Blue Memory

All good things don’t necessarily have to end, they change like the seasons.

As I approach my 42nd birthday, I look toward our annual trip to Florida where I celebrate in the pool by day and the lanai by night with more cake than a person should be able to consume…ever. The Gulf of Mexico just out of  reach crashes on the sand and I remember the feeling of sand beneath my feet as my iPod shuffled Kelly Clarkson and Gavin DeGraw between my ears.

Why didn’t I just listen to the waves when they were right in front of me and I could run into the surf and let it take me away? The Gulf would always be there within reach. Nothing unspoken between the water, my body, and the sky.

A few months ago I was released from my formal physical therapy regimen. We stop every so often when I plateau. As I rolled out the door, I asked that russian roulette question: will I walk again?

“It’s possible, but is it plausible, we don’t know.”

We don’t know–the question that slithers through my mind each day until I shut it off and get to the business of living. Kelly Clarkson still plays as I work, but I don’t wear earbuds anymore. It’s too confining. 

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My memory spins a chamber back to the beginning when my neurologist diagnosed my Chronic Inflammatory Demyelinating Polyneuropathy (CIDP).

“What’s now? What happens?” I ask him.

He smiled at me and closed my hospital door, speaking the Stephen Hawking quote I always come back to: “where there’s life, there’s hope.” I call my mom and tell her I have a disease that I don't know much about but I’m getting fitted for a wheelchair. She comes to the hospital bringing the onion rings with the tangy sauce I ask for. 

This summer I’m leaving earbuds and phone in the room.

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 The memory chamber spins again to this past spring reviewing my newest symptoms from my chair with my neurologist.

 “So I don’t have MS but the symptoms are there now?”

“Yes.” “So I have the Aldi brand? Purple flavored pop if you will?” He laughs. 

“Yes.”

“Well I’ve always loved Aldi’s.”

Damn

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The chambers spins again to last week. A writing professor advised that some stories are simply too close to us to be told, or at least until we have some emotional distance to not ruminate alone in our rooms to relive trauma. And there are other stories that need to be told. Yearn to be told. He tells me to keep telling them. My mind spins one more chamber and a burst of blue majesty from about five years ago explodes before my eyes.  

Today was a good day to be on vacation--as good as any. Started with sleeping all night, waking only once for pain medication. Lying on the couch, sliding doors open, waves crashing on the sand and the breeze hitting me. I slept whimsically like it was just a year ago, pre-diagnosis.  

Having put on a bathing suit last night, I wheel to the table, eating cereal. My 13 year old nephew, Steven, is listening to his music. Mom, rushing around making sure we all have sunscreen and towels. I turn to see a flash of blue through the balcony doors.

We go to the pool and I do the delicate exiting of the chair and sliding down into the water, bouncing semi-upright with a flotation belt, looking at the Gulf of Mexico. I see no end, just more water, more blue. Silently making plans for small things I can learn and still do when we return to Chicago and the leaves begin to fall on crisp orange autumn days--alone--even for an hour in my chair by the pond staring at the clouds: a trip for ice cream, going to the movies, remembering myself like before. 

I think that's not too much to ask for. It seems realistic when all there is is blue sky and water where we are all weightless with promise. 

The memories were never loaded for me to ruminate on, just share, tender as I recall my days of Kelly and Gavin and waves I didn’t listen to enough. I don’t know what–but something good is unfolding ahead. I’m going to hit publish on this piece now with the touch of my mousepad, take hold of my cane and head through my front door. The sun is setting. I walk a bit because I can. It’s not always possible, but sometimes it’s plausible, and that bumpy, sandy beach is only two weeks and a short walk away; another memory that is yearning to become a story in my journey.

Jonathan sits on a deck chair in an orange tank top, beside his rollator overlooking the Gulf of Mexico