It wasn’t anything I had planned on doing, and I didn’t discover it until my last day. Had I had time to give it serious thought, I likely would have opted out. But I didn’t. I went down the slide, into the pond. Last year’s family vacation had me maneuvering 38 steps to my bed in the tree house I was staying in while wearing a boot because of a broken ankle. I wasn’t sure I could top that, but I did, or at least in my grandchildren’s opinion, I did.
It was a steep slide that began in the dark, with two loops in a covered tube that opened onto what felt like a vertical drop into the pond. I heard a comparison to being shot out of a cannon at 40 miles per hour. I am not someone who lines up for the thrill of a roller coaster or anything else that is tall or pulls Gs. Instead, the Tilt-a-Whirl is usually enough of a thrill for me. So, climbing up wooden steps that wove their way through tall trees before landing on a platform with a steep slide into a pond was not my norm. My grandchildren made me do it. More specifically, Muna. I don’t know how it happened, but I went from sitting on the small sand beach with Muna pleading with me to “at least try it, Laudie,” to following her up the wooden steps, while she gave me advice.
“Count to ten, Laudie.…slowly…”
And so I did, switching to Spanish at four, which made her turn around and smile. Then I added that mi corazón was beating very fast, only to be corrected on my pronunciation of the word, which made me smile (even though she was wrong, as my pronunciation was perfect and didn’t sound like the word raccoon as she insisted).
When we were both on the slide’s platform, she said,
“Laudie, you are the strongest person I know.”
I looked at the large, dark tube in front of me as I absorbed her words, then turned around to thank her, but she was gone. Clever girl, I thought. There was no way I was going to back down the steps in a descent of shame. The chorus of grandchildren on the beach chanting, “GO LAUDIE! GO LAUDIE!” wasn’t helping matters. I was going down the slide, coerced by five children who called me Laudie.
And so I did, and it was every bit as scary as I had anticipated. Would I have gone down the slide without the push of my 5 grandchildren, Muna, specifically? No. Probably not. Instead, I would have praised anyone who did from my comfort on the beach and would have shown them the videos I took afterward. But with Muna’s encouragement, I pushed into the dark tube, made a few turns, then flew straight down into the water and surfaced to the beautiful sound of my grandchildren cheering. I knew I wouldn’t be going down again. I was a one and done. Meanwhile, my daughter-in-law, Katie, was headed up the steps to go down the slide again because she said it was so much fun. I marveled at her bravery and her kid-at-heart spirit that saw those few seconds as fun.
Later that evening, Muna told me that in her horseback riding lessons she had started trotting and was going to start doing some small jumps. She added, “I’m kind of scared, Laudie.” Her words surprised me. She’s six, and she’s fearless. Her candor and honesty touched me deeply, and I leaned in closer, looked into her beautiful eyes, and told her, “You are the strongest person I know, Muna. I know you can do it.” She looked up at me and smiled. “Hey, that’s what I told you, Laudie!” “And it worked, didn’t it?”
When Emery graduated from middle school, I took her and a group of her friends to Worlds of Fun, an amusement park in Kansas City. I don’t remember much about that day, except for a Suburban full of excited middle schoolers and a daughter determined to ride the roller coaster for the first time. Emery, who, like her mom, did not like roller coasters or anything tall that pulled Gs, had an “I think I can, I think I can” attitude, and I knew she would accomplish what she set out to do, regardless of her fear. Afterward, out of earshot of her friends, she told me how scary it was and how proud she was of herself for doing it and not throwing up. As far as I know, it was her first and last roller coaster ride, much like her mom. Her brave act was minutes of terror, whereas my slide into a pond was seconds, but I know our anticipation and our rapidly beating corozóns were the same.
“This one is for you, Muna,” I had said quietly before I pushed myself into the tube. It wasn’t until I was wading out of the pond that I realized I had heard the words she told me before. Her mama, my Emery, had said them to me often, most recently before my knee replacement. “You are the strongest person I know.” Those seven words, spoken to me during a time of anticipated physical pain, hold more weight today than the day she told me. They are the same seven words I would repeat back to her while she lay in a hospital bed in Denver fighting for her life.
And now Muna is the carrier for the words I heard so often from Emery. Words we both needed to hear. For reassurance on a steep, scary slide or small jumps on a horse, “You are the strongest person I know.”
She was with us. And we both knew it.