Magic walking sticks and the speed of things

When I was little, my legs were short. We spent many of our weekends camping as a family, and one of our favorite ways to pass the time was to go for hikes. Inevitably, as the youngest, smallest member of our tribe, I would be the first to slow down and ask if we could go back to the travel trailer. You know, where the fruit roll-ups and cheez balls were. But my mom, always the cheerleader and optimist, wouldn’t let me go out like that. “You know what you need?” she would coax. And then in a lower tone, as if sharing a secret so tender and special only the ears of true believers could hear it, “A magic walking stick.”

We would scour the woods’ floor for the perfect fallen branch. It had to meet our specifications – not too tall, not too wide and smooth to the touch. “We’ll know when we see it,” she’d say. And we always did. And somehow, once I had that magic walking stick, my little legs, going one tiny step at a time, carried me that extra mile.

Of course now, as a mother who herself has whispered in the ears of her chicks about the mystical power of fallen branches, I understand that it was the woman walking next to me as much as it was anything else. Her belief in me. Her willingness to hang back as if our walk could go on forever if it had to, as long as we were together. Her voice. Her words. Her presence.

This past week, some chronic health issues my mom has been battling came to a head, and we found ourselves in a hospital room, just the two of us. She has persistent pain in her lower back and her right leg, with some weakness, which makes walking and standing uncomfortable, challenging and, quite frankly, dangerous. As we moved her from bed to walker, bed to bed, bed to wheelchair, I felt the weight of her burden pressing against me. I nestled my hand under her arm and coaxed, “It’s OK, Mom. We’ve got you. Nice and slow,” and I heard her voice in my own.

Sitting in a predictable, uncomfortable, mass-produced chair an arm’s length from her, disturbing daytime television in the background, I scrolled through my Instagram feed. Facebook was telling the world it was National Daughter’s Day. How appropriate. I am, in so many ways, my mother’s daughter. I have her hands, her humor and her desire to help others. Her stubbornness and grace (which is really a lack thereof) are stitched across my patchwork. I see pieces of her that became slivers of me that are now beautiful fragments of my daughters.

She kept telling me to go home, but I wouldn’t have wanted to be anywhere else. Time could go as slow as it needed to. We were taking tiny, tiny steps toward the answers. Toward getting home.

As it happens in hospitals, hours turned into the necessary tests and the results turned into recommendations and eventually discharge. Mom was home in just over 24 hours and we all got together for our traditional every-other weekend brunch, known to us as Big Breakfast. The grandkids showered her in hugs, my sister and I brought the tough questions about care and short-term plans. When I left, I ached for the days of sticky fruit roll-ups wrapped around pointer fingers and whispers in the woods.

The rest of our Sunday was intentionally slow. I think Hank could sense my need for play rather than purpose. We didn’t clean the house, like we normally do. We putzed around a nearby nature preserve and called in dinner. Before bed, after months of prodding, Sloppy Joan finally agreed to try riding her bike without training wheels. We all stood at the top of the driveway and watched as a new confidence took over our littlest bird. Her posture was different. She commanded the two wheels and, though a little shaky, flew up and down the pavement and around the tree in the center of our cul-de-sac. Fearless. Elated.

“Slow down, honey,” Hank said, a hesitant smile crossing his face. “The best riders are the ones who have control over the bike. You don’t need to go so fast.” She nodded, not really committing to the instruction, and descended the driveway once more, involuntary expressions of joy popping out of her mouth like firecrackers.

The pace of life, the rate at which everything changes, is such a thief of serenity. I can see myself in that rusty autumn landscape like it was yesterday, leaning against my mom on one side and a tree’s enchanted limb on the other. I can smell the distant campfires, hear the dried foliage and feel the sun soaking into the fabric of my sweatshirt. It’s so close to me, and also a story I recall with the nostalgia that can only come after many years and many seasons have passed. Now, as a witness to the toll time and tension takes on a body, a body that has worked tirelessly to serve and celebrate others, it’s hard to deny just how much can transpire between walks in the woods.    

People always talk about the phases of life. How your parents care for you, support you as you care for your own children, and eventually, become the ones in need of care themselves. But as much as you try to prepare yourself for that transition from one phase to the next, you eventually realize it’s a fool’s errand. The reality doesn’t come in the subtle decline or quiet adjustments. The understanding and, ultimately acceptance, comes abruptly in a hospital room, in the nuances of a heartbreaking conversation about independence or a look in her eyes that says, I’m scared.

Before anyone asks, as many of you know my mom, she is doing fine. There’s no need to worry or send texts with question marks and exclamation points comingling. We’re figuring things out and finding a new path out of the woods. She is still one of the biggest badasses I know. Life is just changing. We find ourselves in one of those blurry clouds between how things were and how they’ll be. It’s not the first time and certainly won’t be the last, but this one has me reflecting so deeply on the times I’ve leaned on her – so many times – and also the pride she has about needing to lean on us now. It’s an interesting dance, where the partners are the same but the one who usually leads is forced to follow. At least for a little while.

Life is moving so quickly. The shape of our family is shifting. My children are growing so fast. Sometimes I feel like time is flying down the driveway and the brakes don’t work. The limbs just budding when I was a girl are my daughters’ magic walking sticks, and I’m quietly trying to find the calm hiding in the mad dash and frenzy of it all. Perhaps the only opportunity for pacification rests in the pace. One step at a time, little hiker. Just one step at a time.