I won’t quarrel with that recollection. The fact is that Terry and I worked real hard trying to figure out some alternatives. Just because there was no happy outcome anticipated—remember, I also thought I was a dead man on Everest—the fact is that you ain’t tryin’ if you ain’t tryin’.
Peach and I would have paid for the transplant; there just wasn’t enough time to get one.
Our second idea was a major liver resection. We researched that one fully, too. It would have been a huge operation, and we finally saw that it just wasn’t going to happen.
The third alternative, not a cure but a delaying action, was to embolize the tumor; that is, try to knock it down by cutting off its blood supply. Some success with this strategy had been noted in the literature. We tried it twice before turning to the last resort, chemotherapy.
Peach:
Howie lived four months after his diagnosis, from August of ’96 to January of 1997. It was a very fast-growing tumor, but for the most part he suffered very little physical pain. He spent about half that time with us in Dallas, where Beck accompanied him on all his doctors’ appointments. It felt like we had desperately sick people stacked up in every corner.
When Bub heard Uncle Howie was coming to stay with us, he voluntarily gave up his room and sort of camped around the house. Bub wouldn’t give up his room for anybody. But he said, “If Howie needs to come here, then he should get my room. I’m moving out.”
I also remember that autumn Meg had a special date. It was her freshman year, and she was wearing her first-ever short black dress. Howie wouldn’t come down to meet the boy. He asked that Meg come up to Bub’s room instead. When he saw her, he started bawling. He knew it would be the first and last time he’d ever see her that way, and he hadn’t wanted to embarrass her in front of her date.
Howie faced his cancer with dignity. I can’t remember the exact date of this, but I know we were all sitting in the den. Peach, myself, Howie in the rocking chair, Pat and their daughter, Laura. And it came to him right then that he was going to die. There’d been denial until that moment. Then all of us knew it, too, at that moment. We could fight a rear-guard action, but hope was gone.
It was an immensely sad moment. I could see Howie coming to grips with it. Then he rallied. He knew he had to be strong again for his wife and child. That was a hard moment.
Peach:
Howie’s last hope was an experimental program Terry White found in Illinois. Only about half a dozen patients had been part of it. We knew it was a long shot.
When the call came that he had very little time left, Beck surprised me again. He easily could have said, “You go. I’ll stay with the kids.” But he didn’t. He said, “I’ll go with you.”
I was at my microscope when Peach called the hospital to tell me that they didn’t believe Howard could last the night. I said, “When do we leave?”
She said, “We need to be out of here in about an hour.” I stood up from my desk, walked to the outer office and told my partners I was leaving, that I had to go to Chicago.
It was a silent flight. Chicago was bitterly cold. The wind blew a chill right through your body. The city was various tones of gray, with little if any color anywhere.
At the hospital, we passed through multiple security checkpoints on our way to Howard’s room. We made it in time. Howard was lucid. He’d hung on, knowing his baby sister was coming to him for one last time. Pat and Laura were at his bedside. Each of us had the time to say good-bye to Howard, to tell him how much he meant to us, and I was able to thank him for all the times he stood in for me, had been the father figure I wanted to be but just wasn’t any good at.
I told him I loved him. I embraced him and I kissed his forehead.
I’ve been told that people facing death can hold on by sheer dint of will, if there’s something very important left for them to do. I believe this is true. Howard had held on, and now he was ready to let go. You could see him surrender to his exhaustion. He closed his eyes, slipped into unconsciousness. His breath became ever more labored and ragged. Then he was gone.
Peach and I left the hospital about four in the morning and went to our hotel. In all my time on mountains all over the world, I’d never felt so chilled.
Later that morning we flew back to Dallas. I had the window seat. Peach was beside me, her head on my shoulder, her hand on my arm. As the plane headed south in the light of the early morning sun, the rivers and lakes below us flashed up blindingly, brilliant gold turning to silver as the plane flew on.
The sparkle seemed to dance across the water, leaping to stay with us. I felt Peach’s face against my cheek as we both stared out the window.
“You know what that is?” I asked. “Yes, it’s Howard,” she answered.
That was exactly my thought. I could see Howard in that light, performing this last fatherly act, as he guided his baby sister safely home.
Back in Dallas, Peach asked me to deliver the eulogy at Howard’s funeral, which would be held in Atlanta. Though I’m generally not at a loss for words, I did not want to do this thing. I loved Howard so much that I just didn’t think I had the strength to deliver a eulogy without coming apart. But I also knew it was something I had to do.
Peach:
Most of the people who came to our house that May weekend in 1996 also sent flowers to Howie’s funeral, eight months later. I don’t know that I ever understood the purpose of flowers at such a time, other than a gesture of love and respect for the deceased.
But on this occasion, as we read their names on the cards and looked at all the lovely floral tributes, this same set of friends seemed to embrace us once again, their strength sustaining us yet again.
The pain I felt at Howie’s funeral was all the sharper for the realization that my brother had been there for practically every important moment in my life. Then he had taken it upon himself to do the same for my children. Howie even came to my college graduation, which was no more personal (certainly not to me, anyway) than “Will the College of Arts and Sciences now rise?” At the time, Laura was a toddler, no more than two, yet Howie and Pat drove a couple of hours with her so he could watch me graduate.
The occasions didn’t need to be great or grand for Howie to take then seriously, either. For example, he once promised Bub he’d attend Bub’s second-grade show-and-tell. The weather in Dallas started to go downhill in a hurry, and Howie needed to be in California the following day on business. He refused to leave, however, until he’d kept his word to Bub, and attended that show-and-tell.
Howie just understood better than most of us the importance of daily deeds, rituals and traditions, as opposed to grand entrances and exits; that it’s the journey, not the destination, that matters in our lives. It does seem that we go to more funerals than weddings.
Peach also asked Meg to sing at Howard’s funeral. Difficult as I felt the eulogy would be, I thought that paled in comparison to the prospect of Meg standing and singing in front of hundreds of people at her beloved uncle’s funeral. Peach’s friends suggested that this maybe wasn’t a good idea. But Peach said, “No, Meg will do it, and she will do it for her Howie.”
The funeral only served to remind each of us how central to our universe Howard had been. The easy part for me was to list the many academic honors and awards Howard had achieved throughout his life. The personal part was much tougher. I could see Howard reflected in the eyes of my family. They remembered Howard flying across the country to come see Meg in the lead in Peter Pan. They remembered Howard taking Bub under his wing, and giving my son a father’s role model plainly superior to the one I offered.
Howard was a unique mix of intellect and intelligence with the outward look of the common man. He’d been a role model for my kids, and finally for me. I managed to get all the way through the eulogy with only the occasional pause to compose myself. During all this time, Meg sat silently in the front row, tears coursing down her cheeks. But as I finished, and it came her time to say good-bye, she stood
up, dried her eyes and walked to the center of the altar, where, in a strong, clear, unwavering voice, she sang “Amazing Grace.”
Each of us in that chapel was profoundly moved.
I once was lost, but now am found.
Peach wanted a second miracle, and it was granted. It just wasn’t the one she expected. The year she’d given me to redeem myself had largely passed, and I was truly a different person. Howard in his final months had cast a lifeline to me, offering me the chance to save myself.
Thank you, Howard. You’ll always be in our hearts. And in the end, that’s the only thing that matters: those you hold in your heart, and those who hold you in theirs.
EPILOGUE
I’m pleased to report that I didn’t kill as many brain cells on Everest as I feared. When I finally returned to my pathology practice, I made sure that everything I did was double-checked by one of my partners. It was sort of a long probation and apprenticeship to see if I still had it. Luckily, I did.
My key tools, my eyes and my brain, were working as well as ever. Foot pedals and voice controls partially compensate for my missing hands. The really detailed hand work, of which no machine is yet capable, is now done by my assistant, Kim Ledford.
The spiritual and emotional aftermath of Everest naturally is a far more complex question.
Many individuals have asked me how the Everest experience changed my perception of the spiritual, and did I pray on the mountain?
I was raised in a religious household, but as a young man I drifted away from spirituality, more out of apathy than any revolt or rejection of dogma. I felt that in old age I could return to these philosophical questions. Then I learned you can get pretty old, pretty fast.
I used to say that no, I didn’t pray on the mountain. I was too busy trying to stay alive. Upon reflection, however, that answer was a shade literal. It conceived of prayer as a unity: a preamble, a stirring body of text and a close, preferably delivered from one’s knees.
But if prayer isn’t just words, but instead that thing you believe with all your heart at the core of your being, then I surely did pray. On Everest, more than any other time in my life, I had a sense of what was important to me, what I truly cherished.
I also was immensely comforted by all the people throughout the United States and the world who prayed for me and for my family. I learned again the power of prayer for those who offer it, and, certainly, those for whom it is offered.
I learned that miracles do occur. In fact, I think they occur pretty commonly.
I also now understand that humans are the toughest creatures on Earth. There’s a reason we’re at the top of the food chain, and it is not simply because we’re a smarter cockroach. There’s drive, determination and strength within each of us.
Most of us never have to tap into those resources. We live pretty easy lives, in contrast to the pioneers who settled the wilderness and explored far places. We may look back in awe at their strength and toughness, but they were no stronger or tougher than we. They simply had to live that life.
If you’re going to come through an ordeal such as mine, you need an anchor. It may be your friends. It may be your colleagues. It may be your God. Or it may be, as it is for me, my family.
As spiritual matters go, I’m still very much a work in progress. Yet I have learned some things from this experience. It is impossible to go to Everest without being touched by the Buddhist Sherpas and their spirituality. Each morning you hear them offering their prayer chants for safety on the mountain. As you lie in the dark in your warm sleeping bag, the air is filled with the smell of burning juniper from their altar.
These are people who live their religion; it is part of their every motion. They don’t just practice on Sunday morning and Wednesday night, but each hour of each day. If a religion is to have any meaning for me, it must not exclude such spirituality. It must encompass Hindus, Buddhists and Jews and Muslims and Christians and any other faith that shares my core values.
I think what truly matters in faith is not what you profess, but whether you live your faith’s tenets. Ever the practical individual, if at the end of my days I discover there is no God, only the Void, I will feel I have lost nothing. Rather, by trying to be a better person—even if I commonly fail—I will have gained.
One source of strength in that daily battle is humor. Shortly after I was put back together, I was on a plane standing near a young woman struggling to place her baggage in the overhead. She glanced at me and asked if I’d be willing to lend her a hand.
Be still my heart! I was almost speechless with possible replies. Do I say, “I’m a little short at the moment?” Or “I gave at the office?” Or do you do as I did, say, “I don’t really know how to respond. I’m simply stumped”?
As I began speaking before audiences about what occurred on the mountain, and how it has affected my life, I realized I get as much out of the experience as they do. You don’t turn a fifty-something-year-old freight train around in a moment, even with an epiphany as profound as mine. Yet by telling the story, I remind myself of what is important to me. It gives me perspective that is so hard to achieve.
The other most common thing people ask me is whether I’d do it again. At first I’d think, What a stupid question! But as I considered at length, I realized that this is one of the deeper questions to be asked. The answer is: Even if I knew exactly everything that was going to happen to me on Mount Everest, I would do it again. That day on the mountain I traded my hands for my family and for my future. It is a bargain I readily accept.
For the first time in my life I have peace. I no longer seek to define myself externally, through goals and achievements and material posessions. For the first time in my life, I’m comfortable inside my own skin. I searched all over the world for that which would fulfill me, and all along it was in my own backyard.
All in all, I’m a blessed individual. Even better, I know it.
Peach:
Beck and I deal with each other on several different levels. The old Beck-and-Peach relationship is gone, but I don’t yet know what will replace it. What do I believe? Do I open myself up to be hurt again?
While Beck was in the hospital a nurse approached him. She said she was worried about her husband, who was climbing a peak in Colorado.
Beck said, “The view from the top is so good!”
I told him, “You don’t say that in front of me. I’m done with mountains. I’ve donated. I gave at home.”
In the summer of 1997, we got a letter about breast cancer survivors climbing in Antarctica, asking whether we’d like to contribute to their effort. One of my friends said, “You should write back and say I’ve already done my part—two hands and a part of a life.”
Today, I do not consider my relationship with Beck to be fragile. Nor do I worry now that my anger might snowball or explode. I think my anger has turned to sadness for all that never was. Not for Beck and me so much as the fact that Beck missed watching his kids grow up. He lost his hands, but that’s only the tip of the iceberg.
Meg:
I was annoyed that Dad was not around. I was upset. I guess lonely is a good word. But now that I’m older, I don’t begrudge him the obsession. I understand what he did, and I forgive him. People get wrapped up in things like that and they don’t realize what they are doing is wrong. Dad didn’t until he got slapped in the face.
Bub:
I really admire my father’s perseverance and determination, and his sense of humor. As I’ve gotten older, we also have had more and more common threads to share, like dirty jokes and R-rated movies.
Now he’s become a man of the moment. He knows that when you love someone you should tell them because you don’t know about the future. He’s become a goofy Dad figure.
“You know what, son? I really love you!”
“Sure, Dad. I’ll be home by midnight.”
Pat White:
Beck’s just a very fine person. He cares about people—however inadequately he e
xpresses it. He’s been wounded in his personal life, but he’s still an acute observer. He translates that into humor.
Whatever the difficulties, there’s great love there. They said Madan had a brave heart. Well, Beck has a great heart. And Peach is very brave in her way, too.
She didn’t kill him.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I first returned from Everest, there was a great deal of interest in having a book written from both Peach’s and my points of view. In the early months following the tragedy on the mountain, such an undertaking clearly was premature. The emotional and physical pain needed to be confronted step by step, rather than in one cathartic leap. More than that, however, I had no idea how the story would end.
As the months passed, my interest in writing the story of the mountain actually diminished, as I felt the accounts by Jon Krakauer (Into Thin Air) and David Breashears (High Exposure) provided definitive documentation.
However, as I realized my life was coming back together, and my relationship with my wife was on the mend, my thoughts turned once again to the book project.
While the story of what occurred during those few days on Everest clearly is of interest, the story of what happened when I got back home and had to rebuild my life—redefine who I was—became the story for me.
There’s no easy recipe for coming through hard times, but it is reassuring to know that even in the bleakest of moments, hope remains. Out of adversity, good things do happen.
It would be difficult to adequately thank the large number of individuals who have helped me struggle through, and hold on to body and soul. I wish to begin by thanking Peach, Beck II and Meg for loving me and staying with me and allowing me to change. And my parents, whose love has been constant. They raised their boys as best they knew how. Thanks to my brothers, Kit, and especially to Dan, who journeyed fast and far to be there when I needed him most.
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