“I’d like to be on the road by 10:00 am,” Ric told me the night before our five and half month stay at the beach trailer park ended. “There are high wind warnings for tomorrow afternoon, so we should be at our destination before they hit.”
I had pushed myself the night before to get the dishes packed away and all the loose articles stored for travel. Despite Ric’s reassurance that it wouldn’t take very long, I am well aware of how quickly I tire (a symptom of ME/CFS), so I allowed myself extra time. He decided to leave the outside stuff for morning.
We awoke to a grey and damp day. My body complained, but I waded through the slush to be ready. Ric, a chronic procrastinater, waited for the last minute to start his tasks.
“It will only take me half an hour,” he promised, stepping out into the blustery day.
Having pulled in the slides on the RV, I lay on the couch, and listened to the sounds of curious neighbours stopping by to ask questions (they are all permanent residents at this park) and then I heard my husband curse. We had a flat tire.
A flurry of male voices gathered as the problem was addressed, and I watched as our scheduled time to leave passed. After a bit, I gave into my fatigue and napped.
Just after eleven, I awoke and looked out to see Ric, soaked and covered in mud still working at putting things away. I threw on my coat and went out.
“Almost done,” he said cheerfully, blood dripping from one hand.
“Do you need something for that?” I asked, taking in his state of disarray with alarm.
He glanced at his hand then rubbed it on his shirt. “All good,” he said. “I’ll just run the truck to the road, then we’ll be underway.”
“I’ll drive the truck,” I said firmly, surprising both of us. At least it was something I could do…well…at least something I might be able to do. I haven’t driven in over three years – another side effect of this disease.
Driving the truck was easy – the speed limit here is only 8 km/hr. Getting the RV out was going to be the tricky part. We’d arrived at the end of the winter months before the trees had leaves and even then it was a tight fit. To be honest, I was just happy to be an observer at that moment, but Ric drove it like a pro.
I eased the truck up behind and waited in the warmth of the motor home while Ric and another man hooked up the tow bar. The rain was coming harder now, and when I checked the weather, it called for high winds at any moment. Our plans were not going well. Hooking up the tow seemed to be taking forever.
It was after noon when we headed out, and my drenched husband didn’t even take a break to wash up before pulling out.
“Are you okay?” I asked, a question I would pose many times as the wind tossed us around on the road, and then again as we arrived at our destination and the now torrential downpour pummelled him while disconnecting the truck. Every time, Ric had the same answer:
“Of course, I am – it’s all part of the adventure!”
Hmmm, I thought to myself, I guess I need to rethink my definition of adventure.
Writer, avid reader, former educator, and proud grandmother, currently experiencing life through the lens of ME/CFS. Words are, and always have been, a lifeline. Some of the best adventures, I'm discovering, take place in the imagination.