“Excuse me, ma’am, would you like me to assist him on the ice?” The rink manager, dressed in a bright blue shirt, extended both hands as if inviting me to dance. But in reality, he was waiting for me to release the handles of my son’s wheelchair. I was frozen in place.
As I planned our summer getaway to the Colorado mountains, anxiety churned in my stomach at the thought of the numerous adjustments we’d need to make. I yearned to embrace adventure, just like Robin Williams encouraged in Dead Poets Society, but more than anything, I wanted my kids to be happy, healthy, and, most importantly, well-rested.
I envisioned the potential altitude sickness from staying at 8,000 feet and the missed naps in favor of hikes, swims, and train rides, not to mention the possibility of leaving restaurants before our food arrived due to meltdowns from our three little ones. Most distressing of all was the image of my six-year-old son, Max, watching helplessly as his younger siblings participated in activities he could not enjoy from his wheelchair.
I meticulously researched hiking backpacks and purchased the highest-rated one to ensure we could take him on the trails. I confirmed that the gondola would be ADA compliant, urged him to hydrate for the dry climate, and packed applesauce pouches for energy. My goal was to make his experience as inclusive as possible, to ensure he felt a part of every moment. This is my mantra—when I sense his disability could confine him, I find creative solutions, much like a parenting version of MacGyver.
But ice skating seemed insurmountable. I was convinced that we would merely be spectators. So, when the rink manager offered to take Max out on the ice in his wheelchair, I was momentarily paralyzed. A door I thought was closed had suddenly swung wide open, and I was grappling with a mix of excitement and fear.
“Let me take him,” said my husband, Mark, extending his hands just like the rink manager, as if coaxing an animal from its lair. I glanced at Max, who grinned and pointed toward the ice. That was the encouragement I needed. I stepped aside and let him go.
Mark took off with Max, moving swiftly enough for me to shout, “Slow down!” But soon, I surrendered to the joy of the moment. Max kicked his legs, and the wheelchair glided across the ice like a luge. Mark executed spins and circles, utilizing his hockey skills to create a thrilling ride for our son. And that’s precisely what Max experienced—he soared on the ice. Cheers erupted from the crowd every time he passed, and he waved back like royalty.
After a half hour, his cheeks glowed with excitement, and his fingers were a tad chilly, but I had never seen him so joyful. The following evening, when we returned for round two, a couple even got engaged on the ice. Max clapped for them, and they applauded him in return. Each visit to that rink transformed into a celebration of love and community.
It was an unexpected display of happiness and warmth that I never anticipated in such a setting—on the ice, beneath the stars, at 8,000 feet, surrounded by sunburned adventurers. It was a true moment of inclusion, a miracle on the ice.
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In summary, witnessing my son ice skate in his wheelchair was not just a triumph over disability; it was a profound reminder of the joy of inclusion and the unexpected beauty that can be found in shared experiences.