Just Holly: Mt. Everest

Just Holly: Mt. Everest: Every year from April to May climbers ascend Mt. Everest in the hopes of standing on the highest pinnacle on earth.   Every year, ...

Mt. Everest

Every year from April to May climbers ascend Mt. Everest in the hopes of standing on the highest pinnacle on earth.  Every year, people die on Mt. Everest, an average of 5 per year.  The journey to the summit is fraught with danger.  One needs to acclimatize to the mountain, which requires several trips up and down to various base camps.  There is an ice fall the climbers traverse over fixed ladders, and while the ladders are fixed, the ice fall is not; it is constantly in a state of flux, moving and shifting.  If they have success in the process, the climbers need to hope that there is clear weather on the day they push for the summit.  They need to hope that there is no traffic jam of climbers in front of them, blocking their way.  They need to hope that there are no issues with their oxygen tanks while they climb into the “death zone.”  Oh, and they need to hope that the ice fall does not take them out, or an avalanche, the tragedies of those years having shut down the climbing season in 2014 and 2015.

And then they need to hope they can get down. 

I first became fascinated with Mt. Everest in 1996, one of the deadliest years on record, when 15 climbers died on the mountain, including Rob Hall and Scott Fischer, two very experienced guides.  The mountain pushed back hard that year.   In the end, many could not get down….  Hope had run out. 

If you have an interest, you can read all about this in the book “Into Thin Air” by John Krakauer.  There are also documentaries and movies about the 1996 climb and other climbs that met with tragedy, because, and I am sure you saw this coming, I am not really writing about Mt. Everest.  I am writing about HOPE. 

When one looks at Mt. Everest, I think one must realize that there is really an awful lot of hope involved in the journey.  While the climbers surely train and prepare as best they can, in the end getting to the top of the mountain safely and back down again requires a tremendous amount of hope. 

And that is the point of this blog, to share my hope.  Human nature, I believe, always has at least of glimmer of hope.  Even when faced with life’s most difficult circumstances, we as a people hope that we will get over that mountain, and come back down safely.  Maybe it is a mountain of grief, as the loss of my husband was for me.  Maybe you have a mountain of despair, a mountain of pain, a mountain of addiction, a mountain of abuse.   What is your mountain?  

For me, my grief was like Mt. Everest –  I felt like I was in the “death zone,” stuck on the top of that mountain of grief, and I was not able to move to get down!

But then hope.  Hope that things would somehow get better, no matter how small and insignificant that hope felt in light of my grief.  Hope that my life could be, if not what I wanted, at least okay.  Hope that I would be able to share good times with my children and grandchildren again.  Hope.  I climbed down from the death zone of despair. 

Today, I am not on that mountain anymore.  It is not a place one can stay for long, for if you tarry too long, stay in the “death zone” -- you will not survive it.  I had hope.  We all have hope. 

“And now, Lord, what wait I for?  My hope is in thee.” 

May you have hope…. 

Just Holly: The Broken Things

Just Holly: The Broken Things: The Broken Things I have an inordinate number of broken things in my house: chipped coffee cups, bowls and plates, DVD players ...

The Broken Things

The Broken Things

I have an inordinate number of broken things in my house: chipped coffee cups, bowls and plates, DVD players that don’t play DVDs, clocks that no longer tell time, a telescope missing a lens, vacuums that don’t vacuum, computers that don’t compute, a cabinet without a door, doors with no locks.  I could go on, but you get the point.

My husband, bless his heart, was a tinkerer.  He saw no reason to throw out anything, and I mean anything.  There was always a “fix” for whatever was broken.  He did fix many, many things.  And many things he never got around to fixing.  When his health failed, all that was broken stayed broken; and then the biggest broken of all happened to me.  I lost my husband and I was broken.   

It begs the question, really, when to let go of that which is broken.  Things are easy – fix it or throw it away, I guess.  But what about hearts that are broken?  What about the people who have been broken through disease, addiction, toxic relationships?  Or the children who have been broken through abuse, neglect, bullying?   Broken people are not disposable, are they? 

And so, I would say to you, if you notice that there is a broken someone in your world, don’t turn your head, maybe I should say don’t turn your heart, and look away.  Because we can always replace a coffee cup, we can always fix a door.  But the broken people in our lives, they need us.  And I suspect we need them; to learn compassion, to learn love, to learn....

The Remans of a Snowman

I have the remains of a snowman in my front yard.  After the first big snowstorm of the year, my granddaughter excitedly created the little guy, complete with stick arms and a hat and scarf.  The sticks,  hat and scarf all lie on the ground now, the snowman having slowly disappeared with the (oddly) warmer weather we have had.

I look at what is left of our little snowman, and it reminds me of how fleeting time is.  When I was 18, the world and my life stretched out before me, a wondrous  adventure with endless possibilities and seemingly endless time.  Now I am 58 and my life does not stretch out before me, there is more behind me now than there is ahead.  And that is okay.  What I do know now, that I did not understand at 18, is that the time goes quickly.  Like the snowman my granddaughter built, one day I will be a pile of what is left, not sticks and a hat and a scarf of course; nevertheless, gone all the same.    And what will remain?

I have 2 grandchildren and I adore them!  I have 4 beautiful grown children and they are my light and my life.  What I want to remain with them always is my love, my pride in them, my joy in having them in my life.  I want them to have something precious from me, time.  So, this weekend I will be hosting a sleepover with my grandchildren.  Perhaps we will build a snowman, perhaps we will bake cookies, perhaps we will just be.  But whatever we do, I am hoping to build a lasting memory with them, something that will, in the end, remain. 

The top of Bald Bluff

In April of 2009, Tom hiked up to the top of Bald Bluff.  It was after his surgery, after they had removed his right upper lobe.  It was a "good day."  He was pleased with what he could do. 

I took the same hike on Sunday, now so many years later, to the top of Bald Bluff.  As I took in the view, stood where Tom stood, I thought about what he might have felt on that particular day.  I have pictures because he brought his tripod along; he looked happy. 

Some days, only bad memories exist for me.  If you have taken care of someone who has a long protracted illness, there are many, many days that are not good and they leave an indelible imprint on you, they waft  through your mind, pictures that haunt and torment, memories of  pain and suffering that you watched play out, helpless to do anything. BUT,  then there are those days where you get to take a breath, where you climb to the top of Bald Bluff, where you have a good day. 

I think grief is the same thing.  Grief feels like an illness.... a long protracted illness and you wonder if you will have a good day, if you will be happy, if there will be relief or only more suffering.  Can you heal from your grief?  Will you recover?  I know this; Sunday I hiked up to the top of Bald Bluff and I was happy, it was a "good day." 

Grief of the heart

For my entire adult life, from the time I was 18 years old until I was 57, I was in a relationship with a man I would later marry.  We would go on to have 4 children and 2 grandchildren.  On November 5^th, 2015 he died.  And while we had forever been known as “Tom and Holly,” I have had to learn how to be “Just Holly” (thus the name of the blog).  And no, I don’t like it.

My goal for this blog is to not just to write about being a widow and the adjustments that I have had to make, not to just write about the roller coaster that becomes your life overnight, but to write about the good times too.  Yes, I said good times. 

If you are a recent widow (less than 6 months) you cannot possibly imagine that there would be any good times in your life left.  I can assure that I felt exactly the same way.  From my journal, this entry is dated June 21, 2016:

“Father’s day, first wedding without Tom, my birthday, fourth of July ~ all of the ‘firsts’ that tear at my being, my heart, my soul.  Missing Tom is what I do now, who I am.  I feel lost, distraught, robbed, alone, not at all like myself.  I keep trying to feel like ‘myself’ again, but I do not think I ever will.  There was too much of me that was ‘Tom and Holly.’

Every grief reaction is different, but seven months into the work of grief I still felt so broken, I could not imagine anything would ever get better.  And yet, as time has marched inexorably onward (as time is wont to do), I have somehow come to grips with the fact that while my life may not be what I want, it’s not too bad!  I write that statement with some hesitation because, if you are like me, to have a good time without your spouse feels like a betrayal.  It is not; it is what they would wish us to do (unless they were selfish human beings who only thought of themselves, which would be all the more reason to enjoy your life).  Not every day is a good day, but not every day is a bad day as it was when I was overwhelmed with grief.  I determined when my husband died that I would keep my wedding ring on for the first year and I would concentrate on the hard work of grief, which I did.  While I cannot say that my grief work is done, I most certainly think that it is not, I can say that I have made progress.  Unfortunately, you cannot walk around this or avoid it; you have to face it head on and march through it.  Will you collapse from the sheer weight of it?  Yes.  Will you get up?  Yes. 

I am now about 14 months into learning how to live without Tom.  My plan is to share this journey with you, fellow traveler in this world, and my hope is that you will have hope.