A gentle push, sand scraping the hull, and we are floating free. Free. A few strokes and we are coordinated, pulling smoothly away from the shore. Our friends are waiting, their red, yellow, orange and green kayaks like tropical flowers floating on the water. We begin our circumnavigation of the lake, staying together in a companionable flotilla.
The air is mountain fresh and the clouds are drifting apart. The ripples sparkle in the sunlight. We pause, staying quiet, as a family of common mergansers paddle by. The female always makes me smile because the rust-colored feathers on her head stick up; she looks like a very frazzled mother. We are drawn by the sound of water falling over rocks and slowly paddle into an inlet to investigate.
As we continue along the shore I twist around and ask Rob, “How're you doing?”
He has a lovely smile and gives me a nod. “This is great, honey. I feel good, really good,” he replies. I feel my worries dissipate and I begin to relax and enjoy the day.
We used to be intrepid adventurers. We would save up our vacation days at work and take fabulous trips. Sometimes we'd take leave without pay, never at risk of losing vacation days. We loved the outdoors and dabbled in lots of sports. Competent in many, masters of none.
Then one Friday Rob's feet were numb and by Monday he could hardly get out of bed. Doctor's appointments by the score. Finally, a diagnosis of an autoimmune disease. Cane, walker, manual chair, power chair, wheelchair van.
Our daughter said “But you're my dad. You can't be sick.” Well, there's sick that you get over in a week to 10 days, and there is sick for the rest of your life. Most of our friends continued on with their outdoor lives, slowly drifting away. We were sad for a long, long time as we adapted to our new reality, missing our active outdoor life, missing friends. But we have new friends now, people who walk with a halting gait or not at all, who use aids for “activities of daily living”, who deal with challenges every day, hour and minute of their lives. People who aren't defined by their illness.
My fingers trail in the cool water leaving little V shapes on the surface as we slowly drift by the reeds. The current from the little stream flowing into the lake moves us gently along. The sun is dipping behind the ridge. We will have to be back soon, but we are dawdling, extending this magical day for as long as possible.
“Hey, Judy, look up and to your right. There's an eagle soaring,” Rob says quietly. “Remember all the eagles in Glacier Bay?”
“Yes, I see it. And remember the Cry birds?” I ask. We both laugh at the well-worn joke. These imaginary birds sit on the icebergs and call “Cry, Cry, Christ I'm cold.” I pretend we are back in Alaska, a week in the wilderness with bears and whales and friends. But today's paddle is timed by a watch, not the sun and tides and available landings. Goldfinches flash in the trees as we paddle quickly back, not wanting to keep our friends from the MS Adventure Club waiting.
Four people from Outdoors for All are standing on the beach. As our bow plows into the sand, they pull our kayak out of the water. Two place a bench across the stern of the kayak and hold it steady. Two lift Rob onto the bench and help him slide across into his power chair.
“Cheated death once again!” he says with a joyful laugh.
Author: Laura Nicol
Comments