“Would you like me to assist him on the ice?” asked the rink manager, dressed in a bright blue shirt, extending his hands as if to invite me to dance. But honestly, he was just waiting for me to release the handles of my son’s wheelchair. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
As I planned our summer getaway to the mountains, anxiety filled me at the thought of all the changes we would need to make. I yearned for an adventurous spirit, as Robin Williams had inspired in Dead Poets Society, but I also wanted my family to be content, healthy, and well-rested.
I envisioned the potential for altitude sickness at 8,000 feet. I worried about skipping naps in favor of hikes, swims, and train rides, and I fretted about needing to leave restaurants early due to one of my three kids having a meltdown. More importantly, I dreaded the idea of my six-year-old son, Ethan, sitting on the sidelines while his younger siblings engaged in activities he couldn’t experience due to his wheelchair.
I did my homework, investing in a top-rated hiking backpack with rave reviews so we could take him on trails. I confirmed that the gondola we planned to ride was ADA compliant. I made sure he stayed hydrated and packed applesauce pouches wherever we went. My goal was to ensure he felt included and engaged in every way possible. This is how I cope; when I sense he might be sidelined by his disability, I find creative solutions—like MacGyver, but for special needs.
However, ice skating seemed like a challenge I couldn’t navigate. I assumed we’d simply watch from the sidelines. So when the rink manager offered to take Ethan on the ice in his wheelchair, I froze, grappling with a mix of new fears and unexpected hope.
“Let me take him,” said my partner, Mark, extending his hands in a similar manner as the manager—like coaxing a shy animal. I looked at Ethan, who beamed and pointed toward the ice. That was all the encouragement I needed. I stepped aside and let him go.
Mark took off with Ethan, moving quickly enough for me to shout, “slow down!” But soon, I couldn’t help but embrace the joy of the moment. Ethan kicked his legs, and the wheelchair glided across the ice like a sled. Mark executed spins and circles, using his hockey skills to propel our son forward, and that’s precisely what Ethan did—he soared. Applause erupted with each lap he made, and he waved back like a little monarch.
After about thirty minutes, his cheeks were flushed and his fingers slightly chilled, but it was the happiest I had ever seen him. The following evening, as we returned for another round, a couple got engaged on the ice. Ethan clapped for them, and they returned the gesture, creating a beautiful cycle of joy.
The atmosphere was filled with warmth and collective celebration that I never anticipated experiencing on the ice, under the stars, at such a high altitude in a town bustling with sunburned hikers. It was the epitome of inclusion, a miraculous moment on the ice.
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In summary, what started as a daunting vacation turned into an unforgettable experience of joy and inclusion for my son. The unexpected opportunity for Ethan to skate opened up a world of possibility, challenging my assumptions and filling our hearts with happiness.
Keyphrase: My Son Ice Skated in His Wheelchair
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