Heights

(For Laura)

On the whole, I would say I’m not all that afraid of death. On a scale of 1 (can’t wait to be dead!) to 10 (eating only kale to stave off the Grim Reaper), I’m a 5 (I avoid both dodgy neighbourhoods and kale shakes). As someone who tends to overthink things, I’ve always been grateful that I’ve never thought too much about kicking the bucket. I tend to have more pedestrian insecurities about my career, my relationships, my sense of self. Whereas death is secure. Its approach is steady, but so silent as to be inaudible.

Today, however, I heard its whisper, for a second, and I was frightened. My husband Erwin and I are spending the week in Süd Tirol, on a mountainous perch above Bolzano. After breakfast, we set out for a hike despite the dubious weather forecast. We began in patchy sunlight, which quickly gave way to thick fog and drumming rain. Neither of us minded. We savoured the day’s darkening mood, the melancholy tones of dark, wet pine and slick black stone.

Two hours into the hike, from the quiet dripping of the forested path, we stepped out onto what would have been, in good weather, a stunning panoramic outlook. Today it was pure white, a blank abyss. The wind howled, angry at us, it seemed, for trespassing. And suddenly, I was terrified.

I never know when my fear of heights will surface. Sometimes it lies there quietly in my stomach, allowing me to lightly step across the summit and take in the view. At other times it pins me to whatever large rock I believe will best protect me. Today, I felt the fear rise through my chest and shudder through my limbs. I called out to Erwin, my voice small and fretful, and he reached for my hand as we walked along the ridge, all that billowing white to our right, all of that deadly emptiness.

It is more my body’s disinclination to depart than my mind’s. The terror is not of dying, or even falling, it is a certain humming certainty within that I am in peril. The way hair rises up on a dog’s back. Death is closer than usual, and it makes me nauseous. The body wants so badly to stay alive.

For about six months after my sister’s death, 17 years ago, I lost my fear of heights. I could prance up to the edge of cliffs unafraid, others calling me back. I felt invincible. Then, one day, the fear returned. I was never sure, during that brief period, whether it was because I was so close to death that I did not mind leaning into it, testing its frigid waters. Or whether it was because my sister Blair, who had never shared my fear of heights, briefly lent me her bravado after she died, then casually took it back, the way she used to let me borrow her goggles at the swimming pool, then demand their return. After that, I stayed behind the railing on overlooks while she, I imagined, skimmed the abyss.