Lucky us! We have a hiking trail in our neighborhood.
Despite this year's wet June (that remind me of the Junes from my school years), Fran and I have managed to hike the trail at least a few times each week. The trail is about 1.3 miles (one way) with an elevation gain of 374 feet. All in all, it's a nice little daily workout and the dogs love the smells.
Yesterday, the hike was more work than usual for me--either due to a few days break or the humidity. My huffing, puffing, perspiring and trying to keep up with Fran, made me flash back to a much different time. And it wasn't all that long ago. Early 2012?
"Is this the girl I pushed in a wheelchair for 4 plus years? The girl whose lungs were never supposed to regain their youthful capacity? The girl so many doctors decided didn't want to get better?" (Okay, I better stop. I feel the old white coat anger rekindling.)
She still hasn't learned what began that life pausing event and it's still not gone. We may not have found a doctor curious enough to keep on digging, but we did find one who truly wanted to dampen her pain.
And where am I? Trailing along behind her.
As it should be.