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My thoughts and ramblings will soon appear in The Alpine Daily Planet! It's available online at their website and will also be posted on Facebook. As usual, I will post it on my FB pages and on my blog.
I feel great about working with two people like Mike and Cindy Perry. I'm more and more excited about my future! "When one door closes..."
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 This is my 61st column in the Alpine Avalanche. Over a year ago when Sam Richardson, then-editor, asked me to write something for him to publish I thought he was taking a big chance. I didn’t think I could say anything in such a small space. What would I write? Write about living on the border, he said. Write about life in West Texas. Write about Mexico. Write about being married to someone from another culture.
I thought it would be a miracle if I wrote ten columns. When I expressed my fear of failure to a friend, she wisely said, “Just write one column at a time.” My first attempt was “My Love Affair with the Rio Grande.” Since then, I’ve been all over the place. I wrote of working in Lajitas in the eighties, my great love of Big Bend National Park, what brought me to West Texas, and why I stayed. My readers now know some things I’ve never told before. I even wrote about drinking Pearl Tea with my grandma and I commented on conversations I’d overheard, both good and bad. One time I wrote a piece about having nothing, not one idea, for a column. I’ve written about misspeaking Spanish, travelling in Mexico, and even being lost in Chihuahua. I’ve shared what I’ve seen: the good, the outstanding, and the not so great. I’ve been astounded by the response from readers. Not one person has ever said anything negative to me. People may think it, but they never verbalize it. Thank you for that. I’ve been asked time and again if I’m “that” Beth Garcia. I wish I’d kept a tally of every time someone said, “I always read your column.” Your comments have made me laugh and made me cry. A few weeks ago a woman approached me and asked if she could touch me. I think she meant she wanted to give me a hug, but for a few seconds I felt like a rock star. And yes, of course I hugged her. Who doesn’t love to be hugged? When I think of bowing out, I remember that I haven’t mentioned my great big Mexican wedding that didn’t happen or the hundreds of river trips I’ve taken. I haven’t told you about the hilarious words of wisdom imparted by my mother-in-law before she died or the time I went to Chihuahua with a gay man and barely escaped going to jail. I never mentioned my trip to Mazatlan or the harrowing bus trip that got me there. Oh, and I really meant to tell you about Garcia’s Misguided Tours to Guadalajara. Maybe another time. The other day I accused a friend of making something up. Yeah, she wasn’t about to take that kind of disrespect from me. Her expression was priceless. I do love to make things up. But you know that. For several months now, I’ve been feeling the need to focus my attention on the various novels I’m writing. What I’m trying to get to here is good-bye for now. I’m not good at good-bye so I will say instead, thank you. Thank you for sharing your time with me every week. Happy Trails, my friends.  It started as a starry-eyed love for the Rio Grande and the jaw-dropping scenery that surrounds it. Before I knew it, I was buying a river rafting outfit.
Having a company that exists to help people have fun has got to be the best type of business. The behind-the-scenes work is daunting, though. When customers return raving about their trip, that’s not an accident. Every single thing you do is aimed at that result. I assumed I would get to do a lot of “free” river trips, right? Wrong. I worked hard, but one bright morning a young trainee stood in front of the desk in our office. I wished her well because I knew she was going on her final “check out” run through the Rockslide rapid in Santa Elena Canyon. That meant she’d be alone in a raft. Senior guides would be with her, but not in her boat. I should mention here that this was back in the day when the Rio carried plenty of water. We didn’t know how fortunate we were. The new guide was tiny and beautiful. I remember her name well, but let’s call her Anne. She said, “They don’t think I’ll make it.” “They” being other river guides: big, strong men. “That’s ridiculous,” I said, “of course you can do it.” “Why don’t you come with me? Please. It’ll be fun—just take a day off.” What I’d meant as a pep talk turned into a case of putting my money where my mouth was. I had to go. In retrospect, I wouldn’t have missed it for anything. As we glided along, my worries evaporated. I don’t think it’s possible to listen to the steady gurgle of the Rio Grande and feel stressed. Water slapping gently against oars has a lulling effect. We passed turtles sunning themselves on rocks or sticks along the bank. Wildflowers nodded their heads in the occasional breeze. The weather was perfect, not hot or cold. It was a show-off day in Big Bend. As if that wasn’t enough, we rounded a bend and a steep slope on the Mexican side was solid purple with bluebonnets. There were so many the smell was cloying. “Wow,” Anne exclaimed. “Aren’t you glad you came with me?” At that moment I couldn’t imagine how anything could ever be more important than spending the day on the Rio Grande. Anne did fine, as I expected. We talked about various things, including the ways in which women were underestimated by men. Mostly, we laughed. It was hard to care about anything serious on a day like that one. I don’t remember whether the Diamond-Beaked tale came before or after the Rockslide. It must have come after because Anne was relaxed. She had showed everybody how a tiny woman runs a rapid like a boss. Then, of course, the lying started. River guides are full of knowledge about the area, but they’re equally full of fun. It’s hard to separate facts and fiction when their mouths start moving. Santa Elena Canyon has one surprise after another. I’ve been through it forty times or more and it’s never the same; you never see all of it. I commented on a pocked wall on our right, the Mexican side of the canyon. A straight-faced Anne said, “Those pockets are caused by a rare bird that drills into the wall to make a nest.” My river guide radar went up. “It’s sad,” she continued, “because people kill them for their valuable beaks. They’re not protected in Mexico.” She paused a moment before coming in for the kill. “They’re called the Diamond-Beaked Rockpecker.” I laughed. “I know you think I’m pulling your leg, but I’m not. I can’t believe you haven’t heard of it before.” Why was I surprised that Anne would lie? She was a river guide! “I wouldn’t lie to you,” the liar insisted. How many times had I heard that? When we arrived at the takeout, the company’s star birder was our shuttle driver. How perfect; I’d fix my clever little guide. “Anne has been telling me about the Diamond-Beaked Rockpeckers,” I said, thinking he’d set her straight pronto. “Did you see one?” He acted excited. “Of course I didn’t see one. They don’t exist.” “It’s a shame you didn’t get to see one.” His expression was sad. “They won’t be around long if people keep killing them for their diamond beaks.” What was the use? They’re all a bunch of liars.  As I write this, it’s nearing my birthday. By the time you read it, my big day will have passed. Every year, the day has more significance for me. You see, I’m not “supposed” to be here. I can’t explain why I am, but I’m grateful. The odds have been against me for a long time.
Almost thirty years ago, a team of serious-faced doctors stood by my hospital bed. I almost laughed when I saw them. Those faces! I wanted to ask, “Who died?” but I was glad I didn’t because what followed was not funny. My lung surgeon cleared his throat and stepped an inch closer to the bed. “The biopsy confirmed it, Beth. You have Lymphangioleiomyomatosis.” I stared him. Say what? Lymphangioleiomyomatosis (LAM for short) is an extremely rare lung disease. No one could tell me why I had it or how to get rid of it. Back then there were no known treatments. There are still no known cures. They think the disease is hormonally triggered, somehow linked to estrogen. It’s primarily a woman’s disease. Because so few people had it (and only women) there had been no major research. In 1995, the mother of a LAM victim formed and funded a foundation to begin studying the disease. Long story short, I was sent home without hope or help after being told I had about six months to live. Let me clarify that. The field of medicine gave me no hope or help, but I had all the hope anyone could ever need waiting for me at home: a six-month-old daughter and an eleven-year-old nephew who had wormed his way into my heart. I also had a husband I adored. They needed me to come home and be present. And present, I was. The day I was released from the hospital I saw everything in a new way. It was as though my eyes and heart wanted to soak it all in, in case this would be my only chance. So there I sat in the parking lot of Odessa Medical Center Hospital with whatever was left of my life ahead of me. And suddenly, it shone. My husband looked at me with tears in his eyes and held out his hand. When it enclosed mine, that hand was stronger, tougher, and larger than I remembered. “Are you going to be all right?” he asked. I looked right into his eyes and I said, “Yes.” And I believed it. “What did the doctors say?” I couldn’t tell him. What did they know anyway? Nothing, it seemed. The disease was as mysterious to them as it was to me. I couldn’t make myself repeat their dire prediction, so I made up my own answer to his question. “They said I need a lot of love and I’ll be fine.” “In that case, I’ve got this.” I knew he did. The trip home was more delicious than you can imagine. In some ways it was like being alive for the first time. It was the last day of January and cold, but the sun was warm coming through the window. After thirty days in the hospital, it was too bright. Instead of blinding me, it made me see things more clearly: the wide array of colors in our world, the astounding beauty in everyday things. The soft, black curl of my husband’s hair was a marvel. Life was too good to let it go without a fight. That became my mantra. By the time we began to see the shimmering mountains in the south of Brewster County, a negative prediction had turned into a challenge in my head. I have always loved a challenge. Many years ago, Jimmy Buffett expressed my feelings in a song, “I’d rather die while I’m living than live while I’m dead.” I began racking up a long list of things I wasn’t supposed to do with lungs that don’t work the way they should. Who cares? They’re working in their own way or I wouldn’t be here. Against doctors’ advice and common sense, I took a job managing a river rafting company. Then I bought it. Work? Bring it! My life at Big Bend River Tours was the most frustrating, fantastic, impossible, joy-filled, nature-filled, life-filled thing I could have chosen to do. I also put my heart and soul into raising my children and loving my husband. Children and love are the best medicines on the planet. Sometimes when walking a short distance with a friend I become scarily short of breath. My friend will ask with concern, “Are you all right?” Oh yes. I am. What will my next thirty years bring? |
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