I don't exactly know how to start writing this post or what the purpose is. Verbal processing on the phone and in person has been my go-to, but I have a desire to be more reflective in writing as well. To have something that documents my thoughts right now, so I can look back later when my memory is fuzzy. Do I want to describe what these last three weeks have been like? That feels easier than attempting to describe Vini and what she means to me. I think I'm avoiding that reflection, because it feels insurmountable to describe how much of an impact she has had on me, and in which ways.
I'll start with just the narrative of what happened with me. Day 14 of a 30 day Outward Bound course that was going really well. It was the second afternoon of Solo in the Solitario- a very remote spot in the state park at the end of our backpacking portion. All our students were spread out by their tarps, I was in our instructor base camp 3/4 of the way through individual check-ins with my students. I looked up and saw a man backpacking on a hill nearby one of our students. I made eye contact with my co-instructor Hannah and we were on alert-- it's pretty rare to see other people in the Solitario, and our students would be freaked out to see a random hiker. The random hiker got closer, and we said to each other that the man looked a lot like our supervisor, Will. Seeing your supervisor wandering through the desert towards you when you aren't supposed to see them only means something bad has happened. Sure enough, Will appeared and took me aside and delivered the news that Vini was dying from cancer with weeks to live. I've always thought of Vini as invincible, so to say this news was bizarre to process is an understatement. Vini, sick, in Virginia. Me, in the middle of the West Texas desert, completely out of touch. Will told me about the decision process Outward Bound went through to decide to come tell me. My camp friends had all found out on Sunday/Monday, and worked through many venues to figure out how to contact my supervisors and explain the situation, and that I had to find out as soon as humanly possible. So then on Wednesday, I was packing up my backpack, driving out of the spectacular desert with a vice-grip clutch on my cell phone, waiting to get into service and get in the loop.
That car ride was a looong two hours. And that evening and night was a flurry of phone calls, getting in touch with my dear people and hearing how their process had been, and feeling so strange about being a couple days behind in finding out, not sleeping more than an hour that first night. The next morning I texted Vini to figure out when to call. I was terrified to speak with her. What the hell was I supposed to talk about, was this supposed to be when I said goodbye to her? Would I be going back into the field with my group? Should I attempt to fly East? What about my students? What about the pandemic? How would I feel if I didn't try to see her? How would I feel about going into the field again and being completely unable to contact my support system?
After a ton of indecision and inner turmoil about it, on Friday afternoon I decided to leave Texas. It took me putting myself in the shoes of future me, paddling on the glorious Rio Grande in a few days, out of service and having no idea of what was happening back east for an eight day stretch in the field. Once I envisioned that possibility, it was glaringly obvious to me that I couldn't be fully on course for my students and my co-instructors while this huge thing was happening. And most importantly, I couldn't let a chance to see Vini go by me without trying. So I said goodbye to my students on Saturday morning as they embarked on their river portion of expedition, and I made plans to leave base until January. Outward Bound was hugely supportive of me, and said they would make it work with whatever I decided.
And even though I still have found myself feeling unsure about it, it was totally the right decision. Being able to see Vini for a few minutes was really difficult, and also I'm so glad I was able to laugh with her one more time. And being able to see my camp friends in person, to call and text them at all hours of the day and share our thoughts, on the spectrum of happy to heavy, has been exactly what I needed. I needed to be in touch, to process this period of extended shock and grief, to hear about my friends' experiences and share mine. I needed to be with the people who shared this collective knowledge of camp and Vini, because it's just incredibly hard to describe to people who didn't grow up in this community. That whole first week of being home I was totally engrossed in thinking about "it", unable to have trivial conversations with anyone aside from my camp friends. They were all I wanted to look at, be with, talk to. And I still feel semi like that, but at the point I"m writing this point I feel totally able to have normal interactions with other friends too.
My shock and sadness hit me most while I was still in Texas in those first couple of days of finding out and trying to get in touch, and trying to contact Vini. At this point of writing this post it's been almost two weeks since Vini died, and I haven't felt many emotions about it. I've felt conflicted about that-- why am I not feeling very sad, and when will it happen? Maybe I'm still just numb, or maybe it won't truly hit me until I show up at the Cove this summer and realize that she's not there. I've been doing things like going through all my snail mail correspondence and emails with her, photos, facebook comments, everything I can find with her handwriting on it, trying to see if dredging up these things will make me feel anything. Mostly, these things have made me really happy and sentimental and glad that I'm such a packrat. And there have been countless moments of looking through memorabilia where I think: Oh I need to share this with Vini! And then realize that the only reason I'm home and looking through all this shit is because she's gone.
dear annie, thank you for sharing this. damn life for being so rich. we love you.
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