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by Marisha McDowell (Author)
It was at about 13,000 feet above sea level that all the grief that had become a part of me, my inner thoughts and initiated in every step that I took turned to liquid. It poured uncontrollably out of my eyes, my heart and every piece of me. The first time my husband summitted Mt. Everest, he came home strong and remarked how easy it felt for him. The second time he barely came home. My tough, steadfast and accomplished husband came home a shell of a man, not realizing how seeing the balance of the fragility of your own life can affect you. The event itself was traumatic at best, yet he came home alive, albeit suffering. About sixteen months later, he was presented with the opportunity to go back. Immediately after this ask, any possible additional guard that I could put up emotionally and verbally was there. This wasn't supposed to happen. He gave up his ambitions and career, because his dream had betrayed him. Yet, about four months after that I found myself travelling to Nepal, flying to the most dangerous airport in the world, trekking hand in hand with my dear to the Base Camp of the mountain that nearly killed him.
