Battleship

We are in the final stretch before Tyler comes home, and both of us have been in constant motion—him, mastering board transfers and steadily rebuilding his strength; me, locked in a war with cardboard. Deliveries keep arriving, stacking up in every corner like the least effective construction site. Maybe I should repurpose them—DIY some accessibility improvements born of necessity and Amazon’s relentless overreach..

This morning belonged to the kids—breakfast, a movie, the slow churn of tidying, unboxing, assembling. Then it was time to visit Tyler. Arthur had one clear request: Battleship with Dad. So we packed up our set (yes, an actual physical board, because some things should remain analog) and headed to Vallejo.

The afternoon unfolded the way good ones do—pizza, spaghetti and meatballs for Arthur, and an impromptu roast of Die Hard with a Vengeance. I also learned something new about Tyler today: he doesn’t feel when he’s full. Instead, his body tells him in other ways—sweat beads on his brow, agitation, increased heart rate – all symptoms autonomic dysreflexia. It passed, but it’s a reminder: this road isn’t just about regaining strength. It’s about decoding new signals, adapting to an unfamiliar landscape.

After dinner, Arthur and Tyler finally settled into their game. Something was off, though. Arthur was suspiciously bad—uncharacteristically so. Normally, he wipes the floor with both of us. When the game ended, the truth came out. Arthur wasn't trying to win. Instead of hunting down his dad’s ships, he’d used his guesses to craft a picture on the board—a stick figure, a tiny human form emerging from the grid.

On the drive home, I kept thinking about that game of Battleship. At its core, it’s about deduction—methodically searching, hit by hit, uncovering what’s hidden. But Arthur had turned the game into something else. He wasn’t focused on sinking ships; he made meaning.

And that’s exactly what we’re doing right now. Rebuilding life after a spinal cord injury isn’t just a checklist of accessibility modifications and medical logistics. It’s not just about adapting—it’s about intentionally shaping what comes next. While Tyler’s in rehab and we’re here at home, we’re both laying pieces down and guessing at what each of us needs from a distance, all with the goal of creating an outline of the future. It’s not a process of mere survival. It’s an act of imagination.

Arthur’s game reminds me that sometimes the way forward isn’t just about playing by the old rules—it’s about finding something new in the space between them, and finding the fun while doing it.

And that’s what we’re doing. That’s what we will keep doing.