It was 12 years ago Aron Ralston’s right arm was trapped between a canyon wall and a dislodged boulder (as portrayed in the movie, 127 Hours) off a remote cliff in Utah. Excruciating pain riddled his body, he was out of water, out of food, and forced to contemplate the reality he may never see his loved ones again.

Knowing he would soon die, for 120 long hours, he had flashbacks of everything in life he loved. His family, his career, his love for canyoneering, and premonitions of his son and future wife filled his head. In the depths of despair, he knew if he didn’t make a life-altering decision, his body would be discovered lifeless, perhaps years from now, perhaps never. He mentally clung to his flashbacks and wishes, and decided to grasp a dull knife in one hand and cut off his other.

Six weeks ago, I was lying on a rooftop of an RV (only four hours away from that same canyon), making wishes on shooting stars wrapped in the arms of a man that I was falling for faster than the stars were falling from the sky. I was mentally preparing for whatever life I could live, even if it is dramatically shortened because my insurance can’t justify the $259,000 cost of Orkambi.

 

Intestinal blockage. I haven’t eaten solid food for 4 days. The same man who held me on the rooftop is now holding me in a hospital bed listening to the surgeon say, “She will need surgery if the NG tube doesn’t work. It isn’t a matter of if, it is a matter of when. I suggest you get ready. At this point, her bowels will explode inside her stomach. It’s a matter of hours”.

Five times they tried to jam a plastic pipe into my nose to reach my stomach, siphon out the food I enjoyed over the past week. Five times, they ripped apart my nasal cavity, blood shot out my nose and mouth, gagged my throat, and high dosage narcotics were flushed through my port in an attempt to sedate me. Pain, shot through my body.  Excruciating, life–altering, mind-numbing pain.

I can’t imagine what Aron went through as he jammed the dull blade into his own forearm, watching in a surreal state the way his blood pooled and danced down the side of the cold, dark canyon. I stopped thinking about Aron long enough to feel my own blood pool and dance down the back of my throat.

Aron survived. He hacked off the last bit of flesh while clinging to his “why” and stumbled off away from his arm. His reason to live was that powerful.