Chronic Illness and the Great Outdoors
By E. Rumsey
What’s Wrong With Me? Chronic Illness and the Great Outdoors.
It’s hot. So unbearably hot.
The sun is relentless, burning my arms and legs despite layers of liberally applied sun cream. The air is utterly still. Sweat runs down my face, stinging my eyes, and my boots bite into my heels with every step. But the worst of it - the pain that brings tears to my eyes as I trudge past Wessenden Head reservoir - is the sawing, constricting pain in my chest. It’s mid-July, the UK is experiencing a heatwave and I’m two days into a three day hike, following the Pennine Way south from Littleborough to Edale. I’d been looking forward to this trip for weeks; packing and unpacking my rucksack, breaking in my new boots, spreading out my OS maps on the living room floor and religiously going over my route.
Despite my excitement in the days before my hike, I couldn’t quite shake the little voice in the back of my mind saying, “What do you think you’re doing? You’re not cut out for this. You’re not an ‘outdoorsy person’. You don’t belong here.”
Credit: E. Rumsey
I have asthma, which fortunately I’m able to control fairly well. I’ve typically been able to exercise as well as anyone else, with my blue reliever inhaler on hand for emergencies. However, around the age of fourteen, I began to experience a squeezing pain in my chest and throat if I exerted myself too much, too quickly. It was agonising, and attempting to push through it made it worse; I’d have to stop whatever I was doing, hands clasped to my knees, breathless and retching from the pain. My blue reliever inhaler had no effect, I just had to stand there, hunched over and shaking, and wait for the pain to fade. At the time, my teachers and peers simply told me that I must be unfit, and I believed them, as there seemingly couldn’t be another explanation. It wasn’t until I started asking some of my friends at university years later - self-professed couch potatoes - whether they had ever experienced anything similar when they exercised. They hadn’t.
A lot of self-advocacy is required when trying to find a diagnosis for an unknown condition, as anyone with a chronic illness will tell you. Navigating healthcare systems is exhausting and frustrating in itself, but for me, the main frustration came from not being able to do what I love. Some days would be easy, I could run or cycle and feel no pain, just my muscles working and my breath huffing in and out. Other days, however, I would start to move and immediately feel that suffocating pain, with no way to relieve it. I’ve sat on a curb and cried more than once, frustrated and angry that my body wouldn’t do what I wanted it to, and not understanding why.
It’s easy to feel ashamed of my body at times like this. I’d cringe at having to let other kids pass by me during childhood swimming lessons, or struggling up hills whilst on holiday with family whilst the others zipped past me up steep inclines. In these instances, I couldn’t keep up without help, because I was in too much pain. Over time, I’ve learned that the work that I needed to do - and am still doing - is reframing the situation in my mind. I have to remind myself that I’m hiking or running or cycling simply to enjoy it, and viewing the e-bike or the regular pit stops or slower pace as things which enable me to do exactly that.
Credit: E. Rumsey
When I finally made it out of Wessenden Valley on that swelteringly hot day, I sat down on a rock by the road and put my head in my hands. The hardest part of my walk, heading towards Black Hill, was yet to come and my chest was already bursting with pain. It felt reckless to continue walking in this state, on a blisteringly hot, empty moor with limited phone signal, but it also felt impossible to stop. “You’re a quitter,” the little voice said, “you’re clearly not cut out for this.” But as I sat there, the pain in my chest easing ever so slightly, I began to wonder, “What’s the point of putting myself through this if it’s just causing me pain? What am I trying to prove, and to whom?” I realised that I was trying to mimic somebody who didn’t have a chronic illness, trying to outrun invisible competitors. I had to accept what I was capable of at that moment, and make a decision. So, I called a taxi to the train station and went home, a day earlier than planned.
Credit: E. Rumsey
The competitiveness of any sporting environment, from P.E. lessons in school to my slightly unhealthy obsession with the Strava app, had drilled into me that physical activity is only worth doing if you’re going to be the best. But as I’ve met more people through hiking around the Peak District, visiting my local climbing gym or cycling with my partner, I’ve learned that most people doing these activities are there because they love it. They are more than willing to help somebody who is new to the sport, give you tips about gear or recommend good routes or interesting places. Find your community, try new activities, and don’t be harsh on yourself for not being an expert straight away.
The lesson? Let yourself have fun and see where your next adventure will take you.