Last week I was with my youngest two children loading some groceries in my car. A woman walked by and said, “Good that you’re helping your Mom. She looks disabled.”
My son, Maxx, lover of all mankind and kindest of hearts, quickly spun around and said, “My Mom isn’t disabled, she just walks a little slow right now.”
It broke my heart. Since my first surgery last November, Maxx has been my great protector. He’s ten and I call him my body guard. All sixty pounds of him. Maxx holds my car door (rain or shine), wipes up after anyone who drips water on the floor so I won’t slip, and always tells me to be careful.
It’s great to have the support, but that night I thought about that word ... disabled. I have no clue if I’ll be like this for the rest of my life. My knee didn’t fare well through two intensive surgeries and my scar tissue problem (it’s called arthofibrosis and it is really painful) limits my leg from bending all the way. Makes for a fun time on a flight of stairs.
I’ve progressed, yes. I’ve used a wheelchair, walker, crutches, and now a cane. It’s been a long road. I walk like a one legged soldier and lose my balance from time to time—imagine if I had a drink or two. What a show.
What is disabled, anyway? I laugh a lot, my face looks the same, I love my kids the same, and I still have a brain. I tire more easily, yes ... and I sometimes cry in physical therapy because it’s so tough. But am I disabled? Not really.
I guess in some people’s eyes I look helpless. At times, I am. But for the most part, I suck up the pain and try to live life normally. So many people have been through so much worse.
My sister always has a comment. (“Oh, nice FLAT shoes. You must miss the high heels you so love,” or “I could never deal with what you are going through. I’d be in a looney bin.”) Let me control my temper here … I don’t need compassion, but I hate being made to feel helpless.
I’m rambling here, but some days it feels great to do that.
Last weekend my daughter Ashley asked me why I was crying. I said, “I am just not the same. Look at your Mom. She’s forty-five with a cane.”
She said, “Mom, you make the cane. Don’t let the cane make you.”
That statement made me feel so great.
So, I’m disabled ... sort of. But I’m not going to pay attention to that. I’m going to make the cane look good.
