We took our couple’s selfie, and dutifully posted to Facebook to share this moment with the family and friends who couldn’t be with us. Then we headed out into the sunshine and breeze. Spring in the canyon is always picturesque and this morning was no exception. Nestled in the botanical gardens, we approached the booths and displays and a sea of orange. Families laughed and gathered in close, connected circles, probably to ward off the wind as it picked up. Kids ran and spilled their hot chocolate while mothers and fathers laughed and played at calling them to order before the event.
Ribbons were tied and songs were played. The gardens glistened with a bit of morning dew and Ogden Canyon came alive with color and sound that grew increasingly joyous as the hour wore on.
We made our way to the table to sign in. I led the way as usual. Let’s get this over with, I thought.
“Here’s your walking kit, your water bottle, and your number, dear. You write the name of your team and the person you’re walking for right here.” I hadn’t known we would need to do that. “Oh,” I paused, “well, it’s me.” I could be mistaken but I swear he did a double take then swallowed his surprise and said, then you’re one of the guests of honor! You come over here and get this number and the ‘I Walk With MS’ badge.” Oh, dear lord, I was going to have to wear a sign, like a scarlet letter, that says, ‘look at me; I’m damaged.’ Super. At least it was green, I consoled myself, and my favorite bright, vibrant, lime chartreuse at that.
I turned with our materials and grabbed Ruston’s hand. He led me to a quiet area to write our names and pin our numbers. We had to list the year of my diagnosis and my name on both numbers so all the participants would see that it was people like me they were helping with their donated time and money and the labors of their energetic, sculpted physiques.
Professional and recreational runners stretched as the rest of us—yes, I am one of them now—concentrated on our posture and holding our heads high as we made silent vows not to cry.
“I can’t just stand and wait,” I said.
“Well, let’s take a walk then,” Ruston smiled. Thank god he didn’t have that overly perky lilt he adopts when he’s uncomfortable. How strange, I thought, that he was so comfortable and strong. How strange and how fortunate. So we walked. And it was perfect.
Celtic folk songs played and soothed my spirit as I held Ruston’s hand and we meandered the paths. I thought of all I had to be thankful for. ‘I am thankful for my strength, for my support system, for my life’s work in equity. I am an advocate, I am an activist. I can be an activist for myself now. I am an MS Activist.’
My thoughts were interrupted as the music concluded and a speaker’s mic’d up voice carried above the crowd and called us to order. Ruston and I joined the crowd slowly and listened to the successes and struggles of the amazing, brave souls who had fought all year for MS and loved ones to be recognized, supported, and healed. Laughter and tears mingled as we all held our loved ones and prepared for the journey ahead.
And with a cheer, we all set out on that path together, walking and jogging and running, even in wheel chairs and strollers. Ruston gave me a kiss and the tears flowed, but I smiled. And I walked. I walk with MS.
A year later, I prepared to select our team and to garner donations. I am still walking and will walk for as long as I can, just like we all do. I am looking for likeminded spirits to join me. Walk for MS in your community this year. For more information to go the National MS Society and Walk MS.