“Ma’am, would you like me to assist him on the ice?” The rink manager in his blue shirt extended both hands, almost as if inviting me to dance. Yet, he was really just waiting for me to release my grip on the wheelchair handles. I hesitated.
When I was mapping out our summer trip to Colorado, I found myself feeling nauseous at the thought of all the adjustments we might need to make. I wanted to embrace adventure, inspired by Robin Williams’ words in Dead Poets Society, but my main concern was ensuring that everyone was content, healthy, and well-rested.
I envisioned the potential altitude sickness from being at 8,000 feet. I imagined skipping naps for hikes, swims, and train rides, with the possibility of leaving restaurants before our meals arrived due to one of my three kids melting down. But above all, I worried about my six-year-old son, Max, being left on the sidelines while his younger siblings engaged in activities he couldn’t partake in from his wheelchair.
I researched the best hiking backpacks, choosing one with glowing reviews to ensure we could take him on the trails. I made certain the gondola was ADA compliant and ensured he stayed hydrated in the dry air, packing squeeze pouches of applesauce for our outings.
I wanted Max to be as involved as possible. This is my instinct; when I see him being limited by his disability, I create solutions — like a modern-day MacGyver for special needs.
However, ice skating seemed like an unresolvable challenge. I assumed we would merely watch from the sidelines. So when the rink manager offered to take Max on the ice in his wheelchair, I was momentarily paralyzed. A door I thought was firmly shut had swung open, and I was grappling with a mix of anxiety and hope.
“Let me take him,” said my husband, Ben, extending his hands in the same inviting manner as the manager, coaxing me to let go. I glanced at Max, who was grinning and pointing towards the ice. That was the encouragement I needed, so I stepped aside and let him go.
Ben took off with Max, moving quickly enough for me to shout, “slow down!” I soon surrendered to the joy of the moment. It was serendipitous; Max kicked his legs, and the wheelchair glided across the ice like a luge. Ben spun and twirled, utilizing his hockey skills to make our child soar. And soar he did. Laughter and cheers erupted each time he passed by, and he waved back like royalty.
After half an hour, Max’s cheeks were flushed, and his fingers had turned a bit blue, but he was the happiest I had ever seen him. The next evening, we returned for another round, and a couple even got engaged on the ice. Max applauded for them, and they returned the gesture. It was a night filled with joy that I had never expected to experience in such a setting — on the ice, beneath the stars, 8,000 feet in the air, in a town filled with sun-kissed hikers. It was a moment of inclusion that felt miraculous.
For those curious about home insemination, this post resonates with our journey in embracing life’s surprises. You can also find helpful information about fertility and pregnancy at Make a Mom and if you’re looking for further resources on IVF, check out NHS.
In summary, watching my son skate in his wheelchair was not just a personal milestone; it was a testament to inclusion and the joy that can be found when barriers are broken down.