Monday, March 1, 2010

Olympic Dreams

Vancouver has just concluded hosting the 2010 Winter Olympic Games. Along the way we've watched the city, and the country come alive. We've celebrated together, we've cried together, and we've done a lot of holding our breath in anticipation. The hopes and dreams of the athletes were worn proudly on OUR sleeves, as we joined them in the worlds largest celebration of sport.

And at home, the children of our nation began to dream. Kids from all walks of life instantly became speed skaters, and skiers. Ball hockey games awarded the Gold Medal - Lord Stanley's Cup lying dusty on a back shelf in the garage. Skateboards came out, carving graceful arcs down the steepest driveway in the neighbourhood, in search of the next snowboard parallel slalom medal. People began to dream, and to dream big. The message was there - put your whole heart, your whole mind, and your whole body into a dream, and watch the world cheer you on. Nothing is impossible to the human spirit. Nothing.

At our house, the dream was stirring too. Our family watched the games daily. We even made it out to a couple of events. Our kids saw the flame run past our house - igniting the passion and the dream.

And so it was with no large surprise that we began to hear about Olympic sized dreams. One day, Doug was spotted standing at the top of the stairway. He had hot wheels race tracks strapped to his feet, and a Viking helmet perched high upon his head - brandishing a sword as a pole. He proudly announced to the world that he was going to be an Olympic Alpine Skier. My heart began to swell with parental pride at his dream, only to be burst an instant later with the realization that this dream will never be. No matter how much heart, or mind he puts into it, his body just won't be there. I know that for most of us, the actual chance of having an Olympian as a child is so tiny that it doesn't really matter anyways - but the sharp pain of KNOWING that it won't happen is still there.

Olympic sized dreams - human sized reality.

Monday, January 4, 2010

Beginning with an Ending

2010. January. A time for new beginnings.

After the kick in the teeth year that 2009 turned out to be, I was actually looking forward to 2010. A fresh start always brings with it a little bit of hope. The chance that this year won't suck as much as the one before. A symbolic chance to start again. A New Year's resolution to live more, love more, care more. And yes, to blog more. A fresh page, covering over the deep ink blots of the previous 365 days.

2010 was but 3 days old, when Ryan left. Ryan was a young man, fighting the same battle as Doug with DMD. On January 3rd, 2010, Ryan's battle ended. Ryan was a young man characterized by courage, quick wit, and a friendly sense of humour. Muscular Dystrophy claims another young life, barely in its prime.

I don't really know what to say. This strikes close to home. Of all the roads in life you can travel, Ryan and Doug share similar paths. Ryan, up ahead, breaking new ground, and Doug, with his own young courage, following along. They only ever met once - Ryan and Doug. It was always on the "we should get together" list. Ryan was looking forward to "showing Doug the ropes". Instead of being self absorbed, Ryan wanted to pass along his knowledge and experience, to lighten the load for those coming behind. Selfless, honest, caring. And now, it's too late.

I should know by now that life is a finite resource. Whenever those you care for leave this earth, the bitterest pain is the realization that there will no more chances to get together. That postponement of that summer BBQ has just become permanent. It always makes me think about how the important things down here on this spinning globe are people. It makes me re-evaluate my priorities again. Why am I not spending more time with PEOPLE, building friendships - laughing, loving, and sharing pain? What else is taking my time that seems so important?

Ryan, I barely knew you - but I miss you. I knew you mostly through your dad, and the conversations we would have. I shared your triumphs and your struggles vicariously through the words of your family. And now, I too share their loss.

Farewell Ryan.