Chapter 31 – Home

“Travel does not exist without home. If we never return to the place we started, we would just be wandering, lost. Home is a reflecting surface, a place to measure our growth and enrich us after being infused with the outside world.” ~ Josh Gates

Few experiences will bring a person to a full knowledge of their senses as traveling alone. Maneuvering a far-away land will heighten your awareness at every level. It’s the thing I’ve learned over time that brings me most alive. It’s not so much the getting away from things as it is the freshness of new, uncharted experience. Traveling alone builds confidence, character, and offers a perspective on the world that is achieved no other way. Comfort zone boundaries are demolished and necessarily overcome when you have no idea what to do next, and no other choice than to figure it out. But there is nothing that stirs the blood as standing at the helm of your destiny.

Solo travel can also have a life-changing effect on how a person thinks about home.

After a walking a million and a half steps across Spain it was comforting and exhilarating thinking about the familiarity of home, but I was petrified of the conversations surely ahead in future social situations.

Somewhere over the ten-hour North Atlantic flight home it occurred to me. People are inevitably going to ask you to talk about this. And most of them are going to say, ‘Well, how was it, and what was it like?’ As surely as the sun rises, people would ask that question just as if it had been a long weekend vacation on the beach. I feared my any given trigger reaction to the empty questions.

All of a sudden there was a keen awareness of an inadequate fragility that goes with returning home after a hallowed and humbling experience that has changed you in ways too early to understand. Never speaking of it again would have been perfectly fine. That’s how it felt at the time, anyway.

***

Wheels down in Memphis concluded a remarkable seven-week odyssey. As the reverse engines roared I exhaled deeply blowing out what seemed every emotion God ever made.

Stepping out from the aisle seat on Row 10, I reached to the overhead bin and strapped on my backpack a final time. A text from Dana brought a wide smile. I’m here! The Delta captain stood at the cockpit’s entrance as passengers deplaned. I thanked him and shook his hand for the safe trip home.

The C concourse for arriving flights at Memphis International Airport is simple and uncomplicated with the feel of a regional terminal. From the furthest arrival gate it’s no more than a five-minute walk past security to the point where friends and family await weary travelers. At the last left turn there’s a final thoroughfare short enough you can see past the TSA checkpoint and make out faces in the eager crowd. Home always happens when I see my wife’s face there.

Just before the turn my hands went automatically to their familiar spot on the backpack straps and a sequence of images from the last seven weeks raced vividly through my mind. It was incredible what had happened really, and the fragility came full-bore.

Fifty yards down the concourse she was smiling the purest most familiar smile I know. It easily came to mind what a blessing she’d been and how much I loved every single thing about her. Reaching around her neck I began crying unexpectedly and couldn’t let go. It was so hard, I remember choking out and holding her tight. It was just so far, and so hard but I didn’t quit. The embrace must have lasted a minute as travelers walked politely around us. Home can be anywhere for me as long as Dana’s there.

At home, a long hot steamy shower with fresh smelling soap and a soft towel was a momentary rejuvenation from three consecutive days of non-stop travel, but short-lived from a desire for sleep in my own bed. For the next twelve hours things went black.

We avoided people for days and Dana kept me well insulated from the outside world, aware of my desire to stay clear of people and conversation. Eventually visitors came. “We want to hear all about it,” they said. The predictable sweeping nature of the question made me ill.

“You’ll have to ask some more specific questions,” Dana jumped in. “I don’t think he really knows how to answer the big open-ended questions yet.” She saved me.

The truth is that most people ask these questions only for the sake of polite social chit chat. It’s required decorum, and the only thing we know. They really don’t care, and it’s not really their fault because they could never understand. Some have labeled it the Seinfeld Effect. You’re telling a story answering someone’s question about one of the most unique experiences of a lifetime, and in five minutes, they’re staring off into space, completely uninterested, wondering which Seinfeld rerun will air next. This happened countless times and it’s one of several reasons the story of pilgrimage is so personal and private.

In some ways I was completely prepared for what came next. In others, I’m still figuring it out today.

My Day in Jipijapa

The streets of Jipijapa. This is an extremely calm scene relative to most times.

The streets of Jipijapa. This is an extremely calm scene relative to most times.

Notice the name on the commercial tienda. "El Gato." Everyone has a nickname here, and this is the store owner's moniker. Every fourth man here is nicknamed El Gato. Why would any guy want to be called The Cat?

Notice the name on the commercial tienda. “El Gato.” Everyone has a nickname here, and this is the store owner’s moniker. Every fourth man here is nicknamed El Gato. Why would any guy want to be called The Cat?

Pretty typical scene. You don't even want to know how low the prices are.

Pretty typical scene. You don’t even want to know how low the prices are.

Also pretty typical.

Also pretty typical.

We have a presidential election here coming up in two weeks.

We have a presidential election here coming up in two weeks.

This is AgriPac, a store where you buy seeds, feed, chemicals, kind of an old time feed store. There is no rhyme or reason to how you get waited on in these stores. Patience carries the day, especially if you have fair skin and blue eyes.

This is AgriPac, a store where you buy seeds, feed, chemicals, kind of an old time feed store. There is no rhyme or reason to how you get waited on in these stores. Patience carries the day, especially if you have fair skin and blue eyes.

Shoes for the ladies.

Shoes for the ladies.

Maria "la Chihuahua" Blount on a mission TCB.

Maria “la Chihuahua” Blount on a mission TCB.

Street meat. Not for the gringo gastronomy. Don't go there people.

Street meat. Not for the gringo gastronomy. Don’t go there people.

The sno cone guy. Every town has several sno cone guys with carts like this. For 50 cents you can get refreshed.

The sno cone guy. Every town has several sno cone guys with carts like this. For 50 cents you can get refreshed.

Centro de Jipijapa. Center of government and commerce. Where everything happens.

Centro de Jipijapa. Center of government and commerce. Where everything happens.

Check out the price. You'd be surprised how some things are considered a luxury here. Shaving cream is one. Unfortunately, I needed it.

Check out the price. You’d be surprised how some things are considered a luxury here. Shaving cream is one. Unfortunately, I needed it.

Almuerzo.

Almuerzo.

Ciao por ahora. Hasta luego.

Ciao por ahora. Hasta luego.

Relax. You’re on Beach Time.

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The photo above shows a sign I keep on the pantry door of our little Casa Azul in Puerto Cayo, Ecuador. It has a purpose. Probably not the one you think.

On the exterior, I can be just about whatever you need at the moment. Extrovert? It’s not my natural style, but I can play it well enough just about any time if that’s what you need. I made a good part of my livelihood as an adjusted-style extrovert. Curmudgeonly hermit-like introvert? Yes, it comes quite naturally, thank you. Business guy in suit and Johnson and Murphys? Sure, no problem. Country farmer with dirt underneath his fingernails. Even easier.

On a positive note, my bougainvillea is looking pretty good for such dry conditions.

On a positive note, my bougainvillea is looking pretty good for such dry conditions.

But my comfort zone is being my own boss making enough money to pay bills and travel a couple of times a year, and focusing on whatever my limited attention span is interested in for the next few months. I don’t mean that in an egotistical or sarcastic way. In fact, up until not so long ago my proclivity to boredom was the think I disliked most about myself. But during the last year it’s a simple truth truth I’ve accepted – even embraced – and knowing who I truly am, supercedes most, but not quite all, things these days.

I’m no longer caught up in things like image, public opinion, social status, or chamber of commerce award banquets. I just kind of like to be my own guy. Is that so wrong?

It’s easier some places than others. If nothing else, Ecuador has taught how to chill every expectation.

There’s a radical and immediate shift in time somewhere between Arkansas and Ecuador. I’m a high-strung traveler, anxious on airplanes, exhaustively pro-active in heading off unwanted potential surprises, hyper conscious of where everything is all the time. Travel Mode begins the night before a trip and doesn’t end until wheels down at whatever destination. It took me a while to learn that wheels down in Ecuador means time moves sideways into a different dimension.

High-strung doesn’t work here. And you’d better lose the attitude fast if you don’t want to drive yourself and everyone around you nuts.

I recall the time a carpenter finally showed up at the house a week after the initial appointment. He came in, surveyed the work, and immediately left because he didn’t bring his hammer. “Back in an hour,” he said. It’s always, “back in a hour, or tomorrow, maybe.”

The time three guys made an emergency call to save us from raw sewage overflowing a septic tank onto our back yard? You don’t even wanna know.

We have a water shortage here. Sometimes you’re lucky enough to get it through a municipal line. Other times, you call a tanker to fill your cistern. Need a shower desperately? The tanker guy will be there when he gets there.

Sometimes I’ll hear people talk with a wistful romanticism about their travels to exotic locations such as Cancun, Fiji, Madrid or maybe Puerto Vallarta. “Time stands still,” they say, dreamily imagining a life with so many umbrella drinks.

Maybe so, but in Ecuador, time gets turned upside down and “beach time” isn’t always the most romantic thing in the world. The key word in the sign on my pantry is “Relax.”

Tranquillo.

It isn’t perfect, but life is good in Ecuador.

-30-

 

Camino 2016: Some Fave Photos

Dana celebrating at the end of the world

Dana celebrating at the end of the world

Near Finisterre in the last 2k.

Near Finisterre in the last 2k.

Our friend, Kathy McLeskey from Florida who followed me last year and went for her own Camino this year. We met for the first time in Santiago. She's a great pilgrim.

Our friend, Kathy McLeskey from Florida who followed me last year and went for her own Camino this year. We met for the first time in Santiago. She’s a great pilgrim.

Andrew Suzuki producer of Beyond the Way and Don't Stop Walking. I've always been a fan, and we bumped into one another for coffee in Santiago, then had dinner that night. A real creative talent and super nice guy. Such a pleasure to meet him.

Andrew Suzuki producer of Beyond the Way and Don’t Stop Walking. I’ve always been a fan, and we bumped into one another for coffee in Santiago, then had dinner that night. A real creative talent and super nice guy. Such a pleasure to meet him.

We made it!

We made it!

You'll find "monument art" like this all along the Way. This is my very favorite as you enter the final kilometers to Santiago. It really speaks to me as in, "We have arrived!"

You’ll find “monument art” like this all along the Way. This is my very favorite as you enter the final kilometers to Santiago. It really speaks to me as in, “We have arrived!”

Entering Arca.

Entering Arca.

Dana on the famous (sometimes infamous) rock bridge on the stage near Arzua.

Dana on the famous (sometimes infamous) rock bridge on the stage near Arzua.

Not sure where this is.

Not sure where this is.

Jesus said: I am the Way and the Truth and the Life.

Jesus said: I am the Way and the Truth and the Life.

Very typical November morning.

Very typical November morning.

I got 2 or 3 shots this trip where the light was perfect. This is one.

Sometimes you shoot a photo simply because the light is perfect, regardless of the content or composition. I got 2 or 3 shots this trip where there was perfect light. This is one.

Leaving Portomarin and the beginning of one of the final ascents on the Way. I love this photo. It says so many things to me.

Leaving Portomarin and the beginning of one of the final ascents on the Way. I love this photo. It says so many things to me, and reminds me of a prayer by Thomas Merton.

After a really long 16-mile day, this awaits in Portomarin. Ugh.

After a really long 16-mile day, this awaits in Portomarin. Ugh.

I believe this is my #1 favorite photo from our trip. Dana walking with Darla from Minnesota as we descend from O Cebreiro and enter Triacastela. It was a long hard walk and we were really tired and hungry about this time.

I believe this is my #1 favorite photo from our trip. Dana walking with Darla from Minnesota as we descend from O Cebreiro and enter Triacastela. It was a long hard walk and we were really tired and hungry about this time.

Also near Triacastela. Somehow on this trip I got into the habit of shooting photos where it appeared we were talking through a tunnel. This is one.

Also near Triacastela. Somehow on this trip I got into the habit of shooting photos where it appeared we were talking through a tunnel. This is one.

Us with Steve and Darla, friends from Minnesota.

Us with Steve and Darla, friends from Minnesota.

Another favorite in the church at O Cebreiro, the oldest church on the Way.

Another favorite in the church at O Cebreiro, the oldest church on the Way.

A beauty of a day in Galicia. The snow wasn't far behind.

A beauty of a day in Galicia. The snow wasn’t far behind.

A toast to ourselves at a little bar in Ponferrada at the Castle of the Knights Templar.

A toast to ourselves at a little bar in Ponferrada at the Castle of the Knights Templar.

More beer. Ha. You'd think we drink all the time. Not true, but a cold beer sure does taste good after a long day of walking.

More beer. Ha. You’d think we drink all the time. Not true, but a cold beer sure does taste good after a long day of walking. Actually this is a cerveza de limón, half beer, half lemon juice.

Dana at daybreak at Cruz de Ferro. It was amazing to watch the sun bring the morning light and I was lucky to get this shot. The light at this elevation is amazing. If I were in charge of Foncebadon I'd rename it Fuego del Cielo (fire from heaven).

Dana at daybreak at Cruz de Ferro. It was amazing to watch the sun bring the morning light and I was lucky to get this shot. The light at this elevation is amazing. If I were in charge of Foncebadon I’d rename it Fuego del Cielo (fire from heaven). The iron cross has been in this location since 1530.

The tokens we left behind at Cruz.

The tokens we left behind at Cruz.

Leaving Foncebadon for Cruz de Ferro. Early and cold, but it was worth it.

Leaving Foncebadon for Cruz de Ferro. Early and cold, but it was worth it.

The final Ks of the stage entering Foncebadon. Another long day.

The final Ks of the stage entering Foncebadon. Another long day.

Enjoying time in the square at Astorga. We got a hotel that night. So nice to have clean sheets and towels. Plus, I'm sporting gentleman's cap I couldn't resist in Burgos. My one big splurge for 60 euros.

Enjoying time in the square at Astorga. We got a hotel that night. So nice to have clean sheets and towels. Plus, I’m sporting gentleman’s cap I couldn’t resist in Burgos. My one big splurge for 60 euros.

Another top five favorite photo entering Astorga. This one framed up nicely.

Another top five favorite photo entering Astorga. This one framed up nicely.

I trail named her, "Rookie." It stuck.

I trail named her, “Rookie.” It stuck.

Stamping the pilgrim's credencial, proof of the journey for your compostela upon arrival in Santiago.

Stamping the pilgrim’s credencial, proof of the journey for your compostela upon arrival in Santiago.

Another tunnel.

Another tunnel.

Ahhh ... Burgos. The 200-mile mark for those walking the full Camino Frances.

Ahhh … Burgos. The 200-mile mark for those walking the full Camino Frances.

More beer. More perfect light. HA!

More beer. More perfect light. HA! But seriously, look at that frosty mug.

Fuente de Irache, where the wine flows from the tap.

Fuente de Irache, where the wine flows from the tap.

November really is a lovely time on the Camino.

November really is a lovely time on the Camino.

We did have some bad weather days, but for 30 days of walking the conditions were extraordinarily good.

We did have some bad weather days, but for 30 days of walking the conditions were extraordinarily good.

Tapas in Pamplona. Buen provecho!

Tapas in Pamplona. Buen provecho!

A pilgrim walking through a tunnel not far outside Uterga. Another photo that makes me think about a lot of things.

A pilgrim walking through a tunnel not far outside Uterga. Another photo that makes me think about a lot of things.

 

Together We Are #PilgrimStronger

At the Memphis airport last December 3 as I arrived home from pilgrimage after 45 days. Little did we know at that moment we'd head back to the Camino together in 10 months.

At the Memphis airport last December 3 as I arrived home from pilgrimage after 45 days. Little did we know at that moment we’d head back to the Camino together in 10 months.

Managing my propensity to occasional depression has pretty much been the same for more than 40 years. I’m just more aware of the management process now, and have become more proactive than reactive about it. Today it’s no longer a subconscious coping tool, but a need of which I’m aware that’s become as much a part of my life as opening the pool for the season, or the annual termite inspection.

The best prescription I’ve found is pursuing something difficult that requires long, disciplined preparation – something intense enough that it brings a focused distraction to the hopelessness many of us privately know in depression. I’m one of the lucky ones who’s found a way to turn sadness into gladness.

I wasn’t a natural athlete as a kid, but found myself working obsessively harder than average to become a decent high school ball player. Spent most of my 20s laying the career groundwork for landing my political communication dream job at 32. Just a few years later invested 36 months completely dedicated to marathon training and made the distance three times. The cycle never ends, and reflecting on those efforts is exhausting. Not to have pursued them might have been deadly.

Early in our marriage and as the recession wrecked our livelihood I experienced a depression that took me so far into myself that I wasn’t sure I’d come back. Dana may have wondered the same. Part of the healing process involved watching late night adventure shows about far-away places. They were shows that kept us dreaming.  However you do it, and wherever you must search, depression requires that you cling to hope. My hope has always been in Christ Jesus, but depression will sometimes trick and rob you of that hope. Another topic, another time. One night, a part of my worldly hope was found in a movie called The Way.

***

In October 2015, I set out for a 500-mile walk across Spain on the ancient pilgrimage of the Camino de Santiago as both preventive depression therapy, and a celebration for overcoming that hard time years earlier. I would’ve never made it through that time, or to the Camino, without Dana. Though 5,000 miles across an ocean, she was with me every step. A man can find no adequate measurement for the value of a supportive, committed, loving wife. There is no standard to which I can point. I value it above all things, save my identity in Christ.

It took four days and about 60 miles of walking last year to realize one of the most valuable lessons I’d learn on the Camino. Pilgrimage was best experienced and more profoundly understood when I approached it as a story. When I became free to experience the Camino in such a familiar way, everything changed. I’d found “my Camino.”

Unconventionally, and to the dismay of pilgrimage purists, I conveyed the stories in real time, up and over the Pyrenees, through the Meseta, eight hours through a Galician blizzard, and to the end of the world. Mostly through meeting new friends along the way there were stories about relationships, hardship, loss, determination, and hope. I found the stories refreshingly rich and real, and the experience of telling them helped me reclaim things I didn’t even know I’d lost. I hate the cliché, but yes, the Camino provided exactly what I needed.

I came home, wrote a book about it, and wondered what would come next, because I knew the story wasn’t finished. A wise French companion once told me “a pilgrim never stops walking the path.”

***

“An excellent wife who can find?  She is far more precious than jewels. The heart of her husband trusts in her, and he will have no lack of gain. She does him good, and not harm, all the days of her life.” ~ Proverbs 31:10-12

When the unexpected opportunity presented itself last week for Dana and I both to return to the Camino this fall, we booked the tickets without much thought to all the things one should think about when it comes to getting off the grid for a month. I’ve lost enough friends during the last two years to know that when you’re 70 percent sure about something that may seem far-fetched at the moment, you try your best to say “yes,” and figure the rest out as you go. After a flurried exchange of text messages about the chance to go as a couple, we said “yes.”

Not only am I excited to walk again, meet new friends, and see new places, I’m excitedScreen Shot 2016-07-27 at 6.29.04 AM to tell a new story. And I think I’m as eager as anything to watch the experience unfold for Dana. That’s the story I want to tell you. This time I want to share the experience through her eyes.

For 31 days I’ll be Dana’s walking documentary journalist, sharing a few of my perspectives about her pilgrimage, but mostly telling it as she sees things through photos, text and video.

This wasn’t her idea. She’s not even comfortable with it yet.

But the world needs more stories about good people. Not the ones who pretend to be good, or those who shout from the mountaintops that they’re good, but rather the ones who are good.

I’ve never known a better, more selfless, more compassionate, humble person than my wife.  I thank God that I get to walk with her every single day.

Dana made me #PilgrimStrong.

But together we are #PilgrimStronger.

I can’t wait to tell you her story.

PS: We’re going to need a trail name for her. If you have ideas, please leave a comment.

-30-

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Panick Attack in Terminal 5

“Some journeys can only be traveled alone.” ~ Ken Poirot

 

Saying "goodbye for now" to Finisterre, probably my favorite overnight on camino.

Saying “goodbye for now” to Finisterre, my favorite town on camino. One day, I’d like to spend a summer there.

Every traveler has a subconscious switch that flips when it’s time to go home. It’s the least enjoyable part of any journey. My switch now flipped, I was in the zone and homeward bound.

As we re-entered Santiago the bus driver was kind enough to drop me near the train station where he said I’d find plenty of overnight accommodations. I wanted to be within walking distance of tomorrow’s early-morning train back to Madrid. Now running low on money and wanting to keep things flexible, I’d play it by ear in Madrid, even if it meant rolling out a sleeping back on the airport floor the night before departure. If there’s one quality you acquire on camino, it’s flexibility.

Essentially a fast-forward camino in reverse, the train trip to Madrid was nostalgic as I’d catch the occasional glimpse of places where I’d passed through on foot weeks ago. It already seemed surreal that I’d actually done it.

Even if meant there’d be no rest, I was determined to make the logistics simple and minimize any likelihood of missing an 11 a.m., flight departing Madrid on Thursday morning. The best way to facilitate the plan was to wake up at the airport that day rather dealing with big-city transportation issues from a hotel early in the morning. My spirit was oddly anxious about any possibility of missing that plane and I’d dialed up travel mode to intense.

It was a relief just arriving at the airport. However uncomfortable the night ahead might be, I’d make tomorrow’s plane and head for home. Assurance trumps discomfort in my personal travel guide most days.

***

Early-morning train station departure in Santiago, headed for Madrid.

Early-morning train station departure in Santiago, headed for Madrid.

Adolfo Suárez Madrid-Barajas Airport is huge, and geographically the largest travel facility in Europe. With five terminals spread across 3,050 square hectares, Madrid-Barajas is as big as a city and accommodates 50 million travelers a year. Manevering the airport expanse is a challenge in itself.

Though I’d heard about a hotel somewhere on the airport grounds, no one in my departure Terminal 2 seemed to know about it. I dismissed the idea as bad travel information and after a stale 10 euro sandwich and a soft drink made my way to an area outside all the foot traffic and tried out the floor using my backpack as a pillow. It was so uncomfortable I laughed out loud. The thought of alternating positions between the concrete floor and a plastic chair for the next 15 hours was less than ideal. It was there where a janitor with a mop bucket became my savior.

As he mopped the floor nearby, I could tell he felt sorry for me. He kept looking my way, and so I walked over in hopes that he might have advice about a better plan.

“Usted tiene camas en el aeropuerto? I asked.

“Si, si, terminal de cinco en autobús,” he said, so happy to help. I thanked the kind man, and with the new promise of a good night’s sleep made my way outside to find the airport bus. It was hard not to think about the prospect for a final blessing of camino magic.

It’s almost a 20-minute bus ride from Terminal 2 to Terminal 5, and I used the time for making mental notes about getting back early the next morning. I was surprised how uptight I remained about making that plane.

Air Rooms Madrid is tucked away deep in the basement bowels of Terminal 5. It features simple, no-frills rooms with clean beds and hot, private showers for a $135 credit card slide. Underground, absent a single window and with close proximity to multiple bus stops and the airport train station, the dark, noisy environment never varies. Inside the basement hotel it’s virtually impossible to know whether it’s day or night.

A final airport gift for the wife.

A final airport gift for the wife.

I was thrilled with the simple accommodations, knowing I’d step onto tomorrow’s 10-hour flight home clean and rested. My plan for not making plans came together in a way that seemed almost too good to be true. After a long, hot shower, I climbed into bed, turned on the television and passed out around 6 p.m. The next hours indulged a sleep so hard that I lost track of every sensibility – including time.

The simple recollection of what happened next makes my heart race all over again.

Groggy and momentarily unaware of the environment, a passing train roused my attention and I instinctively reached for the phone to note the time. My bleary eyes saw the numbers 10:17. It’s surpising how something as simple as the absence of a window can completely throw your sense of time. I thought I’d slept the clock around and immediately envisioned fellow passengers boarding the flight home. I was a logistical hour away from being anywhere close to that plane, and went from zombie-like sleep to full-blown panic in less than 10 seconds. Heart attacks are the products of more subtle transitions.

With heart pounding, I almost couldn’t breathe, and surely couldn’t think. But instinct had me throwing clothes on my body and into my backpack even though I knew making the plane was hopeless. Then it occurred to me. Maybe it was p.m. rather than a.m. In this dungeon without a view there was no way to know. The only thought I could fathom was the need to look outside.

The desk manager must have thought I was a lunatic. With sagging unbelted shorts, an unbuttoned shirt and bare feet I ran past her to the door looking for sunshine. Looking out to the lower-level driving tunnel toward the train stop offered still no indication. We were underground.

I turned back toward the manager. “Is it day or night?” I asked.

“I’m sorry, sir?” she replied.

“Is it day time or night time? I think I slept through and missed my plane.”

“It’s evening, sir. You’ve only been here a few hours. Would you like to receive a wakeup call in the morning?” she asked, never breaking professional stride.

“Yes. Yes, I would please for 6 a.m. Thank you.”

Clutching my shorts, now three inches too big, I returned to the room and fell on the bed waiting for the heart palpitations to cease. It was the most negative rush of adrenaline I’ve experienced, and it took hours for a return to any normal feeling.

A wake up call. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

-30-