Finding my way through the glacier calving of life after death
We had just arrived at Berg Lake after 23 Kilometers and 800 m elevation gain in the course of two days. I had made the booking for two, long before all had come crashing down and with bookings a once in a lifetime ticket, I had to commit. At this time in my life, I still wanted to be outside. I Still wanted to wander through mountainous topography with all kinds of wonder. Upon our arrival we scouted a site we wanted and the current tenants were breaking down their camp. We sat in a small patch of sunshine, exhausted but happy to be at camp and take our boots off.
The family was a family of three. Dad, Mom, and a baby girl no older than around 6 months. As they packed their next adventure into two huge packs I watched as she tentatively took care of her daughter. There was no rush. As they were ready to depart up to snowbird pass I marvelled at the size of her pack with her baby in tow. She couldn't have weighed over 125 lbs herself and the pack was at least 75 lt without the baby. Off they went, a complete triangle of three perfectly strong and healthy humans that created an unwavering power on the trail. I loved watching her. I thought of my early days, walking up the old logging road in the falls with Cassidy bouncing in the carrier on my back, every single day until she could walk. As I slept in the feathers of my -30 bag that night, feeling the cold exhales of my sleeping partner, there was a thunderous sound. To name it thunderous was almost ridiculous compared to it grande nature. It was then I realized I had heard it all the way from our last camp in the night and now it was at the foot of my tent. It was the unspeakable sound of the Berg glacier calving a huge piece of ice into the stunning blue waters below. It is a sound I will never forget.
These moments in my life become the backdrop to my heart and how my heart listens to nature. Glacier calving is synonymous with life after death. Metaphorically I move in a forward motion in that my icy grief has to move with me, and often the instability creates its release, and the feeling is much like the sound of Berg breaking into the water below. IF I hang onto it, the instability will stay. As much as my grief mind works in resistance, It has to be let go. In order to let it go, I have to endure the pain that comes with the breaking point. One cannot happen without the other. This was my moment she died as I sat next to her, the sound was unspeakable with a most complex translation that catapulted me into the arms of gratitude.
I was asleep in my car in the hospital parkade when I got the call. "Lori you need to get up her right now".
I ran through the lot and hit the elevator button on repeat as I repeated, "Wait for me. Please wait for me." It felt like the elevator was in slow motion and my feet were stuck in the quickest of sand before I landed in her room. The doctors were frantic like the first day and I knew they would not have us in the room unless she could possibly die. I paced. I paced again. And again. It was not long before the doctor, who had told me a report each day for six days, said with the most suffering, "I have tried everything. There is nothing more." and he found his way out as I stood in my news. This was it. The three of us sat together with her and collectively decided that what was left was only for our benefit. It was a way to soften the blow and create an acceptance space between us and death. The nurse confirmed that the only thing keeping her heart beating was epinephrin. We decided to let her go. The choice was given for anyone to be there. The room soon flooded with family, doctors, nurses, ... everyone.
I found my position at her side and with the most gracious of love told myself, "this will be the hardest thing you will ever have to do, but you will be ok." This was the beginning of a love of self I was gifted that has carried me through. My body and mind were human and reacted with a shattering inability to move. I locked my eyes to her nurse Melissa, who had the unimaginable task to stop her machines. I needed a grounding place and her eyes were it as she slowly moved through the motions and cancelled the machine sounds that stayed with me for months. In this moment I realized that there was no such thing as gone. I realized it was all just a response to the fear of gone being real. As though I would feel dead myself. Instead, with an unwavering courage, I could feel the expansion of my daughter and in turn she showered each and every person in the room with her love. I was hyper aware that this meant I would never hear her laugh, I would never touch her beautiful hair, or hear her voice, but she was still here. I have no recollection of space and time. The fear was dismantled. None of that was in light. It was as clear as hours in meditation with a comforting compassionate empty that didn't leave room for loneliness, only love. I stayed a long time by her side. Her skin was taut and swollen from the fight. Her hair was rested beneath her. I told myself, "This is her shell. What a beautiful shell of a beautiful young woman. How lucky to have shared 23 years by her side. How lucky." I told myself it was time to let go of the attachment to that of which she no longer resides. I stood, laid my scarf from India over her courageous body and I left the room. As I broke into the lobby, my berg hit the water and I hit the floor. I had stepped back into the unknown.
The following morning at Berg, the family reappeared. We were all seated by the sun patches drying our gear from the night's rain. They had returned from Snowbird Pass early as they arrived, the only ones at camp. They didn't feel it was safe to stay with the baby surrounded by wild and smelling like animal. I watched as they played in the beams safely. She asked, "do you have kids?". "I do. I have three." I replied. I silently wished for her to never have to let go in the ways some of us have to. I wished them sun patches and glacier calving in the night. I wished I could tell her to savour the moments. The sun patches, the hikes downhill & up. But she wouldn't know what I meant and I hoped she never had to. My partner and I set up the tripod for a photo as Mount Robson was showing off that morning. We quickly ran to a bench as sat together. As the timer beeped, most and cloud rushed in, shrouding us and Robson in dense fog. The husband yelled, "NAILED IT!" and we all laughed. The unknown is a portal to the present. The present is the unknown.
Hold lightly what moves through.
With Metta,
L.
Comments