Finding Jim (25 page)

I don't want to be a bitter old widow.

I tell Terri, Sue, Marla and Heather, most of my close friends, that I would like to take some time from work.

One day Glenda says to me that she and Dad heard that I plan to take time off. When was I going to tell them? That night I ask Dad if we can talk. The three of us sit in the living room and the air is thick. I feel like it would take an effort to reach my arm out across the room to touch my father, that it would be like feeling my way in the pitch black. I start by saying that I am not coping very well at work. His smile fades. I am overwhelmed by grief and work; it feels like I am trying to do two full-time jobs and not doing either of them well. I need time.

Glenda clenches a fist in her lap, “A lot of people come in my office wanting time. But time for what?” Her disapproval is apparent.

“I want time to heal,” I say softly without looking at her. It is almost a question.

Dad frowns, “How do you know work isn't healing for you?” I think of the motto in
Little Women
, “Hope, and keep busy.”

I feel cornered and look for an escape. “I don't really know but I have to trust my gut feeling.”

“Your gut feeling isn't good enough for me,” Dad says impatiently. “I'd like the word of a professional.”

“What does that mean?” I glance at him and turn away from the challenge.

“Go and see a psychiatrist. If the psychiatrist agrees with you taking time off then I will support you, or at least I will feel better about it.” He sighs deeply and sinks back into his chair. Dad proposes another way to fix me. “How about taking anti-depressants?”

“I want to avoid that.” The silence is thick with unspoken words. I keep my head down.

Glenda says they have seen so many positive results from anti-depressants. I do not want to get hooked on them, and I feel I have other things in my life that give me a sense of joy: walking in the woods with Habby, writing in my journal, taking deep breaths in the outdoors, being in the mountains, visiting with friends, hugging, memories. Dad explains that after a trauma, the brain can stop producing serotonin and if the production ceases for long enough, the brain can forget how to produce it. The anti-depressants serve as a kick-start. They wonder if I need a kick-start. Dad thinks it is too long after Jim's death for me to be grieving and needing time off work. I do not look at him. I want to plead with him to trust me, to believe in me, because I need that more than anything.

My family doctor refers me to a psychiatrist.

I arrive 15 minutes early for my appointment. The waiting room feels like a white tunnel, and the only other patient glues his eyes to the pages of his book. I hope I don't see anyone I know. I strain to hear familiar sounds: cars outside, a phone ringing. It is as if two pillows are strapped to the sides of my head. I fiddle with the pages of my journal and wonder if I will say the right thing.

“Susan Oakey?” His voice hums through the room.

“That's me.” I extend my hand to him and at the same time fumble for my pen that has shot to the floor. I follow him several steps. Well dressed. Relaxed walk. I hope he's kind. He steps aside at the door to his office and gestures ahead of him. I slide into the leather
IKEA
chair and rest my head on the back for an instant while he shuts the door. I sit up on the edge of my chair. He lowers into his chair, crosses one ankle over the other knee and swivels to face me. He rolls a pen between the fingertips of both hands. There is a pause that seems like minutes. Should I start? No, that's ridiculous, he's the therapist.

“So, what would you like to talk about?” he enunciates slowly.

“My husband was killed just over a year and a half ago. I want to take some time off work to grieve.” I use half of my lung capacity as I wait for his response.

“Hmmm.” He nods his head up and down and looks at me with such heavy thought that if someone yelled “Fire!” he would still take the time to respond to me. I breathe faster and concentrate on the sound of the cars outside. Is he waiting for an explanation?

“Tell me a bit about what you have been doing since your husband was killed.” He reaches for a pad of paper.

For 30 minutes I babble about going to Alaska to where Jim fell, about visiting the place where Jim and I first met in the Queen Charlotte Islands, about guiding the Alzheimer group up Mount Kilimanjaro and about my new job at Trek. He listens.

“You're most likely experiencing delayed grief. I support your taking time off.” The sound of his voice envelops me like a soft blanket.

“Um,” I venture, “I'm wondering if I need to take anti-depressants. My parents think it would be a good idea.” I hold my breath.

“What do you think?” He gestures with his hand at me.

“I'd rather not. I don't want to become dependent on them. But I am sensitive to the fact that my mom needed them once. So, I wonder if I do, too.” I focus on the wall behind him.

“You seem to have a good sense of self. I don't think you need anti-depressants.” He scribbles instructions for my health leave on a piece of paper.

I exhale and thank him.

When I relay the conversation to my good friend, she says, “Good grief, you're guiding people up mountains. I'm sure he thinks you're doing great compared to lots of normal people! Not that you're not normal … you know what I mean.” We laugh.

Turn your face to the sun and the shadows fall behind you.

—
MAORI PROVERB

In February 2001, the first month of my health leave, the sun shines 25 of the 28 days. Habby and I cross-country ski from our front door, around frozen Alta Lake and the Rainbow Trail and back to the house. It is 90 minutes of crisp air, calming mountains, the freedom of gliding, the smell of snow and Habby romping like there will be no tomorrow. Sometimes the wind blows, and I come back with red cheeks, huffing and close to tears. I thank the universe for sending sun.

My heart feels peaceful for the first time since Jim was killed, because I have made a conscious choice to care for it. I try to make myself a meal every day, exercise, stay connected with loved ones, write, meditate and stretch. Some days I don't get up until noon. Other days I eat only chocolate. Every day I go outside, if only for a few minutes with Habby.

When I feel darkest, I let the phone ring.

I listen to the voices of my friends and family on the answering machine. Three or four calls a day. If I feel able to keep myself from crying, I answer.

“I feel that I reached my summit with Jim, I reached my highest mountain, and that the only way to go from here is down. I mean, you don't tell Romeo and Juliet to buck up because they'll find another love. I feel like that. The only way to go is down.”

There is a pause on the other end of the line and then Terri sighs and says, “Let me think about that one. I'll get back to you.”

I sob to my sister on the phone, “I feel completely in love with Jim. How will I ever love someone else?”

“It's safe for you to love Jim.”

“What do you mean?”

“He can't hurt you anymore,” she replies softly.

Oh, God, I think to myself, she's right.

I've feared what would happen if Jim fell out of love with me but it never occurred to me the repercussions of not being able to fall out of love with him.

One evening, I sit alone on the couch. A force presses against the inside of my skin and tears are not enough relief. I rock back and forth, grip my hands together and moan. My ribs ache, my lungs burn and my gut spasms. The energy presses hard to get out. My eyes and mouth open wide because I cannot hold back forever. I fall to my knees and suck in air and vomit it out. I gasp, moan and push animal sounds from deep within my belly. A hot energy rushes around my body and pushes out of every pore. I bang my fists on the table, shout. I fall back onto the couch, cradle my head and sob so hard my shoulders ache.

I lift my head and corral my breath into a strong regular rhythm. I grit my teeth, stare at nothing and clench my fists. A voice surges. You left me. How could you leave me? How could you be so selfish? I am so angry with you for dying.

The books say it is normal to feel anger. That it will pass. Is it normal to feel such strong rage that I pummel myself from the inside out?

The skin on my face relaxes and I stare at the floor. I sleep for six hours straight and in the morning get dressed at first light, have breakfast and take Habby for a walk up the trail. I spend the rest of the day writing, drawing and ticking things off of my to-do list.

I have cried every day for almost two years. But, that night in bed I wait for sleep and it strikes me that I have not cried all day. I feel guilty and relieved. It is comforting to see progress.

Friends invite me for dinner and when I arrive, Scott, one of Jim's colleagues, is there. He is a full mountain guide and lives in Whistler. He hunches his tall frame to wrap me in a hug and watches me quietly with his dark brown eyes. After dinner, I drive him to his car, which is parked at a nearby trailhead because he has just completed a solo two-day traverse from Wedge Mountain to Blackcomb Mountain. As he reaches for the door handle, he asks, “How are you doing?”

I give him my standard answer. But the reality is that I feel alone. He says goodnight, shuts the car door and I heave a sigh of relief.

That night I dream of the devil. He is tall, dark and alluring, but his features are blurred. If I give my soul to the devil, he will bring Jim back to me.

Scott invites me to ski into a backcountry hut. My jacket clings to me while I pack the car in the pouring rain. The sun rises behind bruised clouds, and I switch on the headlights to make my way to Scott's house. When he answers the door, he smiles with his eyes and says, “If it were anyone else but you, I would cancel.” I chuckle, avoid his steady gaze and busy myself with transferring my gear to his car. I chew on his words. Does he mean he wouldn't cancel because I am a grieving widow and he doesn't want to hurt my feelings? Or is he really looking forward to our spending time together?

As we drive, the air between us feels light, as if my body would float through it to brush against him. I squeeze my arms against my sides.

As we ski away from the car, my skin prickles. I stop.

“I'm feeling weird,” I stutter.

“What is it?” Scott stops behind me.

“This is the sort of thing that Jim and I would have done…” My voice trails off.

Scott lowers his head and then raises his deep brown gaze to mine.

“You could ski ahead a bit and just pretend that you are on your own, and I'll be here for backup,” Scott offers.

“Okay.” I look to the sky so that emotion won't pour out of my face.

That night at the hut, the moon is full and Scott, Habby and I go for a ski before bed. We plod uphill toward the ridge. The wind starts to howl and snow swirls around my face. I pull the drawstring on my hood and burrow into the collar. Scott's hunched frame twists to peer back at me. My lungs suck harder, my heart beats faster and my body balloons with oxygen and blood. But it isn't enough. I need more air. More. I need warmth to fill the emptiness inside of me. But the pain does not ease. I let out a cry and then crumple to one knee and sob into my gloved hands. Habby nudges his wet nose between my fingers and draws his tongue over my cheeks and nostrils.

Scott's black mass turns and gets closer. He lowers his face to where I can feel the heat of his breath.

“Are you all right?” he shouts over the wind.

I raise my wet face to his and choke, “I can't do it.”

He looks at me, says nothing and leads the way back to the cabin. I wonder if he thinks I am weak. I slow my pace so that the storm veils my grief and watch Scott's figure get smaller in front of me. With each stride I throw out a fresh wail of anguish. What's wrong with me? Why can't I do this? Jim, I need your help. I feel you. Are you here? Have you sent Scott to guide me, to look after me like you did? I stoop lower with this thought. Before I enter the hut, I swipe my glove across my eyes and take a deep breath.

That night, I curl up with Habby on the main floor because dogs are not permitted in the loft sleeping area.

I call my friend Andrea and tell her about Scott.

She asks, “How do you think it will be for you getting into another relationship? Do you think you will be able to love more strongly now?”

“Yes, because my worst fear has been realized. Now I will be able to love more strongly because the fear of the unknown, what it would be like to have your mate die, is no longer unknown.”

“Yeah, I think you're right.”

My psychiatrist's voice echoes, “You seem to be confused about what you think you should feel and what you actually do feel.”

A month later, Scott invites me to a party at a trendy club. I buy a short dress. Scott holds the door of the taxi for me.