I cried trudging up the hills alone. For me, and the life I'll never have. For Kathleen, and her life ended too soon. The walk was silent, save for the crunch of my boots on the snow and the trickling water dripping off the giant stone faces, seeming to sob with me. The few heads I saw turned curiously towards me, as I walked through quiet neighborhoods, a brown stranger in their tranquil place.
But I didn’t care about anything else, because this walk was
for me. I could walk 15 min to a bus stop, find the right bus and buy tickets in
a foreign country, with entirely non-English speaking people, and trudge
uphill another 20 min after. My lungs did it. My navigating brain did it. My
heart did it.
My eyes overflowed the entire house tour too. The house empty of children, except for the
painting. The mutual love between Nina and Edvard Grieg. The respect. The
commitment despite his poor health.
Today was a pilgrimage: visiting a site I'd long dreamed
off, to complete one more step in my grieving process. My pilgrimage took me to
Troldhaugen.
I wish I could adequately convey what this visit meant to
me. The beautiful fjords, the tranquil water, the bracing air. The best of all
Norway had to offer, complete with the music of the land. I remember the heart
wrenching disappointment of not being able to compete in my music competitions,
and the sadness of not performing well in auditions due to the neuropathy from
chemo. But i was determined music would not leave my life. When I relapsed and knew
I'd be inpatient, i spoke with the Rainbow Babies and Children’s hospital music
therapist and obtained a keyboard for the duration. I spoke to my piano teacher Kathleen and asked her for a new challenge: I wanted to learn a piece of music during
transplant. She returned to me with Wedding Day at Troldhaugen.
Carefully chosen to be interesting enough for a challenge yet simple enough not
to overwhelm me, and cheerful enough to lift my spirits every time I played the
bouncy notes. She shared with me how Grieg had an escape route if he saw
visitors and wasn't up for it, as well how he struggled with poor health as
well. I remember the day she arrived bearing her gift: printed music in a
binder, protected sleeves, and the fingerings already penciled in.
I've learned a lot of music in my day, but this piece was
different. I learned it at my worst possible physical state, and it was for me.
I've never played it post-cancer. It seems almost sacred to try to.
Hiking to Troldhaugen, standing looking at the incredible
views that inspired Grieg’s music, and breathing the bracing cold air, I felt
overwhelmed with gratitude. To be here was a dream come true. I only wish I
could share my experiences with Kathleen, but I'm forever grateful that she
introduced me to this amazing music.
It's been more than a month since, and still, I think of
this walk often. Ten years post-transplant looms in one month. And then?
Another 1 year, 10 year or 50? I don't know. But this is now. This is life,
more abundantly.
And the music hasn’t left my life. Yesterday, I played Blessed
Assurance unexpectedly accompanied by a pastor with a rich tenor voice. A
reminder that even if my hands don’t work like I remember them to, the music in
my heart can never be dimmed.
To celebrate 10 years, I'm trying to raise $10,000 for an organization I'm involved with and believe in. Please consider contributing at this link, thank you!
