Do you remember the first time you tried to ride a bike? Whom was helping you? Exactly where you were?
Chances are, if you recall these details and reflect back on them, it will tell you a bit about how you handle challenges in your life. I recall that day, for myself. My Dad and I were in the driveway and back in the 80’s, you didn’t have a helmet or all that fancy protective gear (in pink, blue or green whatever your favorite color was at the time, arriving 24 hours after purchase via Amazon.com). And while training wheels did exist – I am not that old my friends! – your parents more apt to take them off and just let you fly. Or fall. On pavement nonetheless.
So fell I did. I fell, I scraped up my knees in that driveway. There was blood. I am sure there were tears. But I knew my Dad was waiting right back downstairs after the wounds were cleaned (thanks Mom) and few band aids slapped on, to help me ride again. My parents didn’t push us, they could see when we needed a break but there was this definite sense of getting back up and facing your mountains. To try and start back up that proverbial hill until you were successful in getting back over to the other side.
Today marks my first return to the cancer hospital since treatment 6 months ago. “They” say there was a 20% chance it worked. I say differently. Nonetheless, I’ve spent the last week breathing thru the nerves, celebrating my son’s lucky #7 birthday, friends patting me on the back and making sure I laugh, my husband knowing just when to rest his hand on mine with no words needed, and wondering today, will I get a clear scan.
Not even sure what color my bike was or if I was the first owner, it didn’t matter. Sometimes the bike itself just needs to work. It need not be fancy nor the newest one on the block with bells and whistles. It needed two wheels, pedals and handlebars. So, point being, I don’t recall the bike, just the experience and getting back up on that bike again, wounds and all.
Melissa F. Liceaga 