Magnificent Grief

I turned 60 deep in the French alps on the last day in August, in a refuge that used to be a sheep farm. It was the second day of our trek around Mont Blanc—107 miles of gorgeous climbs and descents circumnavigating the massif. We were a group of 12 strangers, all ardent hikers and adventurers. It was a long day, 20 km with big elevation gain.

When I started sneezing I assumed it was because we were bunking in a former sheep barn, but by the time we went to sleep it was clear to me that I had a head cold. I didn't sleep that night for worrying: could I continue? Would I slow everyone down? Our guide—a soft spoken, skilled mountaineer from Madrid—assured me that we would hike as a group, that he would set the pace (slow) and that it would be ok.

The next day was hard but I am a strong hiker so I was able to compartmentalize my discomfort and appreciate the splendor of that glorious landscape despite not feeling well. A day later we had a planned rest day in Courmayeur after hiking down from the Col dividing France and Italy. With relief, I moved into more comfortable rooms and I was able to sleep and rest.

At dinner that night my phone pinged with a message from my younger sister. My dad had become suddenly, catastrophically ill. He was in septic shock and they were trying to find the cause. We were at this point almost halfway into the tour. I knew I needed to get through the trek and then figure out next steps. From compartmentalizing my illness, I moved to compartmentalizing my fear, grief and worry.

My other siblings made the decision to fly out to Tucson. Each day I persevered, hiked the relentless steeps, felt swept up in the magnificent beauty of the mountains and the community of my team, and then took myself off alone for a time to let the worry and sadness well up. My very dear friend Jean was a life raft through all of this, just being there for me, offering to help when I was unmoored and floundering.

We continued and near the end, had a full day of soaking rain that drenched our gear and rebooted my cough, followed by the most glorious, breathtaking day of the trek as we completed our route back to Chamonix.

By this point, dad was on life support and my siblings were all out in Arizona.

Getting back to Chamonix was a blur of anxiety and relief and exhaustion. Originally, I was planning to meet my husband after the trek, explore the Swiss Alps and then head to Basel to see our son perform in a circus. When my sister called to say that dad's organs were failing I got on the phone and worked most of the night to cancel our plans, change my flights, get to Zurich, fly to Boston and then to Arizona. They would try and keep dad on life support until I got there. After several hours on trains, I arrived at the Zurich airport and got a room at the airport hotel. Exhausted, I fell into sleep and woke around 1 am to a voicemail from my sister. Collectively they had decided to remove life support as the doctor said his organs were shutting down and Dad's wife insisted (rightly) on letting him go. He died at 4 pm on Saturday, only an hour after the removal of life support. I was gutted, heartbroken I hadn't made it in time to say goodbye. Still intent on getting myself to Arizona  to be with my siblings, I boarded a plane to Copenhagen. 

At the Copenhagen airport, I finally and completely lost the ability to compartmentalize and started to crumble. Standing in line for passport control before the long flight to Boston, I noticed that tears were streaming down my face. I called my husband and he gently suggested that I get to Boston and come home, that as exhausted and sick as I was, the additional long flight to Tucson was ill advised. That I would be no use to my sisters and brother this tired and sick. All the anguish over not making it to say goodbye to my dad was just pouring out of me, I could barely see straight. People were kind but left me alone as I stood in line, as I fumbled through passport control and got to my gate and finally, boarded the plane.

I made it home a few days ago and am on the phone daily with my sisters and brother. The grief has dulled mostly, replaced by the long task list set forth by the estate lawyer and all the stuff that needs to happen when someone dies.  I am feeling my way back and examining all of it. I wish I had more wisdom, more clarity around this process.  Right now I recognize that sometimes there is a need to compartmentalize big feelings in order to function. I also see there is sweet relief in letting feelings flow when it is time. When the dam breaks it breaks. I did not make a conscious choice to cede control to the seawall of feelings. The tears insisted on flowing and once they started I felt enormous relief in letting go into the grief.

Now I am home and healing, tending, and looking forward to moving back into the familiar comfort of teaching. The daily practice of yoga is bringing me back into feeling united in body, heart and mind. I'll be easing my way back in starting next week and look forward to once again plugging into the hum and energy of the studio.

It's good to be home.