After my father died unexpectedly on that December day in 1998, I thought a lot about the fleeting nature of life. I turned over and over in my mind the seeming impossibility that a girl could hug her Dad goodbye at Thanksgiving, feeling a bit sheepish when he cried in anticipation of missing her, chat briefly with him upon returning home, then never talk to him again. No one expects to lose a parent at age 29, much less the parent to whom she is closest and who gives all shape and form to the wisp of confidence she carries.
In the days after the numbness passed, I vowed to make every day count. I was more patient with people, even bad drivers. I thought long and hard about whether my life was what I wanted it to be. I clung to and appreciated deeply the saintly friends who stood fast during this loss and the house fire that followed on its heels. I left the firm I had grown to dread driving to each day. I backpacked in Europe for six weeks before starting my next job, savoring every moment and reading books like Atlas Shrugged as if they held the blueprint for how to lead a happy life. But then I was sucked back into the soul-draining cycle that is a life of active litigation paid for by the billable hour, and soon forgot all of the lessons I had learned the moment I cried, "NO!" in response to the unexpected call from my brother.
I was reminded of those lessons recently, when a young man from Dallas disappeared while hiking Mount Everest . . . his family called off the search for him this week and apparently has accepted that he will not return. His name is Trevor Stokol, and he was taking the trip of a lifetime before starting medical school. He wrote a fascinating blog about his adventures; reading it makes me feel as if I was there, conducting the exploration of Asian lands about which I have dreamed for a long time. The part I find most thought-provoking, though, is Trevor's last post before his disappearance:
Wed, 13 July:
I am walking to Mount Everest tomorrow, to get some good pictures and play on glaciers. And
then... I'M COMING HOME on August 1st. I'm having
a slideshow open house on the afternoon of August 7th, so if you're in Dallas, come on over.
There will be tea.
Here's to living dreams!!
That post speaks for itself, I think. I'm just going to sit with this for a bit.
2 comments:
Profound stuff, Lisa. Weird thing is it seems the family or someone now took that last post off Trevor's blog? Why, I wonder? It seems such a wonderful statement to life, and to his life. I realize it's fresh for them, but it's so beautiful, that last post. He's living in the moment.
I noticed the deletion of that entry also, Lori. I'm not sure why they did it. Perhaps a family friend not familiar with blogging accidentally deleted it? I'm not sure.
I don't know how much of his blog you had a chance to read, but there is another post from just after the big tsunami that is amazing in retrospect. Trevor wrote about all the friends and family who were writing, desperate to know if he was safe and sound after the tragedy. He made some wry comments, then observed that he had a funny way of appreciating being loved. I found it both sad that he succumbed to a different tragedy and comforting that he had the chance to experience before dying that rare situation in which everyone you know reminds you how much they care all at one time.
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