Wrestling, the Ultimate Spectator Sport

It’s Saturday night and I’m huddled on an unlit side of the Royal Canadian Legion in southeast Calgary.  Groups of people murmur in the darkness, our only illumination coming from a few dim streetlights hidden behind two tall, creaky pine trees.

I’m feeling a little uncomfortable in this situation, but this time, I’ve taken my son, sister, nephew and my mom with me.  We have come to watch my nephew wrestle in a Real Canadian Wrestling event.  His stage name is Evan Adams.  But I’ve known him for the past 24 years as Adam.   

 He has chosen a somewhat off beat passion and I want to see him perform…or compete.  I think it’s a combination of the two.  I am well aware of this type of wrestling, because as a kid, I grew up watching Hulk Hogan, Randy Macho Man Savage and Andre the Giant.  I’m pretty sure I know what to expect, and I’m curious to find out if things have changed since the WWF days.

I shift my feet on the icy sidewalk and hunker down into my jacket.  We wait for almost half an hour outside until the line starts moving. 

I’m surprised at how many people have come to see this.  We enter the building, and it’s packed with standing room only.  What I thought would be more like a gym, is actually a ballroom-style venue.  But instead of a dance floor, a wrestling ring has been set up in the middle.  There are chairs, but not enough for the couple hundred spectators.  We squeeze down an isle and find seats for my mom and sister.  My son and I find a fold-up table that seems to have been randomly stuffed in a back corner and we gingerly make it our perch.  Then we wait.  I really struggle with patience, and this situation is definitely testing it.  I look around and realize though, that the opportunity to do some prime people watching has presented itself.  This place is a gold mine. 

People in all shapes, sizes and demographics are here. A tired looking older woman wearing black skateboard shoes, tight black jeans and a T-shirt that is too small sits at the front.  I notice her because her shoulder-length hair is stripped in bright shades of pink, blue and green.  Behind her, a rather large pair of senior citizens sit sipping Big Gulps and beside me, a man with a Bill Cosby sweater, faded jeans and running shoes sips on a rum and coke.  Across the room, a group of young boys sit in wiggly anticipation; all of them are wearing wrestling masks of various designs.  A couple people have even brought their newborn babies. 

A half hour later, the show begins.  A woman, who I deduce is the MC, strolls into the ring to announce the first competitors.  In her black and white stripped pants, stiletto heals and black leather jacket, she reminds me of a female Beetlejuice.  

A middle-aged man in a red and blue Speedo emerges from a back room and strolls around the ring.  I think he is the “bad guy” in this match, because suddenly from all around the room, people are screaming and calling him names.  Soon after, his opponent enters and the crowd’s volume increases.  It feels like I’m in the middle of an authorized street fight.  The match begins as the two men take turns throwing, slapping and jumping on each other.  This lasts for 20 minutes until a winner is declared. 

I’ve been to a lot of competitive sporting events in my life, but this has got to be by far one of the most unique if not entertaining experiences I’ve had.  Watching this kind of wrestling on television is nothing like being here in person.  Unlike most sports, in wrestling, yelling insults and giving the finger to the competitors appears to be encouraged.  Likewise, the wrestlers have no problem throwing out aspersions of their own. 

During the next several matches, endearing phrases such as “pecker head” are uttered with great frequency.  At one point, someone from behind me yells out something to do with having bigger man parts than the wrestler.  The wrestler seems to have no problem with returning these witty insults with sharp comebacks like:  “Suck my sweaty balls you big, fat bastard!”

A group of people sitting beside me starts chanting, “shave your back!” to one fellow who has a rather thick layer of hair all over his body.  Another, more rotund wrestler comes out wearing a singlet, which basically looks like a one-piece bathing suit for men.  Unfortunately for him, it appears to be too small—a detail that doesn’t escape the crowd’s notice.  A chant of “fix your wedgie!” starts up and doesn’t diminish until the match is over. 

Despite the yelling and general chaos, the competitors put on a fairly impressive athletic display.  They jump from the top of the ropes, and land with precision on each other with practiced skill.  It is a red neck Cirque de Soleil.

My nephew’s fight is an all-out war, with three or four teams of two battling it out for the tag team title.  To my surprise, Adam is one of the bad guys.  I like it.  He breaks all kinds of “rules” during the match, sneaking into the ring when he shouldn’t to land a hard punch to an unsuspecting competitor’s back, while the referee’s back is turned.  I try to catch his eye during the fight, but he is completely immersed in character and I think, would probably shout something nasty at me if I yelled at him.  Eventually, they end up winning the fight and claiming the title.  I’m impressed by his passion and skill.  It’s hard enough being an athlete and competing at a high level.  In this kind of wrestling, to be “in character” is one more thing to think about while balanced precariously on top of the ropes preparing to thunder to the mat on top of someone else without really hurting them.

I’m an athlete, but the introvert in me would rather pull my nails out than be up in the middle of that ring. 

Although, I have to admit there is a certain allure to being allowed to punch someone in the neck and not get arrested for it.  Maybe I should start practicing.

This is 40: Rocking It Out or Rocking Chair?

“Whoa, I think it’s the lead singer from Whitesnake!” I say to my sister.  We watch as a skinny guy with long flowing blond hair hops up onto the stage and prepares for his band’s performance.  He is wearing skin-tight jeans, a black t-shirt and a white leather jacket. His band mates have followed suit but have opted for black leather jackets.  I’m not sure, but I also suspect the lead guitarist is Slash from Guns N Roses fame.  He has the long, black curly hair; but the top hat is missing.

I am at a local pub waiting to see my nephew perform with his new band.  But first, we get to hear two other bands playing an assortment of heavy metal and not so heavy rock.

The David Coverdale look-a-like starts into their first song, and I can’t help but wonder if they are any good.  Because I’m not sure what constitutes good rock and roll these days.  I ask my nephew and he gives me a funny look and a sarcastic reply.  I’m still not sure what to think, so I watch him watching the band.  He seems to enjoy them, so I sit back and try to do the same.  But man do I feel old tonight.  The music is difficult to appreciate and is so loud I am on sensory overload.  I find myself thinking of my cozy bed and a good book.  What has become of me?  I’m not that old.  Or is this what 40 looks like?  Twenty years ago going out at 10 p.m. would have been too early.  But now, I’m wishing for my over-sized fleece pajama pants and the tattered t-shirt that sometimes doubles as my paint shirt.

I’m tired but no one could fall asleep in this place.  It’s packed with an assortment of people who are almost more entertaining to watch than the band.  I notice as a young guy with layered, poker-straight red hair stands at the bar with a beer in one hand.  Actually, I would call his hair “feathered”.  Anybody who grew up in the 1970’s and 80’s knows what that looks like.  It was cool.  Thirty years ago.

My sister nudges me and tells me to keep watching.  Sure enough, every few minutes, he bows his head like he has found something really interesting on the floor to look at and then, without missing a beat, flips his long locks out of his eyes in a sweeping, super-model fashion.  I deduce that his other hand, hanging limply at his side, is too heavy to lift and move the hair out of his eyes. 

The ear piercings and tattoos are on full parade tonight, and I find myself staring at a tattoo of a snake entwined on a flower running up a woman’s beefy arm.  It disappears under her shirtsleeve, and I can’t help but wonder what the rest looks like.  Not that I want to find out.  She looks like she could hang a licking on me.

There is also enough old Levi denim, white socks and tennis shoes to fill a thrift store.  It looks like the 1990’s all over again.  And ironically, most of the people in here are much younger than I am.  Except for the old man and his wife, who sit at the bar and look as out of place as a football player in a tutu.

Eventually, my nephew’s band begins their set up and they start to play.  I’m impressed with my nephew’s creativity and guitar prowess.  His fingers fly over the strings.  In his hands, the instrument looks like it is an extension of him.  I’m proud of him.  It takes a lot of hard work and guts to get up on a stage and play in front of strangers. 

They finish their set and we wait around to give our compliments before leaving.  I look at my watch and realize it’s almost 1:30 IN THE MORNING.  I’m usually a few hours into my REM at this point.  How did I ever do this, almost every weekend, back in the day?  It’s been twenty years, and two kids later, but it’s still not hard to remember how.  And why.  I had nothing to lose, and a heck of a lot more time and energy on my hands.  And of course, it was a lot of fun.

Then it hits me:  I’m thinking like a senior citizen.  I’m not 80.  I can still enjoy a fun night out, just maybe not in this particular way.   As we drive home through the frozen morning, I wonder if my husband and I could learn to salsa.  The thought soon passes from my mind as exhaustion sets in and earlier thoughts of a warm bed take over.  There will be plenty of time for dancing.  After I get some sleep.

Experiencing the (almost) unexpected: Twenty four hours of high water in High River

I'm getting ready for work when I get an anxious call from my sister.  She wants to know if it’s okay to come to High River because she heard that the water levels in the Highwood River are rising.  I sigh and shake my head at her needless worrying.  "You have nothing to worry about," I reply.  "The water gets high every year.”

I don't give it another thought.  Mostly because this happens every June and also because the last time it flooded eight years ago, the water didn't come close to our home.  And that was a bad one.  Back then; relentless sandbagging saved a lot of the affected homes.  

I glance out my window into the green space.  It’s about three acres of emerald colored grass with a small playground at one end.  Young trees have started to grow making it feel like a tiny oasis in our bustling little town.  Although it rained hard all night, I don’t see any water there.

At work, people have begun showing pictures of the Sheep River sent to them by friends living in Black Diamond.  They are incredible. The river has morphed into a raging wall of muddy water.  I decide to check my phone and open up a text Phil sends.  It's a picture of the green space filling with water.  The water had already pooled in the east corner and was rapidly snaking its way west, towards our home.  I'm surprised but still not very worried.  Until I hear that one of our two bridges in town has been closed.  I get the okay to leave work and drive home to check on our house. I pass the river on my way and I'm shocked at how high it has come up in the two hours since I last saw it.  It is angry.  Its as if it has decided to take revenge on everything around it.  Huge pieces of wood, and other large chunks of debris are being hurtled down the muddy water like tiny, insignificant twigs.  Trees, still intact from root to tip, have fallen victim to the strength of the water.

I'm home for only a few minutes when there is a knock on my door.  It's a policeman who informs us that there is a mandatory evacuation and we must leave. Emma and I go downstairs and move everything up off the basement floor. Despite seeing the river and the water behind our home, I'm not really worried about my stuff getting wet. The water would have to do something unprecedented to do that, I think. 

We wait for Phil to come back with some sandbags, but he doesn't come, and my cell phone isn’t working. When the power goes out, my anxiety rises. We decide to hop in the car and take a look at our community.  My mouth hangs open when I see that the little creek that hugs the outside of our community has risen at least four feet and has overtaken the walking path that runs beside it and has begun to creep up into backyards. 

At the other end of our neighborhood, a pond connects to the creek that runs under the road through a concrete culvert. This culvert was built after the 2005 flood to protect our homes.  But I can't see it anymore.  I can't see the road either because the pond and the creek have blended into one raging body of water.  I’m stunned at the little time it has taken for the water to find its way to the road.  It's the only way out of our area by vehicle.  I swallow hard and my hands start to sweat.  On the east side of the road, the water drops a couple of feet, and has formed into a mini waterfall. I turn the car around and head back to the house, not sure what to do. My neighbors seem to be thinking the same thing.  Some are walking down the streets, checking out the water and where it has come to.  Other have started to sandbag.

I have to do something, and waiting doesn’t feel like an option anymore.  So, gripping the steering wheel tight, I drive up to the water.  My heart is pounding in my ears as I nudge my car through the water.  If I go to fast, the water will fill my engine and it will stall.  If I go to slow, I'm afraid it might push the car into the waterfall.  Emma touches my arm and murmurs encouraging words.  We can feel the water rocking the car as we slowly make our way across. I look straight ahead and pray that this was the right decision. Seconds pass as the water slowly recedes and we find higher ground. I lift my shaking hands from the steering wheel and stare blankly out the windshield.

What just happened?  What is happening?  I take a moment to look around.  It's chaos.  The streets are jammed with vehicles.  Some people are pulled over and stare at the water.  Others have gotten out to help direct traffic.  Fire trucks and police cars are trying to squeeze through the clogged streets.  Everyone is trying to leave. I realize it’s not just my community that was evacuated.  It looks like the entire northwest side of town has the same order.

I drive to my friend’s house, where we had agreed to meet.  Phil had left to get sandbags but didn't return and I hope he is there.  He is.  

Jared comes running out of the house and throws his arms around me.  I hug him tight.  My sluggish brain is still trying to understand what is happening.  I'm supposed to be at work right now.  Should I go back?  Do people need help? I decide to wait it out, but sitting around does nothing for my nervous energy so we get in the car to take a look around.  I need to know what is going on, I need to get a sense of what is happening to my little town.  We drive a few blocks before we are stopped by a blockade.  Which isn’t actually necessary, because the street has disappeared and the river has overtaken it.  Boats are now going up and down the streets in an effort to reach people who are stranded inside their homes.  Helicopters are running constantly trying to find those who have had to find safety on their roofs.  The only vehicles are huge loaders that push through the water. But instead of dirt, the buckets carry people. 

“It’s like a scene from one of those disaster movies,” my friend remarks.  She’s right.  All we can hear over the roar of the water are helicopters, machines and sirens.  Dozens of other people stand with us dumbfounded at the complete and total havoc Mother Nature is reeking over our little town.  The river has not simply spilled over its banks.  It has spread in almost every direction and is running through homes like water through a sieve.  It looks like an inland tsunami.

I stand there feeling completely and utterly helpless.  The need to connect with other residents keeps me there for a long time, exchanging stories and sharing information.   

Eventually, we go back to my friend’s house and eat supper.  The food tastes like cardboard in my mouth, and I eat mechanically.  My friends and I talk and joke, but there is an underlying feeling of anxiety among all of us.  I wonder if this is what shock feels like.

After supper, we decide to check out our home.  I am hesitant to go back through the water, but the rain has stopped and the water has receded a bit and we go through.

It’s too quiet here, I think.  There isn’t even any wind.  It feels like we are inside a glass dome and every last breath of fresh air has been sucked out.  Then I understand why.  While the front of our street looks relatively normal, behind our home, the transformation is shocking.  The green space is gone.  In it’s place, there is a muddy, brown lake.  The water has filled our little oasis with dirty bath water.  About four to six feet of water is now sitting in the space, and has found its way into our homes.  A rock begins to form in my stomach as I go into my home.  I can smell dankness from the front door.  And I’m not prepared for what I find. Our main floor is untouched, and remains as we left it.  But the basement has been transformed.  I walk down only a few steps before I see the water.  A large storage unit, along with a desk and toys, are floating. Another cupboard lies on an angle against the wall.  I can’t see any further without going right into the water. It’s so quiet in here I think again, over the haze of my shock.  The water has destroyed a lifetime of memories and possessions we worked hard for and now it all sits there, marinating in sewage and other filth.  It’s like watching someone you love being assaulted but not being able to stop it.  There is nothing I can do. 

Regret pours over me as I think about the time I had to move everything upstairs and out of harms way.  How foolish and arrogant I was to assume my basement would be untouched.  I walk out onto the street and blink hard in the bright sunlight.  I try and remind myself that it’s just stuff, things that can be replaced and that most importantly, my family is safe.  But the feeling that the worst kind of invasion of our privacy has just occurred presses down on me like weight.  The water is an intruder that continues to assault, even after it’s been discovered.

That night, sleep comes fitfully as I toss and turn and run the events of the day over and over in my head. 

The next morning, I awake feeling like I’m at the beginning of a long journey and this is day one.  At least we are all in this together I tell myself, as I walk down the road in front of my home.  Others have come back to, and we stand on the street and talk.  Their presence is like a balm and I feel comfort in coming together. I am encouraged and my faith like a match just struck springs to life.  I am not alone.

The most difficult decision

I awake to the sounds of birds singing on a warm and sunny spring day.  I have the day off, so I snuggle deeper into the blankets and turn to look out my bedroom window.  

I'm relishing the lie-in when reality strikes like an unexpected balloon pop.  We are taking our dog Nelson into the vet today.  And it will be his last visit.  

I squeeze my eyes tight but the tears find their way out anyway. Although I have had dogs my entire life, I have never been through this particular experience before.  My husband offers to take him in alone, but I feel an obligation to be there with Nelson during his final moments.

Nelson was not a young dog when he came to live with us.  No one is certain of exactly how old he is, but we gage it to be somewhere around 16, which makes him a very elderly, senior citizen.  Most people can’t help but smile when they see him.  He is a mixed breed, half boarder collie and black lab.  His genetics have endowed him with long black hair a shaggy tail and a rather rotund body, which make his legs appear small and stumpy.

His arrival in our home was unexpected. A good friend was moving back to England and asked if we could keep him and then send him over after the necessary arrangements were made.  Unfortunately for my friend, Nelson grew on us and in the end we agreed it would be easier for him to stay with us as he was already moving into his senior years.

Thinking that he would probably only live for another two or three years, we thought his time with us would be short.  He proved us wrong and almost six years later, he is still with us. 

Nelson became famous in our neighborhood for being the dog that could eat anything and wake up the next morning alive and well. 

One day, he disappeared and came back hours later with bright eyes and what could pass as a huge dog-like smile.  But it didn’t take long before the barfing began.  We rushed him to the vet where he was put through a battery of tests, which revealed nothing. The next day, we received a worried phone call from the vet saying we should come quick as it looked like the end was near.  My daughter and I rushed over and found him lying listlessly in his kennel.  When he saw us however, he jumped up, wagged his tail and would not stop trying to lick us.  To our relief, he was just depressed, and didn’t understand why we had abandoned him.  His official diagnosis was garbage guts.  After some discussion and investigation, we could only assume that he had found the grease bin over at the golf course restaurant and indulged himself to his hearts desire.

Nelson loved food.  Anything passed the edible test in Nelson’s mind.  On another occasion, we went for a walk out in the woods near our home.  We had gotten used to Nelson’s way of walking, which tended to be very slow and with complete disregard to our repeated calls.  We would often lose track of him but never really worried about it because Nelson would usually trail along behind us pausing here and there to sniff and then pee.  This time however, he had stopped completely.  We were up ahead quite a ways, so we stopped to locate him.  He was hunched over something, and it looked like he was jerking his head forwards and backwards, like a chicken. With dawning dread, I realized he was trying to swallow something large and bulky.  Remembering the garbage guts fiasco, I turned and ran screaming his name, across the field. (His grease bin binge had cost us over $800 in vet bills).  When I got to him, I saw that he had a chunk of fur protruding from his mouth and he was desperately trying to swallow it.  “It” being something like a dead rabbit or some other poor fury creature.  I hesitated at first, because like most normal people, I didn’t want to play tug of war with my dog over an animal carcass.  But he wouldn’t stop.  Eyes wide, looking at me, he continued his attempt at swallowing it whole, like a big black furry boa constrictor.  Knowing that I had to do it, I took hold of the fur and pulled it out. If a dog could look disappointed, I think Nelson gave that impression that day. 

I’m assuming his undiscriminating diet was one of the reasons behind his rather distinct aroma.  Nelson stunk.  This stench followed him around like smoke from a burning stick.  We tried everything we could to curb the smell:  Home baths, trips to the river.  Even professional grooming only kept the smell away for a week or so.  This and his penchant for eating everything and anything garnered him many nicknames including Smelly Nelly, Big Belly Nelly, and Smelson to name a few. 

There were other quirky sides to him as well.  Like the way he would back out of a room instead of turning around.  Or, his on-again, off-again fear of our tile floors.  He would emerge from the garage and stand paralyzed with fear on the area rug, looking out at the tile like it was a sea of ice, ready to consume him.  These actions were all very bizarre to us but for reasons known only to him, they made sense.

He never quite seemed to appreciate all we did for him, and in fact, once ran off to the neighbors at 3 a.m.  They were awakened to scratches and desperate barks from the front door.  When they opened it, Nelson walked right in and settled in for the night.

Despite all of his idiosyncrasies, or maybe because of them, I loved him.  He was my friend.  He was the crazy grandpa who came to live with us. 

Last year, he began to slow down, and the fur around his mouth and ears began to turn white.  He developed a harsh, raspy breath and we took to calling him Darth Vader.  His back legs became stiff and it became harder and harder for him to get up and walk.  We also suspected that he was having seizures and experiencing some dog-like dementia, where he would often just stop and stare off into space. 

My husband tried to start conversations about ending his pain, but I didn’t want to listen.  I didn’t want to think that he was nearing the end of his life.  Despite all my sarcastic jokes about Nelson being immortal and out-living us all, I wanted him to stay with us.

A trip to the vet confirmed that his health was failing, and that he had developed numerous teeth infections and probably had many other issues going on.  He was suffering.

It takes me two weeks, but I finally agree to set the date.

The appointment isn’t until later in the afternoon so I spend the day with a heavy heart and a lump in my throat.  I try to stay busy but it stays with me all day.

Finally its time and we load him into the truck and take him in.  He comes willingly, and I feel like the worst person in the world.  A Judas.  I am the ultimate betrayer.  We bring him into the room and the veterinarian speaks kindly to us about the process: They will give him a sedative that will relax him. After he settles they will administer the cocktail of drugs that will slowly shut down his organs and he will drift off peacefully.  I cannot control myself and the tears come unabashed.  I stroke his fur and whisper into his ear as he takes his final breaths.

The world is a blur as we spend a few more minutes alone with him.  I rush out of the room and crawl into the truck like a zombie.  Regret pours over me and I wish. I wish with all my heart that Nelson could have spoken to me.  I wish he could have said that it was all right, that he was ready to go.  But I will never know, and that will stay with me forever.

At home, the silence of his absence is deafening. I ask myself why I put myself through this.  Why I always find a reason to have a pet when I know I will out live it.  My conclusion is rather selfish.  The happiness a pet brings into our lives is worth the pain we feel when they are gone.  Thanks Nelson.  You were an exceptional dog.

Say Goodbye to the Sidecar

The reality of what I am about to do doesn’t really truly sink in until the nurse leads me into the operating room. Here, an anesthesiologist asks me a few cursory questions before directing me to the operating table.

My entire body is shaking, until he gently slides the needle into my wrist and the sedative begins to take effect.

I am here for a bunionectomy, hammertoe correction and the repair of my dislocated second toe.  I am not under a general anesthetic so I am awake as two surgeons go to work on my beleaguered right foot.

I am saying goodbye to my “sidecar” as one of my friends so lovingly puts it.  She’s right though.  It’s a bigger bunion than most I have seen.  A lot of people don’t believe me until I strip my sock off and reveal the abnormal bone growth that protrudes from just under my big toe.  My hammertoe doesn’t help in the aesthetics department either.  A corn sits on the top of it like an ugly, fleshy crown.  Their eyes grow wide and their expressions often change from surprise to barely hidden disgust.

My foot probably belongs in a sideshow carnival.

So, a week ago, when the foot doc said he had a cancelation, I took it.  Now, lying on a sterile operating table I wonder what I was thinking. 

The anesthetic works similar to getting a filling at the dentist.  I can hear and “feel” tugging on my foot, but nothing else. 

It’s quiet for some time.  Until they go to work on my bunion.  Suddenly, I hear the most gruesome sound.  Through my drug-saturated mind, I think I hear the neighbor’s power tools.  Hmm.  He must be building that shed, I think.  Then I realize it’s not the neighbor, it’s my doctor, and he does have some kind of power tool, but one made for sawing off bone.  My foot is moving, and the high-pitched whine of the tool fills the room.  I close my eyes and try to think of something else, but it doesn’t work.  The awful sound fills my head like a gigantic bumblebee.

I’m desperate for some reassurance.  So I try and turn my head to make eye contact with the nurse or the anesthesiologist (who looks like, out of my peripheral vision, is reading a magazine and drinking a coffee).  To my relief, and after what feels like hours, the room goes quiet again.  What are they doing to my foot now? I think.  That’s when I feel the most dreadful pain above my calf muscle.  I communicate this to the nurse, who tells me it’s the tourniquet they tie there to reduce blood flow to the foot.  It’s excruciating.  She says the surgery went longer than expected, (almost 45 minutes longer), and the pain will disappear soon. Eventually, it does subside.

When they are done, the doctor asks me to look at his handy work.  I lift my head off the table and peer, bleary-eyed, down at my foot.  It looks like some sort of Frankenstein creation.  Three lines of stitching run length-wise from my toes down to the middle of my foot.  I lean my head back down and try and absorb this while they wrap it up. 

I won’t see my foot again for six to eight weeks.  Nor will I be able to put any weight on it. 

In recovery, the nurse brings out a large, black walking boot and sets my foot inside it. I smirk inwardly thinking of Anakin Skywalker and his Darth Vader transformation operation. 

She is giving me instructions, but I barely remember who I am, let alone what I should and should not be doing with my foot. 

The doctor comes in and shows me a picture of the inside of my foot and is telling me something about the surgery.  I try to focus on the image, but it keeps looking like raw roast beef. 

Later, I am transported to my husband’s truck and loaded into the back like a sack of potatoes.  There I lay for an hour while he tries to avoid potholes and sudden stops and starts.

Finally, we arrive home and he helps me up the stairs and into bed.  I’m still a little stunned by the events of the day, and stare blankly at the TV.  I can only hope that this was a good decision and that regret will not surface.  So I remind myself that long-term, I will reap the benefits of taking care of myself in my (mostly) younger years.  I think of my plan to celebrate my 40^th birthday standing on top of a mountain, and suddenly I feel that all the pain I know I’m going to have in the next few days and weeks is going to be worth it. The benefits will outweigh the short-term pain and mobility issues.

My family is flitting in and out of the room, asking if I need this or if they can do that. It is a foreign feeling to be doted on and I am so thankful to have them in my life. I settle my head back onto the pillow and close my eyes.  Let the healing begin. 

Back to the Future

It’s still pitch black as my son and I jump into the car and head out.  Not many things would get me moving this early on a wintery Saturday morning, but skiing most definitely will. 

I am really excited about our plans, but a little nervous as well. It’s not that it’s my first time, it’s actually because I’m worried I’ve forgotten how to do it.  My memory is hazy, but I think the last time I put on a pair of skis was 15 years ago.

Back then I was fearless and skied with reckless abandon; I didn’t wear a helmet and my skis tended to point straight down most of the time.  My friends and I would head for the trees and find the biggest jumps from which to launch our selves.

Now however, I will be happy to get down the bunny hill without plowing into a tree or running over a small child.  I envision the little ones eyes growing wide as she senses a large shadow rapidly approaching from behind, her fate sealed by being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We arrive, purchase our lift tickets and get rentals.  My son has decided to snowboard.  It’s something I considered briefly, but instead, I wisely decided to stick with what I know.  One knee surgery and multiple torn ankle ligaments are enough incentive for me to stay with skis.  The downside to skiing though is the boots.  Harder than granite and just as thick, they feel like I have jammed my feet into cement blocks.  It’s uncomfortable but a means-to-an-end.  Luckily, I am not the only one walking around looking like a Transformer covered in Gore-Tek and polyester.

We get our gear on and slide over to the safest place on the mountain, the bunny hill.   I take a moment to look around. There is something energizing about being in the mountains. Perhaps a combination of fresh air and anticipation, but I’m enjoying it.  We make our way to the chairlift and prepare for our turn.  This is all about timing and multi-tasking as I recall.   We scooch up to the red line and I switch poles to one hand.  Then, I glance down and check that my skis are not crossed.  After that, I need to turn, look back, and sit.  This all has to happen with in about ten seconds so the pressure is on.  A momentary panic attack surges through me as I look at the seat sweeping menacingly fast towards us.  I crouch and manage to teeter backwards and land ungracefully on the seat.

At the top, I prepare for my first trip down the mountain.  I take my first few tentative strides and it all comes back to me in seconds.  It’s like getting back on a bike after a long hiatus. I sail confidently down the slope without serious injury to others or myself.  

With some regret, I wonder how I could have neglected this wonderful wintertime activity for so many years.  Everything I enjoyed about it back then hasn’t changed.  But lamenting past decisions isn’t what I want to spend my time doing today. Looking at my son, I am happy I finally made the decision to do this.  His excitement and enthusiasm make the day worthwhile.

Soon, we take on the bigger runs and our confidence is boosted as we pick up speed and navigate the steeper slopes.

We go at it all day, only stopping briefly to get something to eat.  Finally, we squeeze in one last run before the mountain shuts down.

Exhausted but satisfied, I pull off the ski boots and sigh as I wiggle my toes and feeling comes back into my feet. I look up and meet my son’s eyes.  I can tell by the funny, lopsided grin that he is hooked.  And I realize my first time back on the slopes wouldn’t have been as much fun without him. 

On the trip home, he is already talking about the next time we go out.  I smile with the hope that someday, he will get the opportunity to share this with his kids.  It’s an awesome feeling.

  

Water Worries

I hold my breath as I walk across the slippery deck towards the pool.  As I remove my flip-flops and place the sterile hotel towel over a white plastic chair, I continue the pep talk I started with myself in the hotel room.  I’m doing this for the kids, I tell myself as I hover over the water and look into its murky depths.

My family and I are spending a rare weekend away in the mountains to try and power down and let off some steam.  But my idea of relaxation is definitely not a dip in a pool that quite possibly could contain bodily fluids. Or even worse, a wayward piece of skin set adrift from a waterlogged scab.

I check one last time for flotsam and jetsam. Seeing none, I ease myself in.  My kids are at the other end thinking up the fastest way to go down the large waterslide that is the main draw for so many youngsters.  When they see me, I am regaled with tips and stories of their various trips.  I look up and survey the waterslide they are so excited about.  It’s a typical slide, which curves nonstop from beginning to end like a giant piece of corkscrew pasta.

I settle in and begin to enjoy myself.  I am content to watch, but my kids haven’t forgotten my promise to go swimming with them.  My idea of “swimming” is to float around lazily like a big manatee.  But they have other plans in mind.

I don’t know where I went wrong, but somewhere between being a kid and having kids, swimming in public pools lost its appeal.  But my promise to explore life outside of my area of comfort is forefront in my mind.  Especially when the opportunity to do so is staring me right in the face.

So, when they ask me to climb the stairs and take a ride down the giant pasta, I reluctantly agree.

I tip toe up the curving stairs and try to ignore an abandoned band aide and a long piece of brown hair stuck to one of the steps.  At the top, the kids inform me that for maximum speed, I must lay flat on my back.  I would rather sit up and take an easy journey down, but I want to impress them.  So I step into the cold water and lie down.  Gently, I push myself into the slide and in a split second; I am shooting downward like a human torpedo.  There are no strait a-ways, and with every turn, I pick up speed.  My stomach begins to churn as I belatedly remember why I don’t go on rides at amusement parks that twist and spin.  Before I can go any further with that thought, the slide spits me out and I skip across the water like a rock.  Water slaps up and over the sides of the pool as my head goes under and my legs pop up in an awkward v.

As I surface, I hear shouts and giggles from above and as I rub the water from my eyes and my vision clears, I see huge smiles directed at me. I smile back.  That wasn’t so bad after all.  Before climbing back out, I pause to enjoy the moment.  I sense the return of a long-buried feeling and realize that I miss being absolutely absorbed in having pure fun, nothing else on my mind.  Suddenly, the pool doesn’t seem quite so filthy.

I grin as I sprint back up the stairs.  I’m going to try and go down backwards this time.