Daring the Devil

Sometimes, being disabled, at least being in a wheelchair, is almost like an E-ticket ride. Taking walks with Pippa (Maggie has gotten too old), it’s a good thing that my chair is sturdy. The maintenance of the sidewalks in Corona is almost nonexistent. In their defense, we have lots of old trees with massive roots that tear up the sidewalk.

We have taken several vacations that make those tree roots look like child’s play. When we visited Sarah in Arizona three or four years ago, we went to Sedona. As I “bumped” (the word “bump” is putting it mildly) along, my wheelchair tipped from one side to the other. I almost toppled on numerous occasions. I was having so much fun. Sarah was in tears.

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Not our actual trail, but close!

On a trip to Hawaii, my dad rented one of those beach wheelchairs. You know the ones: they’re plastic and have huge tires. There was a tag distinctly saying that the chair should only be used in six inches of water. Come on, what wave in Hawaii is six inches tall? This time, it was my grandma crying as she watched from the beach.   As she begged my Dad to go no deeper, a massive wave immersed me again. It was the time of my life.

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Not actually me. I was about another ten yards out.

I guess I have always been a daredevil. Before I got sick I wanted to ride the Stratosphere, that roller coaster probably 300 feet in the air. I guess I really would have risked my life either way. If I didn’t die on the roller coaster, Mom would have taken care of it.

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