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Like I said, all in all, a fabulous night.
Our late night made rising early the following morning difficult. We were tired, and spent the morning at the museum in Tromso.
There, we were treated to long discourses on jars and bowls.
After the museum, we drove out into the countryside to go dogsledding. There were lowlying hills and trees in every direction; in the distance, the snowcapped peaks were partially hidden by clouds.
It was brisk, and we dressed in snowsuits that we could slip over our clothes. To reach the dogsleds, we had to descend a shallow hill, and were given the option of walking or riding down on an inner tube.
Most of the people walked. Micah and I rode the inner tubes. About fifty times.
We were loaded into the dogsleds in groups of three: Micah and I were joined by Jill, the physician, and as we waited we were introduced to the dogs. They were huskies, but smaller than I'd imagined they would be, maybe fifty pounds or so. And they were friendly; they seemed to enjoy being stroked and licked at our snowsuits in return.
Our driver, a middle-aged woman who'd once placed fifth in the Alaskan Iditarod, had not only trained the dogs, but owned most of the surrounding area. The business of providing dogsled rides enabled her to exercise her dogs daily. And the dogs loved to exercise.
As soon as the driver stepped on, the dogs got antsy and started barking; I suppose I expected her to yell "Mush!" but instead--and in a tone no louder than ordinary conversation--she simply said something that sounded like "Het." The dogs started pulling and the sled took off, dogs trotting ahead and looking around.
There are a few things about dogsledding you should know. First, the sled is slow, extremely bumpy, and hard on the rear end. Second, you're seated in such a way to make you feel every bit of the ride. And finally, saying that you went dogsledding in Norway with a team that once competed in the Iditarod is more fun than the sledding itself.
But hey, we did it. And took lots of pictures, too. And now, when I stand at a party, I can say things like, "Yes, I remember the time I was dogsledding in the Norwegian Alps . . . training the team for the Iditarod . . . going hard . . . with the snow swirling in my eyes . . . my lead dog limping but gamely carrying on . . . my face growing numb in the cold . . . and I remember thinking . . ."
Pause.
It's even better than the "I remember the time I was riding the elephants on my way to ancient Amber Fort in Jaipur . . . the heat beating down . . . the elephant growing weary as we mounted the final crest . . . and I remember thinking . . ." story.
After riding the dogsled, we joined our tour companions under a teepee; inside, they were serving reindeer stew that had been cooked over an open fire. The teepee was smoky, but it was warm and the food was enticing, especially after the morning we'd spent.
Sadly, we were informed that because of the ever-deepening cloud cover, our chance to see the aurora borealis was next to nil; in fact, we would learn that the northern lights had been rare all winter. The chance to see them had been the reason for our visit to Tromso in the first place, and both Micah and I were disappointed.
We were, however, offered a chance to go to yet another museum, but Micah and I were museumed out by then. Instead, we spent the rest of the afternoon wandering the streets of Tromso, talking and taking in the sights.
"Did you ever wonder why things happened the way they did?" Micah asked, apropos of nothing.
"All the time," I responded, knowing exactly what he was referring to.
"Most of my friends haven't lost anyone close to them."
"Neither have mine. And Cat hasn't either."
"Why is that?"
"Who knows. I wish I could tell you, but I can't."
Micah pushed his hands into his pockets.
"Have you ever noticed that people think of us as experts on death now? I mean, whenever a friend has someone die, he or she always calls me to talk. Does that happen to you?"
"All the time," I answered.
"What do you say?"
"It depends."
"I never know what to tell them. I mean, there's nothing you can say to make a person stop hurting. Half the time, I just feel like telling them the truth. I'd say that for three months, you're going to feel worse than you've ever felt, and you cope as best you can. And that after six months, the pain isn't so bad, but it still hurts more than you think it will. And even after years, you still find yourself thinking about the person you lost, and get sad about it. And you still miss them all the time."
"Why don't you say that?"
"Because that's not what people want to hear. They want to hear that it's going to be okay. That the pain goes away. But it doesn't. It never does. And you can't say that when the wound is fresh. It would be like pouring salt in their wound, and you can't do that to a person. So instead, I tell them what they want to hear." He paused. "What have all these losses taught you?"
"That it hurts, but you've got to go on anyway."
"That's what I learned, too. But you know, I would rather have learned it a lot later in life."
"Me, too."
"You know what else I learned?" Micah asked.
"What's that?"
"That it's a cumulative thing. Mom's and dad's deaths were hard, but it's like when you lose both of them, it's not only twice the loss. It's exponential. And then, when we lost Dana . . . it wasn't like we'd lost three people we loved. It's like we lost almost everything."
Micah shook his head before going on.
"After something like that . . . well, even though you try to get through it--and might seem fine on the surface--underneath you're a wreck, and you don't even know it. And sometimes, it takes a while to figure out that you're still struggling with everything that happened."
I nudged his shoulder. "You talking about me again?"
"No, not just you," he said. "Me, too. Like you said, we just reacted to the loss in different ways."
After our sister's death, Micah changed.
It was as if he'd suddenly become intimately aware of the fragility of life and how precious time really was. As a result, he made a conscious effort to simplify his life, with the goal of eliminating unnecessary stress. No longer interested in society's definition of success, he began purging his life of material things. Life, he decided, was for living, not for having, and he wanted to experience every moment that he could. At the deepest level, he'd come to understand that life could end at any moment, and it was better to be happy than busy.
He began selling things, getting rid of the clutter. Within a couple of months, he'd sold both businesses and converted his investments to cash. He sold both his boat and his jeep. He recommitted himself to his family, and when he called me, he explained his reasoning as follows.
"The more you own, the more it owns you, and I'm tired of it. I'm tired of having to take care of everything. I'm tired of things breaking and having to fix them. It adds stress, and frankly, I'm giving myself a break."
In the end, he kept the basics: his house, his car, and his furniture. The sale of his businesses left him with more than enough money to meet his monthly obligations--for years if he had to--and for the next eight months he did nothing that might add unwanted pressure to his life.
In some ways, he reverted to the young man he'd been during his college years. He went camping and hiking, he rafted during the summer, and as soon as snow began falling in the Sierras, he snowboarded. He took a trip to Puerto Vallarta with Christine. He visited Cody and Cole at the ranch. He began exercising regularly again, and joined an indoor soccer league. He also made a point to see me as often as he could. When I had a meeting in Los Angeles, my brother flew down to spend a few days with me. When my tour brought me through Sacramento later that fall, he came with me to the promotional events. In December, six months after my sister passed away, Micah visited me in North Carolina with Christine and his stepdaughter, Alli; Bob also came, along with Cody and Cole. Our three families took a trip to New York and we stood atop the World
Trade Center admiring the view, less than nine months before it would be reduced to rubble.
Three weeks after our trip to New York, my brother called me. It was my birthday, and as soon as I answered the phone, he began to sing to me, in the same way my sister always had.
I listened with my eyes closed, remembering it all.
"I guess I'll have to do this for you now," he said, when he finished. "It's a tradition, you know."
I smiled, missing my sister but thankful for my brother.
"Thanks, Micah."
"No problem, little brother."
There was one other way in which my brother changed as well.
While he still went to church, his attendance became sporadic and continued to diminish as time went on. And on those days he did go, he sat in the pew and felt nothing.
With my sister's death, my brother had lost his faith.
I, too, had suddenly become aware of the fragility of life and the preciousness of time. But as similar as Micah and I were in many ways, my reaction was exactly the opposite.
I came to believe that because life could end at any moment, I had to be prepared for any eventuality. I wanted to make sure my family was taken care of, no matter what might happen in the future. I had goals, and with the clock ticking, I had to hurry up and meet them before the unthinkable occurred. There was suddenly no time to waste. I had to hurry, I had to get things ready, I had to work. I had to go.
Less than two weeks after my sister's funeral, I began to work on A Bend in the Road, a story inspired by my brother-in-law, Bob. It was the story of a young widower with a child, and I forced myself to sit at the computer for days on end to finish it. That fall, I toured in Europe and the United States to promote The Rescue, and as soon as the edits on A Bend in the Road were completed in early 2001, I began The Guardian, which would eventually become my longest and most challenging book to date. Little by little, work on the novel began to consume me.
I'd become so used to stress in the last eleven years that it was as if I didn't know how to function without it, and from that point on I continually added more to my plate. In January 2001, we found out that Cat was pregnant again; a few months later we learned she was having twin girls. After three boys, it was definitely exciting, and expecting twins seemed appropriate considering the sudden increase in the pace of life.
