My Year with Eleanor

by Noelle Hancock

  Then we were back on the trail. Marie and Henri sallied forth, which was just as well.

  Dismas and the assistant guide accompanied me instead. They hung back, chatting in Swahili. They were like parents trying to enjoy their adult conversation, but keeping an eye on their toddler tottering out in front of them. It occurred to me that maybe they all disliked me and didn’t want to walk with me, but I couldn’t muster the energy to care. I had no idea how I was going to walk seven and a half more miles. It seemed impossible.

  “In some ways the hike down is the hardest part because you have nothing to work toward anymore,” Becca had said.

  As a general rule, uphill is hard on the muscles, downhill is hard on the bones and skin. I walked stiff gaited, the Tin Man searching Oz for his lost oil can so he could grease his knee joints. Blisters rose on my toes where they were bumping against the front of my boots. I unzipped a side pocket on my backpack and pulled out something white and plastic. I’d avoided using my iPod so far because I’d wanted to experience Kilimanjaro with all five senses. I wanted to be fully present. But sometimes music was the only thing that could get you through the pain. For six hours I walked and stumbled down the slanted trail, working my way through my playlist. When my iPod died a few hours later, I was jealous. At least it got to stop. I recited poems to keep my woozy mind occupied. I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled! When I reached the moorlands, which I’d come to think of as Seussland, I tried to remember the words to Oh, the Places You’ll Go! I’d read the poem so many times when I made that video to get into Yale that I’d once known it by heart.

  “You’ll join the high fliers who soar to high heights,” I murmured to myself.

  I tripped on a rock and stumbled a few steps. “Poly-poly, Miss Noelley!” Dismas called out behind me. Suddenly I noticed that I felt a little high. Was this altitude-induced brain damage? Did brain-damaged people say things like “induced”? I decided that if I could remember the rest of the poem, it would prove I wasn’t brain damaged.

  On and on you will hike.

  And I know you’ll hike far

  and face up to your problems

  whatever they are.

  “KID, YOU’LL MOVE MOUNTAINS!” I babbled out loud.

  You’re off to Great Places!

  Today is your day!

  Your mountain is waiting.

  So . . . get on your way!

  “What you say, Miss Noelley?” Dismas called.

  Fifteen minutes later I was staggering among the black triangular cabins of Horombo. I bought a celebratory Coke, but knowing we were going to bed in a few hours, I saved it until morning. As we were getting ready for bed, I blew my nose for the five hundredth time. “Come on, Noelle, the porters have enough to carry,” Marie joked of my sodden face towel, and I contemplated killing her in her sleep. That night, however, I enjoyed the best night of sleep I’d had on the mountain. It took an hour and a half to doze off, but that was a long way from lying awake for six hours, wondering how hard I’d have to hit my head to lose consciousness but not do any real damage. When I woke up the next morning, I truly believed, for the first time in years, that I’d be able to break my ten-year dependency on sleeping pills. It was hard not to lean on the crutch when it was always in hand. But here I’d have been putting my life at risk in a very direct way if I’d taken them. For me it had taken being in a situation where it wasn’t an option to learn I didn’t need them.

  Preserved by the meat-locker air of our cabin, the Coke was exquisitely cold when I cracked it open at breakfast. I gulped it down greedily. It sparkled over my tongue and left a satisfying, crackling burn in my throat. It was, without exaggeration, the best thing I’d ever tasted.

  Though more than twice the length at twelve and a half miles, today’s hike would be far less brutal than yesterday’s trek from Kibo to Horombo. But because of yesterday’s downhill “skiing,” my knees were screaming in protest. I moved in a slow zombie lurch. Marie and Henri charged down before me. What the hell were their overachieving asses trying to prove? I grumbled to Dismas, “They realize we’re all sharing the same van back to Arusha and they are just going to have to wait for me in the parking lot, right?”

  He grinned. “Poly-poly, Noelle.”

  We stopped for lunch at the Mandara Huts, where I bought another Coke. It was just as crisp and transporting as the one from that morning. Marie and Henri had already left, so I ate alone. To pass time I took out my digital camera and scanned through my summit photos. As I was clicking through the cardboard sign photos, a nervous tingle began to mount. Oh no. My heart was pounding. When I got to the last photo, my heart sank completely. I hadn’t taken a photo with the I ♥ MATT sign. There were countless photos of me holding my mom’s and dad’s signs and even that stupid I’M HIGH sign. I’d thought I’d gotten all of them. How could I have forgotten the Matt sign? A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and I’d missed it.

  I continued to berate myself as we hiked through the rain forest, stepping over logs and admiring the streams with their mini-waterfalls. I considered contacting a friend of mine who was a photo editor at a magazine I’d once worked at. He could take a picture of me holding the Matt sign, then superimpose the necessary element into one of the other summit photos. Or maybe I could Photoshop one of the other signs to read I ♥ MATT? Then, a horrifying thought. Was my forgetting the Matt sign a sign that we were not supposed to be together? Or had I just been distracted by the view and my accomplishment, not to mention exhausted, after all I’d been through? I wrestled with these questions for hours but ultimately decided to just let it go. Sometimes a sign is just a sign.

  Finally I emerged, sweaty and pink faced, from the rain forest. In the parking lot, Marie, Henri, and I pooled our money and tipped the porters and guides for taking care of us all week. The tips took nearly all of my $300. Still, I slipped Dismas an extra $20, which didn’t feel like enough, even though the average wage in Tanzania was less than $1 a day.

  We stood in line to sign our names in a book logging everyone who reached the top of Mount Kilimanjaro. When it was my turn, I bellied up to the counter and leaned over the book. There were so many names! The rows were neatly cordoned off so no signature could be bigger than another. It was completely without ceremony, like a very long roll call. When this book filled up, it would be replaced with a fresh one for people to sign. My book would be taken away—who knows where they go?—and join the books that had come before it. The thought of this comforted me, for some reason. The female clerk pointed at the next blank space on the page. It was just a small line. But it was all that I needed. With a smile, I picked up the pen to sign my name. I am here.

  Epilogue

  About the only value the story of my life may have is to show that one can, even without any particular gifts, overcome obstacles that seem insurmountable if one is willing to face the fact that they must be overcome; that, in spite of timidity and fear, in spite of a lack of special talents, one can find a way to life widely and fully.

  —ELEANOR ROOSEVELT

  On the morning of my thirtieth birthday, I woke up to find that—completely independent of each other—Jessica and Chris had sent me the same birthday card. It featured a cartoon of a bikini-clad woman on water skis. In the speech bubble over her head, it said, I’m so glad your birthday will bring together all of your friends at a time when my tan is fully realized. Chris had added his own personal message in the space b
eneath: “This is exactly what I look like in a two-piece, actually. Have a good day and remember: You only turn 23 once. xoxo, Chris”

  “So how does it feel?” Bill asked when he called to wish me a happy birthday.

  “I think I saw my first sign of crow’s-feet in the mirror this morning,” I said ruefully.

  “I have crow’s-feet on my balls now. But don’t worry, that doesn’t happen until thirty-three. And only if you have balls.”

  In the three weeks I’d been back from Africa, I’d mostly been conquering everyday fears. Kilimanjaro really felt like the culmination of the project and I’d been winding down ever since. I was sad that it was ending, of course, but it was time.

  So many things had changed over the course of the year. I was still making milkshakes, but Becca was moving to Boston to start medical school. Josh and Monique moved to Berkeley and were planning their wedding. Cub and Chris moved in together and were talking about getting married. Jessica had a boyfriend with whom she was blissfully happy and went on all sorts of backpacking adventures. My little sister took a break from swimming so she could relax and enjoy life a little more, but said she might go back to it eventually. Lorena, my old coworker who’d called to tell me about the layoff, was so inspired by my project that she quit her job and moved to Australia for a year. Many things had changed. Except Bill. He was exactly the same.

  “It’s been a hell of a year for you, Noelle!” Dr. Bob had said in our session the other day. “Eleanor would be so proud of all you’ve accomplished!”

  “Well, thanks,” I said, feeling a little sheepish. “Eleanor changed the world. I just changed myself,” I added.

  He leaned back in his chair. “I don’t think you needed to change yourself. I think you needed to discover yourself.”

  What I discovered was that, in taking on tangible challenges, I’d grown into someone who could handle the intangibles. That life was not about attaining; it was about letting go. When I looked back, nothing was ever as bad as I thought it would be. In fact, it was usually better than I could have imagined. I learned that we should take each moment both more and less seriously because everything passes. The joyful moments are just as fleeting as the terrible ones.

  For my thirtieth birthday, I decided to mark the occasion in a more traditional way . . . just a party—no swinging from things, no signing of contracts “in the event of accidental death or dismemberment.” At first I’d said I didn’t want a big fuss. I didn’t have the energy to plan anything else this year. But Matt had insisted that entering a new decade demanded a big celebration. He’d rented out a bar and drafted a bunch of my friends to help plan the festivities. There were rumors of a slide show.

  Before the party, Matt took me to dinner and we went back to my apartment to loll on the couch and have a few glasses of red wine. Across the room, my parakeets were having one of their domestic arguments involving loud, indignant squawking. Nothing and everything was different.

  “Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said, clinking his glass against mine. “Ready for your present?”

  I nodded eagerly, but inside I was uneasy. Matt’s gifts were always a bit of a wild card. Two birthdays ago he’d bought me a beautiful jade necklace. The year after that he’d given me a handheld Oriental fan and a miniature porcelain tea set, which he’d suggested I put in my parakeets’ cage for decoration. I got ready to deploy my best fake smile.

  He took my hand in his, and I felt something cold and metallic on my skin. I looked down at my wrist. It was a gorgeous sterling silver cuff.

  “It’s beautiful!” I breathed. I twisted my arm back and forth, admiring how the bracelet glinted in the light.

  “I know you almost never wear bracelets. But I thought trying something different goes with the spirit of your project,” he said. “Also, it’s hard to monogram earrings.” I pulled the bracelet off my wrist and peered at the inscription inside: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”—Eleanor Roosevelt

  Sentimental tears pooled in my eyes. How did he know? It’s one of her lesser known lines. I’d never mentioned it to him.

  “I looked up a bunch of her quotes,” Matt explained. “At first I considered going with ‘Do one thing every day that scares you,’ but it feels like you’re entering a new chapter of your life. The boldness of this one reminded me of you.”

  As I blinked back the tears, I put on a saucy grin. “So I’m bold now, am I?”

  Matt shrugged. “To me,” he said, “you have always been fearless.”

  He and Dr. Bob were right, of course. This whole time I’d thought I was trying to get back to the person I used to be, when really I was growing into the person I was always meant to be. I was relaxing into myself.

  Now I was looking forward to getting out of my own head. I knew that Eleanor would approve. “There is a danger in this self-examination,” she wrote. “Some people become so interested, so fascinated by this voyage of self-discovery, that they don’t come out of it again. They remain completely absorbed in their self-study.”

  I put the bracelet back on my wrist. Focusing on myself so much this past year meant that I wasn’t there much for Matt. “I’m sorry if I neglected you this year. It’s been all about me.” I’d once worried that I’d always feel slightly inferior because of Matt’s many talents. But he supported me while I’d hogged the spotlight the past year. I’d been going on adventure after adventure, and he’d come along for the ride (well, driving mostly). It made me appreciate what we had even more.

  “What do you mean? I’m always happy to support you, honey. We’re a team,” he said.

  Something else that happened gradually over the past year was that I no longer felt like Matt was upstaging me. I’d realized that, frankly, it was up to me to make sure that he didn’t. As Eleanor said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.” He took my hand and kissed the back of it.

  I was quiet for a few seconds. It probably wasn’t the right time to bring this up, but what the hell. I still had one fear left to face.

  “Remember that night at the wedding in Nantucket?” I asked. “What were you going to say?”

  “When?”

  “When that guy at our table asked ‘So are you two getting married?’ ”

  His brow furrowed for a moment as he thought back to that night. Then he smiled. “I was going to say, ‘We don’t even live in the same city! First we have to live in the same city. Then we’ll move in together and get engaged; then we get married.’ ”

  Inwardly, I sighed with relief. For so long I hadn’t dared to ask. I was afraid of his answer. Afraid he’d want to get married before I was ready. Afraid he’d say he never wanted to get married. Afraid he’d be evasive. Afraid whatever his answer was would upset the fantastic thing we had going. But his was the perfect answer. Everything would unfold as it should.

  Matt looked around the apartment and said, “I think your furniture and my furniture will go together nicely.”

  “Mhhhmm.” I made a contented noise. “Me, too.”

  “So what happens now? You going to keep conquering one fear every day?”

  “Actually, I don’t even think I could find a fear every day. I’ve been struggling to find fears the last few weeks. The world isn’t as scary now.”

  I added: “Besides, now I have to focus on finding a job!”

  “And?” He laced his fingers in between mine and gave them a squeeze. “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” The world was wide open. I smiled, just thinking about the possibilities. “I mean, I can do anything.”

  In 1960, two years before Eleanor died, she looked back at how much she had changed from the timid girl consumed by self-doubt. “It was not until I reached middle age that I had the courage to develop interests of my own,” she said. “From that time on, though I have had many problems, though I have known grie
f and the loneliness that are the lot of most human beings, I have never been bored, never found the days long enough for the range of activities with which I wanted to fill them. And, having learned to stare down fear, I long ago reached the point where there is no living person whom I fear, and few challenges that I am not willing to face.”

  I’m not presumptuous enough to think I’ll ever be as fearless as Eleanor. But she taught me that courage is a muscle. It needs to be exercised often or it’ll weaken.

  It will take time for me to understand all the ways that year changed me. A meaningful experience is a glass of wine. It needs to breathe and open up; it can only be fully appreciated when you return to it later. I suspect I’ll return to this year many times throughout my life. With each passing birthday, the memories will blur and some may disappear entirely. But I know I’ll always remember the startling sensation of diving out of the plane headfirst, the bright air pushing its way into my lungs, and the world rushing up to greet me as if to say, “Where have you been?”

  Author’s Note

  In the interest of privacy, I’ve changed the names* or identifying characteristics of various individuals. That said, this is a work of nonfiction. The events and experiences detailed herein are true. I did, indeed, do one scary thing every day for a year, never cheating by skipping a day. Initially I planned to write about all of them, but it soon became clear the book would be a trillion pages long and likely to induce stupefaction. So I’ve chronicled the highlights, occasionally compressing or altering the timeline.

  * This is really quite a challenge, by the way—coming up with fake names for forty people. Once you know someone’s name it’s nearly impossible to imagine them having any other name. (Also, that I was able to resist giving the rare obnoxious character an unbecoming name—like Dick—shows a great leap in personal growth.) Individuals whose names and characteristics weren’t changed for purposes of discretion include Jessica, Chris, and Bill, who’ve never been discreet in their lives.