I said goodbye today

It's almost midnight on October 25. I am exhausted, so I won't write much. But I wanted to let all of you know: I survived the day, and so did my best friend Bart, who went with me.

The hike itself was rough. Three miles each way, with an elevation gain of between 2200-2400 feet. Nine years earlier, when the group Aimee and I were in hiked this mountain, it was a gorgeous fall day, sunny and warm. Today? Not so much. More than half a foot of snow at the trailhead. Up to several feel deep by the time we got to the top. The temperature at the car was 35 degrees - at the top it felt like it was in the teens. We hike all the way up in a combination of clouds and fog. The top affords some fantastic views when it's clear, but it wasn't when we got there. More clouds and fog, and little visibility.

The skies opened up as it came time
to say my goodbye to Aimee

Then God answered a prayer I'd been asking, and the skies opened up.

It didn't last long initially, but long enough that with a breathtaking (literally) panoramic view, I began my final goodbye to Aimee.

Bart videotaped it, and I'll post it some time in the next few days. In the meantime, I'll tell you that it was hard, so very hard to actually open that box and fling her ashes out into the air at the top of the mountain. But I did it, and it felt like the right thing to do. Plus, it was Aimee's wish to be cremated and have her ashes scattered, so I feel good about what happened today.

Almost immediately after we were done, the fog rolled back in.

We packed up our gear and began our return trek. But as if Aimee was smiling on us, the skies cleared again shortly after we'd started back down, and stayed that way pretty much the whole way back. The views we saw were nothing short of amazing, and I once again felt like I had done the right thing, leaving Aimee to rest in such a gorgeous setting (although her spirit is with God now).

So now I just need to go to bed. As I said I am exhausted, but I feel good, like someone who's done what they know is right.

As for Aimee, I'll see her one day in Paradise.

Final preparations for 'goodbye'

It's surreal.

Check trail conditions, get diretions (I haven't been there in nine years), pack food, camera, water. Sounds like any other hiking trip. Oh, except, don't forget the wooden box of Aimee's ashes.



This box contains the vast majority
of Aimee's ashes

By the time many of you read this, we'll be on our way to Mount Pilchuck. It should be an interesting hike, considering the latest report I can find from the trail, from last Saturday, says there's as much as 16" of snow at the summit, and at least some snow the entire way. Since then, it spent several days raining here, which in the mountains likely means more snow. I really hope the trail is even open, and we can make this journey. Ironically, I've been recalling that original hike from nine years ago, when the weather was perfect - sunny and temps in the 60's or so - and not a trace of snow anywhere.

As I mentioned in my post the other day ("Collision Course"), my therapist told me how important this was as a way for me to say goodbye in a way that I had control over, unlike the day she died. But it hasn't been that simple.

My goodbye is not anyone else's goodbye, but to some of them it seems to feel like I'm imposing that.

I'm thinking of Donna in particular. She is having a VERY hard time with this. We had a good talk last night. Well, I talked and she cried and talked through her tears. Bottom line, she is not ready to say goodbye, and may never be. I get that. In most cases, the loss of a child is so much different, and deeper, than the loss of a spouse. If I try to see things from her perspective, I've moved out Aimee's clothes, gave away many of Aimee's books, packed up her jewelry and other personal effects (saved for Rowan in a large black trunk), and sold Aimee's car. Now I'm literally getting rid of Aimee herself, or at least what's left of her physical presence. It's easier for Donna to see what is gone than what I've kept, and that's understandable. She insisted she wasn't angry with me at all, just hurt at the loss of her daughter. But regardless, this event is really hard for her to accept.

The pain seems rooted in one major difference between Donna and I in this grief - I need to, can, and will move on. Donna can't and won't. I don't say that with even an ounce of recrimination. It's the nature of our different relationships we had with Aimee, and the different way we process grief. Donna clings to physical abjects and reminders. I cling to memories and emotions.

And some of those memories are tied up in tangible objects. I kept cards Aimee gave me. My wedding ring. Her wedding dress. Lots and lots of photos, letters, and journals.

But this 'object', this box of ashes, this is going to go. It's essentially the last thing of hers that I'm holding onto that I ultimately don't want to keep. Besides, it was her wish that her ashes be scattered. And I've known I needed to do this since shortly after Aimee's death.

So I, along with my best friend, will hike that mountain (God willing), and set Aimee free in the beautiful nature she loved so much.

And I will say my goodbye.