Visiting Florida, my then-partner and I talked about our plan to go to Universal Studios next. My grandmother got out a faded technicolor photo album from her trip to Disney World in 1970.
I got the hint.
“Do you want to come with us?”
“Let me think about it.”
…
“If I go with you, I’ll need a wheelchair, and then we’ll get to go to the front of all the lines.”*
At Space Mountain, if I recall correctly, signs warned that the ride — Raiders of the Lost Ark? — was intense.
“Are you sure you want to go on this one? It won’t be too much for you?”
“You can’t know until you try.”
It was a little too much for me, but not for her. I have such happy memories of that day, because my grandmother had such fun.
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The Long Covid learning curve is a never-ending thing. Would it be too much for me to go to my cousin’s diving meet?
Diving rounds, it turned out, ran simultaneously with swim heats. There was a lot of cheering, whistling, clapping, and general exuberant happy college student energy bouncing off the walls. I found a seat at the back, put in the earplugs, started taking photos.
I watched the various dives, recalled my own brief period of diving lessons, wondered what might happen if I tried a back flip now. When the dull roar crescendoed into deafening rumpus I put my hands over my ears. I was having a good time.
After 30 minutes I stood up to leave. My stomach threatened revolt, my legs were weak, my balance was shot; I took the stairs carefully, gripping the rail. Back home, I staggered in the house and dropped into bed.
Catherine, bringing me tea: “was it worth it?”
I don’t know.
I’ve been working an hour a day, maybe two, trying to finish editing a book. I try to pace myself carefully: if I push myself too hard, I can’t work the next day. Or days. Or weeks. My eyes don’t focus. My short-term memory, gone. I can embiggen the type, and read the letters and the words. I can follow a short sentence. Anything longer, my brain runs out of memory buffer. I can’t hold on to it, so I can’t process it.
The rest of today is shot. Tomorrow? I won’t know until I get there.
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* Not a scam. My grandmother could stand, and she could walk. But she couldn’t stand in line for an hour or two, and she couldn’t walk miles around the park all day. Even the distance from the parking lot to the main gate would have wiped her out.
See someone who looks like they can do stuff, sporting a handicap tag? You have no idea what they’re carrying. Don’t judge.
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