Finding Jim
Page 26
“I imagine for a strong Minnesota River Man such as yourself, this river will be nothing.”
We nudge to a standstill against the grassy banks. The slight jolt jars Joe upright, and he stops laughing. He looks around at the snaking quiet water. We are alone. He swivels onto his knees, slides a hand into his pocket, leans over Habby and reaches out a little open box with something very sparkly inside. Habby licks Joe’s face just before he says, “Will you marry me, Sue?”
I take a deep breath, look Joe in the eye and say, “Yes.”
The next day at school, I tell my class of students about Joe’s proposal. The girls echo a soft, “Oh.”
There is a silence and then one of the boys says, “That would have been a really uncomfortable paddle back if you’d said no.”
PART 5
HEREAFTER
It may be that some little root of the sacred tree still lives.
Nourish it then
That it may leaf
And bloom
And fill with singing birds!
—BLACK ELK, EARTH PRAYER
FORTY-THREE
THE PERFECT HEART
No memory of the past touched him for his mind was full of a present joy.
– JAMES JOYCE, DUBLINERS
My parents host a “Meet Joe” party. I scurry through the kitchen and overhear a good friend of mine who has Joe pinned in the corner say, “So, do you do your own laundry?” Joe laughs and answers yes. My friend nods her approval. Joe goes from conversation to conversation, meeting people, getting to know my friends and family. Dad examines the unorthodox label of a wine bottle and hesitates to pour a glass. Joe interrupts the conversation he is having just long enough to say to Dad, “That one is fine.” Dad nods at me and is impressed.
At the end of the evening, one friend leans in and says, “I’m glad Joe shows his affection for you. Jim was so affectionate with you, and I know how much you loved that.” When everyone has left, Joe goes downstairs to get ready for bed. My parents and I sit around the table.
“Joe sure is bright,” Dad says.
“And he’s witty, too. He’s savvier than Jim was, don’t you think?’ Glenda says.
“Yes,” I agree reluctantly. I’m happy that they like Joe and that they approve, but any comparison to Jim triggers my guilt. In my heart I pledged to love Jim forever, not just until death do us part, and now I am going to marry someone else.
Within four months, Joe quits his job in San Diego and moves to Whistler. Within one year, we exchange vows at a quiet ceremony in our Whistler home in front of our families. We host a larger reception at a local restaurant with 50 friends and family members. Jim’s parents, brothers and best friends are there. There are speeches and crying. One of Jim’s brothers says he was skeptical when Joe first arrived on the scene, but having spent time with him, knows he is a good guy. Jim’s best friend says Jim would be happy seeing me with Joe. Jim’s name comes up several times. I wonder if it bothers Joe, but he keeps a poker face. After all, they are honouring Joe, too.
People hug me with such unbridled happiness that I realize my wedding to Joe allows them to say one last goodbye to Jim. Jim and Sue are no longer. It is now Joe and Sue. And I sense relief in their tears. They have watched over me for almost six years, on Jim’s behalf, and now they can pass the torch. I’m okay now.
I feel strong when I go to the front of the room to address my friends and family. But I begin to cry as soon as I open my mouth:
People are defined not so much by the job they do but by how they dust themselves off and pick themselves up after a big fall. I feel I took a big fall. And as I’ve been picking myself up, loving hands, and one big paw, have reached out to me all along the way. I am defined by how my heart connects to all of you, my loved ones. Thank you. And now I have Joe. I would like to read a fable I’ve read to my students called “The Perfect Heart.” The author is unknown:
In a faraway land, there lived a people who carried their hearts in their hands. One young man began to achieve some fame. “I have the most perfect heart,” he proclaimed. Truly it was a sight to see – magnificently shaped, hard, smooth and flawless. His heart became the standard of perfection and people travelled from far away to view this wonder. And they would steal a glance at their own hearts, each now clearly aware of its flaws, embarrassed to let anyone else see them.
One day, an old man stepped up to the young man and said in a voice for everyone to hear, “I have a more perfect heart than yours.”
A murmur ran through the throng, then a hushed silence. Every head craned forward. Every eye watched intently as the old man brought forth his heart. The young man looked at the old man, bent and wrinkled with the passage of many years. Then he looked at the heart tenderly cradled in gnarled fingers and burst out with laughter. “Senile old fool. This is your perfect heart?” he sneered. For sitting on the palm of the old man’s hands was a heart as bruised, tattered, misshapen, scarred and ugly as anyone could ever recall.
“My heart is more perfect than yours,” the old man repeated, looking the young man square in the eyes. The laughter in the crowd died out as they pressed close to listen. Something in the serene way the old man spoke must have caught the young man’s attention for his expression changed. Puzzlement replaced the sneer.
“My heart is more perfect than yours,” the old man said once again, “because it is alive, and life is not pretty. It has been used as hearts are meant to be. This scar was left by a parent’s anger. This bruise by the death of my wife. These scars by the pain of some dear friends. These pieces that do not quite fit were given to me by people I have met along the way, and they carry a piece of my heart with them. These tatters are from doing what my heart said was right and rubbing against a world that said it was foolish. These holes are from people I loved who did not love in return. But I still gave them a piece of my heart. This heart is like this because I have taken the risk to care. That is why my heart is more perfect than yours.”
The young man looked sadly at his own heart. He began to walk away, head bent toward the ground.
“Wait! I am not finished,” said the old man. The young man stopped and turned back. The old man stepped toward him. “Do not go without this,” he said and pressed a piece of his heart into the young man’s palm. The young man looked into the old man’s eyes. As all the people watched, the young man tore a piece from his own heart and handed it to the old man. He smiled, and without another word, turned and went.
After reading the fable, I pause and look at Joe. “Thank you, Joe, for taking a chance on my heart.”
Joe and I begin our perfectly imperfect life together.
Friends share their views. “I felt bad for Joe at your wedding reception because there was so much talk of Jim.”
“How is it for Joe living in the house that you and Jim built?”
“Does he feel like you compare him to Jim?”
“What about your working on Jim’s memorial hut? How does he feel about that?”
It is not easy for Joe, although he maintains a brave face. I do compare him to Jim because that is my excuse for not opening my heart to him when I feel scared. My escape route. I am still in survival mode. Once you’ve been in survival mode for years, rationing energy, love and food and waiting for rescue, it is difficult to transition to regular life. A learned fear is harder to overcome than an innate fear. My fear of being abandoned lies right under my skin and explodes in anger. “If I get angry, just tell yourself that I’m probably scared,” I coach Joe. And I coach myself to be vulnerable, to tell Joe that I love him, to be affectionate with him, to kiss him first, to let him be who he is and to show him all of me. To trust him.
I cringe when my friends and family mistakenly call Joe “Jim.” I ask Joe if it bothers him that a painting of Jim hangs in our living room. I ask him if he feels uncomfortable in our house. But these are unfair questions. Joe is patient, and when I show signs of embracing the present, he looks excited. I do my best.
I sell my furniture so that Joe can bring his up from San Diego. He paints the inside of the house. I venture that maybe if we save some money, we can sell the house and buy another one. His face lights up, and I try to ignore it. He stands by me when we go to the annual memorial dinner for Jim. He holds my hand when I cry.
Water finds its own level, and my soul has found another sad soul in Joe. Joe is patient with my grief and mourning, and I am patient with Joe’s complex dealings with his ex-wife and his pain over not seeing his children.
I become pregnant and full of joy.
FORTY-FOUR
CHANGE
You cannot plant an acorn in the morning and expect that afternoon to sit in the shade of an oak.
—ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY
I am eight months pregnant when, in June 2006, Joe and I fly into the Tantalus Mountains for the official opening of Jim’s memorial hut. After five years of meetings, planning and building, we have finally finished.
As the helicopter circles to land, I look down at this beautiful shelter with the rust-coloured trim and bright silver lettering shining in the sun – THE JIM HABERL HUT – and something expands inside of me. When I walk through the door, I gaze at the crisp blond finishing wood, the steel countertops, the tongue-and-groove ceiling, and all I can say is “Wow.” Tears come to my eyes. What a beautiful honouring of Jim.
Joe and I work for five hours to assemble a wall display. With tears in their eyes, friends watch Joe as he patiently holds pieces in place for me. When the last piece is nailed into place, I stand back. It is full of love.
There is a flurry of activity. The guys turn off the generator and haul it out of sight. Tools are stashed under beds and the floor is swept. I change into clean clothes and put on earrings. We all gather on the snow and shield our eyes from the sun as we peer down the glacier for signs of the whirring machine.
Six helicopter loads of committee members and Jim’s family – a total of 22 people – land in the Tantalus Range to celebrate the official opening of the hut.
In a pair of Jim’s old hiking boots, Mom Haberl treads carefully away from the cutting helicopter blades. There is something about the slow and purposeful manner in which she moves that fills my eyes with love. As we wrap our arms around one another I tell her how glad I am that she is there. And I think to myself that she should never have lost a son. Dad Haberl’s cheeks puff up and he blows the air out, shakes his head slightly in wonder and comments on what a beautiful flight they had.
After three more loads, everyone has arrived, and there are hugs and handshakes and people mill about on the rocks chatting. Ten or 15 minutes pass and there is a certain holding, a tension. Mom Haberl stalls at the bottom of the stairs to the hut. Dad Haberl picks up small pieces of building waste in the rocks. I suggest we go inside. Mom Haberl hooks her hand on to my elbow, and the creases around her eyes are mixed with excitement and apprehension.
They hesitate on the threshold as their eyes search the vestibule and their necks strain to see farther. Then their feet follow. There aren’t many words spoken, but the room feels full and thick. I follow their gaze as their eyes roam the maple-panelled walls, the ceiling, the birch kitchen cupboards, the sleek steel kitchen countertops, the solid-wood dining tables and chairs and the multi-shaped windows offering a 270° view of mountains: Black Tusk, Wedge, Diamond Head, Serratus, Dione, Tantalus. Mom Haberl points out of one of the windows at the first mountain Jim climbed, when he was about 14 years old at Camp Potlatch. Dad Haberl runs his hand down the wall and asks if there will be finishing batons on the panelling. Yes.
Their eyes come to rest on the display, and their mouths open as they move closer.
People wander, peer, run their hands over the new surfaces, chat and settle down to eat their bag lunches. Mom Haberl passes around poppyseed cake, the nieces and nephews sit around the table playing cards and others meander outside. When it seems like the eating has died down and René, the head builder, has started working again installing weather stripping on the front door, I ask everyone to gather inside.
My first words are high and strained, and I pause to see if my throat will open, but it won’t. I look at Mom Haberl and her head is down and her eyes are full.
Thank you for coming. It is so nice to have everyone here. When we first started this project five years ago, I latched on to it as a way of keeping Jim alive, a way of even bringing him back to life. But as the years have passed, I realize that building this hut has helped me to let Jim be dead, and to let his spirit be free. When a loved one dies, it seems we are left with memories, some very strong, yet memories can be deceptive after a time. And then it seems we are left with more of a feeling than anything else, a feeling of the heart. And Jim left a lot of people with a strong feeling in their heart. And I realize now that even this feeling cannot be held or contained. It is free to roam just as Jim’s spirit is free to roam, in and out of our hearts, carried on the wind. And as I look around this hut, I cannot imagine a more beautiful place to set Jim’s spirit free.
And Jim would be happy to see us all here. He’d be proud of his nieces and nephews, who are winning awards in martial arts, dance and French. He’d be smiling at his parents, who recently celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. He’d be smiling at his brothers Pat and Kevin, who have carved time out of their schedule to come here and climb together. And he’d be smiling at my belly swelling with new life and at the wonderful man who I love now, and he would be saying, “Right on,” because life goes on and we are of the living. And we will miss Jim and it will hurt, but he must be allowed to be dead. Here’s to Jim and here’s to life.
Tension increases as people are rubbed raw and nobody wants to move or speak because the pain feels so near the surface. I invite people to begin their afternoon adventures. The Haberl brothers take the nieces and nephews to explore the rocky Dione ridge. Mom and Dad Haberl explore the rocky rib to the nearby Red Tit shelter.
Kevin joins me on the snow. He says he can relate to what I said about letting Jim be dead and letting his spirit be free. In his uninhibited way, he looks at me with his head cocked slightly and says, “I just don’t understand why it doesn’t feel any better.” I tell him that I have tried unsuccessfully to package my grief and my pain up neatly in a box and move on. I guess being better is often equated with feeling no pain.
It doesn’t seem to work that way. As long as we love Jim it will hurt, and it is hard to accept that it will always hurt. The trick may be not to fight the pain, to let it be, because if you cut yourself off from the pain, you cut yourself off from the love. And you have to be alive to feel pain. And being alive is good.
So the pain does not get “better,” but perhaps it changes. Perhaps it becomes the pain of loving and living fully as opposed to the pain of chasing the past and trying to drag it into the present and desiring something that can never be.
The hardest thing I’ve done in my life is to grieve Jim’s death. The second-hardest thing has been to allow my battered heart to love again. It is harder for me to love well now, as I have first-hand experience of what there is to lose. But my other option is not to love at all, and that would not be living.
I do not have a fairytale ending for you. What I have is an ending full of life: joy and pain. If there is one thing I have learned through grieving, it’s that death and pain are common experiences. They will never be popular, but they are real and honest and such a basic part of life. I still ache for the fairytale sometimes, to escape into the illusion, where there is only love and my heart is forever protected from pain. So, I work hard to be present for all that life has to offer. I work hard at being brave and keeping an open heart, even when I feel threatened, even when I do not get what I want. I work hard at loving myself and others well, even though sometimes it terrifies me. I work hard at not denying any part of who I am, no matter how imperfect and ugly. Some days are better than others, but I am moving in the right direction: in the direction of love, with Joe. And I hope that de
ath does not have to drag me away kicking and clawing, frightened and closed. I hope I can succumb peacefully, with an open heart, a body deeply wrinkled and well used from life experiences, having lived fully and honestly, in spite of my fears.
Even when my heart shakes and my mind is full of fear, there’s something deep inside of me, a sacred root that is attached to something universal, something so incredible and yet at the same time so ordinary about the human spirit, that is whispering: “That’s right, you go get ’em, girl. Get out there and love.”
And I can hear Jim. He is a part of that universal voice.
The American/Canadian 1993 K2 Team led by Stacy Allison. Jim is on the far left.
The Right Honorable Ramon John Hnatyshyn, Governor General of Canada from 1990–1995, receiving a gift from Jim after the Meritorious Service Medal ceremony in Quebec City.
Porters carrying loads to high camp on Mount Kilimanjaro, 1995.
PHOTO BY SUE OAKEY
Sue feeling sick at sunrise on the summit of Mount Kilimanjaro, Tanzania, 1995.
PHOTO BY JIM HABERL
Mount Kilimanjaro, the highest peak in Africa, 5895 metres, seen from the plains of Tanzania, 1985.
PHOTO BY JIM HABERL
Sue hiking the lush forests of the Indian Ocean island of Mauritius, 1995.
PHOTO BY JIM HABERL
Sue and Jim ski mountaineering in the Himachal Pradesh, India, 1995.
PHOTO BY ROB ORVIG
Sue and Jim after a big dump of snow in the Indian Himalaya, 1995.
PHOTO BY ROB ORVIG
Sue visiting a stupa, or chorten, a Buddhist religious monument, in the Langtang Valley of Nepal, 1995.