It’s early in the morning and the welcoming show has just
opened the Magic Kingdom to guests. The drums of Adventureland playfully dance
and put a rhythmic bounce into my neck and head. The sun has barely begun to scrape
over the top of buildings, blinding guests heading towards Tomorrowland and
burn the sleepy remnants from everyone’s eyes. Throngs of guests are rushing as
fast as their hurried paces will let them go, while keeping under the
chastising warnings to walk from Cast Members that they pass, in order to be
some of the first guests of the day to board the Seven Dwarfs Mine Train, Space
Mountain, Peter Pan’s Flight, Pirates of the Caribbean, or Big Thunder Mountain
Railroad. They rush past me without taking a second glance as I stand there,
silently staring up at my first attraction of the morning, the Swiss Family
Treehouse.
The Swiss Family Treehouse is not my favorite attraction in
the Magic Kingdom, but it is high on my list. I should be racing off to fly
with Peter over Never Never Land or to visit Tumbleweed on a runaway mine
train, but I’m not. I’m standing here gazing up at a faux tree engineering
marvel. No one, and I mean no one, is scurrying to be the first one to climb
the treehouse, but still I make my way by the oar and canvas canopies and cannons
with neatly stacked cannonballs to the entrance. The Swiss Family Treehouse is
comprised of 116 steps, climbing up and descending around the trunk of the
tree, in addition to stretches of platforms between its different rooms. I take
a deep breath, let it out, and begin my ascent.
A few years ago, in my early-to-mid-30s, I was diagnosed
with the auto-immune disease, Rheumatoid Arthritis. The disease stems from an
overactive immune system, causing it to attack healthy tissue, particularly
around the joints of the body. If untreated it can cause massive joint damage,
but even at the best of times it causes exhaustion. I like to joke that my
immune system, which I had built up to an almost bullet-proof level over more
than a decade of work with afterschool and preschool programs, was just like
me, an overachiever. The drive to make itself stronger eventually led to it
collapsing in on itself. The truth is that the auto-immune disease is
hereditary on my mother’s side of the family, the side of the family tree that
the doctor’s never want to hear you say RA is prevalent on.
It can be hard going into the rheumatologist’s office as a
young man. Early on, before I became recognizable on sight, I would get praise for
being a good family member and be asked who I was there to pick up. The light
in the receptionist’s face would dim while she tried to hold her smile in place
when I would say I was there for me. Sitting in the waiting room, comprised of
mostly individuals in their 60s or older, being the one person in what is
considered the prime of my life, waiting to see the doctor is humbling, but you
find community. Eventually I will get in to see the doctor, he takes as much
time as he needs with each patient. He will gentle shake my hand, tell me it’s
not okay when I try to laugh off my current state of pain, and proceed to test
every joint to see how stiff and swollen each is. It isn’t comfortable, but it
is necessary.
There is no way to know how RA is going to make you feel
from day to day. It is, as I tell anyone who asks, the worst game of Russian
Roulette that you will ever play. Each morning starts with an assessment of how
everything feels that day. I’ve had days where I wake up and the pain from the
day before is gone or, conversely, wake up in excruciating pain that wasn’t
there when I went to bed. When a flare does arrive, it could last hours, days,
and forever, there is no way to tell. The next time a flare subsides you could
go into remission and never hear from the jerks in your joints again.
One thing you should also know about RA is that is also, for
the most part, invisible. Certainly on my worst day you can see me carefully
clutching a joint that is inflamed, catch a limp in my step, or see me walking with
a cane. However, most days you will hear me, and others with the same
auto-immune disease, tell you that we’re fine or that we’re doing okay. It is
so tough to explain that outwardly we look fine, but internally there is a fire
burning in our fingers, knees, and shoulders and we are exhausted after
breakfast. Honestly, there are many days that getting up, showered, and dressed
is a righteous accomplishment. I cover the pain with jokes, stiff legs that don’t
work as well as a table’s leg, clenched up fingers making me look like a t-rex
on the prowl. The humor lifts my spirits and makes everyone more comfortable.
There is no cure for Rheumatoid Arthritis. There are
treatments, but it is worth knowing that even the best treatment plans do not
work for 100% of those diagnosed with the disease. So you learn to live through
trying a lot of different medications, trying different combinations of
medications, messing with dosage levels, and a lot of faith, trust, and pixie
dust. I consider myself lucky. Remember
that waiting room I told you about? Being whacked by this vicious disease while
I am younger means I have the blessing of time, the hope that a cure does come
along in my lifetime. There have been advancements in the past couple of years,
nothing that approaches a cure, but enough to keep me moving forward with hope.
In middle school, high school, college, and even a few years
after, I was a running fool. I would run for hours just to be alone with my
thoughts, and I loved it. The same man who once ran the Walt Disney World Half
Marathon on nothing more than muscle memory now gets winded climbing up his hilly
driveway and most days I have some sort of cane or walking stick to make sure I
don’t lose my balance and end up falling and hurting myself. I walk when and
where I can, because some movement is great, but sometimes going too far makes
it worse. It’s all in knowing your body and how far you can push it to balance yourself
on the edge of the staying healthy knife.
This brings me back to standing at the base of the Swiss
Family Treehouse. As a child I would run to the bamboo water carrying system
and stretch out as far as my little hands would let me, fingers trembling as I strained
them to their limits, just trying to knock over one of the water cups. I don’t
believe I was ever successful. I would try not to knock other guests over as I
sped my way up to Fritz and Ernst’s room, loving the idea of sleeping in a
canvas hammock and wondering if Walt Disney World would ever let me spend a
night in the room, and then dance over to the call of Swisskapolka as I pleaded
with my father to build me a treehouse just like this one. The Swiss Family
Treehouse never replaced Big Thunder Mountain or Peter Pan’s Flight in my heart
as my favorite attraction, but it was always something I wanted to do.
With guests hastening off to their first destination,
hitting that must-do attraction or sticking to their plan of attack, I start up
the first set of stairs. I come to the Swiss Family Treehouse early because it
is still mine to do. I won’t bottle up anyone else’s experience as I slowly
climb my way through the treehouse, still daydreaming about swinging from the
branches into my hammock and enjoying the view as I look out across the entirety
of the Magic Kingdom peaking from between the branches. The ability to have my
own joy in the experience and to not add stress to anyone else’s amusement of
this timeless beauty, that is why I come to the Swiss Family Treehouse first
thing in the morning.
There’s one last reason I return to the Robinsons’ tree time
and time again these days. A small tingle lingers at the back of my mind, a
whisper that I try to ignore. If a cure doesn’t come, if a flare bursts into my
joints and never leaves, then I know that there is a day coming when I will
only be able to look up longingly at the Swiss Family Treehouse. I won’t be
able to climb it limbs and marvel at its artistry up close any longer. The idea
sits like a cold, damp rock lodged in the pit of my stomach. I shake it off and
climb the next step.