Life in Cripple Creek

by Dean Kramer 
December, 2003


One of the nicest things about living here at Cripple Creek is the creek itself. Shaded by tall trees, it is only two feet across and comes to mid-calf at its deepest. A bridge was built across it for the elderly folks who used to live or visit here . The bridge sits under the trees and has benches where I can while away a summer’s afternoon listening to the water playing on the rocks beneath me. The creek is a joy, but an even greater joy is the pond which it feeds.

The pond covers a good acre and then some—it’s big enough to row a small boat on. Though the pond is fed by seeping springs, a pipe running underground from the creek carries the major portion of water in. At the opposite end of the pond from where that pipe enters there is an outflow pipe returning water to the creek in compliance with state conservation guidelines. This constant freshening of the pond’s water keeps it clear for swimming. The only downside to this well-balanced state of affairs is that after storms and at certain times of year the pipe from creek to pond becomes clogged with leaves, sticks, and the occasional snapping turtle. When this happens the clog must be removed by hand.

That hand has always been mine. In my able-bodied years it was a job I loved to do. I’d take my shoes off at a little bench placed for that purpose, and I’d walk nimbly down a short slope over large stones we’d had trucked in years ago to hold the bank. Then, with a handy branch for balance, I’d step down into the creek, walking out on the pipe itself. At the end of the pipe I’d bend or crouch and I’d work the sticks and muddy leaves free with my hands until the pipe drew water into the pond again.

One thing I notice about MS disability is that it takes a very long time to do things that used to take a fairly long time to do to begin with. These days I ride out to the creek on my scooter, so the first thing I must do before I can go is take the tarp off the scooter and make sure it’s operational. Once arrived, I sit down on the bench to take my shoes off. That takes longer than it used to because I haven’t the leg strength to just kick a shoe off. I have to lift each leg, by hand, to get my feet out of my shoes. Then I walk down the slope on the large rocks. The rocks are sharp enough that if I fall I am likely to crack some bone or other so, because I have to be very careful in placing my feet, it can take me up to ten minutes to walk the five foot slope down to the creek. I usually use a branch or (if I’ve remembered it) my cane for this walk.

Once I’ve reached the creek I grab onto a sapling (which I truly believe God placed on the bank out of concern for my future disability) and I step in a gingerly way down onto the pipe. Why don’t I just walk on the creek bottom? The creek bottom is mostly mud the depth and consistency of quick sand and I prefer to avoid it if I can. Instead, I cling to the sapling with a death grip and, bending from the waist, do my best to clear the clog with one hand. Usually I am successful. If I absolutely must crouch, I do so by sliding my hand down the sapling’s trunk. I know that to get up again I’ll have to inch my way back along the pipe until I can sit on the muddy, wet bank and, turning, crawl up over the rocks to the bench which I can use to help me stand because, once crouched, I cannot rise without assistance.

If I choose to I can feel sorrow or resentment over being so disabled that taking care of the creek and the pond have become “too” difficult. I can rush as much as possible to simply get the thing done, risking injury (and the possibility of even more resentment) in the process, or I can make other choices. During my walk to the creek’s edge, for example, I can experience the sort of thrill probably experienced by the contestants on a TV show such as “Fear Factor”. I can play with that in my mind. I can feel heroic.

Then, too, there are some advantages to MS as regards this chore. My feet are numb enough that I no longer feel the pain of walking on the stones. For the same reason, I can tolerate the very cold water temperatures we have in early Spring and late Autumn. There are also some not-so-easily-recognized gifts of MS. These days, I must concentrate and balance physical, mental and spiritual energies to accomplish a task I used to do thoughtlessly. That’s not a bad practice. It makes clearing a clogged pipe into a form of meditation.

Because this chore now takes so much time and I must move slowly and carefully, resting when necessary, I am offered the option of being more in touch with the creek and its environs. I can notice plant and animal life. I can notice the water itself.

Sometimes my grip on the sapling falters and I can notice the water in a really personal way. It has happened several times that I’ve slipped off the pipe or the even the bank and landed in the creek. I always laugh. It’s probably some neurologic reaction. I used to laugh when other people fell. Now I have, in my own person, a potentially endless source of mirth. I sit in the creek and laugh. I struggle to my feet, still giggling and, as often as not, fall down again. I laugh harder. If incontinence visits me in those moments of hysteria, who cares? I’m already soaked in creek water and covered in mud.

Perhaps you’ve seen those drawings depicting the evolution of humans as a series of beings one after another beginning with a fish in water, moving through several metamorphoses, and ending with an upright and well muscled person striding onto dry land. A similar series could be done depicting the years of my own MS-driven devolution only, in this case, the series would begin with an upright and well muscled person striding on dry land and end with a floundering something-or-other subsiding into a creek.

“Clearing the clogged pipe” used to bring to mind a certain set of actions. Now it brings to mind an entirely different set of actions. I have to clear my clogged mind of the old set in order to welcome the new set openly, unreservedly. I still love the job.