Travel opens the mind, the eyes, the heart. It was also, and will continue to be, imperative to my healing. Reflecting back, that’s something COVID stole. It’s also something I let my disability erode — my wanderlust and sense of adventure. I thought, “I can’t possibly travel” or “This isn’t how I want to travel, therefor I can’t or won’t.” Yes, it looks different than it used to, but different isn’t bad. Why can’t I accept that? I need reminding… daily.

I lost a part of me — essential to who I am — and I’m taking it back.

There’s a Susan Sontag quote that I’ve always loved, “I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list.” I love travel. It makes me think outside the box and problem solve. I’m stretched in different ways — I use my brain, I’m challenged, I’m more attentive to my surroundings. I think I’m also nicer, kinder, more aware of people’s humanity and a different life experience than my own. It’s the only time my type A, somewhat controlling personality, takes a back seat to a go-with-the-flow Carolyn. I’m calmer, more accepting of inpredictability.

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I wrote long ago about my favorite books, one of which is The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society. Many might recognize it from the Netflix movie that came out during the pandemic. Spoiler alert: it wasn’t filmed in Guernsey! If you haven’t read it, please get a copy, a cup of tea, and a cozy afternoon to enjoy. I read it over 20 years ago and I reread it at least once a year. In the middle of the pandemic my brilliant mother said, “Let’s go to Guernsey!” Earlier this year, I thought I would never get there. Nearly three years later, one experimental bone marrow transplant, five bouts of almost total paralysis, one divorce, one global pandemic, and no less than 587 flight schedule changes from Delta Airlines, my mom, aunt, cousin and I visited Guernsey together.

I’ve traveled the world (sometimes I forget how much) and without a doubt, this vacation was the trip of a lifetime. Guernsey might just be the most beautiful, refreshing, soul soothing, healing, magical and fabulous place on earth.

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Sorrow and Joy in the Body

Eight months ago, I was at rock bottom. I wrote about the hardest days, weeks and months following shingles, being knocked back to square one physically, and my anger and resentment. I wrote about the versions of me I mourn. Depression, anguish, and all-consuming heartache manifest in the body. I’m connected to my body and I’m aware not only where I feel things physically but how emotions and emotional experiences and responses manifest in the body. I sobbed over my lost mobility, my broken body, my shattered hope. My gut would twist, my breathing was shallow, and tears streamed down my face. Primal, guttural cries and moans escaped my lips because there was nowhere else for that level of pain to go. I spoke to my therapists about understanding why people end their life. I spoke of the pervasive darkness. I was scared to admit that no amount of hope could bring me back from such loss, such pain, such darkness.

Last week in Guernsey, I noticed the same physical feelings as I sat on a boat, meandering around the English Channel and the various Channel Islands. But this time, rather than dark and heavy the feelings were intense but light and persistent. I couldn’t contain my happiness or my joy. I was so overcome physically, I was crying. I was gasping for words that would not come, tears my only method of communication. I was dumbfounded by the improbability of me being in Guernsey, with my mother, aunt, and cousin. I walked down to the docks, boarded a boat and rode for a few hours with the wind in my hair as we took in some of the most beautiful vistas I’ve ever beheld. The captain of the boat asked, “So what brought you to Guernsey of all places?” Unable to form words, I started crying. I managed to choke out, “I actually can’t believe I’m here.”

Two extremes, one light and one dark. Both experiences witnessed by my mom. Both so powerful that the emotion could not or would not be contained in my body. I find myself at a loss to even convey the intensity or the importance of this trip. I had no control over the bad, but I had control over the good. I find myself reflecting on how we deal with the hand we’re dealt — how we choose to show up for ourselves and what is possible if you live in the crap knowing there’s a brighter day ahead. I’m full of gratitude for my mom who never gave up hope. Her research, planning, and sheer determination are a true force and a gift I can never repay.

Safe Travel Companions

Despite my best efforts and mental gymnastics and inner monologues, I can’t help at times, but feel a burden. I can’t help but wish I could fetch things, carry things, walk and explore. I have moments of doubt and insecurity about being a bad travel companion. Then I wake up, snap out of it, and remember I am a seasoned traveler; an articulate self-advocate, and I will get it done.

This trip would have been very different without the people in my life who are safe. I don’t have a better word. They are easy, kind, helpful and intuitive people who know how to help, who are aware, and who are joyous in the process.

My mom, aunt and cousin were amazing.

Relax and Indulge

For the first time, I did not feel a pervasive undercurrent of go, go, go. I did not feel like I had to rush. I listened to my body, took stock of my energy and made educated decisions about what I wanted to do. As my aunt and cousin wandered around, I asked that they scope out accessibility and do reconnaissance for a future trip with me and my mobility aids. As the rest of the party went to breakfast, I opted for room service to rest.

One day my itinerary consisted of a visit to the spa, high tea, and a visit to the harbor. Another day I had a relaxing lunch in the garden as I finished my book. I did what I could and relished every moment.

Traveling with Disability

It’s not perfect, and at times it is frustrating, but it’s possible. There are weird accommodations and I’ve grown used to conversations that go like this:

• Me: Is your place/restaurant/store/spa/tourist attraction accessible?
• Them: Yes.
• Me: So, there are no steps or barriers?
• Them: Oh, well yes, there are. But don’t worry, it’s just one.
• Me: So, you’re not actually accessible?
• Them: Well, you can see/experience/do most of it.
• Me: What about your toilets?
• Them: Yes, we have them, they’re on the third floor/basement/down a dark alley.
• Me: Do you understand what the word accessible means?

But then there are people and locals and experts who help. The concierge and front desk staff at our glorious, five-star hotel helped with everything from reservations to carrying bags to parking my rented scooter in the ballroom of the hotel. The airline asked what I needed to get on and off the plane and to and from gates, and I wasn’t afraid or too proud to take the assistance.

There are also places everywhere that really have figured it out and are accessible. We had a gorgeous dinner by the sea at La Reunion in Guernsey that had accessible doors, a lift to the restaurant, accessible bathrooms, and a kind and attentive staff that made sure I had everything I needed.

Suprised and Delighted

I didn’t know going into this how jet lag, long travel days, and time zone shifts would affect my body. I was surprised and delighted at how well I did. With my trusty byacre rollator, a rented electric scooter, a pink cane, and wonderful companions, I toured the island, perched atop cliffs by the sea, traveled by car, plane, taxi, and boat, and had the holiday of a lifetime.

I’ve been to cities around the world and knew that it would be the one and only time I was there. I saw Budapest, Brugges, Cusco, Quebec City and enjoyed my time but knew I would not return. Like London however, I feel like I’ll be back to Guernsey. Maybe next time I’ll be able to swim in the sea or walk along the cliffs. But if not, that’s ok too. The sea air, the stunning sunsets, the fresh food, and the slower pace were intoxicating. Everyone was kind.

Guernsey is 24-square-miles of heaven on earth, and it felt like my little secret.

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Maybe I’ll expand my writing and share details of the trip to Guernsey and London as if I’m a travel blogger rather than sharing info about chronic illness.

For now, my legs are working, my heart is full, and I can’t stop smiling at the sheer joy and overwhelming pleasure of my travels.

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To my mom, aunt and dear cousin: thank you for making a dream come true and sharing all the memories. I love you so.

All the Tasty Treats