A broken leg in Montana’s wilderness…I’ve never been good at dealing with tragedy… 

My vacation to the ski slopes of Montana was no vacation at all; it was an escape. My husband of four years had recently--and rather quickly--died of cancer.

After the funeral, I ran. I grew tired of people commenting on my courage, when I knew in my heart I was scared to be alone, afraid of the pain.

Skiing had been Chris and my favorite activity when we could afford a trip out West. Colorado one year, Montana the next. It seemed only natural to return to Montana’s Big Sky country, where we had laughed together the year before.

Chris was gone, but I couldn’t let go of him. Now with a broken leg on a back trail of the ski mountain, I welcomed death. Refusing to move or help myself in the two remaining hours of 
daylight, I had given up. Losing Chris hurt more than any broken bone. I could cry no more. I couldn’t understand why he had been taken from me. Why death?

Wanting to be at his side every moment, I had refused counseling during those final days of his illness. I had also shunned attention from loved ones after his death. I was a bundle of doubt, denial, and irrational thoughts. 

Maybe he wasn’t dead. Maybe I should have refused his ring four years ago. Maybe I was a fool for believing that true love lasted forever.

But, that can’t be, I chided myself, as I lay there in the snow. If Chris were with me still, he would have piggybacked me to the ski cabin at the base of the mountain. He wouldn’t let me give up.

Then why did Chris give up on himself? I loved him for being a part of me--my soul mate--but I hated him for leaving me here alone.

Why, God, did he have to die?

Chris. He would poke me in the ribs until I smiled and was forced to quit pouting. He would cuddle and snuggle like a big puppy until I paid him attention. It was his way of helping me to lift my chin and reclaim life, with a set jaw and determined spirit. But that seemed so long ago. 

The pain of loss was too great. I could feel the snow slowly draining me of the life I refused to live. 

So much toward the end of his life was focused on glial cells and oligodendrocytes. As a registered nurse myself, I had flooded his hospital room with medical reports and reasons for hope, but had I truly shown him the love he needed? The same love he had always shown me?

Chris once said that real love was deeper than any feeling; it was an action. He never let me take the blame if love ever lacked in our relationship. No, Chris would insist that I had done everything right, from beginning to end. Yet, I still lay in the snow prepared to die. Broken leg or not, I could not force myself to move.

As I drifted in and out of consciousness, my body heat slowly dropped. The sky gradually grew dark and the nearby trees became shadows instead of white ghosts dwarfed by powder.

Someday, I pondered, during the late spring, they would find my body. They would bury me beside Chris. We had chosen a double plot together.

Apprehension passed through me. I tried not to acknowledge the feeling. I had already chosen to die, so it was not a conscious thought to survive. But, it was something…

I looked around. Was this to be my place of death? If Chris had taught me anything, it was to be independent and not to pity myself.

Sitting up, I winced as my leg throbbed at the first movement in two hours. I didn’t see any blood; it seemed that the break was a closed fracture. Painfully, I rolled to my right side against a tree, the same tree that had “jumped” in front of me earlier, tempting me with thoughts of perishing. I broke off a low branch and tore off its twigs. 

Using my teeth, I ripped my scarf then tied the branch to my tibia and femur in a rough splint. Chris would be proud, but I was far from rescued. 

Darkness closed in around me. My body heat had begun to drop to hypothermic levels, even in my ski suit. I could move no more. A new wave of despair set in.

This was it, I realized. I would die after all, even after I showed a little effort to rise above the winter of my life. Here. Alone.

I settled back into the snow. Tears ran down my cheeks, turning into icicles. Icy cheeks. 

Chris had kissed these cheeks not long ago, before they were cold and scraped from…

Was that an engine? A snowmobile’s single headlamp tracked along a slope a hundred yards away. Even if they were looking for me, it was too dark to see my off-trail ski tracks heading into the trees. And even if I yelled, my voice would never be heard over the whine of the engine.

That feeling passed through me again and I sat up. I pulled the glove off my right hand, shoved two fingers into my mouth, curled my tongue just right, and I let loose a shrill whistle. As the snowmobile’s lamp was almost out of sight, whoever it was, stopped. I whistled again. The light turned toward me, paused, then began tracking in my direction.

Maybe my heart could heal in time. Maybe I could find a way to move on. Maybe the memory of Chris and our love would be my strength. Maybe our time together was as complete and rich as it could have been. And maybe he had fulfilled one other purpose in my life. After all, Chris had taught me how to whistle…