I hate mountains.
Let me rephrase that—I hate driving through mountains. I've hated
driving through mountains for as long as I can remember—just not my thing. The
height, the cliffs, the cars whizzing around me wildly, the chaos, the big
trucks, my ears popping, my stomach swirling—I hate all of it.
But something happened recently that's changed my view on mountains.
My Grandma Louise—my grandmother, my friend, my mentor, my go-to
source of help—passed away a few days ago; and grief butted it’s ugly head into
my world.
Here is how mountains and grief collided:
I had been by my grandmother's side for the past few days watching
her body prepare to pass from this mortal world. I sat through countless tears
from family members and my own. I watched as my once vibrant, vivacious
grandmother had been reduced to a small heap of bones. I watched as she was
given morphine and she became void to the world around her.
After a few days, my husband and I piled into a rental car and
started the long, arduous drive home from Sacramento to Arizona, a twelve-hour
adventure. We had originally flown into Sacramento, but midway through the
flight my sinus area felt like it was going to crack my skull open. It was the
worst pain I've ever felt on a plane. And, since I didn't want to recreate the
pain, we opted to drive home instead of fly home.
Driving Interstate 5, we talked and laughed and cried. I'd left
behind my grandmother who was still hanging on, still fighting to remain in
this world. Then, just as we approached the mouth of the Grapevine, a steep
mountain canyon, my phone rang.
"Hello, Carol?" It was my Aunt Terri.
"Yes."
"Grandma has passed." She said a few
other words; I don't remember what and we quickly hung up.
Conveniently, we were approaching the off ramp to a large outlet mall with restaurants, so Chris pulled over. We decided to rest a while at the outlet malls and get something
to eat. Relax. Regroup. Breathe.
It was at that moment, while sitting in a Firehouse Subs, the tears started. A tidal wave of sadness mixed with longing, seeped through the tiny cracks of
my bravery and I started crying—hard. The kind of tears where you don’t care
who sees you or what they are thinking. The kind of tears that seem to come
directly from your heart to your eyes—deep sorrow.
We sat and talked for a long time, trying to find some peace
before we journeyed on. Chris ate food, while I sipped on a Coke. He let me
talk about my Grandma Louise and we both reminisced in our good memories of
her. But, after about an hour we knew we needed to get back on the road. Mountains--I had to face them. Fear and anxiety joined hands and nestled into my chest. My mind reeled with worry--sinus pain, chaotic cars, dizzying anxiety--ugh.
I looked up at the mountains from the parking lot and cringed. I
didn't want to go through them. I wanted to stay safely on the other side of
the mountain, forever. But, I knew the reality. I had to push through the pain
in my sinuses, the anxiety that came with the chaos, if I ever wanted to get
home.
"We have to through the mountains," Chris said.
"It's only about an hour."
An eternity. "I know. But what if the sinus pain comes
back?"
"You'll be fine. You can do it."
He comforted me. He was right.
Seatbelt fastened, music on, and heartbeat rising; we journeyed
toward the looming mountain. Sure enough, as we started to ascend the mountain
the pressure in my sinus area started to increase in pain. But, it was
surprisingly bearable. The large diesel trucks clunked forward like weary
dinosaurs and cars whizzed by us like hostile bees. My anxiety ran high one
minute and then disappeared the next. It was bizarre.
After an hour, we arrived safely on the other side of the
mountain. My anxiety subsided, as did the pressure in my sinuses.
I felt like God had given me a big object lesson—the mountain and
my grief.
No one wants to go through grief, just like I didn't want to go
through the mountain. We stand on one side of the mountain and want to be safe,
keep things familiar, happy, joyful, filled with life. We want to stay on the
side of the mountain that feels secure and warm and cozy.
No one wants to go through grief. The whirlpool of emotions—regret,
helplessness, hopelessness, sadness, despair—are complicated and complex. But,
trudge forward we must, just like the mountain. With crazy drivers, buzzing
motorcycles, large trucks, popping ears, upset stomachs—it has to be
done.
It's part of the journey.
It's part of your journey and mine.
I haven't yet ascended the mountain of grief, my grandmother only
passed a few days ago, but I look forward to the day when I can look back at
the mountain of grief I went through and sigh with relief. When I can see the
changed woman I've become from a difficult, hard process. When I can look back
and say, "Wow, I did it."
Until then, I'm still in the beginning stages of driving through
my mountain; moments of laughter at funny memories, followed by deep waves of
sorrow.
I pace forward through the mountain, one mile at a time, knowing
in the end what awaits me--home.
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