I'll Push You Read online

  “You should probably get that fixed,” I said with a raised eyebrow. Jason just smiled and put the truck in gear.

  In a matter of minutes, we were on I-84, headed east toward Northwest Nazarene College in nearby Nampa, Idaho. Even with our sunglasses on, the rising sun made us squint as it filled the gap between the pickup’s sun visors and the mountains in the distance. Because we were running late, Jason put some extra weight to the gas pedal.

  As the sun climbed a little higher in the sky, the glare from the east intensified. At 80 mph, Jason was doing his best to get us to the gymnasium on time. But the faster he went, the more noticeable the poor alignment of his truck became.

  As I leaned forward to find some good music on the radio, the twist of the dial was interrupted by a loud thump, thump, thump from under my feet.

  Looking up, I saw we had drifted hard to the right and both passenger-side tires were off the edge of the asphalt, bouncing through the dirt, gravel, and tufts of grass on the poorly maintained shoulder. As Jason struggled for control, I could see we were rapidly approaching a concrete support pillar of an overpass.

  “Jason, look out!”

  He jerked the wheel hard to the left, trying to get us back onto the roadway, but overcorrected, sending the truck into a 180-degree spin. For a split second, we were facing west, with traffic speeding toward us—until we slid onto the median and began to roll. The explosive sound of metal on gravel filled my ears as the truck slammed against the ground. Everything happened so fast, I soon lost my bearings as we rolled across the median and caught some air.

  It was a brief moment, but time stood still.

  So many thoughts rushed through my head as the ground outside my window came at me in slow motion. When the passenger side of the truck collided with the ground one last time, the sound was deafening, and the impact reverberated throughout my body.

  Is this how my life will end?

  What will the paramedics tell my family?

  What will my parents say to Patrick?

  When the truck finally came to rest, I was suspended from my seat by my seatbelt and Jason was below me, with his upper body partially out the window of the driver side door, the door frame across his back. A small depression in the ground was all that kept the truck from crushing him.

  Looking out through the fractured windshield, I could see multiple vehicles stopped in the distance and many people running toward us to help.

  “Jason, are you alive?”

  “Yes,” came his muffled reply, as his upper body was trapped between the truck and the ground below.

  “I have to get out of here!” I yelled as I kicked at the windshield, but it wouldn’t budge.

  Desperate to help my friend, I unbuckled my seatbelt and tumbled down on top of him. I heard him moan in pain.

  “Get off me!” he said through gritted teeth.

  I shifted my feet and straddled his body while pushing against the passenger door above me. It didn’t move. Somehow, though, I was able to wiggle my way out through the slider in the rear window.

  As my feet touched the ground, several people approached me. I shouted, “My friend is still trapped! He needs help!”

  Someone yelled, “Let’s see if we can get the truck back on its wheels.”

  With a collective effort, the assembled onlookers were able to heave the truck up high enough for Jason to pull himself back into the cab and release his seatbelt. As they continued to hold the truck off the ground, Jason was able to crawl out the driver’s side window.

  Somehow, I walked away from the accident with only a few scrapes and bruises. Jason wasn’t as lucky. He ruptured some discs in his back. But considering the severity of the accident, his injuries could have been much worse.

  Four months later, at the beginning of my junior year, I was running down the soccer field during a game when I noticed that my left foot wasn’t moving normally. I could plant and push off to make a cut, but I couldn’t raise my foot back up. No matter how hard I tried to control it, my foot would flop around. Sometimes the toe of my cleats caught the ground as I ran, causing me to stumble.

  When I brought this to my parents’ attention, we began looking for answers. The problem seemed to be isolated to my foot, so we went to a podiatrist. He was completely stumped and referred us to a neurologist. The neurologist had no real answers, but he had a plaster cast molding made of my left foot, which resulted in a custom-fitted white orthotic brace made of lightweight plastic. This new support was a foot bed insert for my shoes that curved around my heel and snugly supported my calf. This brace provided the support needed to maintain a relatively normal level of activity.

  For one of my fitting appointments, Patrick went with me.

  As I stood up and took a few steps with the brace securely fastened across the front of my lower leg with a Velcro strap, the aluminum hinges on each side of my ankle squeaked.

  “Dude! You can totally play the sympathy card with the ladies!” Patrick said with a laugh.

  Raising my eyebrows, I replied, “Not a bad idea!”

  “How does it feel?” he asked as I walked around the doctor’s office.

  “Better than dragging my foot.”

  “I kind of like you dragging your foot,” he said, chuckling to himself. “Makes me look better!”

  “You’re an idiot,” I said, laughing out loud.

  “Seriously though, you’re moving pretty well. I can barely see a limp.”

  Running a few steps, I felt my confidence rising. “Yeah! It feels great. I think I can still play tennis with no problem.”

  With this new support system, I took up my racket and played both my junior and senior years. I kept close tabs on the weakness in my foot, and it seemed the worst was over. But not long after graduation, I could feel it spreading to more muscles in my lower leg.

  | | |

  I’d never made the connection between the weakness in my legs and the accident—until now. Kirstin is still sitting quietly next to me, holding my hand tightly. I’m squeezing hers so hard I can feel her pulse against my palm. So many thoughts are racing through my mind.

  Turning to me, my wife says, “You need to call Patrick.”

  2PHONE CALLS

  — PATRICK —

  IT’S A GORGEOUS DAY IN MAY, with crystal clear skies, but I’m stuck at home studying for an exam. The warm rays of light pouring through my office window make it difficult to focus. When the phone rings, I welcome the distraction. I could use a break from reading about “nursing management in the hospital setting.”

  A quick glance at the caller ID lifts my spirits. It’s my best friend, Justin, calling from San Diego. He and I have known each other our entire lives, and even though we live a thousand miles apart, rarely a week or two goes by without one of us calling to keep in touch.

  “Hello?”

  “PAA-DDY!”

  I can’t help but laugh. I’ve heard Justin call out that name a thousand times in his usual singsong way, and every time it makes me smile.

  “What’s going on, Skeez? It’s only been a few days since we talked. Is everything okay?”

  As we continue to talk, I get up from my desk and head into the kitchen. With the phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear, I pour myself a glass of water as I wait for him to reply.

  In a calm voice, he says, “Yes and no.”

  “Is your family okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Kirstin and Jaden are fine . . .”

  He pauses and I grab the phone with my free hand, pressing it harder against my ear so I don’t miss anything.

  “I had an appointment with my neurologist this morning,” Justin continues. “I have a diagnosis, and I think this one is going to stick.”

  “What is it?”

  “They’re saying it’s multifocal acquired motor axonopathy.”

  “Whoa, that’s a mouthful!”

  “They call it MAMA for short.”

  As Justin recounts the details of his visit to the doc
tor, I return to my office. I’m surprised at how easy it is for him to talk about his illness, but then Justin has always been a glass-half-full kind of guy.

  “So, what’s the prognosis?” I ask.

  “My doctor says the details of progression are unknown . . . but it will probably cut my life short.”

  “When?” I ask, my stomach tightening.

  “No one knows.”

  Shaking slightly, I set the glass on my desk and sit down. Suddenly, the rays of sunshine streaming through my window seem less bright . . . less warm.

  We talk for almost an hour before hanging up, and despite the fear and frustration, Justin’s optimism never wavers.

  When my wife, Donna, comes home from work, I tell her about my conversation with Justin.

  “How long do they say he has?”

  “They’re not sure. It could be five years . . . could be twenty. No one really knows.”

  “How are you doing?” she asks as she puts her arms around my waist, pulling me close.

  “I don’t know.” With Donna’s head against my chest, my words come slowly. “I just keep wondering how much longer he’ll be able to do his graphic design work . . . how he and Kirstin will make ends meet . . . how long he’ll be able to drive. And if he dies, what will Kirstin do? What will happen to Jaden?”

  Donna whispers, “I’m so sorry.”

  “I just wish I could spend more time with him.”

  | | |

  Justin and I have known each other literally our entire lives. Born two days apart in the same hospital in July 1975, we grew up within a mile and a half of each other in the small eastern Oregon town of Ontario—an arid farming community where the only trees are those intentionally planted in yards or parks, or ones growing along the banks of the Snake River. When the summer winds blow, dust devils create spiraling brown clouds that rise into the air from nearby fields or vacant lots. But even though our surroundings weren’t the most lush, verdant place on God’s green earth, small-town life provided an ample supply of freedom and open space for two imaginative boys to create worlds where anything was possible.

  My childhood home was on a dead-end street that backed up to an empty field with acres of dirt and weeds. Directly south, on the other side of the street, sat the white brick Nazarene church our families attended, surrounded by more acres of empty fields. Along with our friends Greg and Bryan, and my younger brother, Michael, Justin and I spent hours digging holes, building forts, and imagining life-threatening scenarios of rescues behind enemy lines. Sticks became guns, folded blades of cheatgrass became knives, rocks were grenades, and outstretched hands made for a great force field.

  Behind Justin’s house, across town, sat the Deep Dirt Hills, a collection of trees, dirt mounds, and tufts of grass straight out of a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip. During the winter, when a blanket of snow covered the dormant grass and barren soil, we put on our winter coats, snow pants, boots, and gloves, and with stocking caps pulled low, down to our eyes, we headed out for adventure.

  With round red saucers and inner tubes at the ready, we dove down the steep embankment into the canyon below. Trees rushed past—streaks of green and brown—as we leaned first to the left and then to the right, dodging rocks and bare patches that littered our path, until we finally made it to the bottom. But as we gathered our sleds and tubes and began the climb back to the top, it sure seemed as if we’d traveled much farther than we had.

  Though the canyon was a fabrication, and the villains we fought with our makeshift weapons were figments of our imagination, the muscles of creativity grew strong and the adventures we shared cemented us together. Whether our exploits were real or imaginary, it didn’t matter. Together we lived for the next adventure.

  As we grew older, our adventures shifted from open fields to athletic fields. Though we were unspectacular athletes, to say the least, we both loved being active, and we shared a competitive streak that often exceeded our abilities. In high school, I ran track and played baseball, and we both played football. Justin played soccer, but tennis was really his game. He had been playing it since fifth grade and absolutely loved it. When he started having problems with his foot during our junior and senior years, he never gave up. He just tried harder.

  During his freshman year of college, he tried out for the tennis team. Though he couldn’t keep up with the other players, he still played recreationally. But right before Christmas break, he called to tell me he had given up tennis altogether.

  “I’m giving my racket to my sister.”

  “You really can’t play anymore?”

  “I can still run, but the stepping from side to side is just too much for my left leg. When I shuffle laterally, I stumble and fall.”

  “How are you handling it?”

  “I have my moments, but I’m okay. At least I can still run.”

  A few months later, when I called Justin to check in, he greeted me with more bad news.

  “I can’t run anymore.”

  “What happened? Are your legs just too weak?”

  “Yeah, I was down at the track for a run, and they just gave out on me.”

  “Oh man, first tennis, and now this. . . . I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s okay, but I already miss the air rushing past my face and the freedom of controlling how fast I can go,” he admitted. “But what can I do?”

  “Man, you’re handling this a lot better than I would. I’d be angry.”

  “I do get angry, but it never helps. And I can still get around . . .”

  The next year, Justin called to tell me his legs had grown so weak that walking long distances was a challenge. Though he could still drive, walking to and from his car was wearing him down.

  “Well, I finally got a handicap parking pass,” he said, sounding more upbeat than I would have expected. We had talked about how this might someday become necessary, but for a guy who used to run through the fields behind the church with me and race up and down hills on our sleds, to now be dependent on blue parking spaces because his legs had grown so weak, this seemed too much.

  “You’ve had to give up a lot of independence. First your racket, then running, and now you need a handicap parking pass. . . . It never ceases to amaze me how well you’re handling all of it. Sometimes I think I’m having a harder time with this than you are.”

  “It’s definitely hard,” he said, “but dwelling on the things I can’t do anymore just eats away at me. I can’t go there—at least not for long. There’s still plenty I can do, and that’s what I’m going to focus on.”

  A few seconds of silence passed while I tried to take in everything Justin was telling me. I gripped the phone tighter and told him the only thing I could think to say.

  “Skeez, whatever you need, I’m here.”

  3I’LL PUSH YOU

  — JUSTIN —

  IT’S A BEAUTIFUL, lazy San Diego Saturday in March 2012. I’m alone in my living room with the TV remote braced against my leg. Though I can no longer open doors, hold a cup to my lips, or button my shirt, I can still somehow manage to use the remote. Every bit of independence is precious. I take what I can get.

  My boys, Jaden and Noah, are playing in the backyard, probably stirring up trouble. My daughter, Lauren, is in her bedroom singing, and Kirstin is tidying up in the kitchen. In the relative, and rare, quiet of the house, I turn on the television and begin flipping through the channels until I see European travel guru Rick Steves on PBS. Every time I’ve gone to Europe, his knowledge, wisdom, and travel advice has come in handy.

  In 2001, Kirstin and I, along with Patrick and his wife, Donna, spent nearly a month traveling through Europe together. We flew into Paris, and then explored Switzerland, Austria, Germany, and Belgium by train. I had braces on both of my legs by that point, but I still had enough strength to walk shorter distances with my wife and friends. It’s been almost eleven years since that trip, but the memories are still vivid. Though finances were tight for both us and the Grays at the time,
we knew we had to go, and we made it happen, even working extra jobs and extra shifts to cover the expenses.

  So what does Rick have for the world of channel surfers and public broadcast junkies today? Northern Spain? Sure, I haven’t been there yet.

  I watch as Steves explores the city of Pamplona, where the Fiesta de San Fermín (known for the running of the bulls) is an annual event, and describes Ernest Hemingway’s influence on the culture there, dating back to the publication of The Sun Also Rises in 1926.

  It’s all very familiar until he mentions the Camino de Santiago, or Way of Saint James, a nearly 800-kilometer pilgrimage route beginning in the picturesque Basque village of St. Jean Pied de Port, about five miles across the French border, and ending at the cathedral in Santiago de Compostela, where the apostle James’s bones are said to be buried.

  As Steves takes me over the Pyrenees Mountains, through the flat plains of northern Spain, and across two more mountain ranges to the region of Galicia in northwestern Spain, I am completely captivated. And as I watch the images of hundreds of pilgrims trekking along this ancient pathway, a thought occurs to me.

  I wonder if I could do that in my wheelchair.

  For the past few years, Patrick and I have been looking for the perfect “guy trip” that we could do together. We’ve tossed around the idea of going to Germany for Oktoberfest, touring the East Coast, or even just hanging out on a tropical island somewhere; but for some reason the right trip hasn’t revealed itself yet. Now as Rick unveils the Camino de Santiago, it hits me: This is the trip Patrick and I need to take. I haven’t felt this sure of anything since the day I realized I had met “the one.”

  | | |

  Kirstin and I first met a week or two after I graduated from college. When people ask me, I always say we met at a liquor store across the street from my apartment. It was actually more like a mini-mart where you could buy groceries, but the sign on the building just said Liquor, and frankly, it makes for a more interesting story.