Joy.
Joy is one of those things that can be lost so easily in the turbulent open waters of adulthood. One of the simplest things an adult can do is become too focused on the logistical things, the technical things, the timelines, the calendar, the agenda, the situation. What needs to happen? Which kid am I taking and where? What time? It seems like I can ask those questions one dozen times a day, and could still justifiably ask them another dozen times before I set my alarm for the next morning.
Sometimes we need to get pulled out of that swamp.
We have a pair of very good friends – a couple named Paul and Sally. They live an hour and a half away from us and we do not get to visit them nearly often enough. Paul and Sally have two boys, both of them are incredible kids who get along with our girls beautifully. While the boys see it as play, what they are actually doing is giving us a situation where we do not need to worry about the girls. The four of us adults can then simply be adults together.
Last week we enjoyed a yearly tradition of getting together to visit the Milwaukee Public Museum. Typically it’s just Paul and the boys. Sally joins us after work, at their Home where we have pizza and a couple of drinks while the kids play with Legos, board games, and watch movies. This year, we enjoyed the rare treat of Sally joining us at the museum as well.
Sally is a professional, she has classy taste with a refined look. She is also dangerously smart and gifted with a sharp wit. She can neutralize Paul’s intensity with a single look, about as efficiently as Annie can prevent me from screaming the horses into a stampede while setting my hair on fire.
As we strolled the museum, Annie and Sally talked about life, about jobs, about Annie getting her business off the ground. They also talked about their marriages, of motherhood, about life, some of the subjects required laughter, some required hugs.
All the while those two very smart ladies self-educated themselves with whatever the Museum had to offer that day.
In short, they were doing what they do together: be friends.
For those who don’t know, Annie has Lyme disease. It’s a rotten disease we wouldn’t wish upon anyone. It has been an incredible test of our marriage. There have been numerous challenges. Someday I will write in greater detail about this disease, when I am less angry and more accepting of what that microscopic beast has done to our lives.
Over the last six months, since Annie was diagnosed (and a few weeks prior to that diagnosis) Lyme disease has forced itself into the foreground of nearly everything we do, and a visit to the museum is no exception. Too much walking or physical excursion causes flare-ups that can last for days afterward. Steps must be taken to try to minimize those flare-ups. It’s one of those “situations” of adulthood, one I never planned for. Yet, here it is, constantly on our minds.
I noticed Annie was struggling, she was putting more weight on her walking cane than usual. I asked Annie and Sally about how much longer they figured on us being at the museum. They guessed a couple more hours. I turned to Annie, “Is it time?” Annie took a deep breath and nodded. She pushed back a tear.
I disappeared to Guest Services. A few minutes later I returned with a wheelchair.
This was a big moment for us. It signified a new level of understanding of this new life. It could be considered a moment of acceptance for Annie; though if you asked her, she would have called it more of a surrender. Acceptance, surrender, we’ll work our way through the semantics one of these days.
Annie took a deep breath and sat down on the wheelchair. I’ve never pushed my wife in a wheelchair, I gave it a couple of tentative maneuvers to get a feel for it.
I knew Annie was in pain, and this was not a Lyme disease pain. She was embarrassed, self-conscious. She felt weak, and needy. She felt diminished and feeble, she felt like less than what she was. I knew it, and whispered an affirmation into her ear.
That affirmation from me could have been enough, just enough. Enough to barely get her past all of those sad and ashamed feelings, enough to get through the day. More could be done, unfortunately sometimes the words of a husband aren’t quite enough to get beyond that point of “enough”.
Sally jolted us out of the moment “We have a ramp right here!”
“This is true,” I replied, “Annie, want to do a test walk up that…”
“Can I push?” I turned to Sally, I didn’t want to impose, or sound like we need others to do this.
I stammered for a few seconds before surrendering the wheelchair to her. She took the handles then took off, running full speed up the ramp with Annie. Straight up the ramp, around a corner and up a second ramp. Annie was clinging to the wheelchair arms, and cackling. Sally spun her around a corner and rested. They had a laugh.
Annie was denied her moment to be sad about having to be in a wheelchair. Sally saw that sad moment and squashed it.
As what happened sunk in, as I watched those two women have that silly, joyful moment, I found myself dabbing up my own tear.
I am many things to Annie, I wear many hats. Sally, she’s more of a specialist in Annie’s life. She is simply a friend. When that happened, when she took the wheelchair and ran, she stepped in and became the best friend Annie could have had at that moment.
She did more than that. By example alone, she reminded me to get my nose out of the agenda, to get my head out of the situation, to be a little less serious. When an opportunity for fun is presented, always take it. When a loving friend takes the handles when you can’t, let them.
She brought joy at that moment.
I think the world would be a better place if we could all be a little more like Sally.