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A Humorous Look at the Bright Side of Cancer... and There Is One

January 5, 2016

Letter #18 To My Benefactor

January 2, 2016
January 2, 2016 – Photo by Melissa Sybrandy

Dear Benefactor,

My friend Melissa called me the other day and said that she and her son Isaac were on their way over to go ice-skating on the big pond in the farmer’s field next to our house.

Ken and I had been running around town all day and I was kind of looking forward to sitting on the couch, eating chips and dip, and watching Foyle’s War which we discovered on Netflix.

Then, I started thinking, “Sheesh, no wonder you’re complaining to your best friend Fran Drescher about those 21 pounds you’ve gained. Stop watching so much TV, get your bahookie out there, and do some ice-skating.”

It sounded like such a lofty idea.

Here’s what really happened:

Ken, Melissa, and Isaac were already out there, so I was on my own. I ran around the house, locating my thick sweats, the Keens you bought me, and my new really expensive down jacket from REI. I’d tell you all about it, but then you might send me more money and face it, you’ve been generous enough already. Let’s just say, it was on clearance and I still hyperventilated in the checkout line. I normally buy my jackets at Goodwill, but I’ve kind of stopped going to that place ever since the fiasco with my original hiking boots.
But, I digress. Again.
I located my skates, my camera, my thick sweats, and the aforementioned, insanely expensive jacket, and headed outside.
I glanced up at the sky because I knew it would be dark soon. Then, I glanced back at the electric fence in front of me. Just so we are clear, I am terrified of electric fences. It stems from a bad experience in my childhood. My little brother Johnny thought it would be fun to grab onto the hot wire near our big, red barn. I thought it would be prudent to yank his screaming little body off the wire. Our mother had to come pry both of us off.
Hence, my trepidation. I did not want the others to think that I was a weeny—even though I am—so I threw my skates and camera bag under the fence. Then, I took five minutes to gather up the courage to follow my items by crawling on my hands and knees. I didn’t want to get my new jacket dirty.
Once I picked up my camera bag and skates, I realized, “There are Angus in this field.” I recalled the staredown I’d had with one of the bulls earlier in the fall; he was one mean dude.
I hiked all the way across the field, keeping one eye out for that pesky bull and the other eye out for the huge piles of manure all around me. And came to another electric wire. You’ve got to be kidding me.
By the time I made it to the ice, I was halfway frozen.
I put my camera down and took out my skates. How do I describe these skates? They are over thirty years old. I used to wear them every single weekend, took a few lessons even, working my way up to one jump and one spin. I skated for years, even after I was married. I took a really bad fall and have only managed to get back to the rink once since then.
It took me ten minutes to cram my feet into those skates. They were definitely not as comfortable as my Keens.
By now, my butt was sopping wet, my feet were going numb because my skates were too tight, and to make my misery complete, I could not get up. Seriously? How much worse can this evening get?
“Ken?” I yelled. He couldn’t hear me. He was too busy skating his Canadian behind all over that huge patch of ice.
“Melissa?” She came right over. Somehow—considering I was at least double her weight—she got me off the ground.
I could not move. She gave me a gentle shove. I moved one inch. And heard the ice begin to crack. She hightailed it out of there. I tried a couple more inches. Crack, crack, crack.
“You need to come out this way, Mer,” she said.
I moved another few inches. Holy crap. What had happened to all my talent: my Mohawk jump? my spin? I know huge portions of my body are numb from all of these surgeries and cancer treatments I’ve gone through, but really?
I skated out another foot. And heard more ice breaking. Ice cold water (from my wet butt) trickled down my legs, because, apparently, I wasn’t miserable enough.
“Come on, Mer, you can do it,” Melissa called out cheerily as she zipped over the ice, all one hundred pounds of her. I didn’t hear any ice cracking beneath her body.
Three more inches. Crack, crack, crack, trickle, trickle, trickle. My feet just did not want to cooperate with my brain.
I am not having fun. Wow. Such profound words.
Profound enough to make me hobble my way back to where my camera bag and Keens waited, the ice cracking the whole way back.

I think I will take my chances with the bears and the cougars and stick to the woods.

Sincerely,

Marie

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Marie de Haan

Marie de Haan

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