Living the Dream

The air is sticky and humid, the ground rain-soaked and muddy.
I careen down a hillside on my mountain bike, applying brakes where needed, splashing through shallow puddles, avoiding sheer drops off trail edges.
I kick out dirt behind and beside me as I twist, skid, and jump. My face and hands are mud-speckled; my clothes, splattered; my bike frame, gleefully muck-sprayed from head to tail.
I slow my pace to a halt as my friends catch up. We gulp water, wipe sweat, laugh and rib each other. They’re impressed with my thrill-seeking on this trail they know well. It’s my first time, but I ride with abandon. I always play outside as one borne of the soil.
The view through the trees whispers to me: misty grey with dark green ribbons, tree limbs and rain drops suspended in air. Life surrounds me, springs within my chest. The grit of a muddy, full-tilt descent thrills me deep to the marrow. Exhilaration and joy propel me.
We start down the last section of hill with whoops and hollers, upsetting an owl perched high overhead.
The trail levels off and leads us to a cafe in town, where we order takeaway and chat with other outdoor players.

As we stand outside awaiting our food, a memory pierces me and begins to take root. It unravels the dream I’ve been living. I stifle a sob as my friends’ eyes slide toward me with concern. A memory nags, forces me to confront the truth: I am sick. This cannot be real.
The edges of my vision begin to blur, then slowly melt inward like a burning photograph.
I drift weightlessly between rainforest mountain-biking dream bliss, and the waking nightmare of illness. I fight to stay asleep, try to claw my way back to the dream that has allowed me to play outside and sport, again, but my remembered reality is too strong. I blink awake to my blackout-curtained bedroom, wipe imagined sweat from my brow, rub the sleep out of my eyes, blink back the grief – I swallow it down deep.

I am not ready to grieve this part of me, yet. Not on this side of reality. I’m not ready to acknowledge the losses of my beloved sports and outdoor play. I wanted to grow old outside – until the time my body returned to the earth. I am not ready to let go. I refuse to grieve this, yet. And that is okay. The grieving will come when I’m ready. For now, my body makes do by remembering and grieving as I sleep, instead.

The next time I close my eyes, a grassy field lays before me – cut short, lined with white paint, glistening with recent watering. A ball balances on my cleated foot. I nudge it forward, look up, and see the game before me. With a swivel of my hips, I shoot a sharp pass to the left and start running upfield.