The Memory Box

I’m in the storage loft searching for an old dry bag we used to have. We are driving out to the coast for a vacation, just the two of us. The tiny home we rented boasts a 2 person kayak and I am eager to try some gentle paddling in the harbor. I know my partner will be there to back up my disabled butt and my probable stroke rate of 3 per minute… The dry sack might come in handy, if I can find it.

I finally come across the oversized, blue bin from my past life. It’s where I have kept my sports equipment stored for over a decade of living in this city, and probably where I left the dry bag. Inside are outdoor and indoor soccer shoes. Rock climbing shoes, harness, carabiner. White snowboarding goggles. Deflated basketball, football, soccer balls, a frisbee. A softball nestled in a worn leather ball glove. Oddly, no dry sack, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The old bin has me down a path of nostalgia, instead.

I slowly and lovingly put each item back once I’m done remembering and letting grief wash over me. The final item is a brand new pair of football gloves I received as a Christmas gift in 2020: just a few weeks before a COVID infection changed my life. I inhale the new-gear smell as I run my hands over the tacky coating of the palm. I imagine wearing them: picking long lobs out of the air; nabbing quick tosses; dodging outstretched hands. I’ve missed the past 5 seasons (and counting) of flag football. I allow the grief of loss and unmet yearning to hit me however it needs to. I let myself feel the traumatic betrayal and gaslighting of ableist assumptions claiming I am afraid, anxious, and “exercise avoidant” rather than disabled and significantly limited by chronic illness. It is an intense and injurious pain to have one of my greatest losses weaponized against me in these ways. It happens in doctors offices and in social conversations to the point that I often find myself wanting to forsake any future conversation with anyone other than other disabled people. I let myself breathe through the pain of now feeling so outside of the athletic identity I carried all my life. Too many people don’t even remember – don’t even know – this part of me. I was not simply interested in sports and outdoor play – it was my greatest joy, and my main refuge. Whenever a doctor suggests I’m “afraid of exercise” or a well-intentioned person in my life comments “Oh, that’s right, you played sports!”, the knife in my heart is wrenched and wedged deeper. Inside, I still feel like the same person running around outside. It’s as though time stopped in 2021 but only for me. Everyone else kept moving onward, and some of their memory of who I am – who I was – went with them. I miss sports and physical activity so much more than I can express. I miss the pride and joy of my natural athleticism and grit. I miss the identities of “atheletic” “plays sports” and “outdoors enthusiast”. I want this all back, yesterday. I’m not sure it will ever return for me. Nor for most of us with infection associated chronic illnesses. Not without adequate treatments and cures.

I do not regularly spend time and energy intentionally grieving the sports and outdoor adventures chronic illness stole away from me. There are other interests I can thankfully still spend some energy on during my good days. I tend to focus on the joys of books, plants, and good food rather than reminisce on the things I no longer have. Sometimes I wonder if I am avoiding difficult emotions, but I think I am just coping. This time of year – the warmer months – memories and yearning arise more often, though. I crave a sports field. I crave a mountain trail and an exhilarating view from the top. I crave playing in the water. I miss pushing my body and competing in ways that were fun and life-giving and social. This time of year, I remember more often. And I give myself moments to grieve. Like this one.

When I’m done remembering, I replace the unused gloves tenderly on the top of the equipment pile. I snap the lid back on to the storage bin turned memory box. I return to resting in my backyard with a good book while I gaze contentedly at our blooming tulips, freshly planted seedlings, and seeds just starting to sprout. Joy is always here, too. It snuggles up alongside the grief, and it helps me hold it all simultaneously.