P52 Week 32 - Fear

“Here, watch me,” little Tommy yelled as he hurled himself off the post, over the wide privet hedge and landed and rolled on the soft grass below. “It’s easy, see?” He laughs as he runs back up the steps.

As a nine-year-old, I was mortified that my brother, three years younger, was able leap with abandon.

I gingerly climbed, yet again, onto the stone fencepost. It felt safe: solid and wide enough for both feet with room to spare. I studied the wood slats that shimmied into the stone posts, two of them, a high and a low. I studied them to avoid the expanse of the hedge in front and the lawn six feet below. My mind whirled: “I can’t do it. I can’t jump. I need to jump. I need to do this. I can’t be a scaredy cat. I can’t be a wimp.”

“You can do this sis, really you can. Don’t even think about it. Just jump.”

My mind blanked and I dropped into an abyss. No thinking. No emotion. I found myself flying off the post into emptiness. I soared over the hedge, landed on the grass six feet below. I rolled over. My legs hurt a little from the jolt. I broke out in nervous laughter. I was alive and hadn’t broken any bones.

“Do it again,” Tommy urged.

I ran up the steps, climbed on the rocky post and with a rush of adrenalin, jumped again. This time was scarier. I felt clammy, and the landing was heavier.

I lept a third time and that was enough. No more. I had no desire to push myself any more. Been there. Done that. It was enough to know that I was less of a chicken.

*       *       *

When I was in my thirties, frustrated with clothes still damp after hours of tumbling in the dryer, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I edged the stepladder to the side of the house, and climbed eight feet to the rooftop. With glee, I pulled the huge plug of lint that had collected in the mesh covering the dryer vent.

I peered down at the stepladder and the deck below and froze. No way was I going step off the roof without some help.

No one was at home. I panicked. I would be stuck up here for hours. Then I heard landscapers in the garden next door. Abandoning my usual shyness, I called out for help. Two brawny guys with big smiles help me down.

*       *       *

In the middle of the night when I was in my forties, a high-pitched low battery beep screeched on our smoke alarm. I set up our eight-foot stepladder and climbed to the fifth step, but that wasn’t high enough to reach our vaulted ceiling. I balked.

“I can’t wake Joseph. He just had chemo,” I said to myself. “I’ll cover my ears and wait till morning.” The beep shrilled again. I became more and more agitated. I climbed one step further – the sixth step – and reached up on tip-toes. I still wasn’t high enough. I sobbed in frustration and fear and went to wake my husband.

*       *       *

In my sixties, I hiked Mount Pilchuck with my daughter. The trail narrowed with a huge drop off as it circled the tip of the peak. I grew dizzy and fear gripped me. I balked. “You go ahead, Steph. I’ll wait for you here.”

When it comes to mastering my fear of heights, I don’t have much of a learning curve.