Months To Years Winter 2019 Months To Years Winter 2019 - Page 43

jaunt over Patterson Gap Road and a large fallen to protect me, m morning. In my log to my own cabin. I am certain that the short mother followed imagination, And he then, wore as I stand on Jean’s Trail, fear distance of the trail will consist of manageable doctor’s instruct a white uniform, like gathering as I contemplate the water on the ground to cover as I finish up my adventure. to keep an old-fashioned ground, the rocks, the tree stumps in front of me, I the tru understand. Yet I have not bargained on the slippery moisture He’d orderly. come I must become Jane. a secret, especia of rain that still coats the ground, rocks, bushes, from my fathe in, assess the Because now Phil Collins sings the Tarzan score in and trees next to the Patterson Creek. This part and me. situation, and act. my head, I laugh out loud. I reach up, imagining of the trail doesn’t get sun. And today, on a gray “ day, sodden ground, the rain’s leftovers, and myself swinging on branches through a jungle. water from the creek make walking difficult. For Reach up! I chant in rhythm to Phil Collins music, the first hundred feet, the walk here is no different and I become Jane, reaching up for the vines, from the one earlier on Stanton’s Trail. But then not for the poison ivy vines but for the branches the trail moves up sharply and then down. My that will keep me upright and swinging from one on the bottom, can’t gain purchase on the rocks that encroach now on the path. How foolish to assume I could handle even this modest terrain. I receive an Xgeva injection every three months to strengthen my bones, keep them strong against invading metastatic cancer, yet one slip here “ rocky nook of Jean’s Trail It’s not just the noise of breathing that bothers me. My chest burns. My lungs, I guess. Because I am out of shape. Or because the cancer is progressing? to the next. Reaching up Lynda but and doesn’t solve everything, I beg it helps me navigate our the housing sea slippery terrain, the water a year before t rushing and burbling next to fatal diagnosi me, disappearing and then When bursting into view again. she enter treatment, we When the path continued turns away looki from the creek and toward believing she w the Son House Studio, I going to get bet am wet and grimy, my thin purchasing this h knit pants soaked with soil and tree fiber. together But I haven’t as proo touched poison ivy, and I haven’t broken a leg. home large eno I’ve danced with Phil Collins in the Georgian for both our gra rainforest. pianos, a mus As I cross Patterson Gap Road, ready to stumble for her, studio over that last fallen tree hurdle before I arrive at writing room for “ tennis shoes, already slick “ could result in a break. I’m angry with myself for not anticipating the weather’s effects on the terrain. I reach an impasse. I need to jump over a large boulder in front of me. But I am no longer a jumper. I scoot. I must grab hold of something to brace myself, but I’ve been warned against the poison ivy. When I’ve heard these warnings, I’ve “ wondered, “Why would anyone purposely step into poison ivy?” Now I understand. There’s no purposely about it. On a trail, you reach to brace yourself, yet you can’t always protect yourself Cove Cottage, I hear myself breathing, the sound a bit quieter, but still audible. “ During my senior year of high school, after a I’m lucky: stressful I have week of classes, a swine flu shot, and a complicated A.P. Chemistry experiment, I reaches. People plenty of people to asthma attack, the worst suffered an I’d had like since to talk a cancer survivors ha But after each childhood. My pediatrician instructed the hospital “Up,” I tell myself. You must reach up! call. That’s a admit me I straight to a floor, so I a bypassed partial solution at least, keeping my hands away the to new lease on li death, person new or renewed s wanted most to talk 43 of purpose, a de to was the one who from what your desperate hand touches when it