Twelve Days Later …

… I’m free!

My inner drama queen had started to wonder if my period of confinement disproved that “this too shall pass” adage that rankles me when all I’m trying to do is see the glass half empty.

Yesterday, for example, which was particularly bad from the “me cooped up and resentful that most people’s lives are almost back to normal” perspective. I was especially irritated because my husband reported that the major street only a block away was clear; our street, despite being a major one itself, remained impassable. Adding to the frustration was that only a few chokepoints made it so: thisclose and yet so, so far. And so while the temperature hovered around zero, I hovered in the lobby, periodically hopping on my power chair to see if by some miracle the path carved between snowbanks had widened in those problem spots by the mere six inches or so that’d grant me freedom. Didn’t happen. I thus settled for driving a few circles in the parking lot next door before going home and getting lost in a project, convincing myself that there isn’t anything I care about out there anyway, so there.

We’d just settled in to watch a documentary (what else is new) after my usual dinner, scrambling to tie up loose ends, and bath routine when I checked PlowTO. I had to refresh it four times in close succession before it truly sunk in.

The miracle had occurred! The green line I’d been waiting for—the one indicating that the sidewalk has been plowed within the previous four hours—had appeared directly in front of our building and snaked right down the road!

We paused the movie. Without stopping to change out of my PJs, which, in my defence, could totally pass as day clothes, I transferred to my chair and raced outside to confirm that my winter exile had come to an end.

The chokepoints were still there. There was no evidence that a plow had passed.

My husband, always supportive and, more to the point, tired of helping me process my feelings about my temporary loss of independence, offered to shovel me to freedom if things hadn’t improved by lunchtime today.

And so around 11:30 this morning, I followed him as he broke up compacted snow and kicked it out of the way—clearing the path like a human Zamboni.

Here, then, was the true miracle: a combination of time, tolerance, and manual labour.

I spent a few hours out this afternoon, and as soon as I publish this post, I’ll head out again because I now have the luxury of ignoring the many things on my to-do list and procrastinating by inventing errands to run. How glorious it is to go back to resenting myself for having packed my schedule, leaving little time to make up for the twelve days I wasn’t able to venture more than a block from my building, rather than having my main sources of resentment be the winter and the city for not clearing things up in a timely manner.

Good things come to those who wait (and wait, and wait) and had the foresight to marry someone willing to move snowbanks for them. A lesser-known adage, but true nonetheless.