When it comes to my new life, the one I’m currently living, the first memory I have is of waking up in a strange bed, in a strange room, and asking my mum “where am I?”
She replied: “you were in the mountains, and you had an accident”.
I can’t remember what, if anything, I said in response. But I remember what went through my head: Well *of course* I was in the mountains; I was literally just there, a moment ago! How did I get *here*?!
I’m informed that even if this is my first memory, it was not the first or only time this conversation took place. Upon regaining consciousness, it required a few days for my short-term memory to stick, for me to not need to be told the same things, over and over again. Still, that’s how it feels to me. One minute I was climbing on a beautiful day in Scotland, shouting down to my partner, as I eyed the final metres of a long route. The next I was prostrate, staring at a ceiling, both my arms in casts, a sickening nothingness emanating from where my body should be.
Which apparently is quite unusual. Normally, following an accident like mine, a sizable chunk of memory preceding the moment of disaster is lost. Sometimes this comes back in the weeks and months that follow, sometimes not. But in my case, memory runs until about 30 seconds before I fell, and always has done. Blessedly, I don’t remember the fall itself – let alone the ensuing horror that my friend navigated: resetting the shattered bones in my left arm; keeping me alive; getting me into a helicopter. And the next five or so weeks I spent in a coma. Nonetheless, that’s how it feels to me. In a split second I transitioned from one life to another. No warning, no break – just from there to here, in the blink of an eye.
Strangely enough, I think this perhaps explains a persistent, incoherent fantasy of mine, one I’m given to drifting into in moments of distraction. The fantasy according to which I somehow had forewarning that the disaster was impending. That somehow I knew, or could be told, that this was the last time I was going to tie into a rope, to put on my climbing shoes. That this was the last time I was going to see my van. The last time I was going to shit in a toilet, in privacy. The last time I was going to piss standing up. The last time I was going to wake up happily, at a time of my own choosing, getting out of bed all by myself. The last time I was going to see my home. The last training session I was ever going to do. The last meal I would ever cook for myself. The last time I’d hold a book whilst drinking a cup of coffee. The last time I’d clip the chains in Kalymnos. The last time I’d ever catch a fish. The last boulder problem. The last time I’d ever have sex, be desired by another.
What makes this fantasy incoherent, of course, is the idea that somehow this would make me better appreciate, or somehow relish, the final chance to do the things I was about to lose forever. Pretty obviously, if I somehow had received forewarning that the accident was going to happen, rather than savouring the experiences at hand, I would have been gripped by a blind panic, destroying any possibility of happiness or enjoyment. (I am hardly the first to observe that it is in general a good thing that we do not know the future.)
Still, the fantasy persists. And I suspect the reason why is that really it is a fantasy about smoothing the brutality of transition. That somehow, if I had been given warning, then it would be easier to process the inability to process. To go from being absorbed in the moment, doing the thing I loved most, to finding myself broken beyond recognition. Not so long ago I was successful, attractive, in great physical condition, with the world at my feet. Now I’m a fat cripple who shits himself in a wheelchair. How could that just happen?
Which makes this, I suppose, a form of bargaining – as per that “stage” of grief resolution. What I’ve come to realise, however, is that I’m grieving two things. Obviously enough, I’m grieving the loss of myself, of who I was, the death of me that took place in that moment of transition. But I’m also grieving what feels like the death of another, too. It is hard to explain without sounding faintly ridiculous, but the only way I can try to do so is by asking you to imagine that you had been lucky enough to meet the love of your life, who completed you and made you happy, and that you had settled down together, confidently planning how to spend the coming decades. And then one day you’re driving along, but there is a sudden collision, and you wake up in the hospital to be told that they are dead, and you have survived, and now you must go on without them. Well, whereas normal people fall in love with other human beings, I fell in love with the essentially pointless activity of trying to get up progressively more challenging cliff faces. And just as the person who is abruptly told that the love of their life is gone will ardently wish that they could change places, so I still feel that a life without climbing is no life worth living.
It has been more than a year and a half now, and that feeling is not shifting. Day to day, I’m really now just passing the time until I die. The void will never be filled, I suspect, even if its edges do become less abrasive as the months go by. “Better to have loved and lost, than to have never loved at all”? Perhaps – except that if I had never loved, I would not know what I will now forever be missing. It is a persistent belief amongst the religious that in death they will be reunited with loved ones. Me, I don’t believe in heaven. But if I’m wrong, and in the unlikely event that I’m admitted, I’ll be chalking up quicker than the angels can say “on belay”.
I was about to go to Yemen, which I knew was a risk because the country was dangerous and a law unto itself. The day before my departure I wandered around my home-town of Southend-on-Sea. I walked to the end of the pier, which is a long way – 1.33 miles. I had a cup of tea in the cafe, then I walked back. I headed west along the seafront. At Chalkwell, I sat on a bench and I watched the sun go down over the water.
Roughly a month before, I had gone through a bad falling out with someone who I had known for a very long time. In hindsight the friendship was over. We had grown apart. Neither one of us liked or respected the other. At the time it was all still up in the air; too early to call A mutual friend had suggested that, before I left the country, I should make my peace. I told him: “That would be a lie.”
Still, I thought about it. I was going somewhere where there was the potential for harm. I knew that, while I was there, I would take risks. There was a possibility that I might not come back. My thoughts were along these lines: 'If I am saying goodbye to England, am I happy with the way that I've left things?' I decided that I was and it made life easier. I was able to immerse myself more in the present moment. Ironically if I hadn't drawn that line before I left the country, then I might not have come back because there were certainly moments where things could have gone either way. I was able to respond to reality in front of me rather than allowing my fear of what I might lose to muddy my judgment.
As bad as things are for you, there is a better version of your life within your mental reach. However, it can only be achieved through the acceptance of your unpalatable present. Once you have embraced that reality, the ways in which you can move forward and make improvements to your life may become more apparent. That cannot happen when your gaze is weighted so heavily towards your past which cannot be changed.
If you old self is dead, then you need to hold a funeral so that you can move on. I wonder whether there would be any value in some kind of guided meditation or hypnosis that would allow you to vividly revisit those hours before your fall; to inhabit those moments in the full knowledge that this was the last time. There is the potential for repressed terrors to be dredged from the recesses of your consciousness and dragged to the surface, but maybe that too would be beneficial in the long term.
I learned something from my chameleon, Frederic, when he died. At the end he opened his eyes and he looked right at me. My face was the last thing he ever saw. At the moment of death, assuming you have the opportunity for reflection, you get to unequivocally define your own future. You write the last meaningful lines in your own story. If your final conscious thoughts on earth are that you are going to Heaven, then that is where you went.
I cried after reading this because I feel your grief. While I am just a shitty climber plateauing at 6c, rock climbing has been a journey of overcoming challenges, facing fears, and experiencing personal growth. Your metaphor of losing the love of your life resonates with me deeply. I believe that the tremendous resilience you have demonstrated is a result of your years of climbing. I hope it continues to empower you.
Sending support from Thailand