Uncategorized

And just like that, it’s December… December!

I wrote that sentence a week ago with grand plans to reconnect to this space—to all of you—but somehow time got away from me and, well, here we are. The truth is, like many of you, I’m exhausted. Really flipping exhausted.

They told me I would be independent. The doctors. The nurses. The internet. They would walk into my room and tell me how capable I would be at the same time they watched me hold my finger on a button to slowly raise the head of my bed and sit up. Laying in that same bed—one I could only leave and return to by the strength of a mechanical lift—my glasses reflected the articles and social media accounts I scrolled through on my phone. The ones that told me independence was the goal—the gold standard of disability—and I could achieve it. It was the finish line to recovery and when I reached it, I would once again be a whole person. 

Do you ever wake up and think “Maybe, just for today, I don’t have to be me.” 

This morning it felt like being me was a job better left for somebody else. Someone skinnier perhaps? Stronger? Smarter? Definitely someone better hydrated. But no matter how much I wished to have a day of reprieve—from this broken body. From the constant bickering coming from every corner of the world. From COVID and the bizarre back-to-school transition—I woke up as expected. In my bed, in my body, in my life. 

Here goes… 

I’ve been quiet. At first it was unintentional—the residual effects of quarantine fatigue that stripped me of any desire to write, share or be accountable for my thoughts in any sort of capacity. In the midst of my silence the real world erupted and the online world became hostile. I didn’t particularly care to be part of either of them and my silence became deliberate. I did not shout Black Lives Matter from here, there or anywhere. Instead, I watched and read. I wrote and deleted. I talked with my kids and discussed it all with my husband. But here, in this space, I stayed quiet—I said nothing. However anyone who knows me, knows I can’t stay quiet for long and I’m here to explain why you won’t hear me talk about racism.

I was sitting on the patio—relaxed on the couch using my wheelchair as a footrest. My hair blew around my face as a breeze swept through—the winter chill now replaced with the reassuring warmth of Spring. The document I was meant to be working on—full of choppy ideas and void of a single complete thought—sat open on the laptop in front of me. My mind wandered without the spark of inspiration.

Hello faithful readers. How are you all? Life has changed since the last time I wrote to you here. There is isolation and alarm amidst a virus wreaking havoc the world over. A virus that toys with the end of world scenarios that, as children, kept us up at night and taps into our deep-seated fears of loss and death—there isn’t much beyond the threat of illness and death that could bring the world to a stand-still as this has. And if this pandemic hasn’t changed your life, you are doing something wrong.