The Mountain is Out

I woke up today to someone shaking my foot, vigorously. And again.

What? What?

It's my wife, and she's whispering forcefully: "Get up."

It's 6AM. One of my days to stay home with the kids.

I stumble out of the bedroom and she's waiting for me in the hallway, an anxious look on her face. I think: what is it? A death in the family? Has one of the leukemia kids relapsed? Is our son okay? Or is it just something online about the presidential race?

In fact it has snowed overnight, the roads are not really plowed yet, and the car is stuck at the bottom of the hill. She could call AAA for a tow, but she thought I might want to give it a try. We live in Vermont, after all--we're not supposed to call AAA. A half hour later I'm home with the car, and Lauren has given up plans to go work out at the gym.

And at this point you're thinking: What does this have to do with climbing Mount Rainier?

Well, there are a lot of reasons I want to make this climb, but one of them has to do with childhood cancer.

And while our 8-year-old son completed his leukemia treatment (2-1/2 years worth) in June of 2007, even still we live with its threat. Its presence has woven itself into our lives. We wake up with it. It hangs over us like--well, like Mt. Rainier hangs over the Seattle area on those clear days when they say:

The mountain is out.

An early awakening, a look on a spouse's face, a boy with a fever, a phone call from our son's clinic--these little moments are filled with awful possibility.

I don't want to overdramatize, but I hope we (all) can get out from under this mountain some day. Until then, it's waiting to be climbed.