Finding Jim (24 page)

“What will you do with the rest of them?” Mom Haberl gestures to the ashes left in the bag.

“I don't know.”

“Just as long as you don't keep them too long. I knew someone who kept them on the mantelpiece for seven years. That's no good.” She grins and clutches my arm for a second. Seven years doesn't sound like very long to me.

That evening, 80 of Jim's family and friends gather at the Brew Pub in Squamish for dinner and a slideshow. Jim's eldest brother does not come. A close friend of Jim's phones my cell to apologize and to say that he just can't be there. He prefers to be alone with his grief. I appreciate their honesty, but I miss their presence. At my request, the room is decorated with yellow roses.

I agonize over whether to show the slideshow of Jim's life from his memorial a year before. Some people request it. When I voice my indecision to my counsellor, she tells me about a First Nations tradition where one year after a person dies, his loved ones congregate and pass around his photo and say a few words and then put the photo away. His image is no longer true. He is dead. Even if he were alive, his physical appearance would have changed in a year.

So, I go through all of his beautiful slides and choose a selection to represent how he saw the world. I set these to music. Gigantic, fluted snow peaks in Pakistan, Peru, Alaska and Canada fill the screen. People ski powder so deep it sprays over their heads. Jim's two brothers Pat and Kevin, along with Matt, stand at the top of Mount Denali, harnesses and ice axes dangling. Along with Jim, they are the youngest team ever to summit the highest peak in North America. A younger Jim with thicker hair hangs upside down like Spiderman on a massive sandstone overhang. His mom laughing, sitting on driftwood on a beach in the Queen Charlottes. There are sunsets and sunrises from all over the world. When the music stops, there is a pause before people clap. I stand up and thank everyone for coming.

Vicki says, “Sue, tell us about the yellow roses.”

I look around the room at the dozens and dozens of yellow roses and clear my throat. “A friend sent me a story about a woman who had recently lost her husband. She went grocery shopping and started crying when she saw the yellow roses at the checkout because her husband would always surprise her with yellow roses when they went shopping together. She went to the meat counter and couldn't find a steak small enough for one person. As she deliberated, a young woman stood beside her and picked up several packages and put them down again. Finally she turned to the widow and said, ‘I don't know, this steak is just so expensive, but my husband enjoys it so much.' The widow put her hand on the young woman's arm and said, ‘Buy the steak. Treasure every moment you have with him.' The young woman put the steak in her basket and said goodbye. The widow continued on. As she went down one of the aisles, she saw the younger woman striding toward her clutching a package. ‘These are for you.' She offered a bouquet of yellow roses with a smile. The widow accepted them gratefully and started to cry. When the younger woman had gone, the widow whispered, ‘Oh, John, you haven't forgotten me.'”

By the time I finish this story, I am crying and so is Vicki.

After dinner, Dad Haberl stands up and clinks his spoon on his glass. “I would like to invite anyone who would like to say anything about Jim to stand up. I thought we could start with Schultze, as he has some great stories.” Schultze went to high school with Jim. The “high school Jim” is not the Jim I know. I want stories about Jim and me being in love, or stories about Jim with the buddies I know.

Schultze scrapes his chair back and stands up. “You might know that in high school we had some pretty exclusive clubs. The ‘heebla' club for instance was one of them. And of course there was the pizza joint hangout. Lots of laughs and good times. But you know the big thing about Jim for me was how loyal he was. After high school, I disappeared for about eight years, moved away and did my own thing. I did not keep in touch with friends at all. But when I came back to Vancouver, Jim was the first one to call me.” There are a few more speeches. I feel dry.

When I go to settle the bill with the owner, he says there will be no charge. Jim was one of the nicest guys he ever met.

(SPRING 2000)

Two more hours until the school bell rings and then I can let go at my counselling appointment. I herd my thoughts, pin them down by clamping my jaw shut.

“How are you today, Sue?” My counsellor Lou's singsong greeting, warm smile and flowing silk clothes envelop me in a hug. My jaw eases.

“I'm fine. How are you?” Years of practice lead me through the social norms. My grief readies like a loaded spring. I leave my shoes at the door, pad over to my usual armchair and sit down clutching my journal.

“What would you like to talk about today?” Her eyes sparkle with eagerness as she smoothes her skirt over her thighs. I imagine myself as her.

“How do you do it, Lou? How do you listen to people's sadness all day every day and stay so peaceful and loving?” I lean forward.

Lou chuckles deep in her throat, throws up her arms, looks at the ceiling and says, “I give it all up to the Divine.”

“Oh.” That sounds good. I breathe deeply, look past Lou out the window and unload. “I don't know what to do with all of the anger.”

“Can you tell me more about the anger?” Her words ease out like a slow-moving river.

“I just feel angry so much of the time.”

“Angry about what?”

“About life. About where I am. About what has happened.”

“That's understandable. It's very unfair what has happened to you. Do you feel angry at Jim?”

I snap my head up. “What for?”

“For getting killed. For leaving you.”

“No, I could never be mad at him. I mean, sometimes I feel angry with him for leaving me, but I can't stay mad long. He was such a good person. He would never hurt me intentionally.” I tighten my stomach to stop the truth from exploding out of my mouth. To stop myself from stomping around and throwing things.

I saw a movie once where criminals held hostages at gunpoint in a bank. Every hour, they would shoot a hostage to speed a response to their demands. One young male hostage hid behind a pillar with an older male hostage. The young guy was hyperventilating and babbling, “What are we going to do? Shit, man, they're going to kill us.” The older man calmly looked at him and launched verbally abusive comments at him. The young man came back with an equally abusive tirade.

“What did you do that for?” the young man whined.

“Well, do you feel scared anymore?”

“No,” the young man admitted.

Anger trumps fear.

Lou's voice brings me back to the quiet room.

“You know, anger serves a purpose. It is there for a reason. It demands action and helps you to move forward. It is powerful. Do you have a way of expressing your anger?”

“I meditate, do yoga, write, run.”

“How about an activity where you're hitting a ball, such as tennis?”

“No, not so much.”

“A physical outlet is good. You know, this friend of mine arrived on my front doorstep one night, full of rage. She was going through a divorce. She asked if I had a shovel. I gave her one and followed her into my backyard where she dug a hole about 30 centimetres deep. Just as I was wondering what the neighbours would think, she plopped herself down on her stomach with her face over the hole and began to shout and scream. The wailing went on for a good 10 minutes. She pushed herself up, handed me my shovel and said, ‘Mother Earth can take it.' Your anger is trying to tell you something. Let it out and listen.”

When I get home to Whistler that weekend I study the backcountry roads and trails book, choose Blowdown Creek and head off in my 4
WD
wagon. For over an hour I weave logging roads together to a small clearing at the trailhead. My backpack bounces as I hike, and at the top of a hill, my panting echoes in my ears. Meadow flowers and snowy peaks still my soul. Okay, this is it. This is a good spot. I look all around and there is nobody in sight. I fill my lungs and bare my teeth for the scream of a lifetime.

But nothing comes. I am scared of causing a disturbance. What if someone thinks I am in trouble? What will I say? I was screaming to let my anger out? What if I start screaming and can't stop? No, best to keep it inside where it is safe. I trudge on.

(SUMMER 2000)

“Those who bring sunshine into the lives of others cannot keep it from themselves.”

—
SIR J.M. BARRIE

Jim and I had thought in 1998 that the Ascent for Alzheimer's fundraising climb up Kilimanjaro would be a one-time thing. But it builds momentum, and in 2000 there are two teams. I don't want the responsibility of guiding the groups, but at the same time I can't leave it alone. I still don't know why I am going but something draws me there, and my feet follow my heart. I ask Jim's younger brothers, Kevin and Pat, if they will come with me.

Of the four brothers, Pat looks most like Jim. And when he throws back his head and laughs, I do a double take to make sure he is not Jim. In Tanzania there is a tradition of widows marrying their husband's brother, because someone must take responsibility for them as dependants. I can see, too, that it would be familiar and reassuring for me to marry Pat. I feel hopeful around him because I can fool myself that he is Jim, and hopeless, too, because I know he is not Jim.

We work together to guide the team, and I feel Pat's gratitude for the opportunity to do something that Jim did. In helping these people to reach their goal of summiting the highest mountain in Africa, we feel wanted and needed and we honour Jim's memory.

A week later, when Kevin and I arrive at the summit with the second team, he hugs me and says, “There are no ghosts here. You're a good guide, Sue. Strong.” I listen, bow my head but am not able to take pleasure in his compliment. I tuck it away, though, for when I am ready to rebuild the part of me that will survive without Jim.

I have now guided over a hundred people to the summit of Kilimanjaro for the Alzheimer Society of
BC
. They have guided me as much as I have guided them because they allow me to help them, which takes my mind off my own pain and makes me feel stronger. And they inspire me with their courage. Each time I go to Kilimanjaro, I visit Jim at Mawenzi. One year when I returned to camp after one of these visits, a team member pressed a folded piece of paper into my hand. It was a beautiful poem.

In Memoriam – Jim

Like the red dust rising

To meet

The white clouds drifting

On this volcanic mountain

My body meets your soul

Inhale the scattered ashes

Of memories kindling still

Then exhale with the wonder

Of this peace

Upon my will

Here, on Kilima Njaro

Step with me and then

Over the plains of Tanzania

Drift free away

Again

After my climbs with Pat and Kevin, I arrive at Vancouver airport to a welcoming committee, smaller than the previous year, but just as warm. Once again I did not find Jim. I did everything right. I led everyone safely to the top, and still I did not find Jim. The harsh reality sinks into the crevasses of my mind.

(FALL 2000)

Back at Trek in the fall, I choose to do more of the administrative tasks rather than teach. During recess I walk around the school field with Habby listening to my Walkman so that my mind can have some Jim time. There is a weight on my body, an incredible feeling that I need to be doing something else. I have a full-time job and I cannot handle this grieving, which is a second full-time job. I need to grieve. Time is what I crave. Very slow time.

I once heard life described as a train and that when you suffer an incredible loss, you fall off the train. The train chugs along but grief holds me at a different speed. I cannot gain enough momentum to get back onto the train, and if I do succeed in getting pulled on for a time, the speed makes me dizzy. I cannot function. I am in a different time zone.

On the weekends, I drive home to Whistler right after work. When I enter the front door, I listen for the patter of Jim's feet as he comes down the stairs to greet me. I sit around trying to soak up the familiar. I run my hand along the couch and gaze at the photos on the wall. My palm lies open beside me, heavy with the weight of Jim's nonexistent flesh. At dinnertime I strain to hear the phone ring and Jim's voice reassuring me that they have landed safely after a day of heli-skiing and that he will be right home after his customary beer with the clients. In the morning, I lay very still with my eyes closed, breathe deeply into Jim's pillow and listen for his purposeful movement out of bed and the tinkle of his teaspoon in the kitchen.

The evening before I am scheduled to be back at work, I slowly pack my clothes and clean the house until it is too late to begin the two-hour drive. It feels as if pieces of my skin cling to the walls as I drag my body out of the house at five the next morning in order to get to work on time. There is never enough time. I never want to leave.

I ask my counsellor about taking time off. The words seem more real when spoken out loud. I need time to myself, to grieve, to nurse my very deep wound, to have no other responsibilities, to rebuild. Just as it takes time to heal a physical wound, it takes time to heal an emotional wound. The pain of losing Jim is so close to the love I feel for him that I could nurse my wound forever. But I won't. My counsellor supports my desire to be free, to have little responsibility so that I can focus on nourishing myself. She supports me taking stress leave, saying that I've kept busy for so long, and now I'm slowing down and starting to feel the deep pain.