I was able to go on a camping trip to Narcissus Bay, at the far end of Lake St Clair. It was beautiful. And emotionally complex. I'm sure those of you that have lost someone are sometimes vividly reminded of them, by a scent, sound or place. It was my first visit back to the Cradle Mountain-Lake St Clair National Park, 8 years and 9 months after getting me/cfs, and a not-unexpected trigger for grief.
Narcissus Bay is a place haunted by the ghost of my past self. She's in my muscle memory, my familiarity with the bird calls and earthy smells, my knowledge of the park, and the sense of home I feel there. Past Jen straps on her gaiters, hoists up a 20kg pack, and walks and walks and walks. The uphill, downhill, winding, bush path. She does this for 8 days straight. Time and time again, through the changing seasons, over 5 separate years. She sweats, sweeps, dips in icy creeks, chats, heartbeats, mops, scrubs, climbs, lugs heavy things, faces the wind, breathes it in, pulls on her sodden rain jacket and wet boots, and prunes the bauera. She's competent, confident, fit and knowledgeable.
She's still so near, inside my cells. Have the past 9 years only been a dream? Apart from a new jetty, new verandah on the old hut, and the fact I don't fit into my hiking pants very well anymore, the only other thing that has changed is that the teatree thickets around the lake have grown taller and denser.
But she's also so far away. On the other side of an invisible, but cataclysmic chronic condition, that came out of nowhere. Past Jen: fit, young, friendly, oblivious Jen, had no idea what was coming to knock her off her path. My current self is a 41 year old disability pensioner, who took two days to get to Narcissus, breaking up the journey by sleeping in the van on the way up. I was quite nervous, as it was an adventure out of my known physical safe zone. I had friends to carry my pack on the short journey to and from the ferry. I was amazed when I pulled up okay after a couple of 3 km walks, though they were flattish, and slow as usual. I yearned to keep walking, but I had already gone way more steps than I've counted since 2016, and with cfs, pacing is the boss and boundary-testing must always be gentle.
The walkers could've been the same people as last decade. The talk was of the ferry, hot chips, gear, mud, side trips, who had the mosquito repellent, and what luxuries the private walk customers had that they didn't. I told a lot of people about my condition, as most people asked what walks I had done. I'm matter-of-fact about it. "It's a major disability, my battery only charges to under 10%, it sucks, but I'm so much better off than some people who have it, who are stuck in darkened rooms and can't even stand up long enough to shower. No I don't know what caused it". Only one man, a teacher, immediately understood me, as he had been reading the blog of a previous student of his, in Italian. I felt grateful for this fellow sick woman on the other side of the world, her communication efforts, and our distant connection.
I know that everyone has lost the version of themselves they were 9 years ago. The younger, stronger, less problematic bodies. The naivety. The possibilities that seemed to exist at that time. But my loss was abrupt rather than gradual. More diminishing than the also trajectory-altering portal of parenthood, which most of my cohort have entered since then. It's been perhaps more like suspended animation. But also deeper growth. And I've mostly been okay.
Narcissus was beautiful. The 'mud' that everyone was complaining about smelt of delicious, wet, clean earth to me. The water was freezing, tannin-dark and pure. The buttongrass golden, and the gums tall, stately and gorgeous. Wildflowers and coral lichens decorated all corners of the path: yellow splashes of hibbertia, purple fairies aprons, and white mountain-rocket. The rainforest was full of rot and life: old, soft, damp and green. Echidnas and platypus were furry, cute and enigmatic as they foraged for insects. Wombat poo delightfully square. Wattlebirds defended their territory with their harsh croaks. The currawong calls echoed across the crumbling mountains at dusk. I felt clenches of grief. But greater love. Past Jen who was bedbound for the first few years of cfs had no idea she'd ever recover enough to return to this place she loved so much. It was a precious few days.