Finding Jim (22 page)

“Life does not play favourites. Sometimes things happen that are out of our control. Sometimes we do not make it to the summit. So, it is best to enjoy the journey.” I gulp and turn away from the camera.

This time I did not need to prove I was the strongest climber. I did not try to conquer Kilimanjaro. I listened to my aching heart, followed it, to let it be whole again.

The flight home is delayed 48 hours because the plane is missing a part. When I arrive in Vancouver at midnight, a group of my friends and family are at the airport with flowers and hugs and welcome homes. Dad reaches me first with open arms. I notice Terri and raise my eyebrows. I can't believe she is here and my gaze drops to her belly. No bulge. Beside her is her 10-day-old baby, Isaak. I hug her tightly. Mom Haberl hugs me.

“Do you feel badly that you didn't make it to the top?”

“No.” I look her in the eye.

I did not find Jim, but I am home.

(SEPTEMBER 1999)

There are only a few hours before I have to be at the first day of my new job at Trek, teaching outdoor/environmental education to grade 10 students at Prince of Wales Secondary School. I am too exhausted to be nervous.

I mount the stairs to the stage and address the 90 students in front of me. I tell them how I remember I felt when I sat in their place, both eager and terrified of what I had signed up for. And I tell them how excited I am for them that they were courageous enough to step out and try something new.

We are a team of five teachers: Robyn, Lynn, Andrew, Jamie and me. It is the first year at Trek for all of us except Lynn. Each day, we allocate tasks and share ideas, and Lynn steers at the helm. Jamie's laughter, Robyn's enthusiasm, Lynn's experienced calm and Andrew's tireless compassion jell us into a supportive team. My mind is stuffed with details of lesson plans, schedules, trip plans, administrative tasks and deadlines. I yearn for quiet time but hold tightly to the rope that attaches me to a sense of the normal. The first week whizzes by.

Dad constructs a suite for me in their basement in Vancouver so I can stay in the city during the week while teaching at Trek, and return home to Whistler, my safe haven, on weekends. He spends his evenings and weekends buying kitchen appliances and hooking them up, installing a gas fireplace and painting the walls. I leave a toothbrush and some clothes there but everything else stays at Whistler. I feel alone and eat most of my meals upstairs with my parents. After the first week of school, however, a ray of hope appears.

I return to my house in Whistler and go to see Marti and Lisa, to bring the puppy, “Whitey,” home. He is almost four months old now and all legs and tongue. When he bounds over to greet me, I laugh and let him bowl me over. I rename him “Habby,” one of Jim's nicknames. Lisa gives me a record of Habby's shots and a list of his needs: lots of water, putting his head in your lap when he rides in the car, being with you (she took him to work with her most days). Before Habby gets in the car, Lisa takes his face in both of her hands and says goodbye. He sits beside me in the front seat as if he had been there all of his life. That night, I leave him in his crate and his brown eyes watch me as I go upstairs to bed. He does not cry, bark or whimper. For the next eight years, he is my most faithful friend.

Back at my parents' house on Monday morning I am getting ready to go to work when it dawns on me that I have no plan for Habby. I cannot leave him here all day. So, I arrive at work with a blonde bundle in tow, open our office door and say to my colleagues, “I have no idea what I was thinking … I have this puppy and nowhere to leave him.”

Robyn immediately says, “That's okay, he can stay here.” And he does, for six years.

Before and after I got to work each day, Habby and I walk in the extensive forested University Endowment Lands just minutes from my parents' house. Twenty minutes into the walk, I stop to stretch and to breathe. Deep breath in for four seconds, slow breath out for eight seconds. Warrior pose. In for four seconds, out for eight seconds. Tree pose. Tension fades from my body. The fear and doubts in my mind quiet. My inner voice sighs and whispers ‘I miss Jim. I'm so sad. Thank you for taking the time to listen to me.' I follow this regime to stay connected to my heart, to my pain. Before I leave the woods I tell Jim why I am grateful. Most often I am grateful for him, but I am also grateful for Habby and my family and friends. This ritual starts and ends the day on a positive note.

Day by day, autumn seeps in and the rain softens the earth beneath my boots. The leaves explode into colour, then fall and bare the trees to the cold winter until the new growth of spring. Is it difficult to let go of all of that beauty and stay naked for so long with the uncertainty of new buds? They are brave, the trees, to face change with such diversity and creativity. I would clutch my golden, auburn and burnt-umber leaves with all of my strength. Why would I let go of such an exquisite part of my being, which I had nurtured to climax?

I gather my past life, try to reattach my leaves. But they fall so quickly and rustle at my feet. With each step, I dig them into the rich humus of the earth, where they will help to feed my new growth.

The expression “Don't waste a crisis” comes to mind. Crisis leads to transition and to change – a difficult yet exciting time. I am anxious to take some action. I want to write a book about grief. Why? Catharsis? To give some meaning to Jim's death? To hold on to Jim? Jim wrote a book after Dan died, and if I do what Jim did maybe I'll survive grief too? A friend's comment swims in my brain: “You used to be Miss Culture, Miss French Literature, Miss Art, before you met Jim. Maybe it's time for you to get back to that. It's an opportunity for growth.”

I look at the trees again. So brave. And I continue to gather my leaves.

(DECEMBER 1999)

My older sister Sharron hands me a soft-covered blue scrapbook.

“Now this is for you. And I'd like you to put things about your future in it, your dreams.”

I nod, accept the book and, as soon as she has gone, begin to glue in the hundreds of condolence letters I have received.

Mom Haberl responds in writing to all the people who have reached out to them. She says it was cathartic. I too write a letter. It takes me a long time to finish.

December 17, 1999

Dear Friends,

I started this letter more than four months ago. It has been a tough one to write but it has been healing. I hope you can hear my heart speak through the words.

I feel like I have lost everything and I am terrified. I realize that it scares everyone else too. There is so much uncertainty. Do I send a card? Flowers? Do I call? Visit? Do I talk about Jim? We all do our best, but the pain is still there. The situation cannot be fixed. Feeling pain is part of feeling love.

The phone calls and cards came fast and furious in the first two and a half months. I still haven't caught up. I have put all of the cards and letters in a scrapbook. I read them to remind myself how much support I have. Instinctively I know that people caring about me is part of my lifeline. I am so grateful that people have reached out.

People have asked me how I feel about going into the mountains now. Some have shared their perspective on the risk of mountaineering. I am still struggling with my own perspective but I think it's clearer. Jim and I were fortunate. We spent a lot of time together and shared such beautiful moments. Travelling, working and playing in the wilderness together allowed Jim and I to accept each other and love each other at the very essence of our beings. Nature helped Jim find out who he truly was and to love wholly. The biggest risk he ever took was loving unconditionally. Somehow he figured out that love is the ultimate answer to the ultimate human question. The physical rope joining us became a permanent invisible one. The risk was higher in this environment but so was the reward. The reward being a relationship and a life together that I wouldn't trade for anything. I would do anything to get him back but I have no regrets. We embraced life and lived it fully. We realized our dreams together. My biggest dream was Jim – loving him and being loved by him.

Going into the mountains now is calming and healing. I feel Jim all around me. I breathe him in with the air and his warmth flows through my veins. He was such a skilled, wise mountaineer and I trust that he made the best decision he could under the circumstances. Jim died in a beautiful place. He died happy, at peace with himself and deeply loved.

It's been almost eight months now since Jim died but time is so circular these days, like a merry-go-round. Writing to Jim, talking to Jim, thinking about Jim and loving Jim are the only things my heart will embrace on the to-do list. People say I am doing well. I honestly don't know. I go day by day. Sometimes moment by moment. I'm treading water, feeling my way. Sometimes I am so raw it feels like I have no skin. Other times I am completely numb. My heart suffocates under a deep sadness that fills my chest, weighing me down like lead. I think about suicide. But then I would be throwing my loved ones into the same pain I am trying to escape. It doesn't make sense and it is not an option for me. Some days, I have my normal energy and I laugh right from my belly. Often I go crazy, caught between the life of happiness I had chosen and a surreal world where I have been left against my will.

I try not to get in the way of my own healing. My mind, body and soul know what's best, and I must let go and try not to judge, rationalize or hurry my process. I try to let the emotions come even though they are frightening. I try to face the pain and stay open and warm. The pain is the only thing that feels real right now. I mourn our lost future: the baby we will never have, not growing old together, never being able to touch him again. When times get dark, I imagine Jim beside me holding my hand and telling me that he wants me to be happy, that it's hard for him to see me sad. His arms encircle me, protecting me with the truth, that our hearts will always be together. It is very important for me to honour Jim's memory, our love and our relationship. Any pressure I feel to mourn the correct way is self-inflicted because Jim would want me to do whatever it takes to be happy again.

At my new job teaching outdoor education in Vancouver, the students are warm and full of life – they lift me up. My colleagues are supportive and understanding and we work as a team. It is an ideal job for me. I stay with my parents during the week and return home to Whistler on the weekends – my safe haven. My friends are getting married and having babies. Life goes on just as it should. As hard as this is, it gives me hope.

Habby, my new puppy, is seven months old. He truly lives for the moment. He is a gentle soul and he makes me laugh with his innocent antics. Spending time with family and friends brings me peace. They would do anything to take away some of my pain. When I hug people who are close to Jim, I squeeze a bit of him out. Talking about Jim and sharing tears is a relief.

Jim's death is in no way a positive thing. It is a tragedy that has left a huge hole in this world. Life will never be the same and I will never be the same. But my memories of our life together, of our love, are woven into who I am. My challenge is to find a balance between remembering yesterday and creating a tomorrow, to face the truth and to let go. My challenge is to let there be meaning in the pain, to grow from it, to become wiser, more compassionate and more loving. I want to be happy again. This is the best way for me to honour Jim's memory, our love and our life together.

I believe Jim is in a good place, whether that be heaven or within all of us and the beauty of the world. Jim always made wherever he was a good place.

There is no greater blessing than a friend who is there when good times aren't. Thank you for being there.

Love, Sue

After I mail the letter, and hand-deliver it to family, I wait. There is a tension in the house. Finally I ask Dad, “Did you read my letter?”

“Yes.” Silence.

“Was it okay for you to read?”

Dad's face is tight. “It seems like a cry for help.” I curl into myself. I want him to say that I am doing okay. But he is worried. I feel him looking at me as his patient. He has been a physician for 40 years.

Pain rips down my throat and I give in to the tears. Dad blankets me with his arms and leads me to the couch. “Do you see a future for yourself?”

I look down at my hands. “I see myself alone. I had my magical time.”

“I want to speed up your grieving.” He pauses and adds, “I'm worried you won't have a family of your own. You'd be a good mom, and I think you'd miss out by not having a family.” He pats my leg. “I think you should figure out what makes you feel good and do it.”

I hunker down into the couch. “Nothing feels good.” But that's not true. The mountain air feels good. Running my hand through Habby's fur feels good. Hugging feels good. Just not as good as when Jim was alive.

“I don't think you should be in pain all of the time. You should have more control over it.” Dad looks me in the eye.

Control. I can't think of one thing I feel in control of now, except for maybe my weight. That gnawing in my belly makes me feel alive. My body shrinks so that my pants hang on me, my collarbones stick out and my knees look knobby. I'm down to a size four. My guy friends comment on how lean I look. I've lost 10 kilograms since Jim was killed. Every time I look in the mirror and cannot pinch more than a tiny bit of flesh at my waist, I am satisfied. I keep shrinking because I want to. But the pain is something else. I cannot control the pain. It comes and goes at will.

“I've struggled with trying to control my grief and it's just not possible. I am doing my best.”

At times I want to grieve like Marianne, the emotive character in Jane Austen's
Sense and Sensibility
. I want to beat my head with a rock, tear out my hair and wail until I am empty. Other times I want to grieve like Marianne's sister Elinor and get up the next morning and go to work. Sense and sensibility. I admire Elinor's selfless ability to put the feelings of others first in order to control her own. It is not that she does not feel – she feels deeply – but she does not indulge her feelings by imposing them on others. Marianne, on the other hand, lets loose with all of her anguish, with little regard for protocol. I admire her also. The books on grief say that we all grieve differently. As usual, I want to fit in.