A log cabin miles from anywhere was just what the doctor ordered
A little peace doesn’t always require palm trees and plane tickets
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If there’s one thing Huntington’s disease (HD) has taught me and my wife, Jill, who is gene-positive with the illness, it’s that rest isn’t a reward; it’s a necessity. Between the disease’s relentless advancement, the daily logistics of symptom management, and the invisible emotional toll, we sometimes forget that our batteries need charging, too.
HD doesn’t take a break, but every now and then, we realize that we must. Because when we do, we show up for each other with more patience, humor, and grace.
Recently, Jill suggested we take a couple of “recharge days.” Her only rule? Warm weather, sunshine, and as few responsibilities as possible. Naturally, our old stomping grounds in Florida came to mind. We’ve always loved the beach and the palm trees swaying in a lazy rhythm that seems to whisper “slow down.” But as we sat down to plan a quick getaway, stress showed up like an uninvited guest, and it brought friends.
The stress of flying and renting a car, the maze of hotel options and trying to find one that isn’t sold out or overpriced — each logistical task felt like another deposit into the stress bank. By the time we calculated travel time, we were already tired. And we hadn’t even packed yet!
That’s when Jill, with her signature mix of brilliance and practicality, asked: “What about something simpler? What about a cabin?”
At first, I laughed. A cabin in the woods? Every horror movie we’ve seen that involved a cabin in the woods flashed through my mind. “Sure,” I teased. “Do we need to bring garlic, a wooden stake, and a cellphone that won’t work when we walk around the lake?”
Jill was undeterred. She pointed to her computer screen, which showed a lovely little log cabin a short drive away in Berkeley Springs, West Virginia. It had a fireplace, a small kitchen, a nearby lake (for anyone brave enough to dip their toes in 40-degree water), and most importantly, silence.
We booked it, packed light, and told our daughter that we’d be unreachable unless, of course, we were being chased by a bear or a serial killer.
Huntington’s can’t steal our joy
When we arrived, the world felt different: no airport chaos, no traffic, no rush; just the soft creak of trees swaying in the wind, the crunch of frozen leaves under our boots, and the distant call of a woodpecker performing a solo concert. Within hours, we both felt ourselves unwinding and exhaling.
But then it rained, which was better than snow because we were up in the mountains. Rain made it hard to do anything outdoors, but it had a surprising effect on us: It helped assuage the guilt of doing nothing while on vacation.
Each morning, Jill would wrap herself in a blanket on the couch. I’d join her, and we’d talk about everything and nothing. We laughed like we always do, but surrounded by the silence of the woods outside, we were reminded of how precious those quiet, simple moments are when chronic illness shares your address.
Huntington’s disease steals so many things. It causes uncertainty, fatigue, and a hundred new worries that never ask for permission. But despite all that, I’ve learned that it can’t take away love. It can’t steal joy when you’re intentional about finding it. And sometimes, joy hides in the least glamorous places — like a log cabin miles from anywhere.
By the time we drove home, we felt different. Not “cured,” of course. There’s no miracle retreat for that, but we were recharged in a way that truly matters. Jill had color in her cheeks. I had a smile that refused to fade. We even started talking about making this cabin trip a new winter tradition.
So, yes, maybe Florida would’ve given us sunshine. But that little cabin gave us something even better: stillness. It reminded us that peace doesn’t always require palm trees and plane tickets. Sometimes it just asks for cold rainy days in the mountains and the person you love sitting beside you, no monsters in sight — unless you count all the bears I sensed were lurking nearby, ready to smack me with a giant paw.
When we arrived back home, Jill turned to me and said, “You have to admit, the cabin in the woods didn’t turn out to be such a scary idea after all.”
She was right, of course, although I swear I thought I saw a bear lumbering around in the distance on the last day we were there.
Note: Huntington’s Disease News is strictly a news and information website about the disease. It does not provide medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. This content is not intended to be a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of your physician or other qualified health provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition. Never disregard professional medical advice or delay in seeking it because of something you have read on this website. The opinions expressed in this column are not those of Huntington’s Disease News or its parent company, Bionews, and are intended to spark discussion about issues pertaining to Huntington’s disease.
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