[Oldmanmatt]

Black Hole Sun........

It’s last Thursday afternoon, day off training. I’m riding the metro into BCN for a wander around, coffee, check out the gear shops. My phone rings, it’s my wife.... “Hey Babe, I’m on the Metro; I’ll call you back in five”....

Won’t you come.........?

I get off at the next stop, Urquinaona, run up to the little park in the centre of the square. Re-dial.... “The good news is” she says “is I don’t have DVT”. She laughs. “I have a lump, pressing on a vein in my groin”.
I can’t breathe, a solitary tear springs from my eye and I try to sink deeper into the shade. My mind, in a split second, races through the last year and a half of watching her dragged through Chemo, Radiotherapy, angina attacks, abscesses, stoma bags... Hell... That blessed all clear back in October...

And wash away my pain............

“Mel (the Oncologist), says it’s almost certainly Cancer, they won’t know for sure until after the PET next week” (She’s laughing again! How can she laugh?).
I swallow; force the pounding heart out of my throat, “I'll get a flight home, as soon as I can..”
“No!” she interrupts, “I’m OK, you stay there until you get your money, we’re going to need it!”

Black Hole Sun.......

I try to train on Friday, the wall seems unreal. Someone has removed a crucial hold from my favourite warm up route and irrational anger sweeps over me. I always feel isolated, I have limited Spanish and no Catalan; today I might as well be on the Moon.  I try too hard and too many times to make a move on a problem I’d been working, strain my finger. I have to leave before anyone sees the tears....

Won’t you come............?

The dream is back. I’m there again, on South Georgia; the sun searing my face and eyes. I’m lost in a vast expanse of snow and ice, my feet frozen solid; my fingers starting to go...... I wake, drenched in sweat. I haven’t had the dream for ten years or more, not since I met Her.......

For fucks sake, wash away my pain............

[andy popp]

You have mail Matt.

[Oldmanmatt]

The Dream.........

It always begins the same way.

I’m alone, the silence of the Ice Cap wraps around me like a shroud.  Purple spots cloud my vision as the snow blindness takes hold. My Bolles were not worth the money, it seems.
Behind me, the silence is shattered by the unimaginable cacophony of another avalanche. I don’t even flinch anymore; it’s been my soundtrack for too long now. In front, the crevasse; a yawning, blue abyss.
My feet hurt, each step is an appalling agony and a voice at the back of my head whines with each step “you’re 21 and you’re going to lose your feet”. I push down the voice again, step back; slip a second axe from the holster on my harness.

Breathe, run, leap.......

Desperate scrabbling, panting and I’m standing again. Holster the axe, push down the voice; cling to the routine. Force the pace, keep moving.
 
The Sun is my enemy. In a few hours it will dip just below the horizon, relief from the terrible burning but then the Adiabatic will come tearing down from the peaks behind. The temperature will crash (we’d recorded -50DegC the night before). In two days it will be Christmas Eve, in eleven days I will turn twenty two; cling to the routine, keep moving..........

It’s a few hours earlier, we haven’t slept in 36 hours or more. The Guy’s have collapsed, Roy’s feet are gone, Steve is concussed. We are shambling Zombies, there is little left of the men who set out from advanced Base, full of determination and life. It is (we will discover later) the warmest summer for five hundred years.  Our pathetic attempt to summit is beaten to a pulp, as around us the mountains shed five centuries of snow and ice.

 We had been descending when it happened, already mentally defeated. Five of us, strung out Alpine style. I lead, as the deputy leader; Steve (The boss and twenty years my senior) bringing up the rear. In the Serrac, below the summit ridge; we had scaled a fantastic Ice wall. In the cold half light of the Antarctic dawn it had been crisp, exhilarating. Now it was a slushy, deteriorating, heart pounding nightmare. At the base another mind boggling crevasse meant traversing to safer ground a hundred meters away. I made it, got my breath back, set up the belay. As each man descended, so we each moved a rope length away and dug in. It’s Steve’s’ turn, last man down but the ice face is too chewed up by our passage and......

There’s a shout, I look up, to see Steve tumbling, the screws not even holding long enough to tighten the rope. In a flailing arc, he disappears into the crevasse and as he does, we see the rope wrapped around his Crampon. He didn’t make a sound.

We stumble into the advance base, Steve is semi-conscious; the rest of us just shells. Going through the motions. Pete sets up the radio, it doesn’t work; but what’s the point anyway. We’re too far from the nearest Helo to expect rescue and there’s nowhere for a fixed wing to land. Our ship home isn’t due for another five days. We rest in the snow hole for the short night, dump the gear we’d sweated to bring in and begin the 20k trudge to base camp on the coast. There’s a more powerful radio there, just maybe we can raise the Garrison at Grytviken. As we walk I’m dreaming of rescue......

I’m back at the moment of collapse. I’m screaming, ranting “For God’s sake get up, you can’t sit down”! The Sun has turned the surface snow of the Ice Cap to slush; it seeps into your clothes and freezes again. To sit in this is to die. They won’t listen. Now a raving lunatic, I untie my line and turn away. Blind with rage and fear I begin pounding for the coast.  We are deep in the fracture section, marooned between crevasses; to move on un-roped is suicide, but I go anyway.....

The sun is on the horizon, it’s cold, so cold. A distant voice in my head calmly notes I’m crossing a patch of stones, at last; the compression section! No more crevasse! And, there a few K’s away, in the gloom, the tents! Safety!

Then it hits me.......... WHAT HAVE I DONE!!!

I can’t go on, I’m finished. I drop my pack, sit down. Bawling, gibbering “Oh God, where are they, what have I done!”
The cold is now my world, my mind wanders through tortured paths of memory and regret. I am broken.
I sit, numb, staring into the adiabatic as it mounts its nightly assault. I will sit here till the cold takes me and my sin no longer burns. It is what I deserve.....

“There's something red out there”. The voice is back, intruding on my sorrow and pathetic self pity. A blob becomes a figure, becomes a shuffling, unsteady, man. “It’s Steve” says the voice, I ignore it. The figure throws its self down beside me, without removing its’ pack. “He’s still out of it” says the voice as I stare at his glassy eyes. We don’t speak.

An hour or more has passed. There are now five figures, huddling in the bitter, slicing wind. Nobody has uttered a single sound. The gloom is lifting; one of the figures stumbles to its feet (who knows, now, who it was) and the others follow.
As we shuffle away, Roy turns and like a knife to my heart, he mutters “Thank you, for not giving up”.

They were not the same men............

[Oldmanmatt]

I was alone...

When I met her...

Sitting at a table, in a Restaurant. She was beautiful. A child of the Carpathians, taking a year out; working in the restaurant (where her cousin was the manager). Enjoying the Dubai sunshine.
We smiled at each other, as she handed me the menu. Her eyes, the colour of Honey, with a mischievous glint. I waited for my friends; it was our semi-regular lunch time hangout. She took our order, brought our order; got it wrong......

Most days, I would get there before the others; order an iced coffee. We’d chat while I drank. Sometimes she’d bring over a whole pile of different used coffee glasses and then she’d tease my friends about how long they’d made me wait.......

I was a broken man, again, my wife of ten years; had left me the year before. I'd just turned thirty a few weeks ago. Much to the amusement of my friends, I didn’t notice; that she always took our order, always got it wrong.
 
Oh, I was enchanted by her but I couldn’t bring myself to make the move; too many doubts. Finally, one of my friends, in exasperation; wrote my number on his card and gave it to her. I didn’t know and that same afternoon I skived work, went back to the restaurant to give her my number. I did it, stuttering, her cousin giggling behind her. She smiled and said “Thanks, but I already have it”. Shame faced, I rushed out.......... She had my number but she hadn’t called me! I’ve just made a right tit of myself haven’t I......?

She called me an hour later. Yes, she’d very much like to go on a date with me. Her night off was the next day, she was living in Sharja. Perhaps I could meet her there in the Gold Souk?  Seven thirty? YES, A THOUSAND TIMES YES!

Ten years ago, almost to the day.....

Today is “Patient conference” day. The many Doctors and Medics who handle her case are sitting together as I write. There is no formality between us, it’s always first names; never “Doctor” this or “Professor” that. Each and every one, has taken us to one side and passed us their home and mobile numbers; “call me, any questions, any time”......

She was late. I’d been early, already on my third coffee. My phone rang, an unfamiliar female voice “She’s on her way, running late and doesn’t have a phone, so asked me to call”. I started to breathe again..........

Then stopped......

She’d come around the corner; little black top, tight (oh so tight) red trousers and black heels.  I’d only ever seen her in her work clothes and she’d been beautiful; but this was a knock out......!

Tomorrow is the PET scan. She called me, to discuss bland, domestic, things. Chirpy, efficient and casually tacking the PET thing on to the end. The PET will tell us if the tumour is “active” and if it has spread (well, it’s already spread, the original tumour burned away in a maelstrom of radiation). On this, all our hopes and fears are riding.
 
To her, it’s a footnote........

[Oldmanmatt]

Why am I doing this.......?

I haven’t written an essay for twenty years (and then, only, late at night; a few hours before it was due on the lecturer’s desk); and even then, dry, technical........... Stuff.

I don’t keep a diary, don’t blog. An occasional FB comment. I don’t write.

I draft reports, precise, logical. An engineer to the core.....

I sat at the computer on Saturday morning. I’d strained my finger, the day before. Rain was forecast. There was no chance of climbing away from reality. I was on the site, commenting on strains, browsing through blogs. Numb

I closed the browser and without conscious volition, opened Word.

It’s five PM on Monday, I’ve been writing for three days. Short, surreal, disconnected, ramblings and memories. I don’t know why.

Why am I posting this, here.........?

I don’t know. I just felt I had to put it somewhere, somewhere other than a folder in “My documents”. Somewhere.......
Someone might read it. Not too many. Unseen faces, people, climbers like me.

 It will stay there, until the moderators get tired of it clogging up the bytes.

Just like us.....

[chris05]

Thanks for posting it. I wouldn't have guessed you were an engineer!

Found your writing compelling and emotive.

Chris

[Will Hunt]

If it's helping then keep doing it. The perversity of finding a subject like this enjoyable to read is surely testament to your skill as a writer.

[Oldmanmatt]

CairnGorm.....
I boulder, now. A little obsessively, perhaps.
 It’s not as if bouldering is exactly safe (some of the worst injuries I’ve seen, in thirty odd years of climbing, have happened on boulders).
I’ve been climbing since I was eight years old. I don’t know why. If I did, maybe, I wouldn’t have to.

I climb.

It’s a sunny, January, afternoon. We’ve arrived early. The car park at CairnGorm is full, conditions are perfect (forecast for a dump overnight) and surely, surely, we can squeeze one in.....

We should have known better.....

“The Runnel (Grade 2)”, should be a doddle. We set off. Fast, young... stupid.

There’s another pair already on the route, about a pitch up (it seems there isn’t a single gulley free of Gore-Tex, right now). Mug of coffee from the flask, take our time gearing up. Let them get a pitch or two ahead....

We’re climbing; it’s easy going; just steep snow. The crux is on the last pitch, short, sweet. We alternate the lead and we’ll worry about who gets the crux later. Flip a coin.

“BELOW!”

I hunker into the scoop and put my head down. Ice comes clattering past; I wait a few seconds then emerge again. The weather is turning, the sky no longer blue but white, the light flat.

I’m on belay, Mike is leading, the pitch before the crux. I can’t see him and he hasn’t moved since the Ice came past. I shout but there’s no reply, no sound at all, the air is dead here in the gulley.

Then I get the signal, tugged through the rope, he’s on belay.
 
There’s something wrong, I have too much rope here, he can’t be at the belay point; but the tugs come again and I think I hear the call. I un-clip and he’s pulling through.

 I climb.

Snow is kissing my cheeks, the world is white, the light is fading. I have to stop, frequently, to let the slack in the rope catch up with my progress. Something is wrong and this is a bad time for something to be wrong.

I climb.

He’s a mess.
The snow is red around him, his face a bloody, swollen, mass. One eye closed up, the other red, half closed, glassy.
The climber above had dislodged the ice, he’d shouted, he knew we were below. But in that instant, Mike had glanced up......
I can’t see the sides of the gully anymore, nothing but white.

“What are you going to do?” says the voice.

I don’t know. Below us lie many rope lengths of steep ground. Can I lower him? Can He make himself safe and then belay me, as I climb down? Again and again?

“What do you think?” asks the voice.

Can I leave him? Can I get down alone and call for help?

“You left them on the ice, remember. It’s what you do.” the voice sneers.

“Mike, Mike mate” I prod him and he looks up from his misery. “Can you belay? We can’t be far below the runnel and the top.”
He nods, the coin has landed, I lead.

I climb.

Within a few feet, Mike is lost in the soft white flurries. My breath thunders in the deepening gloom.

I climb.

My axe strikes the thin ice of the crux. It’s been heavy going, the rope sometimes too tight, sometimes too slack. The last deadman is a long way below. The ice is too thin to take a screw. There must be rock around me, somewhere to put some gear, but I can see nothing but white.

I climb.

The ice is thin, much thinner than I expected.
“You thought this would be easy” said the voice.

I climb.

The voice is talking again. I can’t understand it, it’s too surreal.

“Did you find my camera?”

Realisation. I look up and there’s a disembodied head smiling at me.

I cried.

There was abseiling, there was hauling.
There was stumbling through the dark, supporting Mike’s semi conscious form. The sharp beams of head torches cutting through the falling snow.
There were hospitals, hot coffee.
There was a warm bag on a youth hostel bunk.

But when I close my eyes.....

I climb.

[butters]

Keep writing mate. Really enjoying it (though there is a tiny bit of me that wishes I could write that well) - it's very powerful, emotive stuff.

Best of luck with every thing. 

[shark]

It will stay there, until the moderators get tired of it clogging up the bytes.

Not me 

[Oldmanmatt]

Where are you?

“Where are you? Where have you been?”

She’s angry, worried, I should have been home hours ago.

“Umm, look... Can you come get me? Ask Anne if she can come with you and call Bill’s wife... We’ve lost our car keys, phones, wallets... everything.”
I’m shaking as I talk.
“There’s been an accident.”

She is four months pregnant, showing.

And I am a selfish, thoughtless, Bastard.........

Six meters....

I switch from twenty one to pure O2. I’m going to be here for forty minutes or so. Sun beams flashing through the water around me.
I watch Dave switch gases, we exchange OK’s. He’s struggling to stay level. A Remora has decided he’s a shark and is trying to latch on.

“More like a whale.” Says the voice.

It’s been a good dive, life is good.

I grab the ladder, pass up the deco tanks, throw my fins in. Climb in.
Behind me Dave passes up his tanks and sticks his face in the water to get his fins.
I bend forward, to take the weight of the twin set as I undo the waist buckle, beside me Ahmed is gearing up.  Gentle waves, calm.
Ahmed pulls his re-breather towards him, I slip the buckle.

POP!

A silly, insignificant, sound. Flames leap across the deck, engulfing my feet.
I don’t think, don’t breathe, I just dive. Straight over the ladder, straight over Dave’s submerged head. As my head hits the water, something smacks into my calf. Hot, searing.

I surface, behind me a terrible, howling roar. I turn to see a towering Roman Candle, rising from the middle of the deck.

Phut! Boom!

Shit... The tanks are cooking off. Turn, swim, desperate... All around debris, shrapnel, tearing up the water.

“You have responsibilities.” The voice is chiding, berating. “You should not be here!”......

The years had passed, we had passed them together. Two weeks after that first date, she’d moved in.
There had been mountains, canyons, deserts and jungles.

The mountain girl, who could hardly swim; had become a competent diver. Her quick eye had soon focused on photography, above and below the waves; it was being noticed.
When, after two years of searching, we had finally located the wreck of the U533; she had carefully ferried deco tanks to and from the stops as we slowly crawled up from 120 mtrs (a disorienting tasks in the featureless blue void). She shyly stood with us glory hounds, when we posed for the paper.

There had been the miscarriage.....

There had been pain....

We’d just returned from another adventure, back to work; reality. Not long after Christmas 2005. She said “I’m late.”
We sweat it out, the three months of shadow. Then the dreaded scan, that last time brought such pain.
It was viable, it was strong. She was pregnant.

But I wanted to go back to the Sub. That meant training. So I left her at home, drove the 100k’s to Fujhera. 75 mtr dive, good forecast, good friends; what could go wrong......?

The explosions have subsided.
We are huddled in the water a couple hundred meters away. Quiet, staring.

To the bemusement of Ahmed and Phi (a Vietnamese American), Bill begins to laugh...
“Bloody Flares wer’ in’t ther’” he giggles. “An t' radio” To a Brit, such things are funny...
Suddenly we’re all laughing.

Time passes, we’re not laughing anymore.

“You’re 25 k’s offshore, the boat is burning, you’re alone” says the voice. “You shouldn’t be here”

Time passes, the voice won’t stop.
 
In the eyes of the others, I can see, they hear the voice too.

Time passes.

There is a fishing boat, attracted by the blasts; it has followed the smoke column.
We laugh, we joke. We slap each other’s backs.
 
But even when I’m back on land, she is holding me, sobbing....

I can still hear the voice...

[Oldmanmatt]

PET day..........

Here it is eleven AM. There it is only ten.

She will be walking into the scanner room right now.
Somewhere in Taunton, (they don’t have one in Exeter).

It was three AM, last night; when I last glanced at my watch and finally slipped into restless sleep.

The voice is getting louder....

I missed my training session yesterday. Friday’s finger strain, was still..........

“An excuse”

The voice does not permit self delusion.

The voice is not a bad thing.

It just is.

There has been fear....

Still limping from the leg wound, (a piece of yellow, plastic, re-breather casing had embedded its' self there a month before). I hold her as we leave the Doctors office.
She smiles at the Nurse behind the desk (but I can feel her shoulders shake) and makes another appointment, one weeks time. From now on it will be a weekly ritual.

Placenta Praevia. Type 4.

We didn’t know what it was. Now we do and wish we didn’t.

There has been joy...

Four weeks early (to avoid any risk of contractions).
It is Dubai, I am not allowed in the theatre. I must wait outside.

There is crying.

A beaming, Bulgarian, Mid-wife is calling me, “Come, Daddy, meet your little girl”.

Now there are two “Shes” and everything has changed.

It’s eleven thirty one. She must be nearly finished.
I’m waiting anxiously for her call. To hear her say she’s home. She wouldn’t let my Father drive her, insisting she do it herself.

Her Demon, her fight...

There has been joy...

She has booked a suite at an expensive hotel, looking out over the warm waters of the Gulf.
She has booked a baby sitter.
It is Valentines’ day and we enjoy a candle lit dinner in the restaurant at the back of the beach.
Gentle music, the surf softly churning in the distance.

Eight months and three weeks later...

“He” arrives.

There has been joy...

[Oldmanmatt]

10:13 (BST)

She texts "They're injecting me with the good stuff"

11:30 (BST)

One word "Done"

"Call me whn u get hme. Mxxx" I reply.

"There are hundreds of image frames to be checked" Says the Voice.

It will be Thursday, before we know anything.

I wait...

[Oldmanmatt]

Her...

[Oldmanmatt]

P1010051 by oldmanmatt, on Flickr

[fried]

I can't think of anything intelligent to say, nor can I ignore this thread...just keep writing.

[Oldmanmatt]

Waiting....

Thursday...

It’s only tomorrow, might as well be a hundred years away...

Sleep came last night, finally, uninterrupted, deep; even the dream left me alone.

But, when I wake, the thoughts are back.
Constantly running through the events that lead to this point. They say that your life flashes before your eyes, in moments of extreme danger; when you think you’re going to die. I have been there, I don’t remember such a thing; I remember the voice.

There has been some news; it is good; it is hope.

The Surgeon (“Call me Harry. Look, here’s my card, any questions, anytime.”) has said he is happy to operate.
There had been doubts. There had been “Proximity to arteries and nerves”.

There had been hesitation....

There are many more questions...

I have regurgitated a life time, through my fingers, passed the keyboard; to the hard drive. There is more, far more than I can post here. Not every memory is painful...

There was Greenland....

There had been Ice diving, mountains, fjords. Fire lit nights, listening to Inuit hunters tell tall stories. Drunken revels with crazy Danes...

There had been The Politician....

There were three of us. Two of us we’re” his” babysitters, sorry, guides.

The Politician was on his honeymoon and though his new wife is full of life (she was a cracker!)And has spent her days in a wetsuit or boots; he has mostly read books or “Teleconferenced”.
Today, he wants to “do” the Ice Cap. We plan a short foray, just enough to give him a taste; cross a few crevasse (maybe he will realise how small he really is). Let him feel the silence.

We stop for a brew. It is quiet out here, the occasional boom as something moves deep below.

We are content, reverent; “He” wants to chat.

“I think I detect Military in your accents?” He has a distinctive, whiny, voice (you would know it well).
“Navy” I say. “Guards” says my partner (He really does have the accent too).
“But” says the Politician “You’re both so young, why did you abandon your careers so early?”

Normally, we enjoy chatting to clients, they are always awe struck. Normally, they get it. This guy is just irritating.
We could talk about Kuwait, Bosnia.... Hell... He wouldn’t understand.
I glance at my buddy, willing my eyes to say “you get this one, you’re more diplomatic”; he doesn’t need my prompt...

“Because” (in his best, plumy, upper crust), “Your fucking predecessor, made us redundant; you prick!”

The Politician would like to borrow the radio...

We watch the Helo, disappear. He was too tired, apparently, for the hike back.

We turn and begin the trudge back to the coast, giggling like school boys.

There will be a price....

It was worth it.

[Oldmanmatt]

She re-built me...

Even as I’d walked off the Ice Cap, that sunny arctic afternoon; my ex was busy carving out her new life.

I didn’t know...

When I found out, I quit my job and rushed back to the UK. It was too late.
Tired of being left behind, tired of my adventures; tired.

I took the first job that came along. Dubai.

I was a shell, nothing inside.

From that meeting in the restaurant, she began to fill the shell.

We talked, late into the night; on long dawn drives to the mountains or far away dive sites. Her passion for adventure, for life; re-awoke my own.

We were married a year later.

We were married three times.

The first time at Holy Trinity, just friends and our parents.
I sketched the dress, her mother made it. She was stunning.
Our friends had organised a reception in their villa garden. We walked in under a tunnel of divers fins held at the salute. It was the best day of my life.

We were married again, a few days later, at the Romanian Embassy in Abu Dhabi. Just us (and a bottle of champers).

There was no avoiding it. She was Romanian, Orthodox, there would have to be the full show.

A few months and a great deal of planning later, we travelled again to her native mountains.
A Romanian wedding is something to see. To experience it, well; that is beyond description.

It is a beautiful, August, morning.

I travel with my family to her village. The house is decked with greenery; a huge arch of tree boughs adorns the gate. There is music and dancing in the garden beyond. I knock.

Her cousins will not let me in; I must pay them to get past. Inside, my family joins the dancing. They must distract her family, while I sneak to her room and try to steal her away. She is radiant, breath taking, we hurry out.

We are (of course) caught before the gate. Now we must face her parents.

We each in turn must beg them for forgiveness. I must ask them to forgive me for stealing their only daughter. She must ask them to forgive her for leaving them alone. Her father asks “Is this what you want?” It is quiet, stern faces all around. “Da” she replies. The house erupts in cheering and we must lead the dancing (and I must pay the accordion player, repeatedly).

We travel in convoy to the church, horns blaring.

Our God parents lead us to the altar (they will do the same for our two children, in the years to come).
It becomes a confusing, busy, whirling ceremony.
There are candles, crowns upon our heads; there is dancing round the altar. There is much kissing of saints, splashing of holy water.
There are vows.

The convoy moves on to the tavern in the town, an open air courtyard. Roofed around the edges (like cloisters) where the tables are set up.

There is food, there is wine.

There is dancing. Not the English traditional wedding stomp.

Arms upon each other’s shoulders, we whirl in concentric circles. Feet flashing, learn quick or be mown under. Lightning flashes on the mountain tops.

We cut the cake. She grabs a handful and smears it on my face. I return the favour. They are cheering and the dancing begins again. Even through the rain and pounding thunder, we whirl through the darkness.

Then she is gone.

Her cousins have kidnapped her. They send an emissary with her shoe and the ransom demand. Wine and lots of it!

She is returned. We dance and drink and spin into the night....

Late, very late, we slip away.

Together.

[Oldmanmatt]

Music...

11:00 BST
I have to take this thing off shuffle...

There is still no news...

I’m trying to work, to focus...

Izzy strummed, that Hawaiian guitar, and I’m tumbling over the rainbow.
It happened yesterday, at the wall; when Delores wailed, cried, “In your head, in your head!”

I shall carefully select a new playlist.

It doesn’t take much, right now.

[Oldmanmatt]

There is only one tumour.

They can cut it out, along with some of the Lymph nodes around it.

After that....

It depends on the Biopsy.

It is better than we had feared.

There will be more waiting...

It is a long way from over...

[Oldmanmatt]

To those who noticed that I wrote Adiabatic instead of Katabatic, repeatedly, and did not mention it...
Thank you.
(No one did).
Believe it or not, I have only today reread what I wrote...

[Will Hunt]

Better than we feared is definitely better than worse than we feared. Keep hold of all the positives no matter how small they may seem.

[Oldmanmatt]

Campus....

Left hand up...

Pull through...

Repeat to top...

Lock off 90...

Lock off 120...

Rest. Two minutes...

My mind wanders...

Christmas 2009. She is in pain.
It grows worse. Enough to prompt a trip to minor injuries.
“It’s probably nothing, take two of these and see your GP in the morning”

Right hand up...

Pull through...

Repeat to top...

Lock...

Lock again...

One set done...

Rest three minutes...

“It is almost certainly “X”. Nothing to worry about. However, since you’re in such pain, we’ll get you to the surgeon pronto”.
Two weeks and she’s in theatre.
There will be cameras, inspections, probing...

Left hand up...

Pull through...

Repeat...

Becoming aggressive now, frustration showing through...

Rest two minutes...

A small room in pastel shades, comfortable chairs.
“Uhmm... We found something”
It is very, very rare. No one it seems has ever seen it before.... read about it, yes. Not in someone so young...

This does not help.

Right hand up...

Sweating, grunting...

Two sets done...

Rest three minutes...

They don’t hang around.
Immediately, there are treatment plans.
“If the biopsy is X then we do A, if Y then we do B”.

But...

Within the week, there is another lump, in hours it swells; visibly beneath the skin.
An abscess. She is admitted. As they prep her, it bursts...
The calm, smiling, faces become serious. Everything, more urgent...

Left Hand up...

More like combat than training...

Rest two minutes...

The abscess has changed everything.
There will be a “Loop Stoma” and all that that entails.
There will be delays, while damage heals...

Right hand up...

Burning now...

Three sets done...

Spent...

Lying on the mat, panting.

Spent...

[Oldmanmatt]

It’s complicated...

I drove up to Savassona.
It was 30 degrees, the sun shone and the birds sang.
I was almost alone, only one other climber and he didn’t seem to want to talk.
I was glad.

It’s complicated...

I climbed hard, ticked some 7a’s, left “half past Rome” alone.
Failed to make the last move on my nemesis.
Again...

For a while, I felt good....

That was Monday...

Today...

She went to see the Surgeon.
My Father went with her, to hold her hand.
I am still stuck in Spain...

It’s complicated...

Soon I will just throw in the towel, race home and sod the future...

It’s complicated...
 
The Surgeon says...

The tumour is wrapped around the main vein leading from her right leg.
The tumour is attached to the tube between her Kidney and the bladder.
There will be four different Surgeons.
It will take twelve hours.

There will be weeks of intensive care...

There is risk...

There is fear...

There are no promises...

Monday was a long, long time ago.

It’s all so complicated...

[Oldmanmatt]

I cannot find the breath to sigh.
I cannot find the strength to try.
I know not what to think or say.
In all directions murky grey.
I cannot see the rhyme or reason.
For this dark change to the season.