, hemp seed, powdered oat milk and water into the blender. This gave me the protein and carbs to start the day, and no chewing required. After exploring all day, we came back, made a huge fire, then, using a gas stove, I boiled water and cooked veggies—carrots and onions do fine without being refrigerated—dehydrated black beans and instant quinoa flakes. Mix it all together with a splash of olive oil and salt, and it was delicious. I also love a can of tinned fish packed in oil with crackers.

I can’t eat any of this without my Tougles, so I brought three on this adventure. Because, when you are living out of the Jeep, everything is constantly getting lost. The flashlight, the lighter—you got to be organized, whatever you do, don't lose the TP and shovel!

We had some very curious chipmunks at our campsite. I think they had their eye on the trail mix and hemp seeds. Well, one absconded with one of my Tougles. I have the chipmunk teeth marks as a reminder, and it makes me grin to see them. It’s a nice reminder of being in the forest.

The most special moment of the trip was sitting under incandescent stars and watching the crimson

moon rise, awaiting the eclipse. When the moon went dark, the Milky Way came forward,

and it left me spellbound.

As I sit here in TX, where, mind you, it’s hot as hell (stripped shirtless from a fit of heat annoyance--don't worry, my curtains are closed), and recall that cold, still night, my head back, staring up into the ether, thinking: I’m so grateful to be alive, having overcome what once seemed impossible, witnessing this magical moment.