A walk

I pack a bag with my keys, a sippy cup of tea, the iPad (for music or for distraction, if we need it), and a baggie of wipes (because I knew my girl would try to drive the wheelchair on the wet and muddy track, and she drives by pushing the tires).

We start our walk, and she claps. I hear her hum familiar songs, watch her flap her arms.  She loves to be outside.  We get to the end of the street and turn to head down to the greenway track.  The connecting path is steep, and I’m reminded how little of this world is accessible.  I pray I don’t slip on the wet leaves covering the path.

We wade through puddles, listen to some songs, and I smile at others we meet along the path.  She’s happy for so long, and I keep going, knowing that cutting the walk short will likely bring about a meltdown.  We have nowhere to be, and the peace of being with my happy girl on her walk seems almost tangible.  

She pulls on the tires.  I stop suddenly, knowing she could easily get blisters from the tread against her skin.  Her hands and arms are now covered in mud and dirt.  I quickly dig out a wipe to clean her, trying to keep her from driving.  Her humming tone has changed.  She’s no longer happy.  The peace is gone.  I get one hand somewhat clean just before she reaches the tire with the other.  She wants to turn around.  

She pushes the chair to the grass.  I’m talking to her, telling her that we are not going in the grass.  I explain how wet it is, and muddy.  I tell her that two feet in from the edge, the grass is nearly as tall as her chair.  If she understands me, she doesn’t care.  We battle control of the chair, and she is filthy now.  Her hands and arms covered in muddiness from the rain-soaked track.

She bangs her head on the handles of the chair.  She claws at me.  Her size, her almost 70 pounds, her strength- I’m reminded that this is almost too hard now by myself.  These moments are too unpredictable, and I’m too far from home, and I have no help, and I’m fighting her emotions.  And mine.

Tears sting my eyes.  The humidity in the air that was once a soothing reminder of a late spring rain now seems to be taking my breath away.  I’m sweating, quietly crying, holding her arms, applying some pressure, hoping that will help sooth her.  It doesn’t, it seems.  She’s distraught.  I pray.

I see people up ahead, sitting under the gazebo.  Someone is jogging closer, and I think to myself what I will say when he offers help.  I’m squatting in front of her now, holding her arms, talking quietly.  The jogger goes past us, without a word or glance.  I don’t know whether or not to be offended.  Surely we appear to need help.  But I wouldn’t have had an intelligible response had he asked anyway.  

She still wants in the grass.  She’s still clawing for my face.  I’m still crying.  My mind is caught in the tornado of thoughts that always accompany moments like these.  Why? What will this look like when she is bigger? Our life is so isolated… Dear God, why does my sweet child have to deal with such pain and distress? 

I stand up, try to wipe the tears and her hands one more time.  I ease her chair away from the grass again.  I lean over the chair, pushing with my body as I try and hold her arms in her lap.  We slowly ease back into our walk.  

Within a few minutes, she has calmed.  She reaches for a puddle as we pass through it.  She stretches her hand out to feel the leaves from a branch that is reaching out to us.  I thank God that she has found some peace now.  I splash quietly through a puddle and watch the ripples.

When anxiety was great within me, You brought consolation to my soul.  –Psalm 94:19